Love, Honour, and Fuck That Shit


Liberate Tutemet


(I always wanted to start a blog with “OK, so….” just because it’s so fucking frowned upon. Job done).

First up: a confession. I pinched the title from a story. But it’s my own story so I ain’t gonna be suing the arse off myself. Actually – I might do that. I’m weird.

This is about marriage and what it IS and what it should be and what it IS THE FUCK NOT….

….at least…to me. These are my eyes and they see weirdly. They can also cry if they want to. And so can my soul. Whatever and wherever the Hell that may be.

Marriage to me is nothing to do with godstuff. It’s nothing to do with vowing some meaningless shite in front of a shitload of leathered guests who’ve essentially only turned up because they have a particular affinity with free fucking food and ridiculously big fuckoff…

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Liberate Tutemet

I met some eyes and stared a while;
For in their sadness: mine.
I was the sponge who soaked their sobs;
Their weeps and cries and whines.
When wetness over, tears the foe;
I dried my soaking-sponge.
When he was dry, his tears now mine;
I listened to his tongue.
He told a story rich but poor,
Of past and present true;
Where hurt was bare, love had no chance;
No nights or days to rue.
Then soulful power followed us,
With prose and hopeful song;
With care and early promises
Of love forever long.
Six decades passed and still we loved;
Addicted to each other;
Those eyes I met again and stared;
Across the ‘planes- my lover.
When time was done and days were up;
We lay and linked our hands;
A burial of hearts embraced;
Now hidden ‘neath the sand.

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It was so late that it was early. I was walking with my father – a dignified (or so he thought) man wearing an awkwardly unstylish coat and sixty years upon his face. Despite being hideously embarrassed to be seen with my old-Old Man, I liked to try and up my game for him – watching my language, standing tall, that sort of thing. He may have been waaaaay older than most Dads but having been through t’mill of late, his age meant that I had to tread a little more respectfully.

Not this time, though.

This was the one occasion I had the chance to become UNCIVILISED and grotty and partake in some fisticuffs with a local scumbag. This one occasion would require me to be – well, to put it mildly, unrestrained. I was at my tether’s end with bullies as I’d never defended myself before, having adhered all my life to that parental “just ignore them” horseshit and the “they’re just jealous” claptrap. I’d ignored away…and it hadn’t offered any consolation or provided a resolution. But THIS? This was going to be cathartic, plain and simple.

SHE was fifteen – the same age as me but in the year above at school. Cock of the place, she was: a title that was essentially self-attributed and against which nobody would dare argue lest they be bloodily beaten to a fucked pulp. It was all bullshit, of course – any person who saw fit to declare themselves the hardest cunt in any gaffe clearly had something missing. SHE was missing many things: wit, compassion, brain cells – and to this day, she remains absent of name – for I didn’t know it then and never since took the trouble to find out. This chick had nasty friends in low places – two of whom I’d experienced for myself.

Up to me she bowled, calling me a middle-of-the-road insult in the middle of the night. I have no idea what we were doing being out at that late hour – I just remember the blue-blackness of a foreboding sky. This was also an untwinkling sky – perhaps its black-blueness helped mask a celestial observation of the imminent bloodfulness. The sky just wasn’t ready to see this. But was I? Fuck yes.

The backstory doesn’t matter so much any more – but from my nutshell perspective I can tell you the type of bullying involved. They’d picked on you if you had the wrong hair, they’d picked on you if you had the wrong clothes. They’d picked on you if you had Jaggerish lips or a bulb for a forehead. Hell – I was bullied for the way I turned the corner in the school corridors. Seriously – what in all fuckness?

It was being bullied for smartness, prettiness, or weirdness that had given birth to my quasi-empathy for HER particular breed of underdog. I don’t attribute that emotion ENTIRELY to bullies, but I can say that it definitely took me to Stockholm, where I found it extremely hard not to care about them and to wonder why they did it. But at that moment, right then, I didn’t care at all. Not for her – I wanted her blood on my shirt.

Did she REALLY speak to me that way in front of my father?Even back then, being called shit didn’t bother me – but it bothered my dad and THAT purpled my face with anger.

Me: Say that again.

She: Fucking SLAG.

She had it coming.

So I came.

I punched.

I conquered.

Just the one BOOF – and she was down. Her eyes told me she’d messed with the wrong person this time, and my seething voice told her the same through gritted teeth. And after they’d grut, those gnashers bit down on my hand’s back lest they bite down into her.

