Derek And Clive Tackle a Conundrum.

Clive: "From beginning to end, the Soviet product of political correctness sodden left liberalism is one big 'effing suicidal contradiction, Derek. It's such a very old load of unbelievably back-dated bollocks, that most lefties have to take enormous amounts of bleeding drugs to not only understand any of it which can't be done, but to believe and personally act on even a single shred of it. Thus their greatest wish is to convince every dissenter by force and state controlled conformity via intimidation and violence. Such phony baloney and moral vanity driven fraud can only be swallowed whole, if like a drug addicted whore in a toilet, one disguises the true flavor of morally and rationally going down, with ample helpings of cough syrup. This dear Derek, is the true face of left liberal smiley faced fascism".

Derek: "They're all arseholes!"

Clive: "Exactly, Derek".





Derek [on piano]: “Oh, John Pilger came into the lav to film his latest doc. ‘Ee said I need more bleeding funding, so can I suck your cock!”

Clive: “It’s a funny coincidence that you should mention John Pilchard, the avid fan of all things Marxist and nihilist thus deemed er, “progressive” Derek, because I never think of him. A progressive is someone who develops ever more acceptable versions of the exact same thing by simply changing the name.

The non-religion that is trying to kill us all and invariably is offended or threatens violence at any criticism of their murderous antics, is a religion of er, peace. Conversely the Judeo Christian faith that is the basis of our enormous free flow of ideas, choice and innovation, freedom and prosperity of capitalist democracy, free speech and natural rights [and ironically your homosexual right not to be killed by Islam] is called intolerant. 

Thus as they say at the peoples cube, truth telling is now hate speech and hate speech = sensitivity training. Targeting terrorists = indiscriminate murder of civilians, indiscriminate murder of civilians = resistance to imperialism.Destruction of the family = social progress. Clinical paranoia = outstanding film making. Free country = oppressive regime, oppressive regime = workers' paradise. Electoral process = failing democracy, Socialist dictatorship = will of the people. Export of capitalist democracy = imperialist war for oil, export of communist revolution = true democracy.  

Terrorists = freedom fighters, freedom fighters = imperialist occupiers, rapists and murderers. Rambling communist thug = idealistic romantic dreamer, hard-working productive individual = corporate fascist. Lowering standards = raising awareness, degeneracy = striving urban culture, and so on ad nauseum, Derek”.

Derek: “What if I said comfortable, unchallenged, phony, leftist radical arsehole?”

Clive: “Pilchard!”

Derek: “Oh, George Negus came into the bog to interview Hamas, they had a lot of inane laughs and George Needless kissed some arse!”

Clive: “Very good. You’ve finished. Now don’t call us, and we’ll never call you.

Now I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed the latest conundrum regarding the mentality of the average dhimmie leftard arsehole prick vomit bag, when it comes to the utter joy and light of Islamic terror, Derek?

As you know, I would never be so un-pc as to call a thing exactly what it is. No, circular wanking and denial is the way to go. Anyway Derek, have you had any contact with the people of whom I speak?”

Derek: “You mean your bog-standard apologist and Jew-hating mob loons of the left? All the fucking time, mate! They're always in my fucking bog! Always raving about "I need more government funding! More taxpayer gravy! Where are my bulging checks from the Melbourne Age, Green Left Retarded Socialist and the New York Times? And please cut my fucking head off cos’ I love it! They're 'orrible!”

Clive: “Exactly. There’s a curious contradiction that shows that their entire allegedly tolerant position regards Islam is an irresponsible fraud”.

Derek: “They’re all full of shit, mate!”

Clive: “Positively bursting. Well, this it how it works when you are stupidly determined to tolerate the intolerant vis a vis Islam. Anyone who says they are a Muslim is ipso facto a Muslim and their faith, Islam is untouchable by mirth or critique of any kind by us Infidels and filthy Kafirs, except in the er, positive”.

Derek: “I love the light hearted cheer and the good will to all, the most!”

