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.