Mum's the word

Dear Barry’s friends

It’s Barry’s Mum here. Barry asked me to pass on a message. I’m not very good with computers, so you’ll have to bear with me.

When Barry told me that he was becoming a citizen journalist, I just thought it was another one of his silly projects. Like the time he declared that he was a magician and started calling me the lovely Debbie McGee instead of Mum.

Now I’ve spent some time reading his articles I have to same I am little bit amazed. He seems to have built up quite a following. I’m afraid to say though that a great deal of Barry’s musings amount to little more than a web of lies.

The truth of the matter is Barry has been a very naughty boy. Roger and I are still very happy together and living in Lincoln. It is true that Roger and Barry never really saw eye-to-eye. I found that deeply upsetting of course, for all his faults Barry was my son and I never stopped loving him.

He finally overstepped the mark when Roger and I sealed the knot. It is true that Barry was in cahoots with Roger’s son Gary, after that though Barry’s version of events differs wildly from the truth. Together they managed to swindle my mother-in-law out of her cottage in the country and then set about on a spending spree. In fairness to Barry, Gary was the brains of the operation.

When the money from the cottage ran out they started racking up monumental credit card bills and taking out substantial personal loans. The debts mounted until the cracks in their life began to widen. Gary disappeared off to Brazil leaving Barry to pick up the pieces of their folly. He was unable to pick up the pieces and was finally caught walking up the hard shoulder of southbound carriageway of the M1 in his socks and pants.

Roger and I decided not to press charges, but we did insist on some fairly strict curfew conditions. One of which was a prohibition regarding talking about the case or other matters – specifically in the public domain. I think Roger was more embarrassed about the whole sorry episode than I.

Barry has spent a good part of the last year working as a griddle cook in a Little Chef on the A52. I had confiscated his computer but it seems he somehow managed to get hold of one and concoct the ludicrous scenario placing him at the centre of an international crime organisation. He would probably have continued making up nonsense too were it not for letter I accidentally opened from Blue Nun inviting him to a meeting at their head offices. Apparently they were "really excited by the blog". It didn't take Roger long to put two and two together.

We confronted Barry and then decided that for his own good as well as our own good, he should feel the full power of the law. Barry is now serving time in Lincoln Prison I’m afraid.

He's doing very well. As part of his rehabilitation Barry asked me to “come clean” on the blog. I have promised Barry that I will pass on any messages from his followers and that I will maintain the blog with a few posts of my own.

I do hope that this news doesn’t overshadow William and Kate’s big day tomorrow.

Best regards

Mum

x

ps. the headline was Barry's idea. I have to say it is quite clever really. I only wish he's been able to channel his creativity into something useful.

A new start

Hey guys - sorry about the disappearing act. Again.

I've not been up to anything massively exciting to be honest. I got a bit para about Tony the toast and so the authorities have moved us.

I was told that I shouldn't blog, but it's in my blood man. If I stopped blogging altogether, I would probably die. That said, I didn't die during the last break even though I came quite close and I didn't die all the way up to the point before I started blogging despite once contracting the mumps and chicken pox at the same time when I was 12 - thanks a bunch Steve.

But it feels like I would die. And that's probably a bit worse that dying.

Anyway, I had to start blogging again, so that I could tell you about my new venture. I've had enough of working for The Man you see. You have no autonomy when you're a slave to the system. And, besides, you never get rich working for someone else. Unless you're a footballer, or a movie star, or a banker, or maybe a CEO of a large company or indeed anyone else on the senior management team, or a pop star, or Simon Cowell or a lottery winner, or someone with rich but dead parents, or the divorced wife of any of the above.

"But Barry," I hear you cry, "you've been a freelance Citizen Journalist for some time now, surely that is the very essence of not working for The Man?"

Well, that's true. I've written some epic pieces of editorial over the past two and bit years since leaving my sales job. I've submitted shocking news items about religion on public transport, missing dogs and lecherous Sky employees all to the Metro without success. I've even failed to make it entering children's book writing competitions (that's competitions for creating a book aimed at children, rather than a competition aimed at children writing books - although children were free to enter the competition).

I've seen my blog following swell to gratifying proportions during this time. But none of it is paying off financially. It seems the work of a humble scribe is not particularly well paid readers. It is for that reason that I have decided to become a freelance PR Guru.

Apparently, a wide variety of the so-called newspapers in this country simply cut and paste sections of press releases that have been sent to them by PR companies into their pages and pass this information off as news.

I read all about this on a fab new website I found called churnalism.com. It blows the lid off the media profession. Who would have thought that newspapers resort to printing press releases? Apparently, there are now more PR people in the UK than there are journalists!

Now, it strikes me that having strived for the past two years to get something into the papers using actual Citizen Journalism was a bit naive. What I should have been doing all along was creating press releases on behalf of companies and sending those to the newsdesks of the red tops and broadsheets.

The thing is, it is difficult to know exactly where to start. I can't just start writing press releases willy nilly. I need to get a commission. I need a client. I need to identify some brands that could do with some PR and gett pitching my services. I need to single out some struggling old favs or sleeping giants. I can become like the Max Clifford of big business.

BP would be a classic wouldn't it? The once proud petroleum colossus brought to its knees thanks to engineering failure, environmental catastrophe and boardroom arrogance. Billions wiped off its market valuation. I reckon I could probably get a press release or two in the Metro on their behalf.

Or maybe I should turn my attention to something more recent. British Gas, for example, just turned in profits of £4bn after pushing up its prices last year during one of the deepest global recessions. This caused widespread media condemnation.

Maybe I could write a new press release about how when I switched from French-owned EDF to dual fuel electricity and gas bills from UK fav BG that I actually SAVED money last year. I could do a survey, maybe, and then send out a top tips advice sheet explaining how canny consumers need not be the victim, and that actually if you are the victim it's probably your own fault. I could pitch that at the Daily Mail I reckon.

