The Story of the Lobster and the Crab

Nothing much happening in the world of smut-comedy writing today, so I’m going to pass on this cautionary tale, as told to me by a wise man.

The Story of the Lobster and the Crab

The red lobster stood beside a large, algae covered rock, enjoying the feel of a warm current swooshing up the back of its shell. Beside it, the crab scuttled side to side, noisily tip-tapping its claws against the gravel bed.

“Will you chill the fuck out?” the lobster snapped, tired of the crab’s incessant pacing.

“I’m bored,” the crab replied. “Why don’t we go and do something fun?”

“Look, it’s my day off and I’m taking it easy,” the lobster chided. “Sometimes it’s okay to just put your feet up and do nothing.”

“You’re a boring old fart, you know that?” The crab clicked its pincers and ran around the lobster in a circle.

“So go find something to do. It’s not my job to entertain you.” The lobster rolled its eyes and turned its back on the crab.

“Fine.” The crab ducked behind the rock and fetched out the toy remote controlled car it got for its birthday.

“Oh, come on. Not that fucking thing again.” The lobster despaired as the tiny, red car raced around between its legs.

“You told me to entertain myself,” the crab pouted.

“Right. That’s it.” The lobster snatched the remote control out of the crab’s pincer and threw it against the rock.

“You son of a bitch,” the crab screamed.

“Next time it’ll be your fucking legs I break.” The lobster waved its mighty claw in the crab’s face. The crab ran away and sulked, while the lobster went back to enjoying its peace and quiet.

Before long, the crab grew bored again, and it picked up the remote control to see if it still worked. Unfortunately, the red car lay lifeless, its tiny wheels refusing to turn. Heartbroken, the crab took the back off the device and fiddled with the wires to see if it could be fixed. It put everything back together and switched it on. Heart pounding, it pushed the lever to make the car go. The car refused to move, but strangely, the lobster jolted forward six inches.

“What the fuck?” the lobster yelled.

The crab grinned as it realised that somehow the remote’s radio wavelengths were being picked up by the lobster’s deedlybompers. “Check this shit out,” it cried as it made the lobster do doughnuts and a funky breakdance.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” the lobster screamed.

Just at that moment, a fat, high-flying, New York banker stuck his pudgy face up against the glass. “I want that one,” he exclaimed, pointing at the animated, dancing lobster.

“Very good, sir.” The stuffy maître d took the lobster from the tank and tossed it in a pot of boiling water. The crab – who never had any fucking business being in a lobster tank in the first place – wound up getting slung out the window and eaten by seagulls.

The End

There. I think we can all learn something from that.

My Ill-fated TV Appearance

About a fortnight back I got a call from a production company; they wanted a prominent author to guest on their cookery show to provide a little high-brow culture. Unfortunately, no one was available, so they had to settle for me.

It’s a risk to go out in public while the monkey mafia are combing the streets, intent on ramming a bunch of bananas up my ass, but I can’t let this opportunity pass me by. The TV show is essentially a free advertising slot, a chance to drum up some interest in my worst-selling novel The House of Fox. My publisher has let it be known that if I don’t shift some books soon it won’t just be the monkeys out for my blood. So shortly before seven o’clock I tuck my wheelchair under one arm and my friend Billy under the other, and embark for Scousetown.

Billy’s really piling on the pounds. He’s been the guinea pig for my practice cookery runs, while I’ve been honing my risotto recipe. My risotto now kicks butt, but Billy’s developed a double chin. The fat fuck can go on a diet once this adventure is over.

Scousetown is a four-hour journey by bus, but if, like me, you have the power of flight, you can be there in seconds by taking a short cut straight over the Irish Sea. Now, I’d like to describe the ocean below as azure blue and crystal clear, but in this little corner of the world the brine is nine parts sewage and one part plutonium. It’s cold and grey, smells of dead fish, and is prone to violent mood swings, a little like my first wife. Billy squirms and complains as for the umpteenth time I almost drop him straight into the waves. It’s his own fault; carrying the porkie bastard is almost ripping my arm out of its socket.

We make it safely, touching down in Scousetown with minutes to spare. I unfold the wheelchair and climb aboard, and Billy pushes me up the street to the studio. “Keep your eyes open, Billy,” I warn him. “These Scousers cannot be trusted. They’ll steal anything that isn’t nailed down.”

“My Nan is a Scouser,” he moans.

“That explains a lot,” I reply.

Once at the studio we’re shown to the set, a fake restaurant full of fake diners. The format of the show is simple; two competitors, one cooks the starter, one cooks the main, then they take a vote and whoever made the tastiest meal gets to do the pudding and grab extra airtime to plug their latest product.

