Monthly Archives: September 2013

Dear Greg

Thank you for your interest in _________________, UK. At _____________ we believe that as much as the candidate has to be right for us, the role has to be right for you. Ensuring that there is a firm match is important to your career and your wellbeing as well as our continued business success.

We have had the opportunity to review your application and regret to inform you that on this occasion, we have chosen to pursue other candidates whose skills and experience more closely match the role.

Again, we genuinely appreciate your interest in _________________.

Kind regards,

Alex.

 

All of people are familiar with these types of emails. As writers we probably receive emails like these constantly. I know I do. Everyone usually has the same advice for receiving rejection letters/emails.

“Just keep trucking on.”

“At least people are reading it”

“Keep sending stuff out, you’re on the right path.”

“Don’t be disheartened.”

All good advice I must admit but sometimes it does feel like I am cracking my head against a brick wall, or walking down a never-ending path of rejection. But then again I might not be. I guess the beauty of life is the mystery that awaits us around the corner. Even though we see clearly, we see nothing at all. I guess the whole point is to be optimistic. Most people that know me, know that I’m more of a cynic disguised as a ‘realist’.

Therefore I’m heading out to buy the biggest bottle of champagne I can find. It’ll be on ice for now, but you’ll be the first to know when it’s being cracked open and spilled all over my fancy clothes.

Until then I’ll celebrate that every day I wake up with the will and ability to write. I’ll celebrate by doing what I feel I do best.

Greg J Allman


Can you define the meaning of life on a t-shirt?

A witty slogan that makes your mind wander,

JUST DO IT deserves a tick for positivity

But what is It? Always makes me ponder.

I ♥ NY as much as the next

And why shouldn’t I wear it on my chest.

A plain white T is pure,

And black could signify anger,

Especially if you’re Samson to her Delilah.

Everyone’s a BOY LONDON

I’m trying to be a man or something.

All Day I Dream About Something,

That’s far from the ORIGINAL

Three stripes and I’m done.

An image of a cross, an image of a gun

Both have more in common than a high street store.

No one cares about the price tag

When the # offers SWAG for sure.

Whether you COMMES DES GARCON

Or COMMES DES FUCKDOWN,

Just know the HYPE eventually dies down

Like that of a TWO ANGLE ADDICT without a KR3W.

He tried to hit me with a forklift

Of tees for the next season or two.

Greg J Allman.


This is a public service announcement to the gamers of the world. Beware! GTA V is upon us and there is no turning back!

Thank You,

Greg J Allman.

 

“It’s clear where you’re priorities lie Kyle, I’ve had enough.”

“Sandra please, just let me explain.”

“Explain what Kyle that you’re a thoughtless, mindless pig of a man!”

“Well yeah, but I love you.”

“Well it’s too late for that now, goodbye Kyle. Try not to waste life playing these games forever.” Sandra slammed the front door. He sure was going to miss her. He sat on the top step and listened as the car sped off. This had been what he’d been crying out for all day. Now that he had it, he wished he could trade it in.

 

Kyle was a sensible man; nine times out of ten he did the right thing. He treated his girlfriend well and they’d had a loving relationship for over two years now. But he had a weakness, just like every man. Kyle did his utmost to fight against it. But tonight he was surrendering to its ultimate power. He couldn’t fight it anymore. Nor did he want to.

 

 

“Well you don’t have a fever” Sandra placed her palm on his forehead.

“It’s my stomach. I’m sure it was that place last night.” Kyle moaned.

“Gary gave it rave reviews babe, it couldn’t have been there.”

“Oh yeah Gary knows all, all bow down to Gary.”

“Kyle stop. You sound like a petulant child” her voice was firm.

“I’m actually a very sick child, who would like to be excused from tonight’s dinner party.”

“But it’s my birthday Ky, I really want you to be there” Sandra cried.

“And I will be, after the dinner party. I’ll be accompanyin’ my princess to the ball” Kyle smiled. His cheek always served him well with Sandra.

“Hmm, you better not be pullin’ a fast one on me Kyle” she warned.

“I’m not” he surrendered his hands.

“My colleagues were lookin’ forward to meetin’ you at this.”

“Tell them I will see them at the after party. Champagne’s on me.”

