Blakey at the Gates of Dawn

Royston Blake is dead, we all know that. He was murdered by the accountants, condemned to death because his true stories were deemed unprofitable. They took him out at dawn - gagged, cuffed and hooded - and hanged him high over Hurk Wood... where all other writers could behold him and quake. 'Heed this warning!' the accountants shouted. 'Any of you bastards gets any bright ideas about unusual settings and fancy narrative devices, this is what you get. FUCK your originality - we want sales. We want cold, hard numbers!'

For two days and nights, no one dared approach the hanged fictional character. His hulking silhouette filled the townsfolk with dread, oversized feet and hands hanging down like meat pendulums, massive head bent terminally sideways at the noose. Only crows would come, pecking at his eyeballs and pockets, which were lined with crumbs and bits of stray tobacco.

Then one morning the townsfolk, emboldened after an all-night scrumpy session, went up to the gibbet at dawn to cut the victim down. They were going to give him the burial he deserved, commit him to the earth with a few ritual elements he might have appreciated. Two of them set about digging a grave - six foot deep, eight long and five wide. The rope was cut and the corpse fell hard, sinking a couple of inches into the boggy turf, and they gathered round. Nathan the barman uttered an incantation that no one understood beyond the words "Balboa" and "Ford Capri". Then the offerings were brought forth.

Alvin carried a double doner kebab with extra chili sauce and chips instead of salad. He placed it in Blake's right hand and stepped back, head bowed.

Fat Sandra from the arcade stepped forward and placed in his left hand a plastic bag filled with tokens, along with a note saying his life ban was henceforth lifted.

Doug the shopkeeper approached with a plastic bag from which he produced a can of lager and ten Embassy Regal. He lit one of the cigarettes and wedged it in the corner of Blakey's mouth, pointing chinwards so as not to set fire to his moustache. Then he cracked the can open, held it up to the rising sun and poured the amber nectar between those blue, lifeless lips.

The silence that followed was total. Even the birds withheld their song. Mother Nature herself paid her respects by lulling the breeze. Then it happened:

Blakey's hand moved.

He sat up, coughing and spraying lager and bits of Regal everywhere. The townsfolk stepped back as he got on his feet and lurched back and forth, punching his own head and trying to get his neck unbent. With his head finally upright he took a huge bite of the kebab, threw the rest in the air and roared.

Several miles away, in the big city, accountants looked up from their screens, wondering what that distant noise was.


If you are a townsfolk and you support Blakey, or are just afraid of him, please join this Facebook group. Or buy one of his "memoirs" and show the accountants they are wrong. And have a good weekend

Guest blogger: Royston Blake

People sometimes ask me what I look like. I find that a bit odd, considering they're sat right next to me at the time. Then I recall I'm in the caff up by the blind school, where they does the cheapest bacon butties in town so long as you can trick em that you're blind.

But other folks want to know what I look like as well, folks with odd names like Svetlana, sending me computer letters and asking if I'll bung em some wedge so she can come over here and have sexy fun. And all I can say in response is what I say to them blind ones, as I'm slying a bit of toast off their plate:

Picture the body of Ivan Drago from Rocky 4 and the head of a young Clint Eastwood. With a tash.

That don't mean much to them up at the blind caff, because they don't get to watch films like normal people (I think it's cos them white sticks are a menace in the cinema), but you'll know all about it. I really do look like that, and it's how come I never have to make no effort at all with the birds. All except the blind ones. And let me tell you, there is one bird up there who is fucking quality. I'm munching on my toast and watching her, picturing us in the vid for that Lionel Richie song called "Hello, is it me you're after?" But the tragedy is that she won't ever be mine. I'll never win her because she can't appreciate how handsome I am, and won't ever see me on the door at Hoppers or wherever, knocking heads and booting arses and proving yet again that there ain't no cunt harder than me in the Mangel area. So I just swipe a couple of her sausages instead.

And put a fiver in an envelope for Svetlana.


If you dig Blakey, please join this Facebook group and remember he exists in book form. If you don't dig him at all, still join the group, please. Then he'll leave you alone

Short and Sharp

Paul Brazill throws a few choice questions in my direction over at his blog. Sensing that I am under attack, I return fire with some random answers, taking out a few by-standers. So it goes.

