The Ming dynasty of the Vaze empire circa 3942 AD

This is a title that scared me as soon as i picked it from the hat. Not because i had no idea what to write. Not at all! It's because i recognized a vast responsibility that was bestowed on myself. 

I have to leave a legacy fit to last just under 2000 years to make this title more than nonsense. I have researched the eastern ways of power by playing the game Jade Empire and i think i have a plan on how to complete the mission.

What i learned is that to have your own empire you must overthrow the existing empire. It will be a battle of wits and fist with a few bosses along the way. You will need a team of friends or followers, each with unique abilities to aid you on your journey. That's you! You must start recruiting as our enemy is vast. They have a special army of non-human soldiers known as golems, or in modern terms "Trolls". These are ruthless creatures hell bent on draining morale of anyone with an opinion or creative drive. 

The secret to defeating the trolls is perseverance, kung fu and gumption. Ignorance is another way to deal with the trolls however it wont defeat them as they will just find someone else to pester and crush. We can't let this happen! We must fight, fight, relax, fight and kill. This will be very time consuming but the results will be effective and necessary. 

Once the trolls are dealt with there will be a lovely kissing/ love scene between (judging by my play through's of the game) two girls which i think is pretty empowering and might even piss of the leaders of the empire twofold or something like that. Then you will face your old master and realise that he used and trained you for his own benefit and you must defeat him/her in an epic boss battle. Make sure you have a vast stamina or powerful magic as to avoid his swift maneuvers.

When your master is defeated we must assert ourselves over the masses of needy people. We must be clever and convincing. We'll need a symbol that unifies the world, creating our own empire. The Vaze Empire. We shall create Ming pots out of the bones of the defeated trolls and final bosses. We'll get artists to decorate them and they'll then be admired and appreciated by all! We shall rule toe world! In a nice way of course.

So. If we start now, we'll get it done by about 3942 AD i think. SO GET RECRUITING!

Cheers.

The food that makes me shit terrible but i love it.

I haven't got a food that i love that'll make me shit terrible, really. But here's a true story for you.

As i sit in an establishment that serves food, anyone looking over my shoulder would like to read that i am not a food critic. In fact the people working in this establishment should be encouraged to feel the opposite feelings to the nerves and worry that would come with serving a food critic. A food critic will judge everything that's done as soon as they sit at the table. Is the room temperature tepid? Is there enough space? Are the chairs strong and comfortable enough? Will the waiter/waitress be friendly? Should i challenge them? Where's my fucking food?

At least all this is what i imagine a food critic does when entering a restaurant. I do just the opposite.

I walk in and wonder if there's any room at the establishment which is proof that i am a descendant of Mary or Joseph from that story in the bible. As soon as i notice a place to park it i mark it, dropping a hoodie or my rucksack on the chair. I rush to the bar and politely ask for a drink which i'll sip whilst mulling over the menu. Once i have chosen something that's the wrong side of healthy i politely order it and then i sit down, completely at the whim of the establishment. They can take as long as they like and have any attitude they want when giving it to me. (I might ask after 30 minutes) As long as it comes and tastes fine im happy. My connection to the establishment is then cut unless i want dessert, wherein i repeat the previous process. 

I usually have to spend a lot of time on the "mulling over the menu" area of my dining process. This isn't because im fussy. If i was fussy, it'd be easy. I'll pick the only thing i like: Ham egg and chips or something like that. Im not calling ham egg and chips boring by any standard. It just seams to be what fussy British people eat.

The truth is im far from fussy and i fancy everything. You can test me on that if you wish. I would try everything on the menu if i was rich and dined out often. This means the "what do i fancy" approach of picking food has to be thrown away and the "What will make me feel full" approach is adopted.

Have you noticed that everything on a good and tidy menu in a food restaurant is edible? And it's all fairly filling. So then i have to readopt the "What do i fancy" approach again and the two process' dovetail in my mind until i think "Fuck it, i'll have a steak."

I've always done this. It got hard when i had a girlfriend who got angry when hungry (who doesn't?) and i had to decide much, much quicker. The stress of keeping my girlfriend happy whilst not knowing what to eat was immense and it always resulted in my eating lasagne. Lasagne is delicious, don't get me wrong, it's just that it's very rich and on two separate occasions i rued my decision to eat the pasta dish.

You see, on these two occasions It wasn't just food with a girlfriend. These were dates and let me tell you, im a smooth operator when im on a date and i can make any lady as moist as the establishment's cake. 

Needless to say, at the end of the date, i was invited in and we put on a film to ignore. (I'll add here that we had been and item for a while and were comfortable with each other. Im not that terrific). Well with a belly full of lasagne that was now moving at unnatural speed, something felt wrong. There was a badness that was creeping upwards towards my neck. I saw no other option but to withdraw and vomit in the toilet, brush my teeth and hope she doesn't notice.

On TWO occasions, like i said, she had noticed and boy did i pay for it! I haven't eaten lasagne in another establishment but my kitchen since. Even though im single (surprise, surprise).

I am a terrible human being.

*****

Dafydd Evans

The animal i'd hate to be.

The animal i'd hate to be

Right after this statement, im going to come right out with the animal i'd hate to be.

Remember Shaq? Im sure i mentioned him on certain blogging sites. Shaq was my lodger. A spider that inhabited my room and i allowed this because he was huge and i believe he got rid of all the other insects that sneak in. We were roomies for roughly a fortnight before Shaq got a little too big for his eight boots and tried to kill me by wrapping me up in his web that he'd maliciously placed in my doorway at face level. He had breached his contract and had to go. I used the trustee pint glass and paper trick and threw him out of my window. That was roughly a month ago, now. 

My surprise made a swift appearance when i had a letter sent through the very same window, dropped off by Dragonfly Mail Service. (The DMS are always on time with no complaints. Most people are too scared to complain anyway.) 

Here's how it read:

You,

The human boy that for some reason showed compassion and curiosity towards my presence in your base. If you are reading this then The dragonflies accepted the copper coin i stole from your room. I didn't think you'd mind me taking it after i spun you a blanket for your face. Your base was freezing and i saw you shivering. I just wanted to help! But a spider has to get by so i took the coin. I see now that you are a hoarder and do not tolerate people helping themselves to your hard earned property. 

