One more scar to the call


I needed to keep remembering something, and with a brain like a badly homemade sieve, I now have one.

On my hand where it can be seen always. And I’ll keep remembering. My boyfriend has one too.


An interview with the Headmaster of Trinity Catholic High School, Dr Paul Doherty

Oh Dear. That problem with the children leaving their faith at 14/15 is still happening? Colour me surprised. I wonder if he’s stuck sex education on the syllabus yet.

Omar Shahid

Dr Paul Doherty commands respect: he has that reverential aura that when he enters the room, even the most raucous people shut up. Dr Doherty, an award winning author and historian, has published 80 novels and is known under the pseudonyms Paul Harding, C.L. Grace and Vanessa Alexander. Most importantly, though, he has been the headmaster of Trinity Catholic High School in Woodford Green, Essex, for 30 years.

His secretary calls me into his office and, upon entering the room, I am met with a pair of analyzing eyes and a half-smile. He greets me in his husky voice: “Hello Omar”.

 Woodford Green — a fairly affluent and calm suburb in North East London — has witnessed two shootings in recent weeks. What does he make of it all?

 “The area is definitely changing. I haven’t got stats, but aren’t guns becoming more common? Much of violence in London is…

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About a week and a half ago I was sitting a few feet away from Winston Churchill. Well, Churchill being played alongside Helen Mirren in The Audience. And I think his portrayal of an ancient prime minister bossing around a young Queen Lizzie was excellent, if impossible to judge based on accuracy.

Churchill was my MP. Wanstead and Woodford Green as it was arranged back then, and apart from a few brief stays in other places (Liverpool, Ilford, Barcelona) I’ve lived my entire life in first one and then the other. Stern, black statues adorn the greener parts of the areas. As a beginning-to-lose-it teenager whilst wandering past his image in Woodford I partially expected the deceased PM to hop to life and bellow at me to put that joint out at once, FOR ENGLAND

He never did. He did however cause me to drop my biro. Indirectly, and in history class. I looked up when told he suffered from clinical depression – a thing that despite being exposed to a lot of of Churchill information, I hadn’t heard of. But the drop came when I was told he referred to it as the ‘Black Dog’, or ‘his’ Black Dog.
I’d been referring to my low points as the same, I think soon after they started. My black dog. The black dog. The black fucking dog. Alongside the others, the black cloud, the thing that won’t go the fuck away. It was MY black dog. But seemingly his first.

A fascinating coincidence, you say. Well no, it’s not. I may very well have heard the term before, semi-forgot and used it as original. I don’t think so, but no, it’s still not. And I only speak of it because it’s back. Curled up on my lap, stirring occasionally to lick my face or sink its paws further into my stomach. Rolling onto its side in the ‘flat’ position, dreaming smugly of what an elaborate metaphor it can be.

The Churchill link I don’t find that interesting at all anymore, but I knew it would be a way to get me writing. I’m withdrawing completely. I start getting upset when I realise that I need the toilet or a glass of water, because to get out of bed is horrible in itself. I return, with an empty bladder and/or a less parched throat, and want to cry with exhaustion. I lie there, hoping I can sleep again – usually an hour or two after waking up. And if I’m lucky, I can. And if I’m not, I don’t.

And my main social interactions outside of things in my head and the Great and Metaphorical Canine One involve lurking invisibly on skype and trying to build up the courage to talk to my closest people when they’re announced in the bottom right corner. Despite growls that I shouldn’t bother.
And then…well, I don’t know. Upset rant terminated.
Bark bark, motherfuckers.

I love Daily Telegraph comments

Reading Daily Mail comments to fuel your leftwing self-righteousness is just plain silly. Yes, reading about how no-one speaks ‘British’ anymore may be somewhat amusing, but if you really want to feel superior against a worthy opponent, the Daily Telegraph is the best thing on offer. Not only are the opinions on display often more extreme than that of the tabloids, but they’re presented in a coherent, grammatically correct style, and you feel like you’re up against a worthy opponent (albeit one you consider batshit insane, as they do you) as opposed to what feels like stamping on a brain damaged alley cat with swastikas tattooed into each side of its fur.

here’s an example:

The dominant female gender will dispense with traditional coupling and resort to AI for procreation as there won’t be enough respectable, employed and reliable males partners out there for even 10% of women.

