I have recently discovered that somebody out there in the world has began following me (in the none threatening way). I decided that this preposterous idea must be somebody acting as the epitome of kindness, sarcasm, or perhaps ridiculousness. Whatever your reasoning was to wish to read more of my forgotten slurs, thank you.
The latter half of my heading is reference to a story I want to tell. It’s one that dismays and disheartens all who hear it, catching them in a bitter distrust of life.
                                                           I was on a beach in Malaysia in Batu Feringhi (I think). In the heat and superfluous amounts of Tiger beer in my bladder, I decided to have a swim in the sea. My fate was sealed. I released what needed to be and began to swim back. On this journey I felt something wrap around my leg, down and over my foot, ending with the tip of my big toe. This was, of course, a jelly fish and as its sting travelled with precision down my leg I realised this… So unleashed hell. I grew up with those in that famous gang ‘the wrong crowd’, so have partaken in many humerous, sub-legal, activities, this meant I wasn’t taking this jelly fish shit. I unleashed my wrath and fury, hurling my fists through the water, determined to destroy what was stinging me. The fight raged for a massive two seconds until I felt myself being discarded, just as delicately as the attack had begun.
                                                          Reaching the beach I explained what had just taken place. Jovially describing the truculent attack, I remembered what to do in the event of a jelly fish sting: piss on it. I’d gone in for that purpose and only just as I’d finished was I stung, if only I’d waited. So now fate had dealt two blows, I had been stung by jellied evil, and now had no urine to douse my prickly wound with. Why, God? Why?…
Jack Robinson (A.K.A Jack)
The jelly fish and I have discussed the events and agreed to move on, we now keep in regular contact. Her name is Esmerelda and she paints, taking inspiration from Kandinsky.

I may have done that.

June 19, 2012

Recently I have been ill, not I’ll no matter how much my iPad refuses to believe me. But as any respectable pet owner will tell you, in the depths of unquenchable loneliness, bordome and throat infections, comes a certain desire.
Don’t get your hopes up, I didn’t bugger my dog. I did, however, introduce the little scamp to the concept of being praised for licking the withered, wince worthy sack between his legs.
Why? Not a shitting clue. Retrospectively, not the smartest of plans, though absolutely hilarious.
I have a sausage dog (happy little things, avoid at all cost) so when he feels the urge to lick his business, it’s quite awkward for him. If only he had some leverage… Fortunately he did! In the form of my mother. Propping himself against her, he inspiringly boldly began licking away. After three days of praise every time he does it, he was just as shocked as I was (lie) when he was halted.
Today, after tea, you didn’t need to know that, me and mum watched the dog and she brought up the idea of the V-E-T-S to try to stop my dog licking itself. I admitted my part in doggles new addiction and explained that sometimes daytime television drives a man mad. All is well and the dog is the happiest we’ve ever seen him.

The moral of the story is, you can teach an old dog new tricks, if that trick involves his balls.

Tonight I sat and watched time escape. How I don’t know, we invented it, didn’t we? So why can I not just say, this hour doesn’t count. But it does, and always will now. Anyway, I watched my favourite monologue and after realised I haven’t revised for the exam I’m already re-sitting. Suddenly, something has hit the fan. But miraculously it has flown straight through and landed comfortably.

I will fail my exam tomorrow, and do it smiling. Yes, I won’t treat your broken knuckle and laugh at why you decided you just needed to hit the statue, but I will be the one selling you a television and volunteering at a special needs school on a day off. Most will come in and look down their noses with sarcasm being ejaculated so damnably enjoyably from their mouths, but some will find out my truths.

My life will mean nothing to the faceless in life who benefit from your nine to five job, but to somebody every other day, you’ve caught their interest. This is what I aim for. I quit (after suspension) my job at McDonald’s when they suspended me for helping a recently widowed disabled woman light a cigarette. Her partner of thirty five years, but also her soul mate, lighter and general body. She’s registered blind and her brain haemorrhage (which I lost the man I called ‘Dad’ to) left her unable to speak and move clearly. Then, as she struggled across a road, a stolen car ran her over, shattering both her legs. As I hugged her in the rain outside McDonald’s, she cried and opened up to me. Begging me to stay, we spoke together and she told me she wanted to die. I gave her all the support I could as I saw the earnest depression behind her gray eyes, usually so opal.

