I wear two hats when I write this blog of mine. First and foremost, I manage a small charity in a small Scottish town called Dumfries. Ours is a front door that opens onto the darker corners of the crumbling world that is Britain 2015. We hand out 5000 emergency food parcels a year in a town that is home to 50,000 souls. Then, as you can see from all of the book covers above, I am also a thriller writer. If you enjoy the blog, you might just enjoy the books. The link below takes you to the whole library in the Kindle store. They can be had for a couple of quid each.

Monday, June 13, 2016


I don't know about you but I'm finding it's getting rather tiring trying to keep up with all the stuff I need to be scared about. Every passing day brings forth new levels of naked terror for me to try my best to deal with as Project Fear battles it out with... well.. Project Fear. I am fifty five now and yesterday I was presented with a bleak view of my future by my Prime Minister who was wearing the very gravest of grave faces. It was his 'we're about to be invaded' by China face. Basically the hard truth he was seeving up as his fear dish of the day could have not been much harder for a 55 year old contemplating the proximity of my golden years. Vote Leave and forget my state pension. Instead it will be a cardboard box in a shop door way. A closed up, boarded up shop by the way. And it will rain every day. And every time my exhausted eyes can stay open no more and start to close, a rabid rat will jump forward to gnaw at my face. And it will rain every day. And my desperate existence with revolve around queuing up at the soup kitchen for a thin gruel of rotten cabbage.

Scary, right?
On the up side, without any kind of NHS I doubt I will have to survive my pensionless old age for so very long. And will I survive the nightly carpet bombing from the newly re-established Luffewaffe once the next European War gets under way?
So I lay awake at night and I endure the cold sweats of gnawing fear. I don't want the rest of my life to look like this. Old, penniless and starving in the midst of the next war to end all wars.
I best vote to stay then. But there is no relief from fear to be found in doing that. Fair enough staying might mean I will still have a state pension and a degree of health care. But it will come at a terrible price. For voting to stay means destroying my country's ability to stop an invasion of wild eyed Jihadis and Turks. They are massing at the boarders right now. A vast brutal army readying themselves to swarm all over us to rape all our women and behead all our men. Voting to stay will mean voting for a life under Sharia Law with no football, no music, no pork and daily beheadings in the town square. Getting a state pension suddenly doesn't seem so great any more. Not at the price of living under an Islamic tyranny.
Which is worse? Destitution, starvation and endless war or being beheaded by a psychotic Turk who rakes in £500 a week in benefits and rapes a school girl every other day.
No wonder everyone is telling me that 23 June will see me cast the most important vote of my life.
As a writer of pulp fiction I feel a heavy burden of responsibility. Can I help people as they contemplate the life or death decision they are about to make? Well maybe I can. Maybe I should try to deploy my fiction writing skills to help to make the terror to come as real as possible. You see, the idea of being beheaded by a lunatic from Istanbul on the Tesco car park can feel like a bit of a distant prospect. A pulp fiction writer can maybe help to flesh out the terrible reality of this Sharia law nightmare that awaits us all if we vote to remain in the EU. A pulp fiction writer can describe the crows in the bare trees. The thin brutal wind. The potholes in the tarmac. The shabby old cars. The pinched, grey faces of the shoppers with their trolleys filled with nothing more than rotten cabbage and Bratwurst. The pulp fiction writer can describe the killing frenzy in the eyes of the Turk who is wielding the extra large machete. The beaten terror in the eyes of the kneeling figure about to lose their head in the most literal sense of the word. Guilty of the crime of listening to Frank Sinatra whilst eating a bacon roll...
Pulp fiction writers. It's what we do. It's how we roll. It is our duty. We have a civic responsibility to make the fear real. Project Fear means nothing unless you can picture it in 3D clarity.
OK. So here goes. Maybe this is the most important bit of typing my fingers will ever be involved in. Life and death typing. A chance to save millions of my fellow Brits from a life of living hell where we will be enslaved by a swarm of murderous, black hearted Turks.
I knew nothing of this until I watched Nigel Farage being interviewed last week. Thank God I tuned in. Because had I not tuned in, I may never have known..... Christ. Not surprsingly Nigel's face was grey with concern as he reached into the pocket of his tweed jacket and drew out his passport. He told me it had these words written on the front. 'European Union'. A British passport with 'European Union' written on the front! Tears of rage prickled my eyes. So Dunkirk was all for nothing. And Agincourt. And Waterloo And Nigel's features hardened as he laid it on the line. All the terror to come. How a Jihadi madman might take the terror trail to Germany and be gifted a passport bearing the words 'European Union'. How that very same Jihadi madman might arrive in Dover waving his passport with his cold killer's smile. How the border officials would be helpless to do anything other than wave him through. And then... Well we all know what comes next. A big house and the kind of benefits payout only Muslims are entitled to. And a carte blanche to rape school girls and blow up railway stations. And all because those German bastards gave him a passport bearing the words 'European Union'.
That is how it will be. That is our future. Thank God there are still men like Nigel with the guts to tell us the hard truth. To tell it like it is. And if Nigel is willing to put his future on the line to save us all, the least I can do is to show some support. Some solidarity. Some patriotism. And it it means being beheaded one day, then so be it. Ladies and gentlemen, here is what is coming if you vote to stay. It is Raqqa. It is Syria. It is two years time. It is a world where we have voted to remain. It is a journey to the very heart of the bottomless evil that is Isis. It is the way it will all pan out should we ignore Nigel's warnings and leave ourselves open and defenceless......




