Wednesday, 28 January 2015


First of all an apology. I don’t want you to misconstrue something I said back in the best selling edition of bifkinpie “I met a woman who didn’t wear shoes.” I wrote ‘dur’ to follow one of the articulately chaotic points I made and it was aimed at myself but could have been assumed to be at you, pointedly, dear mega fan. It wasn’t.

Sorry. It’s since been edited.

Communication is a bastard isn’t it? Working within communications myself makes it glaringly obvious, particularly when miscommunications appear in communications. Which is all the time, right weevil face?   

We’ve all had an ambiguous text and made our own sense from its sprawl, but we took a wrong turn and in rendering the sense conclude with something so skewed from the intended origin that some form of balls up occurs.

I want to talk about something, but I’m scared to. I have been having clandestine discussions with friends and family that frighten me. Please take my hand.

I know I’m not alone.

Some time around 17 something something Australia was predominantly occupied by a huge influx of Northern European scum, non-scum and loads of Chinese merchants.

The conquerors had their own ways of living; They hung about a bit. Drinking, frolicking, building, doing great stuff at the cost of doing shitty stuff.

The earlier occupier looked on whilst taking just enough. They roamed, lived by different myths and ritual. They were pretty peaceful, generally. Or outnumbered. Without guns.

“They’re bloody stupid”

Said all of them about each other.

Unfortunately one side didn’t mind killing people. En masse.

Sits uneasy with me that you know. Really uneasy.

Australia can’t tackle the powerlessness experienced by the Aborigine community, with its masses of addiction issues, freely obtained government money, and all the negatives of living a sedentary life; the Aborigine way has had its essence completely annihilated by aliens.

May 26th is apology day where thousands of new conquerors walk over the Harbour Bridge to say “Sorry”.

Bet that was a cracking aftershow party… 

It’s an absolute sham that no compromise has been explored. But how do you blend two ways of life when belief systems are so opposed in purpose, in manifestation, in everything that it is incomprehensible to other facets.

How would the two ways of life come together for compromise? Is compromise even possible? Is it too late?

Could we – when faced with an opposing belief system – hold our hands out and say:

“Ok, we don’t get it, but we’ll just crack on? Oh, and how are you today?”.

Oh if only it were that simple. If only we were that simple.

For me, regression is a huge thing of compromising my belief system. I thought we were moving forward.

We must move forward.

Said all of them.




Thursday, 1 January 2015

Fire in the Hole!

(We're under lockdown.) 

A human of female persuasion has her sexual peak at 38. So they say. We all know that, right? Tilting toward the pinnacle, I’d argue this is true. A burning aching truth. 

Against the odds I opted to embrace celibacy, instead of filth, for 2014. I think it was out of choice.

Oh. It’s been hard.


Using rational approaches in 'romance' (instead of three pints of sunbeams) has been quite a trip. I don’t think I’ve had an awful lot of sober sex, hence the parallel reason behind quitting the drink for 2014. I want to have something with substance and longevity, not disposable. Yeah, I know...shucks...

I did manage a sober snog this year. It was dreadful.

Hitting the town with a few mates, everyone was on good form. I was happy drinking my tea and playing pool whilst getting down to a discotheque of Erasure and HI NRG. That night there was interest from two blokes. One was cute and big. The other one looked at me a lot.

Opening gambit from the cute and big one resulted in something offensive that made me shrivel with fear; something along the lines of sucking cock (*Cough* Sorry?). Side-stepped immediately with horror.

Plucky, Looking-At-Me-A-Lot came over. He was funny, a bit silly, and potatoey. He bought me a tea and led me into another room where we talked minimally about scooters and streamliners, then he snogged my face off. And my ear. And my throat. He produced an incredible amount of spittle.

I didn’t object. Being licked all over - sober - was a not an experience I'd ever done with strangers. Proper gameshow fodder.

He was clearly wanting to get filthy. But something didn’t feel right. He was from out of town.


He denied it. Twice. Wanted to come back to mine. I declined. He said he was over again next Thursday and that we should meet up. I agreed.

Number exchange. He attached himself for a short while.

Then I cabbed it home.

But something didn’t sit right, and I was going to get to the bottom of this before letting him get to mine.

Yep, from what little tid bits he’d given me I ‘researched’ him online.

And I struck gold.

Turns out he’s a millionaire prestige car salesman. 


Oh. Wow. This guy is MINTED.

Certainly not a deal breaker but a generous boon that immediately made me dream of getting a Rolex I didn’t want and loads of manicures that rendered my actual hands as defunct trowels.


He’s still texting me. We’re meeting next Thursday.


It’s nearly Thursday. One more search. A better search.

And I got it.

The wife. A glamourous, gorgeous counterpart holding a child of around two, all stood beneath a Grandfather clock. A perfect existence portrayed - crystal cut - through social media.

I likely exclaimed ‘Shit house!’ and then waited for a text.

-What time can we meet tomorrow? x

-I don’t know. Ask your wife?

-Ha ha. Not this again. I’ve told you I’m not married x

-Why don’t you ask (wife’s name) what she thinks about that?

*Chun Li Spinning Bird Kick*

(-Ha ha. Yes, well done. We had fun though? X)


I don’t ever want a Rolex.

(Whether it’s right or wrong to search/stalk someone in this way…? I rationalise, by avoiding the arse-ache of having to deal with the blatherings of a liar by backing up your intuition, I saved myself a lot of time and karmic annihilation. And that’s all I’m going to say about that).

