Mar 262014
 
PRIMAL black

Want flowery descriptions and characters that tell their life story over a soy, chai, latte? This is not the brand for you!

Every now and then I get a message, review, or comment from someone who just doesn’t get PRIMAL. Sometimes it’s from an armchair General complaining about a ‘lack of realism’, or maybe it’s a literature professor who’s upset at the lack of big words, and excessive profanity.

PRIMAL Fury smallJPG

Does this look like classic literature?

I want to make it perfectly clear. I don’t write classic literature and I don’t write military non-fiction. PRIMAL is not elegant prose, nor is it a documentary. PRIMAL is high speed, hardcore action designed purely to entertain. I get bored reading endless paragraphs of pointless description and long-winded ‘character development’, so I balance it with action to keep things interesting. Yeah my characters do crazy sh#t against outrageous odds, yeah they use a lot of futuristic tech, have shit-tonnes of cash and f@ck yeah they always win in the end… Why? Because it’s cool and it’s fun to read.

Am I going to change the way I write because not everyone likes it? Hell no. All the haters can eat a d#ck. There’s a whole bunch of PRIMAL fans out there that love reading as much as I love writing. So guess what, PRIMAL is only going to get better and better as my skills improve.

Keep reading and take it for what it is…

JS

Nov 242013
 
MacDonalds Jihad

Killing 1156 times more infidels than actual Jihad.

In 2012 terrorism claimed the lives of (on average) 0.86 Americans per million. Now I don’t want to detract from the tragedy that is loss of life to the actions of extremist dick wads but these statistics are pretty low compared to the mortality rate achieved by fast food consumption. In 2012 obesity achieved a kill rate of 995 Americans per million, 1156 times terrorism.

Must be pretty damn demoralizing to look at those stats if you’re a hard line Jihadist waging a campaign of terror from dusty a shit hole in downtown Quetta. I mean, you put your heart and soul in to waging war against the infidel and you’re getting your arse kicked by a long dead Kentucky ‘Colonel’, a f#cking kid’s toy that jumps out of a box and a clown with a retarded purple friend.

burger 5

More effective than a sh#t load of semtex.

Not to mention Jihad costs a lot of cash. So Dirka Dirka douche bag is cutting back on niceties in his compound, like extra tassels on his jingle truck and a pedicure for his donkey, to continue his war. His Wahabist sponsors have been pouring money into it for decades and not getting a great return on their cash. On the other hand fast food companies are killing it, literally. In 2013 the top fifteen chains raked in 115 billion dollars. Holy shit I just choked on my cheeseburger. That means they’re making a profit of 383K per mortality. That’s a pretty sweet rate of return if you’re in the business of killing infidels.

So let’s get this straight, fast food companies are killing Americans – albeit a little less dramatically than terrorists – and they’re making a shit ton of cash doing it… This has got to be the easiest decision a Jihadi investor has ever made. Wahabists sponsoring terrorism need to get their money out of Quetta and start investing in fast food.

Does this mean that PRIMAL should re-align and start hitting the CEO’s of fast food companies? Pardon the pun but it’s food for thought.

Nov 182013
 
A heavy hunk of steel but nothing beats the FNMAG for fully-automatic firepower!

It’s a heavy bastard but nothing cuts down jungle like the FNMAG.

The Jungle sucks balls! Without a doubt it is one of the nastiest environments on earth in which to conduct military operations. No shit, everything in the damn place is trying to suck your blood, bite your arse, chafe your nuts and make your life as miserable as f#cking possible.

I’m sure that I knew most of this from previous experiences in my military career, but somehow I had forgotten and when the opportunity popped up to join a group of South East Asian Special Forces guys on a weeklong training exercise in some heavy J, I jumped on it.

Home

Took less than four hours for my hosts to whip this up. Five star jungle accommodation.

Claymore Salad

What’s got four legs and 700 balls? Claymore that’s who. Rigged for rapid deployment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve got to admit the overall experience was off the charts. Our infil involved a three-hour ride up the delta in a landing craft followed by a chopper ride into the heart of darkness and then a week of live firing, navigation, survival training and general jungle bad assert, I fired enough lead to kill the Predator five times over.

In some parts of the world frog is a delicacy. Avoid those places...

