Sunday, April 21, 2013

EE Is Seven



Like my weekly visit to the post-rupture trauma clinic, the anniversary of Evil Editor’s blog never fails to bring tears to my eyes.

More than anything else, the tremendous fountain of hardcore writerly advice foamed aloft by said editor of renown has reduced me to the quivering heap of worthlessness I am today.  As a consequence, I’m proud to call Evil Editor my Uncompromisingly Vicious Demon Lord from the Pits of Hell (Itself).

Evil Editor’s blog is seven years old on April 23rd.  If that’s not the sign of irreversible world decline, then nothing is.

Why don’t you pay a visit right now?

Here’s what Hollywood starlet Goldie Hawn had to say about Evil Editor at a recent conference:


Click to enlarge — unless you're some kind of weirdsy bug-eyed superhero...

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Nasal Stan Laurel Stunting


There comes a time in every man’s life when the cultivation of nostril hair transforms from a gently ambient state of overall hirsuteness into an out-of-control nasal wig attack threatening to kill forever any hope of kissing (or feasting on soup without the aid of a napkin / 3000 Megawatt liposuction pump).

In my heart of hearts, I’d love to invest in one of those dinky battery-powered nasal hair clippers you sometimes see advertised in “miscellaneous everything” catalogues shoved through the letterbox — but the thought of my old dentist MR NUMMY,* looming over me like a bleached vampire with his drill and his mask and his anaesthetic, then drilling, drilling, drilling into my brain — well, it’s all kind of upsetting.  Battery-powered whirring anywhere near my cerebellum is a no-no.  It’s spared me a lifetime addiction to visiting sex shops but been fuck all use in most other regards.

* yes, that was his name.

So I’m sitting here with a pair of tweezers, trying not to poke out my eyeballs.  I’ve taken out a few of the longer hairs close to the nostril rim, but now, like a mountaineer climbing an inverted Everest, I’m up to just below the level of my orbits, tugging away, tugging away, in the hope of finding the Queen.

All noses have a Queen.  Kill the Queen, and all the irritating nostril hairs fall away.  Kill the Queen, and all the bogeys and pools of mucus drain away, along with specks of dust and pollutant particles and anything else you may have up there.

But here’s a funny thing.  I just tugged on something long and grey, right at the top where my searchlight beam tickles at the void.  Remember that ear wiggling thing Stan Laurel used to do?  I’ve never been able to crack it — so much so that I’ve always believed he had some animatronic apparatus tucked away beneath his hat.  But now I can do it! My testicles jiggle at the same time, but I’m not complaining.  Who knows, maybe Stan Laurel’s testicles jiggled too when he waggled his ears — after all, it’s not the kind of thing you’d confess to back in the 1930s, particularly if you were part of a comedy duo with a roly-poly fat man.

There’s a couple more hairs up there to experiment with, so maybe I won’t go for the Queen after all.  Perhaps my future lies in cultivating a modest nasal hair array allied to a Vaudeville style selection of minor talents.  I’m hoping for a van der Graaf Generator effect on my hair or maybe a pulsating nipple or two I can train to synchronise with a little Madonna.

Hmmm.  Sounds good.


Friday, April 12, 2013

Fiction Freebie Fest 2


It’s promo time again, so if you’re here for news of the Wisconsin Newt Drive or the very latest lowdown on the forthcoming Margaret Thatcher corset auction at Sotheby’s, then I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place.

For one weekend only — April 12th to 14th — I’m offering an ebook for free over at Amazon.  For one click and zero dollars, anyone can own it, read it, ruminate upon it, and subsequently gad about the planet in a state of moderately heightened merriment as a result of so doing.




Here are the details:


In the UK you can download FOR FREE here.

In the US you can download FOR FREE (especially on the West Coast — you guys are such slackers) here.

Best port of call for the rest of the world and places like Mercury or the Subterranicusse is my generic author page.

If you follow this blog and you haven’t yet sucked my contribution to the sci/fantasy genre into the bowels of your Kindle, iPod or peculiarly evolved giraffe, NOW IS THE TIME!

If you’ve downloaded and read, but haven’t left a review, NOW IS THE TIME!

If you’ve left a review, but haven’t raced into the street with a megaphone, sandwich board and tattooed dog, NOW IS THE TIME!

If you’ve raced into the street with a megaphone, sandwich board and tattooed dog, but haven’t put in a phone call to your Prime Minister/President/Monarch, urging them to book a prime time slot on national TV to make an announcement about this great, great deal, NOW IS THE TIME!

