Don't get me started - the serial killer blog

Sonya was the first call-girl I slept with. And she was the only one. I reckon I must have gone with her around a couple of hundred times. We developed a close relationship, shared our most intimate secrets. And it was Sonya who got me started on this whole serial killing thing.

I must have moaned a hundred times about the guy I worked for at the call-centre in Victoria. Sonya always showed, or at least feigned, interest when I told her what a misery he made my life. One day she came up with a solution. She was a Patricia Highsmith devotee and, flicking through 'Strangers on a Train' one day, a light bulb switched on in her head. It just so happened that she was being blackmailed by another call-girl named Amy who knew that she'd legged over her pimp a couple of times. She suggested I kill Amy for her, and she'd kill my boss.

And that's how we both started - and grew to love - killing. I visited Amy one fine day, pretending to be a 'trick', and smothered her with one of her pink polyester-covered pillows. I made it look like some sick bastard got carried away - and I suppose some sick bastard had. Sonya hung around the front of the call centre one night when Ed, my boss was working late and she 'accidentally' bumped into him. He was easy prey, a sex addict who'd go with any half decent woman, whether it involved money or not. He ended up laid out in the back of his Merc., with a stiletto positioned "somewhere in the region of the brain stem" as Sonya recounted. Smart girl, Sonya...

After Amy, I got a taste for this kind of stuff. So it became a bit of a hobby - work commitments allowing. Meanwhile, Sonya, who also grew fond of 'existence management', went on to become a contract killer. This is almost the same thing as a serial killer, except she gets paid. Bit like the difference between bloggers and professional journalists, I suppose.

Nowadays, Sonya and I more often than not just meet for lunch and catch up on the goss'... Just as we did a couple of days ago at her favorite vegan restaurant in Soho. Yes, it seems strange that a cold blooded killer could be a vegan. And she doesn't try to explain it with any 'work ethic' bullshit. She simply says she likes animals more than humans; finds it easy to waste the latter, impossible to slaughter the former. That's what I've always liked about Sonya, she's your classic whore-with-a-heart (or ex-whore).

Every time we meet, I rile her by repeating how alike we are in our 'undertakings'.

"Except I'm a pro," she protests as she toys with her tofu stroganoff.

"So what? You could say I murder for love. Or at least love murder."

"You murder because you're addicted to it. That's different."

"Well you're addicted to the money. That's not a higher moral purpose."

"Maybe I only kill people I want to kill.... for a higher purpose."

"Yeah, right, like all contract killers do."

"Maybe. Depends on who I work for."

"You've never told me who you do work for as it happens."

"That's because if I did, I'd have to kill you."

"Very funny... But of course... not if I killed you first."

"What? You mean, you'd kill me right after I had told you who I worked for?"

"Yeah, right after."

"But what if you liked who I worked for? Then you'd have a dilemma. How could you kill someone like me? You'd simply have to approve of me. You'd hesitate. Bang, I'd kill you."

"You wouldn't kill me if I liked who you worked for? You couldn't kill me then, surely?"

"Yes. I would still. I'm a pro."

"... Who only kills people you want to kill. Right?"

"Actually, George. I know it sounds paradoxical. But, I shouldn't even have hinted just then that I might be working for anyone you could approve of... Or that I could conceivably only kill people I wanted to kill. It sends out a really bad message. So, who knows...? Maybe I'm going to have to kill you anyway."

"I see."

"No you don't. You're an amateur."

to be continued...

Snuff's enough - The blog of a serial killer

We took another look at the 'serial killer' blog that caused a major stir earlier this month and decided we'd give it an airing. We thought that at the very least it might appeal to the followers of 'snuff lit'. Let's hope that somebody likes it.

"It is a common misconception that your common or garden serial killer washes down his victim's liver with a fine Chianti. Aside from the fact that I personally would choose a Marcillac, the very idea that you would hang around to remove, sear and eat the victim's liver is entirely preposterous. You either get the hell out of there with as little fuss (and leaving as little mess) as possible. Or, in the rare instance that you have to butcher the poor bastard to dispose of the evidence, then the last thing you're going to think about is getting the liver out in one piece. The very thought of it! It's more a case of slice, slice, saw, saw... or if you are lucky enough to have a Black and Decker knocking about, then its a bit of grind, grind, drill, chew, splash, splash, spray.

