Sunday, 16 November 2014

The Platform


The sleepers went years ago
For firewood and missiles
The panes were smashed from the beginning
Replaced, replaced and no longer replaced
The bench was unbolted
The booth was attacked
The clock was stolen
The toilets were pissed in
The canopy was cracked
The posters were torn
The steps were pissed on
The bins were booted
The rails have resisted
The weeds have run wild
The rainwater comes in
And still we find things to do

A tattooed beast sprays his poem
Over the toilet walls
A cocky lad draws up phlegm
To fire in the air
A pretty girl takes a six-incher
From a small boy
An ugly girl laughs and swears
She's seen it all before
The boy takes vodka
The pretty girl is tired
The small boy is proud
The cocky lad is tired
The rails have resisted
The weeds have run wild
The rainwater comes in
And still we find things to do

(c) Luke Ryman. November 2014.

Tuesday, 4 November 2014

A Plumber Called Deano

There's a plumber called Deano - he's young, rich and quite good looking.
Then there's his mate, Phil - he clings to Deano because Deano is the one with the money. Phil likes cheeseburgers, drinking lager and having a good time.
And what about Sarah? Well, she's common and vulgar, she wears supermarket clothes and she drinks vodka and orange.
And finally there's Clare - Clare Green, from Canterbury - who is Deano's long-suffering girlfriend.

Clare hates Sarah but tolerates Phil.
Deano loves everyone, because that's the sort of guy he is.
Sarah loves herself.
Phil loves double cheeseburgers.

"Welcome to Normandy!" shouts Deano, as the four friends arrive at their gite, which Deano has hired for their two-week holiday.

The girls aren't impressed but Deano is sure that a good time will be had by all.

Just what will Clare do to amuse herself in a village that time forgot?
Where will Phil find his precious cheeseburgers?
What will Sarah make of the locals?
Why has Deano got his eye on the girl with the guitar?

Find the answers, take a trip around Normandy and laugh a little in "But Bloody France!" - the first of three short ebooks, out now on Kindle via Amazon.

Monday, 20 October 2014

Swearing in Private


We shared a bottle of white Bordeaux – very dry and perfectly chilled - as we sat side by side, with me giving her a detailed account of my first day at The National & American Biscuit Company. It had all started so promisingly, I told her, as I swept shit from the floor of the warehouse and enjoyed coffee with Craig and his gang.

I refilled our glasses, and then I continued, telling Jill about Smallcock's annoying habit of calling me the New Boy. We both agreed, as I temporarily abandoned my lover, to get a second bottle of wine from the fridge, that Smallcock was a cunt. This was one of the great things about Jill. I could freely use the word cunt, fuck and bastard, and she wouldn't be annoyed. She even referred to some of her own colleagues as fucking cunts and mother fuckers. It made me chuckle to hear a woman use such phrases, although our foul-mouthed rants were always confined to our home, and never aired in public. Fat Mary, she thought, was obviously a frustrated woman, who probaly lived all alone, and hadn't fucked for years. I agreed with Jill's assessment of the bitch from the cookie production line, and told Jill that a man would have to be seriously inebriated to even think about fucking that.

Extract taken from "4 Years in London" - an ebook for kindle by Luke Ryman.

Sunday, 12 October 2014

4 Years In London





Tony and me are in our mid-forties, but we were acting like a pair of brainless teenagers. That's no way for a grown man to act, and that's no way to live. I suppose he's jealous of Jill, because she has driven a wedge between him and me. And now I have a comfortable life, in Jill's tower block home, whilst he has our flat all to himself, and nobody to speak to. I think Jill would like me to detest Tony, but just because he was a bad influence on me, and was happy to see me ruin my life, that's no reason to hate the man. After all, I'm an adult, and I'm as much to blame as Tony if my life was going off the rails...

... By the time I made it to the factory I was drenched, with the grey London sky having shown no mercy to a poor man who was looking for a job, and who wanted to make something of his life – if working in a biscuit factory could help me achieve my wish. I looked at my shoes. They were caked in mud and grass, and looked nothing like the well-polished footwear I had been wearing when I had left home. My trousers were equally dirty, and my white shirt looked like I had dragged it through the rainy streets that had eventually brought me to the factory gates. I was cold and uncomfortable, and as the wind decided to batter me sideways, I took shelter from the weather under a tree, which stood all alone at the entrance to the factory, and looked out of place. I looked around me. It WAS the only tree to be seen on the industrial estate where the factory was located, and it brought some much-needed colour to an otherwise very grey and dull place, which up to that point I had never seen before...

...I didn't shower. I felt too depressed and tired to bother with such a trivial chore. Instead I smoked a cigarette and drank two cups of coffee. In the fridge were cheese sandwiches and a slice of apple pie that Jill had wrapped in plastic film, ready for me to take to work, so that I would have something to eat, at what she had jokingly referred to as half-time. I took my lunch from the fridge and sniffed. Fucking cheese sandwiches. That's what my life had become. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was four o'clock. It was time to go. I felt ill and wanted to empty my bowels on the kitchen floor. I wanted to go back to bed. I wanted to watch the television. I wanted to fuck Jill. I wanted to do many things – except go to work.


Extracts taken from "4 years in London" - an ebook for kindle by Luke Ryman

Thursday, 2 October 2014

Football Forever!

Ooh la la

Online dating has never been so much fun, and as you email your application to join BOYS & GIRLS FOREVER, you only hope that your first potential partner resembles this delightful example of womankind.

The membership of this elite club is a thousand pounds, but who cares? This will be money well spent if you end up with a beauty like this.

