Thursday, November 28, 2013

Hot, Hot Robot Action

A wrinkled bag of bear flesh
bobbling in the shrubbery of the night
will exorcise all demons from the fripplitude
and seal the universe’s edges tight
‘sif Thor and all accordions had landed
in a buggy in the streets of Bude
and camel gas rosters of oblivion
were not considered rude.

    All nonsense, of course — but there’s a point to all of this (unlike Brad Pitt’s ears, which are unduly curvaceous).

    A while ago I subscribed to an online podcast service called Odiogo.  Sounds like a porridge mixture used by medieval assassins, but turns out to be a dinky way of transforming all your blog posts into downloadable or RSS-Feedable mp3 snippets read aloud by a weirdly robotic-sounding electro-American.

    If memory serves me correctly, I signed up thanks to Odiogo’s cast-iron guarantee that having a WR-SE-A read out your stuff and clog up all your followers’ email inboxes with garbage was a sure-fire (that’s kind of like ‘cast-iron Plus’) way of (and I quote) “driving traffic to your blog”.

    Clearly, most of this “traffic” drove on immediately to the burger place round the corner.

    When I pulled the plug on Odiogo, they slipped it back in again with the glee of a sexually habituated cyborg re-inserting a long-lost Gazzum Module.

    Please May I unsubscribe from your service?

    I’m really not interested in your podcast service right now, please can I unsubscribe?


    Listen, you obstructive fuckers, unsubscribe me NOW before I send in the boys from COPHOUSE CENTRAL!!!”


    Can you see a theme developing here?

    In the end, I gave up on giving up on Odiogo — until last night.  As I trained my flamethrower on my computer, it occurred to me that some of my more recent posts actually kind of work when read aloud by a WR-SE-A.

    Try this one, for instance (though watch out — it pops up and asks to be saved with the verve of an erect penis before a hooker's pursed lips...).

    Or maybe this one.

    Or, for the benefit of rapture-lovers from the twilight kingdom of the bedevilled swamp-moose, this very post in maybe a few days’ time.  Cock.

    Was it Emerson who said, “it pays to have another string to your bow, particularly if you’re a keen archer engaged in top level competition like possibly the Olympics, or a Robin Hood enthusiast keen to rise above the swamp of historical character re-enacters worldwide”?  Oh, no — it was me again.

    Anyhow, go and check them out...

Monday, November 25, 2013

How To Be Gruff

    Time now for a bloggerly re-tread — the weblog equivalent of a Band Aid stuck to a floppy Morris Minor’s ailing rubber.

    I know I promised Lights! Camera! Action! every Monday and Thursday morning, but the two killer posts residing in my Schedule Bunker are so undeniably killer that they’ve killed each other to death with the venom of a pair of Adrian Mitchell’s metaphorical caged angels (minus the eating part)*.  So, I hope that’s clear.

* Hey! Let’s all play Google It!

    In order not to disappoint (frustrate, annoy and mis-hula) I’ve unravelled a cotton bobbin and dredged the Abysswinksback swamp for a suitable re-tread post c/o my undeniably brilliant net weaving skills.

    So, here once again is the sequel to a famous fairy tale classic, read aloud by one of my previous selves and accompanied by fluffsy cock-ups that prompted an immediate competency regeneration to rival Matt Smith morphing into a spoon.  Think of it as a herald of what’s to come very soon: new spoken fiction, vlogs of me in my Snoopy onesie, The Whirl Pro Chef Guide to Cucumber Slicing...


Thursday, November 21, 2013

One Parrot Fiction #4

Click on image to increase in size.
Alternatively, drink growth potion
or position self closer to monitor.

Monday, November 18, 2013

These Little Piggies

    Warning: contains vileness.

    If you can touch type, you’re fortunate indeed.

    All you need to do is keep your eyes on the screen and unfold the contents of your brain directly into pixels while the fingers take care of themselves.

    If you’re like me, however, you have to look at your fingers all the time and make sure every letter on the keyboard is labelled.

    Sad to say, but for Whirly Neanderthals, “touch type” refers only to the kind of sneaky pervert who rubs his crotch against women’s backsides on crowded trains.