Clive: “Who doesn’t? And the screaming. Then as if by magic, the same people who we must be ever vigilant never to offend, can be deemed as “not real Muslims” by the same Left pricks who say they will then arrest you for saying something they don't like or on behalf of Muslims everywhere, for something they don’t like, from only a moment before. This is the pure joy of left liberal fascism today, Derek”.

Derek: “Bloody ‘ell! It’s all a little fucking neurotic and complicated innit? What kind of things offend many Muslims around the world then, Clive?”

Clive: “The things that offend many Muslims around the world today Derek, can be narrowed down to everything and nothing”.

Derek: “Lovely. Er, how can a Muslim go instantly from being a Muslim, to not being a "real" Muslim, Clive?”

Clive: “It’s surprisingly easy and there in lies the conundrum of the politically correct loser, as it were. A Muslim just has to act appallingly or kill someone and they are no longer a Muslim. At least until they stop killing and start complaining about people screaming as they're beheaded. And oddly, neither terrifying behavior nor murder is always seen as bad, per se. There are many er, "conditions" that can apply at any time to the religion of peace or else, but not really for anyone else. And they can change back again without any notice whatsoever too. Thus, it is technically impossible for a Muslim to ever set off a bomb, behead or murder someone, because..."

Derek: "They're naturally not real Muslims!"

Clive: " Exactly, Derek. So even if you don't know you're offending Islam by your mere Infidel or Jewish existence, you probably are.

Thus what happens is, that even though someone has been a Muslim all their life, and their entire family is Muslim going back generation after generation, and they go to the Mosque, they live in a Muslim community or state, they read the Koran, they dress and look like Muslims, they speak and eat like a Muslim and they say they are Muslims and may want to spread Islam globally by any means, exactly as Mohammad and the Koran clearly proscribes, no, no. The moment one cuts off a head and sets off a bomb, hey presto! The Western media, academia, governments, church leaders, celebrities and pop stars all decree as one “...but they are not real Muslims!” Amazingly, these people are yet to say this on a street corner in say Tehran, Riyadh or Cairo”.

Derek: “Why not, Clive?”

Clive: “Because many of the local Muslims would be real Muslims only up to a certain point. And I believe that exact point would be where they become not real Muslims as if by magic, and cut the real Infidels heads off”.

Derek: “That's a real puzzler, Clive! So, I guess Taoists, Hindu’s and Christians are not real whenever they do anything naughty then, too?”

Clive: “Oddly no. Taoists, Hindu’s and your cargo cultists, don’t really fit into the current lefts paradigm, so are largely invisible, though Christians do fit nicely. Just remember, when a Christian does something bad, they are always a real Christian, unless they do something good. Then they don’t exist. Yes, it’s a real conundrum, as you say”.

Derek: “Unless the conundrum cuts the heads off Christian school girls in Thailand because they're Christians and not Muslims, Clive?”

Clive: “Nope, such an orgy or relentless violence can be and is simply ignored. Remember they’re not real Muslims who have murdered over 150,000 people in Northern no-go zones of Thailand over the last twenty years”.

Derek: “Who did it then?”

Clive: “Oh, random and anonymous people who shall remain nameless, even though they look, sound, act, walk, talk and appear exactly like Muslims. It could have been Hawaiian Anglicans or animists from Toronto. Nobody knows, Derek, nobody knows. Even though not real Muslim jihadist groups have repeatedly declared it was them and they want to kill all non-believers. This is a mere incredible coincidence spread over decades. According to our elitist betters, its hate speech churned up by Asian journalists reporting the empirical facts. Facts are no excuse for speaking the truth, Derek. So remember, there are 1.2 billion Muslims in the world, but none of them are doing any of the mountains of atrocity you can see everyday”.

Derek: “Who is?”

Clive: “Someone else, Derek, it’s always someone else. And it pays to remember that. Or else”.

Derek [on piano]: “Oh, Steve Bracks came into my room and sat upon me bed. He said I’ve passed a fucking anti-free speech law and now you’ll end up dead, oy!”

Clive: “Bravo! All together now! The natural totalitarian fascism of the left and Islam is always all for our own good! Now once more without the music and lyrics!”




