A bit more of Billy Byron.

Billy slowly rolled himself over to the doorway of the large open landing. It was still dark, so he went to turn the hallway light on... click... click. The bulb had blown. He rolled himself over to the main light in his bedroom and went to turn the lamp on... click... click. The bulb had blown. Billy began to panic; he had been having panic attacks since he had been discharged from the hospital. Panic attacks that paralysed his body with fear. His breathing would get heavy and his eyes would well up with tears. Billy wanted his mum... anyone he recognised... he felt alone and vulnerable.

Creak, shuffle, creak. Billy turned towards the door, something had shot past his room towards the bathroom. The curtains in the hallway were swaying gently as if something or someone had brushed past them. He heard a whispering; a low, deep voice that seemed to beckon Billy towards the upstairs toilet. Billy wheeled his cold body towards the landing, he squeaked as his chair moved across the wooden floor.

As he got closer and closer to the bathroom, the darkness of the early morning hours seemed to wrap around his aching body. Billy began to feel trapped and breathless, as if the air around him was strangling the life away from his battered soul. He could feel someone watching him, his eyes darted from side to side. Billy could see eyes staring from all corners; then he heard a whistling from the bathroom. The door was closed, but the light was flickering between the gaps in the frame. Billy could swear that the light had been switched off just a few seconds ago.

He cautiously mumbled his mum's name under his breath, but there was no answer; the whistling continued. He mumbled her name again, no answer; just whistling. So Billy shouted the name one more time....... the whistling stopped and a shadow swept across the room, then a splash of water echoed across the tiled walls. The water began to seep through the gap under the door; it trickled towards Billy's chair. Then Billy looked towards the floor... there was a strange smell, a smell that Billy recognised from his first days of school; when the bigger kids would slap his face for his lunch money; a smell that reminded him of the days when he would bang his nose whilst running away from the bullies on his old estate; a smell that took him back to the day when that possessed lorry had ripped his leg away from his tiny frame. It wasn't water edging towards his wheelchair; it was blood. Hot, sticky blood; as red as the eyes of the demons that were haunting his dreams.

Busy doing nothing.

I was on FaceBook earlier and suddenly I thought, fuck, I used to write a little blog a few months ago. This was during a period in my life when I had fuck all to do, apart from turn the TV on at about 11am, after a 12 hour sleep, to watch re-run after re-run of Frasier, Everybody Loves Raymond, The King of Queens and Scrubs on Comedy Central. They were good days..... when a phone call from an Asian guy trying to sell me insurance was greeted with so much joy because I was becoming somewhat of a recluse. A withdrawn weirdo.

So after a two month break, in which time I have started a job answering phone calls from disgruntled internet customers who tend to call me a prick because their new jeans didn't fit, or cry down the line at me moaning that their Christmas was ruined because there was a rip in the pants they had bought for the uncle they hadn't spoken to all year, or threaten to commit suicide because their parcel turned up 15 mins later than expected, I am back on BlogSpot, filling you in on what I've been up to. And basically that is............... fuck all. So lets begin.




I can't remember when I did it but I decided to get a perm. So I drove down to Morrisons in my Nan's Ford Fiesta, bought a £5.49 kit and asked the Mrs to get working on it. It was delightful. Mates laughed at me in the pub, Old timers gave me strange looks down Leyton Orient and I even got called a cheap Justin Timberlake, or Bill from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, or Bogus Journey; whatever that film was called.

The Mrs even started comparing me to O'Brien, that bitch Maid from the 'Downton Abbey' series on ITV. Needless to say, it didn't last long.





I remember a couple of years ago, days used to consist of waking up in some random city on the other side of the world, packing up my rucksack, popping into some knock off Irish Pub in say, Ho Chi Minh City, visiting a few temples then jumping onto some rickety old bus to a small village just past the border in some exotic land. Now I spend my life putting wax on my finger and nose and burning it so that it looks as though I'm on fire...... or going to bed at 9pm cos I have to be up for work at 6am to listen to stupid people moan about stupid things.

At least Christmas was just around the corner! And what a lovely Christmas it was. Here, still with permed hair, I dressed up as some sort of tree and hobbled to Matt and Joey's festive party. With two beers in hand, and balls hanging from all orifices I proceeded to dance, (which didn't go down well with my fucked up leg) get most of my mates naked and generally make a messy pest of myself. A true stain on London.

