There was always a reason why my mother fucked someone and it was never through love. Whistling Chris earned the keys to the city of her cunt on account of being the regional manager of the travel agency Thomas Cook, and promising her free tickets to anywhere she wanted to go in the world. He also wasn't short of a few quid in the meantime, which was good, because Mum was too worldly to be able to be peddled dreams.

A tall broad softly spoken man with thinning ginger hair, Chris would stand around the back, staring up at my mother's bedroom window and letting out a shrill, single whistle every few minutes. Initially it was a way to make sure he never came around to the house while my step-father was in, but gradually it became a way for my mother to keep him at a distance, hide out the way when she had her own money and didn't need him to bankroll her oblivion.

Some evenings Chris would be out there for hours, standing as stiff as a board in the bitter winter night, his full length ,black felt coat buttoned right up to the chin, nose frozen pink, face drained white, mist coming out his mouth,whistling and hoping Mum would either give the sign and flick her bedroom light on and off, or send me around to fetch him. On those nights, as I followed him back home, I could smell the cold night air on his coat. Chris, long strides, head down, cursing, as the wind blew his thinning hair down, fanned flat against his forehead.

Once inside, the colour refilling his face, Chris would clench and wriggle his fingers, and rub his hands together furiously to warm them, the rubbing transforming into that of someone ready to feast, as he climbed the stairs towards my mothers room. Mum's bedroom door would be open and she'd be sitting drunk on the bed looking away like she hated him. Chris would enter, not saying a word, and close the door behind him. Id tiptoe up stairs and sit outside the bedroom door. I'd listen to drinks being poured, strange laughter, sudden turns of anger, apologies, kissing, and finally Mum groaning and Chris grunting and swearing as my Mums body hit up against the wall. It never lasted long, ten thrusts being about the best Chris had. Then my mothers vodka bottle would be clinking against her glass again and I'd hear the sound of alcohol gulping out. More often than not Mum would wander out naked and stumble to the toilet. On her way past she'd bend down and say: “I've gotta get rid of this cunt but he won't fuck off!” As she sat on the toilet, the door open, listing over to one side, piss whispering into the bowl, I'd peer into her room and see Chris's thick, pale arm hanging down off the bed, his gold watch, a cigarette between his fingers, burning away like a fuse on love. It was a sad image of man and loneliness; something horrific unfolding on a dull, black night.

Sometimes Mum would hiss a “pssst” at me, beckon me down the landing and tell me that in five minutes I was to bang on the door and make an excuse that a neighbour was here to see her. Soon after that Chris would come out hastily dressed, still buttoning up his coat. He'd ruffle my hair, drop a few coins my way, then hurry down stairs and back out into the cold black night. Less than twenty four hours later we'd hear the first whistle again. I'd peep out the window to confirm what it meant, then nod at Mum, and say: Yeah, it's him. Mum would pull an evil face and turn away and think.

One night as I fetched Chris he asked me of Mum and if she was drunk. I said, Yes, she's always drunk, but tonight she's especially drunk! He pulled a face. Sympathetic. Like he understood. Then he said, Come on, we'll go to the offy and you can pick whatever you want... SHE can wait for me for a change!” In the Off-licence I chose sweets and crisps and a big bottle of pop. Chris took two cans of beer and two half bottles of real Smirnoff Vodka.
   Don't let my Mum see them, I said. He laughed and shook his head and showed me a deep pocket either side of his long coat. That's what these are for, he said, dropping a bottle in each pocket. You can't leave a drink around your Mum... It's bad when it gets to that. Then he said: Why don't you go around all the off-licences, tell them your Mum has a problem and ask them to stop selling her drink? If they won't listen, well, I'm sure a brick or two  could find its way through their window. Chris looked at me, serious, then smiled. I was only ten. It seemed like a good idea.

When we got home Mum was stood swaying in the downstairs hallway, waiting.
   What, getting all chummy with Chris now are ya, she said, glaring at me like I'd fucked her life up.
   We only went to the shop.
   Er, well where's mine then? she said, suddenly making a vicious drunken grab for my sweets, getting a bag of crisps and stamping them all over the hallway.Then, turning on Chris.
   Chris, why don't ya tell him what you've been arrested for? He may not be so fucking fond of ya then!
Chris didn't reply. Mum continued, with added drunken venom.
   Peeping in young girls' bedroom windows, wern't it? Er, two counts of indecent exposure on Wandsworth Common??? Nah, y'aint told him that av ya! What ya thinking, if ya friends wiv him you'll get express access to my cunt?
Chris knew the set up too well to kick back. Best just to wait the moment out, hang in there until the alcohol affected another part of her brain and her hatefulness was replaced by some other absurd mode of being.

Mum finally turned and led Chris upstairs. She fell twice going up, Chris finishing by steadying her into the Fuck Palace like she was an elderly invalid. I was glad it was him tonight. At least he seemed to care about Mum, about me, had a job, and maybe even had a heart. With them gone I sat down in front of the small TV, the sound off, drinking my soda and sharing my sweets with the mangy dog.