Swap Shop

Actually a fire station, not a shop. On May 20th I will be an author guest at the Firestation Book Swap, which is held regularly at the Firestation arts centre in Windsor. The hosts will be publisher Scott Pack and novelist Marie Phillips and the other guest will be the historian Kate Williams. All you have to do is turn up with a book. Any book, as long as it is interesting and you are prepared to part with it. Everyone comes with a book and goes home with a different book - that is the deal. And there are cakes and stuff as well. So, if you are around the M4 corridor on May 20th, come along. With a book.

Doing some damage

Blakey guests at the Do Some Damage blog today, waxing philosophical about the nature of existence, computer letters and his member. Many thanks to Russel McLean for sneaking him in. DSD is a great blog authored by seven (or is it eight?) different writers, so check it out. And sign up to Free the Mangel One.

Free the Mangel Books

At about 5pm today I will be picking someone randomly from the FREE THE MANGEL ONE group on FB to receive one of my books PLUS a couple of authentic Fags and Lager beermats PLUS an old book that may or may not be to your tastes, who knows? Obviously it's in your interests to keep the number down and max your chances, but it would be good if we got a few more to join, wouldn't it?

...AND...

I will be doing this for every 100 new punters we reach up to 1200 (which is as far as my store of self-authored books goes). Will we ever get that far? I dunno, but that's a lot of packing and posting from me if we do. And do you know what? I don't care. I just don't care.

So if you know people who like free books, please get 'em to join.

Guest blogger for Easter: Royston Blake

Brothers and sisters, today is Good Friday. On this day in history, in 1066, Pontius Pilot and his brothers did a number on Jesus Christ, snatching him off the streets of Bethlehem and carting him out to Calgary (in the back of a horse and cart version of the Meat Wagon, like as not). And do you know why they done that, friends of mine? They done it, right, cos they deemed him to be a danger to the status quo.

I know what you're thinking. 'What the fuck has Easter got to do with heavy metal?' you're asking yourselves. Well, status quo ain't just them headbangers who done "Whatever You Want" and "You're in the Army Now", it is also a French word meaning, erm... hang on a min.

Alright, status quo means "the existing state of affairs" (according the Nathan the barman, so if he's wrong you can take it up with him). And Jesus was a danger to that, Pontius reckoned. See, Pontius was shagging a lot of birds behind his wife's back, and Jesus found out about em and was about to spill the beans to all and sundry, thereby getting Pontius in the shite with her indoors. But there was another thing as well, the thing what made up Pontio's mind to get some of the lads together with a few beers, a couple of pitchforks, some nails and a massive cross...

Jesus told things like they was.

Wherever you found him - down the market, the pub, the arcade... anywhere - you'd always find Jesus talking to folks, opening their eyes to matters and showing em how wrong they had it. And he weren't being nasty about it. He done it in a nice way, calling em his lambs and giving em fish and chips and glasses of wine and that. Because it weren't their fault that they had things wrong in their heads. It was the fucking powers that be, weren't it? And we're coming back to the Pilot brothers here.

Now, I want you to look at my current situation. The powers that be are trying to shut me down, just like they was with Jesus. Instead of the Pilot boys I got the publisher bloke and his cronies. It's cos I'm doing just what Jesus done, telling the truth to all who will listen, pulling the scales off their eyes with a quiet word, a loud voice or sometimes a slap, if they're a bit slow. Only difference is that they're too fucking scaredy to having a go at crucifying me. Folks have tried similar things before and they don't work on me, and every cunt knows it. So instead, right, they're refusing to publish my true story, WRONGUN. Jesus got nailed to the cross, I got my book held back.

It's the same fucking thing, separated by about two hundred years.

But Jesus rose again, didn't he? After forty days and forty nights, on May bank holiday or thereabouts, Jesus got up and went walkies, scaring the shite out of most folks I would reckon. And I can do that as well - Royston fucking Blake can rise up from the dead, in book form. And you can help me, brothers and sisters, by joining this here Facebook thingio.

Your mate

Blakey

FREE THE MANGEL ONE