And I'll tell you another thing. I don't mean to sound disdainful but the kind of pond life your average serial killer preys on is hardly likely to be packing away a nice reddish-brown fat-free organ. Years of crystal meth and alcohol abuse will have taken their toll on the fucker. You'll be looking at the kind of thing you're more likely to find in a dodgy takeaway - fatty and swollen, or even worse perhaps, knarled and scarred. Not very appetising - even if you tried washing it down with something stronger like cognac.

And, yes, I know that in the ivory tower, make-believe bullshit world of this Lecter guy, who probably only slaughters people with PhDs, you think there must be a better line in livers. But no. Don't believe it. There are a fair old number of knarled livers in the higher echelons of society, that's for sure. Maybe not meth knarled, but certainly crusty from years of crusted port or whatever it is these guys drink.

So, rule one: Kill the fucker as cleanly and as quickly as possible. Rule two: the less blood the better - think of blood as a kind of forensic soup that will happily swallow up your DNA, your fingerprints, those tiresome but revealing threads and hairs that fall off you during the course of the day. Rule three: don't even think about eating the fucking liver. Kill... move on... kill... move on... live to kill another day.

And finally, killing is not an art nowadays. It might have been in the days of Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Patricia Highsmith etc. But it sure isn't any more. It is a science pure and simple. And you know why? Because of the fucking gadgetry they have at hand. No more Sherlock with his powers of deduction. You're up against scientists who will nail you on the kind of thing that you cannot see its so small. Fuck, you have always to be thinking, must stay one step ahead, it's so easy for them to nail you, so darned easy.

So when anyone ever starts talking about Lecter and his liver and Chianti bullshit, just tell them where to go. Tell them, that's not like it is, and it's not funny and it's not clever to repeat that bullshit... let alone do that stupid thing he does with his teeth. And as for fava beans, well... just don't get me started."

This blog will continue through the coming weeks with an analysis of the highs and lows of serial killing, the day to day routine and drudgery, and the long term job prospects for those engaged in the ancient practice of multiple murder.

Joke of the Day

Joke of the day:
A man walks up to a dictator. He says "Stop trying to tell me how to live my life".
The dictator replies, "Stop trying to tell me how to live mine."

So remember kids, stop beating up on dictators. They also have a life!

Devil in the DJ

As we all know, the Devil is still as busy as ever playing all the best tunes. So, for our year-end inane, pathetic 10 best ever list, we decided to ask people who they thought had danced most expertly over the past decade to the veteran DJ's tunes. As always, these lists can never truly be exhaustive, but at least they are democratic and therefore reflect your views (ho ho, yawn yawn). And so, here they are:

1. Politicians
2. Bankers
3.

For legal reasons we have been informed that we cannot go any further...

Spare a thought for the poor old banker, Guv'nor!

The Guv'nor of the Bank of England and the Chancellor of the Exchequer have today been explaining 'quantitative easing'.

This is what happens:-

The Bank of England (The bank that we all own) starts printing money, then it uses that money to repay its current debt to other commercial banks (This is called 'buying back Government bonds'). Those banks then charge a commission to the Bank of England (our bank) for repaying that money (that it just printed). They then pay their traders a bonus based on the profits that those traders made simply by being involved in the repayment transaction.

Everyone benefits, because it now appears to taxpayers that the banks are making money again, and will soon be able to pay back all the funds that those taxpayers previously handed out to them.

However, it does not really occur to taxpayers that the money that they are going to get back will look, but not actually be, the same as the money that they handed out - by virtue of the inflation that all of these new transactions (i.e. Bank of England 'repayments') have created.

But, and this is a big but... This is not a problem, because even the middle classes, with their superior educations and their familiarity with wealth accumulation do not in fact have the slightest clue what such money transactions really mean (or where the magician was hiding the coin, as it were)... Even when it is clearly their own, erm... money.

But, let's face it, we are all frankly breathing a sigh of relief that things are stable once more and no-one is queueing up outside banks... or burning them down...

(OK, so the bonuses that the traders get do piss people off. But what can you do? When in doubt, tax, I suppose.)

Second Sex

The diary of a polyglot call-girl, continued

"I encounter a problem with 'Giscard' (for want of a better name). I'd counted six jalapenos in. But when it comes to their removal, I count only five jalapenos out. He asks, why the pained expression, and I explain.

