Archive for June, 2009
Returning from India, still intact despite the incident with the scorpion, and without locating nothing more than hocus pocus stories regarding Bab Nool Yony, we took about writing up our notes nonetheless with the hope that perhaps upon our next visit we may be able to piece together something coherent enabling us to carry on our work.
I had already resigned myself to the fact that if we were to return we would need to change our approach completely. When Winthrop had initially discussed the expedition with me I wasn’t convinced but the more he told me the deeper my obsession grew. Bab Nool Yony, third prince of the line of Arpaxia, an equally disturbing and hilarious character. The riches, the fame, the worrying large collection of women’s clothing and purple wigs. As previously discussed I was bored with the gentry and their anecdotes about fencing and so, with a bag of minor clothes and few frivolities, I stood waiting in the west wing of Winthrop’s manor. He arrived with only one tiny bag. I asked him where the rest of the equipment was and he assured me what was contained in the bag was all we required.
As it happens the bag was empty apart from a pocket watch made of lint. I knew instantly what Winthrop meant; we were going to India for silence, for peace, distancing ourseles from the mundane routine of modern life. The time we had left was gradually disappearing and like a watch made of lint soon it will completely disappear. He always taught me the most important lessons, unlike Padre Pumpinmeyer.
June 23rd, 2009
I have upgradede all of the gubbins that makes this stack o’pap work.
This has changed the back-office stuff, and I’ve no idea what we’ve gained/lost or how it works, but it doesn’t nag me to update it no when I log in.
Enjoy
June 23rd, 2009
The horror, the horror…
The village of ‘Sanctuary’ was in a vicious area of the country surrounded by thieves, villains and wolves made of gold. Generally those who visited would only be frightened of the first two as golden wolves are quite heavy and slow-moving. In fact most of them were stolen and now occupy various people’s homes as doorstops and unlikely centrepieces at dinner parties. The thieves and villains were too dumb to work out that selling the wolves made of gold would make them a canny (Geordie!) profit and thus set them up for life. When Stirrup bumped into one of these at a water fountain he was consequently spat on in the most humiliating way possible. The thief in question, Bob, was having a horrible day. After discovering that golden wolves were worth a lot of money and remembering he had sold his for a bag of turnips he cursed everyone that strayed into his path. Stirrup was the fifth person, which was blessing as the other four had been put in hospital. Bob did his spitting and stormed off to look for something to pilfer.
They found Gums propped up at a bar called ‘The Foisty Armpit’. It was hard not to notice a gigantic mouth in an empty drinking establishment but Gums was drunk and making sure everyone, including the worried-looking staff and few stragglers sat outside, knew it. Stirrup heard the horrible things he was saying and cowered in the corner. Nasel could smell the alcohol on his breath and knew how drunk he was. Iris looked at Gums, drooping to one side, struggling to stand up properly, looking as though he needed the most help out of the four of them. She wandered up to his side slowly and looked, reading the words coming from her mouth. She now heard what Stirrup had heard and was appauled. This mouth could certainly speak like the filthiest whores of Droitwich. Using what little powers of persuasion she had, what we may as well call some sort of telepathy because five hundred words in we’re still not any closer to what it might be, Iris tried to reason with Gums. Gums however was having none of it and ordered another whisky and coke.
Just then Nasel ran into the backroom of the bar. Iris hadn’t a clue what was going on but it didn’t take long before she realised. Through the window of ‘The Foisty Armpit’ she could see five small, smartly-dressed individuals smoking cigars and chattering amongst themselves. It was the mafia penguins looking for Nasel. Iris nudged Stirrup into the back with Nasel and there they cowered, wishing for a means of escape and finding none. Willy, the leader of the penguins, stode into the bar and smacked his fist off the bar and gestured for a white wine spritzer. Not your usual mafia drink but really we shouldn’t judge. Gums, so pissed now he couldn’t get off the floor, couldn’t stop talking. He complained about having a hallucination about some facial features harrassing him, asking him to take his trousers off (that bit he made up), and wander into the crowd outside chanting like a monk (he made that bit up too). Willy asked where they were and Gums obliged in helping them.