So upmarket bordellos populated by gigolos for sexual gratification will be needed to cater for female sexual needs, making most of the male of the species completely and utterly redundant.

Down here in Devon on the farm we only need a tiny number of male animals for reproduction – the rest have their testes removed and are fattened for slaughter when good and meaty, after 30 months. Long pig, anyone? A whole new line in upmarket supermarket “happy meat” beckons.

With no role in industry, with no need for cannon fodder for overseas wars and lacking the ability to perform well in Gove’s Brave New Educational World of Sexual Selection, perhaps it would be kinder to abort 50% of male foetuses before they are even born in future – or we could develop a conception selection pill to ensure we only produce as many male babies as are going to be gainfully employed?

Traditional Tory Values writ large – naked competition rules OK – and unless there is a complete rethink about Gove’s “back to O Levels & the Old school”, this is the logical conclusion to what will happen.

Clearly no one with any sense has thought this one through – god help the coming generations.

This isn’t an extreme example, this is a popular comment selected from the first few on the article I happened to be reading. The person writing this is much more likely to have any sort of influence than John Smith UK, Location: Broken Britten, fuck the Eussr.
I’m also now admitting to sneering at groups such as the EDL for badly spelled placards as much as their islamophobia. While holding no strong love for the culture and history of my country for many reasons aside from being a disgusting anarcho-commie, as someone with a huge interest in languages and linguistics I have a big interest in the English language. I’m not going to mock such things anymore. The working classes are the key to fundamentally changing society in favour of the working classes, and coming from that background myself it’s easy to forget that I left school (a good state school, but still) with almost zero knowledge of grammar. Yes, my early online confrontations involved such well constructed arguments as “Your an idiot” The main driving force for learning English grammar was mockery from people in other countries. I remember feeling pretty fucking enraged, and subsequently teaching myself it online. That doesn’t mean foreign or domestic mockery is going to work for anyone else, and by mocking those who have little knowledge of the English language in terms of vocabulary or grammar, we’re reinforcing the odd new stereotype of today’s left being entirely privileged, often taught at public schools, as well as disparaging the working class for being taught at a sub-par standard, something with we’d normally (and should) be blaming capitalism for. So catchy as it is, I don’t think I’ll be putting ‘Muslamic Ray Guns’ autotune as my new ringtone. If our state schools and our media are determined to keep the hardworking, overworked and underpaid section of our society largely ignorant, laughing at the victims of such an arrangement is both callous and distracting.

The one exception will be ‘Never submit to Aslan’ as someone who read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, I can’t help but smile at that one. But from now on, it’ll be an internal smirk.

Sleep Deprivation Film Reviews: What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?


Okay well I settled down and this came on. My friend had put it on. This had come after a long night of Spanish role-play (for language purposes) which had quickly descended into competition as to be who can be the biggest weirdo in Spanish. I won obviously, as the ladykilling 25 year old scamp que trabajaba in a delightful cementerio and who in the past had struggled with una gran atracción oscura for the muertos. None of which has anything to do with the film except that it was way, way less fucked up.

So we went upstairs and my former friend (yes, this was only this morning and we aren’t friends anymore, keep up) shoves this DVD in. And very soon in I’m like ah yeah I know this one, adapted from that American Dad episode with the squirrels.

I had heard somewhere or other that it was meant to be a very emotive film. Didn’t take long, as I soon realised I was highly unnerved by the noises the kid with learning disabilities had, which obviously came with a big side helping of guilt. I do love when films give you those rare, combo emotions. I’m sure it was all intended.

Michelle sniggers through the first few bits every time the kid says something, before sitting upright and saying how it’s not actually the kid making her laugh, too tired to really care about any of that.