My kick-ass risotto will be the main course. The starter will be provided by my opponent. He is none other than Barry Twatt, a hometown hero, ex-professional footballer who captained Scousetown United back in the seventies when they swept all of Europe aside. He still has his trademark perm and moustache, and still malignantly stares with that untrustworthy squint. I’m shown to my table, and await the first course, and only now do I get any inkling that Twatt has come with a gameplan.

“That isn’t a starter,” I yell, spreading my arms in protest as Twatt shovels two huge baked potatoes onto my plate. “A starter is supposed to be a light dish, designed to excite the taste buds.”

“Shut up and get your spuds down you.” He winks as he piles on coleslaw, beans and grated cheese. I’m sat behind a mountain of food taller than my head, and I’ve only got until the next ad break to eat it. This is an outrage. I look around at the other diners, hoping to garner support, but they’re all busily tucking into their baked potatoes and ignore me completely.

I’ve been had. Tricked by a devious Scouser. As the minutes tick by, it becomes only too obvious there’ll be no time left for my risotto, and even if there were, everyone will be too full to eat it. People are sitting back in their chairs, breathing heavily and undoing the top buttons of their trousers as they battle their way through the vast heaps of food. Twatt is over in the corner with the show’s host, regaling her with anecdotes about the theme pub he runs. I’ve still got one and a half spuds to eat, and the camera hasn’t been on me once.

Eventually, the producer apologises and tells me my risotto won’t be needed. Fuck this for a game of soldiers. I go for an angry piss, intent on storming out, but when I come out the cubicle I find my wheelchair up on bricks, all four wheels stolen.

Damn these treacherous Scousers.

Monkey Business

I finally found out who Desmond Morris is, and frankly I wish I never even heard of him. Turns out he’s head of the monkey mafia. Type his name into the internet and you’ll find a bunch of pictures of him surrounded by his monkey foot soldiers. Those bastards are vicious; one word from old Des and they’ll tear your face clean off.

Word on the street insists Des ain’t too happy about me splashing his name around, and he’s on his way north to teach me a lesson. I’m terrified, and I don’t mind admitting it. I spent the whole of yesterday morning stuffing bananas into every nook and cranny of my house, hoping the smell would distract those monkey motherfuckers long enough for me to high tail it out the toilet window.

In the afternoon I had another go at making laser beams come out my eyes. Did I mention I have superpowers? I bought a job lot off eBay a couple of months back. I can fly, move shit around without touching it and supposedly do the lasers out the eyes thing, although I haven’t been able to make that happen so far. I would ask for a refund, but then that would mean sending back the whole package, which I don’t want to do. That’s how these damned vendors get you, isn’t it? The flying aspect works great; once I get the hang of it I’ll save a fortune on bus fares. Only problem is I’m scared of heights, and whenever I go more than ten feet up I get all nauseous.

But – and I want to make this clear from the outset – the fact I have superpowers does not mean I have any ambition to be a superhero. No way am I going to go around in a latex jumpsuit with my underpants outside my trousers. I’m an ordinary bloke; my underpants have frayed elastic and holes in the gusset; no way am I putting them on display to the general public.

Superpowers can only take you so far, especially when the monkey mafia is after you. As I type these words I’m living in fear, peeping around the side of the curtains every five minutes, terrified I’m going to see Desmond Morris and his troupe of psychos storming up the drive. I’m supposed to be making an appearance on TV tonight; I’m not sure I even dare step foot outside the front door.

Who the Hell is Desmond Morris?

For the record, I have no idea who Desmond Morris is. I’ve heard of Bill Morris, the union guy, and Desmond Dekker, who I believe sang that song about his ears being alight, but Desmond Morris is a new one on me. I did try to Google the name, but these big, fat banana fingers of mine are way too clumsy to work this damned smart phone, and so I remain in the dark.

The reason I mention the fellow is because his name came up during a conversation with my contact. “We want Desmond Morris,” he was saying. “We’re going to dog him.”

Never one to let the opportunity for a crude joke pass me by, I immediately leapt at the chance to throw in a dogging reference, but no one laughed. My contact, a serious and occasionally intimidating fellow with a luminous green Mohican, went on to explain that in his particular vernacular, the phrase ‘dog’ means to train someone to obey your every command, to break them of their own will and install total obedience.

And once this Desmond Morris chap has been successfully dogged, my contact intends to make him head of his South American operation. He’s going to send him down there to sort out those Goddamn Beaners.