This story is dedicated to Nigel Farage and all the other brave men who give so much to keep us safe.

Omar had travelled a long road. Long and hard. He had come far. Ten years had seen him transformed from the skinny kid on the streets of Fallijah who had thrown stones at the American soldiers. They had watched him in his torn T shirt. They had seen the murder in his coal black eyes. They had sensed the raging hatred in his heart. A boy who had never learnt the meaning of fear. A skin and bone waif who would step out in front of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle and hurl a rock at the windscreen.
They had chosen him. The big men. The leaders. And they had taken him to a camp out in the desert. And Omar had become accustomed to being the best. The best sniper. The best bomb maker. The best Koran student. He was the ultimate. He felt the hand of the Prophet on his shoulder. He was a sword of Allah. And one day he would deliver the greatest ever blow to the Crusaders.
He was running. Mile after mile after mile in the blazing heat of the midday sun. Mile after mile with a rucksack filled with rocks on his back. Mile after mile with no boots on his feet. Mile after mile. Like a machine. Like death.
There were three men waiting for Omar. Robes. Kalashnikovs. Belts of ammunition. Very still in the shimmering heat.
He reached them and he stopped. They saw how he was barely sweating. They saw how every inch of his lean body was knotted with hard muscle. They saw death in his eyes. They saw Omar. They saw the sword of the Prophet.
It was time. There were no words. Instead they led him to the waiting Toyota. No conversation. No words. Outside people looked away from the black vehicle with the tinted windows. Traffic cleared from their path as they wound through the streets of the bombed city.
A non descript building. Once it had been a garage. Now it was a nerve centre. Two dead eyed guards stood by a wide hole in the floor. Metal stairs. A tunnel lit by flickering bulbs powered by a distant generator. Down and down. Further and deeper. Out of reach of the American bombers who came every night. And now it was cool in the dampness of the subterranean command bunker. Omar followed in silence. Unruffled. The easy bouncing stride of a man at his peak.
A steel door. A body search. And then he was inside the inner sanctum.
Behind a steel deask was the old man who's face appeared on the walls of buildings across the Islamic State. The Caliph. The Mahdi. The Leader. The voice of the Prophet.
"Please sit Omar."
Omar sat. And Omar waited. After so many years he knew his time had finally arrived. Now the Kuffar would pay. Now he would do the great work of the Prophet.
"We have watched your progress for many years now Omar. And you have become the very best. You are the tip of our spear. You are the blade of our sword. You are our new Saladin. And now the time has come for you deliver a blow to the Crusaders they will never recover from. Are you ready Omar? Is the Prophet in your beating heart?"
"Caliph, I am ready."
The old man nodded. A gleam of rage boiled in his coal black eyes.
"Good. Very good. Your mission requires patience and determination. You will be the hawk who soars high over the hot sands of the desert. You will take a boat from Libya. You will pretend to be a refugee. You will find a away to get to Germany. And when you arrive, you will claim asylum. Your journey will be hard. Every border is now closed so you must deploy all the skills we have taught you. Maybe you will have to walk every step of the way. The Prophet with give you the strength. The Germans will give you a place to stay and they will give you money for food. They are fools. You must keep your purpose well hidden. You must hide yourself Omar. You will need to wait for eight years and you must avoid any trouble with their police. You must be perfect in their eyes. You must show the patience of the hawk in the desert skies."
Omar nodded. Eight years? He could wait for eight years. He was the sword of the Phrophet. The old man continued speaking in his cracked voice.
"When the eight years have passed you will fill in the paperwork and apply for a German Passport. Again you must be patient. Like the hawk. After two years they will give you one of these. A German passport.."
The old man held up a passport in his gnarled old fingers. Omar's eyes devoured it. He read the words 'European Union'.
"Once you have this there is nothing they can to to stop you finding your great destiny. For you are the sword of the Prophet, brother Omar. You are the very tip of the spear. You will catch a train to London and they will be helpless to stop you. And when you arrive among them, the Kuffar will pay for their crimes."
The old eyes gleamed in the half light of the deep bunker. The ceiling shook a little as an American airstrike hit home many metres above. Dust floated down from the clay ceiling. Omar moved slighly and spoke in a voice soaked in respect.
