Monday, June 30, 2014

Why I'm Not Blogging Today

   If only everything was upside down.

    Instead, I have side to side, every which way but loose, and piled high to the ceiling in box after box after box.

    And it’s interrupting the regularity of my blogging like a rectum-bound army of King Kong-alikes.

    I hate it when a small job that should take no more than a few minutes spawns a weekend-eating monster of DIY and tectonic plate shifting.

    All I wanted was a new place for the screwdrivers but what began as a modest relocation of the odd Philips has grown into a project to redesign the scullery from inside to top and bottom to out, complete with the need to deploy Polyfilla, an electric sander, and more satin finish canard oeuf bleu than it would take to photoshop for real the peculiar hue of a Winton or a...that awful bloke who used to do Bargain Hunt.

    My one consolation?

    When a similar need to redecorate the entire first floor of the house arose from the discovery of a dicky plug socket in 2010, the prevailing weather was Mediterranean in the extreme and Girly of Whirly and I lost half our body weight in sweat.

    THIS TIME, at least it’s PISSING IT DOWN.

    So, imagine my joy about THAT...

Thursday, June 26, 2014

His Divine Munificence, The Yeged-Godi — Spiritual Adviser To The Starless 6

Your soul is a sumptuous lagoon.
Stock it with fine fish,
paddle daily in its cooling ripples,
slay fools who dump their crap in it.

2013 Feeley Monastery Prana Yama Weekend
Excerpt from “Awaken Your Spiritual Dynamo” talk to business gurus and members of the 2nd Upper Bobbley Beaver Scout Troop.

Monday, June 23, 2014

Holiday Presently In Mooksterhöeppenn

    If you seek to be holidaying in Mooksterhöeppenn any times in July, be resolved to enjoy our new travel brochure.

    Containing the hottest of tips for all beauty spots, it wants to inform you all about all the loveliness we are experiencing here in our European paradise.

    There will simply be so much sight here!

    And there are no Nazi difficulties today since there isn’t World War II any more.

    For examples, you could consider to think of these amazing ones:

    Chuby Checker Night in Hüüüberfrittenfahld

    Our capitalest city is spread wide for your pleasure all weekends dancing to R&B legend Checker and his many songs and guitars.  You must arrange for feel of passion!

Look for the sumptuous thrilling of this Hüüüberfrittenfahld sports building, also demonstrating swimming, weightlifting and too much running.

    River Gootehentats Hog Roasting

    Step aboard our floating restaurant and look beyond all the very pleasant water where there are prowling safety people.  Our chef Olga might cook pigs for you, roasted till the skin has gone all crackling.  Then there should be dancing right up until there are cattle in your house.

    There must be also music to lend cheer all around, this time only trombones but they are something professional.

Our wanted trombones are often the longest ever on the globe!

    Raagheuvemöögas Carnival

    Excite yourself with the most merriment as this gay festival moves forward.  Christened “Europe’s smallest carnival” by the nicely ones at Eurohopper Travel it is our gift to all of your world.

    See giraffes and many many masks.

 Such a spectacle that we demolish the leaning tower of Pisa and everything in Egypt!

    Be certain to discover our modest paradise and settle on some beautiful lakes.  It is cheaper than Las Vegas and also caravans in Blackpool even if there are hotels.

    Try this very thing before tomorrow or you must become sad.

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Thinking To WIN WIN WIN!

    I have a burgeoning file of insights and motivational aphorisms.

    It began life some years ago as a scrappy A5 folder full of even scrappier magazine clippings.

    Like “How I Tamed My Horse” by Marion Geary.

    There’s a picture of a horse, followed by a few column inches devoted to biscuits and use of not a single whip, then Marion winds up the article by saying (cheerily) everyone can do this!

    Ha!  Gotta be hooked!

    Since then, I progressed to politics and philosophy, and even went as far as subscribing to Autotrader Weekly.

