LiveBae

Written on 14 January 2019

I've been writing profiles of prominent people for the better half of three decades, and I always manage to find at least one layer beneath the media trained, faux humble surface.

This can be their motivations, like wanting to please a parent or loved one, or straight up corporate greed. It can be an emotional revelation, like occasional loneliness, or struggling with loss. It can be an annoyance with me, the interviewer, trying to peel back that layer, as I can be rather persistent when writing pieces that really represent the person I'm profiling.

Everyone has at least one layer. That's what makes LiveBae such an interesting, unique exception. His all-encompassing density.

LiveBae, formerly LivingBae, formerly KayBae, formerly DeadBea, Formerly DeadBoy, formerly Dennis Simpson, is a YouTube star and Instagram influencer from upstate New York.

He rose to prominence through his Vlogs, the most popular of which “Nike can suck Adidases D*ck” has received over 400million views.

“Ah yeah. That was dope.” He told me when we met at The Ritz ahead of his sold out show at the Palladium. “I stand by it. As far as I'm concerned, Nike can chow down.” He says, pointing to his genitals.

LiveBae is decked out head to toe in custom Adidas, a gift from the receivers of the brand felatio. He reliably tells me, at least four times, that he has received over $100,000 of free garb from Adidas over the last few years.

“The thing is, I think people see me, see my clothes, see me playing Xbox, and they think, wow that guy is just like me, but richer, you know?”

Rich is right. From a wealthy background, the now 26-year-old started Vlogging 9 years ago, mostly talking about “High School poon”. Forbes now estimates his net worth to be $26 million just from YouTube and other social media.

I tried, I really did, to get something out of my conversation with LiveBae. We talked about his upbringing “my parents let me smoke weed”, his fame “People shout at me on the street. I'm like ‘whaaaat'”, his relationships “I love my female fans. I still get mad kissy, though. Girls just come up to me.”, and his live shows “It's just like a version of my YouTube show. It's dope.”

So why is this dim, uninspiring young man so popular? It came to me when a fan approached him for an autograph during our interview. He signed three different scraps of paper, posed for several selfies, chatted animatedly with them and grinned stupidly all the way through. This guy is nice.

A little shallow, sure, perhaps a touch aggressive when talking about his hatred for Nike, but throughout our chat, throughout his videos, he seems genuinely happy and a nice guy.

Kids like him exactly because he's vacuous. LiveBae is so shudderingly unambiguous you feel you know him in just a few minutes of one of his videos.

Kids are lied to, a lot. In this angry world, what's wrong with someone who's nice, and honest, even if what he says is almost entirely pointless? Let it Bae.

Cecil And His Tractor

Written on 13 January 2019

Cecil spends every weekend of the summer going to Country Shows.

He carefully tethers his 1958 John Deere tractor to his trailer. Connects the tow bar to his Nissan Qashqui.

And when he got to the fair, he shows it off, either officially or non officially.

A few of the other tractor owners usually come over to admire it. Some compliment it's condition, others admire it's flawless transmission.

Most of them, though, just make fun of his name behind his back.

Office drama

Written on 12 January 2019

Let me tell you a typical day in my office.

I feel people like you, readers and what not, are constantly looking for the extraordinary, when there is drama. . . Proper human drama. . . In my office.

9am: I saw Stuart coming out of the elevator. He was notably ignoring Tanya. I've been saying for months that those two are having an affair, and this all but confirmed it. The furtive glances Tanya was giving Stuart was a dead giveaway. You should have seen them at the Halloween party. They didn't say a word to each other, yet they left within 10 minutes of one another. Both of them are married. Disgusting.

11am: I began drafting an email to Stuart's wife. They have two kids, and she's a nurse, so I feel like it's bang out-of-order that he's treating her like this. Her work email is listed on the hospital website, thankfully. I'm going to tell her everything I know, and also everything I suspect, because my hunches are usually spot on.

11.03am: Just got bollocked by Sue, my manager, for sending personal emails. She's such a grass. Always looking over my shoulder.

