Meeting of the Council of the United States of Americheese

This ‘fictitious’ meeting of the Council of the United States of Americheese was inspired by this post by Tracy Fulks, whom I stumbled upon thanks to Le Clown’s post extolling her virtues while still managing to write about himself – a skill shared by this man. Whilst the ‘personalities’ below are a little further away from the cheeses themselves and lean more towards the stereotypes of their nations of origin, I’m confident I’ll be forgiven…and by ‘forgiven’, of course I mean ‘not read’.

And it does contain SCENES OF A SEXUAL NATURE, so beware.

And capital letters.

And fullstops.


Cheddar calls the meeting to order, “Please gentlecheeses, can we get back to the next item on the agenda……………thank you. As you well know, we as the ruling body of Americheese have very little to do, but today we will face our greatest challenge, one that will put us at the very forefront of influential decision making….Manchego will you please stop fucking the Danish Blue!”

“Hey! Whadaya mean stop! Who’s gonna notice one more vein in this cute little-“


He stopped……. “Ok gringo, chill out. Adiós amore.”

“Come,” says Gorgonzola. “Let us come together around this table, let us break bread like brudders, share sandwiches, tell a few jokes yes, but don’t show disrespect.”

“Thank you, Gorgonzola,” says Cheddar.


Gouda pipes up, “Is it true Mr. Cheddar sir, that someone wants to become a cheese?”

“Thank you Gouda, for slapping us back to the point. Yes, the reason we are here today is because a non-cheese foodstuff has expressed a wish to become a cheese. Regardless of whether or not the procedure would be possible, let it never be said that we were not a progressive dairy product and open to new ideas. That and the fact we’re getting a lot of pressure from above to come up with something groundbreaking after yogurt’s highly successful ‘We Cure Thrush’ campaign. The boss however, doesn’t want anything even remotely vaginal, so we’ve decided to open ourselves up to having foreign objects penetrate our inner circle. Gentlecheeses, please welcome, the Chicken Nugget.”

“Thank you ever so much for seeing me like this,” said the Chicken Nugget. “I usually get shunned wherever I go now, no-one invites me to parties anymore, and do you know why? Because that fucking Jamie Oliver asked his stupid Food Revolution Community on Facebook what the worst processed food was, and I fucking won! I am the worst apparently, and not even of just the meats! No-one in the Food Revolution Community on Facebook appears to have come across the shit that is bear-shaped processed meat! And I’m not even classed as junk food any longer, and I’ve undergone a major change in a number of outlets who have dared to make me actually resemble actual chicken.

“But the damage is done, the facts are wrong but image is everything, there’s no going back, all the others have banded together – third place on the poll was ‘Fake Cheese’ for fuck’s sake. Third! If that doesn’t stink of conspiracy then I’m a Dutchman!”

“I remember seeing sat poll,” said Swiss. “I sought it was extremely badly done. Very biased. Sey had pictures of se sree sey wanted people to vote for as examples of what to vote for. Disgraceful…..But please don’t mistake what I just said for an admission of anysing partisan…in fact I shall put in for an abstention of my vote right now. And I’m late for my hot pastrami with mustard on rye-tial.”

“Mr. Cheddar sir!” squeaks Gouda. “Umm, Manchego…”

“Manchego, please stop fucking the Västerbottensost!”

“¡Si Señor!”

“Well I say no!” exclaims American. “We don’t want no Chicken Nugget dirtying up our board – no offence there, buddy – there must be a better way to compete with yogurt…….you got any skills, Chicken Nugget?”

“Umm…..I can be the sole food item in your diet for 15 years and not kill you?”

“Buddabing!” Hiccupped Provolone. “I’m just a sandwich guy. Italian cold cut is my specialty.  I melt up real nice on a steak sandwich or meatball sub. I ain’t nothin’ special, but for what my open onion is worth, I likes the guy and I would welcome him into the family.”

Brie fluttered her eyelashes, uncrossed…re-crossed her legs, “Mais oui, I like ‘is ‘I don’t know what’. I like se way he shares my colourings after I have been baked. Do you sink sat you can match up in all departments, Monsieur…….Nugget?”


