Thursday, December 31, 2015

Mucoid Lang Syne

   And so 2015 ends as it began — in a blaze of unwanted mucus and uneaten mince pies.

    Truly, I have bounties, plentitude, and while it is not considered PC these days to flaunt any kind of ingratitude, I am pissed off with this state of affairs.

    Have I really been so badly behaved all year to deserve a last gasp mucusgasm of such nasally tsunamaic proportions?

    Especially when so many mince pies remain to tempt me with their momentarily unpalatable delights?

    They are as a dying Spock behind glass, their cries of Live Long And Prosper lofting heartily from pastry perfection only to plop into the snotty cesspool of my malaise.

    But all is not lost as germs proliferate and handkerchiefs are obliterated.

    There is pause for reflection in the wheezing, dripping hiatus.

    Where a healthy Whirl might have squandered his time on unnecessary DIY or ironing, cruelly bacteriafied Whirl has turned fate’s end-of-year curse into an opportunity for much lying down and reflecting.

    Dosed up, I may be, but I am clued up and schemed up also for the coming adventure we are all agreed is called 2016.

    For now, I spray on the honey and lemon, exorcize all mince pie flavours from my mind’s taste buds, and ooze juices as a braised tomato lolling on a rump steak.

    Tomorrow, I shall be triumphant.

    Enjoy the fireworks tonight — and if you can’t, blast fountains of snot at the stars.

Thursday, December 24, 2015

My Christmas Message

    When John Lennon sang,

    “So this is Christmas,
    And what have you done?
    Another year over.
    A new one just begun.”

    he was jumping the gun.

    Because when it’s what Boy George irritatingly referred to as kissmusstahhh in his brief stint as pop arse on the 1985 charity hit, Do They Know It’s Christmas?, it cannot also be the beginning of a new 365-day cycle.

    For that, you have to wait another week.

    But who am I to argue with a dead pop legend?

    Or even a creep in a hat who is regrettably still alive?

    My Christmas message to you is one of peace, happiness, prosperity, joy, hope — and a desire to preserve all the world's penguins and keep them safe from harm, even the naughty ones.

    So have fun, suck on chocolate and turkey till your eyeballs resemble the very bauble dangling from your trees, and return here in 2016 for more of the delights I know you’ve come to savour like irremovable warts with unnervingly cute faces beaming from their lumps and wrinkles.


Thursday, December 10, 2015

Post-Laurensine Flip-Poppery

   I take a brief pause from my do-or-die battle with the phantoms of Christmas Preparational to proffer a suitably unfestive tale from my writerly gizzard.

    From today through till Monday, this one lurks on Amazon in all its freebitude, waiting to pounce on your tablet’s precious disk space, there to nestle amongst LOLcat pic, superfluous pdf, and voluminous folder-locked nekkid alike.

    The promotional video (*snarf*) is from last year, but all the info is still vallid.

    Main point: FREE ALL WEEKEND.

    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



Monday, December 7, 2015

Counting Down The Sleeps

   I am so excited, I could burst.

   Santa is coming soon! 

   Squee squee squee!

Thursday, December 3, 2015

Re-ignitiolistitude Of Buzz

    Ah, the soft buzz of re-ignition.

    I am as an abandoned sex toy rescued from a down-filled box in a duckling’s attic.

    Stirring to life, with lights flashing minimally, and batteries hanging from my underside by Sellotape, I presume to do battle once more with the orifices of evil, the bulbous extremities of naughtiness.

    The strange thing about being away from pursuits familiar for even a short time is how you return as a forever morphed symbiotic wonder.

    Pre-halloween 2015 seems like a ludicrously long time ago, and had I stuck to my weekly blogging schedule, who knows what incremental shifts would have taken place online.

    But I missed them all in this bloggorific capacity, subsumed them into my non-blogular life, and walked on as a creature momentarily distracted by humungous cucumbers into channelling energies elsewhere.

    This is the most peculiar thing about now.

    In my youth, I morphed from month to month — of course I did.  And my diaries record the shocking pace of the change.  Colossal events I recall from a distance, I can now re-examine, and often when I do I find they took place much closer together than memory alone dredges into view.