12pm: No response from Stuart’s wife, yet. Wonder whether she hasn't got round to reading it? Yeah, probably. Nurses are really busy, aren't they? This injustice, this utter pig-headed betrayal of a working mother, I must admit, distracted me away from my work. I felt like I needed to let Stuart know exactly what I think of his affair. I opened up another blank email.

2pm: When I get back to my desk after lunch there's still nothing from the wife, or Stuart for that matter. This makes me pretty angry, since what I've revealed is so important. I should be being thanked and cursed respectively. I think maybe I can make Tanya feel enough female empathy to confess to Sue. I'll be firm but subtle.

“Hi Tanya, I know what you and Stuart have been doing, you homewrecker.” That's how it started.

2.30pm: My asshole boss has told me to go and see HR. This is going to be about sending personal emails. She's such a rat..

I saw Tanya coming out of the toilets. Brilliant. She's obviously confessed.

3pm: I get suspended! Can you believe it? For telling the truth! Apparently all three of them made formal complaints. It suddenly dawned on me that the wife is probably in the know about the affair. In fact, it's probably one of those poly relationships. Suddenly, I felt really fucking angry at them. How could they treat me like this when I was just trying to help? Nice guy finishes last again.

As I grabbed my jacket from my desk I saw Stuart, coming out of the elevator. He looks at me with disgust, which is pretty rich coming from a pervert like that. What, is one woman not enough?

Madness

Written on 11 January 2019

I have a strange relationship with madness.

My mother used to walk around the supermarket like a navy seal, being as covert as possible, so not to be spotted by “them”, whilst completely forgetting to put anything in the trolley (that was my job) Of course, this just drew attention to her, and she would often be questioned by a security guard.

But I enjoyed it. I really did. When I was young, it was a game. When I got older, it was funny. Is she mad? Apparently she is, clinically. That doesn't mean she needs to be institutionalised. She can cook, she can wash, she can look after herself. She just doesn't trust people other than Ben and I.

Ben was the issue, though. Ben is difficult. And his father is an asshole. Is Ben mad? Apparently not, though I wish someone would tell him that. Then maybe he wouldn't have hospitalised our landlord.

Since he wasn't mad, though, the majority of these faceless drones put his temper down to bad parenting. My mother’s condition. I tried, pleaded, to keep us together. I even offered to become the legal guardian for Ben, but his Dad was persistent, and he knows people. So, now my Mum is in the loony bin, Ben has been shipped off to military school to “build his character and learn some discipline”, and I'm left alone. I'm attempting to go back to school, but honestly I need the money. Of course, Ben's dad has cut off his supply as he no longer has a product of his loins living in the house.

So, what now? Who knows. If I could channel a bit of my brother and a bit of my mother to covertly murder Ben's father, who evidently thinks what “builds character” is breaking up a loving home, then maybe I should. Considering the sheer volumes of PTSD related episodes he's had you would think he'd want to keep his only son away from the military. But, hey. Madness breeds madness breeds madness.

The Hovel

Written on 10 January 2019

It was likely the smell, this hovel sure smelt like dead animal.

There probably were at least half a dozen animal carcases within the structure, anyhow. Might be a dead person or two as well, someone who'd gone a bit too far and hadn't been checked on for a while.

That smell, that smell, that smell, it was skinned rabbit. That's all Carlin could think of. He was vaguely aware he was on his way down, and vaguely aware that someone was rummaging through his stuff, but mostly he was hungry, and there was the casserole dish, one like he used to own, heavy and red, and something delicious was cooking.

The issue was, as it were, that his body no longer worked. He just lay there, in the fetal position, unable to move anything but his head, staring at this glorious pot of stew. The lid started rattling, was it boiling? Carlin needed to reduce the heat. He needed to move. He was sat up. Miraculous. But the lid had just flown off, and glided gracefully out the window.

And there was the rabbit. On hind legs, wearing a Chelsea kit. Fucking Chelsea. The fellow was winking at Carlin. It couldn't have been clearer that the rabbit was desperate to be skinned. He wasn't going to allow Carlin to eat the stew, until his fur was proudly displayed on the crumbling walls of the hovel.

Carlin didn't want to. He shook his head, protested, but the old man was there now, in his scouts uniform.