    Some of those car enthusiasts can be proper motivators!

    Since the advent of word processors, computers and the internet, I’ve taken to accumulating scraps of wisdom in the form of a Come On Get Up And Go You Big Pranny file.

    It’s all in there.

    Killer stuff like:

    If you’re not part of the problem you’re part of the solution!

    You’ve got to speculate to decorate!!

    Never bugger a horse in full view of an overcrowded police station!!!

    That type of thing.

    I’ve found over the years that if I’m stuck on a particular project (be it fiction, relationship-based — or as is the case right now, “of a terminally blocked kitchen sink nature”) all I need to do is have a read of my special file.

    Within minutes of poring over its abundant wisdom I feel I’m closing in on solving my dilemma.

    Quotations leap from the page like old friends, proclaiming, “how could you have forgotten THIS sage advice?”

    I read on, and I read on, and I read on, my confidence growing in stature like Alan Carr peeling a banana in a roomful of easily pleased 30-Somethings, my will-to-do bolstered by sages from down the ages — everyone from Confucius to Chopra to Vanessa to Eddie the Eagle.

    I’m filled with a sense of wonder, a sense of joy.

    To be part of this rich tapestry of optimistic invention!

    To ascend to the heights of all practical wisdom and seize from its plateau the gems of mankind’s finest thinkers!

    To caress each hallowed aphorism as a majestic unicorn nurtures its young!

    Then I reach the end of the file and shoot myself.

Monday, June 16, 2014

While We Wait For Peter Capaldi

    It’s funny how things change.

    My first memories of Dr Who pounce upon me occasionally from out of a distant haze.

    I sit before a clunky old black & white TV in the dining room of my childhood home, bewildered as Patrick Troughton battles Ice Warriors and Daleks armed only with a pair of spectacularly hilarious trousers whose simulacrular inside leggitude I have since failed to source from a single menswear retailer.

    The War Games story famously went on for 900 years and I remember my Dad commenting on how stupid that was, and how Star Trek was better because you could watch a whole story in one night with no risk of any of your cliffs being hung.

    But I was adamant.

    No, Dad, this is the future.  And by the time I’m your age, and you’re as old as Grandad, you’ll be hooked on ludicrous American pseudo-scifi series’ that mock the concept of human mortality.

    Not bad for a retrospectively rescripted infant, that.

    Truth is, everything takes forever when you’re young, but not even the seven hour eternity of a drive down to Devon in our spacious Hillman Imp could compare with the agony of having to watch the end of bloody Grandstand before Dr Who came on.

    In the days before the internet and iPad-enhanced social media account polygamy, the only channel hopping options involved Open University bearded geekery on Beeb 2 — or an endless reportage of more useless football results courtesy of Dickie Fucking Davies.

    Little wonder, then, that I’m experiencing maximum tetchiness all these decades later as the BBC refrains from unleashing Peter Capaldi at Easter
— and chooses instead to keep him hidden away until after the WORLD CUP.

    The Doctor slides from under the Tardis console and proffers a scowl.  “Complain if you must, but it’s taking forever to deprogram my Outrageous Blasphemy Chip.  Even a top-of-the-range Sontaran electric cheese grater won’t shift it.”

    I lean on an oddly geomorphic pedestal, grateful in spite of all the scheduling shenanigans that the BBC has fixed the wobbliness issue.  “What’s wrong with a simple Mind Wipe?”

    Uh oh, I’ve hit a nerve.  Capaldi is in my face like an obese octogenarian flasher in a supermarket.

    “Mind wiping is for crackpots like the Master!”  His expression darkens.  “Christ.  If they force me to play opposite John Simm, I’ll have to start working out.”

    “Pertwee did okay on the hand to hand combat deal.  And he was old enough to pass for a scarecrow.”

    Capaldi winces.  “But that car!  That bloody stupid car!  The moment Moffat foists any of that crap on me, I’m walking.”

