Friday, 5 June 2009

Come Back Michael Fish, All is Forgiven

It’s been a long, hard week at Sack Posset Hall. I’ve been up to my knickers in serial killers. Today that Friday Feeling is upon me, nudging me in the small of the back like a fella’s early-morning lob-on. I’m in the mood for mischief. It has been so warm this week that I finally divested myself of my long-johns, but today, England being England, it’s snowing not far from here. Mother Nature gives us this weather so that there’s always something to talk about with the little old ladies on the bus.

I watched the Big Brother Launch last night, because I am a top postmodern-socio-analyst and not because I am a voyeur who likes a good freak show. Of course. I think it would be a good jape if they put them all in there and then turned off all the cameras and slowly walked away. The woman whose job it was to open the car door for each gaudily daubed abortion was clearly concerned about a zombie attack.

For tea I want a songbird no bigger than my thumb, drowned in a glass of cognac and placed roasted and whole on my tongue. I will cover my head with a hood to hide my sins from the gods and in the seamy dark I will savour the fat dribbling down my throat. Slowly I will bear down on the bird. I will lick away its breast and crack its back and it will surrender its secret sweet meats. I will not face the light until the bones of it are gone. Then I’ll have a cuppa and a fag.


  1. Oof where i come from its hot like you wouldnt believe, i would choke clouds for snow :(

    ROTFL on the freakshow and the songbird, i am a herbivore, but you remind me much of me sometimes Sack Posset, its disconcerting :)!

  2. If I were one of those contestants, I'd be very concerned for my safety. Should ratings ever dip to a dangerously low level, I would not be surprised if the next twist were to completely seal the house, cut off the light and water and wait to see who eats who first. They'll throw a rotting chicken bone in through a trap door in the roof once a month and make them fight for it, with tiny blades strapped to the soles of their shoes, assuming they haven't eaten their shoes yet. That'd put the real in reality television, mother fuckers!

  3. You are simply fantabulous, beyond description and compare. Your food fantasies are stunning, I've never read anything like them anywhere, not even in the history of literature. Absolutely original and superb, you are.

  4. Mental Mist, that's a complement and a half! Thank you.

    Arc, get thee to a TV studio poste haste, you could make a gazillion quid.

    Paul - those birds are real, they're called ortolans and Mitterand ate two just before he died. Fact of the day.

  5. Incredible. 'gaudily daubed abortions' is a line of poetry and the orotlans may be real but your writing of them, I reiterate, is unprecedented, a fantasy. Perhaps Rabelaise,