“Come on you little poof. All the other boys are doing it.” That didn't make it okay. But the old man was behind Carlin now. “If you behave like a poof, I'll treat you like a poof.” the rabbit swayed gracefully, highlighting it’s ruff, it’s cotton tale, it’s despicable brown eyes.

Carlin reached out and grabbed the rabbit by the scruff. It's fur melted away. It was now gesturing at his leg. That twisted little critter wanted Carlin to eat him. Eat him while he watched. His own body being ingested right in front of him.

The old man was sat next to him now.

“EAT IT YOU FUCKING FAIRY.”

Carlin instead decided to use the skinned carcass to throttle the old man. Kill kill kill. But the old man just laughed and laughed and laughed until Carlin blacked out.

When he came too, he was in a police cell. He felt horrendous.

“Where am I!?” He shouted, panicked.

“You've been arrested, junkie.” someone said through a slat. “You strangled a dusty friend of yours.”

“He was a bad man.” Carlin said, closing his eyes. “He deserved it.”

Faulkner The Wise

Written on 9 January 2019

“It's just so great to have you here.” All those teeth. Those perfect teeth, blinding me with their brilliance. Always on display.

“This is Carol. She'll be joining us.” another blue polo, another perfect set of teeth, another slightly vacant glare. I stick out my hand for a shake, and both of them chuckle mirthlessly.

“Men and women are only allowed to touch if they've been married for 5 years. Unless the act of reproduction is happening, and we do that as an anonymous group, so no one is shamed, and no one man is the father.” The grin is so unnerving. And no matter how she dressed it up, she was describing an orgy. “Did you not read our rules?” there is something slightly threatening behind her vacant stare. I better play along.

“Yes, sorry. It's just all a lot to take in. I know that, with the help of my brothers, sisters and Faulkner the Wise, I can learn quickly and fit in.”

“Brilliant.” Brad said, with a clap of his hands. “Let's get you settled in.” I knew she was here somewhere. I’d have to endure the bullshit a little longer, but I was going to get my sister back.

“Praise be to Faulkner the Wise.” I squealed, to nods of approval from Carol and Brad.

Safehouse

Written on 8 January 2019

A stream of orange, dusty sunlight crested the bed sheet covering the window.

Gammon stirred, opening a tentative eye. As per usual, his bladder was full to bursting, so he hopped out of bed, still very much with his sleep, and pissed in the glass bottle that used to contain some sort of BBQ sauce.

He kept one eye shut, and let out a sigh of relief, his black hair tousled and his underwear stained. He sealed the bottle, and flopped back into his single mattress on the dusty floor, pulling the duvet over his head.

But, he was awake. Another day of maddening isolation was ahead of him, and Gammon began running through his limited options. He would go down to the sea, of course, for a wash and a swim. He could rev up the generator and watch a DVD, but he was low on fuel, and the airdrop wasn't going to be for another week.

So, reading and gardening it was.

Gammon gave up on going back to sleep. He walked over to his makeshift wash basin in the corner. The shack was a single room. His bed in one corner, a wood burner in another. He used a gas camping stove to cook, or otherwise used his fire pit. He had his supplies under his bed, and an antique TV and DVD player for when he was going absolutely stir crazy. As safe houses went it wasn't the best. But he lived in complete isolation atop sand dunes. He knew he was in the north sea somewhere, but he didn't know exactly where. He hadn't seen a soul for the 3 months he'd been there.

It was late spring, but still a bit chilly to cook outside, so he fired up the camping stove. Then he picked up his basin and piss bottle to empty. The sun was still coming up. Gammon looked out across the reliably deserted beach. Orange clouds dotted the horizon, and the waves came in and out, calm and peaceful. He was attempting to grow some herbs in his makeshift front garden, so he emptied the basin on top of them, when he heard a child wailing.

There was an adult voice, too. Sounded German. Gammon guessed they were trying to reassure the child. He was trapped between curiosity and fear of being found. He was still clutching his piss bottle.

The head of a young woman, in her late 20’s, came into view as she climbed the dune. She was carrying a little girl, no more than four, in her arms. The girl was screaming. The woman looked petrified, until she saw Gammon. She sprinted up the dune towards him. She waved, still shouting in German, but now aimed at him.