    As my fingers play across the keys in two sets of five little piggies, I’m minded to think that there’s something distinctly fishy about that rhyme I learned back in the days when my heart pounded only for rusks.

    Let’s take a look at the evidence.

    “This little piggy went to market.”

    Right from the outset I’m very concerned about the scenario being suggested here.  Why would a piggy go anywhere near a market when those are precisely the kinds of places where bacon, ham and pork proliferate?  Hasn’t this piggy seen Babe?  If the rhyme began with a little backstory about a magical kingdom called Pigland, where pigs of all shapes and sizes leapt and gambolled 24/7 around a porcine Nirvana, occasionally popping off to the mall for a healthy dose of retail therapy and an accessorizing workout, then it would make a great deal of sense for Piggy #1 to trot off immediately in the direction of the shops. But there is no such backstory! The setting for this finger rhyme is Earth — cruel Earth — whose every second or third building is a death-drenched abattoir bursting at the seams with helpless, pre-mutilated, squealing squealing pigs.  What this opening line really says is hey kids, there was this piggy who decided to commit suicide by hot footing it to the abattoir and hurling his hapless pink body into the path of a limb-hacking, head-slicing, gut-mangling chainsaw!!!

    Makes the next line very sinister indeed, don’t you think?

    “This little piggy stayed at home.”

    Now, why would you do that? Stay at home watching TV and stuffing your face with lager and burgers while a fellow piggy makes a beeline for an appointment with self-inflicted doom?  Especially if this “fellow piggy” was your mother? You know what I think?  This second “little piggy” is a psychopathic hypnotist.  He’s already murdered his father in the basement!  Pulped his flesh for burgers and turned his urine into lager!  And now he’s placed a devil’s hex on his own mother!  Sent her away to die in agony!  There’s a secret camera in the abattoir, and any minute now, vile images of his mother’s horrific demise will appear in full HD colour before his piggy little eyes!

    And so we cut to Piggy #3, who clearly thinks he’s atoning for Piggy #2's sins on behalf of piggykind — but is actually even more of a bastard!

    As he sits at his white IKEA dining table, piously eating a luncheon containing zero pig meat, it’s tempting to view him as some kind of saint.

    “Oh, sure — I could mash my fellow piggies into burgers or sausages, just like that evil psycho-sadist did with his unfortunate parents.  But I’m a nice piggy, a good piggy, and not a hint of bacon or ham or pork will ever pass my lips.”

    (He rocks back in his seat — which creaks because, like the table, he didn’t assemble it properly.)

    “No — for I consume CATTLE!  Steak!  Beef!  Offal!  Eyeballs!  All scooped down into my piggy little throat with a big wooden FUKK U ladle!  Who needs a penchant for sadism or the loon brain of a psychopath when all it takes to tempt the dumb-as-shit son-of-bitches into the path of a whirling blade is a broomstick and a gate locked securely behind them?  When I’ve gorged, gorged, gorged on cow after cow after cow, grown bigger and stronger and tougher than THE HULK, I’m gonna grab that cruel ole Piggy #2 hard and tight round the throat and throttle him till the blood comes squishing from his brain like water from a frickin’ sponge!

    Say what?  You think Piggy #3 is nice? Face the facts: you’re kidding yourself.

    As for Piggy #4, who we’re told had no roast beef at all, please don’t presume he’s any better than the rest of them.  Not only is he refusing to eat roast beef or the hacked remains of his fellow piggies — he’s such a selfish wretch that he’s refusing to eat anything
.  For six whole months prior to the penning of this cutesy finger rhyme, he’s lain in a bare wooden cot, starving himself by refusing all food and water.  Pale and emaciated, he sings in his head some words from the rhyme that no child ever gets to hear.

    “This little piggy had none.  Because he hated his vile and vicious piggy cousins so much that he wanted to wither away and die.  But not in a swift and cowardly way like a clifftop plunge or shot to the head with a bazooka.  No, this has to be slow and drawn out, has to make a point.  With every breath I fight for, wheezing here in my cot, I say gaze upon my suffering.  The song I sing is sad and poignant and true.  Worse still, I can’t get it to rhyme for shit.”