I thought i'd let you know a little bit about a journey i've embarked on since getting evicted from your base. The landing was a shock. Thankfully i landed in the gutter so it wasn't hard on me. I started to feel a little safe until it rained. Proper rain too, not just little rain that's big to us spiders. It was the kind of rain that drops slug-sized and saturates anything underfoot and over head. I had to run. sixteen steps i took before enduring the most embarrassing event ever happened to me. I fell down the water spout. DONT LAUGH! You've never experienced the sheer terror that comes with falling down a water spout. It's not like that bit in the goonies (Yes i know what your human films are, it's all you do in your base you eventless being) where they're whizzing through slides looking scared but actually having the time of their lives. No. It's more like paralysis in darkness with the added terror of gravity. I landed in a river which sent me down fourteen consecutive waterfalls, through a green shaggy field into a bramble forest. 

Plenty of food here, if you can catch anything in the humidity. My webs keep getting cut by thorns that are manipulated by the gale force winds. I had to move but i had no bearings. I climbed up as high as possible to get a better view of my surroundings. I reached the highest leaf and began to look. It was fairly bright now so i used four of my hands to block some of the sun. I didn't have time to rue that idea before a heavy gust took my half grip away from under me where i felt the freest and most frightened i've ever felt. I was flying. Spiders cant fly but they can feel terror. I landed but continued flying. My abdomen was squeezing through my mandibles as my flight became unruly and disruptive. I was sitting on the back of a member of the DNS. "What the bug?" He shouted. He then did a somersault and let me fall. After noticing my size he grew hungry. He caught me in his mouth which im sure is possible and mumbled "Im delivering you to my family, we're not going hungry tonight!" whilst chewing on my leg. 

This letter is a last request granted by an honorable Dragonfly named Feilong.

Thanks for our time together; the warmth and easy supply of food, even the company and good films. Thanks for the good, easy times you allowed me during the later part of my not so long life.

Regards,

Shaq.

Man, i would not like to be that animal.

*****

Dafydd Evans

Panhandlers.

I need to clear something up before I begin (no not that. I haven’t had one of them yet, dirty boy). Anyone who thought that there was a drop in form during my last entry will be pleased and appalled to hear that it was not me writing it. “Why would you abandon us, leaving helpless in the hands of a halfwit?” I hear you ask. Well, in order for the story about the ward who got eaten by Dunkers to sound authentic and first person (like 50 Shades of Pay) I hired a ghost writer. Yes, an honest to goodness ghost that was actually eaten by Dunkers. Apparently everything was smaller back then and such occurrences were commonplace. 

Now that the only joke in the scrip has been read I can continue with this intellectual piece on Panhandlers. I hope you learn something. If you do, there is a certificate at the end for you. If you don’t, go back to the start and read it through again. It will sink in eventually (like a virus contracted through the skin).

PAN stands for Personal Area Network (no lies. I didn’t make this bit up…yet). A Personal Area Network is a computer network centred around a single person. I am currently sitting in my room and I have a PAN. There is the computer that I’m currently writing on, the PlayStation that is connected to all of its files, my TV which shares files with the PlayStation and at its centre is me, the Operator. I am my own Panhandler. Everything within my Personal Area Network is controlled by me. It doesn’t do anything without my permission (usually. The PlayStation does occasionally turn its self on but fuck you, that’s what). But this is multimedia and technology. These days everything is connected whether it’s  wired or wireless or both, like your radio (granddad!).  Technology, however, is not the only thing that connects to create networks. People also have networks and it’s these networks and their inner connective systems that I am going to talk about today (like a TED talk…I wish).

If we look at human beings as individuals firstly. Each person is in possession of a PAN. This would be family members or other close relative/guardians. They have an immediate network of people within their personal area. The personal area may not be their home, as they could live alone, but rather the place where this particular network congregates. Within this network, they may not have much control or say. They can leave it, add to it through relationships and reproduction or even destroy it through lies and deception (like a computer virus, spreading from one person to the next) or through an act of mass murder (preferable). The Panhandler in this situation is usually the matriarch of the family, having the most sway over the entire network. Sure, some components might not do as they are told but the majority will obey.

Now, most (not all) of these people will be a part of one or more other PANs. Within each one their roles will change depending on the Panhandler and what they expect of each component. This is most easily seen in school groups or gangs. A gang always has a leader. The one person that keeps the group together (mostly). This isn’t always achieved through amiable means but rather through fear or sex (wait, what?). This person is the Panhandler. Do not, however, misuse the term PAN to mean the entire gang. The person area only allows for one degree of separation. The Panhandler will have handpicked his or her PAN. Those people may in turn bring other people to be a part of the group. They may not know or like the Panhandler particularly well but are there because of their friend. This makes them a part of the Local Area Network (in keeping with the computing analogies). But they may be a part of someone else’s PAN. Picture a page full of overlapping circles where the edge of one touches the centre of another. The centre of each circle is the Panhandler and the edge is where its PAN would stand.

What I am trying to say is that some people are Panhandlers of one group but merely part of the PAN in another. Some people never become a Panhandler but are possibly in more PANs than their peers. Some people never make the PAN of anyone other than their own immediate relations. Where PANs overlap LANs are formed and then Global Networks. Here are some examples to further simplify my overcomplicated analogy about human herding behaviour.

An ordinary classroom of children with one teacher is a PAN. The teacher is the handler and the children are the PAN. The school is then a LAN, where the Head is the Lanhandler and all staff and pupils the LAN. The country is then a GN, with the Prime Minister or whatever runs your country as the Gnhandler (silent G) and all the population of that country the network.

Understand? It’s getting late now anyway so don’t worry if you don’t. Have a certificate anyway. I was just trying to justify using Panhandler as many times as I could without knowing what it meant. Now neither do you. Congratulations.

I, ________________,  have completed the very difficult course ‘Panhandling for Dummies’ with a distinction. I can now do jobs in the cinema, bowling plex and arcade.

Luke “Panhandler x 8” Sampson, PAN

Course Director

*****

I just stroke Hope here on my favorite cold step. She always sleeps next to me while i sit down to think. I look and see every person that walks past getting about their busy lives. Most ignore me. Why wouldn't they? No one want's to be reminded of the grief that exists in this world. And grief that lives oh-so-close to their oh-so-easy, lucky lives. I'd wager they'd never even comprehended what it's like to live without a home. Without even so much as a roof to hide from the rain.

Then there are those who live on their high horses. "How do you expect to take care of her without an income?" 

Who is this guy? Why is he even talking to me, making me his problem? He looks like a busy guy. He's got a tie clip, fitted shoes, slicked back hair. Well done you for affording hair gel. And this well to do prick has got a stick up his arse because I've got a dog that's decided to stay with me.

"Not that it's any of your business, but Hope here takes care of me and it was her decision." I stroke her in the right place under the ear and she moans while resting her chin on my knee.

"That's pathetic."

