Monday, January 27, 2014

Why Not Visit The London Pumadelica?

    Having tied the scalps of both Blickling Hall and Beatrix Potter’s Cottage to my belt, my touristy sightseeing self spent Saturday taking in the new London Pumadelica.

    Situated on the bank of the Thames just a mile south of the London Eye, this big cat theme park boasts far more delights than its New York, Madrid and Botafogo counterparts.

    The Big Apple may have its rotating “Pussycat Wheel”, and Madrid pulls no punches with its daily Boxing Felines Challenge, but the London version of this famous franchise trounces all comers with a stunning Pumaic Telekinesis Hub.  Plus, “London” sounds less like it’s been plucked from a snotty nostril with a grotty fingernail than “Botafogo”.

    Granted, the Pumadelica’s entry fee is a whopping £27.75, but as London prices go, it’s a far more tempting offer than half a pizza in a pub full of rowdy Spurs fans or paying off a tramp for twenty minutes — especially as you get a free mp3 download and a waterproof Noel Edmonds Is A Twat hat.

    Personally, I didn’t believe a word of the telekinesis hype and suspected foul play (or a struggling magician), but as I filed into the Hub alongside my fellow pleasure seekers, I couldn’t help noticing that all the seats were arranged in circles — on the ceiling.

    “How do we get up there?” I said to the steward.

    His eyes twinkled with more raw glee than a trampolining fat man having his flesh slowly worn away by a curvaceous nymphette armed with a feather duster.  “Just wait till the puma arrives.”

    The cat in question was a 12 year-old female by the name of Soozi.  Formerly of Freiburg Zoo, she looked so stunningly sleek as she was led onto the podium that she could easily have been mistaken for a lithe midget tightly bound in a dozen pairs of tights.

    The lights dimmed, and the expectant crowd held its breath.  Was this a con, some kind of con?  Or a massively elaborate joke involving umpteen TV crews, Derren Brown and Fearne “impossible to find a well-fitting dress for” Cotton?  An oddly unsettling levity possessed me as crazy ideas tumbled around in my head.  Of all the scenarios perfect for the resurrection of Syd Little’s career, a mock puma telekinesis act was right up there with a revolving gunge tank or dancing BBC weathergirl whack-a-mole, and given the advancing years of Cliff Richard, Brucie and Lulu, I began to picture an inflatable three-wheeler bouncing along a zany obstacle course, tossing off the two veteran showmen before plunging Scotland’s finest into a timed striptease knockout tournament with Carol Vorderman, David Suchet and the bloke with curly hair from The Krankies.  Then it dawned one me: Hey!  I’m ten feet off the ground!  Supported only by the miracle brain of a telekinetic puma savant called Soozi!

    That crazy cat lifted us all up into our seats, one by one, to the tune of Rocket Man.  She made Uri Geller look like an ugly fraud with a badly depeted dinner service, so amazing were her powers of magic and mystery.  Only it was for real!  We remained in our seats for a full fifteen minutes, pinned to their vinyl trim by the power of feline thought alone (though some of the children’s seats were lined with velcro, and the disabled ones had belts and handfuls of nails).


    So if you’re looking for a new tourist treat in the capital any time soon, I can’t recommend the Pumadelica enough.  I’m still buzzing from all the excitement, and as a bonus, the free hat came in handy when next door’s cat snook into the kitchen and tried to throw up behind the microwave.

    Details are here if you need them:

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Fissure Imminent

    One of the best things about having the builders round to fix up your wayward architecture is the fun to be had tossing rotten fruit over the waistbands of their gravity-bound trousers and watching it tumble down, down, down into the murky depths of Butt Crack Abyss.

    Why, if you hire the right crew, sometimes your efforts are rewarded with a group hug or kinky sex involving a Black & Decker workmate.

    In the virtual world, however, renovation is far less exciting.

    So if you’re visiting over the next few days while essential site maintenance is underway, do please resist the urge to feast upon photos and vids of burly builder types sporting matching steel toecapped boots and crotchless tights, for you will find nothing of the kind on display here.  Instead, you can expect to see html disarray, or even no blog at all.

    Like Dr Who and Jacko before him, I plan to give myself something of a facelift.  Maybe even a bumlift...

Monday, January 20, 2014

Why Alerts Are Bad

    Never before have the protruditory nipples of gibbons been easier to track down, rotate through 360̊, and present to the world in a variety of hitherto undreamt of FORMATS (at almost the speed of light) than NOW.

    If gibbon nipples are your bag (albeit bags with functional holes) then well done you for not having been born in the 18th century, for in those dark and dismal times only the embarrassing spectacle of Beethoven’s mismatched shirts and hearing horns existed to save you from Excitement-free Oblivion.

    The web is awash with nipplitude of a gibbohuloid nature, and with apps available for Apple, Android and Cybergimp, there’s no excuse for anyone with even a modest interest in simian lacto-twibblers to fail to be engaged in an orgy of searching 24/7.

    Only problem is, our relationship with the world is a two-way affair — and no matter how big your ego, the world always wins out in the VERY MUCH BIGGER THAN YOU stakes.

    So, you’re phoning a friend and — ping! — the irritating alert architecture built into your phone flags up two new gibbon nipple photographs from a website in Taiwan.  You try to clear the alert, but accidentally click on your Handbag of Junk icon and bring up another  zillion photos from the cloud (along with a LOLGIBZ video of some Canadian park ranger filming himself filming a friend filming a prone, shaved monkey).  On your computer screen: gibbons.  On your wristwatch: more nipples than you need.  All day, every day, you’re bombarded by nipples!  More alerts for nipples!  Come, look at these nipples!  Bam!  Bam!  Bam!  Bam!  24/7!  And you can’t.  Switch.  Off.

