oli_j_ba

    It was, in his mind, a rather delightful morning. Blue skies, cloudless in their simplicity, with the sun merrily continuing its position of supplying light, warmth and life to us all.
    As it was, as it is, and as it shall be, he thought.
    As he pulled off the side road and into the school entrance, he took in it’s rather humble look. Plain concrete walls housing several interconnected single tiered buildings. Simple, effective, basic. Not looking a bit out of place in the quietness of the countryside around it.
    Bursledon Primary School was a small school based in a small village. It happily sat in between fields filled with vaguely trimmed long grass which was occasionally flanked by the odd berry or nettle bush. The way the foliage swayed very much fit the theme of the place: quiet and innocuous. The perfect place for a local learning establishment.
    As he slowly coasted the car to a suitable place, he looked the school over. It housed no more than maybe a hundred children, maybe less, aged 7 to 12. Little scamps making their first steps into learning before being thrust into the main academia of the big secondary outside the village in the more bustling surrounding towns. In an oasis of country, the school was a safe place for the children to ease into the real world.
    As he stepped out, he thought of the possibility of their being a child who was not just taking a step, but the beginnings of a jog.
    He looked professional, which was the intention. Someone of his position had to, especially when dealing with young children. It wouldn’t do to just merely step forward casually and do what he was doing. No, suit and tie was the order of the day, as well as the large satchel he carried.
    Stepping through to the reception, he was greeted by the amiable beam of the receptionist, a lady of an advanced age who was most likely in the position for the joy of being surrounded by young’uns.
    “Hello, can I help?” She asked in twee fashion. Another expectation confirmed.
    “Indeed you can, I have an appointment with Mrs Hardy.”
    “Ok sir,” the receptionist said, carefully skimming the book in front of her, “and the name is…”
    He just smiled.
    She just maintained her expectant look, fading slightly as the pause went from temporary to uncomfortable.
    “I’m here on behalf of the PTB.”
    “Erm, yes I see,” she said, consulting the book again, “but your name…”
    “Ah Mr…” a more professional voice said. He looked up and greeted the woman’s gaze.
    “Mrs Hardy I believe.”
    Mrs Hardy was your typical Primary School headmistress. Not yet old enough to tackle the higher levels but with a few years experience to climb the ladder. Her hair was greying at the prospect, and there was more than a hint of lining to her features.
    He put down the satchel, and offered his hand. Hardy took it, sternly and professionally shaking.
    “I believe you know why I’m here?”
    “Yes, someone called to say you were here on official business?”
    “Indeed I am, for the PTB.”
    Another pause. Both the receptionist and now Mrs Hardy were both staring at him waiting for some answers.
    “If there is a problem I can…”
    “No, no.” Hardy replied, almost apologetically. “Your colleague explained… most things.”
    There was trepidation in her voice. He’d have to speak to his… colleague about this.
    “Then shall we?”
    “Erm, yes of course. The classroom is this way.”
    Hardy led him down a corridor, leaving the receptionist to shake her head and mutter to herself.
    “What a strange man…”    The classroom was small, but perfectly in order. Sitting at small desks were 20 children, all aged 8 years old, as requested. Most looked confused, while others had that mischievous look in their eye that said they were glad to get out of class. Some fidgeted, while others looked nervously ahead, rigid in their seat. As he stood at the foot of the class, he studied their reactions and tried to evaluate which ones, if any, may be what he was looking for. Meanwhile, Mrs Hardy held court.
    “Ok children this is Mr…” She paused to look back at him, but he remained searching the children with his eyes. “Smith. And would like to speak with you today.”
    He smiled and took position at the head of the class, depositing the satchel on the table behind him.
    “Good Morning children.”
    “Good Morning Mr Smith.” They all said in unison.
    He paused to take that in, then continued.
    “I have a little test for you today,” he said, turning to swiftly unzip the satchel and produce a Rubiks Cube.
    “This, is a cube. And as you can see it has 9 tiny squares on each side with a different colour on it.”