[Here's over 350 five star reviews for Mark Steyn's great empirical paperback opus, America Alone: the end of the world as we know it. A returning best-seller for two years running! I should be so lucky.]

Night Swallows West.

"As Peeps vehicle climbed onto the elevated roadway, the sun reflected in shooting flashes off the lines of the skyscrapers on either side. On nights that had no moonlight, even these cold, great and empty forms disappeared into the vast ink".



Dear sports, this is my feeble and rather amateur attempt at the first part of a short story that I'll er, publish entirely online. You know where to send the briefcase of cash! I first posted this on Sunday 23 September 2007. I really liked Richard Matheson's freaky and eerie classic, I Am Legend. Though I thought the vampire angle was a bit naff, while disturbing and beautifully well done. I just can't believe in 'em at all.

In fact, I often find horror fantasy neither scary nor fantastic. More a neat allegory, or a preposterous and poor second to the harsh and disturbing facts of er, our current reality. No, really. And I found the I Am Legend film a disappointing, utterly unconvincing and shallow CGI mistaken bore. But what do I know?

Now I thought that the idea of being the poor last bastard on earth and why, would be frightening enough and without the vamps. But what do I know? I hope you get a laugh out of it.





Chapter 1. A Figure On The Landscape.

A light breeze snaked past the open doors of a balcony and through the space between two heavy curtains, pushing them slightly inwards. There was almost no sound from outside and nothing passed within as the cool air drifted softly over the body of Sam Peeps who lay asleep in the half-light of the room. Suddenly the sound of his own voice brought him to a kind of semi-consciousness with the partially shouted words unfolding rapidly in the shadows. He sat up with a wired jolt and his arms pushed out straight from his sides pressing hard into the bed.

"There is no such thing as the Devil", he said.

"Hey, day or night?" he wondered vaguely for a moment before falling back into torpor. Several phrases fell from his half opened mouth as a catechism. "All failure is a lack of concentration. God never interferes in our lives. Energy can only go in one direction at a time" he said in a continuous mumble.

"They're not listening. I tried to.." he growled to no one. "It's all a little late, sport. Yes endurance".

Flattening out on the damp sheets with a deep exhale, Peeps knew these words to be so and that they were a test and difficult to apply. He recalled offering long ago in explanation to someone he could not remember, that in understanding the true meaning of the first, you achieve the simplicity of the second and reveal the clarity of the third. The fourth provides the strength and flexibility to continue. Now as he tried to concentrate he knew that he was alone.

Slipping deeper into exhaustion, Sam Peeps tried to gauge if he was awake, asleep or somewhere in between. At these moments, it seemed that Peeps could think clearly and that there was time in which to do so. In the last of his wakefulness, he saw that they were only sensations, the idea of thought much as vanishing pools of light.

Like his memories, they appeared in a fractional split within a second or were spread over hours in broken pieces. It was sometimes as if nothing had ever really existed, and there was now only Samuel Peeps alone on a silently turning earth.

With an odd and slight smile, another peculiar statement came to him as they often did. "In the sharp sun of midday and the deep drop of night, fallen angels, a false prophet and the Son of God".

Between the long days and a murky sleep that felt like being pulled down into an enveloping and sucking fold, recurring thoughts like troubling and formless insects continued to move and float through Peeps mind. A persistent theme that would rise up in this half-state, was of how Indian people of the Americas once believed that a human being could only truly exist and be complete when they had found their own place within their own part of the world.

If this was never found or was lost, a soul could drift and slowly disappear to the living like a fading echo or as a vapour fades in the sun. Like a figure on the landscape. And then he was gone.


Under the early morning sun against a sky of intense blue, a single vehicle drove towards the crest of a great and ruined bridge that was sprung between the docklands and downtown of a quiet city. High above, thin distant clouds drifted over an almost silent world and the lack of any wind or background noise allowed the slow sound of waves from the beachfront to be heard in the distance.

With an easy curving two mile run up from each end, the massive multi-lane gate led out to the west and beyond. The decaying arc of concrete, steel and tar that formed the bridge crossed a river that flowed through town to the sea. From its mid point, two enormous pylons stood high above the road surface.

