I hope this passes for entertainment

in these drab, wretched passages of time

that we currently consider to be our lives.


Year Four: My Patriarchal Debacle

“Pertaining to Mr Smacker’s rehabilitation and psychological well-being, we will now hear the words of our prison psychologist, Doctor Arthur Porter. Doctor Porter, would you please?” “Fank yew, Misser Swanson. Fank yew orl, genul’men. Ah hem. Wot iz dair dat cun be said about Misser Smacker dat izzn da most glorious of praise? ‘E izzaContinue reading “Year Four: My Patriarchal Debacle”

Year Three: A Youth Misplaced

Beeston Orphanage was a wretched place, tucked away in an unfashionable borough of Nottingham. The building itself was a converted 17th century poodle farm, in which the kennels had been converted into four-bed dormitories. The dogs had been released into the wild but had fared poorly, and so were returned and trained to prepare anContinue reading “Year Three: A Youth Misplaced”

Get new content delivered directly to your inbox.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Create your website with WordPress.com
Get started