“Deutsche? Deutsche?” She said, stopping just short of his front garden.

“English.” Gammon grunted. He was aware he was still in his underwear.

“English, danke.” She said, trying to work out what to say next. She pointed at the girl's foot, nodding at Gammon. She then wobbled on the spot, waving her spare arm in a pop and lock motion.

“Fish. Fish.” And then she mimed the wobbling again.

“She's been stung by a jellyfish?” Gammon said, croakily, pointing at the little girl. The woman began nodding vigorously.

“Yes. Yes. Jellyfish. Sting. Help?”

Gammon eyed them both, wondering whether they would tell anyone about him being there. He looked down at his hand unconsciously. He was still holding the bottle of piss. He looked back up at the panicked woman and the crying girl. Without another word, he handed over the bottle to the woman, and walked back inside his cabin, leaving her looking a little perplexed, but grateful.

Fatherly advice

Written on 7 July 2019

From her 8th birthday till her 18th, Steve would tell his daughter how awful life was. Every day if he could.

Sometimes he would sit her down, and say something like “You know that the world is a terrible place, everything dies and that life is pointless, right?” and at first this upset her, but after a while she evidently realised it was important for her Dad to tell her these things.

Later on, he would do it over the phone, text message, email, Facebook and, most recently, WhatsApp. Always a similar message. Always telling her that living was hard and inevitably people will let her down.

And every time he did it, Steve put away a £5 note. Over those 10 years he collected over 15 grand.

And on her 18th birthday, he promised to stop telling her how horrible life was. And he gave her the money.

“For therapy, or whatever.”

The Psychopath Test

Written on 6 January 2019

Sabin was worried that he was a psychopath.

He felt almost nothing for anyone except himself.

He'd read somewhere that, to qualify as a psychopath, you had to murder something fluffy and cuddly and feel nothing.

So he killed his niece’s rabbit with a hammer.

Afterwards, he was overcome by such a cocktail of sadness, regret, horror, sorrow and guilt that it haunted him for the rest of his days.

His family, naturally, never spoke to him again.

Deathbed Confessions

Written on 5 January 2019

As deathbed confessions go, my Aunt's sure was weird.

I was never too close to her, always thought she was a little condescending, a little cold. But, my Mum needed support, and since Aunt Julie was her only sibling, I agreed to come along as moral support.

She was asleep most of the time. She was in the stage of cancer where you basically pump the person full of pain killers until they give up the ghost. But when she was awake, she was off her tits, and it was hilarious.

“Nutella is totally overrated as a chocolate spread.” sure it is Aunt Julie. “If I'm here, who's watching my Alsatian figurines?” don't worry Aunt Julie, we've hired a guy. She was very funny, but beautifully earnest at the same time. Like she’d been stripped back to her essence, and her essence was that she was a bit dull.

The last time she was awake, the last time she was conscious, though, that was something else. My Mum had popped down to the cafeteria to get a coffee when Aunt Julie awoke.

“we're all adrift.” What's that Aunt Julie? Do you want me to get a nurse? “ We're all adrift, and sometimes we just have to let the current take us.” I suppressed a smile. It sounded as if she had thought long and hard about her last words, and now she was unveiling them, whether she meant to or not.

“I let the current take me once. The mermaids. The mermaids saved me.” Okay, maybe that bit wasn't supposed to be in her final monologue. “No one believed me. Everyone said it must have been a lifeguard, but they had a tail. Why would they have a tail if they were a lifeguard?” I glanced around for help, I had no idea how to deal with this.

“They were the most beautiful creatures I've ever seen. That was my best moment. I feel so lucky.” And she went back to sleep, never to wake up and ramble about mermaids ever again.

I asked my Mum some months later about the mermaids and she smiled. “Such a sensible woman. She was very much of the “seeing is believing” persuasion, so who knows?”

I had thought about it a lot. The important thing was she believed, and whether it was a mermaid or not, she can lay claim to seeing one. From then on, whenever I was near the ocean, I kept an eye out for them.

Pinball Wizard

Written on 4 January 2019

Our first home together. Two up, two down, and a garage to boot.

Seven years of savings plus a generous donation from Mia's parents and we were signed up to a mortgage we'd never pay off so we could live in the ‘burbs.