He shrugs and tells me that it is an occupational hazard. "When you do this kind of thing, you know... shit happens, as they say."

I chuckle and then pick up on the occupational bit. I finally pluck up the courage to ask why he is here in Cambridge. Is he an academic? His reply makes my heart sink.

"I am to take up a post as Lecturer in Modern French Literature. My specialisation is the post war feminist perspective."

"Oh my God! But that is one of my courses," I cry. My heart is racing.

"I worked that out just now," he says. "I noticed your essay on De Beauvoir."

"I don't believe it!" I reply. "But that is just too much of, of..."

"Of a coincidence?" He says. "Perhaps not. I was intrigued by your pen name, in the advertisement - Castor."

"Ah, I see."

"I wondered, could it be possible? Could this be a student who is reading de Beauvoir?"

"How embarrassing."

"Not really. When I was at the Sorbonne, I fuck my students all the time."

His sudden candour unsettles me. "I see." I reply hesitantly. "But not... not for money, I guess."

"Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. Sometimes for the presents, sometimes for the, how should I say? Wisdom? But anyway none of this matters. I always enjoy it. They always enjoy it."

"I see."

"But the question I like to ask is this: By doing this, what you do, this job, do you then become the woman, as in...?"

"No, no, no." I insist. "This is strictly to pay my way through University. I am not trying to prove or disprove anything in... in de Beauvoir."

"Of course not," he replies. "But maybe you could prove something if you want..." He struggles for a moment, trying to find the words.

"Yes?"

There is a look of relief on his face. "I think I find the sixth jalapeno."

I laugh nervously, then continue, "You were going to say?"

He sits up straight. "I was going to say that, maybe if you write these experiences down, like this blogger they call Belle de Jour... and then you publish these experiences, then you can ask yourself what kind of woman are you becoming?"

But sadly I don't have the opportunity to answer him. Because at this point the doorbell rings. "Oh, fuck!" I cry. "That's my next client."

He looks shocked. "So soon?"

"Yes, it's a busy night... Listen, you've got to, got to go. Like quick. Thing is... you could be seen. You better hide in the communal loo, the one on the landing. I'll, I'll buzz him in... The problem is, otherwise, if he sees you... He might just possibly recognise you."

"Yes? Really?" he says shocked.

"Yes, really, really. It's only bloody well my Director of Studies for French Lit..."

"Yes?"

"Yes. Doctor Bertrand."

"Zut Alors! Bertrand? He is here?"

to be continued...

By guest blogger Campus Courtesan

Homme Toujours

Tomorrow our very own 'campus courtesan' will continue her account of life on the game as an undergraduate student. And I think that you will find it gripping.

But today we want to offer the other perspective - that of the 'trick' who is prepared to pay for sex. Today's blogger calls himself 'Homme Toujours'. He describes himself as a professional, married man with mild cocaine, codeine and valium dependencies. And he is also happy to admit that he pays weekly visits to prostitutes in the Bloomsbury area of London. This is his contribution:

"I always head for Bloomsbury, an area packed with student prostitutes. I've always preferred hookers with degrees, or at least those studying for degrees. Not only is the conversation better, but the sex is more adventurous: These ladies have read stuff like de Sade and are pretty open minded.

Tonight I'm on my way to someone called Arabella, and she describes herself as a third year English with Drama student. I imagine that, because she must surely aspire to becoming an actress, this probably makes her a glamourous twenty something who fancies herself as an Ophelia or a Juliet. I also wonder whether the drama angle might offer some 'value-added' when it comes to role play. I hope so.

I creep furtively down to the basement of a four story Victorian terrace house near Gower Street and ring once. The door opens and a mature woman appears. I presume that she is the madam. She leads me through the dimly lit flat to the bedroom and asks me what I want. It now dawns on me that she actually is Arabella. "For some reason, I had you down as younger," I say, hoping that she won't take offence. "You know, being a student and all that."

"Yes?" she replies. "Well I am a mature student."

"I see," I say. "Well there's never a right or wrong time to start studying, I suppose."

Then I realise that she looks familiar, very, very familiar indeed. The penny drops - she is the spitting image of the German Chancellor, Angela Merkel. This is not what I imagined at all. And I certainly cannot see her as an Ophelia, or a Juliet for that matter. Her academic pursuits must be just that - academic - I decide.

