The Nurse never thought she’d say this, but it’s no good. She admits it… she’s mellowing, despite strenuous efforts to remain evil. FFS.
She’d assumed that freedom from the loony bin would bring opportunities for amateur brain surgery experimentation, perhaps a little light trepanning, maybe a spot of dealing to top up the pension of the poor old dear she knocked off and buried under the patio (and which she now faintly regrets). But no.
Life in Brighton is both frothy and pithy enough to provide The Nurse with a constant, bubbling stream of delight. The ugly, persistent nagging voices that used to drive her murdering, drug-fuelled days have quietened and now all she hears is the murmuring and crashing of the Sussex seas. She still loves getting off her head – some things don’t change – but but otherwise she’s an angel. Relatively speaking.
These days she roams North Street, the North Laine and Hove’s charity shops dressed to the nines, smiling, fizzing with joy for the first time in decades. It’s time to put her trepanning set to one side and sail into middle age disgracefully.
So, it’s goodbye from The Nurse. She’d like to thank you for supporting her through the past five years of imprisonment, ennui, frustration, angst, neglect, violence, hatred and pain. And for your variously epic, ill advised, terrifyingly dim-witted, genius, legendary and extremely silly feedback.
Ladies and gents, The Nurse salutes you. Now fuck off.
The Nurse is tripping. She’s completely spanked. Shitfaced. Trollied. Trousered. Annihilated.
It’s nice. She can’t remember the last time she dropped LSD. Must be at least two decades ago.
This afternoon she meandered into Brighton city centre. Nobody notices an ordinary-looking lady, even when she’s tripping her nuts off.
As far as the Zeitgeist goes, she’s human wallpaper. A smart beige twin set, wavy beige perm, stolen pearls, clown-like rouged cheeks, tan support tights and sensible black patent court shoes do the trick every time.
Thus rendered invisible, she explores the streets she used to prowl as a young woman. Before those bastards caught her and banged her up.
She re-visited her old flat on Western Road, accessible via Waitrose car park, whose pale blue door hasn’t been painted since she scarpered in 1985. The damp, insect infested flat down Orange Row, the back alley behind Gardener Street. The dilapidated mansion flat on Denmark Terrace where she first became fascinated by amateur brain surgery, before everything went horribly wrong.
After a long, chilled afternoon reminiscing in town while the drug swirled, stormed, coiled, roiled and boiled around her brain, The Nurse is at home enjoying well-deserved tea and cake, watching the news on telly.
Oh, what a den of cunts.
This week The Nurse is astonished that we can extradite a British teenager to the USA for building a website linking to pirate TV and film content, but we can’t get rid of that tit of a terror whore Abu Hamza. He sticks to the UK like shit to a blanket, bless him.
She’s vexed about the student who’s been sentenced to 56 days in gaol because he got pissed and wrote racist comments on Twitter. Which means, presumably, that any arse who takes it into his or her head to exercise poor taste and even worse judgement faces a stint behind bars. A silly piece of news on the face of it. But it has a sinister side, as the people who run the country steadily encroach further into our personal territory. The powers that be obviously don’t trust communities or individuals, whether online or offline, to self-police. So they’ve decided to become our moral guardians. Well, fuck ‘em. What’s happening to free speech? Or does the principle of free speech only apply when we say nice, positive things?
She’s livid about the police too. It’s all getting too political, just like in the States. The Nurse doesn’t know about you, but she’s not interested in voting for a police chief. She doesn’t want a choice, thank you very much, no matter what the gonks in parliament think. She wants a bunch of people who know what they’re doing – the police – to choose the best person for the job.
The same goes for hospitals. She’s sick to her pointy back teeth of hearing about fucking ‘patient choice’. Jesus. She doesn’t want to choose which hospital suits her needs best. Sod that. She just wants her local hospital to be really good, no better or worse than any other hospital in Britain.
Not that she’s in need of hospital treatment or anything. But she’s wondering whether hospitals might prove fertile hunting grounds, what with all those helpless folk trapped in bed. She has hidden the intricate little Victorian trepanning kit she half-inched on the journey south. It’s rusty as fuck, so her first job is sharpening it. She hums nasally, leering in the gathering dusk as her tiny, delicate tools begin to gleam and sparkle under her expert hand.