Or, steering away from fossil fuels, maybe the bankers deserve my support. Barclays recently announced profits of £6bn. You would think that the media would welcome this as good news, but no! It is almost as though the pressmen want things to go badly. I could write a fun press release comparing the relative wealth of most Barclays employees and Barclays Premiership footballers. Perhaps I could encourage a few to do a job swap! Lol. Just imagine Wayne Rooney sitting behind the counter at the bank, he'd need to count out your money on his fingers! Ha! I reckon that would easy get in Hello! or Chat.

Although, actually, maybe I am starting off a bit too grand. I probably need to build up to BP, BG and Barclays.

Sticking with the letter B - how about Blue Nun? I'm drinking a glass of it right now since the offie was out of Cobra. It's not bad either, but its reputation stinks. I reckon I could come up with a brilliant campaign to get the Nun back on the wine menus of Britain.

OK readers, I reckon I need to polish of this bottle and brainstorm a few ideas!

From one BN to another!

Putting the fun into funeral

I suppose that last cliffhanger was a bit redundant since you know I'm writing this series of blog posts from the position of someone alive and not from the position of someone cremated alive in his own Mum's coffin.

I never did get into Mum's coffin in fact, even though Roger was threatening me with a Nazi handgun.

I was tempted to fake my death over the summer, like Elvis or the recently released from prison 'canoeist' John Darwin.

I was planning to use my new found death to start a blog site written from the perspective of a ghost. Wandering the earth in purgatory getting up to all sorts of hi-jinx and undead mischief. LoL.

But then I thought, well, if I was a ghost, how could I type blog posts? My ethereal finger tips would pass eerily through the keyboard.

They wouldn't really, since I wouldn't actually be a ghost, natch, but there would be continuity errors and that would bug me. It just wouldn't be convincing for the reader.

So then I thought that maybe I should write a blog penned by a fictitious clairvoyant with guest posts written from the perspective of famous dead people - it's a cracking idea since every good Citizen Journalist knows that you can't libel the dead, so I'd be pretty much free to make up all sorts of outrageous lies at the expense of the expired.

The thing is though, making up pointless and ridiculous blog posts and passing them off as the actual experiences of a genuine person would not be true to the ethos of the blogosphere. That's why I returned to the pages of Newsdesk and decided to bring you all racing back up to speed with my life (that and the fact that Mr C sent me a Happy New Year note - and, well, it fair brought to a tear to my eye).

Anyway, I didn't climb into Mum's coffin when Roger pointed his gun at me, because it wasn't Mum's coffin!

It was, in fact, a wax-worked rendering of my Mum that Steve's dad Constable Steve Stevens and the other members of the Lincolnshire Constabulary alongside CID had put in place. Mum wasn't dead at all readers! Brilliant eh!?

At the very moment that I was about to climb into the coffin, I heard a very familiar voice booming overhead.

"No one inside make a move, you are completely surrounded. Come out with your hands up, Barry. Not with your hands up Barry. All of you, just put your hands in the air and leave the building," it was the voice of Dave the roofer.

The thing is, in the moments before Dave the roofer made his announcement Roger and Gary couldn't help crowing about my imminent demise and their international drugs smuggling and imminent Nazi terror campaign. I was a bit like like in a James Bond flick. "Ah, Barry Newsdesk, we've been expecting you and so have easily over-powered you with the use of a stereotypical Nazi handgun. Now I will reveal to you the secret location of my underground bunker and the password that will defuse the bomb I have placed right underneath the Buckingham Palace. HAHAHAHAHAH!!!!"

I've never understood why the baddies never just shoot Bond. I would. If I was in that position, I would just shoot the bugger and drive off with the Bond Girl to my secret island hide-away. Still, I'm not a movie baddie. Roger and Gary, though, most certainly were movie baddies. CID had been keeping very close tabs on the Leaches, dating right back to the moment that I told Dave the roofer about Mum's relationship with Roger.

Dave the roofer, you see, knows a few people at the Yard. He heard me making mention about Roger Leache and how I'd discovered that he was a bloody Nazi drug smuggler. This set him off, he called a few people and the wheels of justice ground into action.

The worst bit of it all was keeping Mum in the dark. I'm not a natural born liar, so not telling her the full truth about Roger was hard. In fact, I very nearly blew the whole operation out of the water when I confronted him about it all before moving into Greta's place. I needed to convince Gary to believe me and weave my life into that of the criminal underworld.

It's all been an amazingly elaborate plot you see readers. The months spent in the wilderness. The trips to Thailand. Marrying a transexual with a massive cock. Faking my own mother's death. The lot. We're all living under police protection at a secret location. I've got a job in the kitchens of a large luxury hotel complex, it's just to make ends meet until something better comes along.

Yours in blogging

Barry

Coffin dodger

Suffice to say the flight back over was not exactly carried out in the style to which I had become accustomed and being hastily bundled into the back of one of the big white vans with the blacked out windows seemed a far cry from being orally pleasured by Mia in her brother's limo.

But I was alive. In fact, in some ways, I felt more alive than ever. That's what people say who have near death experiences. Were it not for the fact that it looked like I would be spending the majority of what remained of my adult life behind bars, I would probably have vowed there and then to take up skydiving or potholing. Or both, but not at the same time ! lol, skyholing or potdiving !!

I was being sent to Wandsworth Prison. I was quietly chuffed, I think Wandsworth is probably the classiest of the London prisons. It's the largest, for starters, and in prisons, more than anywhere else, size matters. It's cat B, so that pegged me at a menace to society but not on the same level as a sex pest. I think that's fair really. The alumni of Wandsworth Prison includes Oscar Wilde, the two Ronnies (Kray and Biggs - as oppose to Corbett and Barker (everyone knows that Barker was sent to Slade)) and more recently Julian Assange (who is not a menace to society, but he might be a sex pest in Sweden). Best of all though, Wandsworth Prison is just a short bus ride away from Clapham Junction and quite close to a really nice pub called the County Arms, so I knew that I would get plenty of well fed visitors and thus look quite popular among the other residents.