Meanwhile, are the St George’s Day flags up in your high street yet?

Are the Happy St George’s Day cards for sale in your local shops?

This is why I write, boys and girls: the world is fucking crazy most days.


Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Max Reincarnatium Wazz-Dazz: Hound Shaver


Back in the days before this blog was fully formed, its embryonic thrashing in the cauldron of possibility produced some promising ripples.

Here's a series from 2008 that ran to one episode, re-aired courtesy of the Abysswinksback Max Reincarnatium Wazz-Dazz...


Hound Shaver


‘Morning.’

‘Morning.’

‘Turned out nice, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes, it has.’

‘Down, boy. Down. Don’t worry—he won’t bite. He’s just being friendly.’

‘What sort is he?’

‘Collie.’

‘He’s certainly friendly.’

‘Oh yes, he’s that all right. Only last week he—Christ! What are you doing...?’

‘It’s perfectly safe. Just an anaesthetic. You’ll be conscious again in approximately half an hour.’

‘I...I.....’

‘Come here, boy. Come to Daddy.’

Click

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt! Bzzzzt! Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

‘Arf! Arf!’

Bzzt! Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt...

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Coalescivitis


I’d hoped to return to this blog from 5 days away in Weirdy Conference Land with tales of its  Kookaburras and Meerkats.  As venues go, an agricultural college specialising in rare and cutesy breeds didn’t look too bad on paper. But that was before we found out how abominably cold and wifi-less it was, and how peculiar the desire on the part of the catering staff to serve chips with every meal (including breakfast).  Constipation & shivering IN A VOID is no lifestyle choice, my friends.

Short of ranting about what became known as the Oscillating Whoopee Cushion Abdomen Effect or outlining the latest stats from UK supermarkets regarding the price of half cucumbers, I’m forced to rely on one or two items of banter from Facebook to steer me in the direction of  potential blog content, all of which makes this post a cornucopia of pseudo-miscellanies.

Here’s a suggestion from Robin:

[What is the] song that most resonated with you when you were in your late teens. And why...

Answering this was a tricky one.  I could pretty much dip my net into the waters of Jethro Tull’s back catalogue and pull out any song you like.  Depending on my mood (and the cut of my pyjamas), most of them would be a perfect fit for this question at some time or another.

But right now, I’m plumping for Dun Ringill.  By the late 70s it was curtains for most of the bands I liked as long hair and camel butt crack flip flops were cast aside in favour of safety pins and noise.  Jethro Tull managed to hang on longer than most, and their 1979 offering, Stormwatch, is not just good because it wasn’t bad.  Massive changes were in the air at that time, palpable changes that festooned many a scrotum with goosebumps the size of Rice Krispies.  I was 16 going on 17, drinking beer and smoking fags instead of skateboarding, turning awkwardly in a wafer thin cocoon of change.  This song truly was an island refuge in a storm-tossed sea.



Hmmm. A little too much dressing up going on here, Mr Anderson...

And from Sarah:

[Tell us] your favorite color and how the deeper meaning of that juxtaposes with the state of the Universe. Or maybe the mystery of fart odors.

Colour isn’t really the issue for me.  What matters is the depth and shade of the colour.  I could say, for instance, that I’m rather fond of purple but some shades of purple are so light and insipid that they drop down the Likeability Scale below colours I don’t normally go for.  A good deep purple, a dark burgundy, a Royal blue etc — it’s these I like rather than all the pale stuff (unless the paleness borders on some form of off white).  As for the mystery of fart odours, there is none.  Thanks to the chips at the Agricultural Meerkat College from Hell, I’ve generated enough foul smelling gas since Tuesday to create a miniature biosphere capable of sustaining intelligent death.


Monday, April 1, 2013

Me Is Has Was 5


April 1st 2013 can only mean one thing: this blog is now five years old.

As one of the eight people worldwide still blogging, I count this as something of an achievement (and far superior to sporting an all-body tattoo of a dangerous looking rat).

I’m away from my desk today so this one goes out as an automated possible car crash.

Thanks to everyone who has joined in the excitement and thrills over the years.  Unless Google sells off Blogger some time soon, I fully intend to continue as a conduit for the best in reasoned commentary — and knob jokes.

Must run now to pack for a weekend away mingling with kookaburras and meerkats.  Srsly.