 

Kyle got out of the bed and took a hold of Sandra. Tonight was her special night. Her 21st birthday, and she wanted to make sure the proceedings went off without a hitch. Kyle knew how important tonight was to her. It was all she spoke about when they went out for dinner the night before. Kyle was never fond of Lebanese and that was confirmed when he woke up with the toilet for company this morning. Sandra’s supervisor and all round creep Gary had suggested. Kyle had met him once before, although he claimed to be married no-one had ever met his wife. Plus he was a very tactile person, especially at social events. He’s the balding man in a silk white shirt at parties casually resting his palm on someone half his age’s waist.

“You promise you’re comin’ out after.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world babe. You know that” Kyle reassured her.

“Ok, make sure you take some medicine before you leave. You’re shirt’s ironed, so is the suit” Sandra pointed over at his wardrobe.

“Ok.”

“Make sure you do that top button up as well. I don’t wanna see you lookin’ like you’ve come out the office” Sandra moaned.

“No babe, course not.”

“Ok, oh yeah, shoes not trainers I know what you’re like and.”

“Darlin’ get a move on, you’re gonna keep everyone waitin’” Kyle interrupted.

Sandra smiled before becoming teary eyed. “I love you so much Kyle.”

“I love you to babe. Now go on, knock ‘em dead.”

Sandra skipped out of the room and hustled down the stairs. Kyle waited by his bedroom door until he heard the front door close. He hurried to his window and saw Sandra get in Gary’s car with a load of her colleagues and speed off.

 

Kyle leapt in to the air with admiration and joy. Tonight hadn’t only been an important night for Sandra; it was an important night for Kyle too. He thought he carried his plan out perfectly faking a sickness from last night’s restaurant but it only kept Sandra at his side all day. Until now. Kyle’s day officially started at 9:05AM when the postman delivered a package for him. He wasted little time opening it and unveiling its contents. GTA V. He had marked this day on his calendar for months, and finally at 18:57 he was able to get the game underway. All night his imagination ran wild over all the in game action he would be experiencing. Parachuting out of aeroplanes, robbing banks and stealing cars, nothing and no-one was going to put a stop to this, he had waited too long. He switched on his XBOX and slotted the game in the disc tray. Kyle could feel his blood pumping under his skin. His mobile vibrated on his bed, he checked the screen. Sandra sent him a smiley face message. He threw his phone back on the bed. His screen lit up showing the opening credits to the game. Kyle selected which character he wanted to start with. It was a tossup between Michael the middle aged gangster going through a mid life crisis or Franklin, the gangbanger. He went with Michael. The opening credits to Michael’s scenario began, Kyle’s eyes were glued to the television, he reached over for his remote and cranked up the volume. His mobile vibrated, he felt around his bed before putting his hand on it. Another message, this time asking where he is, he messaged back in bed with a thousand kisses. He was sick of the interruptions; he was missing important plot points to the game.

 

Finally the actual game play started he was in the middle of a bank robbery with Michael’s character. His hands were shaking in excitement; the realism of the world created in this game was astonishing. Kyle had never seen anything like it. This was better than any birthday dinner, even better than sex with the woman he loved. Nothing beat GTA V on a quiet evening in. Kyle became so lost in the game that he didn’t hear the tyres screeching outside his home, or the front door opening and slamming shut. He didn’t hear the footsteps hurrying up the stairs and he certainly didn’t hear his bedroom door open.

“What on Earth are you playin’ at?”

“Huh” Kyle dropped the controller in shock.

“You said you were sick, you lyin’ bastard!” Sandra screamed.

“No, I am really. I just thought”

“Oh save it Kyle.” She reached over to the bed and picked up her phone. “I left it here” she said holding it up.

“Babe, I’ll get dressed I’ll come to dinner” Kyle moaned.

“No Kyle, just leave me alone.”

Footsteps thundered on the stairs and Gary emerged at the doorway.

“Ay up Kyle! Heard you weren’t feelin’ too clever.”

“Oh he’s fine, he just wanted to stay in and play his video games. Instead of celebrating my 21st. What a man eh” Sandra’s words cut him deep.

“Video games? How old are you now mate?” Gary asked.