    My arm finds the 13th Doctor’s shoulder, flopping gently over its velvet jacketed exterior with the pfffft of a Sea Devil mask tossed onto a Feltzhide sofa.  “Maybe I was a little harsh earlier about the football thing.  Just take as long as you like.  I’ll be fine.”

    He’s smiling now — which is odd because he looks more menacing than when he was angry.  “I should hope so. It’s only another six weeks for you to wait, after all.  And there’s still thirty seven and a half seconds’ worth of video teasers featuring Yours Truly in a wacky new Time Lord helmet.”

    Now it’s my turn to laugh.  “So where have the Cybermen hidden the metaphorical biscuit?”

    In a Janus-morphing split-second of timey-wimey HORROR, Capaldi flips into Hartnell mode again and paralysis grips me.   “It was a joke.  About taking the biscuit.  Your wacky new helmet and stuff...”

    "The Cybermen have the Metaphorical Biscuit?”  Capaldi pulls out a sonic screwdriver the size of a potentially dangerous dildo.  “To hell with August — the era of the 13th Doctor begins NOW!”

    Eeeeeek.  Don’t you just hate embarrassing silences?

    I break out a manual from a dusty locker and flip to page 12,501 as Capaldi fixes his hair.  “Yeah, Pete — how do you fly this thing...?”

Saturday, June 14, 2014

Hodgson: England Have Never Played Sober

Hodgson: England Have Never Played Sober

Article by Rory Fugglory

    In the run-up to England’s crucial World Cup clash against Italy, Roy Hodgson has hit out at critics by claiming that the squad was permanently drunk during every campaign since 1966.

    At a press conference to launch his Simply Ruffled range of designer hair lacquer, the cheery England manager fielded questions about the frailty of England’s World Cup performances over the past quarter of a century, citing excessive alcohol consumption as the main reason for the team’s poor results.

    Buoyed by the paparazzi’s interest, he unveiled thousands of images from his cell phone, including a pile of empties the size of a Ford Mondeo from the ‘sesh’ prior to the infamous 4-1 defeat to Germany in 2010 and a camel bag used by successive captains over the years to combine the honour of playing for their country with the buzz of knocking back more max strength lager in the space of ninety minutes than most of the squad’s loyalest supporters.

    In news that shocked the footballing world, Hodgson went on to claim that England’s boozy antics were nothing new.  “Forget the glory boys of 1966,” he said.  “If the Germans had tackled harder they’d have won — but they were shit scared of being glassed.”

    By way of a rebuttal, legal representatives for past and present members of the squad submitted a curt disclaimer to the High Court, adding, “it may look like a hastily scrawled cock and balls, but if you read between the lines, it’s a pair of tits.”

    FIFA officials are now studying video footage of every England game from the past fifty years using technology developed for town centre CCTV cameras.

    According to a spokesman, “what we always presumed were diabolical dribbling skills may be no more than a desperate attempt to remain upright after tubbing in excess of 70 units of alcohol.”

Thursday, June 12, 2014

How To Write

    Everyone has their own way to write.

    Some of these ways WORK, some of them DON’T.

    This is my method, presented here mainly for my own benefit when I stray from the path and entangle myself on the Vines of Goober.

    Maybe you can use some (or all) of my methods to enhance or vary your own writing techniques.

    Rule 1

    THINK of something to WRITE DOWN.

    I know that MAGIC is supposed to happen when writers stare at a blank page, but in my experience, MAGIC = either A BLANK PAGE or WAFFLE.

    So make sure you HAVE SOME IDEA.

    Anything from a Rowling style SEVEN BOOK SERIES to a SINGLE LINE OF DIALOGUE will do.

    You can HAVE these THOUGHTS anywhere and at any time.

    If you’re lucky, IDEAS will seem to “pop” into your head (though normally all this means is that you began FISHING for these ideas eons ago and your brain finally got round to answering the call).