"Caliph, might I speak?"
"Of course brother Omar. You can speak."
"Caliph is it true that wee still sell oil every day. Much oil."
"It is true."
"And is it true that we sell our oil for many millions of dollars?"
"It is true."
"Great Caliph, I have heard men say a passport like the one you hold in your hands can be bought for as little as £500 dollars. Oh great Caliph, can you not buy me one of these passports and I will deliver a great blow to the Crusaders before the next new moon rises over the desert. Why must I wait for ten long years?"
The old man's weathered face broke open into a small smile of stumpy brown teeth. "Omar, you are strong but you are young. You lack the wisdom of age. I will teach you. For us to bring the greatest terror to the Kuffar, we must do what they fear the most. We have listened to the words of the one they call Farage. He is one of their most formidable Crusaders. Like the one they once called Richard the Lionhart. He has told his people to fear the man who comes to Germany and waits for ten long years to win himself a passport like the one I hold. Of course you could travel to London on a passport like the one you describe. A passport that can be purchased for a mere $500. And of course you could deliver a blow against the Kuffar before Friday Prayers. But that would not be victory. The Crusader they call Farage has shown us the way. If his people had listened to his wisdom, they would have left their European Union and then a man like you would have never been able to wait for ten years to earn a German passport and be allowed into his land. Well. You would be allowed in if you claimed you were merely a tourist, but let us not worry ourselves about that. And it is indeed true that even if his people had listened to his warnings, you could still have taken a plane to the place they call Dublin and entered his Kingdom at the place they call Dundalk and caught a ship from the place they call Larne and landed at the place they call Stranraer... But let us not consider any of these things for to consider these things would be to give the infidels what they want. Farage knows and Farage has warned. If you were to simply travel to London this week and slaughter hundreds of Kuffar, they would barely notice. It would be like the bite of a flea on the hide of a goat. But if you wait for ten long years and then deliver your blow, then you will have made the warnings of Farage into a glorious reality. Only then will they know true terror. Only then will they pay."
"I hear your wisdom oh great Caliph."
Omar closed his brain down. The Caliph was all wise. Omar could wait for ten years. He could wait for the whole of eternity.
And so it was that Omar, the very tip of the Phrophet's spear, made the great journey over land and sea to Germany. In the years that followed, he became a supporter of a football team they called Borrussia Munchengladbach. He met a girl called Helga and they became man and wife. He became a German citizen and forgot all about the old man with the gleaming eyes. He trained as an engineeer and found work in a factory making washing machines to clean the clothes of the unbelievers. He became a father of two daughters and one son. He became an eater of pork. He never did take a train to London to take the revenge of the Prophet to the British Kuffar....
But he might have done. Oh yes. He might well have done.....

So there. I hope you are scared. Really, really scared. Becuase we must never rely on the fact that lunatic Jihadis like Omar will meet girls like Helga and become eaters of pork. Instead they might wait out those ten long years and come into our midst bearing German passports. There is no excuse. Nigel has warned us loud and clear. Oh of course they can buy a false passport and come in through Dublin, but that would be cheating. Well, wouldn't it? Just like Hitler cheated when he sent his Panzer divisions around the Maginot Line and sneaked into France through the Ardennes Forest. We're not frightened of cheating foreigners. Never have been, never will be. But a foreigner who plays it by the book and waits ten long years to get a German passport..... Well that is a whole different level of crazy, right?
So thank you Nigel. And thank God there are men like you who are willing to give everything thay have to keep us all safe in our beds.


  1. Pulp fiction? Give me this over Dan Brown anyday.

  2. As usual Mark, a great read with the reality of the situation laid bare.

  3. I sense a novel in the making.

    Yeah, you're right.

    But none of the "leaders" are greatly blessed with intellect, and far too few of the readers of pulp fiction newspapers have much in the way of critical analysis skills...

    Oh, and I'd hardly call your books "pulp fiction".