Release the Shepards Bush One

Jail. There is no other way to put it. I'd heard stories of craftwork and cable television, but clearly that's only if you allow the right people to enjoy you from a vantage point where they cannot see your face. Reluctant to alter my sexual preference at this late stage, I endured the lowest grade of prison hospitality, although I'm sure it beats anything we could offer a criminal guest in Britain. It seems the police mistook my subtle protest at the state of modern car repair services for an international shooting incident. They responded badly when I tried to express my disappointment at the size of the bill to a surprised mechanic...using a Colt 45. And I'd heard they were liberal over here! Still, the court bought the story that my reason for packing heat was clearly recreational and slapped a mere 4 months sentence on my disbelieving person. In the absense of a lawyer or, at that point, any self-belief, I took it like a man and made my way to Amsterdam's finest incarceration facility...where I was again encouraged to "take it like a man", or words to that effect, in the broken English of a man named Sue. Now, with my entire project in jeopardy, I need to get hold of Karlton-Jones and see how the land lies. On the bright side, David is back on the road and running like a purple dream. Now? I'll seek out a bar and get adjusted to life on the outside...then I'll try and work out what I'm supposed to do with the rest of my days. Karlton-Jones was supposed to do something constructive whilst I was locked up, but as far as I can see, he mistook that for an invitation to book an all-inclusive to Alicante. He even emailed me pictures of the portly dinner lady (many dinners I'm sure, a lady? I'm not convinced) he met at a hotel mini-golf tournament. The man is like a cock with no hole...he's useless, and even with a golden tan, almost illegally unatrractive to look at. Until next time, a little advice...don't wave a gun in Kwik-Fit and don't trust a man who sends you a picture of himself in speedo's clutching a hot dog and a bailey's chaser. Peace. Buddy.

Amsterdamned

Every morning, and most afternoons, a strange man in a dufflecoat romes past me muttering to himself. I have no idea what he's doing there, and I suspect he doesn't either. Then again, in order to see him I have to be roming the same streets with the same frequency, so he probably thinks the same of me. But I imagine my reasons are rather different.

The Harwich-Hook of Holland experience was a joy: what looked like a pleasant evening very soon capitulated into an angry, inebriated disease of a night; although apparently a coastal centred apolocalypse isn't enough to halt the progress of Stena's maverick liner. And so off we went, 200 increasingly green victims haplessly sliding from port to starboard all the way to the lowest of low countries. I believe I careered into one disillusioned American family 5 times before we left the port. I gave the father (frigid with disappointment that East Anglia would be the last thing he and his family should experience) a look that I'd hoped would be assuring, but just seemed to petrify him even more. Every time I slid into another member of his rotund family, he clutched his youngest, and possibly fattest daughter whilst giving his wife a look that said 'He's back, you'd better go with him, I'll never forget you my darling'.

But...they, and I, shouldn't have worried. We reached our final destination (not Hell as many had feared) but an hour late. A chipper customer servant piped up and thanked us all for travelling on board their mobile death wish, and hoped to welcome us back again in the near future. We all had other hopes, several of which featured said customer servant being possibly unfairly beaten about the face and back. On the bright side, the disease of a night had effortlessly healed itself and as I drove slowly off the boat I was greeted with an early morning sun peering tentatively over the, entirely visible, Dutch horizon. I stopped to take it in, and thank my God I wasn't turning blue clutching an essential piece of boat in the middle of the North Sea. Sadly, the transit van behind me didn't feel compelled to appreciate this majesty and piled straight into the back of my shimmering purple viva (I've decided to call it David) Hardly ideal as you can imagine, but as the concertina of car horns behind me slowly grew into a harmonious melody, I realised David would be out of service for a little while, indeed may never make it through. A Dutchman approached me and laughed. He then said something that involved a lot of spitting and stormed back to his cabin. If you ever find yourself waiting beside a marooned purple Vauxhall Viva whilst a vessel full of international, impatient, sea-sick motorists berate your existence and point...don't start crying. It's a little embarrassing and to be honest quite immasculating. And I'm not a crier. But I've been through a lot lately. And I was about to go through a lot more. Damn you David...damn you, you beautiful purple piece of shit.

Eventually breakdown assistance arrived, and once they'd finished smirking and even laughing out loud, they hitched up glorious purple David and hauled him away. Between 7-10 working days...then I could pick it up from a garage with a lot of a's in the title. Magic.