Kyle let out a sigh “Gary can you leave us please.”

Gary tapped his watch at Sandra angering Kyle even more.

“Gary please, get out.”

“Ok, calm down Kylie boy.”

“Don’t speak to Gary that way” Sandra defended him. “Anyway we’re leavin’ now. Don’t bother turnin’ up later.” Sandra followed Gary down the stairs. Kyle stood at the top of the stairs in his pyjama bottoms.

“Sandra please, just wait.”

Gary disappeared out the front door. Sandra stood on the door step and looked back at Gary. Her mascara was running from the tears.

“It’s clear where you’re priorities lie Kyle, I’ve had enough.”

“Sandra please, just let me explain.”

“Explain what Kyle that you’re a thoughtless, mindless pig of a man!”

“Well yeah, but I love you.”

“Well it’s too late for that now, goodbye Kyle. Try not to waste life playing these games forever.”

 

The End is Nigh.

The End is Nigh.


Feeling slightly playful today. It’s raining out so I’ve been cooped up all day. This is just a little break away from all the serious, edgy things I’m currently occupied with.

Greg J Allman.

You only use me behind a locked door,

I put up with your shit, that’s all I’m good for.

But some days it’s not as bad as it could be

I’m here for you whenever you need me.

I roll for you and you just rip me apart

You have no idea what it does to my heart.

Sometimes you run, sometimes you blow hot air

Whatever the weather I’m always gonna be there.

Come rain or snow I’m cleaning your mess,

Just reach out to me, you know my address.

I’ll never move, I know my zone

Even though you leave me hanging here all alone.

I know my duties, but I just need you to care,

Just admit a love like mine is rare.

I’ll see you soon for another caper

Signed by you’re true love. Toilet Paper.

Eternal Love

Eternal Love


My initial reaction was to give up my sense of smell. I sort of came to that conclusion rather easily and quickly. Simply because I am not a baker or chef. Although I love food, I feel like that I would love it more if I didn’t have the ability to smell it. I know it sounds ridiculous becasue the aroma of a dish plays a huge part in someone’s personal taste for it. But I seem to constantly find myself saying “Something smells” and not in a positive way. Just imagine all the things you wish you could un-smell. For example when my mum cooks mushrooms. The smell lingers in the kitchen for a while before deciding to explore the rest of the house. The smell reminds me of when you burp and a trace bile shoots up your throat. For a split second you think you’re gonna vomit. From giving up my sense of smell, I no longer get asked to check if dairy products are “still good” or to see if my little nephew has soiled himself.

I guess there are some negatives, for example I am a profuse sweater. Like seriously it does not take a lot for me to start pouring from my pores. I get the tube (London Underground) nearly every morning and every morning I step out with a full bodied sweat. So that always leads to me finding the nearest public toilet to re-lynx myself and step out smelling of roses…or whatever random scent I have in my bag. Not being able to smell smelly people is a huge plus, but not being able to smell myself is scary. I get the feeling I would end up spraying myself every two hours just to be on the safe side. Another pitfall is not being able to smell my farts. Now before you throw up in your mouths hear me out. All men let off in public, the same way they need to in the privacy of their living room or bedroom. The only difference is they need to be more discreet. Sometimes I can tell when a fart will smell, but there are occasions when my girlfriend disgustingly asks me “Did you fart?” and I embarrassingly answer yes. The thought of being on the tube or in a lift and letting one out that clearly smells like a gym sock that’s been microwaved terrifies me. Also it leaves me open for an attack similar to that of Sideshow Bob’s when he married Selma.

Can you smell that?

Can you smell that?

But for giving up my sense of smell I would be in receipt of a a super sense. That sense will be hearing. I have a tendency to wear headphones or earphones at the best of times and therefore I switch off to everything else around me. With a super sense of hearing I could blast out the finest DMX barks and growls all the while listening to my parents ramble on about their plans to move out of London. Also think of the times you’ve wanted to eavesdrop on a conversation but had to disguise your listening with playing music. With this heightened sense you could become the next Perez Hilton within a week with all the information you’d obtain.

