Brighton Rock

I’m Jake Flannagan, I’m 35…and this is my single, messy life…

I stood at the reception desk of the freshly-decorated, boutique hotel just off Brighton’s seafront.  It looked as good as it had done in the photos on the internet; I had chosen wisely.

The place had just reopened after a refit – it was a steal at the price too.  My new lady was stood by my side with a huge smile; ‘Mission Accomplished’ was my thought.

“Here are your keys, sir.  We’ve upgraded you to a sea view, it’s  complimentary…” said the smartly dressed man behind the counter.

I’d been seeing the new lady for some months, but this was our first trip away. It was a surprise.

I picked up the keys and was about to turn away.

“I take it you are here for the dungeon?” asked the man behind the counter.

I thought I’d misheard him.  I replayed his question in my head.  No – he definitely said “dungeon”.  Maybe he meant the Old Police Cells Museum at Brighton Town Hall?  I’d heard that they were worth a visit.

“What dungeon?” asked the new lady, her smile half gone.

“The one in our basement, the sex dungeon.  We have forty thousand pounds of new equipment in there; Whips chains, stocks….”

I was riveted to the spot.  My legs felt like lumps of iron and everything seemed to moving in extra slow motion. How had this happened?  I’d diligently researched the hotel.  Not one of the reviewers had mentioned being chained up in the basement whilst being shagged – NOT ONE!

The new lady glanced at me.  Her smile was disintegrating faster than an ice cream on a hot day.

I could think of nothing to say.  I shrugged my shoulders, grabbed our belongings – and headed up towards our room.

“Dungeon, dungeon, a fucking dungeon…” was all I could hear as I carried our bags up the stairs.

Once inside our room, I quickly hugged her and tried to apologise.

“You dirty bastard!” she said.  “Our first weekend away and you bring me to a sex club with a dungeon?!”

I hadn’t.  I wouldn’t.  I mean not on our first weekend away…

I tried to convince her that I had no idea, but she didn’t believe me.  She pulled out her phone and tapped a few details into the internet browser.

“Look – you little liar!” she stated as she spun the phone round to reveal a photo of a heavily tattooed woman clad in leather with a whip, stood in the biggest sex dungeon I had ever seen.

I protested my innocence, but it was no use, she didn’t believe me.  I was a filthy man; she knew this.  I talked dirty; she was acutely aware of some of my previous risky and often filthy, sexploits;  I simply didn’t look like I was telling the truth…


I needed space to think.  I sloped off to the toilet and locked myself in.

I heard the door to the room open and close as I sat wondering how to deal with the situation on the toilet.  I ran out, she was gone.  Just my luck…

As I was about to call her, she reappeared from the hallway…

“It opens at 9pm…” she said with a huge smile, waving a leaflet at me.

It’s better to be born lucky than rich, as they say.


Find out more – grab a copy of my book at ‘The Theseus Paradox’


Could I date a prostitute?

I’m Jake Flannagan, I am 35… and this is my single, messy life.

I read with interest today that Ronaldo’s ex-girlfriend has previously been romantically linked with Sepp Blatter.

Sepp, bless him, is fifty years older than this rather beautiful girl.

Yet, we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover and Sepp might be the loveliest man in the world… *Coughs*

Sepp is no oil painting, as they say.  So how did he hook this beauty into his bed?

And she is a beauty.  Your guess is as good as mine…

He’s either hung like a horse or the beautiful young lady was in his bed for something else, something very valuable to her.  Don’t get me wrong, I am not for one moment suggesting that this lady is a prostitute, but that thought has crossed my mind.  And so what if she is?  Is that such a bad profession?  So it got me thinking…

Could I date a prostitute?

Would it be okay if a girlfriend, whom I loved, had sex with other men for money?

It’s a tricky question isn’t it?

I’ve had a varied sex life.  I’ve had a number of threesomes.  I’m not averse the seeing a woman getting a good seeing to by a number men, you might say.  If you could search my porn history you’d probably find ‘Cream Pie’ and ‘Slut Wife’ towards the top of the searches – so surely I must be plumb up for having a girlfriend who is a prostitute?

On one hand I think, yes, that would be fine, if it pays well – it’s just a job after all.  It might even turn me on.  But what if she enjoyed the sex with those paying for it, more than she enjoyed it with me?  The flip side of that coin is mental torment and anguish about what is going on during her next late-night shift; my imagination would be running riot.

