Ace Ventura 3! In paperback!?


And how are you this afternoon? Alrighty then!

A deep, dark and humorous book about Ace, animal rights, veganism and vigilante style justice? I’m in! You?

Available here –

Broke? –

Enjoy and spank you, spank you very much.

The Cull

I’m a white man and I know I am dying

But I’ve got my guns

and opposable thumbs

When my saviour arrives

I will know I was right, to be born white

in his image, his light


Oh Jesus


Where is he – no Jesus

Still I pray – no Jesus

Live a lie – no Jesus

Then I die and still no Jesus


I’m a white man and I’m doing all I can

to stay at the top

of the food chain

With acid rain falling onto my shrinking brain

returning to a notion

of a flat plain


The POTUS…PM…POS revolving face of the same old agenda

The same old war machine, new order regime

Revolt reduced to holding signs, tear gas and batons on skulls

and inanely venting on an internet comment section


Today, I lost my job, not to an immigrant as he lost his job too, to a robot

I wouldn’t mind, it was mind-numbingly mundane

but I have mouths to feed

and mounting bills and debts

and medicinal weed

to buy


Now I am twiddling thumbs

Groom, eat, sleep

Growing fat and dumb

Preening replaces purpose

Parroting back alternative facts

and a greedy phony preacher’s wild fantasies


Guinea-pig nation, dis-ease and disease

Another questionable epidemic and atrocity

Big Pharma rubs its hands and sets up its settlement fund

in anticipation of profits superseding compensation

My Doc is sure to take the cash and flog the goods

recklessly treating symptom, not cause


Discovering ideas that might otherwise work

if it were not for the fact that they are instigated

by fuckwit psychopaths, paedophiles and xenophobes

Self-proclaimed elites and cannibalistic cabals

beset on the cull


Feudalism, fascism, racism, socialism, speciesism

there’s always that elusive ism

waiting to be coined, and rolled out

Divide and conquer…ism


Engineered augmented purposeless inutile automatons

Obsolete children to the robot regime

A.I.’s pets, A.I.’s problem

A.I.’s final solution

Ace Ventura – White Devil


Well, it’s been just over a year since I wrote my ACE VENTURA novel ‘WHITE DEVIL’.

It’s a dark and twisted tale, but not without humour, about Ace. Ace, as you have never seen him before.

He is older, wiser and just a tiny bit more insane.

He has taken to vigilante style justice, utilising his animal rights organisation, ACE (Animal Cruelty Extermination), to protect the innocent animals of the world, at any cost.

And he goes by the name – White Devil.

A young FBI agent, Joshua Jamieson, is tasked with infiltrating ACE in an attempt to find and stop the White Devil, before he kills again.

But what Jamieson learns along the way, rocks the foundations of the reality he thought he knew.

Who is next on the White Devil’s list?

Can Jamieson stop the White Devil before he strikes again, and before he loses his own mind in the process?


It’s just a fly!



A young boy’s scream echoes through the house, into the living room. It’s a high-pitched panicked scream that the boy’s father knows only too well. He looks over at his wife, who is alarmed and shuffling in her seat to get up.

‘I’ll go, this time,’ he says, waving her back into her chair.

‘But you’re tired, and you’ve got your work to go to soon,’ the wife reminds him, ‘it’s a long drive.’

‘I’m fine, really. And, you look more tired than I do. You’ve been running around with him all day. Let me go.’

The wife smiles and nods, settling back into her seat.

The father rises from his armchair and paces through to the boy’s bedroom. He finds the boy cowering in a corner, frantically waving his hands around. The father runs over and scoops the boy up into his arms.

‘Whatever is the matter, son?’

The boy begins to cry, relieved to be in his father’s protective arms. He looks behind him and spots the monster, and wails a bit harder.

‘Oh, come now, tell your Dad what’s wrong,’ the father says, wiping the boy’s tears with his sleeve.

The boy points to the wall. A nonchalant crane fly clings to the wall.

‘A monster,’ the boy says, afraid. ‘It flew right at me.’

The father spots the culprit and begins to chuckle.

