Tell Lie Vision



i don’t own a television.

and i don’t want one.  people ask me why i don’t have a TV, with an expression of such absurdity you would think i had just asked them if i could shit on their chest.

i take pride in myself for the fact that i don’t own a TV set. and here’s why.

it is all lies.

the mainstream media is one of the biggest liars in the history of all mankind, next to religion.

[but God is good, i hear you say.  yeah?  well if God is so good then why do kids get cancer? oh it’s God’s plan… he has greater things for them…]

FUCK OFF!  tell that to the grieving parent. tell that to the 8 year old with leukaemia writhing in agony.  

TV is full of shit and my head has enough crap in it without being fed more lies and lies by omission; the manipulation of advertisements purporting a better lifestyle – yeah, a lifestyle that feathers the nest-eggs of the ugly big corporations that are borne of greed and profit and don’t really care that they’re spraying our crops with chemicals akin to Agent Orange; poisoning your soft drinks with neuro-toxins; that that burger is to die for (yes, literally!); that those running shoes are something of a ‘miracle’ that you will need to enhance your performance to workout with style (tell that to the 5 year olds working in shit-stinking sweaty conditions for 18 hour days!); that you NEED insurance (another bête-noire of mine) – what a rip-off.  i could go on but…

anger is a negative energy.  holding onto anger will just further embitter the soul and turn it black, and turn me into even more of a misanthrope than i am already.  fuck that!

so – that is the short answer as to why i don’t own, want or need, a fucking TV set.

there have been a few songs written about TV.  and yes, the sun always shines on TV, doesn’t it?  even the epic scenes of war seem sensationalised and glossy.

Bruce Springsteen growled about having 57 channels and nothing on.

[well, turn the fucker off, Brucie and go read a book…. or write another song!]

Dire Straits and Sting wailed about wanting their MTV.  i remember a day when MTV was cool, full of good music and, dare i say it, informative.  now it’s all dating game-shows and reality TV – offering gaudy glimpses into the private lives and homes of artists most of us have never heard of, but who have sold a billion records, apparently, and have their own unrivalled ‘brand’ of bling and trainers (again endorsing the sweatshops of Hell for the poor and purporting a lifestyle of greed of profane proportions).  who needs an 18ct diamond-encrusted toilet?  it’ll fill up with shit just the same as a bog-standard (bad pun, i know!) porcelain one.

the Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy wrote a real stinger of a tune: ‘Television, the Drug of the Nation’ – breeding ignorance and feeding radiation.  this song remains poignant today, spouting ‘a child watches over 1500 murders before he’s 12 years old’.

and then there’s Gil Scott-Heron.  The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.  wise words from a legendary poet and performer that needs little or no introduction.  that song is older than me and still holds the same spine-tingly poignancy as it did back in the day it was first released.  today, the Revolution will NOT be Televised, that’s for sure… but it will be on Twitter or Facebook or fucking Snapchat.

i take pride in the fact that i don’t own a TV set and that i don’t subscribe to the mainstream and worship the remote and its digibox disciples.

i find other ways of ‘educating’ myself and ‘entertaining’ myself.  there are 1000s of books to be read. more than i could read in a lifetime but i am prepared to give it a good try…

and there are places to visit. i just love to travel.  travelling offers the BEST education.

there is (too) much going on inside my head that i need to categorise, rationalise and contend with without the distraction and soul-extraction of television.

i have my own reality. i do not need to watch a group of disparate and desperate people stowed away in a houseful of cameras and sensationalism; i do not need (or want) to see ‘celebrities’ in a jungle eating worms; nor do i care for discovering Britain’s talented humans with their dancing dogs (that’s just another deplorable exploitation of animals).  i don’t want to see the cringe-worthy and patronising debacle that is breakfast tv – where two puppets interview the vulnerable and needy; which draws me nicely to the ‘pièce de résistance’ – the Jeremy fucking Kyle Show – another truly remarkable shot at bear-baiting.

is this what advocates TV as ‘entertainment’?  it’s no wonder we are being ‘dumbed-down’.   there is nothing to FEED the imagination!

i’d much rather read a book… or take a long walk along the beach… or play my guitars… or write some poetry or prose… or visit friends and family.  yes, actually visit people and talk with them, walk with them… break bread with them.

i would love to be in a position to ditch my mobile phone and take myself off the grid completely, but i need it for work.  it’s a double-edged sword.

but i’m working on it…

[steps off soap-box]






“soon….. x” he wrote.

