Besides the trivial meanderings of bloggerings herein and thereabouts, I have written screenplays (In Hollywood, Playing Willy) and am putting the finishing touches to my first novel, The Sublime Dramatic; a tale of science fiction, comedy and global conspiracies. News of that will be forthcoming, so please follow me on Twitter/Facebook for more information.

Within the pages here lies a treasure trove of total bollocks.  Why treasure trove? Because bollocks are testicles, which are colloquially known as family jewels - so treasure.  A trove? Well, as you can see from this intro - the trove is as drivelling as it is replete!

A Fairytale for Modern (Little) Britain

Once upon a time, in a secluded edge of a beautiful, peaceful forest, there was a hospital. This hospital was home to 100 people. 48 staff and 52 patients. 

The patients that lived at the hospital were there for all sorts of different reasons.  Some were too old. Some were not very clever. Some were too angry. Some just hated people for no other reason than the fact that they weren’t born within the confines of the hospital and came from the beautiful, peaceful forest. The rest; well, they were unfortunately press-ganged into being there, through underhand tom-foolery, skullduggery and fatuous propaganda distributed by the self-serving and evil conglomerate that ran the hospital and their media machine.

The staff, who were permanent residents of the hospital (despite having total free-access to the beautiful diverse and peaceful forest) performed their duties to the best of their abilities.  They lived alongside the patients, doing their best to ignore the occasional outbursts and educate those who would listen.  Unfortunately, there weren’t many of those.

One day, the head of the hospital, Mr Cowardly-Weasel, felt that his command was being questioned by the patients and one of their poster-boys, Nigel the Nasty Nazi. So he decided to hold a gala ballot evening.  He sent out leaflets to every room asking whether each resident would like to build a huge wall between the hospital and the peaceful forest, destroy the building from the inside and burn it to the ground.  The other option was to leave things as they were and for him to do a better job at managing the place instead.

Of course, he and all his colleagues laughed at the master plan that they had hatched.  “Who in their right minds would opt for the destruction?”, they jeered into their Oxford mugs of fine brandy.  No, it was plainly clear that this gala ballot evening would be an entertaining way to ensure some of the disgruntled patients would vote for him to pull his socks up and stay on as manager of the hospital forever and ever. If they did verge on voting the unthinkable way, at least the experts amongst the staff would be listened to when they pointed out that any other choice apart from staying in the forest would be quite plainly suicidal. But, he neglected to take into account that there were 52 patients and an evil Australian wizard controlled all the information that would be fed into the wards before the day of the ballot. He also neglected to take into account that the 52 patients were allergic to experts and quite plainly suicidal.

For the next few days, the hospital was awash with more than the usual feculence of misinformation and promises of a Nirvana away from the forest; where all medicine would be free and each patient would suddenly become employed, as all the skilled doctors visiting from the peaceful forest would be thrown out of the hospital and replaced with the patients.  None of them saw the flaw to this preposterous and ludicrous idea.

Some of Mr Cowardly-Weasel’s colleagues saw an opportunity for them to take over the hospital when they saw the kerfuffle that was starting to play-out, so they joined in with the evil Australian wizard in spreading lies about current state of the infested hospital and the bright future it had after it wa burned to a cinder; floating across the sea like a dead whale’s carcass, far away from the beautiful, peaceful forest.

The night of the gala ballot came and, as sure as shit, the 52 patients all voted to burn the hospital to the ground. 

The 48 staff members stared on in disbelief as the trucks started to bring in the tanks of petrol and matches and hand them out to the now rabid patients.  As the wall was being rapidly erected, some staff started to question the sanity of what was  happening - but swiftly got set upon by the patients, soon after they had killed the Polish nurse.

Mr Cowardly-Weasel’s office lay bare.  He had already run and left the competition of who would take over his office to his once friends and loyal team of colleagues - all now exposed as a bunch of cunts who would rather lead a pile of rubble than be in the shadows of a once shining hospital.  Even the incomprehensible St Bernard dog, Boris, that he had bought for shits and giggles and to throw sticks at, had disowned him and made an attempt to jump in his chair (only to leave the room when he accidentally shit himself mid-jump).  One particular cunt, Mrs “Isn’t a Mother” Theresa (as one of her opponents once called her), shone through and took over Mr Cowardly-Weasel’s office so quickly, it was almost like she had planned the whole thing from the start.