I had some sort of moment as I was going for a piss one night, a moment of extreme darkness and self loathing. The hair had to go, I think the straw that broke the camel's back was Stevey Ward calling me Ray Parlour. It was about time I didn't look like that gyppo c**t. So I shaved it all off. Brutal. I hadn't had a shaved head since the Chavvy days of the late nineties/early naughties. When I bowled around Chingford in Evisu jeans and sparkly ear-rings. It was time to go back to my roots.

My head is a lot colder than it used to be. I have given myself a goal, a goal that I think I can achieve. I'm gonna grow my beard and keep my hair at a number 1. I want to look like one of those mugs who posts videos of themselves on YouTube telling other mugs to kill the infidels and kick off a Holy War. I might even start wearing a burkha to work.

New Year's Eve was somewhat of a love in down Bethnal Green Working Man's Club. We drank cherry Lambrini served by a fat tranny, listened to an 83 year old crooner belt out the Frank Sinatra hits and generally had sporadic threesomes. It was a great night, with great people.

Once again, against the will of my many doctors, I danced a little bit too much and felt the pain in the morning.... one day my leg will just snap off, but at least the ConDems might help me out with some benefits if I've only got one leg. Rant over......

It's been a whirlwind of a couple of months busy doing nothing. But I'm back and the StyleCouncil blog is back. So get your mother fucking reading glasses back on.

The tale of Billy Byron will also be back very soon, so stay on the edge of those seats.

Spare change guv'nor?

The East End Thrift Store Part Deux.

So the East End Thrift Store had a new delivery of capes, sweaters, shirts and dresses. We thought it would be rude not to go down and take a look. A free bar was the main reason we went down there though. We stopped at the Blind Beggar on Whitechapel High Street, had a few beers, ordered a cheese board, played pool, had a couple of arguments then strolled down to Assembly Passage. I also knew there would be some trendy looking kids lurking about, so took my photographer, Pablo, along with me to snap some fashionistas. I wasn't disappointed.




This young lady seemed to coordinate her outfit with the Bow Wow at her feet. Bobble hat, Body Con dress, over sized leather jacket and matching tights with vintage boots. A great look for the upcoming winter months. Even her pup couldn't keep his eyes of her.

The massive scarf wrapped around her neck, with a khaki long coat and red hair. The crazy curls, distressed denim jacket, grandad jumper and black tights. Two looks that stood out from the crowd. Showing her support for our forces with a paper poppy, and the customary beers in hand. They deserved to be papped and posted.

Colour! A true statement outfit. Oxblood boots, red tights, a lacy yellow dress and mustard tweed jacket with hair in a bun. Grandma chic. You couldn't help but look at this girl as she scanned the rails for bargains.

Geek chic is still alive and kicking. A good mop of hair, fitted coat and checked scarf with skinny jeans and an air of authority. Another stylish lad photographed by Pablo for Style Council.

This lad had a real grungy look going on. Skin tight jeans, denim shirt, checked scarf, distressed biker jacket, NHS specs and beanie hat. Another winner in the style stakes.

Layers, layers, layers. You can never go wrong when teaming denim with a flannel shirt, a pretty dress, large necklace, silk scarf in your hair and headphones hanging at your side. The type of gal you wanna have a chat with and find out what she's up to. A cute look for a vintage shopping trip.

The owl sweater won it for me. I love silly novelty jumpers, very Flight of the Conchords. Teamed with a tatty looking coat and tight jeans and this guy has that messed up look down to a tee. Another find by Pablo my photographer, he never lets me down.

Cute brogues, cream tights, a pencil skirt, delicate top, chunky belt, sheepskin coat and a flowing scarf. A head turning look for the cold nights drawing in. The broach is a nice touch to an understated look.

Looking like Serge from Kasabian, this lad proves that you can put on your nan's fur coat and still look Rock 'n' Roll. Add a delicate scarf, two day old stubble and skinny jeans, and the look screams 'I'm in a band!' Doubt he's as well off as the boys of England's biggest band.

One all in black and t'other in fur, tights and ankle boots. Two totally different styles, but two totally eye catching looks.