In some parts of the world frog is a delicacy. Avoid those places…

My hosts were seriously slick operators, jungle hardened warriors they could break contact with the best of them and throw up a makeshift shelter in as much time as it took me to extract my sorry arse from a particularly nasty thorn covered vine. Impressively they were also impervious to the stifling humidity… unlike me who spent the entire time drenched to the skin with either sweat and/or torrential rain. Enter my favorite parts of jungle ops, prickly heat and chafing.

I came away from this little adventure with a very healthy respect for those men who’ve actually fought in the jungle, whether it was in the Pacific Theater of WW2 or Vietnam. Without a doubt they have endured some of the shittiest conditions conceivable. Maybe in the future I’ll send Bishop and the team in to test their mettle against the J. In the meantime I’m going to avoid it all costs and get back to writing PRIMAL Mirza.

By the way, for those of you who have been asking PRIMAL Fury will be out on March 04 2014. And for those of you who have been requesting hard copies PRIMAL Unleashed and PRIMAL Vengeance will be released in paperback on Dec 03 of this year. Audiobooks will also be available and you can pre order all of them on Amazon. 

 

 

Sep 012013
 
Bishop

BISHOP – Small Brown and Lethal (to food)

So I’ve got  a dog. Not some savage fanged attack beast but a small brown cross who’s good company when I’m writing. I live in apartment so he’s about as rugged as I’m allowed to have. Oh and his name’s Bishop, that’s another story. Anyway my girlfriend, lets call her Supreme Dictator Home Front (SDHF), tells me that it’s Bishop’s birthday when we’re in New York. ‘Cool,’ I respond. ‘Yes it’s his 21st,’ she continues. ‘It’s an important day we need to have a party.’  At this point I stop what I am doing and look at her with a raised eyebrow, ‘Babe (I don’t call her SDHF to her face) he’s a dog!’ There is a pause as my comment is processed, considered and subsequently discarded. ‘I’ve written you a list.’

So here I am stuffing dog treats in to brown paper bags for all of Bishop’s buddies and preparing to bake cupcakes for his human friends… How the hell did I go from being a soldier to this? What the f@ck has happened to my manhood?

11cd_tactical_bbq_apron_callouts_flat

Does this apron make cupcake cooking manly?

I’ve come to the realisation that the real world ‘the one the SDHF lives in’ is nothing like the world I’ve come from. In this crazy world dogs have birthday parties and men – well we do as we’re told. Why? Because we’re building collateral. Because by cooking these cupcakes and prepping these party bags I’m far more likely to get approval for a crazy arse adventure (West Virginia Rapids) or a new toy (Mountain Bike). This line of operation is one hundred percent focused on diplomacy. Oh and if it means Bishop, my writing buddy, has a great time then I guess it’s worth it.

Anyway I’ve got to finish these cupcakes, hang up my apron and get stuck in to writing the next PRIMAL adventure.

Jan 262013
 

For those of you keeping track on Twitter you’ll know I was lucky enough to venture over to Vegas last week to attend SHOT Show. In between titty clubs, time on the range, casinos, nightclubs and driving the porcelain bus I was able to get out and about and find some cool gear amongst the veritable jungle of tactical nylon, AR15s, promo-chicks and free pens. Here’s my take on the coolest swag at SHOT Show 2013.

Saneh's body armor

I’m all about asset protection and if it’s one thing the PRIMAL team definitely needs to protect it’s Saneh’s assets. This female-specific soft armor is available in a range of sizes and part of the proceeds of each sale go to support research into breast cancer, protecting puppies in more ways than one.

SIG Sauer MPX

I saw more AR15 variants than any other weapon at the show.  The fuckers jumped out at me from every direction, by the time I was done I never wanted to see another black gun. But then this little bad boy caught my eye. The Sig Sauer MPX is a new SMG that rocks an AR15 style lower receiver for less training time. Chambered in pretty much anything you want it can even be tooled out with an integrally suppressed barrel…sweet.

MAGPUL Van

Zombies were soooo 2012. All except for this that is. Where I’m from these things are known for shagging and surfing. Trust MAGPUL to throw a mini gun on it and turn an icon of sixties flower power into a death wielding zombie-slaying death bus.

 

Spypoint remote cameras

As far as tech goes I was really impressed by the gadgets at the Spypoint booth. Their latest remote cameras feature full-motion video, audio capture, night capability, and connectivity via wifi and 3G networks. These little bad boys are designed to monitor game trails and the like but imagine what Mitch could do with them; monitor infiltration routes, provide early warning, etc. Rig ’em up to some elec dets and you could lay a sophisticated ambush with just an iPad and a handful of claymores. Boom!