    The children looked in awe at the Cube, as well as Mrs Hardy who’s interest was now piqued.
    “What I would like you to do is… fix, the cube. To make sure each side is the same colour.”
    He nodded in command to Mrs Hardy and they began depositing the Cube’s around the desks. One for each student. After they were all given out, he stood at the front again.
    “You all have 5 minutes, and then me and Mrs Hardy will be back. You may begin.”
    Before leaving, he had one last scout of the classroom as the children either stared at the Cube, or picked it up and studied it. Nothing could be made out yet.
    He shut the door and stood outside the classroom with Mrs Hardy, her face now one of belligerent confusion.
    “You expect a child to do a Rubik’s Cube in 5 minutes?”
    “Possibly.” He said, staring ahead at the children’s art work pinned to the wall.
    “Are you mad Mr…?”
    He smiled. “Let’s stick with Smith.”
    The pictures were scribbling mostly. Pre-pubescent etchings with no real style to them.
    “What’s this supposed to achieve?”
    “We’re studying cognitive ability at a young age.”
    “Who’s we?”
    “The PTB.”
    One picture caught his eye though.
    “And who are the PTB?” She asked in a more than condescending tone.
    “The people interested in the cognitive ability of these children.”
    She huffed at the response. “And are you part of this PTB?”
    He stifled a laugh. “No Mrs Hardy, I’m just a conduit.”
    “A what?”
    The picture stood out from the rest. It seemed more… formed. More structured.
    “A conduit.”
    “Which means?”
    “I find and arrange things, situations and people for the PTB.”
    It was a drawing of a house, but more… straight than the rest. Still simple, but more… right.
    “Listen I don’t know what…”
    “I’m sure you have lots of questions Mrs Hardy,” he interrupted, her tone beginning to grate. “But at this stage I would ask you to keep them to yourself or please leave me to my work.”
    “I’m not leaving you with those children, they’re my responsibility and…”
    “Then you are left with no choice than to respect my presence and the work of the PTB. After all, should the results be favourable you will find a suitable fiscal reward for your participation.”
    And that was the hook. Recently Bursledon Primary had found itself the victim of some shady financial dealing, and the school was on the list for closure because of this. However the PTB had offered a tidy sum to perform this test and would provide a tidier one if successful. Something his… colleague had evidently forgot to inform. A very major oversight on his part.
    Mrs Hardy stood there for a moment, crimson faced and ready to confront the calm man staring at the pictures across the hall, but thought better of it. This was her school after all, and the mistakes had been hers. But the deals had seemed so safe, so valid…
    “What say we wait the time, and then see what happens.” He smiled, continuing to study the very well put together house drawing.
    After a moment he suddenly turned around and entered the classroom. Mrs Hardy was surprised but consulted her watch, it had been exactly 5 minutes.
    The children all jumped, some dropping the Cube as they watched him walk to the front of the class.
    “All done? Good, well done children.”
    He smiled reassuringly, but was careful to study their results.
    As expected, some had simply looked at the Cube and not bothered, leaving it sat on the desk. Others had distorted it into jagged shapes while others had simply tried, but failed.
    All, but one.
    He focused on the desk, third row, second to the left, and made his way over. The child was sat there, nervous and watching as he made his way over. Other children watched a muttered to themselves as he knelt down and looked over the Cube on the child’s desk.
    From the front of the class, Hardy’s jaw hung slack to accompany her wide eyes.
    He picked up the Cube, looked over all six sides, and put it down again. He smiled at the child, stood up.
    “What’s your name little man?”
    The child stared at him for a second. He was gaunt, but not starving, with a mop of light brown hair and brown eyes.
    “Don’t be shy.”
    “J… James.” The boy answered.
    “Pleasure to meet you James. You did very well. How did you do it?”
    James blinked nervously a couple of times before answering. “I… I just fixed it.”
    He smiled, a little too widely for Mrs Hardy’s liking.
    “Course you did little man, course you did. Mrs Hardy?”
    Hardy jumped to attention. “Yes?”
    “The PTB will be in touch.” He said, switching his gaze from James to the perfectly solved Rubiks Cube sitting on the desk.