3A Kaarnens St. Seeing as David was otherwise engaged, I took a cab. My imagination wanted to ride a bike, but my lazy thighs complained to my brain and the consensus was that I just couldn't be bothered.

I've been here over a week and I still haven't fulfilled my duty. I'm a naughty boy. Karlton-Jones has called 3 times. He's even emailed so it must be serious; he has a fake hand and a reluctance to wear his reading glasses. Usually any email I receive from him has to go to a government specialist for translation, such is the complete bullshit that emerges from his sweat laiden keys.

Anway, I have to go through with it. One last job. Easy. Or would have been until lately...but that's another story...OK, I'll be seeing you, but you won't be seeing me..unless you're Richard Klijsters-Boan, in which case you'd do well to catch the next Stena to Rio.

Remember, none of the people are right, none of the time...except possibly Trevor McDonald.

Buddy.

Viva Las Norwich!

Karlton-Jones called again, just as I entered the shower. Talking to him is like waiting in a dentist's lounge...you're bored, anxious...and you know when something does happen, it's not going to be pleasant. I'm sure I can smell his breath down the phone. He was eating a scotched egg as he described my itinery. The boat leaves Harwich at 22:00, and transport would be provided...take a look at the picture and you can imagine my response. A 1972 purple Vauxhall Viva...I was underwhelmed. But you do what you have to do...it's work after all. All I have is a name, a place, and a list of motivational indescretions that my new target has allowed himself to become involved in. It's never easy, sometimes you'll see their faces in your dreams for weeks, months...wondering if the right person travelled to the pearly gates. But it's a job, and the pay is good. I had to cancel my date with Laura Sanchez, which, if my last 2 encounters are anything to go by, is probably for the best, but maybe not...she too enjoys daytime TV and has a weakness for pork.

As I mulled over what it must be like to enter a European village in an metallic purple saloon, I received an email inviting me to a University reunion in Amsterdam. My old room-mate, Kyle Crevolin, had moved there with his then girlfriend in 1990. They'd clearly been breeding and making money, as the picture of his new house boat testified. Why they now feel compelled to host a group of people who have had every excuse to see each other since University, yet have come up with any excuse to avoid it, is beyond me. But it seems his brother Bob, who spent an entire winter on our sofa, met with an unlikely death in Sheffield (a terrible place to live, let alone die) and Kyle wants us all there for the wake. It's in 3 weeks so I should be home in time. Although hopefully not. But then again, I'll be in Europe anyway, and I'm sure his now wife will be there, Oola. I've always been uncomfortable around her, ever since she tried to touch my penis at 5am one summer. I couldn't do it to Kyle, and it may be the reason I haven't been to see him since. I always liked Kyle, he was a good man. And I've always held myself in high regard that I didn't finger his wife. Jesus Lord, what if Kerry Thomas is there?! Kyle and I slept with her in 1987. Both of us were too embarassed to tell the other one, but Bob knew and told us both. I knew she always liked Kyle, and I was merely a drunken cry for help. You and me both love. Anyway, I have to find insurance for a 1972 purple pariah...and head somewhere near Norwich for a night of sea sickness and over priced bacon sandwiches. Take care of yourselves, and each other...bon voyage.

Buddy

Deborah Moullneuve

I give up. She was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, when I met her. And I should've left her there, and then possibly killed myself. She was half-French and completely open-minded, but her propensity to spit, an overly keen interest in motorway fatalities, and the fact her sadly departed parents were stuffed and flanking the TV, soon had me checking possible escape routes and attempting to self-harm while she was pouring me yet another 80% proof vodka. This stuff could kill a small village of obese, passionate Russians quite effortlessley. Yet she never flinched. And she was also one of those people, who I'm sure you know too, who are all talk when it's about them, very eloquent...but the moment you even begin a sentence that doesn't involve her, she drifts away...lost, just waiting to be brought back to life when her name is mentioned...try it, just say anything... it doesn't matter...try Dutch-Indonesian, or mention your desire to chase innocent Jews around Europe, or even that you touch cats and have killed several blossoming virgins in your teenaged years...it doesn't matter, as long as you don't mention their name...do it, and they're back...magic. She also kept a seal in a tank in the master bathroom, Dan I believe he was called. That should have been enough, but she was soon guiding me around her bedroom, which was completely velvet and smothered in pictures of collies and ex-boyfriends. One of them looked a lot like Eddie the Eagle, but I don't believe he skied. She had vodka bottles framed on the wall, along with polaroids, and little notes describing the events of the evening said bottle made it's unfortunate cameo. One of them seemed to involve three Spaniards with the desire to infiltrate a librarian. I was taking a closer look when she, Deborah, appeared from the bathroom, sniffing, wobbling and removing her blouse. I had to freshen up immediately, for I think I may have been sick shortly before. Now don't judge me, it's been some time and although I really didn't like her, I did, however, feel compelled to thank her for her hospitality by rendering her speechless. If only that had been with my sexual prowess and not because she found me administering mouth to mouth to her apparently struggling seal. Turns out I may have been more drunk than I thought and Dan was merely excited to have guests. Deborah failed to see the funny side and I was encouraged to leave.