Although thinking about it, she’d actually much rather sit outdoors with a nice slice of Madeira. Hmm, weird.
Life’s pretty damn good for The Nurse right now.
She has settled into her stolen flat and built a flower bed on top of the ex-owner’s final resting place (under the patio). She’s made a load of new pals, none of whom have the faintest clue about her past transgressions. And she has found lucrative work as a freelance virtual assistant.
Only one client has pissed her off so far. A law firm of quite spectacular nastiness up in Finchley, run by the rudest man on earth, refused to pay her this week. The arseholes. She’d name and shame the fuckers but they’d only sue her. And she can’t afford to draw attention to herself. After all, she’s still a fugitive. Never mind. May their tiny, weeny cocks rot off. If she ever goes to Finchley, she’ll pop in and treat them to a free amateur brain surgery session. See how they like that.
On a lighter note, The Nurse is living it up ’til late most nights in the Poison Ivy at the bottom of St James St, a splendid fun-house of a bar packed solid with top class nutters of every imaginable sexual persuasion. And more. Marvellous place.
The old urges are still there.
Now and again, when she’s off her face on E or whatever, she finds it hard to resist jumping some poor sod down one of those quaint little Kemptown snickleways and trepanning the fuck out of ‘em. Most of the time she’s fine. But spring’s in the air, her urges are growing more insistent by the day and some people – to be frank – would probably benefit from a nice, neat hole in the head.
In the wee small hours The Nurse wakes with a start. An unnerving grin creeps across her face as she climbs out of bed, takes a dusty box from the wardrobe and unpacks her Nurse uniform. Sniffing richly, she savours the meaty old blood stains.
How long can she stay on the so-called right side of the law? So far it’s all in her mind. She’s oddly reluctant to get back to her old ways.
The Nurse had one hell of a Christmas and New Year.
It took the best part of four days to limp from London to her home town, Brighton, and she’s been as busy as a particularly vicious and scary bee ever since, getting her new identity in shape.
Her teeth were her first priority. It’s no good trying to be inconspicuous with filed pointy gnashers, but thankfully all The Nurse had to do was track down and blackmail a former Amateur Brain Surgery Club member – now (hilarously) a dentist – to get them sorted out. You should see her gorgeous new pearlies, which cover her real teeth perfectly.
Second came a new name. After digging up one of her secret cash stashes, buried for convenience in the graveyard off Bear Road thirty years ago, she could easily afford a false identity. Thank goodness for Chemical Dave, another old ex-brain surgery cohort.
Third, somewhere to live. It was easy enough to knock off the old bat in the smart Kemptown house that The Nurse now ‘owns’ and bury the body under her small but very pretty city centre patio. Amazingly it doesn’t smell too bad out there, all things considered… but then again that’s the beauty of cold weather.
This evening The Nurse sits on her new leather settee, hunched over her laptop, poised to write her first rant of 2012 and her first as a free woman. If you didn’t know any better you’d think she was a respectable, smart widow about town. The thought makes her grin in a most unladylike fashion. Oh what fun this is going to be.
What’s pissing The Nurse off this evening? David Cameron’s Christian shenanigans, that’s what. OK, it was a couple of weeks ago. She’s been otherwise occupied. But it rankles like fuck.
The Nurse quite likes Cameron. Oddly, he’s less Conservative than Tony Blair. But she objects to his call for Britain to declare herself a Christian nation. That’s just divisive. She thinks it’d be much more sensible to declare ourselves a secular nation that tolerates all religions, whether it’s Pastafarianism or Christian God botherers.
Crikey. Admittedly that wasn’t much of a rant. But it’s difficult to generate a decent head of steam and vent your spleen effectively when you’re warm, wealthy, nice-looking and popular amongst your very nice neighbours.
She actually babysat for one of the buggers last night. Imagine if they knew she was a psycho killer with an unfortunate taste for soft, tender, well-cooked infant flesh.