Zombie

If I could be a zombie for a day, I would definitely opt for a traditional lopsided gait and extreme decomposition. The shuffle/moan/general odiousness conforms to all zombie stereotypes of course, but the satisfaction of being slow and pungent allows potential victims that much more time to study my every disgusting detail.
Eye dangling out of its socket, exposed bone, charred flesh and pulsating brain bits? Bloody lovely, thank you please. The obligatory hapless girl screams at me, recoiling in horror even though I'm still thirty feet away and as slow as sin.
I'm quite sated because I ate a postie earlier in the day but I just fancy some larks really.
She's still catatonic on the floor by the time I reach her and I'm jsut going in for a cwtch when some annoying square-jawed Dan Dare of a farmer brains me with the butt of his shotgun.
He's got my gib all over his sheepskin jacket and is really quite irate, so he proceeds to unload both barrels into my tum, which splays my innards all over the pavement like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Obviously being a zombie, I don't feel any pain per se, but it is bloody confusing for a while until it clicks that my legs are off walking by themselves and I've got to drag along the ground by my well-gnawed digits (a habit seemingly carried over from the old days when I still had a gait in my step and life was less gooey).
Farmer Giles has got the stupid bint wrapped round his neck and she's crying and kissing and being annoying.
She's giving it all "Oh thank you! Oh God, thank you God!" into his ear.
He's got the second shell in when I bite into his stem like a juicy suckling pig.
"Arghhh!" he exclaims with much gusto as he tries to shake me off, prancing about like Michael Flatley.
I'm holding on the best I can and I tell you, I'm having a grand old time, swaying back and forth flopping around with my legs gone walkabout and my face starting to resemble a burnt burger patty.
I'm too far up his leg for him to get a good shot in, so I've got my fingers stuck in his neck and am giving him a cheeky little nipple tweak with what's left of my teeth.
You thought he'd be game for a giggle but instead he's crying and screaming like a bloody great pansy as I get stuck in and tear his shoulder blades out.
The girl's throwing up all over the place, the bloody booze hound, while I've got my face buried in the big fella's guts. She's a bit skinny anyway, so I let her go as I get into my tuck.
Ooh, sweetcorn!

The Cwtch

The cwtch is deified in the hearts and minds of the lonely. It can be a prelude or postscript both to sexual frolics, or a warm reminder to friends of their treasured status.
The cwtch is truly universal, and a marvellous human achievement - one of the greatest gifts the arms can give; a magic strong enough to inspire feeling in the limbless.


Michaelangelo's muscled limbs transformed the Sistine into a pictorial Biblical saga that people had never seen before. For the majority of us with less overt gifts however, the humble cwtch is an equally worthy artistic endeavour, capable of eliciting emotional responses paintings may never attempt to replicate.

Greetings and salutations

Welcome one and all to the bastion of public voice that is the internet web log. I promise myself not to abuse the unprecedented wonders of such a service with bouts of narcissism. If I appear to indulge in such displays I'm probably just proving a point.
I have never used one before, for which I am shameful, but it has never been in my character to chronicle events in my life with anything approaching regularity.
Despite friends' assertions that it would help shape me as a person, I was never a diary keeper, having always found the concept to be slightly self-aggrandising.
I am aware for some they provide a release for abuse, loneliness and confusion with the state of the world and that is wonderful, but I fear my life was never interesting or controversial enough to warrant the ink.
Tomorrow when I am more collected I may look back on this post with malice but for now it fits to serve its purpose as a bow and tip of the hat to any who are kind or curious enough to take an insight into my life. Thus begins this digital diary; my memoirs of the mundane.