By David Stewart

I was in the shower in Japan. I hadn’t gone all the way there specifically to wash, I was living there at the time. And I was shaving my head with a razor because I’ve always found the best approach to hair grooming is to remove it completely once every two weeks.

The phone rang.

Nowadays I would never leave the shower to answer the phone because it would be someone trying to sell me something but when I lived in Japan a phone call was usually a chance to speak to a friend back home who had taken the time to buy a phone card.

I rinsed the shaving cream out of my head and ran to the phone. I had a long conversation with my brother wrapped in a towel (I was in the towel, I never asked him what he was wearing). We caught up until his phone card ran out and when I hung up I was satisfied, slightly homesick, dry, naked and hungry.

Ten minutes later I was dressed and riding to the supermarket.

People in Japan used to stare at me. I lived in a small country town full of people who weren’t used to seeing westerners. I was strange, exotic and close to a foot taller than most people they knew. I used to be able to silence children in supermarkets with just my physical presence. I’d hear them crying and then round the corner into their aisle and they’d stop dead and stare at me before saying the Japanese equivalent of “Bloody Hell look at that thing!”

So I was used to being started at.

Once the shopping trip was done I went to get back on my bike and caught a reflection of myself in a shop window. It was only then that I remembered what I’d been doing when the phone rang. I’d been exactly half way through shaving my head. The interruption had left with a hairstyle that I can only describe as “escpaped mental patient”. Some bits shaved, some bits not shaved. It looked like male pattern baldness crossed with crop circles.

I rode home quickly and finished shaving my head.

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By David Stewart

As requested I present my explanation of the events of last week for which I am prepared to take full responsibility. Firstly I would say in my defence that it was a really well-made horse, a fantastic piece of Greek craftsmanship. Had you seen the horse in question you would agree it was the work of great artisans that any city would be proud to display as a trophy of a vanquished foe. The carvings really were very intricate.  Yes on reflection I’m prepared to admit that leaving a battle with only a large simulated animal behind you is an odd way for an army to behave but I’ve never pretended to understand Greek ways. I also blame my unfamiliarity with Hellenistic culture for my failure to hear the giggling noises others claimed were clearly audible from within the horse. I assumed Greek carvings made noises, on reflection I’m not sure why I thought this but as I’ve mentioned they were really very intricate.

I can assure you that nobody was more surprised when a lot of heavily armed and vengeful but amused Greeks emerged from inside the horse. I consider this to be most unsporting even in war time and I can assure you that in addition to this letter I’ve drafted a strongly worded letter to several of the Greek pantheon complaining in the strongest possible terms about the actions of their worshipers.

It’s my recommendation that if we ever rebuild Troy and manage to scrape together enough survivors to repopulate it we make sure that all sentries carefully examine any wooden gifts left by retreating armies. And they shouldn’t confine themselves to a simple examination of the exterior no matter how intricate the carvings. A concerted effort should be made to interrogate the animal in question. “Hey there! Are any combatants of any kind contained within!” would be a cry I recommend all guards learn and utilise whenever the situation arises. I’d also like to point out that perhaps not running off with Greek queens in the first place might save us further conflicts in the future.

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By David Stewart

Come on. Everyone else has paired up and there’s just you and me. What do you say girl – your place or mine?

It’s just I know I could do better. Maybe another guy is going to arrive any minute.

No the party’s winding down. This is it. I tell you what, how’s this for a plan:  we’ll go back to your place and have sex and then I’ll fix that virus problem you said you had with your computer.

Okay, deal.

Fantastic.

And you can hook me up to my wireless internet while you’re there.

Ah.

What?

Well it’s just that’s a big job. I mean the virus thing could take a while and the internet as well… it just feels like you’re getting a really good deal.

I tell you what. I’ll do my strip routine for you. I’ll strip off and give you a real show, then we’ll have sex and you sort out my computer problems.

Okay, done.

Although I used to strip professionally so now it’s like you’re getting a really good deal.