I watched the film ‘Indecent Proposal’ where Demi Moore shagged Robert Redford for money while Woody Harrelson tore himself to pieces about it.  That’s the image that Hollywood wanted us to see; the ageing, rich , charismatic Redford versus the younger and poor Harrelson.  And of course Harrelson wins – money can’t buy love.

But what if there was meant to be no winner and no loser?  What if it was simply about the money; a business transaction. Could I compartmentalise my feelings enough so that a girlfriend could do that on a regular basis?

The image of a sweaty old Blatter humping my (hypothetical) girlfriend for 35 seconds before squirting his dirty, old splatter over her (excuse the pun) is a nasty one.  But if she was getting £10k a time, does that make it less nasty?

How much money would it take for me to stomach Blatter’s splatter all over her stomach?

But what if it wasn’t Blatter?  What if she had mind blowing orgasms with an Adonis who had a better body, and, a bigger cock than me – and she liked it?  Would this make a difference?

For me, personally, I couldn’t date a prostitute – but the reasons for that are my personal insecurities, my own hang ups and the self-confidence problems this would create in my head.

Now if I were Ronaldo – the answer might be a totally different one…

Find out more – grab a copy of my book at ‘The Theseus Paradox’



I’m Jake Flannagan, I am 35… and this is my single, messy life.

The phone rang, it was my best friend. It was great to hear from him – we’d fallen out about….

me crashing his car.

Stupidity & I have often trotted hand in hand through many situations, laughing in the faces of those who would dare to ask what I was doing.   I look back and cringe at some of the situations i’ve found myself in. I picked up the phone.

‘Hey Mate – how are you?”

It turned out that ‘Mate’ was having a whale of a time in the sun, quaffing champagne with a gorgeous girl he had met. I listened with envy as he described her & the scene before him – typical boy talk this. I was jealous. It sounded wild. I took the opportunity, with him in a good mood, to apologise again about the damage to his car.

Six months previously me and ‘Mate’ had been in a night club together. Somehow I had got talking to a very nice looking lady. One thing led to another and the very nice looking lady said she’d like to home with me. Bingo. But….

there was a clause to this very pleasant offer.

I had to make sure, promise in fact, that she got home safely ‘afterwards’. I remember her saying something about where she lived but by that point things had become a blur of lipstick and nice looking ladies breast – she might just as well have been speaking Japanese.

Nice looking lady and I had a very pleasant night together. At 7am she said that she needed to get home. My head was banging. I remembered my promise and, being a gentleman, I never let a lady down. It was then I realised that her journey home was going to be nothing short of a nightmare at 7am on a sunday morning. Stupidity grabbed me and I said I would drive her.

I searched everywhere for my car keys but couldn’t find them. No problem. ‘Mate’ was asleep in the next room. I could borrow his car. Bingo. I placed nice looking lady in the passenger seat and closed her door for her, like a gent. Got in the drivers seat and promptly reversed ‘Mates’ car straight….

into the bay window of his living room.

Yep. Bingo. Fortunately the bay window didn’t break. The car on the other hand was a little worse for ware. Mate will understand I thought; his was nothing short of an emergency getting this nice looking lady home.

Three hours later I fell back into the love pit that I had shared with nice looking lady, this time alone. It had been a truly epic car journey that had taken me across most of southern England & into a bay window. I fell asleep for what seemed like a nano second before Mate woke me saying that his car had been smashed up on his driveway…..

decision time!

I sat there looking at him…..

momentarily stunned that he did not know that it was me who had reversed his car into his bay window & then driven all over southern England without putting any petrol in it. This would be easy to get out of if I wanted too.

Would I, should I, could I?

NO! Friends don’t do that friends. I ‘fessed up and told him the story with all the grubby details. He was naturally upset. Naturally angry. We parted company that morning and it was a while before we spoke again.

But here I was, six months later, damage repaired and paid for – mate having a whale of a time. Bingo.

Mate and I went out for another night out, to bury the hatchet’s and bond like proper men do. During the evening mate grabbed me and said…

‘Remember that bird I was quaffing champagne with when I phoned you?”

I nodded as he pointed out this very nice looking lady. Bingo. It was the same very nice looking young lady that had been in his car when I reversed into his bay window. Oh. My God. What are the chances of that?