    But there is something about the end of 2015 which has a curious pace for me, like I am experiencing a growing pain instead of the succession of gnawing rots to which I have been accustomed since turning 30.



    So I gaze back over my own blogroll today in a state of mesmerised sub-aghast/aglee at the pace and pulse of morphitude cast under continuity’s lens, and step into the breach before Christmas as a salmon tossed back into the water by marauding ogres with spears.

    I do so love an adventure.


Monday, November 30, 2015

Note To Self

whirl, you gotta reboot this blog before christmas otherwise it could easily fade away like obscene grafitti bleached from a nun's back by her cardinal gang abductors

i know you have been terribly busy, dragged into the mire by a combination of circumstance, circumcision, circumvention & circumferally humongous cucumbers, but that is no kind of excuse for ducking out on what is the most exciting blog in cyberspace

don't forget the promise you made in 2013 to dress up as a bear

and — naked juggling

so leave this message here till the end of the week and then delete, after which time it will be december and you can ease yourself back in gently like a crazed twat

Thursday, October 15, 2015

Slipping Neatly Into The Vroompants Of Wanderlust

Feeling pre-vacansular.
For now, this post is lastonesular.
Back soon
(end of October
for Halloween swoon
if I stay sober).

Monday, October 12, 2015

Whippettio's Goulash Dispenser #1

     A green light flashed on the console.




    Then a pause.
    Then another flash — and round again.

    Whippettio placed his bowl under the dispenser nozzle, ruminating on his latest dilemma.

    Would the guys at the lab fix the anti-grav in time for the exhibition?

    Would the exhibition even happen?

    And would the goulash be overly lumpy, like it had been since the weekend?

    A shuttle stalled outside the window, and a goofy pug kid flashed him a stupid face.

    More lights.

    Two beeps.

    A waft of steam.

    All the vegetables looked okay, and though some of the fat had separated from the sauce, everything looked more or less how it should.

    Whippettio eyed a chunk of meat floating near the bowl’s edge, took a sniff and grabbed a spoon.

    “Guys,” he said, as he crossed to the solar table, “I guess we can hire an anti-grav from storage if our own falls through.  Their rates are reasonable and I can pick it up next time I’m over at Judo.”

    He shook his head and blew on his goulash.  “No.  Wait.  I guess we can rely on storage to provide a replacement anti-grav if ours falls through.  I’m over at Judo all the time, so it’s no problem for me to pick one up.”

    Spooning the meat into his mouth, he watched the shuttle pull off into the main space lane, picturing how Aida and Luperno would react to his plan.

    Aida nodded, Luperno cupped her chin and shrugged.

    “Okay,” said Whippettio with a series of half nods.  “Okay.  Okay.  Let’s go with that.”

    He spooned some more goulash from the bowl, and the voices chittering in his head gave way to silent contentment.

    [To be continued...]

Thursday, October 8, 2015

Monday, October 5, 2015

Droolbummer Mondaygrinder

    Monday swings around again with the faeces-tinted gleam of a droolball dangling from a worm-arsed bulldog’s lower smacker.

    With grim heart and befouled spirits, we muster our ravaged musculature into a feeble slaction replay of Fridays’s least unenergetic total bodily collapses and swipe toothbrush across teeth like a lumberjack sawing down Jack’s beanstalk with Hillary Clinton’s petitest nail file.

    Agonising and lumpen are the steps we take to haul ourselves through the day, with deep sea diver boots chained to an escalator speeding the wrong way.

    And when night falls, it falls on our faces, suffocating all hopes and dreams from our thumping skulls.

    Ere long, ‘twill be Tuesday — and motherfucker shall pile 'pon motherfucker before Holy Bejesuspants! Wednesday’s Saturnine drag screeches its fingernails down the blackboard of all conceivable horizons.

    So, yeah, back blogging on Thursday.

    Enjoy the rest of the week, you scintillating muskrats...

Thursday, October 1, 2015

Off The Tightrope, Onto The Limbo Ring

    My world has turned all Deep Space Worm Hole.

    At heart, I’m a Thomas the Tank Engine kind of guy, drilled down on a track, chuffing and a-puffing, smiling out at the faces smiling my way.

