Vive Le Battle Cry



Suggested Audio Candy:


SlipknotĀ “My Plague”



Last dusk I pledged to unleash my inner beast or a number of them to be precise. It was billed as the biggest comeback since Rocky V; the gloves were on and mouth-guard snugly in place between my ferociously gnashing jaws. I had spent two weeks in exile like a self-diagnosed leper, digging for refuse like a wild mountain man, but never once took my eyes off the prize during that period. Such regression has been known to occur as a direct result of a lack of slumber but prolonged departure eventually takes its toll on my weary shell. I scurry away into foliage until the white noise calms but always return chipper like a jaybird on Prozac or, at least, that’s the intention. Alas, it doesn’t always work out quite as I plan as mother nature has a tendency to milk my udders while I’m in her sole presence and she’s quite the dairy queen, let me tell you. If your unsure of mother nature then allow me to point her out next time she passes. She’s the chick with the alabaster mustache. Anyhoots, my intentions are good. Please lord, don’t let me be misunderstood.


Actually the scene was more akin to Rocky IV and, particularly, Apollo Creed’s extravagant battle dance and sermon, minus the top hat, blackness, and any semblance of cool. I bobbed, weaved, and pounded both thumpers in the air as though ass-whooping was the only dish on the menu and, much like Carl Weathers, was floored by an opponent I had absolutely no defense against, in my case, sketchy internet. Since the dreadful typhoons of the past few weeks, British weather has fluctuated wildly. Harsh ripples of discontent are currently filtering through to our small island with the sole purpose of making a nuisance of themselves. Last night the web flipped its burly bird in my general direction and proclaimed “none shall pass ragamuffin.” I took exception to being labelled as such and damn near spat the half-digested shrew from my mouth in absolute disgust. “How very dare you” I responded to which she grabbed my wrist and commenced giving it a Chinese burn. Rotten old trollope.


I was left particularly embittered by her insolence and complete aversion to TLC. Like hapless Carrie White, I was dolled up to the very nines with panties at half mast, as I prepared to have my cherry obliterated, only to end up caked in Babe’s intestinal swill. She then proceeded to cast me aside like turbulent flatulence, but not the royal rumble envisaged, more of a pithy parp which hardly measured on the rectal scale. No dice, or even the vaguest whiff of liberty, merely shame as my planned second coming traveled south faster than Sherman Klump’s back fat in a sauna and I was left once again licking my wounds in solitude. You know what they say about misery and company right? Inseparable apparently.


It was meant to be my swan song, not dive. The script had read that I would rise like the proverbial phoenix but instead I flapped about at altitude zero like a chubby ostrich with child-bearing hips and club foot. It was like Jack Torrence hacking away at that bathroom door with his burly axe only to poke through his head and realize he had breached the pantry. It also gave me time to reassess and launch an even more devilish rearguard once I finally make it back to the Grueheads’ barracks, albeit limping slightly from a lack of lubrication and goodwill. “With failure comes new-found wisdom and great opportunity.” Mercifully, Pat Morita was on-hand to offer up this cryptic gem in an attempt at raising my wilted spirits. However, I still have no intention of giving his rickshaw a hot wax. So what if you can snag a fly in chop sticks. Now let’s see you use them to drink your meso soup motherfucker.


What would Dirk Diggler have done should he have suffered a bout of jangling nerves immediately prior to shooting a skin flick? That’s right, he would unravel his carpet snake and allow this fleshy gherkin to swing low as a churlish reminder that he is, indeed, packing one hell of a trumpet. I didn’t have ten pounds of prosthetics to apply to my schlong so instead chose to unleash the Johnson that hangs well within my mind. This essay is the direct result of said action. Genius or the work of a lunatic I hear you ponder. A dash of both hopefully. It matters not whether I stumble as Chest Rockwell has my back covered anyhoots. God help me.

Boogie Nights

I have been deeply encouraged by events playing out within the Rivers of Grue while I’ve been on my extended hiatus. This pleases me to my very pip as it suggests that others are inspired and that is all I could ever ask for. Meanwhile, any vanishing acts I perform are always followed by a puff of smoke and a loudly proclaimed “aha”, as I spring back into action like a freshly released Jack in the box. Think of me as The Great Alfonso; only not that great and admittedly somewhat hopeless at magic tricks. The best I can offer is to guess the card you’re holding and I pledge to do so in potentially less than 52 attempts. While I may not be able to produce a rabbit from my hat, I can tuck my dick round the back and do a pretty mean impression of a Vegas showgirl.


