Sledgehammer Subtlety

Sledgehammer subtlety a luxury to wish for as the metaphorical slam job condemns with the physical force of a runaway freight train; it’s been that kind of a week!

Holding hellion tight every lucidly horrendous tendril of my nervous state with but a jaded (to put to shame any depressive arsehole) sense of positivity, waving so carelessly into the face of the coming storm front akin to the scaled destruction to any heavy metal festival on acid.

That is the dose of prickly punctuating due I hath earned through the mortally damning sin of hard work, the thing so demanded but rarely rewarded in glittering ribbons and wrapped with human warmth for the lonely single man. All endured so I may wastefully pay the price in illness through the hallowed free time so given the name of ‘Weekend’, which even then I work!

And so where does the condemned turn; The arms of a good woman? The merrily greeting arms of friends? The warming hues of a functional family?.. NO

I see only a bar so hauntingly inhabited by the corrupting patrons of a demonic curse, as so prescribed in mournful jest by the unholy trilogy, a place so praised in everlasting screaming that beckons forth in attempts of resistance these three horsemen; Anxiety, Depression and Stress

The demons do drown a bottle or two as my glass overflows with outpourings of acidic hate towards those red horned bar stewards providing the drinks, alas the unforgiving state a man may find his fractured self drowning in when those demons are all which keep the fires burning at night. Even less forgiving the disdainfully tormenting embers of that fire; the result of purest rage rampantly consuming with reddened flames, each licking of these so elatedly heated daggers no longer drawing a scream of pain but in loud acclaim a royally coated ‘Fuck you’ in full literary regalia.

And surely all this should be so painlessly remunerated but by the hallowed knowledge that all this I will endure again such redemption murkily sinks to where despair reeks a fouler sense of ill intent, even less gratifying is the fact that should I turn to a razor that others will suffer, so in that self accusing knowledge I must live on.

I would consider myself rich in good values but each cursed tome of morality seems only a weight to drag me down to deepened levels of honest intentioned hell.

“If pain is a reminder that we are alive to live in elated merriness

So I should be dead by the overdosing of joy

Or in lack of feeling know that elated merriness is dead

And no longer a taunt in every suffering second of life I must remain”




So the stale conversation and repeating words that hold little interest to your mortally morale lacking brain drivel on… a few feted tears over wine dribble miserably into existence as diner beckons. It’s horrifically public and dining out has as ever never dragged so much but at least something is happening… someone is having an emotional breakdown at your table and you don’t even consider it an event of note!

Shock plastered as a cream pie from a clowns hand decorates everyone’s faces as words are shared to placate the grieving party, diner is damn tasty and you wish not to waste money by leaving any of it, an emotionally broken and fragility ridden form fractures as it leaves the scene. Everyone else seems to shade themselves a new colour of scandalous shock, words of all flavours both criticise and acknowledge the simmering pain that hath bubbled over and spoiled the whole tasty affair of eating.

And you don’t care!

When untainted eyes hath blinkered sight into turmoil soaked reality any spike in emotionally straining events causes a stir, ranges of vision so narrow to ever expanding waves of sorrow find shock in such meaningless displays of painfully distain causing exhibitions of human weakness. Those tainted by the brutal ripping of such blessings as blinkers away from sight now corroded into darkest depths, each fatal downward step into that everlasting pit burning away another level of reactive shock others expect.


So use to things such as kitchen knives on flesh, catastrophic crumbling into distress otherwise feebly called breakdowns, violent outbursts of the moment and aftershocks of that wretched point of time, and having to eat in one room as things slamming rock bottom occur in where you wish you could watch TV… MEANS NOTHING

And the only thing casually uttered to those undeserving of/protected from the secret tortures unwontedly witnessed by your coldly glazed eyes, so severely severing of common realities, are the serenely spoken phase “Seen worse”.

Otherwise known as ‘How fucked up can you get’!

Otherwise known as ‘Immune’

The Anti-Social Expert’s guide to Communication and Social Interaction



So; you enter the room and everyone’s temperature dips several degrees below that of the discarded frozen item in the staff fridge, even the Ice Queen Boss making ice cubes out of her assistant’s tears has adjusted the heating dial to a severely notable degree. The way you say hello just sent the poor soul you were harmlessly addressing into various athletic fits of epileptic fear, so extreme the devil is offering rates if you would work as a consultant.