Our problems began when we went to move the Christmas decorations into the attic. It was empty, but for a dusty sheet covering something bulky. It was a massive flipping pinball machine.

Six months later, and I was hooked. I have no idea how it got up here, because we certainly couldn't get it down. So we set it up on the makeshift floorboards in the attic. And that's where I spent almost all of my spare time.

Pinball would infiltrate my dreams. I would be the ball, then the flippers, then the scoreboard overseeing the whole thing, my numbers always ticking up. It was all I could think about at work, so I quit that.

Mia was initially keen to get involved, but after a year she had given up on even yelling at me. She wouldn't even come and say hi when she got in from work, and when I would descend to bed in the early hours, she would pretend to be asleep.

And then she locked me in the attic.

And that's where I stayed.

Playing Pinball.

Until I died of thirst.

The Nondescript Man

Written on 3 January 2019

Hey. So, I hope this is a good time? It's just, I heard this story. I guess it's a cautionary tale, of sorts. A sort of 21st century parable.

Wait, that's giving it too much gravitas. Okay, it's just another play on the age-old theme of “If you behave like a dick, you might have some sort of comeuppance. So, basically every fairy tale ever told.

Anyway, there is a man I know. He lived in the village I grew up in. When I was young, he would commute into the city. He would deliberately run over footballs, and sneer at parents at the local pub.

He was, and remained, the kind of person who demands to see the manager. The kind of person who says things like “It's an absolute disgrace” about happenings that were, at best, mildly inconvenient.

He would write letters to editors about anything he didn't like. He had a weekly correspondence with the BBC about all the things he thought his license fee shouldn't be spent on. “30% of this country hate football, yet every 4 years I'm supposed to endure the World Cup. Worst of all, I'm paying for it! It's a disgrace!” You get the gist.

His first wife left him. He left his second wife, though it was common knowledge she was boffing half the tennis team when he would stay up in the city. His third wife lasted just 37 days. He would tell anyone who listened at the local pub about how the worst thing that happened to society was letting women in the workplace.

He overused exclamation marks! Underused basic English. Had more money than most, but could only focus on those few who had more. He didn't swear, as he thought it immoral, whilst openly chastising those less fortunate for being “spongers” and refugees for “Not assimilating!”

He retired last year, and somehow became more highly strung. He would take photos of his neighbours if he perceived them to be doing something wrong. He kicked out at dogs who came to say hello. He complained that the local vicar was “too young” and that the library should be closed as “I only ever see 10 year olds go in there. I'm paying for that!”

He was a difficult man.

And just last week he was run over by his fourth wife. He died in hospital a week later.

The reason I'm telling you this is because that awful man's legacy was that he enjoyed nothing. He was charmless, humourless, entitled and judgemental, and it was clear he only lived to make those around him suffer.

He never had any kids, or any friends, his family hated him and his wife was now in jail. It was left to his third wife to pick what message went on his prepaid headstone. She, at least, had a sense of humour.

Here lies a nondescript angry man

He enjoyed nothing, then he died

Brutal. So, yeah. Don't be angry. I know it's easier said than done, but a sense of perspective can go a long way in this world. That's what I took away from the story anyway.

Love beats hate.

Resolution

Written 2 January 2019

Miriam’s New Year's resolution lasted two days.

She came into work, got soaked to the bone on her way due to a malfunctioning umbrella.

Her inbox was an absolute state. Her boss had evidently decided to check in over Christmas. Several times.

Miriam went and bought a twenty deck of Marlboro Reds as soon as she was able. She smoked two in a row, taking long draws and sighing with satisfaction, closing her eyes with relief. There was always next year.

Another year

Written 1 January 2019

Every single time. Since I was, what, 15? Every New Year's Day is the same.

Sweat, booze, shame, tiredness, an innate inability to do anything productive. Happy New Year.

I always feel so lonely. Even when I've had a boyfriend in bed next to me, or a friend or whomever. And sad. That's how I decided to spend the last day of the year. Drinking drinking drinking. Having fun, sometimes, but always always always drinking.

Followed by the inevitable pain. And reflection. What did I actually achieve this year? Am I where I want to be? Is he right for me? Where will I be this time next year? At least that one I know.