I'm kinda moving... kinda...

I have a Filmic Type Blog over at http://olijfilmictypeblog.blogspot.com to promote my skits, bits and general film-making!

I'll still pop around here from time to time when I want a rant, so don't worry... I'll still be here.

In the meantime remember to go to my website, http://olijfilmictypeplace.weebly.com. You'll love it.

PLDM

 Facebook. What happened to you?

You used to be cool, be semi-sophisticated, be a home for meeting old friends and catching on people's lives and generally re-connecting. You put the social in social network. It was like BT of old. It worked and it was wonderful.

Then came the apps. Now at first, yes, they were good little tools that added a personal touch to your profile. Put Last FM on there to show your music tastes. Post your videos, as well as photos, or even a doodle wall so friends can leave pictures as well as words. The interaction was added to, and hey, at first everyone was very happy.

Then came the games. Small at first, and dare I say it enjoyable. Scrabble, Chess, The Dot Game, all nice time wasters that were good old fashioned fun. But, with the dawn of Mafia Wars, a new type of game arrived. Here you had Farmville, Vampire Wars, My City Life... all of which very spammy but hey, they were still fun for those that played it I suppose... even if they did litter their pages (and your feed) with gauch graphics and annoying updates.

But then came the quizzes. The "Which Pokemon are you?", "What's you Sexual Position?", "What type of bread are you?". Why these exist? Time wasters, but utterly, utterly pointless... and liable to fill your page, and my feed, and my wall when you put MY name down to invite. Facebook... it began to get annoying.

But then, you invented fan pages, and a new dimension of pain was invented. At first it was actually quite cool! Become a fan of your favourite bands, actors, films and such. Get updates from them and learn new stuff. It was interaction on a new level, and it was quite lovely.

Then came the stupid ones. The fucking, inane, dumb ones. Become a fan of Punching Yourself in the Face, This Lemon is more popular than Edward Cullen, I like the cold side of the pillow, this is what mr bean looks like in avatar, STOP!

Jesus please stop...

How did it come to this? How did it descend into complete stupidity? How? Well it's obvious. This is the internet. The hub of stupidity. Home of the gormless, the easily pleased, the mentally desolate. And it has infected Facebook now with this pointless, silly and generally dumb groups, fan pages and apps that people join for a laugh and then never look at again. But they're there, in your feed, annoying you for all Facebook eternity.

I will admit, there are two reasons this aggravates me so. One is because I promote my film work on Facebook with my fan page and seeing fan pages like Walking around the house in your underwear having more fans is quite frankly, depressing. I work hard to make and promote my work but if I knew all I needed to do was make a fan page called The Shit on My Shoe can get more Fans than Jordan to get maximum publicity... Jesus...

Second thing was seeing a friend join something known as The Facebook Trolling Game. A game which involves joining a group, doing everything you can to offend the people and seeing how long it takes before you get thrown out. It's otherwise known as the Lets be a Complete Mongoloid Twat Game, and I think everyone who plays it is a winner! But seriously, you get your kicks from insulting people just for the sake of a game? This is your life? This is what you do for enjoyment? Have you forgotten the simple pleasures like the creative arts, watching a film or, you know, going out and socializing? You'd rather join a Facebook group and go "hahaha you're all gay, fuck your mothers! gay gay gay!"?

Times like these I wonder if it's all worth it, because if this is the over-riding majority, we're fucked.

There's a Facebook Fan Page for you: We're all Fucked Because of People Who Join Facebook Fan Pages.

Ahh the Freedom of Speech arguement. A tool used by the vitriolic and bigoted and mindless fools who feel they can parade it around without fear of consequence because it is their "God given right" to say what they want, whenever they want to, because they have "freedom of speech". What ignorant, stupid fools they are.

And I'm about to join them. Apologies about that.

The problem I have... is that I am not a fan of self-censorship. I don't like not saying something because it makes me feel reigned in and almost caged. Whether it is opinion or a flippant comment, if I find myself being retrained either by myself or another person, then I feel quite repressed, and even depressed (rhyming feelings mofo...)

Reason I blog about this is because today I have found myself having to stop myself either typing or saying something because I am concerned about the consequences. Now, in some cases this doesn't matter, in others it is quite important. Let me be the first to say that, yes, in some cases it is true you should think about what you say lest you upset someone, but what if your intention aren't bad? What if what you want to say is harmless? Well, maybe because what isn't harmless to you is very harmful to someone else.

