Right. Listen. I am doing a thing and I need you lot to actually pay attention for once instead of just screenshotting the filthy bits and disappearing.
From now on, every single month, I am going to pick one subscriber at random and just give them five hundred quid. Proper English money. The kind that still buys a tank of petrol and a Tesco meal deal and leaves you enough for a cheeky Nando’s if you are careful. If you live somewhere that is not the UK you already know that five hundred pounds is not Monopoly money. It is the real stuff. I will transfer it. No hoops. No essay. No “tell me in three sentences why you deserve it.” Random. One name out of the hat. Done.
I can do this because I am not skint. Three stories I published last year still print money in superchats and chat revenue and the odd paid interview I do not advertise. The Coven pays the rent. I have money. I am fine. More than fine. So I am sharing some of it. That is the whole announcement. Simple.
If you are already subscribed here you are in. If you also sign up to the newsletter on my actual official site you get a second ticket in the same draw. Two chances. Same five hundred. The newsletter is the one that lands in your inbox with the pieces I cannot put on my site or substack. They are the real stories. The ones that name names a bit closer. The ones that sit in drafts until I decide the risk is worth it. You have been to the site a hundred times. Some of you still have not put your email in. That is on you. Double chance starts the minute you do.
That is the first bit. The fun bit. The easy bit.
Now the bit that actually matters.
I want your story.
Not the polished version you tell at brunch. The real one. The one that still makes your stomach drop when you think about it at half two in the morning. I will pay you properly for it.
Five thousand pounds for an anonymous article. You stay hidden. I do the writing. I keep your name out of it. If you are willing to go on the record we talk about proper silly money. The kind that makes your current bank balance look like pocket change. I am not joking. I have the budget. I have the audience. I have the lawyer on retainer who already hates me.
I want the messy ones. The ones you have never put on a dating app prompt because they make you look unhinged or lucky or both.
I want the psycho ex who still texts from a new number every Boxing Day. The one who showed up at your work with flowers and a speech and then smashed your windscreen two hours later. The one who was arrested the day you dumped him questioning how you ever put this guys dick in your mouth. The one who convinced your own mother he was the victim. The one who kept a spreadsheet of every time you “disrespected” him.
I want the famous side piece. The Premier League reserve who used to book the same hotel under his cousin’s name. The radio presenter who only ever came to yours after midnight and left before the bins went out. The actor whose publicist still pays for your silence even though you never asked for a penny. The politician’s wife who found the second phone in the glove box and still has the screenshots.
I want the man who was so good in bed it actually frightened you. The one who made you come so many times you lost count and then asked if you were all right in a voice that was almost concerned. The one who ruined every future partner without meaning to. The one you still compare everyone to even though you blocked him eighteen months ago.
I want the girl who is juggling three of them and somehow none of them know. The one who has a colour-coded calendar and a separate perfume for each postcode. The one who came twice in a work toilet and then sat through a budget meeting like nothing happened. The one whose current boyfriend thinks she is “not that sexual” because she saves the filthy version for the other two.
I want the best friend’s fiancé. You know the one. The night that started as “just a drink to talk about her birthday present” and ended with you both agreeing it would never happen again while you were still putting your knickers back on. The one you still see at family things. The one who looks at you across the table like he can taste it.
I want the therapist you slept with. The one who told you it was a boundary violation and then booked the next session anyway. The one who still has your old notes and uses them like a map.
I want the man who left his wedding ring in the Uber and then spent three days pretending he had lost it at the gym. The one whose wife followed you on Instagram two weeks later and liked every photo from 2019.
I want the church car park story. The one where you both swore it was just once and then did it again the next Sunday because the sermon had been particularly long. The one where you still cannot hear a certain hymn without clenching.
I want the rugby player who cried after. Proper tears. Said he had never felt anything like it and then ghosted you for six weeks and came back like nothing happened.
I want the one who only finished when you insulted him. The one who needed you to tell him he was pathetic and still not enough. The one who tipped extra because of it.
I want the influencer’s secret boyfriend. The one who does not appear in any of her grids because his actual job is in finance and his mother would have a stroke. The one who pays for the trips she pretends her brand paid for.
I want the guy who still sends money years later. No message. Just a standing order that lands on the first of the month like alimony you never asked for. You have never cashed the last three because it feels worse than taking it.
I want the woman who found out her husband had a whole second family two postcodes over and instead of leaving she started sleeping with the other woman’s brother. I want the details. I want the timing. I want what she told the kids.
I want the one who made you come on a train because the carriage was vibrating just right and you were too stubborn to move seats. I want the one who did it in a disabled toilet at a wedding and then had to give a speech twenty minutes later with your lipstick still on his collar.
I want the famous ex you still have blocked on three platforms but check through a fake account every time he posts a story. I want the one whose name you cannot say in certain rooms because half the table slept with him too.
I want the girl who got paid to keep quiet and spent the money on a deposit anyway. I want the one who recorded the argument and still has the file in a folder called “do not open.” I want the one whose current partner thinks the scar is from a bike accident.
You know the stuff I like. The stuff that sits in the gap between feminism and filth. The stuff that makes you laugh and then feel a bit sick and then laugh again. The stuff you would only tell one person after two bottles and even then you would make them swear.
Send it. Anon is fine. On the record is better. I will not publish anything that gets you sued unless you want to be sued and we have already priced that in. I will change enough details to keep you safe if that is what you need. I will keep every name if that is what you want and the lawyer says we can.
Five thousand for the anonymous version. More if you put your face to it. I am not being cute. I have the money. I have the platform. I have readers who will eat this alive and then argue about it in the comments for a week.
Do not send me the tidy version. Do not send me the version where you come out looking like the hero. Send me the version that still makes your hands shake when you type it. The version you have never told your group chat because one of them is still friends with him. The version that would ruin Christmas if it ever got out.
That is what I am buying.
The monthly five hundred is the easy prize. This is the real one. This is the one that could change your year if the story is good enough.
You already know my email. You already know the site. You already know I do not flinch.
Now go and write the thing you swore you would never write down.
I am waiting. And I have the cash ready.
Contact me here on my main site. and while your over there, hit the newsletter because those emails are the real secret stuff, the real stories, my things that go bump in the night I can’t publish here or on there publicaly. There’s lots going on none of you are aware of.