Having explained to the poor soul’s next of kin you were only saying ‘hello’ and that the fear induced paralysis is only temporary, it mentally occurs that maybe you need to improve your communication skills. The hushed gathering of slack jawed, idiotic, barely half capable and non-relevant persons (thinking in these terms may be a hint of more severe anti-social issues!) gives you the perfect opportunity to announce this.

Using the words “Don’t worry cretins, I’ll attempt not to overload your puny brains by appearing less intelligent and improving my social skills” will counter any potential good that this announcement could potentially achieve.

1: Sense of Humour

Susan from accounting has had a bad day; “Don’t worry, you can use the gun after me, just wipe the brain matter off first in case it stains your top” with a smile on your face… And for some reason she isn’t laughing. Those not afflicted by the distinctly bleak dark humour your anti-social sub-routines operate on may be offended, insulted, shocked, blindly scream in a high pitched fashion or plain old stare in confusion as bluntly as a tech specialist at a dating event.

Try using sickeningly merry terms like “…..” (I would fill in that blank but that might induce uncontrollable vomiting and nausea) or merely smile brightly, preferable without the manic style serial killer effect or vampiric teeth. Following this advise and providing the socially reassuring rot most people consider conversation will avoid the paralytic shock reactions, saying horrifically common and optimistic phrases should further the suicidal need to cleanse your brain with a… I mean; should improve the quality of interaction you have with the cretins… I mean; with other people.

Use of a bucket or hollow receptacle after spouting such cringe worthy repellent phrases and positive terminology is expected so be prepared!

2: Body Language, behaviours and assorted accessories

Resting a pair of scissors on that thinly protective veil of flesh called a wrist will in other anti-social types rather benignly muster a “too messy, and not in the workplace” with a casually blank glance at the pair of scissors taping against their own wrist”. The two days unshaven look is to any fellow non-human not of obvious concern, along with the coldly dead stare and eerily blunt as a brick to a sponge cake delivery style of “I’m fine”.

But to those unnecessarily emotionally sensitive saps who are not yet internally deadened; these signs will engender the need to mindlessly probe and question your mood till the stapler in your hand is playing their head like a drum.

Appearing, dare I utter the insulting word, ‘human’ will reinforce the falsely projecting ideal that when partnered with a freshly smart attire that you are not some sub-human creature, as whom ever has the misfortune of knowing the real you will in fact know is a bare faced screaming lie. Adding a smile, an emoji and some merry happy wordidge will effect successful blending in with the nauseatingly communal mass.

Note: Therapists are fine with you confessing the want to permanently silence annoying co-workers, but blood stains and holding a bloodied stapler will lead to panic from even the most hardened head doctors!

3: Acknowledging other people’s lives/Mindless drivel known as small talk

The literary exploratory of the various realms of hell are acutely accurate to the personal pits of suffering that you feel when engaging in small talk and uttering “I had a mini breakdown, failed to be social and ended up dabbling in self-harm” when asked how your weekend went will clash with the normalised response of “(Whatever happy/mindless shit the merry flock get up to)”. The mandatory trip to the company therapist is a nice half hour away from the desk however!

The ‘Married with kids’ and ‘In happy relationship’ crowd will have many new and verbally colourful explanations of all the stuff that drives deeper the embedded natural hatred of everything you lack, thus the momentous urge to vocally silence their tedious conversational offerings will be naturally present. Resist this urge and outwardly show a version of yourself who sprouts genuine sounding vague and cheery responses, which matches the clean shaven and smartly presented human from my previous advisory; therefore preventing the mandatory ten yard distance that anyone with a notion of happiness regularly maintains.

Unless you really are so filled with hatred/annoyance/stress that the very ground your hoofs make contact with melts with the acid dripping off your tongue, in which case call in sick to avoid having to replace the stapler… again!


