Friday, 31 January 2020

Did He Who Made the Lamb Make Thee?

Did He Who Made the Lamb Make Thee?

Kata Times
November 17th 2019

Kata Ranked as High as 27th in Crime Perception Index
By Robert Kimble

Kata was ranked 27 out of 180 countries in the world in the Crime Perception Index 2019, advancing three positions compared to last year.

The Minister for Interior Justice thanked the Index personally on a state visit to Kata and is quoted as saying ‘I thank you, Mr Index. We are gratified with your poll that shows Kata in a favourable light when compared to those countries to the left, to the right, step it up, it’s all right.’

The Index noted that Kata was one of the top countries in the world for filling in the forms required by the Index to be one of the top countries in the world and never knowingly missing a deadline. You never knowingly miss a deadline The Index is reported as saying. ‘Deadline? Deadline? Just what have you heard?’ replied the Minister for Interior Justice.

Nicola Eddington
Pentewen Academy

15 September 2014

Sir Frederick Fingle,
Chair of Governors

Re: The OFSTED Inspection and future proofing

Dear Freddie,

Firstly, I would like to thank you for dinner last night and stress that you did not have to pick up the cheque—however, it was certainly most appreciated. I can only apologise for being tired; I would be intrigued to accept your invitation to stay next time.

However, I must tell you when I accepted the post last April, I was promised an outstanding school. How things can change in a very short time. One OFSTED inspection later and you’re in euthanasia territory. 

We must act immediately and clear out all the dead wood. I see myself as an enema, if you will forgive the expression. There is a whole raft of middle management to shift and we cannot act soon enough.

Our current Head of English is a good example of what I mean. Ten years in the job and hasn’t had an original idea in the last five, running a collegiate team he drinks with over the weekend; as fashionable as a pork pie hat in a synagogue. 

I think we can replace him with somebody with more resilience and less outmoded ideas about nurturing the whole child, mixed ability, support, that sort of thing—so last decade. Now, I have just the woman in mind—hard, forward thinking and sexually ambivalent— knows her spreadsheets, too. Exactly the sort of professional that lives on the job.

Unions are less of a problem than you mentioned, too. Set some deadlines then ask for a wholesale restructuring of classroom delivery, give him responsibility for all the bottom sets and I feel sure he will resign at a net saving to the school. 

A few more like these and we will solve the fiscal spiral of decline. Think bigger class sizes equals profitability and improved results through expulsions. I will set up daily after school support meetings from next week. With the drain on our resources reversed, we can explore the possibility of expanding the senior leadership team.

As Charles Dickens once said in 'Pride and Sensibility': munch on the serpent and smell the flower underneath it, too. Was there ever a truer expression?

I await your response.

Yours sincerely,

P.S. Silly question. My twin sister would like to know where they sell those cheeky nighties in town, Sir Freddie. Could you point her in the right direction?

42 Adderwrack Close,
United Kingdom

March 9th 2017

Dear Michael.

It has been a long time, isn’t it? Still, I thought I’d write to you. It’s not easy with my Aspergers Syndrome but I’ll try and also you being a carnist I thought I’d send you three pictures of a chicken enclosed a chicken by a half-eaten chicken and an eaten chicken that has been stripped of meat by carnists like yourself.

My friend Lee was severely eaten when he picketed Beefeaters last week and stopped carnists entering to beat beef. One man punched him and called him a twat he said. He has a terrible life with his wife not understanding him and I sometimes send him long supporting emails or letters from my armchair using Windows 95.

I fed 7 of my rescue cats their vegetarian meat Friskee at the usual time 5pm. I had to get the other 3 from next door again the family there use Whiskas Supermeat to lure them across the fence despite my efforts to learn them elsewise. I am sorry for cutting up your pornography with scissors in 1996 but I don’t hold with that.

Why am I writing to you? I heard you got away and I thought I would hunt you down. Is it true you had a breakdown after that school inspection well you can’t say you wasn’t warned by me when I lived with you in 1992. I told you that your ways would end you up in no good and hot water.

But you got away from that which is good I suppose and are you doing well in Arabia. I hear it is full of carnists and I don’t hold with that because they eat kebabs and such. Tell them I have a good recipe for vegetable kebabs which you put vegetables on a skewer and roast them and it’s very tasty.