“soon….. x”


[Oh the unquantifiable wait.
the undeniable weight.
oh the irrefutable beauty
of monosyllabic

four letters. infinite variables. one critical
sum, happening in my head… quicker than
i can convey verbally
and i can be verbose.

soon = absolute x.

i was good at math
but you know that
don’t you?]



(c) Kat McDonald 2016



a psalm for the loveless


there is comfort in clean sheets and the promise of “a good night’s sleep”. the allure of cool, crisp cotton beckons. the black ink of night fuels my scribe as i scratch across cheap paper in the dim of my lonely room. writing a song, in the dark, with a 5-string guitar, is cathartic. but there are too many distractions. my thoughts resolve back to the dead fox cub on the Standing Stanes Road and i sob,  my arms wrapped around Julio*,  my shoulders shaking. outside, the street lights shine like beacons for breaking hearts, insomniacs, poets and moths. someone is yelling. God knows what, but it’s 4.42am and the streets are already wet. the atonal hum of summer rain sounds like a song for the hopeless or a psalm for the loveless. a burgeoning hope, that tomorrow will be a brighter day.  the sea sounds so far away; weak, and diluted by this new precipitation. this time of calm is stirred by an itch in my [open] left palm. and, a ringing in my ears breaks my thoughts in Fmaj7.  i play along.  words fold and unfold and float by me, like soggy paper boats in my own sea of rambling.  i lay down and strum. sleep will come, easily.  songs often manifest in my dreams. there are six planets on their rise, elliptical. they are all visible with the naked eye, if you know where to look.  i close my eyes, put down the pen and close my book.  i hold on tight to Julio, in the absurd hope that he will sing me to sleep, as i pluck strings in harmony with the gentle peal of the wind chime above my head, as the palest breeze waxes lyrical.

[i don’t remember falling asleep, but i guess i must’ve………………….]

5 hours later, i find myself awake and Julio still asleep on the bed beside me.  quiet. there is paper and guitar picks everywhere.  my thoughts resolve to my lover, along the coast; i can still smell his scent in the tangled mess of my hair.



(c) Kat McDonald 2016

-for Robert – with you, i never feel loveless. i love you, like i was born to.

the strongest march…

the strongest march

clouds, slowly, gather
in the bluest sky
reflected in
my altruistic
as sirens wail their
woeful cry
i watch the ants
of July suck
upon a glob
of spit.
the strongest march
‘cross to the bone
dry side, near a dismantled rone;
whilst the weak
get stuck amidst,
or trampled.

clouds gather, now, at quickened
the sun no longer the white
a cooler breeze now strikes my soul
like a hammer on
an anvil.
i hear Thor’s roar
a battlecry that rips
the sky wide open
and raindrops

in a shower
of Hellfire.
what of the ants?
i watch them struggle
as they run amok
seeking cover
between the cracks,
under the crock,
or beneath
the flower, foot and flock.
as the strongest march
on, flight of
foot and brace
themselves for
their struggle and plight;
whilst the weak
get stuck in

(c) Kat McDonald 2016

– a stormy lunch hour, fulfilled by the company of ants.

Hollywould, if she could


cheap tinsel and smog – is all that you are. a cityful of fake folk and folklore; of deplorable schism and schizophrenic notion. Ah… Hollywould… if she could.
she’s a whoredom. she is like a box of adders; a modern-day Medusa; a mother with viper womb and crooked fangs.
Hollywould – the painted piranha; a fickledom where unforgiven forgotten pariah see only what they wanna.
like a cursed spell. look out, boys! she will poison your well being, and cheapen your aspirations.
she will deliver another suckerpunch, a blow below the belt, crushing the dreams of stardom of each new city-dweller.
watch your step.
wow… she’s something else!
a knock-out with glass jaw but she will always be the first to throw.
she’s a fault line but no great shakes. beneath the mask it’s, clearly, all fake. like the mountains she makes; and struggles, self-baked, of tremendous tremor.