With a tommy gun pressed against their forehead most people will feel very scared. Iris looked scared. Nasel froze, not wanting to sniff a jot. Stirrup heard the gunshots and was annoyed that he was having the worst time out of the three of them. The mafia penguins marched the trio outside in a cage welded to a carriage and locked them up. Gums grasped the side of the doorway as Willy gave the order and the horses pulled them away. Although he didn’t have any eyes Gums was convinced he could see them all looking as depressed as three people would do in their condition. Perhaps it was the drink talking. It had, after all, convinced him that he could:
A) Climb trees.
B) Cut holes in ice with his tongue.
C) Sing like Mariah Carey.
and now he could see? Utterly ridiculous. The mouth stumbled back into what he called his home, his church and his life and ordered another drink.
June 22nd, 2009
Thrust thrust thrust thrust
Three days later they came across a deserted village covered in the darkest cloud Iris had ever seen. All the houses were empty, abandoned for some time. Most of the buildings were already starting to crumble apart from a church which stood directly in the middle of the village. A terrible noise was coming from it but alas neither of them could hear it. Nasel, however, could smell something close by and it had to be in the church. Iris peered inside. Huge stone walls, empty pews and an altar greeted her presence. She slowly walked in and was met with a strange sight; a pair of ears were hanging from one of the ropes attached to the church bells. It looked as though she had gotten caught up and couldn’t shake herself free. With help from Nasel, Iris managed to climb up and let the ears free. The ears were very grateful. In the same inexplicable way she had managed to communicate with Nasel, Iris convinced Stirrup, the ears, to join their group. Stirrup wiggled in excitement, something that unnerved Iris at first until she realised it was a good thing rather than a seizure. None of them knew first aid, or at least she thought none of them did. It hadn’t come up yet.
The following night Nasel had a vivid dream. In it he was sat in a glossy Las Vegas-esque room full of people gambling and shouting loudly. As the lights dimmed at least twenty-six brazen hussies, wearing skimpy Irish bikini, pranced onstage. It was as unexpected as it was provocative. But he could see! He could see everything for once which was what probably scared him. To be witness to such a sexy show merely confused the young nose and he promptly woke up once he fell off his stool. The stool in the dream. Not a real stool. They were camped in a small opening at this point. Not a stool in sight. He was back in the black again, back in the dark. The smell of bacon streamed up his nostrils much to his delight.
A couple of weeks had passed and Iris had already two new friends. There were only two more directions left to travel and after a tricky game of rock / paper / scissors it was decided they would head South to look for the mouth. Nasel liked this because it rhymed. He would think about that often in his darker moments of which we cannot speak of. Walking together in a group they were beginning to resemble the features of what should be a face. When they came across a passport photo booth they all crammed inside and Iris balanced a banana where the mouth should have been, and it almost, almost looked right. This made Stirrup wiggle with excitement, again, which knocked the booth over and they were asked to leave the post office without further notice.
And so their journey continued.
June 17th, 2009
I suppose dear Alesha could also fall under ‘She’s Fit (but the musics shit)’, the almost forgotten distant cousin of ‘SBOTM’. I’m not one for attacking sacred cows, nor am I one for attacking any sort of cows. In fact if I was to attack any animal the cow wouldn’t be on the list it’s just that despite coming across as a geniunely nice person she’s really beginning to boil my piss.
No, that’s wrong. She has been for a while. It’s that same age old predicament; successful or semi successful British Girl / Boy Band split up, usually after two years or more (see Blue, Five, Busted etc) and everyone has a pop shot at solo careers. I could spend a whole article just detailing how wrong Blue were and that their impending come back is as welcome as a spitoon in the face. As soon as Mis-Teeq hit the ropes I knew one of them would try and surprisingly it was the weird rapping one with the man voice. She has a go with the career (‘Lipstick’ single at No. 14, ‘Knockdown’ at No. 45), doesn’t get very far because everyone stop caring and gets dropped from her label.
Then mother buggering celebrity dancing shows came along and all of a sudden it was as if someone had flung open the doors to all the minor, vomit-inducing idiots you’d forgotten about. They’d make a pratt out of themselves just to be on television again. Do we blame them? Of course not, it’s money, there’s a financial crisis, they need to pay for their nip tuck or face tuck or whatever the fuck it is that they do to make them still look at though they’re young and hip from 1985.