    If you’re less lucky, you may have to stare off into space and FISH for a few minutes before you find THE NEXT THING to WRITE DOWN.

    Rule 2

    Write down your thoughts.

    To help you, you’ll need a PEN, some PAPER, and maybe an iPOLLOCK.

    DO NOT use one of THESE:

    Or THESE:

    These devices have NOTHING to do with WRITING.

    They are DISTRACTIONS, particularly those running WORD.

    WORD (and other slaveware like it) is about EDITING, FORMATTING and PRESENTATION.

    These DISTRACTION MACHINES will lure you into DELETING your words rather than SCRIBBLING THEM OUT or LEAVING THEM BE.

    They will prompt you to CUT, RE-TYPE or ITALICISE your material rather than OFFERING YOU A USEFUL VACUUM upon which to WRITE DOWN YOUR THOUGHTS.



    Rule 3

    It’s an old joke, but there is NOOOOOOOOO Rule 3.

    Follow rules 1 and 2 and your WRITING is DONE.

    Additional Notes

    Editing, Formatting and Presentation

    When you have transferred your THOUGHTS to paper by EXERCISING YOUR ARM and MAKING MARKS, you can then move your WORDS to an EDITING, FORMATTING & PRESENTATION SLAVE.

    In the olden days, this meant TYPING OUT YOUR WORDS, but now you can DICTATE to any number of devices that will do the HARD WORK for you.

    Once you have transferred your WORDS to an EFP SLAVE, you can use your device’s AMAZING ARRAY of FUNCTIONS to prepare your WRITING for PUBLICATION.

    You can CUT, PASTE, KERN, JUSTIFY — and MORE!!!

    But one AMAZING FUNCTION I have yet to see on the menu of a single EFP SLAVE is WRITE

    Writer’s Block

    This is a psychophysical condition of the worst kind as far as writers are concerned.

    When you need to write, suddenly you CAN’T.  Arghhh!

    There are three reasons for this:

    1) You haven’t THOUGHT of anything to WRITE.  D’oh.


    So if your house has exploded, your car has been stolen, your nose has fallen eff (etc) then you have to STOP THINKING THESE THOUGHTS FIRST.

    Sometimes, you can put down distractions such as ACCIDENT, UNCERTAINTY and DEATH, and exercise free will in the way William James described it, ie by THINKING THE THOUGHTS YOU WANT TO THINK.

    Other times, however, you have to NOT WRITE and THINK EXCLUSIVELY about your immediate PROBLEM.

    Only when you’ve solved it can you make the space once more for WRITING THOUGHTS.

    3) You think you CAN’T WRITE.

    The solution to this one seems to be to WRITE.

    Surely, by WRITING you stop the NOT WRITING, right?


    All you end up with is a different kind of NOT BEING ABLE TO WRITE — and now you even have the WRITING to PROVE IT.

    Remember: thinking you can’t write is a THOUGHT.

    Starve your desire to THINK IT.

    Then THINK of something you WANT TO WRITE DOWN, and WRITE IT DOWN.


    Coffee, cigarettes, Mantovani, lucky horseshoe, divine intervention etc

    These have NOTHING TO DO with WRITING other than that they are WORDS you can WRITE DOWN.

    If any of this helps you in some small way then my work as an iPollock enthusiast is done.

    All too often, getting the results we desire means stopping all the bobbins that’s getting in the way.

    So remain pure in your thoughts, and don’t clutter your life with “special equipment”.

    You’re a WRITER, not a PORN STAR.

Monday, June 9, 2014

Top Tips For A Winning Christmas

    Leaving Christmas to the last minute is a surefire way of inseminating your home with strife.

    It simply won’t do to “jot down a few ideas” about presents or turkey accompaniments — or whatever — when Santa’s backside is poking from your fireplace at 3am on Christmas morning.

    That’s why it pays to be prepared.

