Friday, September 15, 2006

I am being 'groomed' by a 7-year old boy. I daren't tell the police - it's just too messed up for comprehension. I answered the phone about 8pm last night to near-silence. Eventually 'Is your wife in the room?' This was a boy's voice, unsure of himself. I was polite and explained that I believed I was being teased, and that I was going to hang up.

The phone rang again. I let it go to answerphone. The phone rang again, and I answered it. This little boy was now asking me whether I wanted to buy a kitchen. I explained that this was rented accommodation, and that my landlord deals with things like that. I laughed and tried to hang up.

'What's your name and how old are you?' he asked. I gave him these details out of confused, paralised politeness, and asked whether he was filling out a survey. Was he going to sell my details? Possibly this went over his head. Now I asked why he was phoning random numbers in the middle of the night. Were his parents around (the dodgiest question I asked). No - they've both gone out. I told him that it was not a clever move - phoning random numbers and engaging potential weirdoes in conversation. How do you say this to a 7 year old kid? I stuttered my way through an inspecific warning, and said I was now going to go.

The phone rings again, and goes through to answerphone. And again about 5 times. And then once more after a 5 minute gap.

I dialled 1471 to see where the boy was from. I do believe you would do the same, and anyway I don't have to justify myself to you. I'm the one being groomed here. Number withheld. Now that just blows my mind. I swear it was a 7 year old boy, asking me personal details, and withholding his number. But no-one else had heard the voice.

I picked my phone up again today, and my answerphone had two messages from this kid on from last night. The first is him doing his kitchen salesman shtick, and he leaves a Newcastle phone number. In the second, I think, he is pretending to be his sister:

"I like you. My brother has told me about you, and he said you are nice and you have a nice voice. I am actually 27. Would you give me a call?" And once again he leaves a phone number, this time without the code. He actually corrected himself half-way through the number, so I assume it's not made up.

I had Ian listen through these messages. He says it could be an actor. Frankly I find this idea even more disturbing.

So this is the question - should I phone the police? Should I try to contact this child's parents? Either way, I can see that the conversation is not going to go my way.

"Why have you told this child your name and age?"
"How did he get your number?"
"Why did you answer the phone the second time?"

I think this little guy is trying to entrap me.

Monday, January 23, 2006

I just emailed the people at 'godhatesfags.com'. This is what I had to say.

To
Nou9iuNl@godhatesamerica.com

Subject
Hi!

Body
My name's Neil and I also hate fags. I think they attract God's hate, and I want to kill them all before He does.

In your wonderful article about the Memorial Services of servicemen Zyla, Karim, Kesinger and Navarro(, which you picketed so well,) you quote Ezekiel chapter 16. This is one of my favourite chapters, thankyou for making it so relevant to the evil of this brokenbacked America.

You've got some really good observations in your footnotes that really got me thinking. You quoted:

29 Thou hast moreover multiplied thy fornication in the land of Canaan unto Chaldea ; and yet thou wast not satisfied herewith.

I understand, as you do, that this refers to the way ungodly FAGS (you call them evil freaks) bring unspeakable acts unto small children (you call them fleshpots) in Thailand.

And your writer goes onto say that this is the reason they were "SMACKED by the Tsunami!"

This got me thinking... what is it about being a rape victim that would attract the terror and destruction of our raging Lord?

I think there's a sermon in there somewhere!

Neil, Durham, UK.


I didn't write "which you picketed so well". That's only there to give you some background. See for example pickets held during the Memorial Services of the mining disaster victims. Not servicemen, but you get the idea.

Oh and Brokeback Mountain is one of their current obsessions. I thought I'd go with it.

Maybe they read to the end? They do get a lot of mail. I'm gonna go and have a wash I think.

Of course, that I have taken time out of my busy essay writing schedule (which admittedly, even in itself, has not been committed to paper) should be enough. But as far as content goes, this post has got it *in spades*..

1966. Pet Sounds, Revolver. erm. Some Stones album or other. Black Sabbath? Led Zep?? Na. Well anyway you get the idea.

1966. Not quite the summer of love. That magical era where nothing had quite happened yet, and nobody knew it would. Or wouldn't. Had man walked on the moon? Not sure. Kennedy had definitely been shot... Cuban missile crisis. God knows when that was. Ah - the Vietnam war! Great!! That definitely provided the violent imagery for the backdrop to this momental monument of a cultural condiment, of which I am going to address you today, oh yes sir.

1966. It is significantly easier to start a paragraph with that than without it. It feels as if it's giving what I'm about to say some gravitas. Do you know now that when I type, I make more mistakes than I used to? For example, I just spelled "than" as "that", before I corrected it. And I originally spelt "significantly" as "significan'tly". Only I didn't get as far as the "-ly". I realised. What does this mean? Do I have surface dyslexia, or the cooler, more mystical and rebellious form - deep dyslexia?