For this I received suspension, gladly. It opened my eyes to the fact that I am nobodies machine and will fight for any underdog proudly. Keep your biology exams, I’m proud enough being human and helping those who need it every time I can.

‘The darkest places in Hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.’

I will never see opulence, accessible avarice, or much financial wealth. But I will see emotional wealth behind every name tag, and in all those who posses it.

Follow your dreams, not expectations.

Jack Robinson.

Parsley people

January 14, 2012

As I write this I am very lazily allowing the world to pass around me from the serenity and solace of my bed. Dreading the knowledge that Ronald McDonald owns my soul and today has decided I must earn my penance, I’m contemplating the physics of time delay.

But I need sustenance for my brains unusual activity levels, at this point, delightfully, mother comes to the rescue. She just shouted through to me an interrogative of what I would like from the (overpriced) waitrose. My reply was simply, ‘ooh! Pasta and meatballs please!’ as any man knows, that’s the ultimate, unannounced, comfort food. After a few seconds of silence, the unsure, wavering response I got was, ‘parsely people?’…

Naturally I laughed with all the noise I could produce, but then I realised that this is a frequent joke now. My mothers hearing is dwindling and just how hilarious really is that? Suddenly, the implied infinity of years that parents own hit the back of my mind with Santa and all the careers I listed as goals in my infancy.

So what to do about this sudden realisation that my mother will, one day, be much like my dear grandmother? Simple, drain it of all the laughs I can before the world turns serious. Time is an infinite concept and principle, and I personally intend to laugh my way through the tiny amount I’m rationed like the unimportant microbe I am.

This is just what it boils down to. Everybody has their own dramas, in relativity to themselves. Some cry and mope and milk it for a cheap, passion voided hug, others buy a saddle, and cowboy the fuck up. Time will always be a pain in the arse and will always win. But there is nothing to stop us laughing at it.

Jack Robinson.

What would I teach?

January 13, 2012

So I was watching Taylor Mali’s poem about what teachers make, and I wondered what I would teach. Don’t get me wrong, there are fantastic subjects out there, the only problem is that they’re being shat on.
What happened to passion? What happened to humanity? What happened to enthusiasm? It died, simply. We learn how to pass exams, how to succeed materialistically. But how do we succeed as people? Simon armitage wrote beautiful poetry when he was a prison warden. He wasn’t a jet setter, he was a warden. But his soul was so high in the clouds it was reaching the heavens. But what happened to the poet? His second best was published in an anthology to be distributed to unwilling youths who resented it on principle. So what class would cure this? A human class.

Children are just that, children. But from pre teen ages they’re forced into decisions to shape their lives. Stop! Why do we let children choose what adults they’re going to be when they’re only just out the astronaught faze? No. They have to be immediately productive. Britain prides itself on being completely anti communist, we are a subtle china! Childhood is about fifteen years of eighty, it’s the most vulnerable, susceptible and pure years life will ever know. It’s time for discovery and wondering, not oppression and in box thoughts. But this innocence is ever more unobtainable when passionless teachers lecture soulless syllabus’ to produce ’empty’ people.

Somebody tell these beautiful mounds of clay that they can be a masterpiece without an array of A grades propping them. The sarcastic teacher believing their witty remarks fly clean over their students heads don’t realise that their sarcasm discus’ into students throats.

Tonight I allowed myself to completely acknowledge that I am in love. Finance and education could not have meant less as I looked at the adonis beneath me and gazed into the eyes belonging to the most beautiful soul. Please, there is a teacher out there who knows that the growing seeds they’re nurturing are more than pathetic letter based qualifications. You’re teaching more than just a classic book that’s reputation is defiled to unctuous youths. You’re teaching passion, willing and unconditional love to those who need it.

