Wednesday, 16 October 2013

General Giap

I noticed on the news the other day the passing of General Giap.

He makes a brief appearance in my book "Slaves To The Generals".

There is more about his life in the video below.

Friday, 5 July 2013

My Book Collection

Thought I would put a picture up of some of my own trusty books.

As you can see I have a varied selection.

Monday, 20 May 2013

Hitler And His Curry Rant!

Seeing the old 'Hitler viral video' has done the rounds - I've decided to do my own version, which I created.

It's my take on what Hitler would of thought about the effects of Curry.

Saturday, 18 May 2013

Annoying People

Seeing I had a bit of a run in the other day with a rude, facing-off 'old man Chav'. I'd thought I write a little story - with that theme in mind.

Little Red Riding Hood At The Chav Beach

The warm sun sprayed UV rays onto her freckled face, and the wash of sea-waves touched her toes. ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ danced on the beach, without a care in the world. Insurmountable effort was not needed to take away her concerns. But suddenly, the crunch of pebbles, and the scattering of dog’s feet pulled her attention to a revolting man hastening towards her. He had a snarl on his face, stretched features, which matched his hideous Staffordshire bull terrier’s. Hood glared with disdain; she touched her left arm, it was sore, the sun had dealt out sunburn once again. Next she turned about face, straight into a smell of salt and chips and frazzling burgers. Then a bedazzlement of gulls and sand turned into a whirlpool of illusions. There were gulls everywhere. Waddling along the promenade. Gliding in the sea. Perched on the railings. Dive bombing for fried chips. It was like a scene from ‘Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds’ movie.

Then barks carried in the air like monkeys and Hood began to run. The breeze was behind her, pushing, charging at her like a wild hose. In eye flicks and hazy vision the unkempt amusement arcade approached. A drunken man kicked the rabbit machine outside and a trashy old woman threw up her afternoon’s booze onto the pavement.
   ‘Your disgusting,’ cried Hood. ‘Jus’ PUSHOFF!’ said the old woman. ‘It’s my money. And if I wanna get out of my face, it is no one’s business. Except my own.’
   ‘If I had your face like yours,’ shouted Hood, ‘I’d wanna slap it.’
   ‘WHAT’D YOU SAY!!!’ Hood smiled and beat a hasty retreat into a side street; bypassing the dog’s crap wedged into the pavement like soft cement: Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside.
   Abruptly, Hood, felt light-headed, like she had undertaken ECT, (Electric Shock Therapy). Then a pullback vision spun her around on the spot like a whizzing top, and suddenly, she came face-to-face with the old woman - insulted but a minute earlier. The old woman’s frame seemed different. Unsettling. It began to expand and elongated features had transpired: a metamorphosis, an identity shift had taken place from under the white haired wig. Hood gasped and she tiptoed like a ballerina to get a more precise view.
   ‘My, what a strange nose you have,’ she said.
   ‘All the more to smell you with,’ intimidated the creature. Its heavy breathing and wheezing had disturbed a tomcat nestling on the wall.
   ‘My, what big ears you have,’ inquired Hood.
   ‘All the more to hear your insults.’
   ‘My and…’
   ‘AHHH SHUT UP!’ said the creature. ‘Incidentally. May I present my true identity to you.’ In an instant, trails of rainbow beams and a dispersal of fluffy wool revealed a wolf, an unassuming creature with human traits - and pungent body odour - as potent - as a wretched Chav’s. Hood placed a hand over her mouth and nose. She winced and shook her head:
   ‘OH my God.’ Her heart thumped. Nervous sweat trickled in threads down her forehead. But before she could take her next breath, in an instant, the wolf had vanished, and in its place sat only a wig and a 'can of cheap-brew-cider'. Now, had the wolf been real? And had it really existed in the flesh?

Time shifted, and this reality had but only existed in a small storybook. A mother slowly closed ‘the book’ and kissed her daughter on the forehead, in a bedroom, somewhere in upmarket London.
   ‘That’s enough stories for one night. Go to sleep. Rest. Stories can be whatever you want them to be, honey.’ The daughter smiled, her puffed lips touched her silk pillowcase, accompanied with warm breaths. Next her eyelids closed, leaving only the hair of her lashes to twitch, then to become still as her mother exited the scene.
Text Copyright (c) NT 2013

Sunday, 3 March 2013


Hugely disappointed that my contact with a certain 'publication' came to nothing. I did out of courtesy send them a copy of my book for review - but they seem to have been unmoved in making any noteworthy comment. Nobody even replied to me: oh well that's the way it goes.

On another note, I finished a 'Stage Play' the other week. Was very tiresome and I did struggle as I am ill, but I got through it. Now I know just how hard the craft of acting is. You have to draw from what is inside you - and if there is nothing there and you struggle with fatigue, like I do, you might as well forget it!

Before I go, I wrote a piece of writing for my ongoing University project - it is published underneath.

My Walk of Memories: by Nathan

I opened my front door - I needed fresh air to remove the cobwebs that were sticking to my mind like threads of grimy cotton.
   The descent down the promenade steps to the beach brought feelings. Feelings. Watching me from above in the murky clouds. And then voices. Children's voices carried in the wind like whispers. Then suddenly the wind touched my face, not in a blast - but like thin fingers. But the fingers were not alive. There were dead.
   Their cold touch abruptly tapped into my feelings, which had resided in my subconscious like an embalmed corpse for years.
   My eyes became moist when my memory recalled back to my childhood: early childhood. I was running through that 'Chingford Park', playing with my toys once again.
   I giggled, as I pulled my squeaky pull-along-toy-dog. Next a cooing pigeon uplifted in flight when I tripped over my shoelaces. The result of this misfortune was that my face had been patterned with blades of olive grass. Then kids played on skateboards and dogs chased them, jaws covered in foam. I chuckled and bit on a liquorice stick. Then one of the dogs squatted down - and steaming shit squirted out of its arse.
   Maybe those past childhood memories were echoes of my innocence and gullibility. Because they couldn't have been like' that' - for 'they' were never like that in the first place!
   In an instant of eye flicks and a shift of momentum I was back: back walking in the present. A middle-aged lady smiled as she passed me by while walking her Labrador, and the brush of the waves on the seashore frothed like Vikings' Ale.
But for some reason the scent from the lady's 'perfume' lingered for a moment - and my stomach turned. 'It' reminded me of someone - was she real or a figment of my imagination? To be honest - I could not tell.
   Time had no meaning as I ambled past that vandalised seating shelter: It waited for me like an ugly bully once again. I stopped and drew breaths. Maybe the shelter's shabby appearance reminded me of the decaying present I existed in. I coughed and wiped my moist eyes. My breath chilled my tongue and I hurried towards my home - wanting warmth, rest, and coffee, to stimulate my weary strength and eccentric mind.