Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Me Is Has Was 7


    Would it be overstepping the mark to crack open the Champers in celebration of this blog’s 7th anniversary?

    Ah — to hell with it.

    I’m doing it anyway.


    So there, the cork’s popped, the flute’s primed, the keyboard is ruined.

    Party time.


    Actually, this champagne is not at all bad.

    I found it in a £3.99 bargain bucket in Aldi alongside some 10-for-the-price-of-1 tinned peas and a job lot of size 13 frogman flippers.

    Produced in Finland, it has “an unduly crisp and personable taste” and is “perfect for any meal, especially seafood and lettuce”.  Better still, it’s only 8% alcohol, which is perfect for the purpose of rocking out and composing a blog post at 6am.


    So — what to say about seven years of blog-bustin’ gung-ho?

    To be honest, my dreams and aspirations for this blog have changed utterly since its inception.

    When I began on April 1st 2008, my sole intention was to generate a modest bunch of followers before June 1st and offer Son of Whirl as a midsummer raffle prize to save on the weekly beefburger bill.

    As it turned out, those followers were too special, too brilliant, too unstupid, to be fobbed off with any kind of dumb ‘pawn the kids’ deal.

    Too numerous to mention, and with names too difficult to spell, most of them are recorded in the Nexus Deperplexus section of the sidebar to the left of this post.

    Together, we have forded streams and climbed mountains, occasionally dressing up like the gayest of clowns and troubadours.

    It’s been fun.


    But 2015 heralds changes.

    Past glories should never be forgotten, but future triumphs must always be ready to roll.

    And so, I pass on to vistas new.

    Excitingly novel cheeses with balloon-sized holes and wibbly bits! 

    Stick-on penguin beaks! 

    A 48-hour Charlestonathon!

    All this — and more — could be coming soon.


    There may even be some actual writing.

    And, in spite of the sub-Tundroid temperatures, Maurice is still alive, waiting to be ridden like                          
                                       #    life was a rodeo of unadulterated excitement.


    So, stirrup up, *hic* ye blog buff pups.



    *hic*




            its time to party, starting tomorrow when the regular blog post is.


                *hic*


        18% ha i misread the label.  There’s a picture of some hero from the kalevala on the label and his enormous weapon cuts through the text so you can’t see the 1 in 18.


ha ha he looks like a badly ironed terence stamp in his pyjamas

 *hic*

    hell whats this stuff called
                pohjanmaan kautta

what the hell is po janman kautta ?


        sounds fucking weird










*hic*




































                        *THUD*   


Monday, March 30, 2015

I Say: Nits To Your Thwonko


    It’s appalling, I know, and I should be locked up.

    Problem is, I’m locked up already.

    Incarcerate me on the other side of the bars, and technically I’m a free man.


    Anyhow, all your Thwonkoes will be de-nitted on Wednesday when this regular Monday blog slot blends a timewarp of two days with a time stamp of seven years for my 7 Year Bloggiversary.

    Hopefully, I’ll be here to celebrate in style, but if I should meet with an ill wind, maybe I’ll end up celebrating in Harry Styles.

    If he’s walking by my cell when I’m released — and he has that big trap of his open for Onely Directional warbling purposes — then I’m down through his spinal tract via his windpipe and away into Freedoms Yonder like Russell Brand sidling up to Sam Mendes and saying, "I'll be your Bond
— only Bonder."

Thursday, March 26, 2015

The Importance Of Names In Fantasy Literature (Part 2)


    Güüür’s gaze lofted over snorts of icy breath, pinning the Tower’s summit to the looming clouds like a dead, exotic wasp.

    At last, the elves were imprisoned in their wretched library!

    At last, the forces of darkness would ravage the world again!


    A mighty roar rose up from the Orcish hordes, rattling chains on the Tower gate and unbalancing the Fey in their eyries.

    On this chosen day, the prophecy of Wüürrükk-Thääärr would come true, and all grunted its name till their throats bled.

    Güüür turned to Chieftain Wäöüüürr.  “Before we hew limb from limb, and feast on the bodies of the slain, almost certainly shrieking and howling abominably, barbarically, I have one small question to ask of you, O vile leader.”

    “Speak,” grunted Chieftain Wäöüüürr.  “But tarry not about it.  Like you, like us all, O mad throng of death and destruction, I crave heart of nymph and spleen of sylph upon my dinner plate, washed down with the brain fluid of saints — and a silk napkin.”

    Güüür steadied his armoured form against the mob’s urgent thrust.  “Why do the names of all our kind bear unnecessary umlauts?  In this age of austerity and misery, if we are to tattoo ourselves to within an inch of our lives with our names — and the names of our ancestors — and etch upon our faces, armour and shields, those same monickers, would it not be better for the sake of Orcish resources to drop all the umlauts?  That way we would have surfeit of ink, paint and blood, the better to daub our womenfolk and infants with the nomenclature of pure hatred.”