A tweed blazer, flat cap, burgundy DM's and skinny jeans; this guy could be your grandad, but he isn't. Looking every inch the gent, simple but effective.

So I woke up this morning and realised that I had spent ninety quid on a pair of loafers, three jumpers and a cape. A bad mistake considering I don't get paid for three weeks and I have fuck all money anyway. To forget about my spending spree we went and downed a few drinks at the White Hart, jumped on the Central Line and had a couple of poached eggs on toast at home. A perfect end to a lovely evening..........

Untitled VI

The door slammed shut and the house rattled as if it had been awoken from a dream. Billy peered out from his warm duvet towards the hallway. His mum had left for work. She had returned to her teaching role a few days ago and had left Billy alone for the first time in months. In some ways Billy was relieved, but there was an underlying anxiousness that he could not shift. He looked down at his leg then peered across to the stub on the right side of his body and sighed. Another day of boredom and another day of wishing he was dead.

Billy lifted himself onto his wheelchair and rolled towards the bay window that overlooked Galleon Lane. It was frosty outside and the air was still dark from the night before. He scanned the road for life but could only see a few women walking hand in hand with small children; obviously taking them to school. Billy frowned; he missed his friends, he missed riding his bike to Parkside Primary, he even missed his teachers. With one hand he turned his chair towards his shabby single bed. Times were hard; his mother hadn't worked in months, she was getting ill and no money was coming in. There was even talk that they may lose the family home. Billy didn't care; he knew someone up there was punishing him. First the accident, now this. He was happy to live on the streets with all the crackheads, whores and runaways. He didn't see himself as any better than them. He was an outcast as well; people would piss on him in the street and spit at him as he rolled by. That's what he thought anyway.

As Billy pulled himself back onto his cold bed he heard a creaking outside his bedroom door. Then he heard a shuffling. Creak, shuffle, creak. Billy thought it was Gil, the manky old cat from next door that came into the house from time to time, hunting for mice. But this sounded bigger than a cat. It sounded almost human. Creak, shuffle, creak. Billy began to feel scared. He had been having vivid nightmares about the man who had ripped his leg away from him. The man had been chasing him, with a look of murder in his eye. His hands were covered in blood and he was tailing Billy. Billy's feet were getting heavier and heavier. Then he looked down, he was chained to the floor. The man had caught him; Billy was doomed. A brick smashed across Billy's face and he was blind. He couldn't see what the man was doing to him but the pain was intense. He was dying. The brick was pounding down on him. Smash, smash, smash. Billy was dead.

When the Legoman turned up, he stole the party......

It was a short journey up the M1 to Northampton. We played Pure Garage on the ghetto blaster and drank cheap booze to get ready for the Halloween spectacular at the youngest Ford's twenty bedroom student house. At one point Mr Mulhern had a spot of road rage and raced a car that we thought were undercover coppers. Luckily they were not. It must have looked strange to passers by as they peered into our Ford Focus, four slightly pissed Mexican candy skulls rocking out to Artful Dodger on the fast lane of the motorway.

There was no contest in the best dressed at the do. Alice, as a Legoman, smashed the competition out of the water. Even a sexed up Queen of Hearts and Pit stop girl couldn't compete with the red tied classic toy that bounded into the kitchen. Even the cardboard box feet couldn't halter her triumphant rise to the top of the Halloween fancy dress league.

As the night went on, Jennifer's face remained perfectly painted while I sweated most of mine away. When it comes to organisation, working out tax refunds, tidying her bed, packing her suitcase or painting her head like a skull, Jennifer 'Anthea Turner' Ford is a cut above. She even wants our wedding to be sponsored by a chocolate bar in appreciation for her hero.

The middle Ford seems to be taking after her older sister in the perfect face painting stakes, looking effortlessly haunting in this picture. Mr Mulhern had trouble because of his ZZ Top beard so managed to look more like a panda than a skull.

The wine and the love was flowing as the evening went on. Apart from a rough bird with white powder dripping from her nose, who accused me of using my walking stick as a fashion statement and not a necessity, everyone seemed to be getting on. I spilt a beer over her mutton face and went and bought some rose tequilas to calm down. Jennifer practised a golf shot with my stick, perfectly breaking the bottom of Kate's wine glass, threw her Iphone across the bar and began dancing to the Halloween beats. It was getting messy.