I volunteer at a special needs school on my day off from college and every second with those flawless people warrants so many joyful tears. Drop this bullshit of forcing books on those who just aren’t interested, teach them that love and honesty fuels perfection and everybody is and always will be perfect to somebody.

Teachers, I admire you. And in my drunken ramblings love you all. It’s the system that is flawed.

I leave this with two quotes.

‘the system might fail you, but don’t fail yourself’

‘society is based on how it treats it’s most vulnerable’

Create beauty, we all can, just look inside those who still have hearts.

Jack robinson.

The big what ifs?

December 26, 2011

I sit in one of the dives

is how I wish I could begin this. But instead I sit on the edge of the bed with the big question swirling through my mind all in a


The question isn’t said on one knee, well, it could be… If you’re French. Here we stand up to say, ‘what if?’. But, not today. Well, okay, some of the day.

Waiting for the 11a to take me out of the city pit I suddenly realised with massive catharsis, she could be mine. But of course nobody is without history and suddenly my history came back to sink their canines, deep, into my right buttock. The ex. I’m sure that, if anybody reads this introverted tripe, the bi syllabic phrase resonates like dropping a whale into placid water. Suddenly, through my grating teeth, I breathe, ‘what if?’ when pregnancy is brought up.

This is where this wallowing gets as interesting as it ever will.

So, let’s introduce the ex, for privacy (loathing and sarcasm) further known as, madame ex. Broken up longer than we were together, I poetically pet name her, ‘psycho’. I say pet name, it’s medical too.

So through my magnificent, new found happiness that’s riddled with tremors of love, much like the Spanish inquisition, Madame ex unexpectedly reappears. Now, this manipulative hell spawn can end any relationship I could ever have with frightening professionalism and accuracy. Hold my hand, and imagine James bond using a sniper with bollocks for ammunition in a chris ryan novel, where bullets always find a target. But she proposed a new twist this time. Exciting, no? Correct, No.

Is she pregnant? She’s lied about worse, with greater accuracy as well. But what if she isn’t lying? As my body takes my brain under its wing in the foetal position (ironic), the need to cry and eat banana sandwiches returns along with the longing to resume that purity. I’ve walked seventeen years of life and now I’ve apparently procreated?

I’m drinking red wine, not because I like to look civilised and give off that,’ I’m potentially pompous’ stench. Oh no. It’s merely the last drops of the true liquid gold left in the house. Screw oil. I wouldn’t want to drink that. Again. But what is this? I’ve had my first steps but are the following weeks the first steps to being a man? My brain flagellates with thoughts of finance and the thoughts of Rachel. She makes me laugh instead of two years of intolerable oppression and in a ghastly cliche manner, gives me purpose. Every day is a challenge to see her, to hold her, to kiss her, to hear the laugh that made angels stop playing.

But now I’ve procured thoughts about being in the company of usurers who themselves are in debt to avarice, using me to fund their gold hoard.

Joni Mitchell sang,

child with a child, pretending

. It looks like that’s what I’m heading to. Life is long enough for this to all wash over, but its too long for me to live another day under a thumbs shadow. Rachel is my lifeline, saving grace and grande burning flame. The day I met her, I couldn’t believe my luck. Kate bush sang,

why should I love you?

because you were born to, ms bush. Like I was born to cuddle Rachel, asleep, me awake, not sleeping all night just to have not waisted a single holy second with her. Being without her draws this attack in my heart that feels truculent and wild. I don’t care about Madame ex. You’re not pregnant and you’re not what I loved. Immaturity and you’re refusal to show your true colours like cindi lauper drew me to you. But the most astonishing flower has just grown in my garden, and god I want to take care of it.

Say and do what you like Madame ex.
Life’s too long for this to have worth. Come clean about the pregnancy lie and let me find the freedom to display true, pure, love.

Imagine this as inception and soon you will have the idea to rest the chicane, have your own love, and appreciate mine.

Jack Robinson.