    I ferry stuff from place to place, often along a narrative arc; I pick people up, and I set them down, sometimes providing the same service for circus animals and contraband.

    Whistles blow, steam billows into the sky, and everyone is happy.

    Or they were — myself included.

    Now, where once stood a furnace aglow with burning coal, a baboon anus vacuum has opened up to purse its lips and deep throat my current reality.

    Certainty mutates into chaos, reliable shaving equipment prepares to morph into junk, and even the one cat in my neighbourhood who goes out of his way to ignore my advances has begun muttering, “don’t forget to pack fur-lined underpants, Whirl.  It’s freezing cold in that there parallel reality, and I can’t bear the thought of your private parts shrivelling to the size of a caterpillar asleep on a walnut.”

    No need to hire a precog on this one: I’m about to undertake a journey like no other, possibly wearing underwear with ursine exterior origins.

    Should I pray to the Lord?  Or Richard Branson’s stylist?

    And when I emerge on the flip side, will there be curly kale to purify my blood and stave off scurvy? 

Monday, September 28, 2015

Mayo Squirt Nutzoidhosen

    When you’re hellbent on sourcing some killer mayo, and your freezer is empty as the supermarkets are closed, there’s no point trying to strangle a duck.

    But how does hellbentness sit with any kind of hiatus?

    Till the supermarkets open?

    Or a yolk-laden duck slips its rear end over the edge of your mixing bowl and points a feathered wing at the whisk dangling from your utensil gazebo?


    This is where it pays to make with the zen, the kung fu, the deep space karmic wizardry.

    No kind of hellbentness ever sat anywhere.
    It exists and persists only to strain at the leash till it burns the raison d’être of its bendy through part of the cosmos.

    (Or it would, if you could break into your neighbour’s house, raid the fridge, and rustle up a cheese salad sandwich.)

    So you have to stay on your feet, on the move, on the hop, like a pregnant gazelle.

    Allow the foal of your bendy to roll and tumble in the womb.

    Yes — you have a gazelle foal in that hellhole, because nothing makes sense when you can’t still your bendy.

    And you mustn’t still your bendy, not for some while yet, or it’ll burn out through your navel, roll onto the floor in a ball of flames and maybe incinerate a Dachshund.

    Make with the Haka like the All Blacks!

    Go crazy with a sword like Sulu rampaging through the corridors of the Enterprise back in the days when the input knobbery for warp drive consoles was sourced from toasters and junked hifi!

    Dance like Victoria Beckham trying not to pee down her leg!

    Lull that bendy into submission.

    Roll it, rock it, lower it gently to the ground.

    If there’s a Dachshund nearby, instruct the owner to run for cover, along with the dog.

    If there’s more than one Dachshund nearby — what in hell are you doing being hellbent in a kennel in the first place?

    There’s more to life than pooches shaped like Bratwurst!

    Get back on the Haka before they come runnin’ over to lick your ankles.

    And if there are no Dachshunds in the immediate vicinity, do the Haka anyway.

    In addition to helping you roll your bendy, it’s great for developing your pelvic floor muscles and dating anyone with hairy shoulders.

    Keep rolling, keep rocking.

    There’s no hiatus here.

    No stillness, no stuck, no immobility: Just a gentle shaking of your gazelle womb, teasing the fire from your bendy, snuffing out the flames, cooling down the embers, flipping the temperature down a farenheit at a time.

    Till the bendy, the hell, is all gone.

    And you can walk on, free.

    Pet ducks, open fridge doors at will, visit your neighbour.

    Zen master, Kung Fu Hero, Venusian Wand Lord.

Thursday, September 24, 2015

Catalysts & Keepers

    As it rolls in life, so it scrolls in writing.

    (Or ‘goes’, if you’re using pen and paper.)

    Most things #amwriting are catalysts — ammed into being to be checked out later to figure if they’re worth anyone else seeing.

    Most things #amediting are keepers — ammed because they’re the only words left standing after all the unwitnessible elements have been cut.

    This is why first drafts must be catalytically audacious and unafraid to behold all miracles.

    You can’t KEEP all that stuff — but you must generate it till it vomits sparks from your every orifice.

