Marilyn Monroe

The day I met Marilyn Monroe

Marilyn Monroe





































If there was a poll for the most desirable woman who ever lived – I mean the most beautiful, sexiest creature to walk the planet – Marilyn Monroe would have to be up there. She was adored by men and women alike. Still is. And judging from the millions of her images still being shared and posted and favourited every day on sites like Pinterest, plus the thousands upon thousands of boards and galleries set up in homage to her, Marilyn’s timeless allure is as powerful today as ever.

Generations of teenagers have grown up with posters of Marilyn blue-tacked to their bedroom walls. Like many an adolescent I often dreamed myself to sleep making passionate if amateurish love to her. I still have that poster rolled up in a trunk in the attic. I don’t think I could ever bear to part with it. Like an old Hendrix LP, it has become part of my identity, and remains a nostalgic memento of that heady crossroads in my life when I changed from boy to man. Oh how I miss my youth.

For me one of the greatest tragedies of the Twentieth Century was the day we lost her. In my own personal timeline it ranks among the blackest days in history, right up there with the deaths of Rupert Brooke, Duncan Edwards and James Marshall Hendrix. A day that left a bruise on the heart that never quite healed. A sense of what might have been. If only. Damn it.

Thankfully, for those of us who still miss her, Marilyn still lives on in her funny and glamorous movies. Her perfection is kept alive in our memories by the millions of gorgeous photographs taken, the library-full of books written and documentaries made about her. She is still providing succour and inspiration, fuelling our desire, all these years later.

In fact, in my short story The Blonde Bombshell, I reveal shocking new evidence that Marilyn Monroe never actually died at all, but lives on as fresh and lovely as ever, in the rural backwater of Norfolk, England, in 2014.

The Blonde Bombshell was originally published in my 700 page short story and poetry collection, Sex on the Brain, but you can read it here for free. Get the tissues ready guys, and enjoy.

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The man who made love to Maggie Thatcher

Margaret Thatcher




























In the spirit of shameless greed and opportunism which Thatcherism embodied, I’m going to plug a short story from my book Sex on the Brain, about a terrible thing that happened to the body of the late British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. At the hands of an ageing undertaker with necrophiliac tendencies. The story is called Dead Sexy. It was originally set in the future as Mrs T was still alive when it was first published. Recent events have changed that. Maggie screwed us all in her own lifetime. There’s no such thing as society, she famously said, as she laid waste to people, communities and our great national industries.  Well, it’s time she got her come-uppance. If any of her family are reading this, I’d recommend you stop reading here. Don’t read on, it’s bad. Really bad. Click the link below to read the story.

Dead Sexy

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