There are some pitfalls with my new super strength ears however. Firstly I’m unfortunate enough to still have to ride the bus every now and then. Usually at times where school kids are littered all over the street. Having to listen to all of their conversations in detail would leave me wishing for bigger headphones. The conversations these school kids have is reminiscent of a bad episode of Top Boy or a conversation with an under educated rapper. A second pitfall (as if the first one wasn’t bad enough) would be the wails, screams and cries of babies. I have a nephew (who’s nappy I won’t be smelling) that cries morning, noon and night. His currently perfecting his tenor range while he’s still young. There’s definitely a place for him on the stage when he’s older.

It’s hard to determine if I’m winning or losing in this scenario. I’ll let you be the judge of that!


The tall gentleman stood loomed over the half naked unconscious body. He decided against touching him, the smell of alcohol percolated through every one of his pores. Marjorie scuttled back on to the deck with a jug of water.

“Shall I drip some on him or pour it all Thomas?”

“Pour it all Marjorie; we want to wake him up.”

“Here you do it, I left my wine inside.”

Marjorie handed Thomas the jug and disappeared back in to party. Thomas let out a sigh before emptying the jug on the man’s face. He dropped the jug on him too for good measure. He peered back in to the party through the window, a crowd had gathered now thanks to Marjorie’s rambling.

The man finally awoke, grunting, coughing and spluttering his insides over the decking area.

“By here sir, are you alright?” Thomas asked.

The man nodded while sitting up. “The hell am I?”

“This is the Annual Gardener’s Gala.”

“Ok” he responded flatly. “I’ll be leavin’ now anyway. Cheers guv’” He quickly rose to his feet and fell back on himself just as fast. Thomas stepped closer attempting to assist the man to his feet. He reciprocated by throwing up over his best Savile Row suit. “Oh for God’s sake!” He shrieked. “Marjorie, I need a towel right this second!” He headed back inside. “How the hell did he get on board in the first place?” A voice asked from inside the party.

Good question the man thought to himself. He didn’t remember being invited to a gardener’s do. The last thing he remembered was that restaurant in Notting Hill. That’s where it all started.

The waitress guided him over to a small corner table next to the stairs. He ordered a straight brandy to cool his nerves. This was his first time doing something like this since he was about 20, 21. He hadn’t told anyone about this seeing as everyone has such mixed reviews on online dating. Though from the number of profiles he’d viewed it seemed everyone in London was taking part. He stayed up until the late hours of Saturday night typing out a template to message to each woman he found attractive. By Sunday afternoon he mustered up the courage to send the template out. His first response came a few hours later from Yvonne, a black social worker from Lambeth. The second was from Rachel, a redhead who works in sales. More and more responses came in over the next few days allowing him to make a choice on who he would agree to meet. He settled on Jeanette a Greek woman who was a few years younger than him. They agreed to meet in Notting Hill seeing as it wasn’t much of a commute for either of them. He set the date for a Friday evening.

He checked his watch again. He checked the messages back and forth on his phone. He was certain he got the time, date and restaurant right. Where the hell was she? The waitress had been over numerous times asking him if he was ready to order. He was on his third brandy now. 45 minutes had passed and not a sign of Jeanette. Maybe she got cold feet, or maybe she came in and saw him but didn’t like what she saw. He had on dark jeans, grey boots, a white t-shirt and his dark grey blazer. His hair was a bit shaggy and he hadn’t shaved since Tuesday. But most girls like the rugged look he told himself. He ordered one more brandy and decided to wait 15 more minutes. He messaged Jeanette on the website asking where she was tonight, and if he’d mixed up the dates. Although he was certain he had not. The waitress came over once more giving him a look of pity and asked him if there’s anything else she can help him with. He swallowed his pride, paid the bill and decided not to let this ruin his evening. There were a ton of bars, clubs and pubs in Notting Hill alone. The city was his oyster.