You had no right to get away and you will come to no good. What did your wife say? Are you still married? Did your wife come away with you to Arabia I can tell you are not happy. Who would be happy if they married you I don’t think anyone but she is probably a carnist like you or looks at pornography.

Let me count the times I told you that but I have a proposal for you which is why I am writing to you after all these years since we met in Exeter in 2006 when you told me you were married. I can’t think you are happy. I told you that we could take a bath together if you kept your pants on.

I think you should leave your wife and let me take care of you. It was the best sex I ever had with you and I wouldn’t tell you that so don’t repeat it. I would cook your dinners and after I would let you have sex until you are asleep. If you let me come to Arabia I would ask you to be not so carnist but I think that’s fair.

Since I left you in 1992 I have been faithful to you which I told you in 2006 and there was never anybody else but you need somebody like me to keep you from looking at pornography. That would be easy because I can satisfy your needs. I know your wife’s address too so I can tell her if you want. Let me know.

Your ever-loving Fiona.

From:       L.Badcock <>
To:           M.K. Dons <>
Date:        Tue, Sept 24 2019 17.30 pm

I’m at the airport. I can’t take this shit anymore. Leaving.

I’ve got the kids with me. I’m out of here.

Fuck work, fuck him. They can’t stop me. Been pushed too far.

From:       L.Badcock <>
To:           M.K. Dons <>
Date:        Sat, May 27, 2017 16.32 pm

Don’t punch people when you drink too much. Your trouble is you get violent. I need to get on with work now.

From:       M.K. Dons <>
To:           L.Badcock <>
Date:        Sat, May 27, 2017 15.59am

Stick? It was one of those metal invalid pole things. As for attracting my attention, he repeatedly struck my forehead and smacked me in the nose.
There’s blood. Blood and everything.

I had to wrestle that stick of the fucking maniac.

He was asking for more than a bunch of fives, believe me.

From:       L.Badcock <>
To:           M.K. Dons <>
Date:        Sat, May 27 2017 15.57 pm

Stop making sense. Nonsense. Alan was trying to attract your attention with his stick. He accidentally hit you. You overreacted.

From:       M.K. Dons <>
To:           L.Badcock <>
Date:        Sat, May 27, 2017 14.54am

Oh, villainous, villainous. Iago, have you heard of him?

To:           M.K. Dons <>
Date:        Sat, May 27 2017 14.52 pm

A friend of mine.

From:       M.K. Dons <>
To:           L.Badcock <>
Date:        Sat, May 27, 2017 04.37am

Who was that man with the stick?

What happened last night? Only remember bits of it. Why did you let me drink so much?

Couldn’t sleep.

Panic attack. Tossing. Tossing. Panic attack.

Chewing knuckles. Oh, that was a good, good knuckle, believe me.

Serve that knuckle up with some apple sauce.

From:       M.K. Dons <>
To:           L.Badcock <>
Date:        Sat, May 13, 2017 12.38pm

Yes, OK. Planning, sure. And a shisha afterwards on one of those reclining chairs. We could share it. Lips to the rubber teat, that sort of thing. You know. Suck it. Xx

From:       L.Badcock <>
To:           M.K. Dons <>
Date:        Sat, May 13 2017 12.45 pm

Lunch? Don’t think it’s a date. It’s not a date. School issues. Up shit creek and you’re the paddle. Need all your planning for our head of department? She can’t do it. Won’t meet the deadline. You’ll be helping us out of a spot. Helping me. Bring it over on a memory stick on Saturday.

He was up all night with his friends. Hardly saw children this week due to being in bed all day while I’m at work. Lifted 500 from my purse I think. Furious. I’ll have his balls. Threatens he’ll take them off me.

Thinks he can keep me here.

Accuses me that they don’t know the language well enough – one of them prefers dressing up as a girl.

Regards Lucy.

From:       M.K. Dons <>
To:           L.Badcock <>
Date:        Sat, May 13, 2017 12. 37 pm

I’m NOT gay. Why do you keep saying that? I’ve had more women than you’ll ever have – LOL. I didn’t see anybody, anyway. Just dancing, you know. Don’t trust people who don’t. Why weren’t you?