The grime covered shafts more than doubled the height of the bridge, each one supporting two giant blistered cables that sweated and dripped a brown rusting drool. The heavily scarred cords followed the line of the structure and draped down to the spine of the arch, from where could be seen the whole of the city, which was almost a kilometer away. The sweeping bay was less than half that distance. Across the river, the adjoining freeway cut through the stillness of corroding industrial areas and dead suburbs. Further into the clear distance were the mountains.

On many occasions he had thought about them and how to the eye they did not seem to change, appearing so separate from the uncontrollable slipping away of things. There was the impossible thought that if he focused intensely enough on their perfect and remote forms, everything would stop, remaining as it was. The distant peaks were so unlike the metropolis, left to its relentless breakdown and decay.

Seeing how rapidly almost everything altered and yet nothing happened, gave the feeling of being in a vortex, where everything is breaking up and swallowed down. It seemed clear that whatever he did and however he held to anything, everything would still collapse and drain away, forcing him off-balance and dragging him into the void.

Walking across the full width of the roadway, Peeps gaze was drawn down to the movement of the water below as the twisting filth formed bent circles of grey. Light on his feet and of medium build, Peeps movements gave a startling sense of alertness and energy against a land that was almost a still-life. Though he appeared at times curiously at ease in the emptiness, Sam Peeps was possessed of a deep and swirling energy. And when in repose, he could seem so oddly at peace that he almost disappeared into the surrounding stillness.

In recurring dreams, Peeps saw himself as a single spinning top on a vast, cold and infinitely flat plain, and as he turned, it was as if he was being overwhelmed, then slowly crushed by a great weight. Those he had known pushed through a broken sleep in noiseless columns as he lay immobilized for hours that could turn into days. When he arose, he remembered them reflected in all that he could see and taste in the cool air.

Standing upon the giant span, the river pushing out beneath him, he felt his legs becoming lighter as his weight seemed to shift to his upper body. For several seconds he thought he would fall, turning over and down into the muddy rush. Jerking back from the railing with a snap, he returned to the vehicle where he sat on the hood with his back against the windscreen, his lone figure stretched out while absently fondling an automatic pistol.

Sliding the gun smoothly into a shoulder holster, he found its form comforting as it embraced his torso with an almost liquid, leather affection. From a pocket, he took out a worn black leather wallet and opened it, the sun glinting off the chrome of a small shield, bringing into sharp relief the digits of a serial number embossed on its metal face. His eyes came to the number ten and his thoughts fell to how it had been that many years since the beginning, as the light bent across the words Detective Samuel Peeps.

With a rip of thin metal, he opened a container of bitter drink, a small breath hissing from the can, and he smiled his strange smile as he considered the possibilities of the day. At a distance, the shimmering urban expanse seemed almost alive. He lifted a pair of high-powered binoculars to his eyes.

"Ok", he said. "I can't save anybody". As he spoke his arm knocked an unopened can that rolled off the vehicle and dropped down onto to the asphalt. The cylinder punctured, began spraying liquid and as it gained momentum, cracked against the concrete gutter and bounced onto the gantry running alongside the bridge rising into the day.

Standing up, he pushed his open palms down hard and said "You can't control your environment, kid. You..." For a moment, he swayed a little, with his head held forward, twisted his shoulders from side to side, and breathed deeply. "Right. Wait".

Sliding into the open vehicle, Peeps turned the key and the engine growled as he closed the door with a soft upholstered thud. Moving smoothly into gear, he accelerated rapidly, making a whirling dust devil. The momentum and flow cleared the mind a little and he considered the ordinary in his extraordinary circumstance and the incredible in the commonplace. As the movement of cold air fell across his hot brow, he repeated a drum upon the steering wheel. Save the world. Save the world.

"Ah, the world. I couldn't.." he said as he looked at a photograph on the rear vision mirror.

Roaring down onto the freeway straight, the drag of the vehicle violently stirred up the endless waste that was scattered over the bitumen and collected in thousands of melted drifts. Paper, dust, mud, flood waters and trillions of insect bodies, formed a putrid blackening goo in anything that acted as a catchment.

