They were selling christs at the market. It was the season for it, of course. Fifty pence each or four for a pound. I said, “I’m not sure you should be selling discount christs, really,” and the man running the market stall said, ”What why not?” and I said, “It just seems a bit disrespectful really,” and he said, “So it’d be better if I ripped you off then would it?” and I shrugged my shoulders and said “I dunno,” but I still didn’t like it.

A woman came up and asked for a christ and the market man said, “Just the one love? It’s four for a pound,” but she said, “Nah just one I could never manage four I’d end up just throwing the others out for the birds,” and she handed him a 50p and he handed her a christ and she bit into the skull and I could see her shiver uncontrollably in delight as the hallowed brains burst out into her mouth. Then she pulled the arms and legs off and gave one each to her children, who all began to gnaw with a sullen determination at the foetal limbs.

She handed the torso back to the stall holder and said, “Can you wrap that up for me?” and he put the bloody lump of it down on some grease proof paper and wrapped it up neatly for her and said, “Saving it for someone special?” and she said, “The heart’s my favourite bit. I’m saving it for later,” and then she smiled and said, “For the when the kids have gone to bed,” and she winked at the christ seller and there was blood on her teeth and quite a bit on her chin and then she tucked the bloody package into her bag and went on her way, her children following behind like dogs, still chewing on their bones, trying desperately to extract some holy flavour from the seeping marrow and the gristly meat. I watched them disappear into the distance and thought of many things.

“Are you going to fucking buy any christs or what you fucking cunt?” the christ man said to me and I handed him a pound and took my discount christs without a word.



1. Written on December 10th, 2016


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The Colour Of Light Towards The End Of The Day

Everyone liked the colour of the light at the end of the day. They agreed it was the best colour of light possible, better even than the corresponding light at the beginning of the day, which you would have thought would be exactly the same, but wasn’t somehow, they all agreed.

Maybe eyes work differently at different hours, someone said, and someone else said maybe brains do, and they all laughed, but then fell silent when they thought about it for a bit and realised it was probably true, and then someone said “Well, who can say”, which is what someone always said, at some point, whenever they were talking.

What we can say, if we can say anything, is that the colour of the light towards the end of the day is, for whatever unknown reason, better than the colour of light at the beginning of the day, and also that the colour of light at the end of the day in summer is better than the colour of light at the end of the day in winter, which might be to do with differences in the amount of moisture in the air at different times of year, or to do with the different length of time the sun is near the horizon, or the angle it approaches it at, or a million other reasons that are certainly quite plausible.

Or maybe eyes work differently in the cold. Or brains.

Who can say etc etc

What we can say, quite clearly, is that the colour of light at the end of the day in autumn is terrible because all the fields have been set on fire and our smoke-filled eyes don’t work at all and all we have are tears.



1. Written on July 20th, 2016


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The monks were sat in the monkery, each one settled comfortably upon their egg. It was almost hatching time and the monkery was filled with an air of tense excitement and the pungent stench of outright fear. This could be it, at any moment. This could be the end.

The end of the egg.

And the beginning of what came after.

But what came after none of the monks knew, for it was not in the teachings and it was not in the books and it wasn’t even in the stained glass windows that bathed them all in a pallid rainbow of dead light.

It was a mystery.

And monks hated mysteries.

“Same time next week, hey lads?” one of the monks shouted, but none of the others laughed. The chief monk would have issued a stern rebuke to the monk with his cane but it was too late for that because even the chief monk was perched on his egg and not even he dared move and so he sat there in silence with all the other monks rather than striding across the monkery’s floor and striking that impudent monk’s head down onto the cobbles with a single swish of his staff and then further striking the head and occasionally the cobbles in his pitiless fury as he really wanted to do and as the situation surely demanded.

The silence stretched out

and out

seeming to fill the great hatching hall with its immensity

or with its void

if a void could ever be said to fill anything

which it couldn’t

the monks knew

for that was in the teachings and in the books

but not in the stained glass windows

for how could you represent a void in the medium of painted glass

You couldn’t, that’s how

You couldn’t at all

Not without just painting it black

and negating the art itself

and the form

and the very meaning of the term itself.

The bell tolled. The monks all craned their heads in unison towards the clocktower, and then turned them back again. Stared straight ahead. Stared into nothing and at no-one. Beneath them sat the eggs. Beneath them sat an unknown world.

The monks waited. Shivered. Waited, waited.

The eggs stirred. Pulsed. Began to hatch.

The monks, having waited so long, discovered they had no time to understand what was happening. And then it was too late and there was nothing left for them to do and nothing left for them to be and the new monks feasted on their bodies from below and slivered into their forebears habits and donned their cowls and made their way, bloodied and beautiful, into the chancel, where they would be granted their absolution and with it eggs of their own.



1. Written on July 26th, 2016


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I remember reading a story on teletext once in, presumably, 2003 or something, that in the 20 years since the pound coin had been released, 800 million of them had gone missing.

So I decided then that I would collect all the missing ones, and that would be how I made my fortune, and ever since I have dedicated my entire life to finding them.

So far I have found 4 pound coins.



1. Written on August 13th, 2016
2. Unfortunately now my quest has been ruined by the introduction of a new pound coin
3. I shall never forgive them


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