“are those freckles real or are they melanin implants?”

[oh jesus…]

’tis becoming a seismic bore: predictable, needling or
just needy, like that waitress on a 16 hour shift.
Hollywould, if she could, for a cuntful of tips.
oh see how she is gifted – with envy-green eyes and marshmallow lips. Oh how those breasts, augmented, uplift.
and how that mouth can swear and prey.
that mouth…
Oh that pretty mouth and its infamy. it spews, spills and thrills; what’s it to be? spit or swallow?
guzzle ’til full, or remain forever hollow.
she’s the lying breath of the dying, or maybe she is just like our dying star, or a vagrant on the casting couch.
she will play you, work you – she’s no slouch.
is she fashionably contradictory or just prettily vacant?
and so it goes on – irrefutably blatant.
from upbeat to down beat – to a dead heat in heartbeat
and hysteria. with no pretty flowers downtown to adorn her
– only painted thorns, all shorn and forlorn there.
a plastic rose in a plastic surgeon’s clinic, its artificiality, leeching – its cheap scent and gaud leaves them nauseous and retching.
while the artist outside, on the kerb, is sketching.
Oh Hollywould – is a hall of mirror and delusion.
in a violent reality of wild superficiality, she thrives on and jives with collision and war.
warring, wearing and wearing thin, wearing down.
oh Hollywould – a dumb little clown; a piss-stinking parody of a circus town.
attention-seeking, she swings to and fro; a trapeze, a trap… she’ll cum and she’ll go.
fickle, sickle, scythe, and sick.
calculating and heartless, with a swinging brick.
Oh Hollywould, if she could, of that i am sure – cast her aspersions, as she walks out the door, with precision
like a whaler’s harpoon, direct and damaging in her oblivious lampoon.
Queen of the Damned, or  just damned Drama Queen.
“do as i say
or i’ll scream and i’ll scream…!”
and she will, ’till you’re down upon wounded knee;
she will have you jump through hoops of blowjobs and fire, ’til you please
or appease or get stuck in her mire.
one thing for sure…

… this is no town for a child.

(c) Kat McDonald 2016

chewing the fat – a short story



Black Friday. the streets were mean and surly as the hustled bustle of frenzied Christmas shoppers began to reach fever pitch and a new-found level of savagery.

still owned by the same family, now in its fifth generation, Mickey’s Diner is the oldest diner in Brooklyn and it hadn’t changed one iota since the 1900s.  the smell of Irish stew and coffee became as synonymous with Brooklyn as the Bridge itself.

Escaping the Christmas contagion and mass hysteria, Harold and Maeve Spratt entered the diner, as they did every Friday.

Harold sat opposite his wife, Maeve.  he motioned to the waitress that he’d like a coffee.  “black n bitter” he scoffed.

the diner was busy and crammed with people.  people loitering; people taking seats and leaving seats; people with harried expressions; people hugging and laughing; people impatiently roaring “check please!” – to which the waitress would roar  “i said i’ll be right with you, goddamnit!”.  there were lovers in corners, huddled over steaming bowls of stew; there were whining children – pissed because they’d been trailed from shop to shop on a promise that they would get to go see Santa Claus if they were good little boys and girls but their whines seemed justified – it was a little after 4pm and they knew that they’d been duped; little kids, stropping, rigid in strollers, screaming for attention, their bottom lips quivering and their faces red.  poor little bastards.  what a toil for them, being pushed through a noisy jungle of legs, ill smells and the odd dog’s unwanted overfamiliarity.

Kim, the waitress, had waited these tables for thirty six years. “in with the bricks” she’d cajole, with a tired smile and swollen ankles, smiling lamely at customers as she waited to take their order, stabbing her chewed pen on the notepad in her slender hand.  “what’s it to be, Harold?” she asked, arriving at Harold and Maeve’s table.