There was a strange quiet from my mother's room that night. No animal sounds. No fighting. Apparently not even any fucking. A little later, longer than usual, Chris came back down. Unusually he was as properly dressed as when he'd gone up. As he left he said that Mum was way out of it, that I'd better go up and make sure she was alright. Entering her room I found Mum on the floor, naked. She was on her side but with her buttocks twisted awkwardly around and parted, as if someone had been on top of her. Her left arm was suspended off the floor, her hand limp, stringy, clear vomit hanging like slime off her fingers. She was conscious but could barely speak: El me up! El me inta' bed! 

I tried to lift Mum up but she was too heavy and her head rolled back and cracked violently off the floor. For a moment her eyes disappeared, and then came back, and then she looked like she would cry, and then like she'd forgotten how to. I left her there like that, just laying there, her eyes open and her brain on freeze, looking at me, maybe pleading for help but unable to express it. As I was leaving I saw something glinting from under a pillow on the bed. I pulled the pillow away, and there they were, two half bottles of Smirnoff Vodka, one already almost empty. It just had to be. Chris, after all his care, ideas on how to stop Mum drinking, was paying for sex with alcohol. Worse, as this time he seemed to have got her totally helpless and raped her in the arse. Though that's not certain as Mum was too fucked to even know who or where she was let alone what had happened to her while she was there. One thing that is sure is that I never spoke to Chris again after that night. I realised that maybe his clothes and hands were cleaner than most of Mum's other lovers, but his soul was just as black.

That was all but the end of Whistling Chris. He lingered on for a few more months and then one night he came around and left almost immediately. I went up to see what had happened. Mum was laying on her back, on the bed, dressed. She said coldly, Chris has gone and won't be coming back. Then she unbuttoned her tight, drainpipe jeans and pushed them down, taking her knickers with them, and exposing her cunt. It was bright fire red.
   I always dye IT red when I've a new lover, she said.
Looking at her cunt I thought of Chris: his ginger hair, his long black coat, his gold watch, his soft voice, his pretend friendship and his lies about getting Mum sober. Then I left too. Mum's new lover wasn't new at all. She'd been messing around with him for at least the past few months, only now it had gotten serious. His name was Lloyd, and he was a wild, murderous, burnt and scarred Jamaican from the Black House... perhaps the single most danger to my mother's life at that point in time.. 


  1. Great writing, as always Shane.
    I had a "Chris" but his name was Colin, howling Colin . . .
    I told him to howl, like a wolf, under the window in case I wasn't alone. Or incase, like your mother, I already had enough money. Same ginger hair, black Crombie, softly spoken, big into horse racing and "helping" Romanian kids. 6ft 5" with one inch of dick! Shocking.
    Looking forward to Lloyds Chapter. Did you feel any fear or danger at the time or is that only with hindsight . . . Or maybe I should wait for the story. I only wondered, as the more I look back, the more I'm amazed at my total lack of fear at the time.
    I'm off to check if I've missed any posts on this new Blog and then read this again. Take care x

    1. Hey Bugerlugs...

      Fear.. danger.. not really. For my mother, sure, alot... but not really for myself. There were a couple of exceptions and moments, but in general, no. I was a 10 year old kid and there was no way any drunken adult could've caught me if I as on my toes. I think it may have been different for my sister as there is the added sexual fear, that these men could have tried to force themselves on her. But that fear didn't exist for either me or my brother. Also, children are very observant and you quickly discern who are what is potentially harmful. Yes, I was surrounded by an underclass of very odd, messed up people, but in the main they were a danger to themselves or my mother, but not me. My step-fathers friends were a different kettle of fish, tho Many of them had been in prison for abusing young boys or freely admitted that was their sexual preference. I was always a bit fearful when these people were around, but my step-father was equally aware of their histories and so really made sure they were never in a position to harm us. X

  2. Hey Shane

    Great piece as always.
    Can i ask if your mom ever reads your blogs ?
    Does she mind about this ? mine would hit the roof

    1. Hey Simon!

      My mother knows of my online writing, but says she'l never read it. OF course the really controversial stuff always reaches her ear as other family members try to provoke trouble and family disputes. But my mother and I are very very close and no matter what I write I can always iron it out with her later, and I will go very far on allowing her peace of mind in that regard. If she says something didn't happen, or she'd never have done that, I'll not insist she did but agree wwith her and say it's only 'based' on her and is fictive writing You must remember that my mother was so out of it during these years that she honestly must not remember half of what happened, and so when she says it didn't, in a way, she's telling the truth. So yes she knows of my writing but says she doesn't want to read, has no need to. I think if I wrote about my mother in a mean, bitter way it'd be much different, but finally, through all the words, never once have I levelled any criticism or condemnation of her life acts Rather my writing of her expresses a deep love and admiration and understanding of her. For me, all she did was justified... she was breaking down and struggling to keep any hope in living.