    “How naive you are to speak of such false economies.”  Wäöüüürr’s spear dug deep into the scorched elven sod.  “The umlaut is our piéce de resistance, our icing on the cake, our hobbit’s corpse retrieved from the unfathomably ferocious dragon’s stomach.  Forget for a moment the concept of our names being rendered meaningless without the pronunciation moderating effects of the umlaut, and consider simply that those two horror dots represent more than merely a linguistic convenience or pointer to those attempting to interpret our script.  Our ancestors spoke of a time when the evil eye of Mordor glared out from its invincible mountain.  The future was ours for all eternity, more certain than the syphilitic sores that ravage the groins of all our kind past the age of nine, and yet the forces of good overcame that mountain of evil, assailed it, literally bobbed on it, and in the millennia since those dark and dismal days, in our times of shame and hopelessness, one thing and one thing alone has been our guiding light, our hope!  One thing has risen from our darkness, our emptiness, to rouse our spirits and fire our courage so that we could gather and march to fight this day — march and fight, for VICTORRRYYYYY!”

    Güüür threw a wrist-stump to his chin and furrowed his brow with the plough of confusion. “One thing?  What ‘one thing’?”

    “The umlaut, Durr Brain!  Do those paired dots not resemble the eyes of vicious wolves?  Rogue wizards?  Surly womenfolk?  Evil overlords with a penchant for fine tuning their whims with unfettered violence and opportunities for mass buggery of all things holy?  When we square up to our enemies and make bold our power and aggression, think how much less daunting and intimidating would be our appearance, our demeanour, our spirit, if each and every umlaut were removed from our markings, our names, our very souls!  Those wretched elves would go ha ha ha, lookit the big, smelly orcish hordes with their risibly unintimidating names.  We mock you with the galloping dipthongs of our lyrical vowel structures, tease you with the swirls and cedillas of our poncy scripts for your inability to muster even a couple of dots over your so-called proud names in your quest to secure maximum threat generation potential and all-round evident beastliness.  Having removed these symbols of evil from your language and piled them yonder in some distant underground hellhole of torture and misery, you have wanked yourself an anaconda-like pearl necklace of doubt, an infinite string of apologetic ellipses to render your instinctive lust for hellbent butchery as hesitant as the follicle stimulating hormones of an angel’s porcelain-smooth pubis!  So do your worst with your growls, your chants, your waving of mighty mattocks!  We are elves: united in our love for gay apparel and pretentious song, pointy of ear and footwear, slight of build and mighty of lyrical tongue, and we cry ha ha ha ha, you clowns, you oafs, you dildos, for all your basic instincts are belong to us.”

    Gurr’s eyes flared with fire.  “They would call us clowns?

    “Clowns.  Yes.  And stupid, twat-headed motherfuckers.  Pricks.”

    “And that anaconda of doubt...?”

    “It would strangle us, Güüür, grip us till our umber and warty flesh turned bluer than a Unicorn’s dream horizon prior to dusk.”

    Güüür’s lumpen head swivelled about his shoulders as rage threw his chest into a priapic erection of rib and tumescent intercostal.  He cast his helmet high and turned to face the hordes pumping their fists to his rear.

    “You heard what our mighty chieftain said!  Everyone —  throw off your breastplates, and get paintin’ your titties!  Let’s give those woofty bastards in the Tower some Loud Proud Orc Pap Umlaut HEEEEELLLLLLL!!!”


For more information about the importance of names in fantasy literature, go here.


Monday, March 23, 2015

Vault Face: You Can't Keep A Good Equinox Down


2 comments:

skaempfer said...
I always suspected you were a closet Vogan.

Whirlochre said...
It's no fun in the closet.

Thursday, March 19, 2015

The Spruney Plangoe


    Sad to say, but in my spontaneously off-the-cuff way, most of my blog posts are pre-prepared these days, much like the freeze-dried bat wings in any self-respecting vampire’s refrigerator.

    But this morning, I write on the hoof.

    Truly I am a centaur amongst metaphorically vampire-themed control freaks made clown fodder.

   
    Something of a fever has paralysed the typically hare-resplendent boinginess of March.

    Subtle things, little things — like having a tooth pulled by a kick ass Vietnamese lady dentist, experienceing total nasal surrender in the face of The Vile Mucus, suffering the worst excesses of The Disenchanted — and recalling the dullardity-pumped fizzog of StupidHeadTwatFace in the name of regular blogging.

    Which reminds me, if ever one of your teeth is pulled by a kick ass Vietnamese lady dentist, may you not endure kiss of these words against your eardrum scant seconds after a whispered debate about the efficacy of the anaesthetic gripping your jaw like two octopus tentacles hung from a hook:

    “Julie (that’s the name of the assistant, infodump buffs) — come and hold his head.”


    I suppose I should count myself fortunate that Whirl Towers now boasts a new cat.

