Musical Biographies #1 - Cheesie Knicks and Thickwood Muck

Formed in Them Days by an aging Mick Thuckwood and his Green Peter, Thickwood Muck started out peddling blue songs for crack cocaine to angry negroes in the bayous of pre-Colombian Venezuela. Their breakout hit Albatoss - written about masturbation in Scotchland - is an acknowledged blue classic. Mick, dissatisfied with his rock crystals, immediately set upon a quest to find ever refined levels of cocaine use.

With pop-stardom threatening, Mick dropped his Green Peter like a hot melon and along the way met an elf-child, a pixie and a pair of grim swingers who he invited into the band. They were united by a shared interest in the coca-leaf and the by-products thereof. Many tracks were laid down in the studio and all were snorted up as fast as possible. Critical reviews were made and the band soon found they preferred Peruvian flake. Some music written.

The elf-child found it could sing. Although the sound was ever-muted due to the billowing clouds of pink fairy dust (see above), cotton candy and acres of lace. Pupating into female form she lived in a huge fluffy castle full of unicorns, curtains and lots and lots of cushions. Persistent vaginal infections led to a substantial amount of brie and Mick found himself finally able to dub her with her name to this day: Cheesie Knicks.

Ode to cocaine, Oh You Make Bumming Fun written.

Hit followed hit, tour followed tour and before long mild-mannered cretins everywhere were being soothed and tweaked by Thickwood Muck's brand of super-jizzy pop-tastic pseudo-rock twadge. The band suffered, having to write and perform music was eating into valuable cocaine enjoyment time. They resolved to write one really big hit album that would pay off their dealers in one go and give them more time for their relaxing hobby.

Tango in the Shite was born. It was very smooth and less divertingly interesting than anything they'd recorded before. With absolutely nothing to trouble their minds, remedials everywhere lapped it up like little puppies with advanced brain tumours. Everybody was wildly happy, especially the dealers.

One more tour was planned. By now every band member was legally divorced from every other band member at least once and they refused to share the same continent with one another. This made touring difficult but a resolution was found when Lindsay Fuckingham the pixie-boy suggested each band member had their own trailer, stadium and three roadies devoted to blowing the coke up their arseholes all night.

Inevitably the situation couldn't continue. The swingers took permanent exile into a caravan park outside Lowestoft, Fuckingham grew his ears until death threatened, Cheesie disappeared up her own cunt after a roadie sucked rather than blew one night and Mick himself took to rocket science in a bid to find the first supplies of space cocaine. He remains very tall.

The Downing Street Sauna I

"Hey Dave, this is great, who thought this place existed, huh?"

"Yuh Nicky, apparently Denis had it put in to entertain some of his Arab oil chums, yah. Been here ever since, down in the depths. Here, be a good egg and throw another pail on the coals."

Clouds of steam rose from the red hot cherries of heat, filling the room even more until all was a white fog, the two men just light grey silhouettes in the thick hot mist. Dave stretched, his naked body immodestly clad in a small white towel, and his hand brushed Nick's shoulder. Nick jumped!

"Hey, hey hey buddy. Hey, hey hey hey. Hey. Hey now what's wrong, you're like a coiled spring Nicky-babe."

"It's just that I'm a bit concerned about the coalition, Dave. We've had a good start, no denying it, great first 100 days. Some of our policies are really really great. Good decisions on the banks and the quangos, I can even let slip the stuff about taking people's council houses away - that's not true is it? - but it won't be long before the Spending Review is in and people realise just what's going to happen. Is the country ready, are our MPs, can the coalition survive that?"

"Hey Nicky", said Dave, standing up behind his friend and partner, "What you need is a neck rub. They were all the rage at Eton, how was it at Westminster?"

"No sauna", Nick replied nervously, adding, "but what about the coalition?"

"Oh coalition schmoalition.", said Dave, as his hands expertly kneaded at Nick's clenched shoulders, "Let's just enjoy the moment. Victory, 100 days of being in charge. It's all great. Hey there, you're knotted up like billy-oh across the shoulders my chum. So tense. Here, let the fingers go in deep."

Nick shuddered and moaned slightly, but it wasn't through concerns about the future now, Dave's fingers had worked their magic and set his tension free. He felt like a boy of twelve again - but as Dave had mentioned, there wasn't one to hand - it was like being back at Westminster School all those years ago. He felt a sense of freedom and daring he'd not felt since that time. He stood, turned, reached for Dave's face. Their lips touched.

<>

Later the sauna was dark, Dave sat against the back wall with Nick laying across him. The towels had gone, any pretence at modesty seemed inappropriate. Both men relaxed in the warm glow of friendly company and shared experience.

Dave reached down and removed something from Nick's chin with a wipe of his thumb, "Missed a bit! Hey Nicky-Babe, that was pretty special you know."

Nick smiled, "I enjoyed it, it was great, like back at school in the showers with the PE master. Hey Dave, do you think such two men, a deputy and his leader.."

"Dual leaders.", interjected Dave.

"..yes. Yes. Dual leaders. Have such dual leaders ever had such an intimate knowledge and experience of one another? Surely this can lead only to good, or who knows, even greatness for us."

Dave just smiled. He leaned back harder into the wall and stroked Nick's hair.

Nick breathed deeply and nuzzled into Dave's lap a little more. His eyes flicked to the wall behind them. Through the remains of the steam his eyes started to focus in on a small patch of graffiti. As they resolved into words Nick could read clearly, "Gordon 4 Tony 4ever". Suddenly the room didn't seem so warm any-more.

Sarah's Law - the plight of the poor paedo

There's no denying it's a hard life being a sexual offender. It's one thing after another - if you aren't out signing the register, you're taking your weekly visit to the local police station or explaining to your parole officer why a copy of "Young Arse" was found under your bed in the half-way house. Things are about to get a bit harder as the nation's police forces decide to implement Sarah's Law across the UK.

Sarah's Law is similar to the American Megan's Law in that it allows parents to find out if anyone who has access to their child is a sex offender. It's named after Sarah Payne who was killed, aged 8, in 2000 by paedophile Roy Whiting. Whilst that was a tragic act, there's no denying that this is a case of law made by the media - mainly in the form of a rabid News of the World, laughingly playing the high moral card against the only people accounted lower than them, the paedo.

We're assured that this will not lead to vigilantism. Well, we'll see. Personally, I'm not so sure the great British public will be able to hold back as word spreads of their local paedo. Especially if he or she has 'access' to children. At the very least he's going to feel just a bit more targeted and vulnerable.

I have some time for the sexual offender. I don't agree with the common mood that they should be tortured to death by a baying mob; I have this odd idea that that isn't healthy for society. This is not to say I think such people should go free, they are after all causing untold harm to their victims.

We need to understand that sexual offenders are ill. For whatever reason (often their own past as a victim) they fancy things that normal people don't. Imagine that for a second. Instead of being attracted to and needing sex with an adult of appropriate gender you have the same feelings for your pet dog, a fireplace or a child.

I believe these people should be helped by all the therapists, with all the drugs and doctors that they require. But if it's judged they are a danger to children (or dogs, or fireplaces) they should be put in comfortable but secure accommodation and treated until cured. This would be healthy for society on many levels.

So, pity the poor paedo - his lot is a heavy one. He's locked into a world he didn't ask for, with feelings which are as natural to him as breathing, and every hand is turned against him. His own acts appal him and the necessities of his life strike him ashen with grief. Poor cunt.