Indeed, even before the funeral had even been organised I received my first visitor, Rosemary Forsyth. She was to be my brief for the case as appointed by Gary. I could see why he'd gone for her too, she was Rose by name and a rose by nature. Literally. A classic English beauty with a thorn sharp mind. She smelled quite nice too.

When I met Rose, I knew that my time at Wandsworth would be short lived. Not because she was possessed the sharpest legal mind in the country, but because she told me that Gary would be at the funeral, and when the guards let me into view my mother's body, he would spring me out of a window into a waiting van and have me on the continent via a private jet in a matter of hours.

I practically forgot about Mum being dead after Rose came to see me. I don't know if that makes me a bad son. I didn't really go out of the way to make any friends at Wandsworth, I couldn't see the point really, they'd just be like holiday romances wouldn't they? only without the moonlit walks on the beach. I tell you what though, people don't half moan about conditions inside British prisons, but compared to the Thai clink, Wandsworth really was more like Butlins.

The day of the funeral came and I was bundled into the back of a van for the long journey up north. When I arrived and came out into the autumn sun, the first person I saw was Gary. He was there standing next to the mush from Shepherd's Bush, as was Roger bloody Leache, Greta the Nazi, and all the other Leaches. Steve was there and Steve's dad, Steve, Dave the roofer had come over Edmonton with Gill and little baby Richard Barry the roofer.

Best of all though was seeing Tia though, she looked absolutely stunning. Seeing her made me realise that I had made the right choices all along. It's funny really readers, on the face of things, not much had actually gone that right, but that first night of our honeymoon had felt so, so, right and if something feels that right, how can it be wrong?

The guards kept a close watch over me and didn't really let me say much more than a quick "hello" with my fellow mourners. But then the moment came when I was allowed into a small, dimly lit room with close family only, and in this particular instance that meant Gary and Roger bloody Leache.

I couldn't quite believe it readers. In fact, I was a little bit incredulous. After everything he'd done to ruin by life, Roger bloody Leache was just about to cock up my escape. What a wanker. I think though that Gary could see the look of consternation on my face. He winked. Then in a whisper he mouthed "it's OK. He's OK. He knows."

I looked from Gary to Roger and from Roger to Gary. I was still a little stunned, but these days I'd learned how to roll with the punches!

We stood alone in silence, just the three of us. Well, the four of us really if you counted Mum. The proverbial elephant in the room. We'd been there for at least a minute and no one had said a word. I must admit, I was starting to get a bit fidgety. I didn't really want to be the one who brought it up, but in the end I had to.

"So, when do I get out then? I mean, shall we swap clothes now?" I said to Gary.

Roger wiped away a tear, or maybe he just had an itchy eye. "How could you be so incredibly stupid Barry?" he said. I wasn't sure whether he was talking about the escape plan or about the cocaine smuggling. Or about marrying a foreign transgender pre-op whose motives were as arguably dubious as her breasts. Roger was a Nazi after all and they're not famed for being that open-minded.

Roger spoke again: "You didn't seriously expect us to help you to abscond to Europe knowing what you know about our little organisation did you Barry? Things were going so smoothly until you started meddling. You won't be swapping clothes with Gary. You'll be clothes with your mother, she'll be the one that we push out of the window and into the van - the police will be giving chase to a corpse, meanwhile you'll have gone up in smoke!"

Well, I thought that this was especially outrageous since my mother had always said that she wanted to be buried. "Gary, can you talk some sense into your bloody idiot father?"

"Sorry Barry," said Gary, "I've not been entirely honest with you. Dad's right. We can't let you escape. We can't let you live either. We thought we'd be home and dry when you got caught. They don't, generally speaking, let people off in Thailand. But then your bloody mother croaked it and they bloody well let you come home. We needed to act fast. We'll ship your mother back for a decent Christian burial in the Fatherland."

"Do it then dad," said Gary again, and with that Roger punched Gary hard in the face. I couldn't quite believe what I was seeing, none of it made sense.

"I'll do the time for you," said Roger, "I'll say that I did it for the memory of your mother, I'll say I overpowered Gary and let you escape."

"Now," continued Roger pulling out a Luger and pointing it at me, "be a good little boy and help your mother out of her coffin. She's leaving."

Mum is dead

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

“Your mother is dead Barry,” he said with stony faced callousness. “The British consulate has organised for you to attend the funeral on compassionate grounds. It is unprecedented. Frankly, I am amazed. Cocaine smuggling carries the death penalty in Thailand. It seems your wife's family is very well connected. You will serve out the rest of your sentence at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. ”

Talk about bitter sweet readers, I’d just secured a one way ticket back home and out of the very jaws of death. But at what cost? She was gone. Probably the only woman that I have ever truly loved.

I’m not sure what I would have chosen if it were presented to me as a choice like in that thriller The Box starring Cameron Diaz. Push the button and you can go home, but your Mum’s life will be cut short on the streets of Lincoln.

I say short, it wouldn’t be cut short would it? She’s already had her life. A full and frankly wasted life, the latest folly of which was marrying away my inheritance to Roger bloody Leache. I would have pressed the button readers, I would. At least I am man enough to admit it. It’s only the same as those people who take their Mum to Switzerland and have them put down isn’t it? Only my life isn’t a badly made Cameron Diaz movie based on an episode of the Twighlight Zone. Even if it looks like it might be a bit.

It turns out Mum was hit by moped while she was crossing the road coming back from Aquagrans (it’s a swimming pool-based aerobics class for geriatrics), coincidentally Steve’s dad, Steve, was the only witness. She was killed instantly apparently. Although quite how Steve’s dad knows, I’ don’t know. Now I’ll never see her smiling face again. Or drink her tea. Or hear her laugh. Or taste her Cinnamon Sponge.

Oh Mum, how could you? I know we all need to go in the end, but not this way. Not a hit and run victim caught under the wheels of 125cc Cobra Scooter of all things. Not Mum. Nooooooooo!