I wasn’t bullied again. I box with words these days, and I’m generally an easy-going pacifist. But being called a slag for being raped by two lads from school? Yeah – that’s a punchable offence.

It’s not your fault.

It’s never your fault.

And it wasn’t mine.

We Have Such Sights To Show You


Liberate Tutemet

So – you’re a movie buff. Me too. But for those of you still in the filmfreak closet, here’s a way you can quote your favourite lines ALL….DAY….LONG….and nobody need ever know (unless you want them to – I assure you, it’s a great pulling technique if you want to gather yourself a nice, smart movie geek).

Technically, any flick with a half-decent script is a quotemine, so this list is compiled with that in mind; to show you just how easy it is. Quotes you didn’t know you knew, lines from films that are usually overlooked when it comes to “Best Quote” lists. It’s especially thigh-slappingly amusing trying to crowbar a line into a conversation at work. With a customer. On the telephone. And yes – I have. Many times.

So fly, fly – engage in a little of your own project mayhem that only the true enthusiast…

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Liberate Tutemet

“Linda Maaaaaaary!” yelled my Scouse-Irish-Catholic mother who was an utter hypocrite and hated being known by her full churchy name of Patricia Anne Veronica. Sounded like a bloody nun so of course, me being me, I used to prefix it with Sister – just because it sounded so niiiice next to Patricia. This was assonance and I didn’t know it.

“What are you hiding? I can read you like a book”.

Apparently, everybody always could – except me. I had no idea who I was.

I’m not one of those womb-writers who’s been at it since conception. I haven’t always wanted to write. But this: I’ve always written. And because I always did, everyone else decided that’s what I was going to do. I denied it, of course – and then went and wrote about my desire for people to drop the subject.

Having my father for a dad helped…

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Here’s how it goes:

There’s a girl. The girl looks half decent. And by decent, I mean that she has female parts- the sum of which apparently, in the minds of many, equate to “you flatter me enough and I will fuck you”. For she has no brain, you see. Not a cell. She can’t have – she’s a girl.

She’s an Aileen or a Lisa or an Anna or a Kate – she’s everywoman.

She befriends some geezer on social media, due to mutual friends and/or common interests. Said geezer knows exactly how easy she is, for she has flickingly long hair. ASKING for it, she is. She MUST be – he’s sure he saw some cleavage in one of those selfies of hers.

After precisely three seconds, the “you’re gorgeous” comments come flooding into her inbox. She must simply love hearing this because, after all, she occasionally wears lippie. And women only wear the stuff when they’re on the pull, right?

She ignores this, and because she always gives people the doubt’s benefit, continues on her merry way putting the universe to rights and annotating aforementioned social media outlet with every single thought that pops into her bonce. But even though (and perhaps BECAUSE) it’s a beautiful bonce, surely she must be tired of all this CULTURE she seems to relish so? She needs a good bangin’. That’s what she needs. HE will TELL her what she needs.

POETRY, though? Damn.

She likes a book or two? Hmm.

He sees her cleverness as another IN. Let’s use that, he thinks. I’ll tell her how smart she is – bet she’s never been told that before. She won’t see past my crafty ruse or crack my code, he thinks.

The lame-arsed twat then proceeds to TELL her those alarm-bell words:

“You’re actually really smart”.


As in “I am surprised that this is so. Because you’re soooo pretty/beautiful/a mere girl”

Dumb Dude’d presumed otherwise. And SO dumb is DD that he doesn’t realise that  telling her how smart she ACTUALLY is ACTUALLY says more than a shitload of ACTUAL steaming hot horsepoo about his shitty little dungself, actually.

(You can save some time by avoiding telling someone they are ACTUALLY really smart. Just chase-cut and tell ’em they look downright dense. Brevity is the day’s order, after all).

Back to this particular gobshite.

He had clearly expected her to fall *into his arms, for so fucking flattering was his fucking flattery that she just DAMN her brainlessness!

*onto his cock.

But alas.…he must resign himself to her choice of unfriending or blockery…she has an amazing brain and the BEST ears. Ears that have served her well.

And why?

When a bloke tells a girl they’re actually really smart, their smarty-pants bullshit horsepoo filter sieves through the crap.

When a bloke tells a girl they’re actually really smart, what she actually hears is that you, sir, are not.