I sit on the edge of the bed for a while, trying to think long and hard about what I actually want. Then I decide that I have to pop the question. "I hope that you do not mind my saying. But you do bear a remarkable resemblance to the German Chancellor, you know, Angela Merkel."

And she gives me a withering look and then says, "Yes, didn't you know? That is exactly why the gentlemen come to see me."

to be continued....

Rogue twaddle

Gordon Brown's son has denied that the garbled 'tweet' on his mother Sarah's account was sent by him. It was originally assumed that the three year old had sent the incoherent rant about David Cameron. But it transpires that the Prime Minister, who is prone to unintelligible tirades, sent the message. It is also denied that the 'tweet' was simply a cheap publicity stunt designed to raise awareness of the danger of cheap publicity stunts...

Campus Courtesan

The Art Tsar, Lord Cheese has asked us to postpone publication of his piece on conceptual art. This is pending our own internal enquiries into a spiteful email campaign recently perpetrated by one of our own moderators. In its place we have decided to post another one of the 'people's blogs'. This one was sent in yesterday by a student calling herself 'Campus Courtesan'. It is an obvious attempt to cash in on the popularity of 'Belle de Jour'. And despite its occasionally left-field approach, we decided that it was worth publishing - if only to reflect the lengths students have to go to nowadays in order to complete their studies.

"The new guy arrives as I'm polishing off my essay on de Beavoir's Second Sex. I buzz him in and tell him to wait in the lobby. I figure he can sit there for a few minutes while I finish my work. It's ok to make a guy wait for de Beauvoir. Just think about how long women have been waiting for men...

I chuck on a silk wrap and tiptoe downstairs. The first thing I see is a bald pate and a strikingly prominent nose. Then I notice his long delicate fingers resting daintily on his lap. He looks up at me and I immediately know I've seen that face. My head spins, then I think he is the spitting image of the ex-French President, Valery Giscard d'Estaing. But it can't be him. What would Giscard being doing here in Cambridge? I suppose it's possible that he's visiting academics, perhaps the deconstructivists at King's. They are very much into French philosophy.

He stands up and smiles elegantly. He's clearly a man of class, of breeding. I greet him and want to tell him I recognise him. I can't do that of course; I can't make him feel uncomfortable.

But then, as though he knows what's on my mind, he says. "I know what you're thinking, and I'm not who you think I am. All the girls think I am who you think I am. But I am not him."

And yet, the accent is French as well. How much of a coincidence is that? Poor guy, he must get this all the time. And I tell him, "It can't help that you're French and you look like, you know, who you do look like."

He replies, "Yes, it does not help. And why do you think I can only ever visit les femmes when I am in out-of-the-way places like this? And then, even here it appears that I am mistaken for the great man, n'est ce pas?"

"In a south of England university town it's hardly surprising. Most people would know of the man you resemble. It could be different somewhere much further north like Aberdeen... Not that I'm saying that they wouldn't know, of course."

He looks a little confused and I decide that the conversation is starting to sound a bit surreal. So I lead him upstairs and take him into my bedroom.

"So what is it you're into?"

He opens his briefcase and brings out a pair of handcuffs and a jar of jalapeno peppers.

And I say: "I think I probably get the idea... I handcuff you and then insert the peppers..."

He stops me mid-sentence by putting his finger to his lips and quietly whispering, "Shhh..." He is nodding gently.

And, as we undress I am thinking to myself how funny it would be if he really was visiting academics, the deconstructivists at Kings. I wonder what they'd make of a man resembling the ex President of France turning up to see a lady of the night in Cambridge and wanting to be handcuffed and have jalapeno peppers inserted where the sun doesn't shine."

And he just says gently, "Now, I bet this is definitely not the kind of thing that the great man Giscard is into!"

to be continued...

Menacing emails

We sadly have to announce the departure of site moderator, Alvin Siftey. The rather unpleasant emails - as well as the vicious comments made on this website - all of which were targeted at his predecessor Steve were found to have come from Alvin's work-station. We will be continuing with the 'people's blog' as soon as we have found a replacement for Alvin, which we hope will be very soon.
In the meantime we are fortunate enough to be able to announce that tomorrow we will be featuring a post from the Government's new Art Tsar, Lord Cheese, who will be filling us in on some of his ideas about extending the scope and the reach of BritArt. We look forward to it.