Then the tide turned. I started drinking again, and I didn’t get back on the wagon for the rest of the year. Obviously, one night…

drink became my device…

…and my excuse

...and I had sex.

The worst part - I don’t remember it. It’s in the bank but built with myth. It was good, I think. The reconstruction is certainly hyperhorny.

That’s the thing, I’m banging the bloody walls. I have to shout regularly into a pillow. I’m so frustrated I could destroy all the beer mats with a flame thrower. MINE.

I’m waking up confronted by the remnants of failed porn site perusal and can’t right it until I’ve washed away my onanistic coating with Dove Sensitive and an exfoliator sponge that smells of actual God.

“My mind’s telling me no, but my body, my body’s telling me ye-es-us”, 

is usually my shower song of choice.

I’m signing up for another year of disciplinish because I need to channel this fire* and stop letting it whip my arse. If all this energy could be expelled elsewhere, I'd be making a lot more headway in other areas. I'm just treading water; distracted by making the reality of love possible, but even that's misguided and skewed by lust and objectification. It's all wrong, and it's only going to get worse...whilst baby-making HQ has control.  

I said disciplinish - the 'ish' can contain the random variables, none of which will be married shysters, nor intoxicated fumbles that I regrettably can't recall. 

Lockdown. Again.

May this year bring with it Channels-Of-Fire-For-All without digestive complaints. 


Beams from all who love a Bifkinpie. 


Maybe a lick. 

*hello you.

Thursday, 18 December 2014


A front room, everywhere. 


I’m sick of em, sick of em. Going on about it all the time, like. Acting like blokes. Looking like blokes. It’s boring. And it’s bollocks.


Men are supposed to look after their girls. It isn’t pretty is it? Putting up shelves, drinking pints with your mates. Makes you feel like a dick.

…Did you know Marie fixed her car? I mean the size of her…?


You’ve got to have that difference haven’t you? The yin, the yang, whichever is which. It’s a compliment, it isn’t the same, it can’t be the same because it’s different.


Yeah, that’s it. Different.


Damn right! Gender, gender, gender. Women, men…bloody trannies like your Andy! It shouldn’t matter.

And why do they have to shout about it..? It’s all, this is us, we are here! Away from you lot. Shouting about being called love or getting their arses touched, and tits eyed up.

I mean if you’ve got it, you should flaunt it, right?!




It’s boring. It’s fucking boring…




…Basically, you cocks are cocks, and cocks are cocks and need to be told that you are cocks…


I’d love it if I got my arse felt up by a fitty.


…I mean what gives them the right to tell me how I should treat people?! We’re not all the same. We’re all different.

We’re not all cocks.

That dwarf bird, Angie, you see her on the market. She’s got to be treated different. She can’t do stuff. You have to help her. She’s fucked on them stairs.
And Danny spanner, I mean everyone knows Danny. Everyone looks out for Danny.

We’re not all the same, and I’m not going near them. They’re fuckin’ angry for no reason.



I wish Jordan would stop making me gag when I’m giving him a blowie.


Oh god, I hate it when they do that.

Wednesday, 17 December 2014

Me and my monkey.

We’re all 85.

Cosmetically we don’t look it. We’ve got robots grandkids, and nobody has to move or work anymore because we’re all attached to a universal monorail that transports us everywhere whilst the robots do our bidding. Maybe.  


Now statistically, as a plausible guestimate. 18 of us are dead. It was quick, it didn’t hurt, don’t worry.

23 of us have Alzheimer's/Dementia

3 Parkinsons

4 MS

7 Miscellaneous

and 1 Huntington’s

And the rest….well we’re alive – we made it! 

But wait, I need to take you somewhere:

Meet Al, 98, he loves carpentry to the extent the care home has too many bird boxes and hedgehog huts. He has a ponytail, refuses to wear wide fitting slippers, and drives his motorbility scooter far too fast in the corridor. Scamp.

Then there’s the other Al, 92. He’s a cricket man. Loves a panama in summer and getting pissed in the garden with the other Al…he also dodges the wide fitting slipper.

And Betty. She’s 86, malnourished because she has no appetite. Her breathing is shallow and laboured, her eyesight is gone and her hearing is a BIT LIKE THIS, Betty.

She doesn’t like to socialize with Al, the other Al and her fellow residents.

I like Betty. She’s bright, I’ve seen her laugh a few times.  She responds well to a back rub. 

Though we share mere minutes together a day.

Because Betty stays in her room with her memories.


I’ve heard her mumble to god. Take me Lord, take me. Over and over again.

Take me Lord, take me. Take me Lord, take me. Please take me. Take me Lord.

Betty wants to go, but she’s still here.


Ivy is 100, she has full hair, a wicked smile and a tendency to get the hump. She lies in her bed – as requested - in the dark staring at the ceiling. Ivy used to have a pet monkey.

On Ivy’s dressing table is a sippy cup of juice, and a wealth of chocolate goodies, that she will never reach nor eat. And a card.

It’s from the Queen. I’ve never seen one before.


Ivy speaks. “Are you looking at my card?”


“I got another one as well you know…”


“It was from the treasury, that Iain Duncan Smith….but I threw the bastard across the room”.


This isn’t about those of us taken too early, this is about those of us taken too late.