“Quiet Monsieur Nugget….and let your ‘ips do se talking.”

“Thank you Brie,” says Cheddar. “Toe, do you have an open oni- I mean opinion on the matter?”

“Oroyt chaps?!”

“Oh fuck, who let Somerset Brie in?”

“Couldn’t ‘elp oover ‘earin’ some soorta mee’in’. I remember back in 1915 whens I wrote ‘Of Human Cheesemaking’, we ‘ad a loda mee’in’s-“

“Oh shut up, Brie!” pleaded Cheddar. “Toe, please, your thoughts.”

The blue, pasty, often damp, pedicular bi-product gazed at the Chicken Nugget for nigh on a minute. Silence filled the room (although it was punctuated by the soft ‘tap-tap’ of Manchego’s cheesicles slapping up against Monterey Jack’s arse. Cheddar had given up trying to moderate the errant Spaniard’s singular ways). Toe regarded the slovenly figure sat opposite him; he saw a broken food; a worn skin covering a frail body harbouring a wet soul; the lines on his face betraying the high levels of chicken foot he contained; the excess fat, that would usually now be swilling around some poor unfortunate’s stomach was pooling at the base of Chicken Nugget’s chair; his very essence sweating out of him.

Toe thought about image; on the face of it, it seemed a herculean challenge to turn this sorry excuse for sustenance into something worthy of the title ‘Cheese’; but look at some of the examples that existed; Toe himself was an abomination but had done nothing to hinder cheese’s popularity, and one of the most quoted lines about the very nature of cheese’s existence had not damaged the creed either. No, it would not be a problem integrating Chicken Nugget’s public persona.

The naming of the new cheese would be more troublesome; ‘Chicken Cheese’ was most definitely out, as was ‘Cheese Nugget’, more detail would need to be gleaned about the Chicken Nugget’s place of origin; a nice sounding town name could quite easily be used…..let us pray he’s not from Shitterton.

His texture and flavour could pretty much be anything, as could his appearance; after all, the existence of Easy Cheese – whose presence was alerted to everybody due to the deepthroating she was currently receiving from Manchego – meant that there was really nothing that wouldn’t sell.

The silence – save the gagging – was abruptly interrupted by Feta, who threw some plates against the wall for no apparent purpose, and then went back to writing his list of reasons why there was no need for a salad to include lettuce.

“I think,” intoned Toe, “that there is no reason not to embrace this Chicken Nugget into our fold. For should we not be honoured that he has chosen to be a part of us, rather than sell his soul to those pompous, egotistical twats the Vegetables, or simply give up all self-worth and become a Grain?”

“Oh ma fuckin-a gord!” shrieked Mozzarella. “I look-a like-a da bollock! Why-a nobody-a say? Dis-a no sexy, dis-a no sexy at all. Some-a-one hand me da knife, I slice-a maself up.”

“Ooo yummy!” said all the Council at once. Basil and tomato were brought in, hacked up and served with Mozzarella on the few remaining plates to escape the traditions of Feta. Chicken Nugget was welcomed wholeheartedly, and should be on the supermarket shelves next to the other cheeses very soon……………………….I would tell you his new name, but [remember to insert funny/original/any reason as to why you couldn’t think up a good name for him…before publishing!]




THATCH HERRINGBONE DIES – Daily Harbinger Exclusive

During the early hours of Tuesday morning, the mutilated body of 31 year-old explorer, philanthropist and trailblazer, Thatch Herringbone, was found on the banks of the Hicksbow canal.

Police believed that the young adventurer had initially escaped from the St. Christina the Astonishing Hospital for the Regretfully Insane; although upon further investigation it was found that Thatch had never been a patient there. The Head of Therapies, Dr. Dymphna had this to say: “We were contacted by the local police department with reference to a supposed patient of ours; but upon checking and double checking our records we found that a patient by that name and never even been admitted, nor had ever been referred to this hospital at any point in its history.”

We have subsequently discovered that it was this blog post that led the police to the imposing doors of St. Christina. When pressed on the issue, Dr. Dymphna denied that any of the accusations made in the blog were true; he also refused to answer any question relating to his wife’s name….which does indeed turn out to be Mary.

