Everything Does Not Happen For A Reason

Praying. Never seen the point here at Sigmund Fraud Books.

Religious people believe in The Almighty as divining a future from which you have no escape. “His Plan”.

(If this is all a plan, you have to wonder what kind of operation he’s running up there, don’t you?)

Anyway. I was thinking about the Lord’s Prayer this morning.

We ask God to:

“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

And I thought – This implies we’re more reasonable than God (we probably are). The message seems to be: “Do as we’re doing, God. Be like us and forgive.”

The Big Fella’s got a lot to learn evidently.

But if God’s got a path mapped out for us, what was the point in prayer? Surely it should make no difference. Not unless God’s quite indecisive. He’s up there, decreeing left, right and centre, and then he starts to get inundated with a load of prayers and says to the Angel Gabriel: ‘Ere Gabby, look at all these suggestions. D’ya think these people have a point? Do you think going down that path would be better?’ What does he do, Pontiff would ask, wait for a hundred prayers and then some sort of device goes off alerting him to the fact that a rethink is needed because people down on earth have been on their hands and knees asking him to reconsider? Does he start thinking things like: ‘My word, this Robert’s popular, isn’t he? A hundred and ninety-eight prayers came in for him not to be convicted of that murder he didn’t commit. Maybe we should cancel the execution.’ And so the path changes and lucky Robert is saved. On the flip side, he’s thinking: ‘Oh dear, only six prayers, that’s not nearly enough. My original idea stands. Get the guillotine ready.’

Big Love. Have a good day et cetera…

Sigmund F

Two weeks to go… time for the rum

Greetings Lovers

It’s a Sunny Monday and just maybe we’re in for some ACTUAL SPRING. Be nice wouldn’t it?

We also have sunshine in our hearts as we are JUST TWO WEEKS away from the release of Terrance Gonzo’s Asylum For The Half-Baked.

(For those slow on the Maths uptake, that means it’s coming out on Monday April 30th, ebook – £2.99 and paperback – £5.99).

Now dear old TG has encountered many troubled people. Mainly because they, like him, inhabit worlds that straddle the comic, the tragic, and the absurd. It helped that his time at the Asylum for the Half-Baked coincided with so many of them.

In his blackly comic collection of vignettes, snapshots, skewed poetry and straight up stories Gonzo recounts their tales of (among other things) doomed romance, unwanted pregnancies, revelations at weddings, damaged political careers, bad taste art, misunderstood chivalry, and how to deal with a fly invasion.

‘You must be pretty excited,’ we say to him.

By way of answer, TG read the following from Hunter S. Thompson’s The Rum Diary:

After one night too many sleeping on some stinking cot in a foul grotto where I didn’t want to be anyway and had no reason to be except that it was foreign and cheap, I decided to hell with it. If that was absolute freedom then I’d had a bellyful of it, and from here on in I would try something a little less pure and one hell of a lot more comfortable. I was not only going to have an address, but I was going to have a car, and if there was anything else to be had in the way of large and stabilizing influences, I would have those too.

He added: ‘If absolute freedom is being young(ish) and single, then I’ve had a bellyful.’

We had to laugh.

Take it easy and Big Love

Sigmund F x

Terrance Gonzo’s Rules of Engagement


“Ok baby,” he said, very calm, not biting.

“Aaaaggggh! You always do this! You never take it seriously when you upset me.”

“Oh baby, I take very seriously your happiness and well-being. I think you’re wonderful. And that’s why I react the way I do. Because this insignificant argument we’re having has no bearing on how wonderful you are, and how wonderful we are, so I’m happy to let the moment past and not make it worse by reacting.”

He walked towards her. She was softening. He put his hand on her cheek, then through her hair.

“Baby, if it was something that was really massively important and genuinely making you upset of course I would go into it. We could talk about it at length.” He paused. “But I think I’m right in saying it isn’t like that. You just want me to do that thing – which I’m happy to do – and then we can move on. It’s not a big deal.”

He knew to pick his battles. Being angry was a waste of time anyway. A monumental waste of time.