Of course, the first thing a man desires on his return from a lengthy trek in the wilderness is a nice soapy rub down and I’m pleased to report that the water is still tepid and rubber ducky is in high spirits. As I slide off my velveteen gown and wade on in to refill the Crimson Quill, a familiar intoxicant fills both nostrils in unison. Smells alarmingly akin to team spirit, my compadres are riled up for skirmish and crying out “entertain us.” You know me by now; one mention of harmless hijinks and I’ve got my clown shoes on faster than you could say “wrong foot Ronald.” By the way, any bubbles that emerge are nothing to do with me and I blame the mallard. Just don’t go bursting them Grueheads.

Bathtime Blues




This porcelain chariot looks rather quaint
The temperature’s grand you’re one hell of a saint
There is one more thing I desire you to do
Slip off that nightgown as this tub’s built for two


I know it seems cramped and bereft of much space
Perhaps you’d be wiser to sit on my face
I’ll blow a few bubbles relieve all your troubles
should I break out in hives then I’ll just blame your stubble


I’ve every intention of cleaning my whistle
my soldiers are lined up just primed for dismissal
please do help yourself to my skin moisturizer
feel free to recline as my tongue might surprise ya


Don’t fret dear as I’ll have you clean in no time
A few good hard scrubs and we’ll vanquish that grime
I trust you’re refreshed here I’ll help get you dry
I may slip one in though I simply can’t lie



I am at one with mother nature once more, out in the Everglades with only my tattered pelt as company while she works out what to do with me. Going in dry appears to be her chosen action and I’ll continue to take her thorny member for the team. I feel that, in order to scribe honestly and artistically I need to be free of material items, bare ass on the gravel and free range. Nakedness is my chosen tonic to feeling trapped in the confines of mundane everyday life and it’s a particularly freeing endeavor. Sure, my testicles have shrunk to the size of a pair of peanut M&Ms but that’s par for the course when entering into the wild during the bleak midwinter.What’s mother nature going to do about it anyhoots? I see no buck-legged moose asking me politely to move on and it’s not as though I’m making trouble for anyone. Granted, if a senior citizen decides to take a shortcut through the cemetery in which I currently reside, then she’ll likely spit out her dentures in abject horror. I’ll cheer the old dear up by encouraging her to slather those gurning gums across my twig and berries and I’m assured her pacemaker will thank me in the long run. You see, it’s all good in the wood.


So who the hell is this joker? Think of me as that ageing disc jockey at a family wedding although, instead of subjecting you to the usual lame party anthems, I’m breaking out the eighties Electro vinyl and both popping and locking in my mind. Enjoy the festivities and, please, feel free to pour yourself a ladle of my delicious deep red punch. It has a kick you know. Should your seat recline then kick that mutha back and discard those carpet slippers. I’m not going to be offering to soak any bunions; but I will send the dog across to lick your cracked heels for you. My only request is that you allow my prose to wash over you and see where that leads us. Let it into all the nooks, every cranny, bleed me in and sweat me straight back out. A little stubborn weather can’t keep me at bay; The Keeper of the Crimson Quill is back with a grue-laced bullet ladles and germs and it’s just like I was never away. So what does this all have to do with Vive Le Battle Cry I hear you ask? Catchy title though right?


Bullets For My Valentine



For the record I am not condoning violence in any way, shape or form, other than recreational and controlled. I just like me some chicks with guns is all. There are a few things in life which I’ll never tire of: zingy extra matured cheddar from the highlands, geriatrics farting involuntarily as they vacate their armchairs, Pingu (that shit never gets old), Public Enemy’s It Takes A Nation To Hold Us Back LP, angry masturbation, and chicks with guns. It just so happens that the last three go somewhat hand in hand. I’m all for powerful women and, should Boadicea have been around when I was a boy, then I would have gladly taken a seat on her chariot. I would, however, insist that she rode shotgun. I’ve never actually fired an authentic weapon other than a brief stint with Duck Hunt during the eighties. I can’t help it if ladies know how to handle a weapon. What do you want me to do about it? I’ve seen what the suffragettes got up to when provoked and, besides, I loathe the smell of burnt bra straps. It’s a fair cop governor; I promise to cum quietly. Aside from a little labored breathing; you’ll never even know I’m here.


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