Any followers of Thatch’s blog will know that his last expedition was quite a fraught one; what started out as merely a scaling of Tooting High Street turned into so much more. Whether he reached his final destination of the Sajna Hair and Beauty Institute is not known from simply reading his blog, as it stops at the point where he escapes Tooting Dental Care; although this in itself is highly ambiguous as the actual ‘escape’ is not explicitly mentioned.

Our attempts at gleaning any information from his expedition team were rewarded with more questions than answers. His cameraman, Cameraman Cameraman, had, among other things even less coherent, this to say: “It was a time of great upheaval in the group; we were each standing on our own level trying to understand whether or not it was any better or worse than any of the others’, we couldn’t tell whether the level we each were on was physically any higher or lower than any other, but I for one would not have trusted that kind of arbitrary measure as a reflection of a moral comparison, which ultimately was what we were striving to formulate in our own minds.”

The archaeologist, Edwin Spackleton, seemed somewhat unaware that the trip had even taken place, until we mentioned his extraordinary stroke of luck in discovering their escape route using a map of the Dordogne: “Ah yes! Of course! My my what an extraordinary stroke of luck that was! I just had the strangest idea that the answer would simply be there….and it was….extraordinary….all the street names, just where the map said they would be. Always fancied going to the Dordogne…not now though.” “Why’s’at?” I asked, thinking I’d get at least a snippet of an alternative perspective about what went on. “I’ve recently discovered that the Dordogne River exhibits a tidal bore; and I simply don’t trust them. Ever since the….incident on the Qiantang River in China………” He then excused himself and went to his bathroom, where I then heard him sobbing; sobbing like a bereaved child. I placed my card and a note on his kitchen table and left.

Juliet Hamstring was my next and final call….I held out little hope of learning anything about the events following the Dental Care escape, let alone a state of mind that would account for Thatch’s final blog post.

Juliet lives in a modest, London apartment with her flatmate and friend of many years. She works for an auction house specialising in violins; it affords her some extremely glamorous travel, and the rubbing of shoulders with the very many weird and wonderful characters who adorn the classical music industry. She is an enthralling and captivating human being, whose most simple movements echo those sublime notes which emanate from the most exquisite Stradivarius. And her taste for red wine rivals that of Gerard Depardieu. Her body is curvaceous and, in keeping with her own views of it, should be shown off.

She leads me to two scuffed, leather wingbacks in front of a dwindling fire; plonking the glasses on the table between them she hands me the bottle and corkscrew and asks, “Would you mind? I’m all out of scewtops.” It is at this point where I simply forget why I’m there.

“So you want to know about Thatch?” In a manner of speaking….I nod. “He was a twat, and I fucking adored him.” She told me how they met; how they eventually got together; how they made use of every nook and cranny of the delicatessen she owned at the time, and of the art gallery that he worked for located in the same home county village; her subsequent split from her long-term boyfriend, and her assumption that Thatch would be her next; her ignoring the fact that it was never going to happen, not caring simply because of the vast amounts of pleasure he gave her both sexually and mentally; his stupidity in lying to her about things she’d have undoubtedly forgiven at the time, but their concentration became too great and there was nothing left in her with which she could dilute them.

“He was frightfully clever. Not in retaining information or learning things exceptionally fast or anything like that. He looked at things differently; he could take an everyday situation and relate it to something you’d never dream of; his turns of phrase were ludicrous to the point of genius….and genius to the point of stupidity. I did so many firsts with him….we could have done many more if he’d only let me in.”

I slowly managed to regain my composure: “This seems to be in stark contrast to the mention he makes of you in his blog. He writes like that last expedition was the first time he’d met any of you, or at least that the relationships were a far cry from what you’re describing.”

She smiled…I felt myself being totally and utterly pitied. “He didn’t recognise me. I turned up to our first meeting, everybody was there, and I expected either a big loving, loud greeting or a stunned silence….I got neither….I got a, ‘Hello, you must be Juliet, I’m so glad you agreed to join us, welcome, please sit down.'”