 

OPSCORE Chariot at the Crye Precision Party

Probably the coolest thing at shotshow 2013 was the Crye Precision party. A whole bunch of tactical companies harnessed their chariots up to minibikes and raced around the track whilst a hundred or so lunatics (including myself) threw rotten fruit at them. Now that’s some serious fun. Jack Murphy put up a bit of video footage here.

 

Nov 242012
 

I’ve come to the realization that owning pants or shorts with heaps of pockets is no longer cool! Why? Because it’s turned me into a walking talking hand bag. Without knowing how it happened I’ve become a place for my girlfriend to keep her purse, phone, lip balm and a range of other crap that she ‘allegedly’ can’t do without.

Cargos or skinny jeans?

When you’re in the military you need all those pockets. You need somewhere to put a map, a compass, a notebook, a spare mag, a flashlight, a roll of tape, a multi tool, a combat tourniquet or even a packet of beef jerky and an energy drink. The pockets are endlessly useful and so is the stuff you carry. That ends when you’re back on the street.

A wallet, keys and a phone. That’s what I carry on civvy street. So why do I need all those pockets? The reality is I don’t. But given the opportunity my girlfriend will sure as shit use them. “Babe, can you carry my phone, my lip balm, my wallet, my keys, my sunglasses, my tampons, a comb, spare makeup…” the list goes on…and on. Before I know it I’m walking down the street with shorts that look like I’m trying to smuggle a Mexican family across the border.

Maybe there’s something to be said for skinny leg jeans after all.

 

Jack goes to the ballet!

 Random Rants  Comments Off on Jack goes to the ballet!
Oct 042012
 

Ok so this story starts with my GF telling me she has a spare ticket to see Sleeping Beauty the ballet. At the time I was fully entrenched in a multiplayer session of Black Ops and two kills of a Huey minigun run. I looked up from the screen, gave her my most charming smile and said “Sure honey I’d love to do that.” The truth – I had no idea WTF she had just said. I was completely consumed by my hatred of wheelspinner44 who’d just ended my kill streak – mother f#cker.

Ballet? Sure babe sounds awesome! Said no man ever.

So two months later I’m dressed in a shirt and jacket and perched in something called the ‘stalls’. I looked around and noticed the joint was filled with old couples and chicks; it was then I realised I’d been sucker punched. The ballet started and at first I was pleasantly surprised. The stage was filled with women sporting legs that’d turn Liberachi straight. I was enthralled; they had power, poise, skill and most importantly, they were smoking hot. I must have had a grin on my face like the Joker because when I turned to face my girl she was giving me that one raised eyebrow look that immediately lets me know my reaction is taking me down a road of pain. “Such skill,” I mumbled as I adjusted my facial expression. Needless to say my joy was about to be thwarted!

Enter the Prince, AKA Mr Skintight. I’ve previously voiced my opinion regarding men who wear tights to train, no one wants to see your junk jiggling around, douche bags. Ballet is where the frog in a sock originated, it is the home of tight wearing junk jiggling. Don’t get me wrong the Prince was an impressive athlete. He bounced around like a Kangaroo on LSD. However, his jiggling junk significantly detracted from the performance, or so I thought. I looked across at my girlfriend and guess who was now wearing a grin like a Cheshire cat?

Ten minutes in I lean across to my girl and ask, “So when do they start talking?” She gives me one of those looks, the kind reserved for my extra special moments, “Darling, it’s a ballet there is no dialogue!” WTF? I’m at a complete loss for words, just like the production it would seem. Watching a performance without dialogue is like watching a Predator feed in Afghanistan, boring as shit! So just like in the Ghan I started to let my imagination run wild. Before I knew it the Prince had taken on the honey badger voice, particularly relevant when he was battling the witch who for some reason in my head sounded just like Oprah. Every character developed it’s own voice, the entire cohort of the Princess’s suiters became the Expendables as they pranced their way around the stage like a gaggle of homosexual conquistadors. Without gunfire, explosions and hand to hand combat, the fight sequence between the Witch’s minions and the Prince was lamer than Samsung’s defence in the Apple copyright case.

So for one night I was exposed to some classical culture, but most importantly I took away some important lessons:

1. Never agree to anything when playing Black Ops, MW3, Battlefield 3 or any other multiplayer game.

2. Ballet has no dialogue and should be watched slightly inebriated.

3. No matter how physically impressive you are, tights make you look like a douche.

JS

Aug 242012
 

Take that skinny legged douche bag!

