Innit

I wrote this little poem ( poem?) inspired by the riots we had in London recently. The one where the kids went on the rampage supposedly against police action but really because they needed a new plasma. It's true there are few jobs out there for these kids and they have little money but that's no excuse for what happened. They killed people, for christs sake. In England! And I wish I was so broke I could afford to organise this thing with a Blackberry. Perhaps they were from a previous riot.
They have no one to look up to in authority. The news media is under scrutiny right now, and the man at the head of the most obnoxious news organisation returns to the U S A while the guy who throws a plate of foam at him is banged up, more for the embarrassment he caused the security service than anything I reckon.
The police are also tangled up in this phone hacking disgrace, and not just PC Plod. It goes right to the very top, with Supercops resigning faster than a speeding summons.
The financial sector remains unrepentant at the mess they've got us all in, handing out bonuses like sweets, while refusing to lend anyone any of the taxpayers money.
Teaches go on strike, putting kids education at risk. Tell me the difference between truant and on strike.
Our MPs think their expenses should cover everything from moats for their duck pond to the rental of their Westminster house, even if they own it themselves. Everyone seems to be on the fiddle. Very few pay the full price. I wonder if a young rioter who walked into a police station and handed back the 52in TV he stole the previous night, saying he didn't know he was breaking the law, would be alowed to go. That's what almost all our MPs did.

I miss my England.

Innit

Got me some new gear today
Innit.
Just walked in and took it away.
Innit,
But we go on these rampages
Cos we ain't got no wages
And me don't live round here anyway,
Innit.
.
All the MPs on the rob,
Innit,
But I ain't got no job,
Innit,
Can't claim me no expenses,
For trips to Marks and Spencers,
So I go and do my shopping with the mob.
Innit.
.
Find us some injustice on the news
Innit,
Then go out and stock up on some booze,
Innit,
Don't matter we don't know
Who the guy was took the blow,
If the coppers hit him, we got our excuse,
Innit.

Trainers, iPad, bit 'o bling
Innit
The bangingest CDs, everything,
Innit,
The living's eighteen carat,
When you out on a riot
And then it's on to EBay, kerching.
Innit.

But it's not just for the money that we're in it,
Innit,
It's a class war, and we going to begin it,
Innit
We're burning cars and looting shops,
And chucking house bricks at the cops,
To show them bastards they ain't going to win it,
Innit.

We gotta get rid of them bankers
Innit
It's cos of that bunch of wankers
Innit
We got nuthin' to do
'cept go on the screw ,
But nobody's going to shank us.
Innit

So we smash up the town,
Innit
Watch it all going down,
Innit.
and we pose and we preen
For the closed circuit screen
Never dreaming that they'd track us down.
Innit.

Got my picture on the news tonight,
Innit,
Blaming me for the whole bloody riot,
Innit,
And now I'm on that flickr,
Man, I'm famous, looking slicker
than the winner of a gunfight,
innit.

They say they gonna come round to my crib.
Innit
Gonna lock me in the local Al Gharib,
Innit
They got the number of my flat
How the hell did they do that?
Man I sometimes hate that bloody web.
Innit

Now there's coppers coming up the path
Innit,
Dogs and guns, they're having a laugh,
Innit?
An invasion of my human rights,
(I'm very up on all my rights)
Thought these buggers were supposed to be understaffed.
Innit

Cameron says violence must cease
Innit,
We all gotta live in, like, peace
Innit,
Then hosts an Arms Fair
For the tyrants out there
To tool up their secret police.
Innit

Don't think I'll ever be a mates
Innit
With this bunch of magistrates
Innit,t
Don't think I went to school
With that senile old fool
So the outlooks not looking too great,
Innit.

They took all my gear,
dammit,
Didn't have time to bin it.
Innit
I think this is it
See that pile of shit?
Gotta feeling that I'm really
Innit.

The Red Dot A short story

The Red Dot.

It was wonderful to be out in the forest, to walk on a carpet of pine needles between the tall trees. To breath air that hadn't been passed through filters to remove the city toxins. To feel the breeze, cool and clean against the skin. "This," he thought, "had been one hundred thousand credits well spent."

Not that he had actually ever had that many credits. No one who spent their life in the concrete canyons of the city would earn half that amount in a year, but his position as an IT security advisor for one of the world's largest banks had given him all the opportunity he needed. A search had revealed the quietest accounts. Discarding those which had no activity at all, where even a withdrawal of a single credit could trigger an alarm he selected about a thousand accounts where small amounts were constantly being moved about. These he targeted with his own little program, a few lines of data that would, at random times, shuffle fractions of a credit into the account he had set up at Biosynth in an assumed name. It had taken no more than a few months to accumulate enough for a days hunting. The bad data had been removed and now there was no connection to him should the withdrawals be noticed. And if they were, who would be tasked with tracing the losses? Why, the IT security advisor, of course.

She had bitched about him being away from home for a couple of days but then, she bitched about everything these days. It was in her nature and now he just let it flow over him. He had told her it was company business and wives were not permitted on this trip. She had made some comment about secretaries but had not pursued the point. To her, the idea of him having an affair was ludicrous, who'd want him?

