Thursday, November 27, 2008

As Soon As I Get Hold Of One Of Those Vengeance-Enabling Devices Of Doom, Vengeance (Bwa-ha-haaar) Will Be Mine!

Today is supposedly Thanksgiving.

In the fictional world of America — a place to which I have never been, but have heard much tell — people are reputedly behaving in a cheery manner.

Not so, I.

My plans for this week had been as follows.

1) Emerge from dungeon at Whirl Towers clutching juicy new completed manuscript.
2) Throw off clothes and dance.
3) Treat faithful cat to slap-up feed of salmon/trout/horse from a tin of Special Food For Cats costing over two quid.

Is this what happened this morning? No. I flung open my eco-friendly bamboo trapdoor to find my entire Chez Moi had been turned into a theme park for scratch marks, cat pee and mangled rodents. And my blog! Hijacked! By cats! Fortunately for Geoff, she wasn’t around when I emerged, otherwise new and criminal uses might have been found for the Pruning Shear And Golf Ball set my cousin bought for me last Christmas. But I’ll fix that varmint. Mark my words.

So. Manuscript news. Now there’s an improvement, you see. It’s now a manuscript rather than a WIP. Even though it’s not finished yet. How’s about that for positive thinking?

I was hoping for 80,000 words by this stage, but as things stand, I’m happy to take 72,000. Why? Because I’ve revised the ending, and though it’s not at all straightforward ploughing through it all without the internal editor riding on my back cracking his whip so I don’t miss out any important plot nuances, it’s tons better than Version One. A small price to pay, methinks, for being two months behind schedule when many of my fellow writers have spent the whole of November churning out 50,000 words for Nanorimo.

(Yep. That ought to fool the Deadline Cops.
)

So, December beckons like a wonderland of snow, debt and panic, and of three things we can be certain.

1) Santa will visit each and every one of us, clutching his sack of toys and gifts, dressed like a true benevolent weirdo.
2) Geoff’s punishment will be severe and possibly of an infinite duration.
3) The last 8000 words of my novel will be fuelled by the ridiculous volumes of interesting whiskys I consume without shame at this time of year.

Maybe when I'm done, I can get on composing songs for my trumpets-only musical...

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Shitforbrains Trains To Be A Man


Tee hee hee, what fun this all is. And you try saying that with whiskers.

So, here’s the one surviving photo of shit-for-brains, clawed from his secret stash of family memorabilia and uploaded by my good friend Kashka, who’s an expert in this kind of stuff.

What’s so amusing about this photo is that it comes complete with notes. Old S-F-B catalogues everything — even used tea bags. What a loser.

According to the scribble, this one dates from the late 60s, and in the margin (just below a useless picture of a duck) it reads “7?” Presumably that’s ‘years’ rather than ‘number of times you’d like to dig your claws into his scrawny arse’.


The great thing about humans is that they have to go to school for years and years and years when they could be doing interesting stuff like chasing mice and hanging out on settees. And every year, they have their photo taken.

Look at him, the daft bugger. What does he think he’s doing? Practising to be a man in an office?

‘Thanks, Ron, I have the report you sent right in front of me. Let’s discuss figures.’

Or maybe he’s saying, ‘A fire? Engulfing your whole street? I’ll be round immediately with my brigade of burly firepersons.’

Or maybe, just maybe, it goes like this...

‘I’m a snotty little schoolkid holding up a cheapo plastic phone pretending to be all grown up in my zanily hip elasticated tie.’

Huh! Wish I could have twanged that one.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

The Dog From Space Meets The Decor From Hell


Look what I found! I’m suuuuuuuuuuch a clever little kitty cat.

This is a photo of shit-for-brains’ pet dog circa 1979. Wish I’d been around then to chase the hell out of the stoopid mutt. According to the photo album (shredded, naturally), it’s name was Cindy. How ridiculous is that?

But here’s the killer question.

If (heh heh) I’d saved a single photo of you-know-who, how ridiculous would that one be?

OK, here’s a clue. A girl could lose all her fur laughing.

So stick around.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

Sour Puss Action


Huh. So much for my clarion call for pictures of stoopid dogs. What is this place? A cat vacuum?


What’s a girl to do when all she’s got to keep her going is a video of a stoopid pug? From a pesky human?

OK. For the curious among you, she does this. Splongs out her claws one at a time. Locates the most expensive-looking curtains in shit-for-brains’ abode...

No, wait — locates his entire collection of underpants. Heh heh. Yeah. That’s the one...

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Kat Kontest


Huh. I’m all out of cat food already and Jagger has escaped. What’s a cat to do but hold a Stoopid Dog Contest?


So send your photos of stoopid dogs here by last mousing on Friday night (that’s Greenwich Mousing Time) and any cats hanging out here by then can poke fun, add captions and be mercilessly bitchy about stoopid dogs in general.

Shit-for-brains is still downstairs in his dungeon writing his novel so feel free to post your pooches via his email. Hehe — I’m eating his corn flakes, after all. And fluffing up the furniture with hair. And...you know, cat stuff...

Monday, November 10, 2008

My Peaceful Writerly Retreat Commences...


Whirl rolled up his incomplete manuscript, slipped it into the hollowed femur of an unidentified dragon and descended into the shower of icy drips soaking the dungeon stairwell.


‘Only 15,000 words to go,’ he muttered feverishly as he dodged the rats, bats and spiderweb plaits. ‘Let me away to my secret bunker, far from all distractions...’

As the iron door swang closed behind him, Geoff pressed a feline ear to its rusty exterior and listened as the whoops turned to echoes before finally fading away into silence.

‘Huh,’ she said, taking out the hastily scribbled note she’d clawed from her master’s desk scant seconds ago.

Dear Geoff

There’s a fortnight’s food for you and Jagger in the cupboard. Look after the blog while I’m gone, and don’t bring any mice in.

Love Daddy

X

‘So be it,’ said Geoff, grinning. Without a moment’s hesitation, she shat on the living room carpet while her tiny puss cat brain began plotting, scheming and contriving...

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Moonrat Is 2 (Years Old, Not 'People' — That Would Just Be Weird)


Like all the fantasy film buffs who queued up outside Roddy McDowell's house after he died, begging for sniffs of the sticky glue that kept the iconic Galen mask attached to his face during those romps round Gorilla Central with a lithe young Charlton Heston, I have to confess to being 'late in':
Moonrat's blog is two years old and I've only just found out about it.

Check out the party in her honour, here.

What Were You Doing The Day Obama Got Elected?


Oh, you know...