She took over the hospital radio and announced that Burning Down the Hospital meant Burning Down the Hospital.  The 48 staff still stood there; incredulity etched upon their weeping faces. 

The evil Australian wizard laughed heartily as he watched his empire solidify in the ruins of the hospital.  He knew that he would be better served by 52 “specials”, “bewildered” & “misinformed”, albeit in amongst a pile of cinders and ashes, than he would be by 48 staff members who had free and open access to the beautiful, peaceful forest where his powers were weakened by rational thought.

Mrs “Isn’t a Mother” Theresa continued to spew forth commands to rebuild (burn down) the hospital with her own hatred of mankind by setting dates for the walls to be reinforced with asbestos and dynamite and by announcing that the hospital’s doctors’ time of looking after the beleaguered but enflamed patients was coming to an end.  She cackled down the charred hallways repeatedly screaming “Burning Down the Hospital means Burning Down the Hospital!!!” 

The rabbits and deer stood on the edge of the beautiful, peaceful forest watching the hospital burn down. They disbelievingly wept as they saw the destruction being caused by the evil Australian wizard and his puppets and watched the 52 patients crying out in pain as they fell to the floor in flames, “we won, we won, we are free again!”. They watched as each and every one of them lost everything they thought they never had to the flames and still, in their dying breaths, claimed victory.

From a top floor window, the 48 staff look out at the creatures in the beautiful, peaceful forest and waved goodbye. They wished that the gala ballot evening had been a non-binding, non-legal advisory vote that didn’t actually mean anything whatsoever - especially “Burning Down the Hospital means Burning Down the Hospital”. No, that would be ultra-fucking, nuts-in-a-vice ,unthinkably moronic and unfathomably imbecilic.  They stood there hoping that the 52 patients were savvy enough to realise they had been duped by some extraordinarily rich people who wanted more power and money - but this all seemed to be be just wishful thinking.

There was no happy ending and no one lived happily every after. Except the evil Australian wizard.  

And so, he, his puppets and his pawns played on to…

The End.

Get Over It!

I’ve been told by a lot of people “shut up”. Guess you knew that already! 

Those reading this far will probably agree. I have a penchant for ranting about what goes on in my tiny little hairless head. It’s what I do. Get over it!

Of late, you will of course be aware, said head has been filled with two tired subjects. Britain leaving the EU and the freak-show that is Donald Trump. I admit it now - My name is Benedict and I am a TrumpaBrexitholic and I have a problem.   I am aware and I know most of you don’t give a fuck.

So, I figured I’d use this therapeutic Friday night, whilst my good wife (a student, under 30, preferring to binge on chai latte instead of booze - and wear the most geriatric slippers and socklets you could imagine and thereafter go to bed at 10pm - go figure!) to sit and expunge my reasons.

Firstly, Brexit.  I give little to no fucks about the economic impact.  Who cares. Most of you will care as equally as I do.  We can afford a few quid extra on petrol.  We don’t care about the unemployment rates, because we get by being employed, freelancers or living off mummy and daddy’s inheritance. I care even less about Marmite, because I like caviar on my toast.  And the pound against the dollar? Shove that shit back up yer bum - we don’t need to import, we have tea and jam!

What I care about is the right wing rhetoric that was given a voice.  That’s it. That’s all.

On to Trump.

I don’t really mind if it’s a man or woman who resides in the Oval Office (although, considering Oval consists of four letters, three quarters of them being the word Ova - perhaps it should be a lady! Tenuous I know, but as much of a reason as Trump seems to offer for himself).  I don’t really care about Americans.  Not that I dislike or have any kind of negative feeling toward them - I live way over here, in New Little Britain.  Why do I care about their choice of leader?  Apart from the tiny little matter of nuclear warfare.

My thoughts of Trump’s groping and misogyny are, at best, hypocritical.  In my mind, William Jefferson Clinton (Bill to his mates - but why, oh, why didn’t he ever get the moniker Willy?) was one of the best presidents ever to have presidented(?) over the disUnited States, outside of Mr Obama.  Despite his transgressions!  Yes, Trump has been an utter c-word (or cunt, to those less offended) to women throughout his life - but I do my best not to judge his inability to string a sentence together by his tiny-handed contempt for females.  Yes, he is unfit to run for office; as much as he is unfit to run for a donut. He is the epitome of all that is disgusting in a human being. But, that doesn’t wind me up as much as it should.

What I care about is the right wing rhetoric that he has given a voice to.  That’s it. That’s all. Again.