‘That’s not a monster, son,’ he laughs. ‘Now, you’re six years old and you’re getting upset over something like this? It’s just a harmless fly. He was probably just saying hello. Do you know what we call this fly?’

The boy is calming down.

‘A Daddy long-legs,’ the father states.

‘A…Daddy long-legs?’ the boy asks, curious. ‘Why are they called that?’

‘Well,’ the father begins, taking a step towards the fly. The boy whimpers a little and leans away from the fly. ‘It can’t hurt you, I promise,’ the father reassures the boy. ‘Take a look and tell me why they are named Daddy long-legs.’

The boy fixates on the fly and slowly leans forward to get a better look. A tiny sideways smile creeps up his face.

‘Because they have long legs,’ he smiles.

The father beams, proud.

‘That’s right.’

‘And it can’t…hurt me, bite me, right?’

‘No, they’re harmless, hey, trust me.’

The boy smiles.

‘I do trust you, Dad,’ he says, relaxing in his father’s arms. He stares at the fly. His expression turns to confusion.

‘But why are they called Daddy long-legs?’

The boy watches the fly as though it was doing anything other than nothing at all, and waits for an answer. An answer that, strangely, does not come. His father always had an answer. Whenever the boy wanted to know something about the world, he knew he could always ask his father. He turns to his father to see an expression on his face that he does not recognise.


‘Em…they… what was your question again?’ he stalls, clearly agitated that he does not know a particular detail pertaining to the fly, and his son has uncovered a gap, albeit a tiny one, in his otherwise impeccable knowledge. He thinks hard, resorting to making something up.

‘Why are they called DaddyDaddy long-legs?’ the boy repeats, screwing up his face.

‘Because they’re someone’s Daddy, that’s why.’

The boy looks at his father, smiling in disbelief.

‘Someone’s Daddy?’ he laughs.

‘That’s right, son,’ the father says, straight-faced, adamant in seeing the lie through. The lie evolves. ‘Have you heard of something called reincarnation?’

The boy thinks for a moment.

‘Mrs Foster at school told us that…when someone…dies…’ the boy thinks harder, ‘they come back…to life..?’

‘That’s right, some people believe that when we die, we are reborn as an animal, or a bird, or…’ the father smiles, turning to the fly on the wall.

‘A fly!’ the boy says, delighted by the new information, and all the attention from his father.

‘Is that what you believe, Dad?’ the boy asks gazing at the fly like they are new best friends.

The father chuckles again.

‘Well, we just can’t be sure, son, but that’s why you should never hurt other creatures.’

‘Because they might be someone’s mum or dad!’ the boy smiles, working it all out.

‘Exactly! Or sister, or uncle!’

The boy kicks to get down, now confident, and the father sets him down on the carpeted floor. The boy looks up at his father.

‘Dad, what do you want to come back as?’

‘Oh,’ the father smiles, ‘ enjoying the interaction, ‘maybe a massive blue whale, or a soaring eagle.’

The boy giggles. He turns to the fly.

‘I definitely wouldn’t come back as a Daddy long-legs!’

They both chuckle together.

‘Maybe we don’t get a choice?’ the father teases.

The boy looks playfully shocked by the suggestion. He takes a sudden sombre turn.


‘Yes, son?’

‘If you died…’

‘Oh, I’m not going to die, son,’ the father says, rustling the boy’s hair. ‘Not yet anyway, I’ve got a good forty, fifty years left!’

The boy pulls his head away.

‘No but if you did,’ he says, glum, ‘would you come back and find me, even if you were a whale or an eagle?’

The father is touched by the sentiment and feels emotions rise inside him. He smiles through the temptation to cry.

‘Of course, son. Now, listen,’ he says, changing the subject, ‘I’d better get to work. I have a long drive tonight. But,’ he points to the fly, ‘you and Mr long-legs here…you guys cool, now?’

The boy laughs giddily.

‘Yeah, we’re cool.’

The father leans down and kisses the boy’s head and makes for the door.

‘See you later, son,’ he calls, over his shoulder.

‘Bye, Dad,’ the boy says, over-confidently reaching out and touching one of the fly’s legs. It immediately springs off the wall, and takes flight, its wings buzzing loudly.