He pulled a power cell from his ammo belt and slipped it into the breech of the hunting rifle. Everything about the experience had been perfect so far. On the first day his group had been taken to see some of the synths. The animals, he refused to call them machines, had been realistic beyond his hopes. A great ape had thrown itself at the bars of it's compound at their approach, baring yellowing teeth in a fearsome roar. Big cats regarded them with baleful eyes, a calm hatred emanating from them. Cape buffalo, rhino and elephant roamed a large compound. Shown into a low roofed building the four men in the group found a magnificent tiger lying on a green cloth covered gurney. Their guide indicated that they should gather round.

"Gentlemen," he said, speaking for the first time. "My name is Brady and it is my task to talk you through the procedures here at Biosynth. You have, I hope, all read the literature provided so I should not have to repeat myself too often. Any questions so far?"

He fixed the men with an unwavering stare. He was every inch the drill sergeant, cropped greying hair, bull neck, shoulders bulging with muscle. He wore the khaki t shirt and cargo pants like a second skin. No one spoke.

"Right," he grunted. "You have now seen a few of the synths that you will be given an opportunity to hunt. You will each be assigned one synth. This will be chosen randomly. You will not be told what species you face but be assured, although these synths have been created in a laboratory they have been instilled with the same compulsions felt by their ancestors. In other words, they will try and kill you."

Their was a nervous stirring in the group. "Well?" snapped Brady.

A balding, middle aged man tentatively raised his hand.

"Have there been many cases of hunters being killed by these things? I hadn't realised how realistic they would be."

Brady sighed.

"You signed a waiver. Did you read it? Any of you? Let me put it in simple language. You have signed up to hunt a synthetically created example of wild game the like of which has rarely been seen on Earth in the last hundred years. If you want to shoot ducks, go to a fairground. In order that these synths act as they should they have been created as accurately as possible, given the technology available. This accuracy includes not only their appearance but also their behaviour and temperament. But no, sir, in answer to your question, we do not have many accidents. Two in the last year to my knowledge and one of them shot himself in the leg. Remember, you have all the advantages. You are armed with a weapon that has a range of over a mile and which will stop any synth in it's tracks. Assuming you hit it," he added. "You also know exactly where the game is at all times, thanks to your trackers. Keep these on at all times and you will not have any nasty surprises. The green dot on your tracker is your prey and yours only. The other three gentleman will each be in a different area. You cannot shoot anyone else's synth, or each other. One more thing. Remember, your game is represented by a green dot. Green, There is a very slight chance that you may see a red dot on your screen. Ignore it. A red dot indicates natural life. I know the general consensus is that most game is extinct but we can never be sure.The areas you will be hunting have all been cleared long ago but there is always a chance that something may bypass our security border. This could be anything from a deer to a bear. We have no way of knowing or any control over it. I stress, gentlemen, do not track a red dot."

There was some shuffling of feet and nervous coughing. All this group were first timers. They had been given little opportunity to socialise but this much was clear. Brady walked behind the gurney.

"Just in case you have trouble believing these are not actual creatures, let me introduce you to your prey."

He reached under the tiger's throat and peeled back a strip of fur. The hunter got a glimpse of micro circuit boards, nano processors, laser connections then Brady replaced the flap.

"Can't show you too much, you might go home and make one of these in your attic."

There was a ripple of nervous laughter.

"Once you have made a kill the information will be relayed to command. Stay with your kill and wait for extraction. We will come to you. Right, gentlemen, let's get you suited up."

The hunter unclipped his breast pocket and drew out his tracker. Now he was out in the forest he had lost any sense of trepidation he may have felt during the briefing. This is what he had dreamt of doing for the past two years, ever since he had stumbled across Biosynth.

The company had an account with the bank but was listed as restricted, which meant only a few of the senior staff had any access. Such accounts fascinated him and he spent much of his spare time breaking into them. He had found his bank had no scruples when it came to dealing with dictators, criminals and other enemies of the state but Biosynth had been none of these. The deeper he burrowed the more interested he became. The company had a website but lay behind a security screen so strong it had taken him a week to gain full access but when he did he could not believe his eyes. Biosynth offered a chance to hunt creatures believed extinct for years. But not real monsters. Not even clones which had proved so frail and unreliable that the process had died out years ago. Reproductions. That's how the website described them. Synths. He had read avidly. For one hundred thousand credits, the entry tier they called it, he would experience man's basic instinct. The hunt. Not one of the holographic games that had left him cold but a real hunt. A kill. He could find no mention of the other tiers, but got the impression that even greater thrills awaited an experienced client. For a price. And that was when he devised his plan to embezzle the bank. They asked for no details. They gave a bank account number into which he should deposit money until the final sum was reached. He was annoyed to find it was with another bank. It could have been even easier. They were obviously spreading their activities around.