Find out more – grab a copy of my book at ‘The Theseus Paradox’


Too good to be true

I’m Jake Flannagan, I am 35… and this is my single, messy life.

Satelite Navigation is a marvellous thing; type in the destination & follow the directions.

Idiot proof?  What if the way the Sat-Nav tells you to go, doesn’t seem right?

I was working away from home in the wilds of West Yorkshire. Tuesday morning. There was always a meeting on Tuesday morning at 9.30am on this particular job. It was 9am. I was going to be late. The heavens had opened and rain by the bucket load was coming down. I was nice and warm in my nice shiny new work car but the traffic in front of me was at a stand still.

“Sat Nav can work out a new route,”  I said as a pulled off the main road and started travelling down a back street. I couldn’t be late! If only I’d left on time that morning? The gorgeous girl in my bed had made me stay…

well – not made me.

I’d been seeing this girl for several weeks. She seemed perfect. Unbelievably good-looking. Funny, intelligent & fantastic in bed. I liked her. Sat Nav had worked out a new route as I drove. Perfect. Life was simple, just like me.

West Yorkshire is not like London. Not all road’s are road’s as would be described by me a Londoner. This one I was on, thanks to Sat Nav, didn’t seem like a road at all in fact. Sat Nav says it’s ok….

full steam ahead.

I wondered when I might see my lovely lady again? I began to think. Monday’s. I always see her on Monday’s. How odd? I must mention that to her. I was about to call her when I noticed the ‘road’ was on was getting worse. Broken tarmac had given way to gravel, then the gravel had grass in the middle, then the gravel turned to cobble stones with grass in the middle, then the grass in the middle disappeared completely to show a huge crevice with water running down the middle….

oh fuck.

I couldn’t turn round or off the ‘road’ & it was now so steep and the car so steamed up I couldn’t reverse. Fucking Sat Nav. I carried on down the hill and into a field at the bottom. Yes – a field.  I somehow managed to get the car through the mud in the field and turned round. All I had to do was get back up the cobbled bridle way with the river in the middle. Easy. The Cows looked at me in my shiny new car as I drove through their field.

The cobbles were barely a tyre width wide with drops either side of them. One slip and I was….

Yep’. I slipped and the car was stuck. Grounded out on the cobbles with tyres hanging off either side. How had I driven down here. Idiot. Sat Nav didn’t seem bothered. I got out of the car. I was like an alien in this environment wearing my posh city boy suit and nice shoes. The cows looked at me in the rain swearing at the Sat Nav.

It was then I noticed the itch. Never had an itch like it. Itch in the groin. Right on the ‘bell end’ in fact. Odd.

I looked around. No houses to be seen. I had passed a house on the way down the hill. I walked the mile or so in the pouring rain to the house at the top of the hill. The itch getting worse. The farmers wife laughed at me when she opened the door. Apparently I was the fourth ‘City Boy’ that month to get the car stuck in the field. I corrected her that I had manged to get out of the field. She still called me stupid as she explained that it was going to cost £50 for the farmer to drag me back up the hill with his tractor.

I was late for my meeting. The dragging by the tractor ripped off the exhaust of my nice shiny new car and…

my itch.

The lovely lady turned out to be married and monday’s was the only night she could fit me in.  She’d suspected that she might have a ‘dose’ but had not told me. Perfect. If only I’d used my common sense?

All the signs were there to warn me that things didn’t seem right. Just like driving down the bridle way really. Idiot. The car got fixed; work were not impressed. I endured a visit to the clinic and the ‘bell end’ itch was fixed too. Thank god. Never blindly follow Sat Nav….

or pretty girls that are too good to be true.

I drove


Find out more – grab a copy of my book at ‘The Theseus Paradox’


Funny that?

I’m Jake Flannagan, I am 35… and this is about my single, messy life.

2014 has arrived. Thank God. Last year was one of the worst years of my life – and I have had some bad years so know what i’m talking about.

Many of you may have read my last blog about my Father. Some of you may know that he was once a very proud Police Officer. That was until one day his Sergeant offered him some very lucrative overtime…

It was 1979. The country was in a bit of state. Margaret Thatcher had just been elected. I remember Dad was all in favour of this new Lady as he was sick & tired of the strikes that he thought were ruining our country.