His first stop was a pub called The Elgin. Ok decor and an ok crowd. He decided to be a bit adventurous tonight and order rum instead of his preferred brandy. He mixed it with lemonade and sipped it slowly. He scrutinised the groups and couples around him, cutting a lonesome figure at the bar he continued fraternising with his drink. The pub was thinning out; the groups began moving on to some of the local nightclubs. He didn’t much fancy a nightclub in Notting Hill. From what remembered of his younger days the clubs in the West End were ten times better. He downed his second rum and ventured off in to the night. He sat downstairs on the bus near a group of guys and girls. They were discussing some house party they ditched in favour of a club. He leaned in to join their conversation but thought better of it. Besides he was disrupted when he looked out the window and thought he saw Jeanette. He checked the website on his phone again to see if she replied but she didn’t. By the time he looked up the group had gotten off leaving him downstairs with an old woman with shopping bags. He avoided eye contact in case she wanted to discuss politics or whatever old people talk about on buses.

Finally he hit the West End and the streets were buzzing. Girls here, there and everywhere. Asian girls, white girls, black girls, skinny girls and fat girls. He fancied his chances of pulling tonight. He followed a group of blondes in to a bar on a side street. The bouncer led them down some stairs in to a dark room with purple lights. The girls headed to a table while he walked to the bar. This time he ordered a brandy, he wanted to keep a cool head. He sipped it keeping an eye on the group of girls. Surely one of them was single and enjoyed the company of rugged men. He moved from the bar and stood near their table hoping to be involved in some of their conversation.

“Excuse me? Hi.” One of the blondes said.

“Hi” he responded.

“Are you with those guys over there?” She pointed to two men in shirts sitting at the bar.

“No, no I’m not.”

“Oh, never mind.”

She turned back to her friends and continued talking and giggling about the two men at the bar.

He ordered another brandy and downed it. He went to the bathroom and splashed his face. His eyes were bloodshot, plus there was a mysterious stain on his t-shirt. He checked the website on his phone, still no message from Jeanette. He headed back in to the purple haze and stood by the blonde table again.

“Anyone order a rugged man?” He slurred.

“Yeah she did” Blonde number 1.

“No! It was her” Blonde number 2.

“She likes ‘em ‘airy!” Blonde number 3.

“I do not!” Blonde number 4.

“Go on, ‘e ain’t ‘alf bad!” Blonde number 5.

“No thanks!” Blonde number 6.

“D’ya come wiv a receipt? Just in case I get a be’er offer” Blonde number 7.

“I don’t remember there being so many of you” He mumbled rubbing his head. His stomach rumbled sending a warm yet chilling message up his throat and out through his mouth. He covered their entire table with vomit. Some of it rebounded off pitchers and glasses over their outfits. Horrified shrieks rang out causing bouncers to come storming over. He was on his knees trying to use the table to balance himself.  Two bouncers grabbed his arms and stood him up.

“Come on ladies, you won’t be sorry” he spat out.

“Fack off!”

“Come on mate, let’s get you some air.”

He was led out through the back and dumped in an alley way next to some bins. He was certain on the way out he saw Jeanette ordering a drink at the bar.

He cleaned himself off in some public toilets in Soho. The man standing by the urinals didn’t have any weed or pills to help him crank up the night. He found an off licence that was willing to sell him a bottle of vodka although they weren’t supposed to. He necked half of it in minutes. He found a group of lads loitering by a parked car and offered them some vodka. He soon realised there was about 8 of them and the bottle soon finished. They thanked him by patting his back and taking photos with him. One even videoed some of his dance moves. Telling him “I’ll post it on my blog mate. You’re a legend.” He left them to it; he had his own party to attend to. Instead of letting the night be an entire bust he decided to pay a visit to a place one of his work colleagues told him about a while back. A place where you don’t need to message women to arrange a time, date and restaurant, only to be stood up. Just a guaranteed good time, and that’s all he was looking for. He walked down a quiet side street until he came to a door with a man smoking outside. He approached the man but before he could speak the man searched his pockets and patted him down.

“Go on mate” the man pointed him inside.

He went down some stairs where he was met by an older woman with a pink wig.

“Ish dis where I picksh?” He garbled.

“Nah love, you give me 70 quid then you can choose any one of the girls in that room. How does that sound?”

“Perfecsh.”

He handed over the cash and the old lady led him through the curtain strings. She stood him in a room where three women were sitting on couches. Two were brunettes and one was blonde. They were all very skinny with bright bras on. He picked the meatier brunette as he had a bad experience with a blonde earlier in the night. The old lady handed the brunette some cash and he was led down the hall in to a bedroom. The bedroom had a mirror on the ceiling and one that covered an entire wall. He watched her get undressed and then lie in the bed. He leaned over to ask her a question.