    As the foxgloves loft themselves towards the sun and pleasure seekers young and old sport visible pubic hair from gaps in flappy shorts, bikinis or thongs, there are a number of things you can do to avert disaster when Yuletide comes a-knocking.

    In fact, if you listen hard between the huffs and puffs on paddling pools and the slap of sun cream on backs, you may just hear the rapping of Santa’s “Early Warning” elf patrol.  Truth is, they’ve been at it since the middle of January.

    So here are a few things you can be getting on with right now.

    1)  Make a shopping list for family and friends.  Those items may be in the shops now!  So buy them, wrap them, write the fancy labels.  Then store away in boxes: 2014, 2015, 2016 etc.

    2)  Buy a turkey from a local farm and keep it in your shed — along with a pickaxe and a decent roll of polythene from B&Q.

    3)  Download your favourite Christmas songs and compile your iPod playlists, leaving space for any new offerings from Justin Bieber or Katie Price that may come along.  Don’t forget to prune out “Rock n’ Roll Christmas” by Gary Glitter.

    4)  Crochet your own tinsel from an astronaut suit.

    5)  Check out all the bulbs on the fairy lights and have a dummy run of your exterior decorations, bearing in mind that it won’t be dark till 9-10pm so there’s no need to switch everything on at 4pm.  Electricity costs money, even at Christmas!

    These few simple hints should see you on your way to enjoying a better festive experience.  You could even incorporate them into your schedule come September and November, just to be on the safe side.

    Bon Noel!

Thursday, June 5, 2014

Blug Pado

   As we stand on the threshold of Death By Polyviri — with cryptoshenanigans poised to flog all functionality from our SSL, Putin ready to foist an unpalatable alphabet on half the world’s population, and the UKIP-primed frothing at the skin pores to starve the NHS of staff and flood every mind with reborn niggardliness — it’s worth remembering that way back on the cusp of this bold, new millennium, thousands of people fled their homes and sought refuge in the mountains out of fear that some crazy BUG was about to initiate worldwide social and economic meltdown.  And those people were wrong.

    We live in times of low level panic.  It’s palpable, darlings. 

    Right now, a pan-globe “shrieking Graham Norton” tipping point moment is avertable, containable —and virtual.  Most of us have yardsticks against which to measure the present viralising of ways and means previously germ retardant.  So it’s down to us to remain calm and poised while one or two folk let slip the vertebral attachment of certainty twixt imaginary chicken head and imaginary chicken body (directed only by reflex, and shedding feathers as its legs pound hither and thither in search of outlet for cluck).

    Those Millennium Bug people who fled to the mountains did so only because they believed the world was doomed.

    What a shit, shit, shit, shit future of which to conceive — and be prepared to act upon!

    To those who would despoil, divide and demean, I say:

    Blug Pado!


1 a very small living thing that causes infectious illnesses.
2 a set of instructions secretly put onto a computer or computer program, which can destroy information. When a computer that has a virus makes a connection with another computer, for example by email, the virus can make copies of itself and move to the other computer.
3 a program that sends a large number of annoying messages to many people's mobile phones in an uncontrolled way.
4 a negative or unhelpful idea, implanted in naive minds by chance or accident, that either spawns into a monster or dies a hapless death depending on the prevailing level of overall humankind wankiness.

Image c/o Prawny at

Monday, June 2, 2014

Vault Face: I Shake My Fist At A Cosmos Turned Upside Down

 Sometimes, only the most stale of fish will bring cheer to a badly lit and unkindly heated hall full of professional trout sniffers. Beyond that, there's always another Abysswinksback re-tread. Here's April 2010...

Now the excitement has all but died down (apart from the feeble whistle of the odd balloon, dangling from the rafters like a bulbous scrotum), do I detect the emerging flush of a return to normal?

Not a chance.

