Guest Bloggers

The serial killer blog will continue this weekend

Christmas comes early to Copenhagen

It was hardly thought possible just a few hours ago. But at the eleventh hour leaders attending the climate change summit in Copenhagen arrived at the draft text of an agreement which they hope will 'save the world'. And it appears that it is all down to the efforts of one man: Father Christmas.

Incensed by suggestions that Lapland was just an icy wasteland near the arctic circle, Father Christmas jumped onto his sledge and headed to Copenhagen. There, after having his picture taken with Gordon Brown, he implored leaders to lay aside their differences and to believe in Santa. In an impassioned speech he told delegates "All you have to do is close your eyes and believe... Believe that through the hope that has sustained you so long and that brought you to this make-believe world - the world of Hans Christian Andersen and his mermaid - Believe that through your will and through the striving that you will undertake..."

Santa continued in this vein for three hours until the delegates caved in. They have so far agreed to the drafting of a preliminary text. It is thought that this text might lead to a more extensive document by early tomorrow and one that is politically binding. Although precise terms have yet to be finalised, we know this much:-

1. You don't need a scientist to tell you Santa Claus is real.

2. Only through consensus will agreement be reached, only through talking will dialogue occur.

3. The world leaders convened at Copenhagen have to return home with their heads held high. They must look the kind of guys who save worlds.

4. Even if nothing concrete and binding is agreed at Copenhagen, it really does not matter. Any country that wishes to wriggle out of the agreement will do so unilaterally anyway.

5. It must appear that there was a point to Copenhagen. The world leaders must wave pieces of paper around when they arrive home, and proclaim something along the lines of, "This is peace in our time."

6. This is peace in our time.

Thought for the day

A spectre is haunting Europe... We're calling it a spectre because it is transparent, perhaps not terribly profound. This spectre will be, if you like, a way of moving on from the old discredited political hierarchies to a new, yet to be discredited 'Jerusalem', where you, the people, can sleep nights, secure in the knowledge that those old hierarchies will be given a makeover, a new name, a new direction for the coming decade. This spectre is certainly one with a modern, and I mean modern, agenda.

Now what shall we call it, this spectre? I don't know, let's call it 'Green Democratic Christians' for want of a better name (Although I doubt we'll come up with a better name.)

However, we can say this, if nothing else: If you, the tired, jaded people of this continent - who have lost faith in the political establishment, but who nevertheless still face a "global warming catastrophe that will make The Big Bang seem like a friggin' turkey shoot" (cf. G.Monbiot) - if you can come up with a better name, then by all means, be my, be our guests. Why don't you tell us what the future holds for this 'busted flush' that you cynical people all call politics? And if indeed you can tell us, then please... can we have them, these names, even any ideas you have... send them, on a postcard to us... if you'd be so kind. Really, we'd appreciate it.

And then, together, we'll make this spectre The People's Spectre!

That was a party political blog on behalf of the 'Green Democratic Christian' Party

Silo of the Lambs - Serial Killer Blog

So Jesus comes back to earth and takes one look at all the institutions that call themselves 'Christian' and he says What the F-... and turns round and heads back home....

Nah! I'm not going to do one of Ned's Christmas Cracker jokes... any more than he would dare to re-write one of my posts to suit a particular agenda. Would you, Ned? Would you?

However, there's a serious point here, which is that institutions rarely do what it says on the tin(s). That is to say, religion isn't really about morals or teachings or prophecy. Religion is just a form of politics, a handy marketing tool. You take a figurehead, a mascot, what-have-you, and staple it to your own agenda - you know, that agenda you were developing to keep the people 'on side'. And, Bob's your uncle, everyone thinks you have a moral, rather than a control agenda. Been happening from time immemorial... Constantine is to Christ, what Mao is to Marx.

I'm not about to go all deep and shit. But as we all know, governments kill more people than serial killers. They often claim to be doing this killing for some moral purpose. But of one thing you can be sure: They're certainly not doing it on behalf of some prophet or political thinker they've never met and whom they'd probably chuck in jail for subversion were they to. They're doing it either to consolidate power or to please some guy called Arnie who runs a multinational. So children, when a stranger comes up to you and offers you some political theory or belief system, don't buy it. It might not be all it's cracked up to be.

Let's face it, you've got to be cynical to be a serial killer. I know that I could kill far more people were I calling the shots, were I the main man... what with war and shit. But I like being in control of my own destiny... oh, plus the destinies of one or two other poor souls, I admit. I operate my own hours... I don't pretend to be all things to all pond life. And I don't hide behind some moral bull. I kill because, well, sometimes there is a lot of killing to be done... and I'm hungry for it.

Now here's the problem: I don't get the same buzz from it as I used to. As any serial guy will tell you, the first time you kill it is absolutely fucking awesome - adrenaline pumping, heart racing, your thoughts going crazy. It's like your first time on crack or meth or junk. Second time its good but not quite as good... and after that happens, once you acknowledge that difference, you are from then on simply chasing the first high. Eventually you just do it, you just kill in order to stay level, to stay sane - it's a maintenance dose.

Ok, so, much of that has been endlessly recounted by psychological profilers and crime novelists and the like, I imagine. But when at lunch, I start relating all this to suave Sonya in her pinstripe suit and with her 'Eton crop', she says, come and work for me. I am speechless - would an outfit like yours hire pond life like me? Oh, most certainly. Pond life always know what is going on down on the street, you know with their ears to the ground and all that... In fact, much more than your poor, spoon fed suburban punters who wander through life thinking that only two worlds exist - the right world and the wrong world. We need pond life... as long as they're smart enough always to know on which side their bread is buttered. And know who to double cross and who not... and, of course, that if things go tits up at any time, you're on your own, hung out to dry etc.

So, that was quite a lunch. I don't know exactly what kind of outfit it is she works for yet. I asked her, is it something to do with HM Gov...? She said, not quite but, well sort of. I asked, well then, which department in particular might that be, if you don't mind my asking. She gave me a withering look and said, what the fuck? Department of culture. media and sports. What's with the dumb questions? For God's sake.

And now I am thinking... I wonder if there is a moral angle. She kind of did hint previously that there was a higher purpose to her job, or at least, there could be. But I really do not think that it is the right time to ask - despite all that stuff I was saying earlier about killing with a moral imperative and shit. I'll take it one step at a time, I think...

But... By God, I do hope that I'm not about to become just a teensy weensy bit of a hypocrite.

By George, serial, soon to be, contract killer

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...