You see this is what I'm learning, that other people may not find "funny" or "charming" about flippant comments or opinion. Understandable, but what about the flip side to that? What if the person in question is free about their thoughts, opinions and jokes? Then surely that would fall under hypocrisy? On the other hand, what if you, indeed, were the sort of person to be all fire and brimstone and deaf to the thoughts and feelings to others? Surely then you would be the hypocrite?

There is no easy answer, and in truth no solution, but the idea of having the consider everything I say is a hard one. It is part of my personality to come up with quick quips that generate a laugh either out of amusement or discomfort (either way, they laugh). Now true, "Being Me" is an easy excuse that sits side-by-side with the aforementioned statement of "freedom of speech". It's a fallback that allows you to get away with anything on the grounds of "hey, what did you expect?" Thus muddying the waters somewhat.

In all honesty, stepping back and looking from an outside view, censorship is probably a good thing on the grounds that if everyone did have the freedom to say what they want, then it'd be a minefield of bigotry and negativity. They say if you've got nothing good to say don't say anything at all, and in my opinion I'd like to take that a step further and say that in our current society people tend to NOT want to say good things and almost take pleasure in saying bad. The amount of times I've complimented someone or said something nice, it usually surprises the person and/or causes them to be paranoid and unravel the whole statement till it loses all meaning. I know this from personal experience, as a few times a quip has been made to my expense and I have got down about it. But in retrospect why is that? After all they are just words in the end, they don't mean anything. So I am learning (not yet learnt though) to let it slide off my back. Otherwise it would kill me. I know that sounds hypocritical but hey...

In a sense, it's why I stopped doing my rants. When what was intended as comedy got taken WAY too seriously, then the fun was taken away. I think what bothers me about my own self-censoring is that usually the quips I give are not intended to be malicious and spiteful, but fun and flippant. But when people take them as harsh digs or nasty comments, then what can you say except to be emasculated and just stand there, nodding your head?

I don't know about you, but if I ever became the submissive, head-nodding, pussywhipped silent individual, feel free to slap me stab me shoot me and hang me by my neck till I choke to death. Because God knows I'd rather be dead than be that.

But of course... that would be what I would say if I wasn't careful about what I said. So instead (and more maturely) I shall say: Sometimes a quip is just a quip, but if it hurts that much, see what that says about you more than the person.

You have to admit, that was one Hell of a performance...

Yes the time came, happened, and went as Tony Blair went up against John Chilcot in a battle over the Iraq War. Was it legal? Were there secret meetings with Bush? Were the military prepared? Where were those WMDs?

Well guess what? Blair went up and pretty much got through clean. When asked about the legalities, he passed the buck to the Attorney General Lord Goldsmith, saying if there was indeed anything illegal about the Iraq War Goldsmith would have told him. “Not me guv, ol' Petey should've said something!”

What about the miltary? Were they prepared? Again, Blair turned around and said the military leaders hadn't informed him of any equipment shortages. “If they'd have told me guv, I'd 'ave given them the guns! How was I supposed to know?”

In fact the quote that came out from the 5-6 hour inquiry? Defiant as ever: “I'd do it again.”

Course he would, and if there was anyone out there who thought he'd crumble, thought he'd break down in front of the families who lost their children in the War and pray forgiveness were unfortunately naïve. Blair is, and always has been, a great orator. He is the epitomy of the modern politician: Machiavellian, a master of spin and always looker at the ends justifying the means. So what if there were sacrifices? In the end, Saddam Hussain was toppled. You wanted WMDs? Who cares? We got rid of a tyrant!

Let me just state now before this blog starts to sound incendiary that I do not support the Iraq War. Once again for those at the back I DO NOT SUPPORT THE IRAQ WAR! It was a pointless conflict much like those in history: Falklands, Vietnam, et al. Yes a wanted dictator was captured, put to trial and eventually punished for his many crimes but at the cost of a country that has now descended into chaos. Blair himself even admitted that there was “an assumption” that Iraq would form a civil government after Saddams removal. Guess that assumption came without the thought of all the dissidents and general bad eggs surrounding the state.

