2021/22 Dominic Calvert-Lewin

[Nymzee]

Wow, I’ve gone from thinking you’re just a bit of an internet whopper to actually pitying your whole existence.

“I stay awake until the first glimmer of sun hits the horizon, I am afraid of the dark, no one to talk to, only my own thoughts to live with, my mind going to dark places.”

“Smothered with lies. Her face, bound with myriad subtleties, stared blankly. I searched deeper, scraped and fought with her frozen emotion. It was then that all hope faded; slithering away from me with every empty sorry she whispered. I’d lost her. For good this time. On cue, before her love set sail, a solemn tear searched my face, and found peace upon a wavering lip.”

“Fear - it clung to my icy veins like anew-born child; gnawing, biting,grasping. Whilst all along its silent repose smothered me, it’s vice grip heldme, motionless, until I found only death could release me from my hallowed dreams. I plunged too deep, shunning the fear itself, before I awoke engulfed by shadowy flame and ash. Spluttering,I asked just this - why me? And as my soul splintered into the midnight sky: I found forgiveness.”

You do realise what creative writing is or do I need to do another Google search for you.

 

[Big Sams Undies]

You do realise what creative writing is or do I need to do another Google search for you.

The only thing I need from you mate is a promise not to harm any women, kiddies or small animals that might have the misfortune to bump into you

 

[Mr K.Dilkington]

All very unsavory!

 

[Daveysgingerlovechild]

The interest in him as a PR exercise grew after his England debut naturally but its up to him and his people to manage that accordingly.

There is a balance to be had and I think its fair to suggest the perception right now is that DCL isn't doing enough on the pitch and that his off pitch focus may well be impacting other forms of his life.

Henry Winter has tonight said its tone deaf the most recent magazine spread. Do we class him as an Everton da too?

Yes, unequivocally. The Godfather of Everton Dars.

 

[chicoazul]

 

[Nymzee]

The only thing I need from you mate is a promise not to harm any women, kiddies or small animals that might have the misfortune to bump into you

I’ll leave that to you when you come home from smoothing out tarmac and find no beer left in the fridge so find someone to take your testosterone out on.

 

[Daveysgingerlovechild]

All very unsavory!

Nymzees blog? Looked harmless enough to me.

 

[chicoazul]

GOT! GOT! GOT!

 

[jinkyali]

Nymzees blog? Looked harmless enough to me.

Good this.

 

[Big Sams Undies]

I’ll leave that to you when you come home from smoothing out tarmac and find no beer left in the fridge so find someone to take your testosterone out on.

Yeah, that got me right in the feels. So creative.

Not as good as this masterpiece you wrote however:

Day 1
Gripping my still wet axe I went aboutfinishing my daily culling of the village.Not of people though, oh no, I got thebig job, the job unto which all otherjobs will be compared to. Today ladiesand gents I… am killing chickens. Theking's very own well paid and overlyqualified High Executioner - cool titleright - sent to speed up the work oflocal foxes. Marvellous. This job justdoesn’t come with the kind of perksyou’d imagine. I mean, yes the respectis okay and I suppose the hours areflexible, but you want a bit of jobsatisfaction, don’t you? I can’t evenremember the last time I called atsomeone’s door without it hastily beingfollowed by wild tears and screaming.All I wanted was to come in for a drinkand what followed was a city wide panicattack. Fear ‘eh - can’t seem to win.




Oh right, who am I then? The name isCelia. Celia Delacour. Resident andsocial pariah of the city of Brigg. I guessI just thought I’d pour my ramblingthoughts into this diary to try and showthat not all in my profession areoverpaid inbred brutes. Most of themare though, unfortunately. More sokilling chickens is just hardly what I’dcall “intellectually stimulating”. I’ll leavethe story of how I wound up in this lineof work for another time.




Today has been a particularly slow dayin terms of business. Two executions,one very sceptical trial, and some belowpar grocery shopping in the localmarket. Deeply upset me it did. No nothe trial not the failed shopping.Actually come to think of it both did. Awoman caught cheating on herlecherous husband. What’s so wrongwith that? A girl gotta eat, hasn’t she?He’s a vile creature anyway. Or was.Haven't decided yet what to do withsaid lech.




Poor Marianne - not looking forward toher passing. Especially if she takes herrenowned lemon drizzle cake recipealong with her to the grave. I can neverseem to get the damn sponge to rise.




Whoops - the king is on his way downto the peasant village I'm stationed in.I’ll come back to this later…




Day 2
Well yes, I’m back. The genius. Themastermind. The inner eye… or someshit resembling that. I’m getting quiteaccustomed to writing my thoughtsdown in this little pocket book Iplundered. I mean conversing with anoff-shoot of yourself on paper seemsmuch more socially acceptable and aless likely way to get ostracised thantalking out loud. Not that what I do fora living is anywhere close to getting meinvited to banquets and balls.