1966. OK, anyway. Imagine my grandmother making an album. Imagine that Capitol are backing my grandmother, in 1966 to make an album of contemporary covers. My grandmother, who learnt to sing in the 1930's, and learnt it bad. She has a vibrato to wobble a goose in flight, and a truly absent minded whistle.

1966. Schools in mid west America are rigorously testing my grandmother's ice-cube theory of whistling: "The skin expands and contracts depending on heat and cold, therefore the pitch can be better controlled in this manner!" she raved.

The liner notes make no promises. "She has impeccable diction". Well I s'pose. It's just she sings the lines at the wrong times, with the wrong notes, and the wrong sort of voice. And she doesn't seem to know the songs.

Like the guy that discovered her, you will be "whelmed" by her talent. Capitol records are lauging at her, but we can't, because she's dead and she died in 1993.

Here you have, Mrs Miller.

Mrs Miller

Oh, and of course I'm sure she had a bit of a laugh about it too, but still!

Monday, October 31, 2005

So now if I have an empty moment, I can blog about it. I don't know if this is good for me or for you, the hypothetical reader. Let me tell you about yesterday on the train. Two proper northern scamps, who were going on some sort of kitted out, drudged up mini-break to Carlisle, were jostling for position at the window of our Tyne-crossing diesel train. "I'll give you ten p if you let me stick my head out." No concerns here about getting their heads knocked off. These kids knew the exact clearance - 6 ft on the left, and 4 ft on the right. They were out and out train-spotters, with a book to write the numbers in, and the ability, at least they claimed the ability, to name an engine by its sound. Surrounded, as they were, by 8am commuters, they shamelessly went about their way. I would have taken a picture of them, if only I could work out how to delete the shutter noise on my camera's phone. They looked under-nourished, and as if to prove it, they ate their packed lunches on the train. It's great to think that these Kes-like kids still exist.

Moblogging. Only marginally better than logging.

I haven't even seen my new network's data prices, and yet here I am, 'moblogging'. But where am I? Am I at university, lovingly laminating a comprehension activity for the aphasia group? Could I be doing a sleep in the Brain Injury house? I'm playing semi-professional football, but I got a cramp, and I thought I'd blog about it? Am I still doing my protest in Parliament Square? Being sick in the toilets during Anatomy? One thing's for sure, I couldn't be sitting, tired, turned only slightly away from my computer, avoiding doing work. Surely if I was I'd just use firefox. Any excuse to get me blogging though. I must find out how to start a new paragraph on this thing.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

There've been loads of times where I've thought 'I'll blog that'. But I remember nothing substantial. Here are some snapshots.

My friend Daniel James Brown has taken inspiration from the completion of the Brian Wilson 'Smile' project, a full-stop that's been anticipated for 37 years, to get me to finish all the songs I halved my heart on 5 years ago. He is my musical director. Currently I am finishing the bassline to Dual Earth Theory and talking to him about what we'll do with all the money.

It was rent day, so I thought I'd brave the dog poo to visit our landlord, next door, to deliver with the cheque the news our oven needs replacing. I'm used to waiting outside for for a gap in the music to ring the bell in, usually our landlord, belting out a sixties classic. This time however, I hear a reasonably accomplished feminine voice laying out chorus after chorus of Will Young's 'Leave Right Now'.

I didn't leave right then though. I sat it out, got myself invited in, pushed in front of the keyboard, to deal with the fact that I'm accompanying a hairy, six foot, guitar-squeezing transexual, and his 14 year old 'associate' - who is doing the Shakin' Stevens wobbly knee dance, and singing 'Rock and Roll Music' by Chuck Berry. I have checked, and this is legal.

This boy looks malnourished. 'Who is he then'? 'I don't know, I found him somewhere'. They're playing as a duo now, our lesbian transexual landlord on guitar, keyboard and karaoke machine, and this poor kid browning his voice on ol'time rock'n'roll. Perhaps they've seen a gap in the market.

My new job's interesting all right. I'm glad I'm not local, as many of my fellow carers have encountered our clients before. In the pub, carer and client are discussing their friends-in-common. The babies-lost, the houses-moved, the Blackpool gangs and their pubs, the funerals...

'There was one guy I was scared of though, that idiot "Hawky"'

'Oh yeah. Why's that'

'I was in the Railway pub, and these three guys came in, two held down some poor bloke, and the third beat him to a pulp. The whole pub ignored it, just got on with their drinks when they left. I asked my husband who it was. 'That was Hawky''

'It's me. Tony Hawthorne - - Hawky.' [Name's been changed}

He told me after she left that his brain injury meant he couldn't remember who he'd left his guns with.