What a completely pointless thing a year is. All these “best of” lists, all this analysis of what we've achieved. What even is a year? We package up a set of achievements based on astrology. And we celebrate the demise of that year like it's a fucking Irish wake.

And then start the next one with melancholy. Knowing we're going back to a job we dislike, or that you need to do your tax return, or that you have nothing to look forward to. Nothing. And worst of all, darkness and cold for at least another 3 months.

They should have the New Year on April 1st. Spring has arrived, the evenings are getting lighter, there is a real sense of optimism. The New Year new me mantra never lasts long when faced with darkness and cold.

Just once, I want to wake up on January 1st and not feel like I'm going to spend my first day of the new year dying. Living is tough, so why do I just make it tougher for myself?

Never mind, though, I'm going to get up and sign up for a gym and I'm not going to eat meat or drink or whatever. And I'll eventually forget how bad I feel right now. And I'll just do it all again next year.

The New Year's List

Written 31 December 2018

In an attempt to properly evaluate how his year had gone, Griffin compiled a Top 5 list of his most prominent memories of the previous 365 days. They were as follows.

1. February, when he was walking on the common and he saw those two dogs pulling apart the dead rabbit. The site of the insides being dumped out in one gut wrenching rip still entered his head at inopportune times.

2. The date with the doctor back in April. She never got back to him. He had turned up hungover and had spent the first 20 minutes talking about Game Of Thrones. She hadn't seen it. On more than one occasion she very obviously checked her watch. It lasted 90 minutes, but felt like it lasted 3 days.

3. Falling off his bike and almost being crushed underneath that van. He hadn't been back on a bike since.

4. Work work work work work work work work work work very little reward.

5. Meeting Cali. The way she snorted when she laughed. Her turning red every single time she said something remotely personal. Their elbows touching. Their legs touching. That lingering moment when they said goodbye when they obviously wanted to kiss each other. Walking her home. The first kiss. Outside her house.

It had actually been an okay year.

Journalism

Written 30 December 2018

Lacey's blog started to really take off.

She would examine each episode of Gossip Girl for references to the illuminati, and the page views racked up.

Soon she was hosting forum discussions, sat on convention panels and appeared on podcasts.

She started combing over other popular TV programs for illuminati symbols, like Love Island and The Big Bang Theory.

But she started seeing symbols everywhere. Triangles in her cereal. Eyes on shipping containers.

And the appearances started drying up as her blogs became increasingly unhinged. She started up a Patreon so her ardent followers could pay for her content exclusively.

But she had few takers, and she soon shut her blog down due to lack of interest. People still talked about her online, but in a mocking tone. Her followers thought she might’ve been killed by the government for revealing too much.

But really she was working at Carphone Warehouse, and wishing she’d taken that internship at OK magazine instead of going it alone.

Under The Same Night Sky

Written 29 December 2018

Vaguely aware her arm was dead, Holly rolled onto her side and fell back to sleep.

Samantha had thought getting the sleeper would be the best option. Cheap. Quiet. Unfortunately for her, Hogmanay was approaching, and Edinburgh was apparently the place to be for hard up millenials. The man next to her snored and smelt like pencils.

Shahnab hadn't slept a wink. Next door was apparently starting New Years early. She didn't want to cause a fuss. Her neighbours hadn't been the most pleasant to her since she moved in.

Pearl couldn't sleep. She had lost her second sleeping bag, and it was a chilly night. Two nights before that guy Jock had tried to get into the bag with her, and she’d been forced to flee. She had managed to get into a shelter, but it was still very cold.

Hilda was awoken by Mike, reeking of champagne and perfume. Another boys night out. Another strip club. Probably another STD.

Samara hadn't slept at all. Her baby had been coughing all night, and she was overcome with worry.

Holly awoke with a jolt as three teenagers raced mopeds down her street. Her arm had completely gone to sleep.

The People's Republic of Woolworth Avenue

Written 28 December 2018

“I can assure you, I only did it in the interest of security.”

The voice crackled over the walkie talkie. It had been strapped to a lamp post using duct tape with a laminated sign above saying “Buzz for entry.”