How about in addition to the computer issues I fix that problem you were having with your mobile phone…

(Thirty minutes later)

…so to summarize. You come back to my place and I strip off, give you a lap dance, we have sex and then you fix my computer problems and my phone while I bake you my chocolate sponge cake and let you tell me your theory about the three Matrix films and then I give you a shoulder massage while you copy your anime DVD’s for my brother then you clean my car while I take some photographs of my breasts for you to save onto a memory stick.

Done. That’s a fair deal that’s equal on both sides.

Although my chocolate sponge cake really is delicious…

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By David Stewart

I hadn’t seen Brian since Uni but it was definitely him. He looked exactly like he did the last time I’d seen him, storming out of a history lecture ranting at the lecturer for neglecting to mention alien involvement in the second world war. He was buying chips (not back in Uni, back in uni he was eating wizz-fizz, when I saw him the other day he was buying chips). “Want to know why I’m buying chips?” he asked when we’d said hello and established how little we’d changed.
“Cause they taste nice?”
“I’m a spy,” he said. “I feed them to enemy agents”
There was no appropriate reaction to this but then there was never any appropriate reaction to anything Brian had ever said or done. He agreed to explain things to me as long as we didn’t go outside and I promised not to tell a soul.
“The food chain is a beautiful thing. A wonderful interconnected series of links in which everything has its place. Except seagulls. They have no natural predators. None. And they only eat things people throw them in parks. What does that tell you?”
I opened my mouth. He continued. “They’re aliens in the natural food chain. Outsiders in the circle of life. Which means they didn’t evolve with the planet they came here from somewhere else.”
“Aliens?” I said doing my best Scully impression. He nodded like a more fanatic Fox Mulder. “Not the main aliens but spies. The perfect alien agent. They hang around human beings listening but nobody ever thinks to keep their voice down around them. You see them looking in windows. They’re always there. Watching. Listening. Eating Chips.”
“So why do you feed them?”
“They have no idea I’m onto them. They haven’t realised I know what they are. So I feed them false information. I sit on a park bench and talk into my phone,” He held up an old TV remote “They don’t know the difference. I pretend to have important conversations about Earth’s defenses. I talk about the missile bases we have all over the world. They listen and report back. If it wasn’t for me the aliens would know how badly defended we really are!”
Once I knew he was there I saw him often. Chatting into his “phone” in the park surrounded by seagulls.

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By David Stewart

“I have a theory about women. I’ve had it all my life and going out with you has confirmed it as truth in my mind. There are two types of women in the world: Chicken Nuggets and Peanut M&M’s. All women are delicious, like nuggets dripping in sauce or chocolaty Peanut M&Ms.  But Chicken Nuggets aren’t women you want to go out with. Chicken nuggets are all the wost parts of the chicken. They’re the gristle, offcuts, foreheads, buttocks and the bits that even the chicken was happy to get rid off. They take these skanky, raw scraps and they mush them together into a nugget shape that they coat in preservatives and artificial flavours. Then they freeze it and ship it to stores where sad, pimply teenagers who pick their nose drop them and sneeze on them and then fry them in rancid fat.  The end result might be delicious but if you think about what they really are they make you sick.

Peanut M&Ms are different. They take a yummy peanut that you could happily eat right there in the factory and then they coat it in chocolate. Pure liquid yumminess that turns a humble nut into something yummier. But then to make it even better they coat it in any one of a rainbow of delicious colour. I still don’t understand how they make it a perfect pellet of delight. If it was on a conveyor belt there would be a flat bit where it sat on a flat surface. But if you examine one it’s flawless. The only conclusion I can come to is that each one is hand-crafted by trained artisans who apply the sugary coating with special brushes making sure there isn’t a blemish on the delicious surface.

If you think about the Chicken Nugget women you realise the deliciousness isn’t worth the horribleness. But the more I think about M&M women the more you appreciate how special and wonderful you are. So that packet you found in my pocket isn’t there because I’ve eaten some M&M’s. I would never do that because I’m following that diet you set out for me. I just carry an empty packet with me to remind me that I’m lucky enough to snag an M&M woman. That packet is really a photo of your soul.”

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