I haven’t blogged for a little while because I’ve been working on the new PRIMAL novel, I am calling it 4 until I come up with a cool name. Today I was forced to withdraw from the PRIMAL world of action, tech, fast cars, hot women and gargantuan explosions because of one thing… skinny leg jeans. What the fuck is the go with men’s fashion today? I went to a shop looking for a pair of jeans and the retail assistant asked me if I wanted a skinny leg variant. “Pardon me,” I responded with a puzzled look on my face. “Skinny leg jeans,” she replied giving me a look like I was some sort of window licking fucktard.  “Like these.” The clothing she held up had more hope of gracing the bridge of the Death Star than getting over my thighs. “Ah, no thanks,” I responded politely. I would have preferred to punch myself in the face with a fist full of gravel than wear that heinous item. “Fair enough,” she quipped.

Seriously though, since when was ‘skinny leg jeans’ acceptable attire for a man? When did we stop wearing stock standard jeans and start wearing skinny leg? Have I missed something? Because it seems to me that the generation of young men that are following in our foot steps checked their manhood at the door and signed up to the dress like a chick club? Hell don’t get me wrong, there’s a time and a place for dressing in female attire. Ask any Royal Marine officer, every chance they get a chance they don women’s clothes get drunk and set fire to shit. But there is no room in my day to day attire for skinny leg fucking jeans.

Dudes look like ladies!

Our forefathers would take one look at skinny leg jeans and punch the wearer in the face. “How the hell are you supposed to ride a horse in that getup?” they’d ask as the accosted metrosexual updated his Facebook status with “Oh my god totes just met a cowboy lol” or some such piss. Men’s clothing used to be all about practicality, we wore jeans because they protected our legs from branches and stuff. We wore a suit because it made us look less like a meat head and more like a gentleman. There is no room in this equation for an item of clothing that makes us look like a woman.

What sort of real man could even fit into skinny leg jeans? You seriously need ankles like five year olds wrists. Nope when it comes to men’s fashion, in particular skinny leg jeans, Aerosmith said it best….. dude looks like a lady!

JS

 

Feb 152012
 

That’s not a handbag sweet heart!

Green Berets, SAS, Commandos, SEALs, all the top SOF units in the world use gruelling selection courses to choose their operatives, right? So why can’t men use a similar method to select their partners? A set of challenges designed to work out if she’s a keeper… I mean, what’s more important, making sure a soldier’s got the balls to get you out of a tight spot or ensuring your future partner isn’t a nutjob? 

So how does this GF selection thing work? Pretty simple, lads. Hell, even Marines will be able to understand it. First you write a list of attributes that you want in your woman and then you plan a series of activities designed to test those attributes. Need an example? Here’s a personal favorite of mine. I call it ‘The Flashbang’.

What are we testing for? The motherly instincts that allow a woman to function when faced with irrational children. Pretty important if you think you might want kids and if, let’s face it, they turn out anything like you.

What do you need? Friends with a pair of boys aged 2 to 5, a packet of candy (anything with additive 102), two cans of Redbull and a bunch of wifi cameras. Oh, and an invite to your friend’s place for lunch.

What next? Just follow this guide.

1. Set up your friend’s house with a few wifi cameras the day before. You also need to locate a safe house to watch the feed from on your laptop. Preference is within 100m in case things turn to cactus. You may also want to pre-position a first aid kit, fire extinguisher and cleaning team, in case it all turns to shit.

2. Brief the couple and make sure they understand the plan. If the mother of the kids isn’t on board you may have to bribe her. Day spa treatments work well.

3. D- Day… It’s your job to get the two boys as excited as possible. Fill them full of caffeine, taurine, sugar, food coloring and then chase them around the house with a nerf gun.

You want him on your team, you need him on your team.

4. Get your friend’s wife to engage your girl in deep and meaningful conversation, if this hasn’t happened already. This will lock her down as you duck out to run a short errand, maybe a gas bottle refill or a milk run. Something your girl ain’t gonna want to be involved in. This is your cue to hit the safe house.

5. Now this is the difficult part, your friends need to receive a call that pulls both of them away. In reality this is you calling them from the safe house. A sick relative, car crash or any other suitably traumatic excuse will work. This is the first part of the test; if your GF doesn’t agree to mind the kids for half an hour she ‘FAILS’ (go to step 8).