The removal and/or displacing ofsomeone’s head is a precarious task.Ground breaking, I know right. It’spretty much a scientificallyacknowledged fact that to be successfulin the “removals” game you have tohave a rather dry, black sense ofhumour. Those executioners you seepassing out on their first chop? Yehthey’re known as ‘clouds’. Will explainthat more some other time.




You can’t help but laugh at some of thehokum that dribbles forth from themouths of those facing that sharp end.Some apologise for their often wellcompounded sins, some apologised forsins they never committed, othersbegged the big man himself forforgiveness. One man even burst intofits of nervous laughter. He was strangebefore that to be fair.




I always look down on the generalintelligence of those who pray formercy. Human cupboards in myopinion. I mean, right, let’s get the coldhard facts straight. If you commit acrime worthy of capital punishment -you’re going to Hell. That’s pre-determined. You can’t argue with thatno matter how much you want to. Sowhy on Earth these people decide topray to God as their saviour is beyondme. Surely you’d pray to Lucifer. Wait,do Satanists pray? Hmm. Never mind.Anyway surely they’d pray to him/herfor a swift death and maybe somerecognition when you get through thegates of Hell for the atrocities you’vecommitted in your brief stint in the landof the living. But hey, that’s just what I’ddo.*




Don’t get me started on religionthough. Being French I’m obliged tolive and breathe the Catholic ways -doesn’t mean I actually believe in them.I mean I do believe the whole conceptof a God and “the Devil” - I just thinkthey’re actually the same ideology justpreached by two different extremes ofman. Radical, I know. I'm really in thewrong line of work.




I’ll go deeper into that one night afterI’ve had few relaxing glasses of wine.Settles the mind of course - cough. Iwas here to tell you something wasn’t I?Oh yes, that’s it. How I - the delicaterose of Brigg - became a HighExecutioner. It’s quite a surreal story ifI’m honest. Some women - well mostaround here - are born to behousewives. Bred into a society wherewomen are the ground upon which menwalk. Well not me. 21 years and onepaedophilic father later; I found myniche.




In all fairness, it was only because theKing didn’t have his very own pocketkiller that I was allowed to live. He said Ishowed tenacity and passion in what Ido. What I do? You mean that activity Idid that one time through pure ire…okay, I'll run with that. **




It’s not that I am or became misandrous- it’s just, I really enjoyed inflicting painon those deserved of it. Maybe I’mmad? Maybe we’re all mad in here -who can sanely judge that withoutexposing themselves to madness andclouding their own judgment. Exactly.You’re mad too if you're reading this.




I was shown the ropes early - punintended - and taught how to care forand expertly handle the guillotine: orMatilda as I called her. So after one veryhectic and particularly rebellious Winter,I was appointed - and this is an officialtitle by the way, can write it on lettersand everything - the High Executionerof Brigg.




That’s all I can say at the moment intime, sorry. Young Marveux has justfinished hopelessly praying and pissinghimself. Silly idiot.




* Yes I have already come to terms withthe fact only distinguished guile will getme into Heaven now.


** A few years later it turns out that thiswas in fact true. Foresight at its verybest there.

 

[Nymzee]

Yeah, that got me right in the feels. So creative.

Not as good as this masterpiece you wrote however:

Day 1
Gripping my still wet axe I went aboutfinishing my daily culling of the village.Not of people though, oh no, I got thebig job, the job unto which all otherjobs will be compared to. Today ladiesand gents I… am killing chickens. Theking's very own well paid and overlyqualified High Executioner - cool titleright - sent to speed up the work oflocal foxes. Marvellous. This job justdoesn’t come with the kind of perksyou’d imagine. I mean, yes the respectis okay and I suppose the hours areflexible, but you want a bit of jobsatisfaction, don’t you? I can’t evenremember the last time I called atsomeone’s door without it hastily beingfollowed by wild tears and screaming.All I wanted was to come in for a drinkand what followed was a city wide panicattack. Fear ‘eh - can’t seem to win.




Oh right, who am I then? The name isCelia. Celia Delacour. Resident andsocial pariah of the city of Brigg. I guessI just thought I’d pour my ramblingthoughts into this diary to try and showthat not all in my profession areoverpaid inbred brutes. Most of themare though, unfortunately. More sokilling chickens is just hardly what I’dcall “intellectually stimulating”. I’ll leavethe story of how I wound up in this lineof work for another time.




Today has been a particularly slow dayin terms of business. Two executions,one very sceptical trial, and some belowpar grocery shopping in the localmarket. Deeply upset me it did. No nothe trial not the failed shopping.Actually come to think of it both did. Awoman caught cheating on herlecherous husband. What’s so wrongwith that? A girl gotta eat, hasn’t she?He’s a vile creature anyway. Or was.Haven't decided yet what to do withsaid lech.