    This is why final edits must be be meticulously conservative and bold enough to convey one single message brilliantly.

    You can’t ADD MORE to all that stuff — and you must trust its capacity to ignite all it touches.

    In writing, as in life, there are catalysts
and there are keepers.

    You #amwriting or #amediting today?

    Roll your wheels out appropriately over the sleepers.

Monday, September 21, 2015

Vampires & Piglets

    Vampires suck out your blood, we all know that.

    They persuade you to invite them into your home, make with the dental floss on their first visit to the bathroom, and before you know it, you’re spreadeagled on the floor having your lifeblood vacuumed from your neck by some weirdo in a cape.

    As relationships go, it’s a very one-sided affair.

    But what about the people who want you for more than your blood?

    The people who cross your threshold because you invited them in — and there’s no catch?

    Maybe you’ve known some of these people for years.  Or maybe they’ve only recently arrived on the scene.

    But they’re here now, all of them, hopping and up and down on your doorstep, ring a-dinging frantically on your doorbell.

    It’s fine to turn away vampires if you can — but what do you do when all the good guys come knocking, for all the bestest reasons, and multiple acts of turning away are a MUST?

    Personally, I hate this scenario.

    I exist only to slay evil.

    So while nothing pleases me more than laying honey traps for vampires, and working out ever more cunning ways of spraying odourless garlic-rich contact poison onto dental floss, I am loathe to spurn genuine visitors simply because I’m mortal and time is finite.

    The easy solution is to blow kisses and say, “thanks for your interest, I’m busy right now, try again tomorrow.”

    If you answer the door holding an iron and a lace doily, this tactic works every time.

    Problem is, tomorrow your doorstep will be more crowded than ever.

    Easier still is not answering the door, but unless you’re prepared also to seal off your chimney and lavatory, a few resourceful people will find their way to your inner sanctum, possibly wearing wetsuits.

    In my experience, plans resulting in the spontaneous appearance of people wearing wetsuits and the invasion of your inner sanctum are best avoided.

    The only solution is to train up a cutesy piglet, and send it out into the throng with a chocolate-laden silver tray strapped to its back.

    Let it trot, let it mingle, let it oink.

    As people pluck chocolates from its back and mutter things like, “oh, what a cutesy piglet,” or, “may I swap my Montelimar for your Cock & Balls Hazelnut Whopper?”, maybe they’ll forget for a moment why they showed up.

    If perchance they remember to knock on your door once they’re done — who cares if you don’t answer, because HEY!  CHOCOLATE!


    Maybe in the future, they’ll show up just to take in the sideshow.

    Maybe they’ll show up in droves.

    Meanwhile, you get to speculate in your inner sanctum, free from the distraction of having to deal right now with people who are falling over themselves to feast on your time because they love you more than piglets and chocolates.

    You get to work.

    Some time in the future, you may peer from behind the sanctum  curtain.

    Some time in the future, you may choose someone from outside.

    When that day comes, you hide away your dental floss and your cape.

    And you smile, and say, “would you mind awfully if I invited you in?”

Thursday, September 17, 2015

The Truth About Yer AI-ness

    I have no problem whatsoever with A.I.

    Actually, that’s not true: I do have one problem, one very big beef.

    !!! Why is most A.I. so crap? !!!

    Either it’s hopelessly uneasy to use, or if it’s supposed to replicate or simulate a dog (for example), the very last thing it ever does is replicate or simulate any kind of actual dog, real or simulated.

    Most of the simulated dogs I’ve seen in action look to me either like cats or monkeys.

    So I don’t figure on the world being overrun by robots any time soon.

    Case in point: My new ultra hi-tech printer is so sophisticated that it’s impossible to get it to do anything properly.

    Tell it to print three sheets of A4 — and it prints six (twice).

    Tell it to max on the colour — and it scans the carpet.

    Tell it to add labels — and it invades Liberia, firing off lasers and sucking the brains of children into its Chimera Genesis Pod.

    I’m convinced The Singularity is a myth invented by right wing politicians to keep down workers’ wages.

    “Be grateful you’re lucky to be granted three bucks an hour for what the Japanese kids’ toys of tomorrow will shit in milliseconds — and while you’re at it, MAKE ME A GODDAMN CUP OF CAPPUCCINO.”