    This is what’s bugging me right now about the internet.  I’m forever being alerted, reminded, cajoled, prodded and poked every time I pick up my phone.  And most of these ALERTS are trivia.  True, most can be switched off or instantly deleted, but there’s no escaping the invisible background hum of NIPPLE rumbling away under the hood.  The sinister thing is that even if I never respond to a single pappomatic alert for the rest of my life, a cabal of strangers across the globe, united in the common cause of security, can tap into the unseen bunker of my nipplehood and obtain detailed information about all of the things I’ve chosen to ignore.

    Right now, we have an invisible servant whose wonders we’re falling over ourselves to access.  Must be like the thrill we had when money was invented.  But look what happened to that.  One minute, our great new idea made everything easy; next minute, we forgot that it was all about people and we suddenly found ourselves enslaved by our own means of exchange.

    Are we alerting ourselves into a future where there is no escape from being alerted?  A future in which we check, check, check, check, check our status, friends, messages, bleeps, pokes, booms, tags, wags, nipples, fripples, twipples and flibblers?  Maybe at the expense of breathing?

    Access to information definitely = GOOD, but I’m not sure I want the world this ON and IN YER FACE all the time.  It’s like having liquid pheromones squirted into your nostrils with a water cannon.   

Monday, January 13, 2014


    As a writer, I understand that I have been born to bound from my bed every morning alive with vivid images and ideas plundered from the hypnagogic dreamworld twixt wakefulness and slumber.  All that is required of me is to transform this bounty of miracles into fiction. 

    Maybe even fiction such as this.

    The problem with the hypnagogic dreamworld is that it exists as a subset of the hypergroggic real world.  In this land of tangible fog and shrapnel there are screaming babies, noisy neighbours, deadlines, deaths — and Nicki Minaj thrusting her gluteal globules in your face to the worst tunes ever.  Obtaining reverie under these conditions is hitter and misser than Mike Tyson slapping the England squad after another failed World Cup penalty shootout.

    But here’s the good news.

    A word exists to describe this disturbance of dawn’s bright light.  It’s an old word, a forgotten word — and it’s sillier than the plot of most Bond movies.  How I love it when useful words are silly.

    I’m indebted to Son of Whirl for buying me this book for Christmas:

    It’s a treasure trove of peculiar words whose meanings have passed into limbo.  Some are daft,  but most are brilliant, and I’m ashamed I never got round to making any of them up myself.

    Top of my list right now is uhtceare.

    It looks like it describes a special fridge for storing long life milk, but the conjunction of ‘uht’ (pronounced oot) and ‘ceare’ (prounounced key-are-a) performs the following miracle of definitular mathematics:

    Uht (the restless hour before dawn) + ceare (care and sorrow)
    that moment just before dawn when you lie awake looking at the ceiling, fretting and fidgeting and feeling forlorn (and fucked as far as finking up fiction is concerned).

    What makes this word so great is that it appears in print only once, leading me to conclude that the author of the poem The Wife’s Lament made it up

    Since I discovered uhtceare, the sorrows and preoccupations of my dawns have been nudged aside by the occasional giggle.  If unpaid bills and festoons of anal warts come sledgehammering from my slumber, I whisper, “ah, ‘tis but an uhtceare” and I’m buoyed to dream on.  It’s a trick that works in the same way as having a mystery medical condition diagnosed or a strange smelling soup revealed as “containing no peanuts”.

    So next time you wake in an icy sweat at crack of dawn, tossing and turning with the fitfulness of a masturbating burger flipper in a burning drive-thru, remember ye that this noxious and nebulous state was described long, long ago.  It’s not the fault of modern life, and it’s not particular to you — and it’s not so terrible that it demands a seriously threatening monicker like NAPALM, EXTERMINATION or ULCEROUS...

Thursday, January 2, 2014

Be Afraid. Be Negligibly Afraid.

    2014 has arrived.

    Rather than flippity-flopping its way over to my doorstep like 2013 and 2012 before it, bold new 2014 skeetered along my kitchen floor and unveiled itself in the living room with the verve of a regenerated Dr Who blessed with rudeness, ginger hair, a fresh new triple pancreas — and all the feminine guile of a Valkyrie.

    So, I’m not here to muck about with New Year greetings.  In any case, it’s now Thursday, and my attention has turned to Easter, Summer, and maybe death.

    All you need to know right now is that a feast of spine-tingling horror awaits you over at my Amazon author page.  It’s spine-tingling because I know most of you will have been up till the early hours on New Year’s Eve, pogoing like there was no tomorrow, so by default, your spines will be tingling for the next month and a half, even when you’re relaxing in the bath or ironing socks.  As for the horror, my latest fiction short will have you quaking in your flesh.  So horrific is it that Amazon considered slapping a WARNING on the cover.*

    * I’m contractually obliged to mention here that this warning was “perfectly suitable for  all, even embryos”.  Top THAT, Ridley Scott.

    Here’s what’s on offer RIGHT NOW:

    In this new age of austerity, the Bank of the Dead has tightened its belt and cut back on funding spooks.
    Mummies now groan naked, vamps suck with prosthetic gums, and the faintly flapping have downgraded from bed sheets to tea towels.
    When the Bank calls time on the ghosting days of the decapitated 13th Earl of Crotcham, it invites the wrath of a fiend still keen to get ahead.
    Join the world’s least terrifying spectre as he battles the scrooge-like wraiths of the Afterlife for his right to go        BOO!

    For less than the outlay cost of Satanic sacrifice ritual — or even a slice of relatively crap pizza — you can download THE HORROR today!

    If you’re in the UK, go here.

    If you’re in the US, go here.

    If you’re anywhere else, it’s a manual search involving actual typing.