Daniel Guy's Blog

by Daniel Guy Michelle slips off her cute black leather jacket and drops it onto the white leather sofa in Sabrina’s smart new apartment.   As she begins to cast her envious eyes around,  Sabrina stands at the entrance to her kitchen and asks,  ‘Would you like milk in your coffee?’  ‘No thanks,’ says Michelle, ‘I’m off milk these days.’ ‘How about a dash of sperm?’ ‘What?’ Michelle looks aghast.  Sabrina smiles. ‘Yes. It’s very nice in a strong expresso.’ Michelle laughs. ‘You’re joking…’ ‘Not at all!  You want to try it?  It’s also very good for the skin. I got bored trying to obtain decent sperm from the kind of men I usually hang out with, so in the end I bought a machine.  Makes life so much easier…’ ‘Really?  A machine that serves up real sperm?’ ‘Yes,’ says Sabrina. ’Impossible!’ ‘You want to see it? ’Come with me. I’ll show you.’ So Michelle follows Sabrina into the kitchen and there in the corner, ne...

by Daniel Guy  (A specially requested sequel to a previous story - Giovanni Plastics.) ‘Shattowe Bertrand, seel-voo-play.’  says Martin Littlejohn in a thin, nervous voice with a faint Birmingham accent. The French taxi driver sighs and nods and off they go, passing fields of languedoc vines and pretty green hills littered with cypress trees.  Martin is forty-three and works in a bank. He’s slightly overweight but otherwise not bad-looking, and his pale blue eyes and tufty bown hair suggest an easy-going and honest man. His wife and two young kids think he’s on a three day management course in Manchester, but he’s here in the south of France, alone.  The warm mediterranean sun is setting as Martin steps out of the taxi and looks up at the imposing entrance to Chateau Bertrand. It’s ancient, ornate and grand, built three hundred years ago, standing on a gentle hill, looking out onto acres of lush green vines. Imposing tall trees stand alongside...

By Daniel Guy The sun comes up over the Indian Ocean and within a few hours it’s already 35 degrees along the East African coast.  A local lad, Ibrahim, is cleaning the private beach in front of a grand colonial house, owned by Oliver Matuo, a close friend of the country’s president.  There are plenty of discarded black plastic bags, torn to shreds among piles of trash  washed up onto the white sands by the sea every day.  At times the tide will throw ashore the strangest things, discarded in a plastic sack. Ibrahim would tell you, if you asked him. Today, as he rakes the garbage into a large clear plastic sack, he is thinking to himself how strange it is that man has found a thousand things to with plastic bags, and now it seems they too will soon be banned.   Most days he is there, keeping the stretch of sand belonging to Mr Matuo clean and raked. He rarely sees anyone from the house coming down to use the beach. Just Asha, Oliver Matua’s only d...