Harold ordered another cuppa Joe “black n bitter” and a naked mixed green salad “no dressing”.  Maeve was still pondering over the menu.  “should i get the blueberry pancakes, with maple-cure bacon, Harold?” she asked “or should i have the a big slab of that pecan pie…?  i just love pecan pie… ooh peaches…”.  Harold silently scolded her with a glower, cutting her off bluntly,  as he casually unfolded today’s Gotham Gazette and snapped it open, putting it up as a barrier between him and his wife.  he quietly sipped his coffee and muttered, from behind the headline: “have whatever your heart desires, Mae – what the Hell do i care!?”.

“aw come on, Maeve, i got other people waiting” said Kim, loudly cracking her gum, like a gunshot.

“ok… i’ll have the blueberry pancakes, with the maple-cured bacon – and two eggs, over-easy… and i’ll have the corn muffin with peaches and syrup please” she said, looking pleased with herself, smiling smugly at Kim as she handed her the menus.  Kim stuck her pen behind her ear, took up the menus and zig-zagged off in the direction of the kitchen hatch, where she brayed the order at the cook.

Harold and Maeve had been coming to Mickey’s Diner for almost 50 years.  every Friday, since before they were married.  those early Fridays saw them sit, as young lovers, huddled over a milkshake with a stack of quarters for the jukebox.  Hell, they’d even been known to get up and dance, like there was nobody else around.  later Fridays saw them bring their children for birthday balloons and sparkling sundaes.

but today Harold and Maeve sat in silence.  she, now 40lbs heavier, sat looking around her, with her hands close-knit in her lap while he sat, quietly sipping his coffee, reading the funnies.

Harold was 78 and a retired cop.  He was a tall and intolerant man, with a wiry frame. granted, it was a little bent out of shape nowadays but he tried to keep himself lean. still, he had a bone-dry sense of humour, a boner for the waitress’s legs and a bony face, to boot. he was an ugly man and had been known to make children cry with just one glower; his piercing eagle eyes and hanging monobrow made him look like ‘the bogey man’ to the children in the street where they lived. however, with age, the severity of this look was lessened by the thick horn-framed spectacles that were now perched on his prominent aquiline nose.

Maeve was a retired cook.  she loved food. oh boy she loved ‘a good eat’.  “a little too much” Harold would say, to his friends at Tuesday night poker club, when Jimmy ‘One Shoe’ McGonigle and Tom ‘Crab’ Fisher would ask after ‘the good lady’.  “gah, she’s as good as an old slipper” he would say “a little worn and twice the size she was when i first tried it on with her”

yes. it was true.  Maeve liked her food. she loved to eat. she was 72 and overblown. “a diet of fat and flour will do that to ya”, as Harold would say.

amid the rabble of babble and clatter of crockery, the cook roared “one mixed green salad, one pancake pig-out for table 17!”

Harold squirmed in his seat, shaking his head with embarrassment and burying his face in the day’s obituaries.  Maeve smiled with glee as she watched Kim weave through the tables, a plate in each hand. cracking a large gum bubble loudly in Harold’s ear as she laid their food down at their table, Harold tutted and threw her a contemptuous glance.  “sorry” she said, huskily, with a nonchalant shrug and ‘like-i-give-a-fuck’ smile.  Maeve began to sweat and squirm with excitement. her eyes widened and lit up like cooker rings when the platter was put down in front of her.  she pulled her seat in close to the table.  so close, her huge tits pushed the plate three inches away from her.  “thank you, Kim, you’re a sweetie” she said, cloyingly to the waitress.  “can i trouble you for some extra bacon – two skinny rashers like that ain’t gonna fill me up?”  Harold rolled his eyes to the waitress: “… and a heart attack on a plate, if you got one of those too?” he snarled.

Harold neatly folded his newspaper and laid it to one side.  he picked up his fork and began to eat. quietly, in silence.