Poor Marianne - not looking forward toher passing. Especially if she takes herrenowned lemon drizzle cake recipealong with her to the grave. I can neverseem to get the damn sponge to rise.




Whoops - the king is on his way downto the peasant village I'm stationed in.I’ll come back to this later…




Day 2
Well yes, I’m back. The genius. Themastermind. The inner eye… or someshit resembling that. I’m getting quiteaccustomed to writing my thoughtsdown in this little pocket book Iplundered. I mean conversing with anoff-shoot of yourself on paper seemsmuch more socially acceptable and aless likely way to get ostracised thantalking out loud. Not that what I do fora living is anywhere close to getting meinvited to banquets and balls.




The removal and/or displacing ofsomeone’s head is a precarious task.Ground breaking, I know right. It’spretty much a scientificallyacknowledged fact that to be successfulin the “removals” game you have tohave a rather dry, black sense ofhumour. Those executioners you seepassing out on their first chop? Yehthey’re known as ‘clouds’. Will explainthat more some other time.




You can’t help but laugh at some of thehokum that dribbles forth from themouths of those facing that sharp end.Some apologise for their often wellcompounded sins, some apologised forsins they never committed, othersbegged the big man himself forforgiveness. One man even burst intofits of nervous laughter. He was strangebefore that to be fair.




I always look down on the generalintelligence of those who pray formercy. Human cupboards in myopinion. I mean, right, let’s get the coldhard facts straight. If you commit acrime worthy of capital punishment -you’re going to Hell. That’s pre-determined. You can’t argue with thatno matter how much you want to. Sowhy on Earth these people decide topray to God as their saviour is beyondme. Surely you’d pray to Lucifer. Wait,do Satanists pray? Hmm. Never mind.Anyway surely they’d pray to him/herfor a swift death and maybe somerecognition when you get through thegates of Hell for the atrocities you’vecommitted in your brief stint in the landof the living. But hey, that’s just what I’ddo.*




Don’t get me started on religionthough. Being French I’m obliged tolive and breathe the Catholic ways -doesn’t mean I actually believe in them.I mean I do believe the whole conceptof a God and “the Devil” - I just thinkthey’re actually the same ideology justpreached by two different extremes ofman. Radical, I know. I'm really in thewrong line of work.




I’ll go deeper into that one night afterI’ve had few relaxing glasses of wine.Settles the mind of course - cough. Iwas here to tell you something wasn’t I?Oh yes, that’s it. How I - the delicaterose of Brigg - became a HighExecutioner. It’s quite a surreal story ifI’m honest. Some women - well mostaround here - are born to behousewives. Bred into a society wherewomen are the ground upon which menwalk. Well not me. 21 years and onepaedophilic father later; I found myniche.




In all fairness, it was only because theKing didn’t have his very own pocketkiller that I was allowed to live. He said Ishowed tenacity and passion in what Ido. What I do? You mean that activity Idid that one time through pure ire…okay, I'll run with that. **




It’s not that I am or became misandrous- it’s just, I really enjoyed inflicting painon those deserved of it. Maybe I’mmad? Maybe we’re all mad in here -who can sanely judge that withoutexposing themselves to madness andclouding their own judgment. Exactly.You’re mad too if you're reading this.




I was shown the ropes early - punintended - and taught how to care forand expertly handle the guillotine: orMatilda as I called her. So after one veryhectic and particularly rebellious Winter,I was appointed - and this is an officialtitle by the way, can write it on lettersand everything - the High Executionerof Brigg.




That’s all I can say at the moment intime, sorry. Young Marveux has justfinished hopelessly praying and pissinghimself. Silly idiot.




* Yes I have already come to terms withthe fact only distinguished guile will getme into Heaven now.


** A few years later it turns out that thiswas in fact true. Foresight at its verybest there.

Thank you for the free traffic.

 

[Death]

A blog!


Bahahahahahahahaha

 

[Jimishorts]

Yeah, that got me right in the feels. So creative.

Not as good as this masterpiece you wrote however:

Day 1
Gripping my still wet axe I went aboutfinishing my daily culling of the village.Not of people though, oh no, I got thebig job, the job unto which all otherjobs will be compared to. Today ladiesand gents I… am killing chickens. Theking's very own well paid and overlyqualified High Executioner - cool titleright - sent to speed up the work oflocal foxes. Marvellous. This job justdoesn’t come with the kind of perksyou’d imagine. I mean, yes the respectis okay and I suppose the hours areflexible, but you want a bit of jobsatisfaction, don’t you? I can’t evenremember the last time I called atsomeone’s door without it hastily beingfollowed by wild tears and screaming.All I wanted was to come in for a drinkand what followed was a city wide panicattack. Fear ‘eh - can’t seem to win.