I was oblivious to all of this walking up to the check-in desk with Tia. We’d be travelling back as man and wife. Barrington Enoch Newsdesk and Tia Maria Yodsowen Newsdesk. I realised that I might have to put up with a few jibes back home, but I knew that underneath it all Tia was twice the man than most of those idiots in the pub.

Only we didn’t get back home. We got through check in and I was fingered by security the moment I passed through the metal detector. Just like Gary suggested I’d been to see some of his friends and I had packed about a dozen Apple iPads into my suitcase. Only I didn't realise the iPads were packed with grade A toot.

I was whisked off to some shit sodden prison cell, where they stripped me naked, then poked me and prodded me. They were looking for more gear up my bum readers. Up my bloody bum. Nature's pocket. I honestly don't know how much they expected to find up there. It seems illogical, why would I go to the trouble of packing a dozen iPads shells full of charlie, then stick some up my anus for good measure.

The amount they poked me you'd think they thought I might have some sort of secret compartment. Maybe they thought I had a plastic arse like Joanna Lumley. Dave the roofer said that he knew Lumley back in the 60s when she did an awful lot of cocaine (maybe that's why she like the gurkhas so much?). As a model and actress, Jo was wary of the damage the coke would do to her nose. She therefore started doing it up the bum, like Stevie Nicks of Fleetwood Mac is rumoured to have ordered her PA to help her do. However, Ms Lumley did so much that she corroded her bottom and so has a plastic anus. Allegedly. A lesson to us all, I think you’ll agree.

I looked back over the bare table at the man in the grey suit with dead eyes. He was looking for a smile. Judging me. He was unblinking. He was reading me. Or trying to at least. When I was at uni I went to see a stage hypnotist. He couldn’t put me under. I was too strong then and I’m too strong now.

“Tell me what you know about Gary and Roger Leache,” he said offering me a cigarette.

Mona Lisa smile

“Sex-u-al-ity, strong and warm and wild and free,” or so sang opinionated modern day minstrel Billy Bragg. He was simply saying, in his own way, that we Humans should feel free to love whomever we should feel drawn to. And I, personally, think that is a big part of the amazing part of being alive.

Sexuality is a funny thing eh readers. You know, Paul was telling me just the other day, that anatomically a man and a woman’s mouth are identical. It is not for the first time I’ve heard someone say that, but Paul should know, since he was once training to be a man of medicine. And because he has sucked off a lot of chatty bisexuals.

Bragg is straight though, straight as a die. A man’s man, in the conventional sense of the word. He makes that abundantly clear in the opening two lines of his paen to erotica, asserting his very definite heterosexuality by laying claiming to having “had relations with girls from many nations” and “ making “passes at women of all classes”. Bragg by name eh!? LOL. He sounds like a bloody sex pest to me.

Mind, he also throws the chaps in chaps a lifeline adding that “just because you're gay,” he “won't turn you away” and “If you stick around” he is sure that you’ll “find some common ground”. There we have it, I think we know what he’s talking about. Like that Labour MP Ron Davies, eh readers, he found some common ground didn’t he eh?! he, he, Clapham Common, ground. LOL! Badger spotters eh, they can’t help themselves.

Still, that all seems like a very long time ago, and my mind couldn’t have been further away from that balmy autumnal night in ’98. My flight was skidding down onto the steaming tarmac of Bangkok's Suvarnabhumi Airport. There was only one thought on my mind: Tia. Lovely Tia. Hot and brooding Tia. Sultry and sexy Tia. My wife, my lover, my muse.

The only problem was, all I had to go on was a grainy MMS that she'd sent. She looked quite hot. But only in the same way that all slightly blurred pixilated pictures of young girls on the internet look hot. I don't mean that to sound in any way too perverted. By the tone of her text messages all week, she was very definitnely an adult.

I wasn't to be disappointed though. Not one bit. She was every bit as beautiful as I had imagined and hoped. I was not going to rush it though. I've learned that lesson the hard way. Women, all women - even Thai women - get a bit worried if you're over eager. I don't care what Billy Bragg or any of the other metrosexuals out there say, women like men to be men. Apart from lesbians. Although, actually, I think that even lesbians are happy with men being men, just as long as they're not women. I mean to say, not men dressed up as women in order to hoodwink them into some sort of faux lesbian relationship.

Dave the roofer always used to joke that he thought he must be a lesbian, but in all seriousness, once they got you back to their place and out of the dungarees they'd only be disappointed - even if you only had a small cock too. Imagine that! If you had a micro-penis and you'd gone through life the butt of jokes in the locker room, and the object of pity and ridicule in the bedroom, then you managed to pull a lesbian (maybe she was bi - rather than by some other cross-dressing route) and so she wasn't even technically that bothered about cocks, then she saw your cock and it was TOO BIG! Ha!

The mind boggles, truly, but I bet it has happened. Whatever you can think of has happened. You can bet on that. It'll have happened, and someone will have filmed it and put it on the internet.

Tia had arranged for her brother to pick us up in his taxi, I say taxi, it was actually quite a swanky limo. Cool eh? I felt like James Bond or something. She was so excited about my arrival. What a welcome. She got her bro to raise the modesty blind between the driver's cab and the back seats and administered some oral pleasure. Christ on a tuk-tuk. I was literally blown away.

The plan was that we'd stay a week or so in Bangkok and then go on honeymoon. To tell you the truth, I was not at this point wholly convinced that we were married. Not in the sense that she would be able to put a claim in for half my flat or anything. That said, I was also so enraptured that I didn't really give it much thought.

Handily, her dear old Mum ran a BnB almost in the centre of town, which was great fun. She had loads of siblings too, eight sisters and three brothers, which was amazing. Her mum looked about 239 years old! As regular readers will know all too well, my Mum decided that one was enough, so I was starved of the gift of brothers and sisters. I suppose that being an only child has shaped me somewhat and I wouldn't change a single thing, even if I could. But marrying into such a huge family seemed like a dream come true. And, I'll tell you what, her sisters weren't half bloody bad too.