I'll accept the cruelest words from pricks like him so long as they walk away. And im right to call the guy a prick because i've just earnestly told him an interesting thing about Hope and he walked away anyway.

Hope takes care of me. Since before i met her. My earliest memory is waking up freezing under a bridge with a dog curled up and nuzzled up against my chest. I was confused but mostly cold so i just hugged the dog. She let me do this until i was strong enough. We've been vagrants since. I don't know where she came from but im sure she saved my life. But i cant even know that because i don't even know where i came from. I woke up shivering, left for dead with no hope of life except for this dog. Hence her name. She's stuck with me ever since. 

Even now, she keeps me fed. Playing up to all the children that give her attention, coaxing donations out of their parents. She sniffs out the good bits of chum from the bins. She led me to the busier part of the city so i had a higher chance of finding scraps. She even found me a small saucepan. Placed it in my lap when i sat down and looked into my eyes. It was as if she was saying "You need to beg. You need this.".

I take care of her too. I give her as much food as i can, dropping it next to her. She always waits before eating it as if to ask "You sure?", but hell, i owe her that much. I've scavenged a blanket from some idiot's unlocked car boot so she can lie on something a little warmer. Not too big so it's easy for me to carry around. I make sure she stays hidden when i do things people would deem "stupid" like snoop in car boots. We're taking care of each other because that's all i can do right now. 

Later that night...

It's getting cold. Nothing we're not used to. We've both got adequate clothing now and we know the literal "hot-spots". We know most of the spots. Loud spots, quiet spots, free food spots, safe to sleep spots and the not so sweet spots. We try to stick to the quiet spots, though, unless we're hungry. Standard. 

It's a typical night; same smells, usual noise. But something's not right. Hope keeps stopping to check... something. "Your tricks worked us pretty well today, Hope So we should head to sleep. No need to be greedy." She looks at me and sniffs the ground. "Lets go girl" I command before she zipped off down Bay Arcade, quite a quiet spot usually. This isn't like her. She never sniffs anything useful with such fury. I rush after her but i cant see her anywhere. It's dark and the arcade is curved. "HOPE!" I hear her yelp from near the entrance. I've passed her! Shit. I run back. She's in a coffee shop. The door's been locked. Hope's making a hell of a lot of noise, now. There's a wire noosed around her neck and she's struggling. Im clutching at anything. The door wont open normally but i've punched through the glass. "Im here Hope." No sooner have i untied Her when i feel a bludgeoning pain in my shoulder. Hope jumps over me. Ive never seen her attack anyone. I see her get punched and i've forgotten about my shoulder. And then something strange happens. I am completely aware of my surroundings. I see Hope get back on her feet. I see the silhouettes of three men in the dim light each keeping a keen eye on me. One of them has detained Hope. I then feel an arm choking me. "You see? How can scum like you expect to look after a dog?" The voice is familiar. It's that yuppie twat from today.

"You've got a problem with us?" I struggle.

"Yeah. Look at you. You're a cockroach."

"I do ok. What's it to you?"

"Listen to that guys. He want's to know what it is to me. I'll fucking tell you what it is, asshole, You and that stinking dog take everyone's attention and then everyone's money. And the worst thing? Every charitable person in the street is then to fulfilled to buy any drugs off my patch. So my Boss has asked me to handle you."

"You're fucking twisted." His grip was loosening with his lips so i took the opportunity. I elbowed him in the kindey and threw him into his friend to my right. I swiftly grabbed the wrist of the man holding Hope and curled it under. While he delt with the pain i grabbed his head, wrenched it back and chopped him in the throat. I was about to deal with the last friend but Hope lunged at him tripping him over his two buddies and the bit his throat. 

I picked up the yuppie twat and put him on his knees. "Now im sure your boss will treat you worse than this but i'll give you a choice. Tell me who he is and i'll deal with him myself. Or you can inform him of your failure."

"It's pointless. You'll never find him. You'll die before hearing...". 

Maybe i should have let him finish but i didn't see the point. His voice was annoying too so i knocked him out. Hope and I looked at each other and then tears filled my eyes. Shock. I just realised what i had done. What im capable of. I don't know how i have these skills. And im frightened because i know what i'm going to do. 

*****

Luke Sampson

Dafydd Evans

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe

Greatness is there for all to achieve.

And it's not a case of "i can", "i believe".

Do it or not, or sit down and probe,

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

Every thing's there and you can take part.

Every new skill can be honed to an art.

Whatever you do, be sure to absorb

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

Beautiful comfort you'll craft in your nest.

Surrounding materials that suit you the best.

Except for the smell that stifles your robe.

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

And then you'll find love; the warmest of mood.

You'll want to do all sorts of things in the nude.

And eat with her/him the greatest food on the globe;

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

This month revealed a strange title that's resulted in a strange post from myself. Out of the four contributors of this blog i am the most likely to actually eat A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. But alas, i haven't. I have eaten a slice or two of pizza that shouldn't have been touched due to old age. I've eaten a mars bar that i found in the innards of a couch. (Which one contributor enjoys bringing up at social gatherings.) I am the inspiration of a game titled "What's this i put in your mouth" wherein i close my eyes, open my mouth and anticipate while my surrounding friends have a party. The worst was french mustard or a spice that i cant remember the name of. I haven't, however, got a story that involves me eating, or even having A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. So i couldn't really tell you about my experience of it.

I wrote you a poem instead.

(I did eat a rabbit shit sandwich for a dare, though)

*****

Rather an odd one for you this week but, my gosh, where are my manners. Hello and welcome to another slice of blog pie, the only pie to taste of soggy blobs (disgusting). Now, you’re probably looking at the title and thinking to yourselves (unless you’re psychic and are thinking to someone else) “That title seems rather straight forward. I wonder how he’s going to misinterpret that.”  It’s a fair point I suppose. I do have a history of taking words apart and re-coding them for my own purpose. But not today. This will be a run of the mill explanation about a bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. So buckle your helmets and don your best jodhpurs because we are going for a ride (on a horse apparently).

I had recently moved in to a new house with my parents. They had asked me to go in to the shed at the bottom of the garden and clear some of the mess that was in it. Being a child (of some description) I grunted some kind of accord and went about starting the arduous task that was clearly meant for those adult types. I began to have fun once I got into it, finding old treasures of the people who had lived here before us (in the house, not the shed). There was an old music player that had a giant brass horn for a speaker, all covered in dust. I wondered how majestic it would have looked in someone’s drawing room a long time ago (then smashed it up because I am a child). In one of the corners was a wardrobe on its side, leaving one of those dark triangular spaces behind it. Not daring to look at what was there I decided to stick my hand in and have a feel around. Immediately I was sick. Then I was sick again. Whatever it was that I had felt was one of two things. Either a mouldy bag of sandwiches or a ladies vagina. It was soft and furry and it felt warm from where the sun had been on it throughout the day. 