The Legoman outfit was getting a lot of attention. Super Barbie turned green with envy and the skull candy people tried to beat him up. The crowds at the bar had all eyes on the large yellow toy, a pumpkin humped his leg and the bouncers tried to samba with him. Shame there was no prize for the best costume at MoMo................... because that coked up bitch who accused me of being a ponce would have won it for her whore outfit.

Then the love that was in the air got everyone hot under the collar. My face began dripping even more and my permed hair seemed to be getting frizzier as the hours shot by.

Jennifer preferred me with the Lego head on and kissed me for the first time of the night, and Kate and Ads began smooching in the corner. She was just warming him up for later that night when he would be sharing a bed with me. The next morning Mr Mulhern admitted that he found it almost impossible not to spoon me as I slept with my nose to the wall.

The hugging and the kissing was getting ridiculous. The little Ford was sandwiched between myself and Mr Mulhern, aka, Thomas the Wank Engine, and the Queen of Hearts and Super Barbie got a bit frisky on the dance floor. It was time to go home.

So we stopped off at the kebab shop; Jennifer nearly had a fight with a girl who was eating cucumber from my chips in pitta, and Adam got his balls out to lighten the situation. It didn't work. However, our cockney accents seemed to frighten the little blighters off, and the possible fight never happened.

So thank you Miss Ford for a very eventful weekend. I would kiss you all over that cheeky face of yours if you weren't up north. Oh and thanks for the breakfast, even though Carol finished it off...........

Spare change guv'ner?

Untitled V

The air outside was cold and unforgiving. It was mid November and the frost was starting to settle on the tall Victorian houses along Galleon Lane. Children were running along the slippery streets, seedy looking men were walking to and from the corner shop, some with bottles hidden in brown paper bags and others with rude magazines tucked under their armpits. Billy was staring out of the small window of his bedroom. He was slumped in his wheelchair and fiddling with the lucky penny his grandfather had given to him before he had passed away. Billy had been home for almost a week and hadn't left the comfort of his tiny room; his tee shirt was grubby, his trousers creased and his hands dirty from the wheels of his chair.

Billy had been having strange, twisted dreams since he had arrived back on Galleon Lane. He was drowning in the darkest depths of the Pacific Ocean. Prehistoric snapping fish were tearing the flesh from his bones and huge sea dragons were chasing him across the watery globe. He was desperately swimming, in all directions, searching for a safe haven. He was scanning the horizons, screaming for help, splashing helplessly as the beasts attacked him, wave after wave; snap, snap, snap. Then suddenly, in the distance, he saw a small island, about the same size as his bathroom. It was empty, glowing in the hot sun and beckoning Billy towards its dry shore. Billy was swimming furiously, getting closer and closer to his sanctuary. He stumbled onto the sand to find a large tin bath resting underneath a drooping palm tree. It shone, it glimmered invitingly and it called for Billy; so he crawled towards it.

Untitled IV

Captain Billy Byron looked out across the cool, clear water. The sun was falling through the clouds as another day was near its end. He smiled; it had been another adventurous but satisfying day. Gilbert, Billy's trusted parrot, hopped along the wheel of the towering ship, jumped onto Billy's shoulder and slowly nodded off into a deep sleep. Billy stood up, his cloak rippled in the light wind, the gold around his neck clanked and clinked as he picked up his silvery sword, and his wooden leg thumped, thumped across the slippery deck. It was time for him to retreat to his sleeping quarters; Billy knew he had a big day ahead to prepare for. After all, every pirate needs his beauty sleep.

It had been eight months since the accident and Billy was a shadow of his former self. He spent his days cooped up in the small bedroom of his mum's terraced house. He hadn't been to school or spoke to his friends for just under a year. It was 9.04am, Billy's alarm was humming to the sound of the local radio station, and he was ignoring it. He was hiding underneath his duvet and cursing to himself, he hated the morning. He hated waking up and remembering what had happened to him.

He could hear his mum downstairs preparing breakfast and moving from room to room, picking up magazines and polishing dirty surfaces. She had tried to tempt Billy from his room with freshly baked double chocolate chip cookies, extra creamy porridge with sticky honey and homemade cheeseburgers with the curliest of curly fries, but nothing had worked. He wanted to be alone.