Most of the evenings Tia and all her sisters went out to work. They had various waitressing jobs at cafes and restaurants in town. I'd entertain myself with a few drinks on my tod in the BnB. Although, one of the brothers was always hanging around. They never said very much, but they were bloody brilliant at Fifa and seemed to know just about all of the names of the Premier League stars. Not a single one of them had heard of Brian Clough though. It's a sign of the times readers.

During the daytime in the afternoon once Tia had woken up, she would take me on tours of the temples and sights, and I'd help out on various errands on her moped! If Mum could see me she'd have flipped, she banned me from having a moped, calling them 'deathraps' - ah, dear Mum. Something'll get you in the end, you might as well go out having fun.

We always made sure we were back at the BnB in time for Tia to get dolled up for work. The one big downside of staying with her family was the fact that we had to stay in separate rooms. Even though we were married, supposedly it is customary in those parts for the married couple to sleep apart for a week before the honeymoon. I have great great respect for customs, all customs - even, and I want to make this clear to some of my more politically correct readers, even those customs that denigrate the women of Islam. I have done a lot of reading on religion and as far as I'm concerned if a religion believes something, however completely absurd, we need to completely respect that completely. We're one global village now man. Like in the HSBC adverts. Act globally, think locally, that's my motto.

Tia's brothers watched me like bloody hawks actually. But she always found a way to sneak into my room after she got back from her shift. It was so romantic. I tried to get my hand down at one point on the first night, but the bed was so squeaky and she said her brothers would cut off my penis if they found out. Well, to tell you the truth, after she said that, I wasn't even overly keen on her sneaking into my room, and so when she did, we'd just very quietly cuddle. She always made sure that we found a secluded spot in a public lavatory or behind a wall during the day for her to satisfy the fires burning deep within my loins with a quick hand-job or blowie. Mustn't grumble Barry old son.

I was very much ready for the honeymoon section of the trip though, and so when went off to the Islands, I was in seventh heaven. At last, it was just me and Tia and no distractions. The blazing sun, the crystal clear waters, the Tiger beer (which is my second fav after Cobra) and a large box of Durex - I got those ones with the bellend numbing agent for her pleasure. It was the honeymoon, after all.

We arrived and spent the day unpacking and then down at the beach soaking up the rays and the pina coladas. Tia looked amazing in her bikini top and sarong. I think she must have had some work done, really, Thai girls don't have big boobs, that's probably their one biggest weakness. But it is nothing the wonders of modern medicine cannot correct.

After a day on the beach we enjoyed a romantic dinner in the evening - which, between you and me, could well have been the source of my gut wrenching diarrhoea 24 hours later. Blimey, it felt like I was pissing scolding hot razor blades from out of my rectum. But over the candle lit table with the full moon raising over the South Pacific, those hours of agony hovering over nothing more than a hole in the ground hanging onto a mouldy length of rope were the last thing on my mind. Still, that's the benefit of hindsight isn't it? I probably wouldn't have gone for the duck if I'd known what was coming.

After dinner we walked hand in hand across the beach back to our hut and kissed the kiss of a thousands kisses. She had a piece of coriander or something on her teeth, but I didn't mind. It didn't matter. She was going to brush her teeth. I am fastidious when it comes to oral hygiene. It's stood me in good stead too, Mum always insisted on taking me to the dentists every six months when I was a lad in Lincoln. And, while it is habit I have grown out of lately, it remains a constant source of pleasure whenever I am able to proudly tell people that I have not one single cavity or filling of any type. Unlike Steve whose mouth is like a scrapyard.

I brushed and flossed and readied myself for bed. I had been planning to have what Dave the roofer calls a "tactical wank" but I thought the special johnnies I'd got would help keep me going a bit longer before the inevitable. Tia entered the bedchamber wearing just her sarong, her flowing raven hair cascading across her sculpted shoulders and motionless bosom. Actually, she did have quite broad shoulders for such a sweet young flower. I thought that maybe it was because she was a child swimming protégée like Sharon Davies or Rebecca Adlington. You have to admit it readers, they are fine athletic women and no mistake, but when they get dolled up for award ceremonies they do kind of look a bit like drag artists.

Tia let her sarong drop to the floor wearing nothing more than her enigmatic smile.

I was astounded. Stunned into silence. Gobsmacked. Coincidentally, the last time I was this taken aback I was watching the Bob Hoskins classic Mona Lisa with Steve. I had a proper stiffy then, and I had one now. Steve said he always knew. But no one knows. You can't tell. I don't care who you are.

I'm not talking about my stiffies readers, I'm talking about that bit where we find out that Simone the call girl is packing a bit of surprise. Mind you, I didn't believe the 'reveal' in Boogie Nights either. Clearly Mark Walburg does not have a penis that big, no one can have a penis that size, you'd pass out if you ever got aroused. But when I looked at Tia's portion I started thinking maybe Walburg really did have a schlong that long. Tia's bellend was halfway down her thigh! *choke* Now, I know she was much shorter than me, so maybe her old chap wasn't all that much longer than mine ;-) but proportionally speaking, it was an absolute monster.

I was a long, long, cock readers, and it would prove to be a very long, long night.

The mush from Shepherd's Bush

I'm wasted working on potwash. I am, truly. A man like me, with my creative talents. But there is no way I want to be out in the kitchens. I have heard on the grapevine that the Toastman has already cornered the market in terms of shifting cheap pink champagne to the other inmates. There is little doubt in my mind that the mush from Shepherd's Bush has sent him after me.

I thought all that was behind me. I suppose I should never have taken Gary's generosity at face value. I remember handing over the holdall to him outside the NCP.