As Peeps vehicle climbed onto the elevated roadway, the sun reflected in shooting flashes off the lines of the skyscrapers on either side. On nights that had no moonlight, even these cold, great and empty forms disappeared into the vast ink.

Night Swallows West.

Dear sports, this is my feeble and amateur attempt at the first part of a short story. I really liked Richard Matheson's freaky and eerie classic, I Am Legend. Though I thought the vampire angle was a bit naff, while disturbing and beautifully well done. I just can't believe in 'em at all.

In fact, I often find horror fantasy neither scarey nor fantastic. More a neat allegory, or a preposterous and poor second to the harsh and disturbing facts of er, current reality. No, really. And I found the I Am Legend film a disappointing, utterly unconvincing and shallow CGI mistaken bore. But what do I know?

Now I thought that the idea of being the poor last bastard on earth and why, would be frightening enough and without the vamps. But what do I know? I hope you get a laugh out of it.





Chapter 1. A Figure On The Landscape.

A light breeze snaked past the open doors of a balcony and through the space between two heavy curtains, pushing them slightly inwards. There was almost no sound from outside and nothing passed within as the cool air drifted softly over the body of Sam Peeps, as he lay asleep in the half-light of the room. The sound of his own voice brought him to a kind of semi-consciousness, the partially shouted words unfolding rapidly in the shadows. With a wired shot, he sat up as his arms pushed out straight from his sides and pressed hard into the bed.

"There is no such thing as the Devil!", he said.

"Oh Christ. Day or night?" he wondered vaguely for a moment before falling back into torpor. Several phrases fell from his half opened mouth like a kind of catechism. "All failure is a lack of concentration. God never interferes in our lives. Energy can only go in one direction at a time", he said in a continuous mumble.

"You're not listening, are you?! Never did. I tried to...save you", he growled to no one. "It's all a little hey, hey...late, sport. Yes, endurance".

Flattening out on the damp sheets with a deep exhalation, Peeps knew these words to be so and that they were a test though difficult to apply. He recalled offering long ago in explanation to someone he could not remember, in understanding the true meaning of the first, you achieve the simplicity of the second and reveal the clarity of the third. The fourth provides the strength and flexibility to continue. Now as he tried to concentrate, he knew that he was alone.

Slipping ever deeper into exhaustion, Sam Peeps tried to gauge if he was awake, asleep or somewhere in between. At these moments, it seemed that Peeps could think clearly and that there was time in which to do so. In the last of his wakefulness, he saw that they were only sensations, the idea of thought much as vanishing pools of light.

Like his memories, they appeared in a fractional split within a second or were spread over hours in broken pieces. It was sometimes as if nothing had ever really existed. And now there was only him and him alone on a silently turning earth.

With a slight odd smile another peculiar statement came to him, as they often did. "In the sharp sun of midday and the deep drop of night, fallen angels, a false prophet and the Son of God".

Between the long days and a murky sleep that seemed to pull him down into an enveloping and sucking fold, recurring thoughts like troubling and formless insects continued to move and float through Peeps mind. A persistent theme that would rise up in this half-state, was of how Indian people of the Americas once believed that a human being could only truly exist when they found a place within their own society and thus the world.

If this was never found or was lost, one's soul would be forever adrift and slowly dissapear to the living like an echoes fading return or as a mere vapour fades in the sun. You would not even be a figure on the landscape. And then he was gone.


Under the early morning sun, against a sky of intense blue, a single vehicle drove towards the crest of a great and ruined bridge that was sprung between the docklands and downtown of a once rising city. High above, thin distant clouds drifted over an almost silent world. The lack of any wind or background noise allowed the slow sound of waves from the beachfront to be heard in the distance.

With a slow curving two mile run up from each end, the massive multi-lane gate led out to the west and beyond. The decaying arc of concrete, steel and tar that formed the bridge crossed a river that flowed through town to the sea. From its mid point, two enormous pylons stood high above the road surface.

The grime covered shafts more than doubled the height of the bridge, each one supporting two giant blistered cables that sweated and dripped a brown rusting drool. The heavily scarred cords followed the line of the structure and draped down to the spine of the arch, from where could be seen the whole of the city, which was almost a kilometer away. The sweeping bay was less than half that distance.