Too much to drink, head pounding like a piledriver. No, like one of those machetes they smash fish up with in fish smashing shops. Yes, that. No. Like being repeatedly screamed at by the automated voice at a self service cash till convinced I’ve placed an unexpected item there.

I haven’t, have I?

From:       L.Badcock <>
To:           M.K. Dons <>
Date:        Sat, May 13 2017 12.32 pm

You are so gay. I saw the way they were coming on to you. Watch your step, it’s more common than you think here. And haram. Sure, I’ll be out next week, if I’m allowed—and nanny doesn’t want the night off. If I see you, fine. When he gets back, he’ll probably just sleep all day and Playstation all night drinking karak chai anyway.

From:       M.K. Dons <>
To:           L.Badcock <>
Date:        Sat, May 13, 2017 6:17 am

Lucy—I lied, I lied. But I told you the truth the next day. Sorry about my drunken messages—you deserve better. I get depressed and lonely. Sorry, sorry sorry. I’ll see you next week and make it up to you. Not saying I didn’t mean what I wrote though, just shouldn’t have probably done it—it’s the writer in me felt horny. You’re like a muse, you know?

From:       L.Badcock <>
To:           M.K. Dons <>
Date:        Sat, April 29, 2017 10:17 am

Mike, The Beatles are shit. Prefer Ed Sheerhan.

Sure we’ll meet again, We go to Harp a lot, when I can get out. Anyway, he’s in Algeria waiting for a permit, the fuckwit.

Married? You shouldn’t have lied. Well, fine, we all do it, but difficult to trust a liar. Next time tell the truth. Have a good week at school. If you’re a writer, why aren’t you published? Lucy.

From:       M.K. Dons <
To:           L.Badcock<>
Date:        Sat, April 29, 2017 5:26 am

Ah Lucy,
It was great to meet you last night. You looked knockout. Music was fun, nice band, bit derivative. Reminded me of The Beatles which is always good.

When I saw you across the room, I saw your smile, my heart soared like an eagle. I stole that from ‘Little Big Man’, do you know it? Your fringe, the way you look up from beneath it through it, those eyes could give pain or pleasure in equal measure – ooh a rhyme. I set to work writing straight away. What rhymes with busty/bust?


I don’t know what is; just felt the tingles, saying too much, don’t hold it against me – no, wait, do hold it against me.

Look gotta tell you, I wasn’t entirely honest, I am in fact married, but it’s not good. We went from separate rooms to separate countries, if you know what I mean.

Don’t be angry, panic reaction. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

Think of me kindly, Mike. Xxx


Police Taped Interview—Transcript:  17 October 2019

Interviewer:         Sergeant Abdulrahman Mohammed Ahmad Gharrafa
Witness:              Jonathan Tuppney

SA: Sergeant Abdulrahman Mohammed Ahmad Gharrafa and Jeremy Bidnote, police translator present in room, interview begin at—um—0925 hours. Good day, Mr Tuppney, please you sit.

JT: Eh? Now, how is Myshka? I would like to know if she is treated well? One hears stories...vile stories. Not true I am sure. 

SA: Would you like sit?

JT: No, inspector, I went this morning as usual, Chief Petty Officer Holder used to say, he used to what was it? Ah, yes. Open your bowels in the morning, open your bowels, that was it. It’s the bran flakes you see? I find the bread here seizes you up inside. The chief would generally sort that sort of thing out for me. He’d check trap 1 and 2 were clean and fit for purpose. Give them a wipe with his hanky if they weren't. 'A lick and a spit before you shit,' he'd say. Do you have such know, if the bread...

SA: Bread?

JT: No not yet, not yet, plenty of life in the old dog yet.

SA: Please not understand. What you see?

JT: No, no, that too, I say you are hot when it comes to number ones and number twos aren’t you? I’ll shout out if I need to go, though. Or maybe you have a potty. In case I’m caught short and I’m not allowed to leave the room. Is there a potty available?

SA: Potty, no. Please, you see a knife?

JT: Wife?

SA: Knife, cut, cut, stab, blood, much screaming. Two nights ago.