I often used go and see my Dad at work. It was fantastic sitting in his Police car and pretending to play on the radio with him sitting next to me. I’d sit listen to his seemingly endless amount of stories about incidents that he’d been to; most of which he made me laugh with. He was no stranger to more awful of sights of the 1970s which had seen the IRA target London with bomb attacks though.

My Dad was a hard working, committed and proud Bobby. Nothing special. He’d had to learn to read and write just to get through the entrants exam to join. He’d up grown in dysfunctional home where his father beat his mother up – his schooling suffered when he had to go to work to feed his brothers & sisters.

He was a hard man to the world; scared of nothing & no one. That said he was very inquisitive and compassionate. The Police was a good choice for someone of his nature.

The first I remember of him having problems at work was him coming home extremely agitated about colleagues who had been rude to him. We lived in Police accommodation surrounded by his collegues. The other (police) kids in the street were then prevented from mixing with me and my brother over the coming weeks.

Then one morning I was woken by my father shouting at someone downstairs at home. I went downstairs to see uniformed policeman (there were very few women in those days) standing arguing my father. I quickly found out that they had a search warrant for our house. They were accusing my father of stealing some carpet – I know!?1 – Carpet. We had lots of carpet. It was on the fucking floor.

The next several hours were the thing of nightmares for me for many years afterwards. The Police Officers, some of whom clearly knew my Dad well, were extremely unpleasant and basically wrecked our house. I remember them pulling the light fitting off the ceiling in my bedroom, obviously to look for Carpet though….

My mother and Father were extremely upset. I found out that Dad had stumbled across an overtime Scam where people claimed thousands of hours of overtime and were not even at work. He’d been asked if he wanted to be part of it. He had reported everyone to his senior officers after weeks of his own investigation to find the evidence of the wrong doing.

Things went from bad to worse as we targeted as a family. We were often stopped in our car by the Police just a short distance from our home; it would take ages and ruin the whole day. It was crucifying for my Father. After several months of this of activity he resigned…

It was 1980.

I remember the biggest hit that year in the charts was The Police – Don’t Stand so Close to Me; my first taste Irony.

No one was ever prosecuted for the overtime thing. The only person who ‘lost’ his job was may Dad.

I read the letters my Dad left after his death and wonder if my bad year was anything like his. Maybe, but that’s another story. He walked away from the Police with his integrity and honesty intact because he told the truth. Its something I have always admired in him. Something I repeated in my own life.

We often hear about whistleblowers being the ones who lose out – when all they are trying to do is tell the world about something they see as wrong. Its a very difficult road to walk. None of the friends we had in our ‘police community’ spoke to us much again.

“Your Dad did the dirty on everyone” was one of the last things I remember one of the older lads said to me. It was several months before I saw him in the street again – his bruises had subsided but his hair still had not grown back after I pulled large chunks of it out.

His Dad never did come and complain to my Dad personally about it….

Funny that?

Find out more – grab a copy of my book at ‘The Theseus Paradox’


The Box

I’m Jake Flannagan, I am 35… and this is my single, messy life.

Christmas is a difficult time; especially when you have lost love ones.

I stood there looking at the door to the flat with the keys in my hand. The music from the amusement arcade downstairs was almost unbearable; I could feel the thump of each beat of the music on the soles of my feet. Was this the right place? I looked at the address on the screwed up piece of paper I had written two days before…..

It was the right place.

I tried the key in the lock of the wooden door. The door swung open & I looked into the hallway of the flat. The inside was like the outside – run down, tired & very noisy. It was 7pm; the amusement arcade was in full flow.

Dad had been dead two days. I’d got the keys from his personal property at the hospital & they’d given me the address. “My Dad lived in this shit hole?” was the thought that kept going through my head as I stood looking down the hall into his crappy, noisy place.

I walked inside. Old furniture, old electrical equipment….. but it was spotlessly clean. I went to the bedroom. The bed was made & his clothes were neatly folded. This was may Dad’s flat.

I’d stopped seeing him when I noticed how much he was drinking. When he couldn’t remember who I was sometimes. He was an alcoholic. That was eight years ago. We’d spoken on the phone a few times but it was too difficult to spend time with him. As the years passed by it became easier to be without him in my life.

He was the most fantastic father a child could wish for when I was young. I was immensely proud of him. He was Police Officer, a hero, the best play mate, the best Dad…..