“Miiiiiccchhhheeelllleee? The kid is creeping me out” /ashamed face
And super insulting/patronising mode is activated. To be fair to her she’s not normally this bad but today – dreadful.
“Well Martin, the most helpful thing is to realise that they’re just human beings like you and me.”
-was not to groggy to respond to that –

“Michelle, what the actual FUCK?”

After being placated I soon realise that the kid is the least disturbing part of the film for me right now. He slams a bug in a letterbox which was the apex for me, soon after he screechcries which is a close second, and then there’s a morbidly obese woman 😐 who doesn’t leave the house :/ and then I realise is going to die on her back like a manatee with her eyes bulging and peanut butter smeared around her mouth [credit again to American Dad for forewarning me of this shit]

I had to take a stand. It was going off. My friend then sighed heavily and theatrically several times, tbf I was a bit spaced/shellshocked and didn’t notice the first few.

So, that was my Gilbert Grape experience, all 7.5 minutes of it. Oh, and soon after my friend revealed herself to have white supremacist views, which may not seem that easy to blame on the movie but why not.


  • Generally considered good by people of sound mind and body, I think
  • Might have gotten less horrifying, who knows
  • Grapes are fun?


  • This movie will take you to the darkest abscesses of your mind, NOT for family viewing
  • It stressed me out for at least an hour and a half afterwards
  • It may turn your friends into Nazis for like, no reason.

If you enjoyed my Sleep Deprivation film review and would like to see me do more in the future, then may I suggest you are a something of a twisted individual? Shit like this is hardly good for my health.

My Old Racist Friend and I

Why on my part Martin B and Michelle B (or H, whatever) have terminated our friendship of…I dunno, a few years.

My main reasons:

  • I was stupid enough in the past to ignore a statement about South Africa being far better off under white rule/apartheid. However today she repeated this viewpoint, and again moments when I asked just to make sure what I was hearing. The white people are more oppressed now than the black ones ever were. I had previously also noticed things such as Jacob Zuma never being referred to as the President, or by his name. It’s The Black President or Ruler – make sure to empathise the adjective. It’s very much the most important thing about the ruler of a country.
  • The attack on my political beliefs had become constant. Without droning on about too much about it, I support as much individual liberty as possible, with minimal to no government. Economically, I’m a communist. Michelle’s fairly good natured jibes at my being an extremist soon grew to rage fits growing from any ideological dispute, for example my belief that infant circumcision removes choice from the child and that the government (if it’s there) shouldn’t give state funding to religious institutions. Comparisons with all manner of regimes and dictators from the left and right sprung up, which were more confusing than anything else. And if anyone wants to put forward their own theories on how I compare to Franco and Kim Jong-Un, I would genuinely love to read such things. Read, not have screamed into my face in between accusations that I can’t wait to see Nelson Mandela die and I don’t understand that mentally handicapped people are human beings. (Quick Quiz on what those last two accusations were based on – is the answer: a) Nothing or b) Something? tune in next week to find out.
  • The anarchists in Catalonia crushed by Franco ‘kinda had it coming’ as they were unable to defend themselves. She carried on smirking as I reminded her Franco killed 150,000 to 400,000 people. During the white terror women (including pregnant ones) were raped, executed, forced to walk naked through the streets after being fed castor oil to make themselves shit themselves in public. It was incredibly hard to control my anger with that fucking smirk right there. At this point she jumped up and shrieked: “DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY MORE PEOPLE HITLER KILLED?”

    “Yes Michelle, one of many reasons I hate scum like Hitler…”
    Sits down. “Oh, Martin…” the smirk returns “you’re so ignorant.”

  • I didn’t give as good as I got, although I got angry enough to start flinging some amount of bile back, at least until I realised the futility of it. We each called the other ignorant, plain stupid, a few more personal ones, some which I meant and some I didn’t. Not going to list them here, because I’m not writing this because I’m angry that she does x or y. I’m angry she’s a racist. And I’m even more fucking angry at myself for not noticing something which has been apparently been somewhat apparent to others for a while. And I feel even happier being an extremist. Because from over here, extremism looks a lot less scary than that mess.


One of the last things she screamed at me was that I never really knew her at all. I guess even an apartheid-apologist clock is right twice a day.