Oh right, who am I then? The name isCelia. Celia Delacour. Resident andsocial pariah of the city of Brigg. I guessI just thought I’d pour my ramblingthoughts into this diary to try and showthat not all in my profession areoverpaid inbred brutes. Most of themare though, unfortunately. More sokilling chickens is just hardly what I’dcall “intellectually stimulating”. I’ll leavethe story of how I wound up in this lineof work for another time.




Today has been a particularly slow dayin terms of business. Two executions,one very sceptical trial, and some belowpar grocery shopping in the localmarket. Deeply upset me it did. No nothe trial not the failed shopping.Actually come to think of it both did. Awoman caught cheating on herlecherous husband. What’s so wrongwith that? A girl gotta eat, hasn’t she?He’s a vile creature anyway. Or was.Haven't decided yet what to do withsaid lech.




Poor Marianne - not looking forward toher passing. Especially if she takes herrenowned lemon drizzle cake recipealong with her to the grave. I can neverseem to get the damn sponge to rise.




Whoops - the king is on his way downto the peasant village I'm stationed in.I’ll come back to this later…




Day 2
Well yes, I’m back. The genius. Themastermind. The inner eye… or someshit resembling that. I’m getting quiteaccustomed to writing my thoughtsdown in this little pocket book Iplundered. I mean conversing with anoff-shoot of yourself on paper seemsmuch more socially acceptable and aless likely way to get ostracised thantalking out loud. Not that what I do fora living is anywhere close to getting meinvited to banquets and balls.




The removal and/or displacing ofsomeone’s head is a precarious task.Ground breaking, I know right. It’spretty much a scientificallyacknowledged fact that to be successfulin the “removals” game you have tohave a rather dry, black sense ofhumour. Those executioners you seepassing out on their first chop? Yehthey’re known as ‘clouds’. Will explainthat more some other time.




You can’t help but laugh at some of thehokum that dribbles forth from themouths of those facing that sharp end.Some apologise for their often wellcompounded sins, some apologised forsins they never committed, othersbegged the big man himself forforgiveness. One man even burst intofits of nervous laughter. He was strangebefore that to be fair.




I always look down on the generalintelligence of those who pray formercy. Human cupboards in myopinion. I mean, right, let’s get the coldhard facts straight. If you commit acrime worthy of capital punishment -you’re going to Hell. That’s pre-determined. You can’t argue with thatno matter how much you want to. Sowhy on Earth these people decide topray to God as their saviour is beyondme. Surely you’d pray to Lucifer. Wait,do Satanists pray? Hmm. Never mind.Anyway surely they’d pray to him/herfor a swift death and maybe somerecognition when you get through thegates of Hell for the atrocities you’vecommitted in your brief stint in the landof the living. But hey, that’s just what I’ddo.*




Don’t get me started on religionthough. Being French I’m obliged tolive and breathe the Catholic ways -doesn’t mean I actually believe in them.I mean I do believe the whole conceptof a God and “the Devil” - I just thinkthey’re actually the same ideology justpreached by two different extremes ofman. Radical, I know. I'm really in thewrong line of work.




I’ll go deeper into that one night afterI’ve had few relaxing glasses of wine.Settles the mind of course - cough. Iwas here to tell you something wasn’t I?Oh yes, that’s it. How I - the delicaterose of Brigg - became a HighExecutioner. It’s quite a surreal story ifI’m honest. Some women - well mostaround here - are born to behousewives. Bred into a society wherewomen are the ground upon which menwalk. Well not me. 21 years and onepaedophilic father later; I found myniche.




In all fairness, it was only because theKing didn’t have his very own pocketkiller that I was allowed to live. He said Ishowed tenacity and passion in what Ido. What I do? You mean that activity Idid that one time through pure ire…okay, I'll run with that. **




It’s not that I am or became misandrous- it’s just, I really enjoyed inflicting painon those deserved of it. Maybe I’mmad? Maybe we’re all mad in here -who can sanely judge that withoutexposing themselves to madness andclouding their own judgment. Exactly.You’re mad too if you're reading this.




I was shown the ropes early - punintended - and taught how to care forand expertly handle the guillotine: orMatilda as I called her. So after one veryhectic and particularly rebellious Winter,I was appointed - and this is an officialtitle by the way, can write it on lettersand everything - the High Executionerof Brigg.




That’s all I can say at the moment intime, sorry. Young Marveux has justfinished hopelessly praying and pissinghimself. Silly idiot.




* Yes I have already come to terms withthe fact only distinguished guile will getme into Heaven now.


** A few years later it turns out that thiswas in fact true. Foresight at its verybest there.

wtaf

 

[kev101]

Hey hey, here come the grunting plebs.

 

[chicoazul]