Sorry. I’ve just remembered that the story I started telling was Skellig by David Almond. Strange how you sometimes mistake your own memories with children’s novels. Anyway, here is my story about the long titley thing.

The garment lay fresh and new in a box upon the bed. Its velvet reds and silk greens gleamed as the sun glanced across it from the tall window on the east wall. The master had given it as a gift to commemorate my first day of service. Everyone starting their new post had to wear one but I was sure that I would look better than them all (especially that prick, Herman). I went to the mirror and put it on. It fit perfect in all the right places. Just as every chef looks forward to the day he earns his jacket I had looked forward to this day. The day I got my Wardrobe. To be the ward of a nobleman was no small thing (unlike myself) and was a feat that none in my family had ever achieved. I was now entitled to go on hunts with the master to carry his gun and other equipment. This robe was going to be the beginning of a new life.

The first task I was charged with was to go to the next village and procure for my liege a packed lunch. I was a little surprised by this request as we had people within our own village more than capable of making a sandwich. I was told, however, that the town of Derry Li was only two miles down the road and they dealt solely in lunchables (this is how fantasy works, you work with what you got). I began the short, agonising journey the following morning, my wardrobe still gleaming and lint free, with a bag on my back. I would have need of it to bring back my bounty (not the chocolate, coconut hadn’t been invented yet). I found the village rather quickly, if I’m being honest, what with the giant cow sigil above the gate. You couldn’t really miss it. It was a very busy village and the markets were so full of food I could have fed my family (for a change). I got the sandwiches and had a sneaky cheese triangle before starting on the return journey.

This task was not so easy. My village, the village of No Frills, had no large sign or significant feature that made it easy to see from a distance. It didn’t take long for me to become completely lost. Then one day, some two months later, my remains were found about a hundred yards from Derry Li. There was nothing left of my body. They say I was eaten by Dunkers. All that was left was a bag of mouldy sandwiches at the back of my wardrobe. My master took on smarter, less blind wards from that point on and soon forgot about me (except for when his tummy grumbled and he wondered where his sandwiches were). So I write this now, in the present, as a warning lest anyone repeat my folly.

If you don’t believe that story you really won’t believe anything. There was real world references in that to keep you grounded in truth. But if you really want to know, I’ll tell you. I used to have packed lunch in school. I never liked cheese spread sandwiches but rather than tell my mother I used to hide my uneaten sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. One day, during a clear out my mother discovered the bag of mouldy sandwiches and almost vomited. So basically, both Skellig and the other story are true accounts of the same tale. Good Night!

*****

Dafydd Evans

Luke Sampson

How beer saved my life

I was supposed to submit this on the 28th of August, however on that day i took my father to the doctors surgery as he needed some attention. My dad is a functional alcoholic and im annoyed about it. So that day i was a little dramatic and chose not to write about it.

I soon got over my little dramatic hump and put my mind to the title and found a little anecdote that synchronizes perfectly with the title. 

In my second year of university i moved there with a few of my friends. A bunch of single guys, ready to party, live it up and indulge in some healthy shenanigans.

I soon realised that i was a little less reserved than my friends after some tasty alcoholic yumyum juice. Once night during freshers week, a traffic light party i believe it was, i accelerated onto the road of blurry vision and low inhibitions. 

I wore green which means "come at me!". I saw a lady wearing green and i knew what that meant and so i attempted it. 

I cant remember much but waking up the next day and i saw the lady that i brought home with me. Something struck my fragile, hungover, puny brain when i noticed that she was wearing different clothes. When i asked her about it which sounded like "Uuughh, umm chain?" she replied "Yeah i've been home to freshen up and i thought i'd get changed while i was there.". Bless her for understanding the query of a caveman but i couldn't get past that she wore the reddest clothes she had.

We agreed to give each other a day and maybe hookup the next time we were out. But i couldnt get the giant red warning light out of my head. everything about her told me that she wanted a relationship and i had JUST moved into a house. I didn't want anything more than a bit of fun. I was 18/19 and little to no skills with relationships, other than "be childish".

throughout the next day and a half i worried and got teased by my friends but mainly tried to feorget about it all by immersing myself in my new brilliant environment that had a big tv, 3 game consoles and lots of booze.

One night there was a house party at my new place and it was filled with relatively close friends. we're were all merry, laughing and joking and competing on our videogames when the door knocked. We were warned by the landlord that our neighbor was an elderly, cantankerous man so we geared for a minor argument. A lady guest answered the door as she was welcome to. I was in the kitchen and i heared the door knocker venomously inquire "Who are you? Is Dafydd in?".

I had two choices. Bail: Run out the back door, jump over the wall and keep running, or Face the problem head on: Go and see her, talk to her and get her hostile sounding self out of the party.

I know what you think i did, but i was drunk and would've been sick if i did all that running. So i went with option 2 and left the house with her, after downing 3 shots and a can. A friend of mine joined me as he was mildly taken with her friend.

Now i cant remember a thing after leaving her house. i woke up in my own bed with  no one to talk to, just two or 3 text on my phone, all asking "how are you feeling?" I phoned the last person i knew was with me and he told me what i did.

"You were hilarious, butt. She clearly wanted you to stay with her and you clearly didn't want to be, like, tied down. You told her that in the park but you were like "We could just have fun together tonight" haha. She was like"It's cold out here, let's see how we feel in my house." So we went to her house and i was kinda chuffed because i was about to get it on too but we got in her house and i knew that was off the cards. Something happened to you. You didn't react well to the pressure she was putting on you"

"Oh shit, i didn't upset or hurt anyone did i?"

"You didn't say or do anything nasty, dont worry, hahaha, you did something so much more creative. you went to the kitchen and insisted on some water because you felt drunk. You poured the water on your head, the floor and the ceiling!"

"What?"

"Yeah, so then you felt bad about that, stopped laughing and decided the mop the ceiling. They didn't even know that they had a mop but you found one! Anyway her housemates made them make you leave. Then ***** was like let's go to yours and you said "No i need to be by myself. I'll see you around." and then you ran! Last night was the stupidest night i've had, looking after you."

"Sorry butt"

"It was a pleasure man dont worry. Get a bacon sandwich down you, buddy, ill see u later."