It was a smooth operation. He had been taken to a small private airport where he boarded a plane not unlike the company jet he had flown in occasionally, except in this case the body of the aircraft had no windows. He and three others sat in silence for the two hour trip, the Biosynth representative having made it clear conversation would be frowned upon. They had landed in a clearing surrounded by forest. There were two buildings, one the representative called the induction centre, the other, sleeping quarters. He was sure he saw some movement, cattle perhaps, in the distance. They had dined alone in their rooms and slept until Brady called the following morning.

Now he was alone. He thumbed the power button on the tracker and the screen lit up. His position was marked by a white triangle, showing his field of view. In the top left hand corner of the screen a green dot pulsed slowly. Touch the dot and information such as distance, altitude and direction of movement overlaid the map. But no information of what the dot represented. The nearer he came to the synth, the faster the dot would pulse. But none of this registered with him for at the top of the screen a small red dot pulsed dimly. He held his breath and touched the dot. No information.

"But there wouldn't be, would there?" he thought. "This is no synth. This is real."

Brady had called the weapon a disrupter. "This gun does not fire a solid projectile," he had said, laying one in front of each of the group. "That would not be economic, Synths don't come cheap. As far as your experience is concerned, however, it should make no difference. They have recoil built in, just like the antique guns used by hunters in the last century. They also go bang," he said, with what may have been an attempt at levity. "The experience is as real as we can make it. One important point, gentlemen. These weapons work by disrupting the electronics in the synth. They also have the same effect on skin and bone. Try not to be the second hunter this year to shoot himself in the leg. Even this can prove fatal due to the massive trauma. Be careful, be responsible. Now, let's go next door and get acquainted with these bad boys."

He hefted the gun in his hands. He loved the weight of the weapon, so unlike the toys they used in the hologaming arena, where he had previously spent any weekend he could manage away from her. This was real. Well, almost. He had never felt so alive, so potent.

The trees were thinning out and the ground was falling away, sloping down to a rock strewn valley bottom through which a stream rushed foaming and boiling in it's course.

He checked the tracker. The green dot was now due west while the red dot was north of his position. If he was going to stick to the green dot he would have to turn off and follow the stream. Any further north and he would be getting further away from his target but the red dot had him mesmerised. He crossed the stream and scrambled up the steep bank, ducking behind the large rocks that littered the slope. He checked his tracker. The red dot was moving left to right and apparently just into the trees on the ridge above him. He sat with his back to the rock, heart pounding, mouth dry. A quick check of the weapon showed it charged and primed, ready to kill. The dot was now just out of the tree line, probably making it's way to the stream to drink.

He took a deep breath and raised his head above the cover. At first he saw nothing, then a slight movement glimpsed through the leafless branches of a fallen tree caught his attention. He swung the disruptor up to his shoulder, his eye to the telescopic sight.

The crack of gunfire shattered the peace of the valley. A flock of birds exploded from the trees in panic, their wings whirring noisily. Then there was quiet again.

The hunter broke cover and made his way down to his kill. He pushed the toe of his boot under the body and flipped it over, face up. Headshot. He grunted appreciatively. There was a movement behind him and Brady stood at his side, looking down at the crumpled figure.

"They never can resist the red dot," he sneered. "Good hunt, Colonel?"

The hunter pulled off his camouflage hood. He was a man of sixty or so, neat silver moustache and hard features.

"Not one of the best, Brady. Had hoped for more for my half mill. Damn fool walked straight into me. Who was he, do we know?"

"Just some petty embezzler. His employers will know all about him tomorrow and his wife will just assume he's run off with the money. You're tier three now, Colonel. We'll get you someone a little more challenging next time."

"Glad to hear it. I'm going to stretch my legs. Spent too long crouched behind that damn tree."

It was wonderful to be out in the forest, to walk on a carpet of pine needles between the tall trees. To breath air that hadn't been passed through filters to remove the city toxins. To feel the breeze, cool and clean against the skin. "This," he thought, "was still five hundred thousand credits well spent."

Nicola's page

This page is dedicated to Nicola, the daughter of my oldest daughter. She is severely disabled. She has what is called 18q, which means she has an interstitial deletion along chromosome 18. What that means in Nicola's case is that she has barely progressed beyond the age of one. She is now fifteen. She cannot walk or see clearly. She only really interacts with those she has constant contact with. She lives in her own little world. She is loved by all.
The one positive thing about this is how my daughter, her husband and their other older daughter have coped. I know people will say "Well, it's their daughter, they have little choice." but that is not true. There are other, easier ways to deal with Nicola's problem but they have not taken them, because they usually mean giving her up to the authorities. I cannot believe the change Valerie has gone through from the mostly surly teenager to a woman of responsibility and confidence in herself. She has had the full support of Alan, her husband, where many have split, being unable to cop., And Joanne, Nicola's big sister is great with her, so much so that she is studying to make a career of caring for children just like Nicola. I am so proud of them all.

That's a bad hat.

School is mainly about stimulation.

Quite fancy one of these myself

She loves her swimming

Skittles

Just good friends

Cousins

Dear Penis. Warning, rude video.