The boy is startled and screams, terrified once again, and runs after his father.




The boy, now a teen, is walking home from school. He is dressed in his school uniform; black trousers, black trainers, black hoodie. He mostly wears black clothing nowadays, in and out of school.

It’s the usual route; down Wagon Road, through Lemon Terrace, passed the hut-shop, and home. He passes by the hut-shop, his head hanging low, his eyes fixed on the pavement. He hears a voice calling to him.

‘Hey man, I heard your Dad has got quite a temper.’

The boy is hurt and bites his bottom lip, and walks on. He knows that voice. The local bully-boy, stands outside the shop, alongside his twisted side-kick, who speaks next.

‘Yeah, you should tell him not to lose his head.’

The bullies laugh sadistically. Tears brim in the boy’s eyes. He lowers his head and picks up his pace.

‘Hey, how is your Dad, anyway?’

They laugh again.

‘Oh shit, yeah, sorry, we forgot.’

The boy powers home, upset and fuming. He finally gets in and slams the door closed and falls to his knees and cries, hard, like he hasn’t in a long time, around eight years or so. After a short while of vacant gazing, lost in reverie, he picks himself up and enters the kitchen. There is a note on the kitchen table.


I’ll be back later tonight, usual time.

There’s stuff in the freezer for your tea.

Careful with the oven. Don’t burn the house down.

Love you.

Oh, you’ve still to do the dishes.

The longer you leave it, the more it mounts up.

I do not want to see them still sitting there when I get home, okay!?

See you soon.

Mum. x


The boy turns and glances at the huge pile of dirty dishes in, and around, the sink.

‘Great!’ he yells, and angrily pulls off his hoodie and throws it on the floor.

He huffs and puffs, and eventually approaches the sink. He plugs the sink-hole and turns on the hot water tap. He finds the washing up liquid and a sponge in a cupboard under the sink. He squeezes an excessive amount into the water and it immediately begins to foam and bubble. He scoops up the first plate and begins to scrub. After a while, he places the last of the cutlery onto the draining board. He jumps when he hears a loud buzz quickly approaching his left ear.

‘Jesus!’ he cries, and ducks down.

He scans the room, looking for a wasp, or bee. He finds nothing. He picks up another plate. The buzz swoops at him again. He ducks down again.

‘What the hell is that!?’ he yells, scanning the room. He turns to the left. Nothing. To the right. Something small and dark flies towards his face.

‘Christ!’ he yells, trying to identify it. But it is gone.

‘Where the hell did it go?’ the boy asks himself, agitated by the home invasion.

He hears the buzz and turns to see the intruder flying close to his face.

He has an immediate, and strange, impulse to blow it away, and he does. It works, but only temporarily as the intruder is determined and returns.

‘I’m not in the mood for this,’ the boy yells, and swipes at the intruder with a wet, sudsy hand.

His hand connects and the intruder is sent crashing down on to the kitchen table, where it lies, twitching.

‘There!’ the boy cries, victorious, looking down at the defeated crane fly. ‘Maybe now I can finish the dishes in peace!’

He grins and returns to the sink. As he picks up a plate, his grin is already dropping.

There is an awful feeling, that he can’t understand yet, creeping up on him. Something bothering him.

‘It got in my face,’ he tells his conscience.

His father’s words ring in his ears.

That’s why you should never harm other creatures.

‘It’s just a…’ he says, angrily, turning to the fly, ‘Daddy…long-legs…’

He’s suddenly back in his bedroom, eight years ago. The memory of that day. That day. The last day he ever saw his father. He recalls their conversation. The fly. The name. Reincarnation. Coming back, from death. He sees himself as a child, looking up at his father.

If you die, the child asks, would you come back and find me?

His dad smiles. That smile that the boy has missed so much.

Of course, son

The boy snaps out of his memory and quickly glances at the quivering insect on the table. He drops the plate in his hands and immediately runs to the table and kneels down, his face close to the fly. Tears begin to stream down his face. He opens his mouth, but can hardly say the word.