Brexit (and latterly Donald John Trump) has done the unthinkable.  Two, three, four, five or six years ago the civilised world would have been horrified by the thought that all the years of progress we made towards tolerance and diversity, would be dashed against the rocks in the year 2016? Who would have thought - with history as our teacher - the world would become so very right-wing and, simply (if I dare to use a non-atheist word) evil?

Let me also underline - I am very well aware that not every Brexiter and Trumpite is right-wing or racist.  I emblazon that on my lapel right now. I know some bloody lovely Brexiters (less so many Trumpites, due to geography) that have their opinions and leanings based on some very good and understandable reasons.  I will, however, push them aside and ignore them.  Not because they mean little to me, but because they are not the voice that made the change.  I focus mainly on the majority and subsequent horror that they inadvertently helped to unleash.

2016 has been created and orchestrated by a few terrifying people who needed more.  Johnson, Murdoch, Farage, Trump, May, Cameron etc.  It was based on a need for self-serving and financial or personal gain that fed on the lowest common denominator.  People. Humankind, so very easily led by lies,  fear-mongering, propaganda and rhetoric. A shameful race of scavengers that thrive on destroying difference, in order to make themselves feel safe in the comfort of their own insular lives.  I lament you.  I lament me.  As condescending as it sounds, I lament us. 

I am angry because we let this happen.  I am furious because people tell me to be quiet.  I am enraged because people don’t shout about it enough.  We will sit and cry at a film about slavery, inequality, oppression and violence towards a minority - but we will quite happily ignore what’s happening, post pictures of what we have for dinner or how far we ran (not guilty), instead of use these platforms to voice outrage.  Because outrage is boring.

Our history is there for a reason.  It taught us that everything that is happening in 2016 is wrong.  Everything that The Daily Mail, The Sun, The Express and all right-wing, fascists preach is wrong.  But, what is perhaps worse, is watching in silence as it unfolds.  

So. I moan.  I write tedious posts like this.  Because I can.  Most of the people I decry in this post wouldn’t have got past “shut up”, but I don’t really care.  This is my wall.  It separates no one and nothing.  You can chose to climb it.  You can chose to read it (sorry!). You can chose to ignore it.  But it’s my wall and I erect it in your face to do with what you will!

Peace! x

The T.R.U.M.P. Scale

As I flick through the news, I’m still dumbfounded by the support Mr Trump receives, both in the US and abroad. So, instead of deriding said individual again - I hereby offer his supporters a quick rundown of themselves and how they are viewed, using the T.R.U.M.P. scale.

If you support Donald Trump or repost any of his nonsensical rants in support of his views, with no intention of mocking him, you are:

Thick: Straight off the bat. You are stupid, you have no intelligence and your IQ is that of a badger. And that’s demeaning to badgers. No one, with even the slightest sense, could consider giving this man the time of day, let alone control of a super-power and its nuclear arsenal.

Racist: You already know that, which is why you support him - but this is to let you know, everyone else knows it too. You may as well put on your white robes and go burn someone with less than porcelain skin on a crucifix now - it’s that obvious. Try to hide it with any excuse; support for the policies that you are trying to push ahead of the racist card don’t cover up the fact that you are simply a bigoted moron.

Ugly: Probably physically as well as emotionally, considering your genes are of such low, inbred quality. Everyone you publicise your support of Trump and his policies to look upon your mentality in pure disgust. You repulse and offend everyone who isn’t part of the genetic sludge you try so very hard to cling to.

Minority: Believe it or not, despite the fact he has a few people baying for blood at his disorganised rallies, you and your fellow supporters are in the minority. When the three-legged egg and spoon race suddenly throws its contenders into the Olympics to compete against fully trained athletes, you will soon realise that you are pretty much alone in this world. Not even your hatred will comfort you any more.

Pointless: Pretty much the most salient point. Your life hitherto has been pointless. Of no worth to the planet. Your views and opinions are that of an extinct species. Subhuman and reviled. You will slip away into the abyss with having made no impact on the world, apart from annoying its current populous. You are good for nothing, bootless and a waste of oxygen. Do something worthwhile with your life. End it.


I saw your face, a visage blessed;
Your milky skin, your perfect breast.
You saw me tremble, shy distress.
O’ feelings pained, yet not expressed.

My heart raged thunder in my chest.
Is this love? My soul possessed?
Aching limbs…um, please get dressed!
O’ fuck:

All Works Copyright © 2017 Benedict Francis

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