'Butler' Brown in new class war row

Prime Minister Gordon Brown has denied that during his years as Chancellor he was viewed as the 'lick-spittle' of a small coterie of wealthy businessmen and bankers. It has been suggested that during the 'noughties' his policies amounted to little more than a sycophantic attempt to wipe the bottoms of certain elite business friends who commonly referred to him as 'the butler'.
A spokesman for the PM said: "It is obvious that these allegations were dreamt up on the playing fields of ignorance - in an ignorant, poorly educated, vacuous Britain for whom celebrity is the new aristocracy, and which believes that playing fields are places where people spend their time dreaming things up."

The 'People's blog'. Your contributions.

Hi, Alvin here, reporting back to you. Looks like Steve won't be returning, sadly. After the hate mail, then the vicious comments from the blogger known as 'snuff man', he has decided that it's too much for him and he is quitting. He'll be sorely missed. But it means that my sign-off yesterday as 'Chief Moderator' was really rather prophetic. (Yes, I know it appeared a little presumptuous at the time!)

Anyway, I was up until about two in morning reading through some of your blog proposals. Some, as I wrote yesterday, were frankly pretty pointless. I mean, how many Belle de Jour clones can there really be knocking about British Universities? Are things so bad that the only way students can get through their courses is by lying on their backs with their legs apart? And if it really is that bad, then how about focusing on the actual politics of this situation, girls? Hey?

Right, so leaving aside our serial killers and hookers, we have something that looks (initially) quite interesting - a cop blog. Daily life on the beat, policing the G20, G7, power stations etc etc. However, something tells me that this might not be the real deal. Where's the Old Bill we know and love kicking the shit out of protestors? What's more, we see a guy with an unblemished record... even looks forward to hanging out at the Notting Hill Carnival.... multiculturalism, the thought! He even calls it Caaar-neee-vaaal. And guess what? A few days later, he is back in Surbiton and, low and behold, able to get to a reported break-in within ten minutes of the 999! Somehow, I think not. Sorry PC Mungo, didn't you know that it is an offence to impersonate a police officer?

We move on. Politics - as in the insulated little world of the Westminster Village. There's a lot of this stuff. Oh, these dedicated party political bloggers. What a joy! People trying to imitate the Dales, the Finkelsteins, even the Fawkes's. Boring! Millions of these copycat blogs have shown up already. So why are they pestering us at boho? Get your own site! DO IT YOURSELF - if you're that good.

Okay, so now we have one that's maybe a bit left field: "The Hung Blog" - A blog that brings together writers from across the political spectrum who will be able to give us their valuable insights in the event of a hung parliament. Sorry, but THIS is the website that is bringing together people from across the spectrum, might I suggest? Although, I do dig the feature at the top... a cartoon, is it? Yep, the guy has even done a cartoon. Well, yes... I would dig it if I could work out what the cartoon depicts. Hold on... Oo-er. Is that..? That surely cannot be an MP hanging... by the neck? Okay, right I get it. Nice... cool. 'Hung Parliament', I wonder whether we could get away with that. Maybe maybe maybe. Better ask Ned. I suppose it'll be acceptable as long as the appropriate MPs are hanging (they know who they are!)

Now this is more like it: Climate change. The single biggest issue of the day bar none. But, and this is a big but, we must filter out the deniers, the ignorant people who appear to have no intention of looking at THE evidence, DOING the math! Room temperature IQs, that's their problem. Can they totally overlook the mountains of graphs and charts and computer models that arrive at the one conclusion and that prove beyond doubt the existence of global warming? Well, it seems like they can. Well they're sure as hell NOT coming onto this website. This is not going to be a repository of ignorance!

So, anyway, summing up: Yes there's some good stuff here and there's some really, really shit stuff. And I think that we all know which is going to get published and which is not! But, remember guys, be patient. We, moderators (not Ned) will be deciding in this instance what actually does get seen... Just as we decide in the normal way what comments get seen. So, as they say, don't call us we'll call you! And those of you whom the majority view as 'deniers'... please… please, just take a hike!
Posted by Moderator in Chief, Alvin Siftey