Oct/Nov 1998  •   Fiction

A Message to the Writers Group

by Alex Keegan

The 102nd Dalmation
1-Up, 2-Up, 3-Up, 6-Up
Honesty, Second Person POV,
Bowels, Happiness

You're sitting there, wannabee writer, Beeg Inna, your trousers round your ankles, desperately trying to take a dump, and you look at this piece of paper, the period assignment.

You read, "The 102nd Dalmation, 1-Up, 2-Up, 3-Up, 6-Up, Happiness, Second Person POV, and Bowels." And you think someone is trying to be funny, right? You think who the fuck thought up this fortnight's titles? Who was the simple shite who decided on, for example, "The 102nd Dalmation"?

So what exactly the fuck is, "The 102nd Dalmation?" My life as a fucking dog, with spots? I had enough trouble as a teenager with spots, thank-you. What's it like to be the ugly fat twat who nobody picks when they're choosing sides? Hah! How about you remember being the last kid picked and there's ten in one team and nine in the other, and you, you're Sheeps-Arse Williams left standing against the wall. And then you hear the captain of the nine say to the captain of the ten, "It's all right, Jimbo, you can have Sheeps-Arse, we got Tommy Pugh, fairs-fair."

Well, come on penis-brain, what is it? What is the one-hundred and second fucking Dalmation? Does this burke know HIMSELF? I think he should get out more.

Fuck, Jane'll mark that down less two points for cliché. Jesus Christ, wait till she sees the fucking THEME! "Though I felt there were places where the narrator's point of view bordered on funny, even manic, I felt the lack of a convincing theme led the reader into a morass of one-liners and clichés such as in paragraph four, line 3, "I think he should get out more."

Well, up yours, Pwaflefski!

Oh, fuck, now I've got pins and needles in my foot.

I'll have to look out for that, miserable cow. I'll figure out which story is hers. I'll get her for something. She's usually good for a coupla clangers, I'll harp on them and ignore the good bits, give her a minus three for dialogue and frighten the living shit out of her! Hah! Fucking cliché indeed!

The One Hundred and Second Damnation. Jesus Bloody Christ.<

Keegan, I'll bet it was Keegan. A fucking mad Welshman who thinks a few books out there makes him King fucking Kong. You see that last piece of shit of his? Bus to fucking Malpas. Bus to fucking Malpas? I mean, come on, are we parochial here or what? "I was on a No 3 double-decker bus going back to Malpas when the guy sat the other side of Dennis Potter said, "Hey, that play, Pennies from Heaven, Dennis, I really liked that play. What are you doing now?"

That's a fucking opening? What the fuck's it mean? And why number 3? Is three some big theme number? (Probably, knowing Keegan. He'll post sixteen posts explaining how he had to meditate in a bath of asses milk until he could get the right number). And "bus"? An electrical circuit in a computer, huh? Oh, fuck Keegan. And what a wanky name Dennis Potter is anyway. You'd think a published author could invent a better name than that.

1-Up, 2-Up, 3-Up, 6-Up.

Now, this. this sounds dirty.

"I thought 7-Up was a fizzy drink till I discovered Smirnoff."

Snow White.

Nah, some Yank will complain. They don't have sex in America (well some of their presidents do, but not a lot). They must import their babies. Same in Australia, dead from the neck up and dead from the waist down. S'why they all eat s'much and get so fucking fat. Nothing to fink, nothing to fuck, might as well go and have another Big Mac,

You know that one about Noah's Ark? They were on the boat for a long while, and well, unless they got house-proud pretty damn quick they were gonna be overwhelmed with shit. So Noah, he got all the animals together, persuaded them how important hygiene was.

The animals were as good as gold. All of them except the elephants. They shat everywhere and they wouldn't clean it up.

Well, this pissed the other animals right off, and you can imagine the smell. (If not think of Gordon). So the lion, he was the union rep for the fierce creatures, he went to Noah, and he said, "Nosey, buddy, look, we got a problem on level nineteen." "Well," he said, "in fact we got a problem on levels three and four through twenty-one, now the shit's overflowing."

So Noah went to look. A few hundred days of elephant shit is not a pretty sight and he said "Fuck me!", but apart from his wife there was little chance of this, although a baboon offered to give it a try. "Fuck me!" he said in sort of heavy biblical tones. "We need to do something about this shit!"

