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.