‘Dad..?’ he whispers, shaking his head.

The fly very slowly begins to crawl towards the boy. When inches away, it halts, and shakily holds out a leg. The boy breaks down.

‘Dad?’ he cries.

He reaches out a finger and delicately touches the fly’s leg, before it gently lies down and dies.

‘Dad!’ the boy yells, nudging the fly, hoping it might revive it.

His efforts are to no avail.

The boy weeps, uncontrollably.

‘I’m sorry!’ he screams, into the air. ‘It’s just a fly! It’s just a fly!’


‘Oh God, what have I done?’

Now, he will be coming. Coming here, to my home. And what hurts the most is that I know I have caused this. My choice, through necessity, maybe, but I have made this happen.

‘What am I going to do?’

Maybe I can stop this. Stop him coming. But I have no phone.

‘Who in the twenty first century doesn’t own a phone!?’

Me, obviously. There must be another way. Email someone?


Easy, just stay in the house. Keep the windows and the door locked.

‘The door is locked, isn’t it?’

I’ll just go and check. Down the stairs, quick, careful. Try the handle.

‘Yeah, of course, it’s locked.’

Okay, back up the stairs. Why am I shaking?

‘Christ, I’m rattled.’

Just sit down, relax, Wait it out.

‘Maybe inaction is the best course of action here?’

That’s it, deep breaths. There is nothing to fear but fear itself.


He is coming.

‘What am I doing? I’m supposed to be trying to relax!’

But he is coming. He will be here soon. There is no denying it. It’s inevitable. Maybe pacing will help. That’s it, pace the floor and worry, that’s it.

‘This is just getting ridiculous. I’m actually really scared now.’

It will soon be over. He will be here any moment. I have to face up to what I have set in motion.

‘I don’t have to do anything! Maybe I should just go to bed. Hide under the…’


He’s here. It’s time. Do I answer or do I stay frozen and silent, and hope it all just goes away?



‘Okay, I’m going.’

Going to answer?

‘Yes, I’m moving aren’t I?’

Down the stairs, quick, careful. It’s not too late to change my mind. It’s never too late! I’m unlocking the door. But he’s there. He’s right outside. Don’t open the door. Don’t open it. I’m opening it!? He’s there, he sees me. He’s opening his mouth and reaching out to me.

‘Take-away delivery, mate?’ he says.

‘Ah, right, nice one, that was fast.’

‘Nine quid, exactly, mate,’ he states.

Reach into pocket. Bring out cash. Hand cash over and take bag of food.

‘Thanks and just keep the change.’

‘Cheers mate,’ he says.

He turns. He leaves. Shut the door and lock it. Don’t fumble, lock it, lock it!

‘It’s locked, Christ!’

And relax. Breathe. Smell food.

‘Mmmmm. Let’s eat.’

Well, until next time, delivery guy.

Return to The Void!

Welcome back trekkers…to The Void.

After an unfortunate and catastrophic accident, Captain Callen Amity and her crew, and their sentient ship, Harold, and two members of an alien race called The Immaru, are given another chance at life by an anonymous old friend to humanity in a defiant act of compassion against the Continuum.

What is in store for Captain Amity and her crew as they desperately try to escape the void, and return to Earth with warnings of Reptoids and impending war?

Can they avoid falling apart this time? Can they suppress the madness?

Is Harold damaged beyond repair, or even willing to cooperate with the loathsome humans?

Can The Immaru help them make it home? Or are they cursed with their own limitations and psychosis?

Return for a darker trek. Return to The Void.


Pilgrims album cover.jpg

A collection of songs inspired by animals that have been totemic in our relationship and musical journey so far. Everything from wolves to sharks to cats to hummingbirds.

a sound born in a storm. this is what happened when a bird fell from the sky and foxes followed us home. this is supernatural, homespun honesty. this is soup, at 4am. this is a map of the stars that trace our fate. this is paprika tea. this is animal instinct. this is our story. our music.

this is the sound that came from a gorge . this is what happened when lovers cut each others hair with a samurai sword. this is inside out and up ‘n’ down. this humble creation from this hibernation. baring and purging. this is defining heroes. this is katsu curry & fermented pears. this could be winter. these are our scars. this is our music.

this is the chaos of living with panthers in a house by the sea, where ravens share their secrets with those who speak their language. this is our allegiance to our ancestors and the salt in our Bourbon. two years of travelling the sun, we are finally home.