JT: Knife...ah yes. No, not a knife. Well, it was strange. One man, the small one, had a banana. I’m sure it was a banana, well it must have been, I took it off him. Didn’t eat it of course. Evidence. By jove, yes, he pulled it from his pocket, you know. The other one was waving his John Thomas around in a most ungentlemanly fashion. ‘Myshka,’ I said, ‘Myshka, just look the other way whilst I remonstrate with these bloody drunkards…anyway, she was looking hard, too hard, I remember thinking, and the man with the John Thomas well he was pointing it at the banana until they embraced...and my Myshka takes a step forward towards them...I think she wanted to join in you know? Well, she rushes them, and here's that juggernaut...I know a juggernaut when I see one, having spent many years on the bridge of a frigate. I was in the Royal Navy, you know, naval officer of some years standing...

SA: How many years in naval officer, Mr Tuppey?

JT: In a naval officer? Well, I haven’t been in one recently. One heard of that sort of thing going on of course; the long voyages, missing home, and so forth.

SA: No sir, not understanding...I speak to my the navy officer, in the navy, how long time, long ago?

JT: Well, now, I’ll tell you now, long enough to know two vagabonds when I see them—well, that first one looked shifty, the second one looked shifty too, waving his penis around like it was a heaving line.

SA: Penish?

JT: The one with the banana.

SA: What mean penish?

JT: Yes, punished. Whipping’s too good for them, I say. Do you still do whipping? Thirty firm lashes, that sort of thing? Whip their willies with barbed wire? Mind you, I wouldn’t want that sort of thing meted out to Myshka, you understand. I'll sort that out myself. 

SA: No understand. What means barbed wire?

JT: When can I see Myshka?

SA: She locked in cell. We need many questions. Truck driver there too.

JT: Well I took that banana off the first man. I have it in my kitbag. Do you want the banana?

SA: No, we looking for the other one, the one like banana. She cut off. Cut with knife.

JT: Hut? You can’t put her in a hut. When push comes to, that wasn’t it...she shoved in self-defence and the bridge wasn’t that high, well, you know that, she shoved in the same way you would have—slip of a girl. She’s not an animal, you know, I’ll call the British embassy. They’ll be down on you like a ton of bricks.

SA: Pricks? Yes sir. You are right.

Date: 23 August 2016—Terminal 3

And you turn towards the mirror like some New Romantic looking for a TV show.

One day, the Doctor will be a woman, one day we will leave Europe, one day they’ll put up a statue for Princess Diana.

And one day, they’ll fuck us once too often.

There’s nothing now. It’s all gone; they’re picking through the bones like this overpriced fish supper I’ve been given masquerading as nouvelle cuisine. Minted peas, my arse. Flight in four hours. Shit, I’m scared.

You only live twice? No, you live many more times than that and I’m wondering how many lives you get; how many times you die and regenerate—I can count a few - when you rip it up and start again. Then again, some things shake you so far down to the core that you leave it all behind.

Or face the train.

I’ve done that a couple of times. Set sail.

And this is only one of those and one day you look back to find it’s all gone. Sure, you say, this is temporary, this is a hiatus, this is this; I’ll be back.

I won’t be back. No more deadlines.

A new life, new start, new beginnings.

If I return, I’ll be a new person; unrecognisable from the one who left. Like reading a diary from ten years ago—the voice just isn’t you.

I walked out of that door. Brutal. No goodbyes. No speeches. No second chances. Often wondered what I might say, come the day and the answer is nothing. There is nothing to say.

All there is is nothing, nothing is all there is.

Fuckwits who listen half-arsed and half-cut when the truth is only that your generation has passed on and those heel nippers are about to get their day. I had mine and you’ll get yours. So I walked the corridors one last time, put my head into my old office they’d turned into a store room to make sure I got the point, remembered the plans we’d made and turned my back on it all.

I’ll miss Angel. Mistress mine, every Doctor has one who loves you, don’t they? She promised she’ll wait.

Well of course she won’t. Yesterday’s news in yesterday’s fish supper papers.

The vultures gather. Oh, they circle, circle, pick the bones out of that.

I knew she wanted me to kiss her, possibly even make love somewhere, one last orgasm—there was a condom in my drawer, amongst her keepsake gifts, nice touch, bless her.  But look, how can you? That bloke was already dead even before his feet walked through the door; he’d hit the floor.