She finished her glass; I poured her another and topped myself up. She continued: “He’d changed, in himself. He was still there, his personality was still the same, he was still confused and looking for something that he knew may very well not exist; but this time he was actively searching for it, and had been for some time; it was compelling, he convinced me, and I fell in love with him all over again…he didn’t have a clue who I was.”

“And you didn’t try to tell him?”

“What was the point? I kind of saw it as another chance at something. Maybe a validation of my worth; if this Thatch fell in love with me too then maybe there was something to me….something to us.”

After meeting the first two members of the team, I was beginning to think that the four of them just locked themselves in a room, together with a big box of mind altering drugs and had at it. But Juliet’s account was succinct, detailed and left me in no doubt about the validity of Thatch’s blog. I was eager to get to the post-Dental Care part of the recollection but was in no mood to hurry her, and I was also acutely aware of the state she was in as they all scurried through the alternative streets of Dordogne: ‘a girl at the end of her wits…….who could still barely stand’, so I wasn’t holding out too much hope.

“I woke up in hospital. My flatmate was there. My mother. The last thing I remembered – and still do, nothing after has come back to me – was sitting up against the wall of the Rue de Varsovie, watching the boys – but Thatch in particular – fight that horrible thing, and using my last available strength to masturbate to him; matching him, thrust for thrust.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. I stared at her. She stared right back. Her body shone. She finished her glass and placed it heavily on the table. She rose, smoothed down her dress, leaned towards me and kissed my cheek. She whispered, “Please see yourself out….whenever you like……I must lie down.” I watched her pad barefoot across the carpet and quietly close the door behind her. I released the breath that I’d held when she rose out of her chair. I shivered; the fire was as good as dead.

At the point of publication no additional details are known about the circumstances leading to Herringbone’s grisly, untimely end. He was found by the canal, a series of deep, penetrating cuts and slashes covered his body; the absence of anything that would suggest a second party’s involvement led the police to the disturbing conclusion that the wounds were self-inflicted.

Having read his last post and then discovering that he was never writing from any hospital in the entire country, it does not take a great leap of the imagination to accept the initial cause of death as that of ‘misadventure brought on by severe psychotic episodes due to large amounts of unspecified narcotics in the victim’s system.’ It is however, seemingly impossible to understand how no-one knew of his struggles with mental health; our investigations have met with a wall of ignorance in this regard, and the only other emotion that comes close to the sadness felt by all who knew him, is that of guilt.

a confession

forgive me father for i have sinned; it’s been…….eleven days since my last post

why so long my son

i was chased by ebola-ridden cannibals after having an ark fall on me and then managing to have sex with a beautiful woman despite the really rather nasty cut on my knee

and what have been your sins since your last post

not taking proper care of an ark, not treating a really rather nasty cut on my knee with all due expediency, and taking the lord’s name in vain when threatened to be made in to soup

say three hail mary’s, four lord’s prayers and find me a picture of this beautiful woman

i’m on it

friday fiction – the story of felicity washington

the girl was so full of life before it was beaten and choked out of her; the parents she adored were not her biological parents; they were murdered by two seemingly upstanding members of the locale, though secretly part of the underground polyamorous and polysexual satanist community, they handed round homemade cakes to the congregation but all the while masturbated in their church, defiled the holy water with their seminars, he the proprietor of ‘satan’s sex store’ and all the while a member of a number of philanthropic boards; she the keeper of an indefineably gruesome whorehouse; beams as naked and splintered as its inhabitants; recruiting wife and mother, sister and daughter; a collector of lost souls extraordinaire, and the baker of the tastiest cherry pie this side of the tallahassee bridge; she adored her brothers, though neither of whom excelled at college, too busy burying bodies and setting traps around the homestead, but they always found time for a wholesome game of football; and of course her horse ‘persephone’, ridden daily to the giant oak on old slothrop’s farm, under which she now lies silent, and would but the single visitor’s weekly replenishment of fresh, vibrant flowers halt the once beautiful decomposing body; no matter what joy and vitality music gives you, we all just dance our way to a morgue drawer