He was sitting in the passenger seat of one of those massive BMW X5s. I couldn't quite see the man in the driver's seat, but I could smell his cigar and I could hear he was listening to a Talk Sport piece on the chances of Chelsea retaining the title in the forthcoming season. He started laughing at one point, "ere, Gaz, not if I have anyfink to do wiv it. Fhak me. Not if I get my way! I was telling Dave the other day. Y'know, Dave? Dave the roofer? Fhak, he's only gawn an moved to Canada the dippy cahnt. Canada's no place for roofing, it's all fahkin' igloos 'n' that ..'ang on, it's Toast [he said, receiving an incoming text message] yeh, it's the real deal. Get your boy out for more of the same. Anyway, he's only gawn and .."

I couldn't make out the rest, as Gary thrust an envelope in my direction. "Happy birthday Barry old son, get yourself back out east. Don't do anything daft like going back to the Travelodge either. Get yourself out to T5 now. Remember, business class never get any problems. Don't call me eh, don't go to any trouble. I've been in touch with Tia, she'll meet you at the airport and take care of things. You're like the brother I never had Barry. A proper diamond. I just want you to be happy, y'know?"

I am not afraid to admit it readers, I cried like a baby right there on the pavement outside that NCP as that X5 drove off into the night. I opened the envelope to find that Gary had been kind enough to give me a little bit of spending money too. By my estimates, about £10,000 in used fifties.

I was heading to Bangkok once more!

On the runs

Apologies for my lack of posting. I've been keeping a low profile. I think they might have tracked me down you see.

I went in for my shift last Saturday and saw what I thought was a familiar face. He was working on the toast machine, which was quite coincidental since when I was introduced to him by Gary his name was Tony 'Toastman' Linoleum.

Gary told me at the time that his nickname was Toastman due to his propensity for getting drunk and insisting on making long-winded speeches while standing on pub tables. This was a habit that invariably did not go down well with publicans, something the Toastman knew really, since it led inevitably to Tony's other favourite pastime of brawling in pubs.

Tony was sidekick to the mush from Shepherd's Bush. A gentleman I was partly introduced to in an NCP carpark near Hammersmith after spending the best part of a week holed up alone in a Travelodge.

I had made several trips out to Londis to pick up Ginsters pasties and Cobra, but as Gary was quite explicit in his demands for me to stay put, I thought I better had. To tell you the truth, the week wasn't all bad. I had been exchanging text messages with Tia and I think she was most def looking forward to a return visit from old Bazzler. I've still got it readers. I don't care what Mum says.

After almost a week, Gary turned up and seemed to be back to his cheery self. "Meet me out front Barry," he said, "just bring that suitcase that you were carrying through customs". I've gotten used to seeing Gary rock up in different motors, but my eyes just about popped out when he pulled up in a black Porsche!

They're lovely cars and there is nothing you can teach the Germans about automotive engineering, but the suitcase had to go on my lap!

This brings me back to the NCP meet up. It was short and sweet. Well, it was short at least. Gary briefed me to sit tight and when the toastman got in the car to take the holdall, leave the carpark and meet Gary and the mush from Shepherd's Bush downstairs. Gary jumped out of the car and after a few lonely minutes I was joined by a small, wiry, rat-faced man. He had a pointy nose like the child catcher in Chitti-Chitti Bang Bang and a scraggy goatee beard. He sat down and took a photo of me with a Polaroid camera, then handed me a hefty holdall and instructed me to "get the fuck out cunt".

You can well imagine my reaction when I turned up last Saturday to see the same familiar rat-faced charmer working on toast. But I've learned how to think quick and act quicker. I told Paul that I thought I had that winter vomiting bug thing so I was banished immediately from the kitchens until it cleared. I'd buy myself few days to formulate a plan.

As you can tell from the fact that I am back blogging on Paul's laptop, I am now back in the kitchens. Only I'm not cooking any more, I'm on potwash. It is almost a crime to make yours truly work on pots. But we all get paid the same in here and at least this way, I know I'm safe. For now.

Life on the inside

It is the story that everyone has been talking about today. No, not the riots on the streets of Tunisia, the lethal stampede at a religious festival in India nor the floods in Brazil. The most 'shared' story on the BBC today was, in fact, the curious tale of a man who is going to sue a 'rodent' for biting his penis.

Only in America readers!

But, before you lol yourself into a stupor, take a few moments to reflect on what led a Vietnam vet to get into a position whereby he is able to even take this issue to court.

For starters, vets are supposed to look after poorly sick animals. This man appears to have gotten himself into a sticky situation that resulted in a small rat or mouse biting his old fella. Maybe he was administering some sort of cock-based animal therapy. But that seems a little unlikely to me.

No, far more likely is that we're dealing with a man abusing his position of trust and power in order to attempt to sexually assault a small defenceless animal. Only to find himself on the receiving end of some razor sharp justice.

No wonder the man was locked up inside a prison. He's clearly a menace to society. Well, a menace to rats and mice anyway.

And that brings up another issue. The 'victim', Peter Soloman, is claiming that he was bitten on the John Thomas because he is black. So, now, not only is the have-a-go hero, would-be rape victim rodent being sued for fighting back, she is also being accused of racism.

I say 'she', but actually I do not the sex of the poor creature at the centre of this controversy. And, indeed, neither does Soloman. The very fact that he doesn't even know whether it was a rat or a mouse seems to put the case on very sticky ground. I mean, I'm not even a vet and I can tell that the animal pictured above is clearly a rat.

The thing is readers, people do some funny things don't they? Take, for example, Pretty Woman's Richard Gere, who infamously put a gerbil up his bum. A pest exterminator from the council told me all about that story. I don't think he personally knew Richard Gere. But he certainly knew what Gere was trying to achieve. You would think that having it away with Julia Roberts would be enough for any man wouldn't you?

He also told me (the exterminator, not Richard Gere) that mice can force themselves through the end of Biro pen. I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that Soloman, for whom not everything in his life has gone right, might well have been trying to put the rat up his penis, mistaking it for a mouse. Imagine that, the tail of the poor thing dangling from his bellend like a macabre tampon string! No wonder it bit him.