Available in three parts or as the full album HERE

Join us on our journey, our pilgrimage.

Caught in the wake.



A large, white, senior tom-cat gently strolls through a large, white house. Light jazz music resonates through the rooms and hallways of the house. He slumps down onto his favourite window sill. A space big enough for two. It used to fit two. Two cool house kats that would sit together, side by side, and watch the world go by. But now, he sits alone, forlorn. It’s been a long time since he has seen his friend. She left so suddenly and he has never fully recovered from the loss of her presence, and her love. Nor has he fully given up hope that she will return some day. Return for him. His big, old, olive-green eyes carefully studies each face that goes by, searching for that face, those eyes, that smile. He is so engrossed in his search that he does not notice that the music has stopped.

‘She’s no’ coming back,’ a man says, abruptly, from behind him.

The tom-cat’s ears lower, and he gives a solitary tail wag, acknowledging the man’s voice.

The man huffs and walks away.

The cat’s ears perk up again as he continues his search.


Several miles away a petite, dark-haired woman excitedly dances on the spot in the kitchen of another house. She hasn’t been this excited in a long time. In her hand is a mobile phone with an image of a grey and sand-coloured tom-cat, with dark stripes and spots. A miniature tiger. You could forgive someone for mistaking him for a Scottish wildcat.

‘He’s two years old,’ she tells a man, almost pleading, ‘he’s a Maine Coon/Bengal cross, looking for a loving home and you’ve been saying for a while you’d like to rescue a cat…’

The man, tall and lean with long dirty-blonde hair, smiles as he gazes at her sparkling eyes. He hadn’t planned on a companion animal so soon, but the image of the cat’s charming face and consideration for the animal’s desperate situation, and his lover’s excited anticipation, has him soon nodding his head.


Meanwhile, the white tom in the white house rests his weary head on his front paws. Instinct tells him something is wrong, but he can’t understand what is happening to him. He is so tired. And his heart aches. He huffs as his breathing becomes shallower.


Hours later, the man and woman return to their home with a cat in a box. He runs riot, exploring and rubbing his face on everything, marking out his new territory with his scent. His character shines. The woman takes great delight in feeding him as the man watches, smiling, but he is distracted by the dawning implications of taking on such a responsibility.

However, the cat is friendly and trusting, perhaps too trusting for a desperately cruel and opportunistic world, and as the night rolls in, and all settle in, the man, curiously content, watches his two kats, curled up beside each other, and besides themselves with love. He knows how she has suffered, how she has grieved for another cat, from another life, that she had to leave behind. Often referring to the cat as her best friend, having saved her from herself and a nasty fall from a high-rise precarious perch.

The woman’s eyes flicker open and she gazes at the her new furry friend asleep next to her, she smiles, teary-eyed and reaches for him. She rubs his ribs down to his thigh, his coat is thick and soft, and he mews an almost kitten like cry for a five pound burly cat, and rolls onto his back, with his front paws tucked up like a kangaroo, exposing his belly. She runs her fingers through his super soft and delicate belly fur and he mews again, blissfully purring, and she falls for him, hard.


And miles away, in a vacant white house, the lonesome white tom feels another sharp ache in his chest. Through a deep, thousands of years in the making, inter-species understanding, he now knows his time has come. He knows she has fallen in love with another. She will never return. And his heart breaks, beyond repair. He slowly heaves his weakening body to his favourite window sill, the place where he saw her last as she painfully walked away and out of his life, and gently lies down to die.


We are all animals. We all experience love and pain. Our hearts break. Some heal. Some don’t. It is not a perfect world and there is rarely an ideal solution. But we must follow our hearts, and simply hope that those who are caught in the wake from the vital choices we make, and the chances we take, can endure and recover. And we can only simply grieve for those that do not.


Rest in peace, Jaco.