The wrought iron gates were 20 foot high, and the fences on either side were draped in barbed wire. It ran along to number 1 on the left hand side of the road and number 2 on the right.

“You can't just put up a bloody gate. This is a through road.” Selma shouted. She wasn't happy. They had committed thousands of pounds of criminal damage to city property.

“Not anymore. From now on, if you want to come down our street you've got to have permission.”

“It's not your street! This street belongs to the city. You're in a lot of trouble.” She had called the police the moment she had seen it. A number of motorists had complained to her office about a giant gate blocking Woolworth Avenue.

“I'm a homeowner, madam, I have the right to protect my property however I see fit.”

“Of course you don't. Look, just open the gate so we can talk to you face to face.” The police were arriving.

“I'm afraid I can't do that.”

“Excuse me?”

“You could be a murderer, or a baby rapist, or a dog fucker. We have people, babies and dogs on this road, and I just don't trust that you're with the council.” Selma swore loudly. And turned to the police. “How quickly can you break this gate?”

“Can't do that, ma'am. These people have the right to protect themselves.” Selma stared at the officer hard. She shook her head, and stormed towards the gate. She went to shove it open, and was electrocuted.”

“Take that rapist!” the walkie talky buzzed.

Fun With The Family

Written 27 December 2018

If he comes anywhere near me I'm going to hit him. Smug git.

Always banging on about how wonderful his life is. Urgh, seriously, though, that face. How is he from the same blood as me? His wife is so beautiful as well. Only with him for the money, surely?

“How about you, Colin, where are you planning on holidaying next year?” Holidaying? He means going on holiday, right? What an absolute basic budget bitch. God I hate him. He's waiting for me to say somewhere shitty so he can be condescending. Mums looking at me. What's she trying to say? Fuck it, I'm gonna lie.

“Three weeks in Mauritius in February, summering in the Italian Lakes in July and will likely go to Berlin, Budapest and Bologna in between.” damnit. I said Italy twice. Got trapped by alliteration. His eyebrows appear to have disappeared into his head. Mum looks embarrassed.

“Wow, sounds amazing. And how are you affording all that?” smirking. Stupid family. If you asked anyone else that they'd tell you to fuck off.

“My boyfriend is paying for it.” Mum is hiding her face now.

“Oh, I didn't. . .”

“Well I am.”

Silence now. That shut the smug prick up. How long do we sit here? Are they going to attempt to at least pretend to be happy for me? Doesn't seem like it. They knew. I didn’t hide it. They're all looking anywhere but at me now. I've only had 2 glasses of wine. I can drive.

“Well, it's been a pleasure. See you next year.” With every will in the world I hope I won't. Smug twat. God, I hate him.

Turkeys

Written on 26 December 2018

“Now, let's gather round and raise a glass to those we lost this Christmas.”

The turkeys mournfully raised their goblets silently. Some wept. Others were beyond console. Others still just stared blankly into the middle distance.

“I want to say something.” it was Tomin. Him and his baby brother had lost their whole family. But he sounded stoic, and looked defiant. “We've taken a hit. To say we're not hurting, that we don't bleed for those we've lost would be a lie.” he hopped on a hay bail so everyone could see him.

“But we, the turkeys I see in front of me, have been given a reprieve. We need to live our lives.” a few of the Turkeys nodded in agreement.

“We need to rebuild, and prosper.” A murmuring of consensus.

“We need to ensure that our family, friends and loved ones did not die in vain.” The turkeys were yelling now, with hope and excitement.

“We must live!” and the place went wild. Turkeys hugged, turkeys through their feathers in the air. Turkeys gobbled with pride.

Just then, the barn door opened. It was 2 of the overseers. The turkeys fell silent.

“Did you hear? We've just signed a deal with Bernard Matthews.” one said to the other as he collected the jacket he'd evidently left behind. “Looks like we're going to be killing a lot more Turkeys next year.”

The barn door shut behind them. The turkeys all slowly turned towards Tomin who was still standing on the hay bail.

“EVERY TURKEY FOR THEMSELVES.” He yelled, and the turkeys attacked each other in a frenzy of pecking, clawing and wing beating. There were feathers and blood everywhere.