“Do ya likesh rugged men?”

“Yes” she replied deadpan.

“Goodsh, some women don’t.”

“Yes.”

She kissed him on his mouth and began to undress him. Jeanette doesn’t know what she’s missing he thought.

He found himself being shoved out by a 6 foot tree of a man 10 minutes later. His escapade with the brunette didn’t last very long, and the pink haired lady had no interest in his argument about representing value for money. Neither did the tree house. He was tossed back on the street with a bruised face and ego. He was tired now, the night had strung him disappointment after disappointment. He walked past thumping nightclubs and groups of fun loving people screaming at the top of their lungs. This was hell. He made his way down to Trafalgar Square where a few romantic couples sat and canoodled with each other. He went over to the fountain and washed his face. He wet his hair too just to give it a new look, and maybe give himself some better luck. Two community support officers shooed him on. He didn’t put up a fight, he had lost one too many of those tonight. He made it to the millennium bridge unscathed after nearly being hit by a black cab. The bridge was particularly cold, the motion of the ocean mixed with the amount of alcohol in his system made him queasy. He leaned over the barrier and watched the water. The cold blue streams rocked back and forth with every gust of wind. He stumbled on before tumbling over losing his shoe.

“Wheresh it gone?”

Passersby avoided eye contact with him casually but cautiously walking around him. He crawled the floor before seeing something in the water.

“There!” he shouted.

He stripped himself of his clothes and climbed on to the ledge. A Good Samaritan attempted to pull him down but failed. He leapt off the ledge in search of his missing shoe.

He landed with a thud on the deck of a boat. The boat rocked causing some to stumble off balance. The more intoxicated of the guests shouted “Iceberg! Right ahead!” This was met with raucous laughter. Thomas a reluctant partygoer decided to see what caused the thud. He stepped out on to the deck to find a half naked man lying unconscious. He had bruises on his face and torso. Marjorie caught up with him outside and was shocked to see the rugged man lying there.

“What happened to him Thomas?”

“I have no idea Marjorie, I think he’s had one too many though. Go and get a jug of water to wake him. Something tells me he’s not a good swimmer.”

Greg J Allman.


Upon spending my daylight hours in the library perfecting my craft! Or something like that. I always need to come out for air when my inspiration tank is running on empty. Or in other words I get hungry. Luckily for me I’m currently based in Central London (West London) where there is no shortage of places for me to fill my belly. However with a huge selection comes a huge responsibility.  You don’t wanna balls up and end up eating a meatball marinara from Subway. You want something special. Something that’s gonna make you say “Thank You” and actually mean it. Something, despite it’s nutritional and health values will have you eating it damn near every day! Moroccan Box does just that.

I stumbled upon the Berwick Street Market by accident (I promise I wasn’t skiving) after short detour from sampling kicks in Foot Patrol. There were a few places to choose from, so naturally I got nervous and cowered in a corner wishing I wasn’t stuck with such a decision. You see I’m the sort of person that would have a bad lunch and moan about it for ever. I’m very food envious if I think you’re plate looks better than mine, I won’t be happy. So with cuisine choices of salads (hell no!), burritos and burgers (yawn!), Indian (Not gonna risk it at lunchtime) and Thai (I prefer Chinese). All that was left was Moroccan. At first I wasn’t fully sold, so I did what any one would do. Wait until someone orders from them and peek at what they got. Lo and behold someone orders and I’m right there casting an eye over the proceedings. Soon enough I am salivating at prospect of flat bread, salad, lentils, meat, cous cous, chilli sauce and wait for it…baba ghanoush. All wrapped in a take away box. I kid you not I raced back to the library to devour the contents of this box.

Taste better than it looks!

Taste better than it looks!

Now here I am telling anyone willing to listen to give this Moroccan Box a go. I doubt that I am their only cheerleader but I certainly am the biggest. Their hearty food gives me a second wind going in to dreary afternoons where I usually use the desk to sleep rather than write.

Thank you Moroccan Box!

Moroccan Box

Moroccan Box

 

Greg J Allman