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I Dream of Heaven

  Heaven was shit, and even if it wasn't I was determined to hate it. I didn't want to go there in the first place: as the clever-clogs family sceptic and opponent of spiritual claptrap in general, it was a humiliation I wasn't about to face up to in a hurry. It took me months, or centuries, or aeons - time becomes impossible to gauge in Heaven since nothing changes - to stop insisting I be sent to Hell, once I'd finally accepted there was no such place.   The moment I died things went from bad to worse. First the hovering on the ceiling above my body, then the flying down the bloody tunnel towards the white light, then the magical journey to the golden citadel in the clouds accompanied by serene angels: the whole thing was one big cringe, straight out of the mind of an unimaginative child, like a trip sequence from a third-rate TV movie. I was furious by the time I reached the pearly gates, which had all the showy class of a Premiership footballer's gates. Heav...

Something in Common

SOMETHING IN COMMON  Look at him: a sorry excuse for a man. He’s a year older than me but he still dresses like a teenager. He hasn’t made any effort to look half-way respectable; by the looks of his hair he hasn’t even had a shower, and he stinks of smoke.  They walk together up the gravel path to the front door of the house they had known as children, and only occasionally as adults at Christmas. Look at her: Miss priggy. She’s a year younger than me but she dresses like an old lady; she’s all make-up and perfume, smells like a chemical laboratory. Her hairdo is ridiculous. They reach the door, ring the bell and wait, both of them looking straight ahead. I mean, what’s he done with his life? He sits about all day playing video games and smoking drugs; I don’t think he’s ever done more than a few weeks’ work in his life, but he’s been on benefits forever. He probably makes more off disability benefits than I do working full time, and nobody even knows wh...

Tomorrow's News Summary

TOMORROW’S NEWS SUMMARY World Prime Minister Sir Jacob Rees Mogg met President Timberlake and other heads of state today at the Middle East peace summit in Geneva, as they try to sort out a ceasefire in NATO-occupied territories and a halt to illegal Israeli settlements, which have now reached the suburbs of Tehran.  Extremist protestors outside the summit complex held placards denouncing NATO’s use of unprovoked nuclear strikes on civilians, but they were safely removed and deported before breakfast was served, thought to include rashers made from Li-Li, the very last panda bear, who died last week at Guantanamo.   UK Leader of the opposition Tommy Robinson has called for a boycott of Betfred, after one of its employees was photographed without a remembrance poppy. The betting company, who recently purchased the NHS and the National Grid, said the offending employee has already been neutralised.  Betfred are also said to be preparing a takeover of Soyle...

Tryst

TRYST  Sir Alec pulled back the sumptuous silk bedclothes of the four-poster bed and walked to the window to peer out at the misty dawn over Sandringham.  "Tongues will wag, your majesty, you can bet your bones."  "Look, I've told you not to worry; Philip won't be out of hospital for another two days. There are no reporters here, you can relax."  "But what if the old fella carps it in the night, eh? There'll be dozens of paps before you know it, and I'll have to hide in the fucking broom cupboard."  "Oh stop it, Alec. If I can't invite a knight of the realm to hunt on my private estate, what's the bloody point of being a monarch? You worry too much; Phil will be fine, he always is. Now come back to bed and protect your queen, there's a good knight. You'll catch a cold standing there in your long johns."  "Och no me, your majesty. I'm fit as a butcher's dog, raised in the Gorbals....

Footballs Today blog

Footballs Today was a blog I wrote for a couple of years until I couldn't be bothered anymore. In my considered opinion it's pretty fucking funny, especially if you keep up with football. I'm still furious it didn't set the blogosphere on fire: http://footballs-today.blogspot.com

Script: Dr. Bethany

DR. BETHANY A 30-minute play for radio Scene one FX: interior ambience DR TOUCHER (with Scots accent): So here we are, madam, here’s your prescription: a wee spoonful of lingonberry extract twice a day, and three drops of zirconium dilute with your meals. That comes to thirty-nine pounds ninety-nine plus the consultation fee, which makes two hundred and thirty-nine pounds and ninety-eight pence altogether.  FEMALE PATIENT:  Gosh, it’s, er… rather more than I’d expected… DR: TOUCHER: Well I’m afraid guaranteed natural, traditional medicine does not come cheap - these products are hand-sourced, not made by factory drones working for Big Pharma, you know. You can’t afford to take your chances with a serious condition such as yours. FEMALE PATIENT: Of course. It’s just that I- DR. TOUCHER (interrupting): Card or cash? FEMALE PATIENT: Oh, er… card. I was saying- DR: TOUCHER: Insert the card here please FEMALE PATIENT: Oh ,so...