Monthly Archives: August 2010

The Death Of Ken and the end of the War

So, now imagine my surprise this morning when, upon opening my blinds, I discovered Barbie’s life long companion and B (and probably G) FF, Ken, hanging from the end of a string noose, outside my bedroom window.

He was naked, except for a gaudy cowboy’s waistcoat and a postcard sized note tied to his feet with the words –

You Cunt

written on it.

Transfixed, I watched the ghoulish sight twist and turn in the slight morning breeze, Ken’s outstretched arms reaching for me, like some murdered soul pleading for mercy in his last dreadful moments, his little plastic hands tap tap tapping on the glass as he rotated gently outside.

One thing was clear – the situation had become personal, threatening, violent.


So, it took me a while before I reacted and when I did, I did what any sober-minded male would do in a similar situation: I telephoned downstairs for my landlady.

I made mention of late night noises, most of which seemed of a permanent structural nature, strange men (I am ashamed to say that I used the actual “N” word – Nigerian) in the stair well with even stranger packages and shiny brief cases all headed for the door above mine, dreadlocks and fouls smells emitting from the apartment upstairs. I even went so far as to say that I almost impaled myself on a hypodermic needle, early one evening, thrust into the wooden balustrade outside their door. Its presence there negligent or not, I didn’t stop to inquire.

From the heavy silence on the line, followed by a smart, “Thank you”, I knew that it was over. And then from somewhere, from the street outside perhaps, I heard the distant tune and words floating in through my open sitting room window:

“Over and in, last call for sin
While everyone’s lost, the battle is won
With all these things that I’ve done
All these things that I’ve done”


My name is Luka

I heard shouting late last night. Some kind of trouble, some kind of fight – A loud butch female voice (from what I could gather – belonging to a Danni) and my first thoughts went to Luka. (Yes, the original single released in 1987 & not the torrid Spanish version)

Except Jeanie (how typical) lives on the 5th floor, upstairs from me. Actually, I do think that I may have seen her before, or at least her name at the buzzer outside.

Jeanie and Danni.

And one of them, I’m assuming Jeanie, drew a heart after their names.

I initially wanted to call the coppers, in the event that things turned nasty and one of them, again presumably Jeanie, ended up on the end of a sharpened emery board, but my valour got the better of me.

Imagine the fuzz arriving late at night to be greeted by the message:

“GOT PUSSY?                              DIDN”T THINK SO”

written in a purple magic marker. Of course after much deliberation with them upstairs, the next knock would be on my door.

– ‘Ello ‘ello ‘ello and what ‘ave we ‘ere then?

– Feck off Mr Policeman, I’m ‘avin a luvely dream.

That wont work, I’m sure. No.

So I closed my eyes and thought of that little lovely little Spanish girl, Penélope Cruz.

Callous, I know, but one does what one must. That is all.

A Welcome Note (Of Sorts)

This is my greatest endeavour yet in the brief, but aggressive war against upstairs.

I have purchased the following:

  1. A door sized piece of white card-board;
  2. A roll of masking tape and
  3. A purple magic marker.

The idea is to write on both sides of the card-board, the words:

“GOT PUSSY?                          DIDN’T THINK SO!”

Then, with the masking tape, tape up the note, as it were, to the outer door frame of the skag’s front door, bang the bell (hard) and bolt back to the sanctuary of my apartment below.

Before departing on my mission, I intend putting on the Eagle’s Hotel California and exiting the apartment during the second verse. That way, they will think I am still air-guitaring, which I intend doing upon my return. So no falsities there.

But why write on both sides of the card-board, you ask – well, its simple really.

If they are out at the time of the strike, they certainly will get the message when they come home.

Fantastic, ain’t it?

The Let Down

So, there I was, precariously perched on my Fading Chair from Nendo reaching for a tin of tuna from the top shelf, when I heard it:

The quick schlap schlap of wide, unsexy flat soled slip-on shoes (typical) smacking the stairs.

Being a man of certain sportiness and agility, I made a dash for the door (thereby nearly knocking over an almost full glass of Pims) so as to catch them in flagrante delictio, as it were. But the schlap schlap had already disappeared upstairs behind the subtle click of a door.

Left behind, however, was their response: a 30 x 60 cm poster with the words –


scrawled across the white paper.

Nothing more.

In the end, after the excitement and adrenaline had worn off, I must admit that I was slightly saddened by their actions.

After all, I have always believed that lesbians were the more creative of the gay fraternity.

Perhaps I was wrong

The Reply

My first response to the scissor sisters above reads as follows:

“Enough with the Jagged Little Pill, Skags!!!”

I know that skag is not a word (strictly speaking, of course), but could not think of something more appropriate. And in any event, “Twat” was already taken by the Skags upstairs.

I slipped the note under their door late last night then dashed back to the relative safety of my apartment below. Initially, I was going to bang on my ceiling with a broom handle, but decided that it would seem to obvious. And in any event, they may not even be home, being lesbians and all.

I did, however, roll up an old Holiday Inn towel and jam it at the bottom of my door, thus preventing the postage of any replication from above. Clever, I know.

I now sit and wait, listening for a noise at the door.

It’s just like “Stakeout”, except I am not about to fall in love with either of the skags above.

War of the Notes

Received a note (computer printed) under my door today which read:


Twat?? Twat???

I think it may be from the two lesbians in the apartment above.


Because last night, whilst air-guitaring to Hotel California (only THE 49th greatest song of all times – Thank you Rolling Stone Magazine), I heard some distinct thumping coming from my ceiling which was not in keeping with the rhythm of song.


If you can’t appreciate the Gods of Rock, then I would put forward that you have no taste. What’s that I hear…?

Tori Amos?

Ha! Thought So!


So I have decided to crank up the old desk top and fire off a note of my own to the the scissor sisters. Give them a lesson in music appreciation.

The Death Of Bill Cosby

You may have heard of a Dan Brown.

You may even have heard of a Gordon Brown.

But I bet you aint never heard of a Gentleman Brown.

That’s right, fools. A Gentleman Brown.


But what’s that got to do with the death of Bill Cosby? I hear you ask.

Fuck all, that’s what.