Across the river, the adjoining freeway cut through the stillness of corroding industrial areas and dead suburbs. Further into the clear distance were the mountains.

On many occasions he had thought about them and how to the eye they did not seem to change, appearing so separate from the uncontrollable slipping away of things. There was the impossible thought that if he focused intensely enough on their perfect and remote forms, everything would stop, remaining as it was. The distant peaks were unlike the metropolis, left to its relentless breakdown and decay.

Seeing how rapidly almost everything altered and yet nothing happened, gave the feeling of being in a vortex, where everything is breaking up and swallowed down. It seemed clear that whatever he did and however he held to anything, everything would still collapse and drain away, forcing him off-balance and dragged into the void.

Walking across the full width of the roadway, his gaze was drawn down to the movement of the water below as the twisting filth formed bent circles of grey. Light on his feet and of medium build, Peeps movements gave a startling sense of alertness and energy, though he appeared at times, curiously at ease in the emptiness. Sam Peeps was often a man in perpetual motion. Though when reposed, Peeps could seem so oddly at peace, that he virtually disappeared into the stillness around him.


In recurring dreams, Peeps saw himself as a single spinning top on a vast, cold and infinitely flat plain, and as he turned, it was as if he was being overwhelmed, then slowly crushed by a great weight. Those he had known pushed through a broken sleep in noiseless columns as he lay immobilized for hours that could turn into days. When he arose, he remembered them reflected in all that he could see and taste in the cool air.

Standing upon the giant span, the river pushing out beneath him, he felt his legs becoming lighter as his weight seemed to shift to his upper body. For several seconds he thought he would fall, turning over and down into the muddy rush. Jerking back from the railing with a snap, he returned to the vehicle where he sat on the hood with his back against the windscreen, his lone figure stretched out while absently fondling an automatic pistol.

Sliding the gun smoothly into a shoulder holster, he found its form comforting as it embraced his torso with an almost liquid, leather affection. From a pocket, he took out a worn black leather wallet and opened it, the sun glinting off the chrome of a small shield, bringing into sharp relief the digits of a serial number embossed on its metal face. His eye came to the number ten and his thoughts to how it had been that many years since the beginning of his solitude, as the light bent across the name Samuel Peeps.

With a rip of thin metal, he opened a container of bitter drink, a small breath hissing from the can, and he smiled his strange smile as he considered the possibilities of the day. At a distance, the shimmering urban expanse seemed almost alive. He lifted a pair of high-powered binoculars to his eyes.

"Ok", he said and as he blurted out "I can't save anybody!" and his arm knocked an unopened can that rolled off the vehicle and then dropped down onto to the asphalt. The cylinder punctured and began spraying liquid as it gained momentum, cracked against the concrete gutter and bounced onto the gantry running alongside the bridge, rising in the daylight.

Standing up, he pushed his open palms down hard and said sharply, "You can't control your environment, kid. You..." For a moment, he swayed a little, with his head held forward, twisted his shoulders from side to side, and breathed deeply. "Right. Wait".

Sliding into the open vehicle, Peeps turned the key and the engine growled as he closed the door with a soft upholstered thud. Moving smoothly into gear, he accelerated rapidly, making a whirling dust devil. The momentum and flow cleared the mind a little and he considered the ordinary in his extraordinary circumstance and the incredible in the commonplace. As the movement of cold air fell across his hot brow, he repeated a drum upon the steering wheel. Save the world. Save the world.

"The world? I couldn't save you", he said.

Roaring down onto the freeway straight, the drag of the vehicle violently stirred up the endless waste that was scattered over the bitumen and collected in thousands of melted drifts. Paper, dust, mud, flood waters and trillions of insect bodies, formed a putrid blackening goo in anything that acted as a catchment.

As Peeps vehicle climbed onto the elevated roadway, the sun reflected in shooting flashes off the lines of the skyscrapers on either side. On the nights that had no moonlight, even these great cold and empty forms disappeared into the vast ink.