Alesha wins some dancing competition and someone offers her another record deal. This means two things: 1) everyone is forced to listen to cringe-inducing sexist overtones of ‘The Boy Does Nothing’ for months while it lingers in the charts like a bad fart and 2) she’s unfortunately back in the public eye. It’s a simple fact love, if the boy does nothing, right, if he doesn’t wash up or clean up or do anything, right, you know what you do? You sling the git, that’s what you do. You don’t jiggle your ass on a stage and complain about it. I mean if a guy wrote a song about how crap his girlfriend was most people would be outraged. It would probably be banned and condoned by Parliament.
What really summed it up for me was when she was performing on some charity-based event. It could have been Red Nose Day but I wasn’t paying that much attention. She was promoting her new single ‘Let’s Get Excited’ and, well, despite her singing and dancing and smiling for all her worth ironically the audience looked as though excitement was the last thing on their mind after hearing how awful the song was.
And calling the album ‘The Alesha Show’? Shudder, shudder.
June 17th, 2009
For June’s picture EEFY McJEEFY and I went out to the countryside to get a more rural, natural feel. This cow provided the perfect cover for me. I am, of course, lying provocatively on the grass just in front of the hedge in the distance, wearing a cheeky PVC nurse’s uniform that is a little bit too revealing, accessorised with some fluffy handcuffs.
June 16th, 2009
Read on read on read on read on…
Two days passed without much to note, and so Iris arrived at a bustling town at the edge of the country. People were dashing to and fro hardly noticing each other. The market in the centre of the town was the hub for most of this chaos. Iris looked up to see a huge poster covering a wall which said brought a little spark to her huge eyes. It mentioned a circus that was in town for some festival the town was holding. Among the acts were three sword-spinning lions, five mafia penguins and a giant nose that danced whenever anyone played a tambourine. She immediately ran as fast as she could to the circus, which in fact was a gentle trot when compared to most people; her feet were very small after all. Glancing around the edge of the tent she saw rows and rows of people watching the circus. They clapped and cheered and rose to their feet whenever something amazing happened. It was the mafia penguins that got the more admiration; isn’t that always the case though?
The nose had already finished by the time Iris had arrived so she waited until the show was over and snuck backstage. There, sat on a small stool with a moistened towel over its bridge, was the nose looking slight dishevelled. Iris approached with caution but could see there was no danger. Her immediate concern was in startling the poor thing and being sucked up into one of its gigantic nostrils never to return. The nose couldn’t see her but could smell something amiss, something new in the area and it gestured in Iris’ general direction. How she managed to explain her story to him we can only imagine. Why the nose gave up his life in show business is a lot easier. He was bored, depressed and in need of some excitement. Iris promised that they would be better off together, in a platonic sense, and so under cover of darkness they left the town and started to head east.
Along the way there were many confusions. Sometimes Iris would sit on top of the nose to pretend that they were part of the same face, in the hope that it would allow the nose to see but unfortunately it didn’t work. The nose was called Nasel but he couldn’t tell Iris and Iris couldn’t ask let alone hear so she thought of him as ‘the nose’ and he thought of her as ‘thing that smells like makeup’. On those long days of walking in silence Nasel would walk in front and if he was about to stray from the path Iris would nudge him in the back to ensure their journey could continue. One time they were confronted by an angry group of squirrels who wanted to keep them both as pets and perhaps make a little money on the side. Iris fluttered her eyelashes under Nasel who in turn sneezed, blowing all the squirrels into a conveniently-placed deep hole. Try as they might the squirrels could not escape and so the two friends continued.
June 16th, 2009
Here’s one in the eye for all those literary buffs who think that we’re all about nonsensical futile discussions about chagrins and stuff. This here represents the highest point in modern fiction. Thanks to the remenants of Chris Industries we managed to secure the rights to publish the debut story by Byzantium Terror, a whiper snapper of unbelievable proportions.
Read the first part and loathe yourself.
Pet away! Pet away!