"bye, buddy"

I never heard off her since. I didn't have the diplomatic, mature, relationship skills to deal with her appropriately but beer made her go away. 

And that's how beer saved my life. 

I have grown up now. Honest.

*****

Both in appearance and in demeanour my father was a repulsive creature, so from the off: beer saved my life.  In this instance it was the twelve pints of Caernarfon Golden Earthy that my mother plunged ecstatically down the naive funnel of her gullet.  My father, you see, if one were to become drunk in his presence, would be struck by the misleading, but very persuasive, sensation that his company was enjoyable.  Upon waking morning next, the reckless imbiber would be privy to a snap realisation that this was emphatically not the case.

It is well documented that the night was one of rabid debauchery.  The story ran for several days in the front half of a moderately reputable newspaper, and was covered again in a special commemorative pull-out section the following spring.  The hoteliers reserved for the event a far colder place in their recollections.

“I have never seen the like before or since!” bawled the landlady as she appeared for a half a second as a talking head on a BBC retrospective many years later.  A shiny graphic undulated on-screen, attempting to depict what experts believe they have pieced together of the night from the available forensic evidence.  Nobody was any the wiser, and the entire production resulted only in a further spread of old fashioned VD.

As long as I knew him, my father walked with a limp but, when queried, his old school pals assure me that he was of near-Olympian fitness in his youth.  That’s the sort of woman my mother was.  A beauty worth tearing your cruciate ligaments over.

I am Maximilian Willoughby, and this is how beer saved my life the second time, and took my mother from me.

It was a cruise liner of incomparable splendour; a sleek, pure-white jet of ambition-in-steel, cleaving its way through the North Atlantic Ocean.  If you had binoculars and a taste for that kind of thing, you could see Norway out to the East, but I had no mind for that.  Of course, given my time aboard again, I would dearly love to see Norway, but such activities numbered not among my priorities in those days.  Why squint about for the old Viking homeland when such magnificent pleasures lay aboard ship?  If I should like to see barbarians in their barbarous natural environs I should be the type who is regularly seen ‘in town’.  I must most effusively assure you that I do not carouse with the rough classes.  I carouse only with gentlemen and ladies, of the kind who now populated the ship.

Ah, yes.  The ship.  The H.M.S. Alabas Nana, so called in reference to her alabaster hue, and due to her looking like a banana.  Of course, she looked less like a banana whilst she was afloat, but when seen from beneath the ocean, it became easier to appreciate the apposite naming.  I was a red-blooded young buck at the time, I am told that I brought to mind the image of a powerful and dynamic elk, ready to clash antlers with any and all rivals, to gore in order for the right to gore whomsoever I chose.  I was very impressed with the triumph that was the Alabas Nana, but I was more engrossed in matters of the purple banana.

The most ravishing beauties in all the Empire were all around me.  All varieties were present.  Some festooned the deck in scanty waterwear consisting of as few strands of material as was possible.  Those few lengths were as thin as would hold without causing them to shred the wearer like superheated piano-wire through an ice-sculpture of a pianist.  Others billowed along the windy rails in flowery dresses, seeming to my eyes - fogged by desire - half-jellyfish, half-beautiful lady.  I must warn all hyperlibidinous youngsters that it is wholly unadvisable to read the works of H.P. Lovecraft at any time.  Though, if you will insist on that course of action, it is advisable to avoid doing such in the following contexts:

1) Around ladies.  They are not in any way interested in the gruesome horrors of a twisted American.

2) At sea.  Much of Lovecraft’s oeuvre involves monstrosities either appearing at or deriving from the sea.  Read about mermaids instead.

3) Around ladies at sea.  Especially if you discover you have some strange, undesired and unexpected, lusty fetish for briny femme fatales.  It can quite destabilise a fellow.

Consider yourself warned.

There was much to feast upon for a passenger who was prepared for a banquet of female flesh.  I was well-equipped, shall we say.  No sooner had I boarded the craft than I mentally readied myself for a journey of variety.  One dusky afternoon I very suddenly had the tap of flowing femininity jerked firmly closed on me.  Her name was Guirana Sashma, but she insisted “you call me Dee-Anna”, and I did.

I was infatuated with her from the off.  I was stuck to her as though I was a puppy she had cable tied to her boot by its face.  I even made the noises.  Her hair roared around her head, a savage mane of sandy blonde, her shocking amber eyes held me in mesmeric awe.  I was the prisoner of her charm, and how I longed to deserve my incarceration.

It was a family holiday.  With my parents and familial entourage aboard, I was seldom free to pursue my dearest Dee-Anna.  My father liked Dee-Anna, my mother less so.  I knew if I was to achieve even a purloined afternoon with my goddess I would have to concoct an ingenious way to keep my dear parents much away from my person.  Like a demented chicken that has had sex with blueprints, I hatched a plan.

I was to meet dearest Dee-Anna on the top deck of the ship.  It was busy that night, an ensemble of Scottish Communists were making a rousing go of water caber toss, to the dismay of all cultured individuals aboard.  Using the celtic roughhousing as cover, we sped across the deck and, clamping our hooks to the railings, we rappelled several feet down the side of the ship.

We kissed, how we kissed!  Spiralling gently with the swing of our descent I felt as though I had been taken to heaven and that I could keep my body.  All the better for the retaining of my natural urges.  Our spinning slowed, and I gazed, enraptured, into her eyes.  Such a deep amber were they that I swear I saw a yellow shark swimming therein.  But the moment was aborted.

With a lurch of my stomach, I realised that the counter-swing had begun.  I glanced up, seeing our ropes intertwined and speedily disentangling themselves.  Panic shot up my leg, and from the spreading warm feeling I was getting, down hers.  There was only the spin and the holding of our breaths, and then the wires came loose.

We flew apart.  She crashed heavily into the craft, and my mouth ‘O’ed in shock as I saw her raised above, her wire being reeled by the burly arms of the Scotch Trotskyites above.  They had been drawn to look because she had been screaming throughout, I now noticed.  Without a pause, they began to haul me in, but with a merciless snap, my wire gave.

Such a plunge I have never felt since, the sensation of my heel longing for my larynx.  Every meal I had ever had was reversing into my mouth.  From above I discerned a descending angel, arched into a textbook classic-style dive.  Majesty beyond compare.  As the figure approached I realised with crushing embarrassment that it was my very own mother.  She crashed into me, taking me in her arms but 10 feet from the Atlantic’s reach.

In a swimming pool it would have been a trophy-winning splash, but it is difficult to impress in the context of a sea.  SPUH-LASH.  It was damn cold, I remember.  I first became acutely aware of how unimpressive splashes are when viewed in the ocean moments later, when a beer keg bombed nearby us.  I later found out it had been a last-ditch effort to save us by the Celts, who I began to feel I’d given slightly short shrift.  Ma-ma and I climbed upon it.