Maeve picked up her napkin in her plump hands and tucked it into her blouse, near spilling her cleavage onto her plate.  Harold looked at her with equal parts contempt and dread.

a few years ago, Harold had grown to hate eating with his wife.  her ill-fitting dentures and vile table manners filled him with anxiety.  his intolerance of messy, noisy eating had grown exponentially over the years.  there were many occasions where he would sit at the dining table, in the comfort of their home, silently plotting ways to kill her as she chewed hungrily on a turkey leg or slurped her coffee or spoke with her mouth full of ham and egg sandwich – plosively spatting slimy chunks of half-chewed bread and mush across the table, often onto his plate.  he now found this woman, the former love of his life, disgusting. repulsive. like a pig.  an old sow.

today was no exception.  he sat and picked at his leafy veg, polite forkfuls of spinach and lollo rosso quietly masticated in his closed mouth, as he ruminated on her demise.

with a whore of an appetite, she attacked her plate… chopping up her pancakes with the fork gripped tightly in her chubby fist.  her eyes twinkling as she greedily licked her painted lips. she was hungry.  she was always hungry. she stabbed at pancakes, bacon and blueberries – stacking them on the four prongs of her fork, closing her eyes as her mouth yawned open like a whore’s cunt, stretching and glistening with greed.  Harold watched in horror, at what seemed to occur in slow-motion, as she slammed that fork in her mouth, cramming it full of what she craved; thrusting it deep inside that gaping cavern. her pink painted lips creased around the fork as her eyes rolled back in her head in ecstasy; her chubby fist deftly removing the licked-clean fork and returning it to the platter only to be stapped full of more fat and flour; more glutinous grease, as that ugly and guilt-free grin opened across her puffy face like a septic wound, seeping and encrusted with crumbs and spit.

and that sound!  Harold hated the sound.  the sounds were the worst imaginable.

the rattle and clicking of her ill-fitting dentures frayed his nerves with each bite. the jaws snapping, snapping; her poorly painted and puckered lips smacking, smacking… and the gulping.

Harold hated the gulping.

she would take a swill of her coffee, gulping down air with her mouth full of pancake and pig.  the squelching and sweating.  she would sweat with excitement and effort. how could she fill that mouth so full. the sweating… as her stomach succumbed to the stretching, she was like a foie gras goose. her eyes would gleam and her mouth would glisten in her unabashed gluttony, her chin wet and shiny with trails of jus and bacon fat. but it didn’t stop after the plate was empty… oh no. this was the bit Harold hated the most.

the rattling.

after eating, she would rattle her dentures around her mouth; her tongue poking around in there, scouring for remnants of half-chewed food. her painted mouth stretched outwards like the muzzle of an adult baboon. oh that sound.  it drove Harold crazy.

*cough* *splutter*

suddenly, Harold’s murderous fantasy was interrupted by a violent coughing fit. it took him a while to realise that his wife was choking.  he sat, quietly forking away at his salad.

“don’t talk with your mouth full, Maeve” he said, awkwardly, loud enough for all to hear, as he quickly polished off his salad.

the coughing and spluttering grew increasingly more urgent…

“someone call 911 – that fat lady’s choking!!” someone yelled.

for Harold, everything seemed to be in suspended animation, surreal. he watched, chewing on his watercress and kale, as a young bearded hipster guy in skinny jeans and man-bun tried to pull the Heimlich manoeuvre on her but he could barely get his arms tight enough around the bulk of her corpulent form to perform the move effectively.

Harold sat and watched, in disbelief and quiet amusement,  as his wife’s face reddened and her eyes bulged as if fit to burst. Harold watched as everyone rushed and fussed around her.  he glanced outside, it was starting to snow.  he turned back to his wife and stared into her eyes, her watering and bloodshot eyes.  he watched as her face turned purple and her heaving mass slumped, hard, onto the floor.

“call 911… QUICK!! she’s not breathing!” yelled the bearded hipster.

“Jesus, man, what’s wrong with you!?  your wife is choking!” he barked at Harold, as he took a hold of Maeve’s hand.

Harold couldn’t move. he seemed blissfully paralysed.  he simply sat and watched the drama unfold before him.  he sat and stared at her plate. he sat and watched as the Coroner came and took her body away.  he sat there, still.