Once upon a time in a far distant kingdom there was a young girl called Iris. Iris was not what usually constituted a young girl because really she was just a pair of eyes and no other features. No nose to smell the sweet smells of spring, no mouth to taste the wonderful culinary delights of Senor Sauce, no ears to hear the music that swept through the valley. She was a pair of eyes, oh, and a small pair of feet to help her get about. When you’re only a pair of eyes with a tiny pair of feet your life is pretty limited to walking about and looking at things which is what Iris would do every single day of her life. Don’t get me wrong, she saw some wonderful things during her lifetime in Soreen Sity but it all came down to the fact that she lacked the other parts of her that everyone else seemed to have. So it came about that after ten years of living in this state that, sat on the top of the hill overlooking her village, she decided to leave. There were tales written that in the far off regions of the country there were others held in a similar state such as her; a nose to the north, some ears to the east, a mouth to the south and a face in the west. With nothing keeping her where she lived Iris left one warm summer morning and started in the direction north hoping to find something if not hope for her condition.
A couple of miles from her quaint cottage she came across a bridge that swayed back and forth in the light breeze. There was a problem though; the middle part of the bridge was missing! She was glad she had seen such an obvious error and sat back to wonder how to deal with it. For once she was quite relieved to have huge, looming eyes as otherwise she would have walked to her death. There’s no telling how delicate a sole pair of eyes is and how much damage they could take from a 10ft drop into a mildly lukewarm trickle of water. Just then a parade of travelling musicians came up behind her. They were playing the best jazz-fusion the world had ever heard; only the only person within five miles of this place was Iris who was unable to hear it. She could see them wandering towards the bridge so caught up in their music. A disaster was on the horizon. As fast as her little legs could carry her she ran at the troop hoping to prevent them from a fall but with no mouth to warn of the impending doom she was powerless. Over they went, still playing their provocative jazz as they fell through the air into the slow-moving stream below. Iris felt a pang of sadness at knowing their fate but luckily because the water was shallow they succeeded in making it to the lower bank on the other side albeit instrument slightly wetted. She saw it all. The musicians waved back at her with great cheer and admiration for such a lovely pair of eyes. Had she the power of hearing she would have heard a wolf whistle or two along with some racy remarks to make even the most heavy-hearted of people blush into the deepest shade of red.
CONTINUES TOMORROW
June 15th, 2009
I’ve been keeping quiet about this, but a few days ago I was called very early in the morning by the Archbishop of Brixton who said I needed to take a cab to Buckingham Palace immediately. So I put on a smartish t-shirt and headed down there, and blow me if Queen Liz wasn’t there sobbing into her cornflakes. Her butler, Tootingtons, explained that she was sick of being a queen and all her life had wanted to make fry-ups in a cafe on the Brentwood Bypass. I pointed out that the Brentwood Bypass wasn’t opened until about twenty years after her coronation, but he wasn’t interested.
Anyway, before she could get her hands greasy she had to find a replacement and I was the best person in the world, so I was the obvious choice. In the end I agreed to become King Christopher I on the condition that they kept it quiet and didn’t make a fuss. So we had a low-key coronation at Westminster Abbey, and I am now king while Liz is buttering toast in a lay-by on the A12.
I decided that, while I wouldn’t be giving up my job or moving out of my flat or having my face on coins and stamps, I should do something to commemorate what is quite an exciting personal development. The first thing I did was declare that Streatham will now be known as Streatham Regis, in light of my living there during my reign. The second thing was that I need a carriage of state in which I can process through my realm and which can transport me to state events.
So on Thursday I went over to Danrick Autos in Basildon and bought this:
If I pass you in the street, please stop and remove your hat in respect for your new low-key head of state.
June 14th, 2009
Winthrop was always an exciting person, a thrilling rollercoaster ride in a sea of dullards who think nothing more than exchanging glasses of port and discussing trivial matters. I remember one time we were making a passage through India searching for the lost artefacts of Bab Nool Yony and we’d taken camp beside a small grove hidden away from the main path. Everyone had settled down for the night and despite not knowing what the exact time it was I guessed it somewhere around 1am that Winthrop started running around in his long johns. I asked why he was undertaking such a chore at such a late hour and his reasons were threefold: one, the dragonfly had told him that a lightning demon was coming to take his soul, two, several ducks were angry at him for not noticing their new upholstery and three, a scorpion had bitten him on the Rodger Dodgers. I laughed louder than the time Lady Islington accidentally inhaled her monocle. It took all the servants to hold him down. We were all very happy to learn that Winthrop hadn’t been poisoned and that removal of the venom was not required. The line of worried faces was indescribable.
June 12th, 2009
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