She paused, shook her head slowly in way that said she agreed, as though weighing up the offer of a car. She looked up and smiled.

“You’re right.” She kissed him. “I think you’re wonderful too.”



The woman knew that if she made the man feel as though he was in charge, she could get what she wanted. ‘Please,’ she said, appealing to his gentle masculinity.

Either way, she would have her way. This way would just be less painless. She’d argue if she had to.

And the man knew that though you always played to win, that didn’t hold for a game played with your woman. To keep winning in that arena, you didn’t win the game.

“Ok,” he said.



“Why do you never say to me ‘it’s all gonna be ok’? That’s all I wanna hear sometimes.”

“Because nobody fuckin knows that!”

“So you’re not there for me?”

“Oh, come on. Course I am. But nobody can guarantee everything’s gonna be alright. But I can guarantee I’ll always be there for you. I can definitely say I entirely understand why you have these fears. Everyone has them. And I promise you you’ll never have to deal with any of that shit on your own.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Suit yourself.”


Salad Pancakes & Champagne

After a weekend of roasts, house parties and many guests, I lay on my sofa last night, still in the morbid throws of an incessant hangover. I was hungry, yet wasn’t.

Trekking the full six metres to the fridge I found: the remnants of Yorkshire Pudding batter, some old olives, a tomato, a slab of cucumber, half an onion and a practically full (opened) bottle of expnsive Champagne.

My reluctant mind cranked into action and concocted: Salad Pancakes & Champagne. Might do it every Sunday…

As I ate I recalled the weekend, and the SFB gathering we had had: Abi K-J, Comisc Sky Bran & Terrance Gonzo were all in attendance. Cosmic aint the biggest lover of some of Gonzo’s new stuff. Quoting our absent friend Rosette Tokelove (author of I’ve Never Been Wrong Yet”), Cosmic said:

I can imagine people in prisons loving this

Cosmic’s got in his head that TG’s Asylum For The Half-Baked is all about sex. I say, it’s all about love. You can find out for yourself in the very near future…

Sigmund F



The Cat was smoking my last bit of tobacco when I finally got home.

‘You old bastard!’ I cried. ‘Have you dealt with the mice yet?’

This was the last thing I needed. My client’s story didn’t add up. I felt certain we would lose the case.

It smoked nonchalantly.

‘No,’ it said. ‘Have you?’

‘Me? It’s not my fucking job!’

‘God, you’re so old-fashioned; such an antiquated view of division of labour.’

‘Gimme that!’ I shouted, grabbing the fag from the cat’s overly moist mouth. Snatching the snout jolted the cat. It spluttered into a phlegmy cough. Finally it ceased.

‘You got any food?’ it asked.

A mouse scurried across the floor.

Story from “The Last Thing Anyone Needs Is A Dribbling Crisis (And Other Small Talk)” by Ed Spencer. Coming very, very soon…

Cambridge Analytica

“The whole country was divided region by region, city by city, area by area, into alphabetical groups (Surnames A-E was Life Administration Group 1 and so on).
The National Identity Proof Scheme Department (NIPSD) then assessed each individual before providing the relevant benefits. To that end, each Citizen had to set up a Citizen’s Account and prove the specifics of their case before they could receive their rations, healthcare and housing.
In order to receive the most bespoke care and benefits, all past afflictions, psychological traumas and abuses had to be confessed. Indeed, every aspect of a Citizen’s existence had to be divulged. All social media posts, likes, comments, email correspondence, phone records, texts and internet browsing history were combed to corroborate the information each Citizen had provided – and to weed out those with questionable pasts. Many a low-level facilitator was adjudged an arch criminal for selling an eighth of hash here and there. The plethora of personal details held by various private agencies and companies and state-run departments were also collected. Details of every app you’d ever used were gathered and if details emerged of an STD, for example, your interactions on dating apps were looked at to see who your sexual cohorts had been and then they in turn were checked out, and so on. Only once this process was complete was a NIPSD card issued and benefits able to be enjoyed.
In the past such cards had been threatened for reasons ranging from international terrorism to identity theft. Finally, they’d been brought in to set up an elaborate dole.”