6. Once the couple hits the safe house the fun begins. Make sure you have a marking criteria established; include key skills such as dealing with flung poop and tortured pets. All three of you can then relax for an hour with a bag of popcorn and a marking sheet. Meanwhile back in the house shit will be exploding as two hyperactive, additive injected gremlins literally fly around the house like a pair of dog-fighting WW2 aces. Warning – shit will get hectic but whatever you do don’t let your friends call End Ex. Broken bones heal, you can buy new pets, poop washes off walls… having a dud mother to your children can last for a eternity.

First Rule of GF Selection. She NEVER Finds Out.

7.  Once your GF has been at it with the boys for an hour or so it’s time for you to come in with a cover story for your absence. Something about a dead phone battery (run it down the day before) and a flat tyre should do the job. Half an hour later the couple can get home as well, relaxed after their sojourn in the safe house. Now, this is the most important part. The biggest rule of GF selection is never, ever, and I mean EVER,  tell her she was tested. Not even if she passes. If she finds out you put her through the ringer she’ll make your life hell till the day you die. This is not part of the test; even the most forgiving woman won’t let you live these shenanigans down if she gets wind of it.

8. Did she pass? If she did it’s happy days and she’s ready for the next round of selection. If she didn’t… sorry buddy, if you want a future mother for your children, no matter how much of a rocket in the sack she is, she needs to go. That’s the whole point of the selection course, to wrestle your decision making process from your dick!

‘The Flashbang’ is just one activity you could incorporate in a GF Selection Course. Some of my other ideas include declaring bankruptcy to weed out a gold digger, faking an injury to see how she responds to stress and my old favorite, throwing her out of a perfectly good plane. The possibilities are endless…

Good luck selecting,

Jack

Jan 232012
 

These girls were in no way associated with my Yoga class.

Today was bizarre to the point of being a truly freaky experience. For a start my girlfriend is doing Karate, not that great considering she is a pretty hot headed woman to begin with. Her and one of her friends saw a month’s free training and thought, what the hell they’ll give it a crack. Now even though I am more of a Krav Maga kind of guy I didn’t have a problem with this till today. Why now you ask? Well, and this is hard to admit, because whilst she was off learning to kick guys in the junk I was at Yoga.

Before you get all “Oh my god Jack’s a bit of an alternative wierdo” I’m completely cool with Yoga and Pilates and those sorts of girl-workouts. Having limped around with a parachuting injury for years (after landing on my pack at night), I’m all for stretching and strengthening. I’ve tried nearly every type of exercise available. I even dabbled in Bikram Yoga, but after passing out in a superheated room whilst I tried to touch my toes, I decided to give it a miss. Anyone who thinks they’re a bit of a tough bastard should try 90 minutes of that. . . trust me humping 10 miles with a 70 pound rucksack is more fun.

Yep.... sh#t just got weird.

Anyway a mate invited me to a regular Yoga class, so I thought, hell it’s a Chinese New Year why not try something new…FAIL. Normally I wouldn’t have a problem with Yoga but the reason this session weirded me out was while my girl was karate chopping wood and stuff I was holding another man’s hand and chanting… seriously WTF? The class started well, lots of stretching and strengthening, then it all got weird. It started with dancing, letting all your muscles go by waving your arms around like Jackie Chan on muscle relaxants… Hey, I gave it a go. I mean I’d paid my money and I wasn’t about to walk out. The thing is sh#t just got wierder and wierder. Before I knew it I was lying on my back doing some crazy arse cross country skiing move that looked like I was the birthday girl at a bukkake party. However it wasn’t until the last ten minutes that things really started to freak me out – ‘The Circle of Healing’.

That's going to be one big f@ck off circle of healing.

OK so picture this – a whole bunch of dudes and chicks sitting in a circle holding hands and chanting like some sort of demented cult. In the middle lay the people who need healing. This I wasn’t cool with. For starters the only circle I had formed in the military had two guys in the middle of it punching the crap out of each other with 16 ounce gloves. Secondly, wasn’t this the sort of thing that led to drinking blue Kool Aid and waiting for the mothership? I was freaked out and looking for an exit strategy. Finally it ended, but then some bleach blonde hippy girl asked why the meditation was so important. The instructor responded by saying it was a science, that meditating could change your DNA. Holy crap, I thought that required an exotic species of irradiated spider or a dose of solar radiation – sign me up for more meditation and a lycra superhero suit. Jack Silkstone’s gonna change his DNA and become YOGA MAN! Some people are just born stupid, I’m going back to running with my weighted vest and grinding out my knees.

Jack