Blair was much like Bush in the Americanised way of politics. Push towards an end goal by any means necessary. When people ask? Simply give them a story about the evils of the area, about how you did everything in your power to bring peace to the Middle East. It wasn't your fault that it all went to Hell after all!

In the end, The Chilcot panel put Blair on the BBQ for roasting and he simply produced a bottle of sun screen and his big bright smile. He was never going to be held accountable, because for every play the inquiry threw he had an ace up his sleeve. Want an example of how good Blair was/is at playing the system? Look at his last act of parliament before quitting as Prime Minister: announcing the withdrawal of troops from Iraq. A good looking move.

Talking about that, who's looking forward to Gordon Brown? I have to say I am getting a Nixon vibe from this. While Blair is an exceptional public speaker, Brown is not. The man is a money man (ironic given he was leader during the recession). He's facts, figures, not answers and spin.

Want a show? Watch the inquiry next month and watch Brown sweat, literally.

PLDM

God my arms hurt.

As is the tradition with New Years and such, I made a resolution. I resolved, high and mightily, to lose weight. To lose the podge. To maybe build some muscle and look totally buff for mah lady type. Therefore, I told myself, I would use the rowing machine that had laid so deftly on my floor, acting like a makeshift clothes-horse. Yes sir, I would plough my way through.

So far, so good. Missed about a 5 days worth of exercise, otherwise, once a day, without fail.

And it hurts. God it hurts.

Admittedly, a rowing machine (as is exercise in general) is quite intensive. But nice, because it allows you to multi task and watch some telly, listen to some tunes and generally forget you're exercising. Lovely stuff.

But when your thighs, and knees start burning away, and your shoulders start screaming in your ears (being in close proximity as well, that's painful), you tend to focus on how long you have left before you can crash on the bed and have a sandwich. But you cannot have that sandwich, because that would require getting up and making said sarnie, and your body has died a slow death at the hands of fitness.

But I continue. I carry on even though my mind cries inside. Why? Because I am showing benefits... kinda. My gut is being sucked in a little bit more these days and my arms are growing in size. I still have the podge but dammit, I am beginning to look at least halfway sexy. But then I do have a goattee, and women love facial hair. Beards are cool, beards are manly.

PLDM

 This is an open letter to Facebook, the Godless Sodomites.

Dear Facebook, how are you? Well I hope? Well I know you're not, because every FUCKING time I try to comment on a status, link, photo or otherwise, you tell me "something went wrong". Oh dear I thought the first time, maybe they're having troubles. Then of course it happened again. And again. And again. In fact, it's been happening every FUCKING time for the last week or so. Possibly month.

Now, I understand you're under a terrible strain, all that web type stuff, but if you could sort out a little problem such as this in a timely fashion I am sure we would all be happy. I mean I understand your servers are under a lot of pressure, mostly from the weight of all that money you have, but this is website 101. You have a problem that prevents your users using your product, you fix it.

In addition, in my attempts to be witty, I tried posting this easily in a status update, to be sure to earn the amusement and possible adulation of my peers. However your cruel fist of irony popped up, as I was told "something went wrong".

Now, it says you are fixing it as soon as you can. As far as I'm aware you're not operating on Plutonian time so please do your job and fix it.

Shits.

Yours,

Oli Jacobs, BA

 Twitter eh? Load of old bollocks...

I'm actually on Twitter (cheap plug: http://www.twitter.com/olijba) but that doesn't mean I enjoy it. Most times I go on there and am greeted by a page of Kevin Smith talking about his anal pleasures with his wife, or terribly political stuff from Graham Linehan. There is the odd glimpse of loveliness from some folk, but mostly it is turgid stuff.

So why do I keep using it? Saying the same turgid stuff I bemoan? Because like Faceparty (remember that?), Bebo, Myspace and Facebook before it... I am addicted.

I'm addicted to making the odd witticism, or telling the world (who probably consist of barely 1 person... who cares as less about me as I do them) what I'm having for dinner. I can't help myself, it's a crux I have to lean on in the pits of boredom. Instead of writing streams of material and blogging and editing instead I tweet about writing and blogging and film making... and never do it!