After that trip my mother was indeed lost.  It was a dreadful week of floating and drinking only seawater and eating what seagulls we could grab.  Eventually, we reached Norway.  My mother was entranced by the country, and never returned.  I myself was somewhat shocked by the culture of the place.  You know, they’re quite civilised these days.

*****

Welcome back to the only blog on the internet. Well the only blog I’ve written. Well the only blog I’ve written this year (if I read as often as I wrote I would never have finished a book, which I totally have). Now before we begin with the main body of text that will make up the funny story relating to the heading, there is some admin I must address. It seems that a lot of you were interested in the pasty pen that was mentioned in the last entry. This interested me too as I have no recollection of ever owning or using a pasty pen. Fortunately for you, I am a master genius and have invented a new one. Here is how it is made. First, walk in to your local bakery, or a Greggs if you live in Britain, and ask for a pasty. It has to be one that is big enough to fit a pen (I’ll tell you why in a minute). Say thank you and finish your transaction courteously. Next, go to your local stationary store, or WHSmiths if you live the UK, and ask for a pen. It can be a marker or a ballpoint or even a gel glide but it has to be small enough to fit in a pasty (wait, for fuck sake). Lastly, stick the pen in your pasty so that only the tip is poking out. This way you can do your work and eat your dinner at the same time. Just don’t eat the pen. (Patent Pending 2012). Next week I will explain how you can get your hands on a steak bake iPad.

When it comes to alcohol I’ve never really had a very good relationship. As a teenager I flirted a little with the devils tipple. As a student I came on heavy to Satan’s bevvy. And as an adult I have no taste for it (what rhyming?). But I can say with the greatest respect and gratitude that without alcohol I don’t think I would be alive right now. The story begins back in High School, or Cymer if you are me (which you are not, but I am). I was never very popular outside of my extensive group of friends. Within my group of friends however, I would say that I was the leader, the Boss. They would come to me with problems, presents and prostitutes (ignore the last one). It was a position of power that required my attention around the clock. I had people hanging on the bell all day and never giving me a moments peace. I felt like a hundred and eleven year old hobbit trying to arrange a birthday party. So, on occasion I would allow myself a small alcoholic drink (of immense strength) to relieve some stress. Stress of course being the number one killer of high school kingpins. Or so I thought. As it happens, jealous second-in-commands are the number one killer of high school kingpins and I was about to find that out the hard way (not all the way though or I wouldn’t be writing this, so don’t worry).

I was, as it was customary, taking my Friday morning movements (jogging or shitting, I can’t remember) when the door to the cubicle burst open and in came my best friend. I would have shook his hand all polite but mine were busy with other things. Oh, and he had a knife in his. I sprung up and gave him a clout with the only thing at hand (yes, I was wiping my arse or jogging). Now covered in shit he chased me back to the common room where, due to my awesome speed, I already was. I throw my glass of high octane spirits at the tissue on his face then set the bastard on fire (teach him to interrupt a jog). That was the first time alcohol saved my life (although not beer). There were more attempts on my life in the months that were left in school and somehow they all ended in a similar way. I don’t know if this was a skill I became proficient in or whether the writer was too lazy to think of any more incidents (fourth wall, never!). Shortly after that I left the safety net of private education (or public in American) and became an university student.

Having lost my celebrity status in Uni, I decided to take up golf. Pub golf. This seemed to be a popular way of making friends and having people idolize you. All I needed was an inert ability to imbibe copious amounts of alcohol in as little ‘sips’ as possible. I would have to practice. So I drank and drank and drank each night until I could take down a whole bottle of beer in a single ‘sip’. I worked at it and eventually practice paid off.  I entered the local PGA Tour (Pub Golf Arseholes) and I was all ready to take my place, back in the upper echelons of society when disaster struck. A lighting rig, high above my head, had been wired wrong (some years ago by some cowboy builders but the student union didn’t have the money to put it right) and burst in to flames. The flames subsequently set fire to my drink, just as I was slamming it back. Soon my mouth was ablaze and no one knew what to do. Everyone was apanic (too right it’s a word). I, however, remained calm. Having set many a person’s visage on fire I also knew how much liquid it would take to put it out. Exactly one beer. This was the moment I had been waiting for (in a situation I wouldn’t have imagined). Grabbing a bottle from the bar I chugged the golden nectar back in one almighty swig. The fire subsided and everyone was cheering. The only injury I sustained was a very burned tongue and a retarded mustache growth. That was the time that alcohol, beer specifically, really saved my life.

I am now an adult and as I said earlier I have no taste for alcohol. Well, actually, I have no taste for anything because of the burned tongue thing. I can’t even taste the pasties that I have on my pens (that’s why I forget them, duh!). So until next time, don’t forget to be aware of your drinking (spirits are flammable and beer isn’t).

*****

Dafydd Evans

Adam Gilder

Luke Sampson

A pigeons religion

The tale of good old Rawk

Rawk the wizen pigeon emerged from the rubble. his perch was reduced to rubble just one day before. Funny how earthquakes can do that to certain train station buildings. Twenty six hours Rawk had to sit there trapped. The first five minutes were panic. Then  fifty five minutes of acceptance. Then twenty hours of despair and waiting.

Then there was four hours of enlightenment, probably due to hunger and a thinness of oxygen. In this four hours Rawk encountered a vision. He found it strange because every pigeon knows that you have visions, you don't encounter them. This must not have been his own vision, but one of a creature so powerful that it could summon it's visions. 

"You look like a blue and purple version of me with a few extra ounces of size. What are you?" Squawked Rawk.

"I HAM HIMPORTANT. YOU H'ARE HIMPORTANT. YOU MUST SURVIVE. YOU MUST TELL PIGEONKIND OF WHAT'S IMPORTANT. JUST INCASE THEY'VE FORGOTTEN."

"Whoat?"

"TELL THEM. TELL THEM WHAT YOU KNOW H'IS HIMPORTANT TO YOU, TO THEM TO THE WORLD. TELL THEM SO THAT THEY CAN PASS H'ON YOUR WORDS TO HOTHERS THEY MEET SO THAT HEXPONENTIAL GROWTH OF YOUR WISDOM IS HACHIEVED AND THUS, THE PIGEON CAN THRIVE."

"But... What's important?"