Devolution

I was going to walk straight up to the BA counter and book another flight back to Tia, but Gary said it would have to wait.

In fact, once we got through customs, Gary’s attitude towards me definitely shifted. “Business class flights and fancy holidays to Thailand don’t come cheap Barry. I’m not running a bloody charity. You’re going to have to start earning your keep.”

I started heading off to the long stay car park, but Gary ushered us off towards the Heathrow Express. “Fucking hell Barry, I’m starting to believe you really were born yesterday.” I couldn’t believe it readers, my arms were going to drop off with all those bags! How could he be so stupid as to have the car picked up and moved? After an uncomfortably silent train journey, the next thing I know we’re checking into a Travelodge near Shepherd’s Bush of all places.

I was a little bit dumbstruck to tell you the truth. I think Gary’s mind was elsewhere, he’d had a string of text messages ping into his phone since arriving and his mood had clearly darkened. Once we got to the Travelodge he told me to “stay put” and to “not answer the fucking door to anyfuckingone”.

That’s the thing with the ill educated, they always resort to blue language when they’re under pressure. That’s what sets us apart. That’s what sets me apart from pretty much everyone here. You can tell just by looking at some people. You know what they’ll be like from the moment you clap eyes on them, then they confirm it all by opening their filthy, stinking, mouths.

I sometimes think that the human race is right at one of the points in time that mark a step change in evolution. I’ve studied Darwin and the genus Homo has gone through quite a few changes since our ancestors came down from the tress and made fire. And, at every point, the fittest Homos pull through to become the dominant Homo, eradicating and out performing the previous Homo-incumbents. You never get a situation where the two Homos live in harmony together.

I think we’re at that point readers, homo spapiens is being displaced, evolutionary forces are in place. Fittest is not necessarily ‘best’ per se either. That’s to say, the huge masses of the underclass are growing stronger in number all the time, leaving us respectable upper working and middle classes out numbered. We’re a dying breed and you only have to look around yourself to see it.

Taking the mug out of smuggling

I suppose alarm bells should have started ringing even before we left Thailand to come back home. We’d flown out there with nothing and were flying back with very full suitcases.

Gary tipped me the wink earlier that the trip would be self-funding. He’d had a bunch of fake Armani suits knocked up as well as a batch of the latest pirated movies (and I’m not talking about Mutiny on the Bounty LOL!) as well as about two dozen Apple iPads that had fallen off the back of tuk-tuk.

I’ll admit that I was a bit worried going through check-in, especially when they asked whether I was carrying anything for anyone and whether I had packed the bags myself. But Gary said business class passengers are never really searched. I was smuggling readers, that much is true, but as Gary pointed out this represented a victimless crime. Armani, Hollywood and Steve Jobs are all more than rich enough, and they’ve been charging the man on the street too much for too long. When we got back we’d flog the gear and that’d more than pay for our trip and probably leave us a fair bit more besides!

Mind, I had no idea how we would shift the product, I certainly didn’t fancy walking from pub to pub with a box of hooky gear like you see those Chinamen doing. But Gary said he knew a mush in Shepherd’s Bush, he thought that this was hilarious. But I’ve spent time in Shepherd’s Bush and there are some unsavoury types knocking about. I worry about Gary, he seemed to know a lot people in London, but I’ve lived in the ghetto. I was going to have to stay close. I mean, thanks to my judo, I’m never really in any kind of peril.

I’d practically forgotten about the wedding ring, assuming that it was probably one of Gary’s hilarious jokes. But when we landed at Heathrow I had a text message from an unknown source: “Bazman. Where u at sexgod husband. Tia.x”

My first reaction was to delete the message. Natch. But, as regular old skool readers will know, I am a hopeless romantic and, besides, those Thai girls are AMAZING. Also, from very recent personal experience, they will pretty much do whatever you ask them to do. I think this is due to two things; first it is well documented that Thai men have tiny penises and second, it is also well documented that British men are polite and chivalrous. Also, I am a sexgod. I’m no spring chicken though and, frankly, why shouldn’t old Newsdesk have a bit of fun?

Thanks to Gary and Tia, I figured I'd be going back to Thailand sooner than I expected.

I sent her a short note explaining that I'd be away for a few days "on business" and requested a photo (for my wallet!). I'm no mug!

Sick Sikh

Phew, I’ve managed to steal a few moments alone to log on. Wow, it’s taken me ten minutes to read and re-read Mr C’s ace comment on my previous post. I’m not afraid to admit it, but I cried like a baby. And not just because I’ve just been cutting up the onions for tomorrow’s spag bol.

I’m onto quite a cushy number in the kitchens. Like I said before, my unit supervisor lends me his laptop and turns a blind eye, and I lend him a hand every so often. He’s a funny feller. His name is Paul, although his real name is Gurjit. He is actually a Sikh. Lol. Way back when I conducted my study on religions I never did Sikhism. From what I can gather, it is basically like being the opposite of Hindu.

Hindus are vegetarians. Sikh’s are carnivores. Hindu’s believe in elephant-headed gods, Sikhs train elephants. It’s no surprise then that the British army trained Sikhs to be the main fighting force against the Hindus during our occupation. Hindus are basically hippies you see, and while the Sikhs have long hair and beards, they also carry knives and like nothing more than a few drinks and scrap. They’re like India’s Hell’s Angels.

Paul breaks the mould a bit as a Sikh, and not just because he has adopted a European name. He’s a practising homosexual you see, which if he were a Hindu would be perfectly fine – remember, those were the guys who wrote the Karma Sutra. Sadly, for Gurjit, being gay is strictly prohibited amongst the Sikhs. Like a lot of Indians he was training to be a doctor, but when he changed his name to Paul and went full on gay, he turned his back on that life. Apart from the bit about carrying a knife.