We are not people; we are what we are and each to their own, or in my case a sub-human creature

People are ‘social’ and they ‘smile’ as well as acting ‘human’, it’s not that anti-social types can’t do any of those things but merely that it’s not how ‘people’ do it. So be positive and sound like the herd that follow the numbingly head bashing normalised standards of conformity, and if all else fails you can always find a nice cliff and take diving lessons (See the first point for why not to say that in public!).

Within the huddled and joyfully depressive crowds of sub-human creatures we feel at home within all manners of dark humour to a point of being sectioned, conversational cliff dives about the nature of all that drives the daggers into your back and alcoholism inducing topics we love to exchange words about are all fine to share. Society on the normalised level however is complicit with happy happy shiny folk that secretly we wish to feel more like, even if that idea makes us wretch!

So in all the perfectly conjured solutions I have offered here today take solace in lying, through your teeth, bare faced and so blindingly glaring that the happy happy shiny folk can feel good about themselves. Not the way the self-help books would word it but at the core, the truth!

As long as you have someone in your life with which to freely dive the horrid depths of all misery, bluntness and sheer lack of even a microscopic hint of social graces you will be as ok as possible; for with those equally blessed/damned souls you can be yourself, which as ever is where happiness resides.

Volcanoes; Games and fun filled eruptive glory!

Day1: I’m fine

Day2: No problems

Day3: Still ok

Day4-9: Getting by


Day50.5: You look a bit shell-shocked, are you ok… I’m fine

Day51: Doing ok

Day52: I’m fine

The ability to seamlessly without any air of an issue transition from our finely answering fellow of mellow tone, to the raging creature from depths that once held the devil to rights in every fiery loaded second of captivity is a symptom of repression. One word to strike deeply a fearful blow to anyone of easily offended temperament (poor souls who have never lived with me!) as without slightest provocation will rupture the very air with an acidic malaise of words to melt stone.

How to tell if someone is repressed

Are they British? Given that I’m British, do you need anymore proof of the reliability of that symptom!

Have you ever heard a bad word eek out of the coolly smiling slab of stone you call a co-worker, friend or if you’re really crazy; husband or wife

Has all calamity of chaos embodied in the very act of god that hath cast ruin to the day/week/month even roused a minute reactionary note above ‘Oh Darn’

I can tell you now, when they break it will be fun to watch!

Unless unlike me you are not of the sub-species of humans that hugs his depression warmly and sits down to tea with his demons for sake of not caring they have been trying to kill him for years, in which case maybe a slightly opposed reaction to the eventful ‘cracking’ I have referenced will unfold.

How to deal with it

  • Have you ever tried to stop an act of nature?
  • Have you managed to change the very fabric of the universe?
  • Have you ever successfully altered human nature?

If the response given to these merely small acts of godly aptitude lack any resounding positive reaction I recommend you get a pair of earphones, a safe room and above all a sense of repression yourself, there by not adding to the eruptive volatility of the already expressive human in the room showering curses on whatever minor event has proven a suitable trigger.

And look at the fluffily dancing elves riding bunnies and corralling bad dreams, so they can cheer them up… I would continue trying to add a positive twist on this but I just filled a bucket, twice.

Living with it

Most of the time normalised folk with no such experience of what I have only lightly traversed so far will hear and have to deal with amateur rage, pithy little outbursts of shrivelling anger to bounce off your hardened defences with such ineptitude as a foam sword against an armoured truck (or a husbands attempts to lie convincingly to his wife, whilst presenting flowers!).

You on the other hand get the prime rib of intense ruptures in the very material of what shockingly defines the bitter explosive nature of anger itself, a show akin to the creation of stars in an expanse of superb colours blooming in every shade within red, before the lava free vessel returns to safely understating levels of unfeeling reactions.

And when all is done, like the passing storm, calm returns for an age of prosperous sanctuary with the added bonus that if you so wish to follow suit in full eruptive glory, that person has no right to complain!

Remember folks; Mental health is fun, you just have to be screwed up to get the joke!


Things to say and not to say to a Manic Depressive: Posted Nov 2014, Reposted April 2015


First off I have to say “wow, I’m writing a foreword”, secondly I have to say that this is the third time I’ve posted it, so either I’m really lazy or really love it… you decide

Lastly; it’s midnight, I’m tired, I’m ill and need to work in the morning so you’ll excuse me my self indulgence

Enjoy or not and goodnight all, I’m going to let my body die so tomorrow I can answer with ‘I’m fine’ and fool the masses again, who won’t have read this else they wouldn’t have asked “Are you ok?” in the first place!