Then there is the Tweetpics. The fascinating insight into peoples lives. Suddenly I not only hear what they do but I can see it! Celebrities of course are the main people to follow on Twitter, as well as the people you know. There is some form of delightful voyeurism into seeing into their life. Hearing they have the same monotonous boredom as us, the same daily strife of what pants to put on in the morning...

But in the end, what Twitter is is exactly what I've hinted towards: A waste of time. There is no reason to keep "mini-blogging" on there when you could always text a friend and go for a pint and tell them about your pants debacle. To which they'll probably mock you and leave.

Maybe that's the appeal. The internet won't mock you for your boring life.

Wait...

PLDM

Hello and welcome to what is probably reboot number 463billion of this 'ere blog.

Which is ironic seeing as in person I usually have far too much to say than what people want to listen to.

Anyhoo...

I noticed that the For Dummies book people have launched one with a mobile phone. Not for a brand of mobile phone though, actually with one inside. Called the World Phone, which I can only assume means you can use it all around the world, it looks like a cheap Nokia. Seeing as you're buying it with a book telling you how to use it, I presume it works as well as, as well.

Hmm... too many "as"'s in that last sentence.

I find these For Dummies books great though. Never used one myself but the range of subjects are outstanding. Here is a selection for your pleasure:

Sex for Dummies (http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sex-Dummies-Dr-Ruth-Westheimer/dp/047004523X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1263835272&sr=8-1) - Which, to be honest, if you need to read a Dummies book on how to have sex, you've already got problems. Looking down at a naked woman going "what the Hell do I do now?!?!" isn't bound to be a regular problem. I'm sure it comes with an Ikea style guide: Insert Part A into Part B, thrust, repeat.

Hacking for Dummies (http://www.amazon.co.uk/Hacking-Dummies-Kevin-Beaver/dp/0470550937/ref=sr_1_52?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1263836111&sr=1-52) - Which surely has to dumbfound the government. "How on Earth did they hack our missile defences?" "well sir, they had... a book." "Son of a..." BOOM!

Happiness for Dummies (http://www.amazon.co.uk/Happiness-Dummies-Doyle-Gentry-PhD/dp/0470281715/ref=sr_1_10?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1263836297&sr=1-10) - Page 1, lesson 1: Smile.


In other news, I am writing for another website than this. I know, I'm cheating. Despicable. However this will still be home to my usual ragamuffin rants and such.

The other website I am at now is http://www.islamixonline.com, a terribly lovely project that aims to bring understanding and togetherness and all round thumbs up positivity to Islam and other such faiths. Now I know what you're thinking... I'm now Mohammed Oli.

To assure you, I am still my usual, unaffiliated, possibly Atheist, Oli. I have a beard not to show my devotion to Allah, but because they're cool and manly. I don't wear a turban, attend mosque and have no inclination to strap some bombs to myself and take a flight to New York.

Why is it mostly planes as well? Why not do a Speed 2 and bomb a cruise ship?

Anyway, yes... I decided to do a blog for this website because while I am anti-religious, I am not anti-faith. Hell, you can believe what you want, how you want and whenever you want in my eyes, as long as you're not preachy with it. I hate religion because of the judgemental ideology of "bringing people in" to what you believe. Faith, in my eyes, should be a natural thing, not something you are forced to believe in through pressure and guilt-tripping.

Besides, all the same old song and dance anyway.

Assassins Creed II is my game of the moment, being all kinds of awesome as you go around climbing buildings and stabbing people in the face. It's also, despite the hilarious cut scenes, a beautiful looking game. With my change-over from Wii to 360 I have noticed the graphical joy in higher spec consoles, as well as the focus on more "serious" gaming.

However, with the terrifying PROJECT NATAL coming along, I am worried Xbox may start leaning toward the casual market, thus allowing the dreaded Monolith PS£ getting a foothold.

Either way, I am enjoying the free-running assassination joys of Renaissance Italy. Even if Danny Wallace distracts me at every turn...


Twitter. Still pointless, yet still somehow addictive. Every little detail I feel inclined to pop down in 140 characters or less. It's Hell, but a fun kind?

Think that's all i have for now. Watch this space.

PLJC

(NB: I'm gonna start posting some of my writing here on my blog for you, the dear reader, to have a look at and tell me what you think. I'm starting with the first chapter of one of my books. To get me started. I hope you enjoy.)