Every floorboard in my house is currently less attached to the floor than a novelty performing dog act that’s just won three yeses from Simon Cowell on Britain’s Got Twats; every wall previously covered in wallpaper now stands stripped bare as an imaginary male stripper in the brain of a downtrodden housewife with a spare five minutes between the hoovering and the ironing; and every vitally important document, set of keys, mobile phone, tv remote, and jar of soothing anti-stress balm lies pining for its customary easy-to-find resting place, stranded in some infinite limbo of junk like that monkey the Russians sent into space in 1949.

And where is all my underwear, Mr Central Heating Refit Guy?


JaneyV said...
My last complete house refit happened in the summer of '03 when I was 8 months pregnant with the Small Son. We had the house re-wired, repainted, re-floored, a conservatory built and the garden remodeled. We emptied the house of two skip loads of utter shit. Each piece of which had previously had its own little spot in the house.

I don't know if you remember that summer - it's the hottest on record. There were old people dying all over the place and I was incubating a furnace.

My only relief was taking the kids to Waitrose.

"What are we getting Mama?"
"Dunno yet - I'll figure it out when we get there."
"Why are we going so?"
"Because it's the only place nearby that has air conditioning..."

Desperate times, desperate measures.

The house was brilliant when it was done though.

Four years later when we moved down here we threw out another skip-load of shit....
Phoenix said...
And where is all my underwear, Mr Central Heating Refit Guy?

All that lace and thongy goodness -- can you really blame the guy?
Old Kitty said...
It's good to know you have underwear that I'm hoping you wear every so often and at least on special occassions.

M&S ones are always highly recommended.


take care
fairyhedgehog said...
Oh, that's grim.

I hope you find your underw- What am I saying?
Whirlochre said...
2003 was such a good summer — we missed out all of spring and the early part of autumn as I recall. Yo deserve some sort of award for being pregnant during that one.


Old Kitty
Come back next week for the new socks...

Sylvan Hider Under Logs
Currently sporting a pair of curtains...
stacy said...
. . . now stands stripped bare as an imaginary male stripper in the brain of a downtrodden housewife with a spare five minutes between the hoovering and the ironing

Story of my life . . .
Whirlochre said...
Bernita said...
Thank God, I will only have to deal with a Chinmey Re-pointing Guy sometime soon.
Sorry you lost your undersilkies, Whirl.
Whirlochre said...
Hey — it's the guys re-pointing their chimneys you have to watch out for.
Mother (Re)produces. said...
Ah, Whirl, I feel for you. We spent six months with no kitchen thanks to a company that said it would take three weeks.
If you're still looking for your knickers, I'd check the plumber's crack- they may have fallen in.

We need to get the upstairs bathroom re-done (the tub has taken on that lovely sandpaper quality) but we are just too chicken.
Whirlochre said...
Fortunately, a neighbour's kid played Captain Hook in a school production of Peter Pan over Christmas, so I'm sure I can fish them out...
Robin S. said...
Any striped panties missing? The ones that match those socks we love??
fairyhedgehog said...
I found your underwear, Whirl. It's here.
Whirlochre said...
Shuffler Twixt Hedge, Twixt Gusset Panorama
What's eerie is that there's only about 25 years between this and...the horrible truth.

How did anyone ever cop off in the late 70s?

Oh, I remember — they didn't.
Whirlochre said...
New socks — and old spangly shoes — to come.

*Who needs a trailer when you've got a dangler from above?*
fairyhedgehog said...
I googled cop off but I'm still not sure what it means because there were so many different definitions! (The wiki one was the most sedate.)

Whatever it means, some of us were definitely doing it in the late 70s. We must have been, after all I got married in 1979! (And so did my Beloved. What a coincidence.)
Whirlochre said...
Punk Era Romance Hog
There's always this interpretation.
fairyhedgehog said...
Ok, so some of the links no longer work and some of the sense never made sense in the first place, but it beats medieval role play or stitching up tights with mile-wide crotch tears...