Three hours to go now; nice lady at check in, wearing a scarf to cover her hair and then the hat on top of that, too —I’d tried to bluff it like I knew what I was doing, but she smiled like honey and said, ‘so you’re going all the way down there?’ as she checked my passport and I felt like maybe it wasn’t such a different world after all. Could’ve kissed her.

You don’t get tickets. It isn’t like a train.

I can see the airbus sitting outside the window now while I’m fretting with this new mobile phone, I don’t know how to work it and you hear such terrible things about missiles and bombs and will I even get there, anyway? I’ll be gripping the seat rests as we land in Dubai and then further, further yet, further than I’ve ever been.

Cornwall seems a beautiful place right now, but Ross Poldark isn’t real. I know that.

This is real.

Kata Times
November 20th 2019

Kata Ranked as High as 29th in Crime Perception Index
By Robert Kimble

Kata was ranked 29 out of 180 countries in the world in the Crime Perception Index 2019, falling three positions compared to last year.

The Minister for Interior Justice thanked the Index personally on a state visit to Kata and is quoted as saying ‘I thank you, Mr Index. We are gratified with your revised poll that shows Kata in a favourable light when compared to those countries been around the world but I, I, I can't find my baby.

The Index restated that Kata was one of the top countries in the world for filling in the forms required by the Index to be one of the top countries in the world and never knowingly missing a deadline. You never knowingly miss a deadline the Index was reported as saying.

'Such a tragedy and not just for the figures two non citizens of Kata perishing like that in the road traffic on the expressway by falling from the over-bridge. We will be reviewing the road safety laws with extreme urgency and the man is painting new white lines tomorrow.'

When asked about the recently widowed widow. He added. ‘As for the woman fleeing Kata with her twin boys, she will, no doubt, escape the long arms of justice but remains a salutary convenience for us all.'

Saturday, 18 January 2020

Jonathon Sicknote

Jonathon Sicknote

Jonathon Sicknote arrives late for school
with his face as long as a snooker cue.
Sad halibut mouth and beard of goat
a walking excuse is Jonathan Sicknote.

Wet wobbling lips, slack greasy chin,
he begs you remember the state he is in,
sleepless nights due to endless meetings,
support plans, threats and cruel briefings.

Stenciled face of the perpetual victim,
shrieks headteacher is out to get him,
hidden in corners muttering the sack,
with non-stick shoulders and sloping back.

A medicine chest of right rare diseases,
takes a day or two off whenever he pleases.
When cover’s published, staff scream in pain:
‘Fuck it. Jonathan Sicknote’s absent again.’

Spends every weekend getting pissed,
while claiming that all the girls he kissed
spread their sticky mucus and sore throats
but not their legs, for Jonathon Sicknote.

This scabrous sufferer of sticky mattress
with chronic fatigue and back disastrous
battles manfully against the countless ailments
to queue each day for Doctors’ statements.

A meat-eating vegan who’ll usually rant
tomorrow he’ll quit, but today he can’t,
so tired: tides of stress, ebbing and flowing,
it’s only his pack a day that keeps him going.

Scraped degree in obscure Star Trek language,
mounts Everests of penny-dreadful past baggage
with hard-frowning face; puzzling why he gets
to always teach those kids in the bottom sets.

Totes tatty papermills of unmarked books
while his nudging students cast knowing looks,
scanning last night’s comments, not yet wrote
by the run-out red pen of Jonathan Sicknote.

With unplanned lessons he prepared at home,
deskbound in classrooms; fiddling with phone,
he tweets to the wide world of chaos, and howls
that foul feral children trigger his irritable bowels.

At parent’s evening, snaking queues vainly spit
venom; that toxic Jonathan is permanently sick,
lying low in the dark and shielding his eyes,
his reports contain nothing but fictions and lies.

His Head of Department ever growls his despair,
they cannot find Jonathan Sicknote anywhere,
His boltholes are empty, he’s made for the door
and they say their aren’t teachers like him anymore.

The unions insist that he should still be paid,
for every mistake that the management made.
But he won’t strike for sure, preferring to gloat
at fuckwits that cover the backs of sicknotes.

(with apologies and thanks to the very very excellent Charles Causley)