"TWENTY FIVE HOURS YOU HAVE BEEN HERE. DURING YOUR FIRST FIVE MINUTES OF PANIC WHAT DID YOU WANT? WHY DID YOU WANT WHAT YOU WANT? YOU HALREADY HAVE THE HANSWERS! NOW GO FOURTH AND HEDUCATE THE WORLD!" The vision then turned into the world just before disappearing, which thrilled Rawk with the revelation that the world was round, not like a rectangle with teleportation devices at the edges.

Powered and inspired by this knowledge and quest, Rawk set to struggling and bravely persevered for forty five minutes. And got nowhere. His feet were neatly pinned by the devices that thwart pigeons from hanging out under train stations: The ouch-spikes. 

Suddenly Rawk had a glimpse of his first memory. He was terrified and the first thing he saw was two black beasts chew on a wailing smaller grey beast. He stayed hidden whilst peeping under his half a shell that had fallen on the floor. He noticed how easy it was for the beasts to peck through the now silent grey beast. Then he realised that the two big beasts weren't beast's at all. They were Mam and Dad! He called to them whilst pushing the eggshell from on top of him. "Rawk" they said and they picked him up and took him to their nest.

That's it! That's what Rawk had to do. He had to bite through his legs. He'd seen some older pigeons that had only one foot but he always had too much respect to ask them what happened. Rawk now looked at his legs and went to work on his left, getting as close to the ankle as possible whilst minding that an ouch-spike didn't poke his eye out. The harder he bit, the more pain he was in, which resulted in him biting harder to deal with it. The pain was fierce but he'd pecked himself a stump. Now it was time for the more awkward right foot. Two ouch-spikes to avoid, one protruding towards his face. He had to bend around in an uncomfortable position to get to his ankle, and even then an ouch-spike scratched at his breast. Rawk remained committed and cut through, leaving him with two stumps and a red line etched diagonally across his breast.

But at last he was free! And the freedom of flying came with a pang of mighty hunger. He stuck to the plan and flew to the nearest and most popular city centre. Then his mission took a back seat while he pecked at loose chips and seeds and cigarette buts, making sure to eat the edible things and discard the litter.

When his hunger was satiated the mission took the front seat once again. He flew for twenty seconds and the mission took another back seat while Rawk flew to a roof of a building, carrying a leaf of newspaper. He huddled into a corner, hiding under the paper and balanced neatly on his sore breast and he slept, dreamless.

Basic need fulfilled he flew back to the city centre and positioned himself under the large, black, unmoving, wingless beast (statue) and called to his kin.

With his wings akimbo and his eyes passionately closed he squawk the words:

"Fellow pigeons, hear me. I am Rawk and I have to tell you what you are here for. You see i nearly died yesterday but i was inspired and saved by the vision of something incredible. The vision sent me on an hurgent path to tell you all what's himportant! You must all listen to my words and be reassured lest you have forgotten what is significant in life!"

Rawks confidence grew with his words and he opened his eyes. The sight deflated him but he kept his wings out. No pigeon was listening. They were all bobbing on the ground looking for some food. Rawk looked at his stumps and his scar to remind himself of the severity of his life. He then looked out again.

"I will persist, for you may hear this even though you may not be listening. You all have beautiful lives and you must never forget this. Please know that what im about to tell you is imperative to our way of life and you must never forget it!"

As he said this a wingless beast threw some delicious bread to the ground and stirred his crowd into a frenzy. Rawk smiled. He realised that they already lived what he was about to say.

"Pigeons" Rawk commanded impotently, "Just coo what you need to coo!" And with that, he flew off for some free bread.

*****

A Pigeon's Religion

Herein I shall endeavour to relay to you the TRUE nature of the faith-leanings of our winged cousins.  All efforts should be made to shield yourselves from the widespread showering of ill-informed dreck which is being ploughed into you wholesale by none other than THE MAN.  This is the only true pigeon's religion.  Disbelieve all others.

As everybody well knows, the path to pigeon heaven can only be discovered by the enlightened and educated pigeon-fathers of The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC).  Here I will explain the, to the outsider, peculiar tic which infiltrates the faithful when they talk of The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC).  The suffix '(TKTC)' which MUST ALWAYS follow the name of The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) is an honorific which, when fully revealed, reads 'They Killed the Cat'.  The cat has always been a fearful demon to the pigeon community, and The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) became the renowned force they are today by proving their divinity, by the slaying of the cat.  Word of their deeds is has even been seen infiltrating the world of the speaking-monkeys, though quite clearly they do not fully appreciate it's import.  The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) is the One True Way to pigeon heaven.

The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) was founded by SkKwarr Flangeahgh, who was subsequently canonised as Saint Rupert, The Planner of the Killing of the Cat.  He was a very clever pigeon.  The miraculous deeds of his youth are popular yarns at the stolen-chip parties of all the teen pigeons.  Perhaps the most widely spake is the Tale of the Mocking Jumbo.  The story is a long and shaggy beast, but in the interest of time I will inform you that the denouement involves old Saint Roop stealing a jumbo sausage from a fatty at Brighton Pier, tossing it into the sea, and then returning to gloat.  Such malice was the frequent vice of Saint Rupert, which proves that he was the ideal candidate for plotting the killing of the cat.

But it is not Saint Rupert himself who did the deed.  Nonononononononononono.  It fell to a much younger piggyjin to Do the Deed.  Her name was Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn.  It was she who slew the feline.  She was a celebrity in the pigeon world long before the act which is unambiguously considered the zenith of her activity.  She was Champion of the Order of the Oncoming Car, High-Priestess of the Movement of the Toilet-Statues, Full-Caan of the Stolen Chip.  It was she who slew the feline.

Cats are near impregnable, this is well known.  The inner layers of the cat may be wet, weak and greasy like reheated cottage pie, but it's thick outer crust is firmer than any natural material known to pigeon.  It is said in the holy manual of the Order of the Oncoming Car that even if a pigeon's beak attains maximum velocity and is tipped with the Diamond Nib of Gwak Lv. 5, still it is not a sure thing that the cat will be scratched.  A pigeon will sooner break through superadamantanium than a cat's shell.

But therein lay the rub.  The true genius of Saint Rupert, and the impeccable skill of Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn, who was able to perform the deed.

Much like the Death Star, every cat is known to have a small, vulnerable aperture which, if it can be breached, will spell the end of it.  Saint Rupert discovered this, and calmly, evilly, he drew his plans against it.  This is how it went down.

First they scared the cat.  Different pigeon factions disagree vehemently on the method used for the distraction.  It is very important how it was done.  Pigeons are often killed for believing the wrong way.  It is right that they should be put to death.  ONE TRUE WAY.