    Count those four fingers now — and count yourself lucky so far.  For Piggy #5 — the funny likkul “wee wee wee” pig — is the very worst villain of all.

    Remember the lager that Piggy #1 was drinking as he sat watching HD TV footage of his hypnotised mother being hacked to death?  The lager distilled from his father’s urine?  Where do you think he got the idea for brewing his own beer?  Psychopaths, remember, are meticulous in the extreme when it comes to planning and executing a murder.  But spooning dried yeast into bottles and vats, and writing out sticky labels with dates on?  Are you kidding?  The moment he’s clubbed his father over the head with his mother’s ironing board, Piggy #1 got straight on the blower to Piggy #5 and said, “hey, listen — I’ve got this mutilated corpse here with roughly a quart of urine still beached in the bladder.  Can you get come over with your siphon and maybe rustle me up some of that tasty wee beer you brew?  I’m planning a special party in a few weeks so I need it real quick.”

    Naturally, Piggy #5 is straight round the on his moped.  He siphons off the urine into a customised rucksack and then heads off home to concoct Piggy #1's special order — along with umpteen orders for other speciality beers sent his way by every other evil piggy in the land.

    If you think that’s sinister and weird, don’t forget that we forced those innocent piggies into this. If it hadn’t been for mankind’s desire for smoky bacon crisps, the pigs of this world could have roamed wild and free forever, safe in the knowledge that they would never ever be consumed for their flesh.

    As it is, they’ve been driven crazy, made deranged and brutishly nutzoid by our lust for pork and ham — to the point where they’re prepared to mutilate and murder each other in ever more horrific ways and brew up one another’s decanted urine into lager!

    So Piggy #5 speeds back home, his beady eyes peering from his steamed-up goggles, probing every abdominal bulge or swelling he sees for evidence of fullness, tell-tale signs of bladders swishy swoshing with unspent wee.

    “Wee, wee, wee,” he squeals madly, as the suction pumps and tubing rattle in his moped paniers.  All the way home...

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Abysswinksback Announcement Of Wonder #1

     Here’s how it should have gone:

    You know what it’s like when you eat a dodgy meal or accidentally swallow a Swarfega-splattered fish: either you’re blocked up for a week or consumed by the galloping squits.

    Irregularity, my friends, is a curse — so to help you get regular in this world of fits and starts, I’m pleased to announce that from this coming Monday, the miracle of writerly advice and fiction snippetry that is the Abysswinksback family friendly blog* will once again beat to a continuous rhythm rather than evidencing the haphazard spazz-on randomness witnessed over the past few months.

* was that a fanfare or did someone just strangle a duck?

    For the whole of next week, from Monday to Friday, there will be singalong excerpts of some of my favourite posts, all mirrored on Twitter like a quintet of acrobats sporting leotards complete with reinforced crotch fabric.

    From then on, I shall endeavour to post at 9.59am every Monday and Thursday, tossing in occasional extras over the festive season with the casual deftness of a cruel god dispensing bonus lions before a writhing gladiatorial ensemble.

    Who said life was fair?

    Abysswinksback does not represent or warrant the accuracy or reliability of any of the information or content (collectively, the "Materials") contained on, distributed through, or linked, downloaded or accessed from any of the services contained on this website (the "Service"). In other words, if any of these promised blog posts fail to put in an appearance then it probably means that I’ve accidentally swallowed a Swarfega-splattered fish and shat myself senseless.

    But here’s how it actually went:

    Sadly, I reckoned without the AUTOPOST, BECAUSE WE CAN feature buried deeper beneath the Audioboo hub than foulness, evil and despicabilitude grace the tips of every devil’s tits.

    Instead of the steady drip-drip-dripping of Whirltastic vox posts I’d intended for next week, I’ve ended up with a flying cream shot of audio treats schwamangled into a single glitzwhack of Twitter mayhem.

    Worse still, it’s all over.  The moment (like Andrew Neil’s real hair colour) is now all gone, all over.

