Category: Brighton

The Nurse Hits Hove… And Now Betty’s On The Scene

September 15, 2014 | By | Add a Comment

A drawing of The Nurse

Watch yourself. The Nurse is back. And now Betty’s on the scene…

Two fucking years. The Nurse has been locked in a cupboard for two fucking years, fed disgusting mush (what’s with the porridge, you loony?) and reduced to peeing in a bucket.

That’s what happens when you get greedy. There she was, happy in her little garden flat in Kemptown. Then the voices started: “wouldn’t it be nice to have a bigger place, a posh place, an actual house, somewhere detached?” Oh, foolish bint… at first, The Nurse dearly wished she’d stuffed cotton wool in her ears and stayed put.

A bigger home meant starting all over again, grooming yet another old lady to the point of no return and stashing her body under the patio before moving in like a Thatcher-hairstyled, twin-setted and pearled, middle aged cuckoo. The Nurse has done it before. Several times. But she met her match in that bitch Betty.

Having spent a few weeks labouring under the illusion she was buttering Betty up, The Nurse was startled to find herself suddenly hoist by her own petard, imprisoned in Betty’s musty, welly-cluttered cupboard under the stairs. For some reason The Nurse can’t quite grasp, it took Betty six months to simmer down and another six to break her sulky silence. Eventually, another stultifying six months later, they became friends. And now they’re in cahoots.

Here they are, rattling around happily in one of those enormous Victorian mansions on a leafy Hove boulevard. Betty, with her pale blue hair, powder blue knitted skirt and cardigan suits, well-turned ankles and still-flirtatious manner, is a perfect foil for the sterner Nurse. Who would suspect such a harmless looking pair of evil doings? Nobody, that’s who. Which is why they’re getting away with murder. And The Nurse is woman enough to admit it: murderous deeds are much more fun with Betty at her side.

It turns out Betty has a cruel streak as wide as the M25. Betty’s husband Gerald is buried under the rose garden, the unwitting cause of many a first prize for uncannily large blooms. The combination of Betty’s sunny lack of conscience and The Nurse’s hideous habits is compelling, and they’re gradually turning their large back garden into a charnel house.

All of which means The Nurse is on fine form, ‘back in the driving seat’, as it were. If you notice an increase in the number of missing people in Brighton & Hove, it might be down to The Nurse and Betty sailing too close to the wind. In the meantime, The Nurse is delighted to announce she’s back, blogging like a fiend and doing her best to keep her nose clean… after a fashion.

 

Brighton serial killer mends wicked ways

June 15, 2012 | By | Add a Comment

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 pleasantly trollied… good old LSD

March 27, 2012 | By | Add a Comment

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.

Bastard Finchley lawyers and other stuff

March 5, 2012 | By | Add a Comment

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.

Nectar.

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.