“it’s not like her to leave food on her plate…” he thought.

damn.  she hadn’t touched that corn muffin.

“what a waste!” he thought, as he stabbed his fork into its peachy depths.



(c) Kat McDonald 2016

~ an idea for a screenplay.



pink lemonade for a blue girl


barefoot on cool grass,
summer has spoken
in soft
dulcet tones:
of honey-bee drones
and the hum of distant traffic.

grateful flowers herald her arrival
with trumpets blaring blue and yellow.

she moves,
with sand in her shoes,
but still…
she’s here…
but only just.

i hear her
in the sea’s breath
and the depth of tide;
in gulls’ cries
and the clink of ice.

(c) Kat McDonald 2016

just another vegan rant…?

HEY FOLKS… did you know that veganism has increased by 350% in the UK? it is one of the fastest-growing movements worldwide as people become more aware, more responsible, more enlightened.

[i want to keep this brief as this post isn’t specifically self-centric…]

i have been vegan for almost a year now and it has not been an easy ride. some days are a struggle. this is particularly so in the area where i live – not TOO many places to eat out without being asked:

“what’s a vegan?”

“ah… you’re from Germany!”

“i can make you a cheese sandwich… or an omelette?”

but… more and more eateries are now catering for those choosing a plant-based lifestyle.

i feel like a burden has been lifted from my shoulders by adopting this lifestyle and following the vegan movement.  not just for my health, but for the animals, AND for the planet. i felt it was my duty. a duty of care.  and after watching movies such as ‘Vegucated’, ‘Cowspiracy’, ‘Black Fish’, ‘Earthlings’ [to name but a few!] my feelings were consolidated. verified.  i just knew i was doing the right thing, by making the sacrifice and switch.  i just knew i owed it to myself, my fellow earthlings and the planet.

the time was now.

my lover, who is also vegan, has felt compelled to share HIS journey into veganism, by way of making some videos. this one’s not for the faint-hearted, but being vegan isn’t easy… almost always we have a daily battle with many things… here is his testimony about why he became vegan, and the obstacles and objections he now battles with… he says it’s ‘just another vegan rant’ – but i think it’s so much more than that. 100% honest, with a little humour… features Alfie, our Cat.

one love, folks. we are just doing what we can, chipping away, educating ourselves, educating others… supporting the movement…. just trying to make the world a better place as we, humans, are racing our own extinction.

the time IS now.  always will be. it is never too late to make the change.

spread the love. share this around. if you are curious about veganism and how it can benefit you, feel free to contact him – subscribe, leave a like, leave a comment, ask a question, offer advice – every day is a school day.

i have been met with trolls and objection, but i always throw this rock back:

“hey buddy, the argument is not with me… it’s with your own conscience”




thoughts (c) myself, Kat McDonald 2016

video (c) Monkey Productions 2016 & Robert Davidson 2016

Ace Ventura – White Devil

Want something good to read? want something 1000% vegan, yet really meaty, to get your teeth into? here it is… fan fiction at its best!

Message from the author:
Calling all Jim Carrey fans, Vegans, lovers of all animals and lovers of a damn good read!

I think I just wrote Ace Ventura 3. A novel called Ace Ventura – White Devil.

It’s a dark and twisted tale 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.

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?

Enjoy and share.🙂

Ace Ventura

Chapter 1 – A Royal hunt

1Gaewick Forest, Perthshire, Scotland.

Three middle-aged men, dressed in green camouflage overalls and hiking boots, tread heavily through dense forest. The morning air is cool and fresh with a distinct pine aroma. The wood is a typical Scottish forest with a variety of different trees – oak trees, silver birch, majestic Scots pine, ash, sycamore, Douglas fir, the ancient yew tree, horse-chestnut trees and many more.

Two of the men carry on their shoulders a carved wooden pole, and tied to that pole, hanging from its feet and swinging lifelessly, is the dead body of a stag. The third man, leading the other two, carries two hunting rifles, one over each shoulder. They are in high spirits after a satisfying hunt, laughing and jeering.

‘They can camp outside of the old hag’s palace for all the good it will do them,’ sneers the man…

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