So off you trudge to the Plough & Harrow public house - a delightfully stinking pub set back off the main road which cuts through Leeds like a knife through butter, for it is here that Jenny C, aged 26, with no children, has opted to meet you.

You can understand Jenny's logic. After all, you're a complete and utter stranger, so she wants to feel secure when she meets you for the very first time.

In your flat, in a suburb of Leeds, you have believed that Jenny C, aged 26, with no children, will be bursting with all the right signals, she will be refined and she will be wearing very sexy lingerie. You have doused your skin in very cheap aftershave, you have picked your nose clean, you have put on matching socks and you have told yourself, in front of the bathroom mirror, that the moment for true love to enter your life has come.

The Plough & Harrow is heaving with unemployed bricklayers and greedy plumbers, but after pushing your way to the bar like a beast in search of its prey, you order yourself a pint of lager. This, you tell yourself, is what REAL men drink.





You scan the sea of faces for HER, for it is HER that you have come to dazzle with your wit and charm.

A tattooed beast sends your pint of lager flying, as he wades into a crowd of rowdy football fans. You curse your rotten luck and want to cry, because your new suit smells of Carling Black Label, and the damp patch over your trousers gives the impression that you've urinated in your underpants.

What will Jenny C make of this? You now resemble a drunken yobbo who can't control his bladder. You start to cry, and weaving your way through the crowded pub, like a defeated gladiator, you ask God why did it have to happen to YOU.

And then you cross, like ships in the night. You instantly recognise Jenny C, and as she takes you by the hand, a warm feeling fills your lager-stained trousers.

True love blossoms that very night, but after downing eighteen pints of strong lager, before leaving the pub, you decide that Jenny C is no match for Arsenal versus Tottenham, on the pub's wide-screen TV.

Jenny weeps. You belch. She feels sad. "Come on yer bastards!" you cry, as Tottenham rush at Arsenal's goal.

In another life, you would have been happy together. In this life, football is the only thing that you want - morning, noon and night - as well as a refund from BOYS & GIRLS FOREVER and another pint of lager.

Monday, 22 September 2014

Fish & chips


What would be a better way to start the day than by feeding one's face with a full English breakfast? The smell of the sausages, the sizzle of the bacon and the crackle of the eggs is what breakfasts should be about, and is why our green and pleasant land is a cut above the rest, when it comes to culinary delights.

Those pesky froggies on the other side of the Channel are having a tough time at the moment - soaring unemployment/rising taxes/rising inflation/storms destroying vineyards/political turmoil - and the good times seem a long way off. But when the chips are down and the shit is coming in from all directions, our continental cousins still adhere to their philosophy of we live to eat and don't eat to live!

In other words - as the country falls apart at the edges - the two-hour lunch break is still the priority of the day, as is the national pastime of criticising the eating habits of their British cousins.

How, they sniff, can one eat baked beans and fried bread for breakfast? And, ooh la la, mint sauce with lamb - whatever next? 
 Saturday night is curry night, and although curry is as English as the Eiffel Tower, this wonderful food has been adopted by our people, with love and affection, just in the same way that we love to dine on Mexican and Chinese food.

Ooh la la, Jean-Pierre, how can anyone eat THIS? says Francoise, as she takes her first taste of vindaloo. Jean-Pierre looks at his wife and wants to cry. They came to London for a romantic break, and because they like to try anything once, they decided to visit the Indian restaurant next to their hotel. Their guts are destroyed and their weekend is a nightmare. They curse and swear and they want to go home.

Vindaloo, chicken madras, roast beef and yorkshire pudding, bacon sandwiches, steak and kidney pie and chips, fish and chips, bangers and mash, ploughmans lunch, steak and chips, cheddar cheese and pickled onions, cheese on toast, roast beef and horseradish sandwiches and a full English breakfast help to keep England steaming along in the right direction, and when lunch is over and our appetites have been satisfied, we're ready to tackle anything!

Beans means there are no two-hour lunch breaks here and vindaloo is only for real men.

The white cliffs of Dover is where the action starts, so step inside and give your stomach the treat it deserves!

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

And the winner is...

Asbestos

Thanks to all of you who entered our recent competition (see previous post "Inside FOREVER") in which YOU were invited to send a tedious turd or pompous politician to prison, on Christmas day.

All the votes have been counted, and the Peter Pan of pop - aka Cliff Richard - is the one who will be doing time over the festive period, in one of Her Majesty's crumbling and overcrowded prisons.

Mr. & Mrs. D. Smith, from Leeds, are the first prize winners of the competition, and they will be flying off to the Greek island of Asbestos, next spring, for a wonderful two-week stay on this charmless and abandoned island. Well done to them, and may God go with them on, what is bound to be, a holiday from hell.

Yes, I know what you're thinking: is this one occasion when it would be better to stay in Leeds? Well, quite possibly - but that's for our northern friends to decide.

Mr. A. Nelson, from Norwich, wins the second prize of a weekend for two on the Isle of Wight. A visit to Parkhurst prison is part of his prize, where he will get the chance to eyeball, from a safe distance, some of Britain's most evil criminals.

Third prize goes to Mrs. J. Hartley, from Maidstone. Her prize is a copy of Cliff Richard: the golden years and a meal for two in a Travel Lodge of her choice.










Ten runners-up will receive a year's supply of sausages and charcoal, to help make next summer's barbecues something to remember.

The final votes were as follows:
Cliff Richard: 65%
Angela Merkel: 25%
Sepp Blatter: 6%
Roy Hodgson: 2%
Francois Hollande: 2%

We wish the Smiths a happy time on the isle of Asbestos.

Tune in on Christmas day to see how Cliff Richard adapts to prison life, and hope, like all of us, that this vile entertainer changes his ways and comes out a reformed character.