For starters I am aware that in this modern age of fluffy names and cute medical words to soften the blow to fragile egos the condition is called Bi-Polar, back in the day when it had its rightful name they were at least blunt about it! And ask anyone who has been on the receiving end of Bi-Polar, first or third hand experience and see which name they think better fits the ‘condition’ as it’s called.

I like to think of it as a ‘Personality Glitch’ along with OCD, anxiety, paranoia, anti-social tendencies and my favourite of these glitches, plain old bat shit crazy. I can see it in your faces… that look… How can he belittle such heavy mental health issues? Did he just use the words Bat Shit Crazy? Why am I still reading this?!

To the first two questions my answer is simple; I live/have lived with each of those personality glitches and claim to own at least a couple for myself, let’s just say rope stores and cliffs are not on my travel itinerary and I’m writing on a blog, not speaking to a person. The answer to the third question involves you going to your GP and asking ‘Am I crazy?’

Anyway, back on subject class, stop throwing paper aeroplanes at the back and unless you want me to read that note your passing I recommend you stop. Now, things to say and not to say to a Manic Depressive:

  1. ‘How are you?’ the clue is in Manic and Depressive by the way, I doubt your ability to deal with such a person if this subtle hint is beyond you!
  2. ‘How are you feeling?’ If you didn’t get it with the previous entry, give up all hope
  3. ‘You look sad’ Please have noticed the pattern by now

These obligatory questions are like throwing lighter fluid into a fire place, its burning regardless so please don’t add to the flames, depending on the level of anti-social tendencies the person you’re asking has developed over the years of idiots asking ‘How are you?’ you will get one of three responses. The first will entail a well practiced version of the classic ‘I’m fine, how are you?’ which is code for the inner thought ‘I’m not telling you I feel like shit so I’ll let you rabbit on about your perfect life whilst I feel worse’ which given this person is not even giving up their name without torture should hint they are not the sharing type, unless you are in fact an amateur torturer!

The second response involves a delivery dryer than the desert at midday, for the words ‘I’m going to hang myself out back after I’ve stacked these shelves’… Shock may be your first reaction but I advise you merely check for evidence of a rope, a packet of razor blades or a 500 page piece of paperwork (the most painful form of suicide I can think of!), the absence of these should lead to a witty line about not letting the boss see you’re slacking off.

The third response is too rude to put to page, be warned the person saying it is should be avoided to say the least!

Now I realise the reality of my words paints a very bleak picture of suicide watches and pity but to this I must say no, if you’re depressed it is merely a sign you that… surprise… you’re depressed (I know, shocking) and that it’s nothing new. Pity is useless, sympathy is a mere plaster on a mortal wound and feeling sorry for someone achieves as much as the aforementioned plaster!

They say humour is a great healer and to that I agree, when the piano is hovering above your head there’s no point pussy footing around it, to make a joke about it however lightens it and having someone play along with the dark humour that you gain with the personality glitch that is depression is a nice way of subtly venting those negative feelings in a fun fun way!.

In all seriousness I must also say that if you are genuinely worried someone you should be blunt ‘You look more depressed than normal, if you want to talk there’s a free coffee in it’ or in extremes ‘Seriously I’m worried about you, you look like you’re about to take a short walk off a tall cliff, say it ain’t so’ but never, ever, for the sake of god, the devil and all that’s in-between use the words ‘How are you?’.


The One.jpg

The very ground beneath your feet is rapidly disintegrating in a hideous combination of noises as fertile ground shrivels atrociously into toxic ash and animals screech in pain

The air in your immediate encompass has shrouded horribly into an acidic haze to choke the very life out of anyone unlucky enough to be close enough

And should a fated soul engage in verbal exchange with your person the poison dripping barbs of purest spite will flow so freely in their direction that even dental records won’t be enough to identify the body

The foulest of sins to make unwanted physical contact results in the painfully excruciating deterioration of flesh with the most satisfying release of wrenching screams

The evidential indications suppose only one outcome; you’re in a venomous mood

What has summoned forth the most hellion forms of moody dispersion on anything the world could offer, so perversely twisted is your current state of mind that even god offering a dream home and the winning lottery ticket would result in verbal tornados of lacerating abuse. The reason is… you are officially an arsehole!