I was somewhat surprised to hear this. My contact is known for selling illicit contraband around the Bay, but he never struck me as someone who might have an ‘operation’ in South America. In all honesty, I never even suspected he could identify South America on a map. I began to wonder if he hadn’t been watching a little too much Breaking Bad. But when he pulled out a hunting knife and slammed its razor tip into the table top, I was more than willing to listen to whatever he had to say.

“You’re going to find Desmond Morris,” he snarled, pointing a crooked finger at my throat.

“Me?” I exclaimed. “I don’t even know who Desmond Morris is. How the hell am I going to find him?”

“You’re the writer. Start writing.” He slung a laptop at me. “Get on the internet. Find Desmond Morris. If he ain’t right here in this room by nine o’clock on Friday, you and me are going to have ourselves a problem.”

So there you have it. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate, I’m now tasked with the job of tracking down this Desmond Morris fellow, whoever he may be. Huh. Who’d be a writer, eh?

August Update

I spent much of the month of July attempting to drink myself into comfortable oblivion in a bid to escape reality, which has why there have not been any blog updates of late. My life, which never seems to run in a straight line for long, has recently been violently twisting and turning at a rate that has left me feeling seasick. My concentration span is down to less than five seconds, and I’m finding it damned hard to commit words to paper.

Still, here goes with the latest installment of this, the pretentious and largely unread thoughts of a worst selling novelist.

Early reviews for my latest book, The House of Fox, were not just bad - they were borderline vitriolic. I got the impression folk didn’t want to critique my work, so much as form a pitchfork wielding mob and turn up outside my home, demanding I be burnt at the stake for having the audacity to write such a piece of bullshit. ‘Puerile’ was the word thrown up the most often. My argument would be that of course it’s puerile; I wrote the fucking thing. It was never going to be anything but puerile.

One guy said he found House of Fox really boring, because he’d personally participated in all the lurid acts described in the book and there was nothing in there to excite his imagination. I can only say I take my hat off to the man, although I’m still not entirely sure as to whether he was reviewing the novel or boasting about his own sexual prowess.

One or two more positive opinions are slowly starting to drift in, but it’s safe to say House of Fox will remain firmly in the love it or hate it camp, with the vast majority of readers falling into the latter category.

In other news, the two ladies who have moved into my house have turned out not to be the rutting nymphomaniacs I’d hoped for, but rather a couple of fundamentalist Christians, who eat, sleep and drink Jesus. They never swear, watch only Christian movies, listen only to Christian music and pray before they do virtually anything. On laundry days the washing line is crammed with neat rows of eminently sensible underwear.

Many years ago I learned never to argue with religious types, as it’s such an utter waste of energy. Faith will trump logic, evidence, common sense and reality every time. I’m not the sort of fellow who likes to cram his opinion down other people’s throats – live and let live has always been my motto – but last night I got the feeling they were making a first attempt at trying to convert me, and if this scurrilous behaviour persists I will have no option but to return the favour and drag them down into my own, personal darkness.

So God, if you’re listening, I respectfully ask you to encourage your servants to keep their mitts off me, or I will introduce them to jazz, vodka and butt plugs. 

Welcome to the House of Fox

“They’ve got thrills and they’ve got shocks,

Juicy pussies, monster cocks,

Everything to tick your box,

Down in the House of Fox.”

 That’s right, the House of Fox – possibly the only erotic novel of the year to have its own theme song – is now available to buy.

As the country disintegrates and the establishment chase their own tails, why not take a break from the chaos and treat yourself to a trip to the ultimate hedonistic retreat? The House of Fox offers everything you ever desired, as well as things you never even knew you lusted after. It will bring out your inner devil, seduce you into forgetting your fears and abandoning your morals and lead you very much into temptation.

To purchase a copy - available in paperback or for eReader - choose from the following links

Amazon UK

Amazon US

Kobo

Apple

Nook

And be warned; if I don't sell enough copies of this book to finance my early retirement, I fully intend to inflict the sequel on the world. 

Take a Peep at Peeper for Free

In the build up to the release of my third novel The House of Fox, Sinful Press are giving away free E copies of Peeper on Amazon.

Peeper is the story of a struggling private detective who stumbles into a case that is far bigger than anything he has ever dealt with before. Dragged further and further out of his depth, he becomes entangled in the world of a beautiful but manipulative exhibitionist. At the same time, his home life is being turned upside down as his bi-curious wife decides she wishes to explore her sexuality with another woman.


To claim your free, no strings attached copy of Peeper, click on the links below.

Amazon UK

Amazon US