      You know, we've been through so much together that to fall out over some words I don't think would be possible. Sure we could argue or not talk for a week or so, but I seriously doubt it could go any further than that. X

  3. I think I'm in need of an "Oprah Moment". But I'll be back for more....

  4. Hey Jim... you'll have a few days to recover after each of these posts. They may be quite hard but as they go on I think they'll find a beauty in another way, a way I can't describe but can feel. When we've gone through the lovers there'll be a concluding post which gets into human wants and needs and hurt and loneliness of it all. I think by that time, if I succeed in the writing at all, the initial shock of the explicit sexual descriptions, and my use of brutal terms such as 'cunt' etc, will provoke a sorrowful reward in the reader that will be hard to understand. X

    1. "We ALL know the boy can write.", but are the needs and wants and hurt and loneliness, reality of the writer, or the characters? If the writer, this a result of the childhood abuse? I pose these questions with the upmost sincerity and honesty.

  5. Hey Jim, oh no.. I don't suffer from any of those things, but I have felt them and I more, have seen such feelings run rampant through those around me and those I love. I write about a broken world and never a broken person. That kind of personal hurt or trauma holds no interest to me and I believe says nothing useful. This sorrow and hopelessness I speak of is much bigger than one person, it's endemic to huge classes of people and has multiple causes. I think it' sometimes difficult for people who don't know me personally to imagine I may be sad and depressed and suffering some deep hurt, but that is absolutely not the case. I think people who I've had long term mail exchanges with realise it's not the case, and the few people who know me in person who read know I'm a very humouress, easy person and am very far from depressed or sad or anything like that. I see life as ultimately hopeless, but not without hope... and I enjoy living and all it entails. The words express a world we've been dumped into... not a world only I've been dumped into X

  6. I think it' sometimes EASY (not 'difficult') for people who don't know me personally to imagine I may be sad and depressed and suffering some deep hurt, but that is absolutely not the case.

  7. Anonymous10/07/2012

    What is this incestuous filth you're writing now?

    1. Does it really read like that? Cool. I take it you're a man/woman with good taste.... I hope I never come down with that affliction. X

  8. Shane do you know I have just realised that its the description of your mums drunken state that upsets me the most .. as I know that look in the eyes .. my husband has it sometimes. The brain on freeze look.. it breaks my heart.

    I do love the unique way your mum changes her "Look" with each new lover :)) xx

  9. Another masterpiece, this whole blog. Your still my fav writer, out of all the greats. I just have not had time to come and comment but I read it all. Never stop!

    "I realised that maybe his clothes and hands were cleaner than most of Mum's other lovers, but his soul was just as black." Funny how we learned this about people at such a young age and then spend the rest of our lives around a bunch of cunts who have no idea about the wolf in sheeps clothing. I used to think them lucky. But they aren't are they? We see the truth and therefore avoid the devil. At least until we CHOOSE to invite him in.

  10. 'From the black house'. Why the added negative metaphor because the man was black? Was he more guilty than the men that had been with your mother before? It's just that I didn't hear you mention 'the White House' in any of this...only a supposedly decent looking man with a good job...presumably with white skin, so the perception is pure right??? Pfffff. I've suddenly stopped understanding....

  11. Somehow 'Whistling Chris' deserved a more welcoming description despite his horrendous reality....''A tall, broad softly spoken man....' This is my observation. I don't take from you and couldn't take from you your horrific experience....simply my observation, and it would be interesting and enlightening to hear your explanations of this....description?

    1. Anonymous1/28/2013

      Ignoramus. Not even decent enough to post an apology when you get it so WRONG. Probably too embarrassed as you've made a complete tit of yourself. Fool.

  12. Miss Chelle, you're obviously a bit of a retard. The Black House is a place that runs throughout all my writing and has done so for many years. It was a drinking den in London and was called the Black House as there was no gas or electricity and so the drunks who lived there used the old fire grate to hold home made fires. The fumes and soot from all they burnt fell and settled over everything turning the entire place BLACK - hence the 'Black House'. So far from me making any kind of correlation between brown people/Black House it is YOU who has done SO... taking the most simple things down to skin colour when there was not ever any hint of that in the text. In fact, why it was called the Black House is explained clearly in the writings here, so your ignorance has no excuse. Oh, and you should maybe stop using the word 'metaphor' until you've learnt what a metaphor is. It's obvious you have no idea.

    As for Chris, I described him as 'a tall, broad and softly spoken man' because that is what he was: TALL, BROAD, and SOFTLY SPOKEN.... what do you want, for me to give him a gruff voice so as your silly head can more easily fit him into your stereotype of what you imagine a villain to be?

    You're exactly the type of person that my writing is not for, and I pity any author you enjoy because they must be writing some God awful junk to get your nod of approval. You've read between the lines and missed the text... making a fool of yourself in the process. Take care and I hope nature is kinder to any offspring you may have. X


"You'll destroy me too," she said, "I think I want to die."
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Make a little history and leave what words you have.. X