Read more here.


The correct heat of water to enter the bath should be

Slightly uncomfortable



Because within a minute or two of bath acclimatisation

Anything less than scorching-on-entry

Can quickly feel


Sometimes in life you don’t know what to take seriously

It seems anything

Could be a joke

A bad idea

An absolute



Gonzo’d up the clanger mate

Gone the full rhubarb

Mash donna hash

Drugs standard visuals

A form of synaesthesia.

I returned to:

‘She’s fit but she wears the same perfume as my grandmother. She just smells old.’

And a man who went round sticking complimentary poems to people’s backs – his observations on them. People expected the worse when they felt something pinned to them. Then they read it and they felt amazing and watched him walk into the distance.

His mother was lovely. Always had a bad word to say about everybody.

She made me realise: Microwaving a fresh coffee is hardly the most romantic thing to do.

Microwaving is hardly the most romantic thing to do.

‘All I’m saying is that UFOs are as likely to exist as God. If one person says they’ve seen a UFO and the other says they’ve seen God or felt his presence or whatever, why should I find more likely the one that vouches for God?’



I often have to remember what day it is


My mate’s mother keeps asking me if I like that electron music


I’ve lost count

of the amount

of times my own mother has asked me what the genre of my first album is.

I opened the fridge


was smacked on the leg by a slab of loose cheese

And he

had a peasant hunch

And I

thought –

White shoes on short men probably doesn’t work

And why

does everyone say ‘impacted’ instead of ‘affected’?

I blame James Murdoch.


Peasant Hunch had a slightly faraway look in his eye.

He was the boyfriend of this girl who said –

‘Sometimes the concept of being anywhere baffles me. I think people have families just to stop the boredom, the grinding monotony, the sense that really if you think about it, everything has little to no meaning. The drugs are no longer fun, the exchange rate’s fucked, you get gibbed every time. The days after are murderous, crucifying, stultifying, debilitating. And when even the drink starts to do that… Well, fuck me. And you think – what’s left? What else can I do?’

Another woman said – ‘is that a bad thing? I bet life does take on new meaning when you’re a parent.’

He said – ‘it all just seems remarkably hollow. Because then you’ve got the soul scraping procedure of catchment areas.’

The conversation was easy enough at first

But I had the impression we’d talked about all we could talk about.

And anyway

Some of the things I was saying were just so clichéd.

The conversation became stale.


I was seeing a lot of girls because I had no (or very little) faith that I would actually meet someone I really wanted to be with.

And when I did –

They were with someone else already.

So talking about kids and schools seemed a berserk waste of time.


Terrance Gonzo’s Asylum For The Half-Baked

Greetings, greetings. Trust you are all well.

We’re getting very excited here at Sigmund Fraud Books about the IMMINENT ARRIVAL of Terrance Gonzo’s Asylum For The Half-Baked,.

Mr Gonzo calls it “a dose of bad luck, half-formed sketches of events, gleaned from people who probably shouldn’t have been there who may even regret ever having had met me.”



But Terrance Gonzo has encountered many troubled people.

Mainly because they, like him, inhabit worlds that straddle the comic, the tragic, the absurd.

It helped that his time at the Asylum for the Half-Baked coincided with so many of them.

In this blackly comic collection of vignettes, snapshots, skewed poetry and straight-up stories Gonzo recounts their tales of doomed romance, unwanted pregnancies, revelations at weddings, damaged political careers, bad taste art, misunderstood chivalry, and how to deal with a fly invasion.

Leaning stylistically on Brautigan and Burroughs, Gonzo’s brutalist writing inhabits the minds of a cast of half-baked people, struggling to impose how they’d like things to be.

It’s dark… It’s funny… It’s pretty out there.

The Asylum for the Half-Baked:

Where heartbreak and brutal comedy go hand in hand

And frailty and longing are greased with gallows humour.