    Best I can do is break out the tadpole-friendly voca-scoop and redeploy my sound files here.  It’s all old stuff from the blog, only read aloud.  So here goes:

    Enjoy them if you can (or must), and don’t forget to return here on Monday for the sake of regularity.  As for Thursday  — fock that focker for this week (unless hamster debutantes flood my study with their ‘photo-me’ whiskers akimbo...)


Monday, November 11, 2013

Winter Beats

    On reflection, we’ve had a rather good Autumn.

    As the wind howled, I could almost see my face in the whirlochre spin of dried leaves fluttering about the place, and the whole season passed without Ringo Starr releasing a single DVD box set of his favourite masturbation techniques.

    But now it’s Winter’s turn to enthrob our weatherly wobb.

    I never much like Winter as a kid — there’s something about being trapped inside a freezing, sopping wet, snorkel parka that stays with you foreverer than the drip-drip-dripping sound 15 minutes after Mr Creosote’s corpse was dragged from the restaurant (particularly if you have a swollen bladder and a mile left to walk home from school) — but now I’ve reached the age where my bones should recoil from the cold like an erection of Mercury in a thermometer, I find myself being rather partial to its bleak and frosty charms.

    Thanks to Winter I can throw on a hat and an overcoat and gad about the place with zero chance of bumping into some grinning, tanned twat in Bermuda shorts or slipping over on a half-slurped Magnum.  Plus, if I’m involved in any kind of accident and the paramedics have to strip me down to my socks, no one will consider it at all odd that I’m wearing two pairs of underpants.  Can’t get away with that one in the Summer!

    How’s Winter shaping up for you guys?

Thursday, November 7, 2013

Day 1

    Stuck on a new project right at the outset and looking for inspiration?

    NaNoWriMo or the gelding of a new stallion, maybe?

    Why not take a look at this excerpt from the video diary of David Pendlebury.

    It has everything you need to get your optimism, direction and motivation safely back on track.

    Go get ‘em!

transcript_8772-43123-dg4312345c-88904635-b33 appears c/o DP Productions

Friday, November 1, 2013

Flint & A Hamster

    Change is a many-splendored thong, slipping itself so snugly over your bits one day only to reveal rather more of your hirsute danglitude the next.

    We love change, but sometimes we hate it.

    Was it Isaac Newton who said, “in a world of constants, the fickle is our inspiration, our irritant, our demise”?  No, I think it was me.

    I suppose the idea of change appeals most when we’re in the driving seat of the morphologimobile (with our thongs tucked away in the boot, ready to be sprung).  We choose this thing or that thing or the other thing to pursue or alter, and use the keys of our wherewithal to evidence our fancy.  Our only limitations are our imagination and the skills we can bring to bear on our material assets — which is why, very often, the only changes we make are in the hairdo or GET RID OF THAT ANNOYING FLY department.  It’s as if we kind of imagine the wrong kind of imagination sometimes.

    However, mis-imagining (or under-imagining, or quasi-imagining, or whatever term you wish to apply to that mad urge to mess with God’s perfect creations that resolves itself only into an act of fruitless vandalism — like maybe you turn all of your thongs into a quilt and superglue yourself a cranium-only afro) is far preferable to being party to that other form of change, namely “Circumstances Bearing On Down From Without Which Move Right The Hell On In”.

    Such changes are resource stealers.  You may still have firings of all manner of imagination but if your material assets are in a state of flux (erring on the side of All Thinges Reduced) then there is littler to be done, all of which impinges upon your capacity to spring home-grown change (from the boot of your morphomologimobile where, up until very recently, you hid away thongs and knitting patterns for quilts and caterpillar afro wigs) √° la voila.

    There are billions more people in the world than there are of you, many of whom have more than enough power to compel your thong-depleted vehicle of change into the long grass.  Some do this deliberately; others are just driving about like idiots.  Either way, Titsupness abounds and it can scupper the best-laid plans and de-orbit all the plan-generating whizzy brainy atomy particles necessary for cerebral juggling.

    This is why it’s essential always to carry flint and a hamster.