Hope & Prey

Chapter 1

When you're a journalist, you pay your dues. That's what they tell you.
Every dog show, village bonanza, feel-good story and heartwarming yarn. The bullshit stuff that people often flit through to get to the juicy stuff. The gossip. The gore and grotesque. Everyone of those small time twee tales are your dues.
It's not really frustrating, more boring. Same old shit, different day. You write about how it was “a wonderful event” and grab a few quotes affirming the fact. Soundbites from little old ladies and excitable losers who have nothing else better to do with their lives. I swear, I look at some of these wide rimmed glasses-wearing tossers and think about someday down the line, some lucky journo is gonna be getting the story about how he butt-fucked some poor toddler because his dear sweet mother, the one who is all sunshine and lollipops, wanted a girl and so dressed him accordingly.
Bastard.
No, the meat is saved for the predators, the hungry. Those who grab at where the prey lurk. They wait around, looking for their chance. Their chance to swipe and claim and tear strips of flesh and howl at the moon teeth bloody will the spoils of their victory.
I'll admit it's a crap analogy, but you get the drift.
I mean look at it this way. Your average Joe hates Journo's. Hates the papps. Hates them with a passion and yet can't live without them. We supply you with your daily bread. Your sex scandals. Your celebrity gossip. Your perversions and politics. Who doing who, or what, or when and how.
Yes you hate us, but you need us. That's why we have to be vicious. Have to be hungry. To satisfy you and your thirst for the macabre.
It's human instict, that people hate other people. We're jealous, we're angry and so when we see others fall it gives us a sense of well being. It's why the look on Roger Crane's face when the editor gave me the story was priceless. If I could, I would have saved it, framed it and stuck it on my wall. For all to see. The moment when the young buck stole the spoils from the old lion.
I was hungry, and made sure I was ready for when the opportunity came. Reams of newspapers, magazines, shock articles and historical pieces. All done in the time when it was fresh, raw, ready to digest.
The Church of Faith Beyond Massacre.
Those first five words mean nothing now, but at the time they were a prime topic amongst the mags. Everyone from the tabloids to the dirt sheets were talking about them. Was Britney a member? Where they a cult? Who are the victims, the members or those who left?
They were fucking crazy man, a hot conversational piece guaranteed to light a fire under someone. The stories written sold like gold. Made front news. Or, at least, a Hell of an article in the supplements. Like Jonestown and the Branch Davidians before them, everyone wanted to know about these crazy bastards.
Of course all it took was one day, one man, to change the game.
And that man was who I read up on at the local library for a week.
Graham “Grey” Richards.
I sold my knowledge to the editor in a private meeting. Listed everything about him, from date of birth to shoe size to sexual history. I had scoured the country looking for people who knew him, liked him, loved him and fucked him.
Of course, for some this was old ground, Ed was sure to point out to me. It had been covered at the time, we knew everything there was to know.
But he knew, as I did, that we knew shit. The old lion was playing with this upstart. Teasing him. Provoking him into a reaction.
He got one.
I explained, quite passionately, that nobody knew shit. That Richards had explained nothing to no-one about anything. Everything was speculation. Tattle. Gossip to satisfy the baying hordes who wanted words, facts, stories about the Massacre. They wanted blood and guts and everything that came with it.
Richards gave them shit.
But that was 10 years ago, I explained. Next week is the anniversary, if you could call it that, of the Massacre. Of the day that the Church of Faith Beyond fell. What perfect time to pull the corpse out of the ground and shake it around a bit more.
The more I spoke, the more Ed's eyes lit up. The fire inside me was burning through the room and infecting him too. I listed figures, dates, names and places of everything to do with anything to do with Richards, The Church, The Massacre and, especially, DI Howard.
The last good man.
In that meeting, Ed looked at me. I looked at him. The air was cold but the atmosphere was boiling.
He told me I had it.
And then, in front of the whole office and Roger Crane, he told everyone else.
From dog shows to the biggest mass killer of our time. Yes sir, I had seen my prey and ripped it apart. Now it was time to take on the biggest prize of all.
I was off to see Richards.