It was only as I caught the 02:34 train back to Shepards Bush, that I realised I didn't read enough, or at all. At least not anything without pictures. Mark Karlton-Jones called me as I boarded the train, the massive twat, and it seems I'll be on the road from tomorrow. Probably best. As such I'll be looking for transport (the authentic 'Sooty' van I won in a poker game with Matthew Corbett was sadly set alight in Chiswick last Monday. Outside Morrison's no less. It wouldn't have happened at Safeway). Anyway, enough is enough, and sometimes it's too much. Always look both ways...

Buddy.

Marjorie Marshall

A lovely women, as long as you don't look at her or hear her speak. She smells wonderful but I can honestly say I'd have had a better evening if I'd placed by face in a vice, tightened it up and played Westlife on a loop until my brain surrendered and I was plunged to hell, where satan would be met by a man smiling like a simpleton, holding a fresh bag of Danish pastries and a shroud of relief that not even burning flesh and limited panorama could infiltrate. But maybe I'm being harsh, she did pay half the bill. But it's not the money I morn the loss of, it's the 3 hours I'll never see again, 3 hours I could have been using trying to contact Mark Karlton-Jones. He left a message on my phone last night, covert as ever. Ridiculous man things he's bloody deep throat. Shallow twat is more likely. But I better call him back, it's work after all. I'm too old for this, but maybe one last time...although I remember saying the same thing in 1985. Anyway, I have a call to make. Stay alive, and remember, internet dating is for ugly people who can't get dates with the ugly people you see in pubs. Imagine that! There's a reason they're on the net people, the world has said no so they've moved into space. Maybe I'm being harsh, she did pay half the bill. And at least it's over.

Buddy.

My Side

Carl Spicer once said "You can't not like Buddy Fernandez...unless he shoots you in the face." He was a wise man, Carl. Sure there were rumours about him, but all I can say is that I never saw any evidence that his dog had been offered anything but the love of a friend, nothing more. He's dead now. Carl, not the dog. Terrible story, his wife has never recovered. I've done what I can but I'm just one man, and she says she's not ready for sex yet. Typical. You'd think the vulnerability would be seeping from every pore, praying to be embraced by the asborbant touch of hope...The silky touch of Buddy Fernandez. But nothing. Seems Carl's unfortunate brush with 2 tons of irony was a bit of a blow. Poor man was struck down by an ambulance on Great Portland Street, just after Songs of Praise on Sunday evening. Sad. He was a good man and an above average golfer. If he could see me now, I'm a changed man. The birth of the new Buddy Fernandez is this day my friends. My nephew Trey convinced me this is the way to go, this blog thingy. He thinks I just want to babble on about dead golfers and their reluctant wives. It's all a bit darker than that I'm afraid. Call it cleansing if you will, but I'm 40 years old and I already feel I've seen enough. All in the past, it's Floristry that pays the rent these days, at least that's what Gordon Brown thinks. Who, by the way, shares the same name as my neighbours' pecanese. Little fuck. One more daliance with my admittedly larger than average cat, and he'll be in a casserole. I assure you of that. Anyway, things to do. Stay alive and remember, good manners don't cost a penny.

Buddy.

Bobby Hernandez

If I receive any more credit card invitations for a Bobby Hernandez, I shall hurt someone, or myself. If any local mail men are reading this, PLEASE, it's Buddy Fernandez! Not all that common in West London I'm sure. Thank you, and good night.

Buddy