His voice was in my head as is stood in the bedroom of this crappy flat. “It will be in the box by the side of the bed’. I began to laugh. Dad had drummed it into me over my entire life. He’d always joked & said “When I’m gone – you will find it all in a box by the side of the bed”

Here I was. He was gone. I’d seen him the day he died – two days ago. He had multiple organ failure due his drinking. The hospital had somehow traced me through my employer at the time. They said that I should attend the hospital. I did. There was my dad with pipes, tubes & wires coming out various parts of his body. He couldn’t talk but I could talk to him. Thank god the hospital had taken the time to find me. I talked to him for an hour before he died.

I opened the door to the bedside cabinet. I almost fell over when I saw a box inside. A wooden box half the size of an A4 sheet of paper. The box was over flowing with papers & letters. What was this? What could possibly be in this box. I began to cry. I picked up the box and walked out of the flat leaving the thumping music behind me.

As I drove home with ‘The box’ on the seat next to me Dad’s voice was in my head…. “When I’m gone it will all be in the box by the side of the bed” I shouted out to him as I drove “what the fuck is in the fucking box Dad?” Tears began flow as I drove.

When I got home I spent several hours reading the many letters & documents in the box. The letters, handwritten & the documents were half a century old. They told a story of frightened boy who had watched his father beating his mother up constantly. The father had beaten the Mother so badly that she became deaf. As the boy grew older he fought with is father and forced him out of the house; this left the family penniless. The boy became the father figure for the family. At 16 he left to work in the Navy, sending money home to support them.

My grandmother was a cantankerous, difficult woman who was almost deaf. She always seemed unkind and thoughtless to me. I hated her at times. Why hadn’t Dad told me what she’d been through? Why didn’t he tell me why I never met my grandfather? There were many things in that box that explained who my Dad really was, why my Dad behaved like he did. I don’t know why he couldn’t tell me himself.

I put down the box and thought about my Dad. My alcoholic Dad. The pride in my father returned. A man with many problems….but a bloody good man.

Never lose contact with your family and look after them, because when they’re gone…

they’re gone


Find out more – grab a copy of my book at ‘The Theseus Paradox’


The Tasty Asian

I’m Jake Flannagan, I am 35… and this is my single, messy life.

There I was looking at the Asian. A very tasty looking Asian at that. Could I? Should I? Who was going to know that I had? It was just me & the tasty Asian after all. But you cant eat Asian at 9am can you?

Men. We are strange but very simple creatures. We have very basic thoughts; especially where sex is concerned.

These past few months, if you have followed my blog, have been very odd for me. I have been up & down and round & round the emotional rolla-costa more times than I care to remember. It’s resulted in me losing my mojo, my sex drive and the desire to spend any time with the opposite sex.

Gradually I have got all of them back, one by one, as things in my life have improved. First I got happy when I found the Mojo. Then I was wanking three times a day again. However; I stayed away from women.

It became a bit of challenge, to be different, to be celibate; a total wanker I know. But as the months have drifted by and my wanking became more wanton & furious by the day – I realised that I could not carry on without some physical contact.

It was then that I began to worry. Who? You see I have always prided myself on my performance in bed, the toilet or wherever I was having the sex. After 8 months I was sure that, initially at least, my performance was not going to be a good.

The phone rang. A number I had not seen for some time. Not recorded in my phone book but I was sure I recognised it. I answered it; an ex-girlfreind. We got chatting. I hung up saying that we should meet for a drink. You got it…..

Men are basic.

We met for the drink and it wasn’t long before I showed her how basic I was by groping her arse. Luckily she didn’t make me wear her drink. Back at her place I was like an octupus that had not eaten in years and needed to get its hands on everything. All was going well. But then……


The moment she placed my most sensitive tentacle in her very nice mouth – BOOM.

For fuck sake.

To be good at anything you have to practice. Sex is no different. You get out of practice very easily on this front I can assure you. Luckily for me I had been honest with her and she was probably expecting what happened. Next morning we tried again and there was a slight improvement.

I need to practice. Lots of practice. Lots and lots of it.

You need to do things when you want to, when you fancy it and at your own pace. Never be ashamed about yourself and doing things your way. I have in the past said that ex-sex is a really bad idea. Never go back. I am glad it was an ex in this case.

Who says I can’t eat Asian at 9am in the morning?

Find out more – grab a copy of my book at ‘The Theseus Paradox’