So Noah told the elephants, "You have to get rid of this shit."

But the elephants weren't playing. "Look," they said and farted. "When we were roaming the plains et cetera, et cetera, we shat. Before it started, all this rain bollocks, we shat here, we shat there, we shat every fucking where and nobody minded. Fuck we were environmentalists, spreading bio-mass and distributing vitamins! Look, we are big grey shit machines. It's what we do, OK? So fuck off."

The elephants were right of course, but Noah knew that being right wasn't a valid reason for behaviour. "I'm sorry," he said, "What went on before the great flood is neither here nor there. We're in a closed environment and you are producing one hell of a lot of shit."

But the elephant just took another dump and a few species that are completely unknown to modern man immediately became extinct.

Noah went up on deck to think. Actually, he went up to get away from the fucking smell, and to clean his shoes, but he was a biblical character, so he had be profound, and think, and beget, et cetera.

Noah looked out. The scenery was, pretty fucking boring, not to put too fine a point on it, but there was nothing much better to do. Noah knew the elephants had a point but, in the end, he decided, shit was shit, and there were better ways to die than drowning in it. So he went downstairs again and told the elephants that if they didn't want to be extinct, the shit had to go. They thought about it, and decided to comply.

The relief on the ship was palpable (or is that too telly, Paulette, -5?) and the animals were so pleased everyone of them offered to help. It took three months and seventeen days to shift the back-logs (don't forget the elephants continued to shit throughout the cleaning process) but eventually all of it was on deck and rolled up in a gigantic ball. There was a big ceremony, and then wop, over the side it went - splash! (With a few more species of small shrews never to be known to modern man).

But this bio-mass was fertile - and it GREW and it GREW. It seethed faecally, it squidged, it diahorread, it MOVED, but mostly it grew.

And in 1492 Columbus discovered it. Har-Har!

That's a true story BTW, which leads me to,.


Well that's a piece of piss. I can lie all day about honesty. Never had a wank (never had an erection, except in church), never fancied another man's Mrs and I can walk past a field of sheep without even turning my head. See? Piece o' piss. Next?

You want a STORY? What? What the fuck for? No-one else writes them, why pick on me? You wanna story go ask the resident pro-fessional, but warn him, no number three fucking buses, no prefabs, spectacles, testicles or dolls.

Story? When Kipper Kiffer writes a story, I'll write a story, fair enough? Story. Fer fuck's sake, what next?

Second Person POV

You want to talk about second-person POV but hell, you don't know if you know what second person POV is. Sure you'd LIKE to sound like you know what you're talking about but you don't. You stare in the mirror, really see yourself, you think, I wonder if I'll ever understand second person point of view. You shake your head and think, next subject?


NOW, yer talking. Bowels. What I don't know about crapping probably isn't worth knowing. Shit, man, shit is my forté! Some of my best moments have been sat on the crapper. What's the last subject? Happiness!

Well happiness is a good crap isn't it?

Happiness is a warm bum.

Life is a shit sandwich, the more bread you got, the less shit you gotta eat.

And the coloured guy with diaorrhea who thought he was melting?

Oops, minus 14 point from Suzanne for a non-PC utterance, plus two each from Gorgon and John for reminding them of a good joke.

You know there aren't enough shit jokes. I wonder why that is? There are plenty of shitty jokes, shitty people, shitty stories, shitty jobs, but there aren't that many jokes about shit, are there? We joke about people dying, people starving, people who are ugly or upset, people being hurt, people being raped, people having their hearts broken, but no shit, or at least not enough shit. You think Paulette could give us 4,000 faecal words, one of her "short-shorts" about poo-poo? Y'think Gerry maybe could combine, shit, romance and the Wild West? The Man With No Underpants? Diana would need it to have a whiff of adultery. Oh, my Gahd, Harold, you've, you've, you've been - pooing in Mildred's bathroom! Shauni, well he'd have the Mafia stealing shit, selling it as chocolate in the third world - bit short on theme probably. John, he'd do a decent shit story, fluid language, smooth, comes out easy, looks good on the paper, likely to come out in Sewer Review and be panned.

Oh, fuck this. Have I annoyed everybody yet? Who else is there to slag off before I emigrate? Dave, Sylvia? Nah, I can piss them off even more.

By NOT including them.