His life literally crumbled following a moment of madness. He placed an advert in his local newspaper’s lonely hearts column. This in itself would not have been a major problem, but for the fact that the gay Sikh community is quite tight knit and he was already friends with five other practising homosexual Sikhs in town and so when he placed the ad reading: “Six sick Sikhs seek six sick Sikhs for sick sex.” He was drummed out of the community. Which is not quite what he was after. From that moment on he has roamed the earth. Like David Cain in Kung Fu. Only a Sikh version in the East Midlands.

Bangkok

I just wanted to say a quick “thanks blood” to my main hommie boy Mr London Street. Yo comments is well appreciated. Also, a passing thanks and hello to Shopgirl, Maccoall and The Jules. And a massive big up to Mr C – natch – for inspiring me to get the fuck back into blogland. BOOM! I think that I should warn you all though, that by the simple act of befriending me and adding your sublime commentary, you have put your lives into severe danger.

In a way, I do feel a bit guilty about coming back online and thus endangering all your lives. I knew that my reappearance would send shockwaves across certain elements of the Internet. I’m under very strict orders to keep my profile on the low-down, my location is a closely guarded secret. I can say no more at this stage. Other than, if you’re getting home late and it’s dark, be on your guard. I can’t be there to help sadly. If you can, I suggest joining a judo club. The streets aren’t safe man. It’s just you against the world.

I never, for once, thought things would wind up this way. It all seems a million lifetimes from marching into BA’s business lounge to the beat of Columbia’s finest with Gary, just a passport apiece, a credit card and return tickets to Bangkok. It felt like we were Noel and Liam. Definitely maybe. I think if we were, I would have been Noel. Sure, Gary had something, a certain charismatic elemental charm, but essentially I was the artistic powerhouse of the partnership.

I thought I was a man of the world. I was until I visited Bangkok. My eyes were opened. I don’t think I’ll be able to play table tennis again. Not to any level of proficiency at least. I have no idea how long we stayed up partying. Days merged into weeks. The faces blurred. The genders were immaterial. Nothing mattered. I woke up one day with a tattoo of a monkey on my back and wedding ring on the third finger of my left hand.

It was time to come home. But things would never be the same.

Stolen moments

You're probably wondering how the heck I can find time to blog in a place like this. We're certainly not supposed to be online, it's no holiday camp I can tell you. But I have am understanding with my unit supervisor. I scratch his back, he lends me his laptop and turns a blind eye for 15 minutes.

I know that he does the same thing for a few others. In fact, it was my mate here that put me on to it. Judging by the state of the place, I'd say most of the others nip in here and spend their quarter of an hour consuming as much porn as possible. I'll admit, blogging was the last thing on my mind for a while.

If you know the right people, this place isn't all bad. After the experiences I've had over the last seven months, I've learnt to keep my head down. Avoid eye-contact. Don't speak until you're spoken to, then give as little away as possible.

I'm innocent of course, but then they all say that.

Brothers in arms

I’ve got to be honest readers, I have no idea how I ended up in this predicament. I knew that Leache was trouble. I knew it. Like I had a sixth sense for trouble. A trouble radar. “BEEP, BEEP, WARNING!” It was going. I bloody knew it. She wouldn’t listen though. They never do.

Gary seemed different. Granted I had him marked down as bit a rough diamond. But I could tell he was generous hearted. We were living in that old Nazi Greta’s place and when Gary suggested we go down to his pal’s in London for a party to watch the World Cup final, it seemed like the ideal getaway.

A weird thing happened before we went down to London. I had a visit from my old friend Steve. He warned me about Gary. Said his dad had said a few choice things when Steve had mentioned that me and Gary had become housemates. Steve’s dad was always paranoid though, that’s coppers for you. He bloody hated me anyway. Ever since that time with the wing mirrors on the high street. Honestly, you’d think in Steve’s dad’s world that no one ever got drunk and had a bit of harmless fun.

Gary certainly had a lot of fun and a lot of friends. He seemed to know everyone in London! You can’t be all bad with that many friends. He knew a lot of girls and he was introducing me as his brother which was bloody brilliant. And considering Roger and Mum got hitched, I suppose in a way we were brothers.

Being an only child I had always wondered what it would be like to have a brother. It was a great feeling if I’m being honest. Just me and Garry. The Barry & Gary show. I couldn’t help thinking that Mum’s selfishness, depriving me of a brother, was probably behind my lack of success in life. Brothers compete and strive on, I mean, you’ve only got to look at the Nevilles.

The all seeing eye

Life may be pointless, but it's still good to be back blogging and nothing says "I'm back" like a dead octopus...

I have a feeling though that the nature of my future posts will be fairly short for a while. I need to grab these illicit moments when I can. I'm being watched you see. All the time. Well, not all the time. Not right now for instance. Not unless there is a CCTV camera here that I'm not aware of.

So much has happened to me over the past half year, that I don't quite know where to start. So, I'll start at the end. I'm a maverick like that. Most people start at the beginning, not me.

I find myself locked in a small windowless room. It's the only place I know that I'm safe. From the accusations, from the eyes, the haunting. The depravity. Time stands still in The Room. Again, this is more of a saying that an actual. It doesn't really stand still. If it did, I think we might be onto the beginnings of an episode of The Twighlight Zone or something.

I've often thought that I would be a great sci-fi writer. I can easily imagine a future filled with escalator walkways in the sky and silver jumpsuits. Most people can. But then I have an innate ability to add a special twist. Like a room in which time stands still.

Right, fuck, I can hear footsteps, I'd better be off.

The meaningless of life

I’ve been away for seven months readers and that is a long time in anyone’s book. A lifetime in many respects. Well, in the respects of certain octopuses it is at least. I feel sorry for Paul the octopus. Surely Planet Earth’s most famous octopus? Paul managed to successfully predict a string of World Cup match winners and is now dead. If he went to the trouble of having an accumulator bet at Ladbrokes on his predictions he would have been a very wealthy octopus indeed. Still, that wouldn’t have helped in end. Nothing helps us in the end.