    Not properly, not for real — in the wake of Geoff’s demise, I’ve inherited a leather sofa, which kind of precludes any claw-bearing pet owning opportunities this side of a clipped iguana.

    Our new cat is a guest cat, shunned as a prowling feline mongrel by Girly of Whirly’s sofa-protecting sensibilities, but loved by Son of Whirl and me thanks to its smoothy purrish gingery-whiteness, ability to roll around upside down on any surface — and love of golf balls.

    My house has been transformed into a zoo-cum-cattery-cum-meaow theme park.

   
    Which is why I woke up this morning to find no pre-prepared blog post hunkering down in the Regular Whirlitude silo.

    Also: why you ended up with this offering (and maybe ran a milo)...

Monday, March 16, 2015

SURVIVE IN THE WILD With Struggs "All Man" Prepuce LESSON ONE: Wombat Cheese


    Gonna tellya bout WOMBAT CHEESE.

    First thing ya need out in the WILD.

    Sure ya can get rabbit meat deer maybe beans offa some dumbshit city slicker but nuthin beats PROPER CARBS.

   
    So wait till nightfall.

    Then get a fire goin.

    Usual stuff flint fur lighter fuel.

    Thatll bring the wombat to ya.

    They got a hannkerin for flame see.

    Jus lie back an sweep yer hand in fronta the flame.

    Its an old Soox injun trick.

    Never fails.


    Soon them wombatsll come a creepin.

    Yeah sure maybe also a mule an a few lizards too but then ya got puddin.

    Whack em. 

    Save em.

    Hell they dont matter right now.

    Wombats is what ya want.


    Ya gotta strike fast.

    Like a snake.

    Or Ali when he whupped Frazier.

    Whack em.

    Theyre weird critters but fast so ya gotta get in quick there.

    Jus throw the guy wombats on the mule pile.

    They aint no good for cheese.

    Get a girl wombat an you milk her right off.

    With cows an goats an shit ya gotta have a bucket which out in the wild means maybe a skull or if your lucky then an old can or something.

    But wombats aint like that.

    They don’t pack big milk.

    So ya can squish the teat right into yer navel.

    Then lie by the fire an dream.


    Come mornin ya gotta purdy patty all soft an cheesy like that crazy Greek stuff or maybe a goat.

    Toss all yer girl an guy wombats on the embers maybe throw in a snake or some lizards an shit an lay out yer patty by the heat on some skin or a bone even a rock.

    Ya feast on the wombats like normal chewin like a real man even if they aint all cooked thru.

    Yeah an maybe a lizard for puddin like I said.

    Yer cheese gonna be real cheesy now real posh.

    Like in a restrant when ya skip ice cream an get ya some bree an shit yeah all them crazy wafers.

   
    Feast on that cheese like a real man.

    Its got the carbs but ya know what its also got the kudos the magic.

    Ya can look that wilderness in the eye an say LOOKIT ME EATIN HERE LIKE I WAS IN A POSH RESTRANT.

    This aint jus survivin its stickin two fingers up at the whola nature man.



    Struggs “All Man” Prepuce is the world’s leading authority on surviving in the wild.  His books include How To Punch A Leopard, Breathe Like A Cactus, and Rattlesnake Or Drinking Straw?  When he’s not surviving, alone and unaided, in the wilderness, he regularly lectures on the outdoor life at Universities around the globe, including Oxford, Harvard and New College Swindon.  Struggs holds the current Guinness world record for opening 20 barrels of crude oil with his anus in 8 minutes and 23 seconds.  Truly, he is Legend Royalty.

Thursday, March 12, 2015

Strop Flocks

  
    Why has everyone got a bag on right now?

    I’ve checked every yardstick I know and remain convinced that my suspicions about everyone else’s screaming mardies aren’t just the product of my own reactivity.

    Maybe there’s an epidemic or something.

    Let’s see just how stroppy I can be with everyone I meet today.

    From 9am till noon, I’m hellbent on fucking off the people I meet — and after lunch, I’ll extend this ingratitude to cats, dogs and babies.

    Think a cactus is prickly?  Try saying so much as a HELLO to me today and I’ll bite your bum.


    Has your week been like this?

    An onslaught of The Disenchanted, ironically sorcerer-like in their ability to hex all animal, vegetable and mineral matter with the spirit of unbridled misery and grouch?

    I say we punch them all in the chops.

    Then get a job lot of rubbish bananas and DOLPHIN the fuckers.*

    As Spring prepares to clamber from Winter’s splintered fjords, it’s all they deserve.


    *Bonus Feature: How To DOLPHIN a Fucker

    1) Place banana in the palm of one hand and behold: YELLOW DOLPHIN.
    2) Massage banana skin until everything inside is soft and squishy.
    3) Slice off the tip of the banana as you eye up your fucker.
    4) Think of Indy cracking his whip, take aim — and FIRE.