It is bred into the very founding fibres of our educational journey that good manners and better refinements of character will emboss every moment of our lives with positivity, and should you envelope even one solitary naughty word with ill intent you shall commit in earnest damnation a hells reception. But to this I say ‘BULLSHIT’ in every ill intent and with a rousingly loud chorus of hell to salute the blue shaded air, for the truth as ever is only revealed when all wrong is cast in vicious tirades against our better nature.

To be engaged with such rudely and unwanted interruptions during our finely crafted routines or the worst of news, even politely spoken and nicely versed, is delivered will generate an acidic reaction to dissolve readily any lovely response. Who has been told ‘It’s bad news’ and not wanted to throttle the wretch from whom the originating trouble has sprung, or faced the final fatality of the nail clippings in the sink after a very much cautionary loaded warning that visitors will be descending upon the abode.

Do not worry, all is good…..

Healthy expression of resenting factors is an exercise we humanity will no doubt talk down with mildly mannered theories and terms to placate idiots, cause guilty ruminations of grandiose scale but in the end it’s just a natural response. And after ‘that day’ or ‘that meeting’ or even ‘that month/year’ depending your ability to process negative events, fuck you to anyone who with wistful disregarding actions ignores the very warning signs I have outlined at the beginning of this piece.

To the long suffering ones who have to hear us graphically outline the very minute details of our ‘experience’ so gravely cascading us into that bleakly overcast mood, who present a beverage of choice and warmly responsive feedback; give them medals so shiny the sun itself is put to shame and never withdraw from returning the favour.

“We are all arseholes some of the time, just as long as we aren’t complete arseholes all of the time

And to who challenges a positively challenged person with idiocy, let there be justifiable verbal storms!”

The Line my Friend

The Line.jpg

The line lays out straighter than a preachers verse, no deviation of the correction to want to fall either which ditch deep option that beckons on the damned from either side and no shot in hell to upset the obsidian black bleakness that etches every ounce of hatred imbued in that charred lump you once called a heart.

So into ears it pours a tempting concoction of honey filled poison verse to fan the willing destructive want to misstep so easily that way astray of the aforementioned line, upon which hangs the survivalist bar steward you threatened to brand with the cursed word so scorned; your name.

Welcome my friend to where mirrors run freely the reddened run off of bloodied faces that hath sanely smashed in energetic fever the reflective mocking of those coldly condemning eyes so set sunken into bag heavy sockets, sleep lacking in persistent style to competitive rivalling of the will to live as faded, fated and fatally flawed.

An ill word the right of you, a razor lining the musically grand chorus of skeletal dancers to morbidly sing in the angle of pain killers and warm baths to the left but what lies ahead of the fractured shell that slowly drip drip leaks the soured soul you sacrifice to keep moving on.

Resenting all the merry hue above callously littering confetti style around your head in almost piano heavy hail storms of what you lack to hold, to call that fickle sense of finished bottles rattling from endless pockets of vodka fuelled hate.

The line my friend is not so much a measuring mark of geological locations where sanity/insanity said to call your own reason to continue torturously, fail not to see the nature below surfaces of canyon high thread wide paths of fractured dreams.

The line my friend is the border to which all that caresses the poison has been laid to the side of where your still remaining and ever drunken crying sense of right holds hell at bay, sinful condemnation a lure to summon all the ills of a life lost to eternally howling regret to further the vodka into your veins.

The line my friend a barrier along which venom flows river fast and furious fashion in dapper sharp razors to cut the lesser fools who swim too deep into that corrupted pool, a hallowed hollowing of empty pain watered by the venom deep.

So safely slow step careful on the line my friend, the name we brand in burning words so bluntly stamped on this thing you walk is the borderline, borderlining where all the blessed need not watch but where paranoiac pitched warning sirens screech should you angle your feet just a tad either which way too far either side.