So, yes, they distracted the cat.  It was done with a scary picture of a screaming dog.  The picture was dive-bombed into the cat's vicinity by a magpie POW who'd been promised her freedom for doing this task.  Afterwards, she was freed.  What I mean by this, of course, is that she was freed from life by the merciless fangs of a cat.  Duly distracted by its meal, the cat did not see the sure descent of Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn.

WHOOOOOOOOOSH!

She buried herself bodily in the anus of the cat, not even a smidgeon of her pigeon toes remained in sight.  Well, let me tell you, the cat was surprised.  She began to caper around the garden, mewling and screeching.  "Shut up, you bugger!", a nearby monkey yelled.  But still, on she went, wailing and careening hither and thither in the greenery.

Have you ever wondered what it might feel like to have an entire pigeon forcibly dive-bomb its way twixt your innards?  Let me tell you, the idea only occurred to me roughly halfway through this story, and I wish it hadn't.  It seems to me that there are few more horrendous end-game scenarios than having a small, ugly bird wedged in your intestines.  If you can imagine it, stretch yourself further and imagine how bad a cat would feel in the situation, possessing as it does, a much smaller beefhoop than you.

The cat died.  Not from shock or anything short term like that.  No, the cat spent the best part of 3 months uncomfortably smudging around, being poked fun at by the other cats, who knew full well what Tibbles was concealing in her faecal womb.  A grown up pigeon.  Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn died on impact, thank goodness gracious, but she took her sweet time rotting.  She slowly souped into a green, deathly sleeper cell which poisoned the living cat from within.  Sleeper cell, more like sleeper smell! (hysterical laughter and applause).

This is a pretty horrible story.  In the end, all the pigeons went to heaven, where there were lotsanlots of stolen, traditional British food for them to gorge on, and they did.  The Ned.

*****

Hello and welcome to the new format blog entry from ACRE member Luke ‘Handsome Boy Aint He’ Sampson, wherein I actually try to write a fucking blog and not leave it months and months before writing one (even if the one I write is in fact funnier than the other threes combined efforts for the entire year). So apparently some arsehole decided that the first entry would be titled ‘a pigeon’s religion’. I have no idea what that even means because I don’t know two of those words already and I’ve eaten the other one so there. Anyway, I thought I would give it a go and see where it goes (hopefully a tunnel to the bottom of a tub of meatballs in Subway…mmm).

Let me first try to make sense of the word that I do know, Pigeon. This is not to be mistaken with the flying rodent that congregate around Ponty square and plot about shitting on poor, defenceless OAP’s and passing avian flu on to sickly, pale children. They are to my knowledge called Pijuns, which is a homophone of Pigeon but sadly that is where the similarities end (and no I don’t mean a Blackberry Curve or a Samsung Galaxy, a homophone is when two words sound the same, fucking idiot). No, a Pigeon is of course a measurement of time. This is plain to see if we look closer at the word. Segment the word into two and we have: Pig, a farm yard animal usually kept for meat and recreation and Eon, a long time. Now I know what you’re thinking, “Ye, stupid, we can all see that it is two words and we know what both of them mean but what does the word mean put together, div?”

Well, it is clearly the largest amount of time imaginable by a pig (or a billion years whether the pig likes it or not, whichever comes first). But to really fathom just how large we need to look at how a pig perceives the other three dimensions in his life (because time is the forth dimension, not fucking wind or snow or cold seats like Ice Age will try and have you believe, smug cunts). To do this I put 100 pairs of 3D glasses on 100 pigs then made them watch The Avengers. The results were very surprising. After only an hour of the film half the pigs had fallen asleep (or comma, I’m not a doctor of animals), about five per cent had started screwing and the rest were rooting for Loki to win. When I put this through my fancy computer programme it told me that the reason for this was that pigs see 3D in super slow motion which was making the film very boring (except for the Loki bits). With this in mind I was able to come up with an hypothesis on the Pigeon. It is as follows:

A Pigeon is a very long time. Too long in the opinion of the pig. It’s like watching Titanic or the new King Kong when you’re already tired. It transcends time as a linear factor and takes into account  the emotional state of the pig. As a term to be used by humans it would be the expression of something taking longer to do than you have the energy for at that particular time. Like sex before breakfast. 

So, being pleased with my understanding of the word Pigeon I have pondered as to its relevance in the title. But having still no idea what the other two words mean I decided to do some research. And wouldn’t you bloody know it, I found the word religion. Apparently it refers to a group or organization that all follow a set of rules that were laid out by someone called God. They do the same things all the time except for a Sunday (or a Friday if they are the curly haired ones) when they have a rest and pat themselves on the back for getting tickets to see God in concert. From what I can see the title cannot be referring to the Muslim ones because they think pigs are filthy (which they are, that’s a fact rather than a religious pillar). If I didn’t know any better (which I do) I would say the title makes more sense with Pijuns since they are organized and terrorists. But, alas, it is not so I’ve taken my research along a different path. I asked some famous people from ‘religion’ what was the longest thing imaginable to judge which of them had feelings most closely resembling a pig. 

First up was Big Bad Ratigan from the Vatican, Pope Benedict 16^th. His idea of a pigeon was absolution. He felt that it would take more time than he had energy to forgive all the sinners in the world (which is fair enough since it would take several days just to cover the wanks I’ve had writing this entry). Next to be put on the hot seat was Dai Lama, King of the Buddhi. He said it was a pigeon to eat solid food after midday. I understood what he meant straight away because I remembered Napoleon Dynamite trying to feed him in that film he was in and he was having none of it (although he looked a lot better after a shave I must say). Lastly I spoke with a strange magician on the street called Henry Christopher. He had an haircut like Tung Po from Kick Boxer and wore a shit pair of jeans under his costume. Also he said that he wasn’t greedy which was a lie because we was eyeing up my pasty pen (details to be revealed at a later date) the whole time I was eating it/writing with it. Anyway, he said that he always had energy to do all the tasks that needed to be done (possible ADHD) but that people he stopped in the street often said that it was a pigeon to even contemplate stopping for him (I would agree with this).

So the religion that was most pigeon was the Henry Christophers because if nobody is willing to stop for them, they have no flying hope of following them (especially on one of their stupid conga lines through town). All that was left to get to the bottom of the title was the word ‘A’. Now, unfortunately, I checked the dictionary and discovered that the word ‘A’ does not exist. It’s just not in there. Therefore, after all that research, I have had to discontinue the investigation so I guess we will never know what was meant by ‘A Pigeon’s Religion’.

*****

Dafydd Evans

Adam Gilder

Luke Sampson