    See?  I shouted that out loud, and my printer did nothing — because that Chimera Genesis Pod is a fiction.

    Who needs a Terminator for that kind of prissy crapola?

Monday, September 14, 2015

Monkeys & Circuses

    Yeah, so right now, there’s a whole bunch of abandoned monkeys loafing around on a whole bunch of circus tent fabric, twiddling thumbs and looking kinda pissed off.

    Worst thing?

    This bunch of monkeys ain’t even a united bunch.

    This bunch of monkeys is an amalgamation of a whole bunch of monkey sub-bunches.

    And even the amalgamation is more of an unlucky accident than any kinda meticulously deliberated mass primate welding.

    Don’t even get me started on the rag rug mismatch of circus tent fabric colours.

    No one’s in charge of these rejected primates, and pretty soon they’re all gonna start pecking at one another’s bumholes and pulling on fur for fleas.

    Then the food will run out, some of the bigger monkeys will start bossing the rest of the assembled apehood around, and a suffocated human cannonball will roll from a flap of tent fabric to provoke a bloodbath.

    Maybe then, the ringmasters responsible for this whole debacle will figure the folly of their ways and rush to reclaim their monkey and circus combos, cracking the whip anew and parading around in top hats till every last chimp knows its place in the grand scheme of things and can juggle bananas to order.

    My problem here is this:

    With so many monkeys whooping and a-dooping about the place, and crumpled circus tent after crumpled circus tent barfing up blue strongman after strangulated acrobat troupe after asphyxiating mother of three, how will the ringmasters successfully round up all of their own monkeys — and only their own monkeys?

    Now they’ve been given the freedom to hang out long enough to want to kill each other or riot, those monkeys are going to fit back inside their respective tents like unleashed genies slip neatly back into bottles.

    Bet none of the ringmasters thought about that when they nonchalantly dropped their circusloads of monkeys on the world to writhe and scream in a pre-insurrection cesspit of primate fear and anger.

    But hey  — not my problem...

Thursday, September 10, 2015

A Tender Heart Screams From The Ventricles: Excerpts From The Colin Frape Poetry Omnibus

For September
Oh September
Oh, Oh September

Hungry like a wolf,
prowling as a cat,
deadly as a snake,
and much more than that,

September comes a callin’
for Fall, and gives a maulin’
to Summer’s final flush of old, dead green.

And I am a woeful monster,
cut from my smiles
as a gay bustard winged by a low flying jet
or a drone,

wishing for more time of seed to bloom,
water to paddling pool,
grass cuttings from grass,
fine animals risen from slumber
to chase nut, sunrise or worms,
and frozen fruity drinks
sucked raw from their sticks,
even at lukewarm dead of night.

Tears flow,
but they do not sow.

The ground is gone to seed,
not risen from’t.

And soon,
September’s herald of gloom
will usher in
a time of bones filled with hollow air,
the fixed stares of unenthusiastic dogs out on walks,
and no green stalks or shoots
to promise flower;
only dead bark and the rotting corpses of mushrooms
will offer succour to the grower
of plenty within us
who romped across beach and dale and underpass,
drowned in sunlight,
bathed in antiraindrops,
kissed by the spirits of elves
in juiciest glade.

Hear these words,
hug their sense,
cavort with their meaning.

For death comes,




And September is its courier, its messenger, its email, its virus.
Browning what is green
like the soiled comfort blanket
of a child fond of apples,
crisping what is lush
like a spiteful chef burning French fries
for a party of six
he dislikes intensely,
rotting what is good
like the Devil himself
self-harming live on YouTube,
burying dead as dead
in the chilling soil
all hope of happiness and gaiety
till steps taken
forward or backward in the gloom
etch gravestone marks in the very sod.

Oh September
Oh, Oh September —

how shall we endure
the thirty days and thirty nights we spend with Ye?

Watching as the earth dies,
turns to crisps and crunches of leaves at our feet,
as squirrels shiver and run
and birds throttle their own song?

Hear me,

Be strong.

‘Tis Nature’s finest test,
a proving ground for the miseries yet to come.
like you were a boy of eleven or twelve
raised by a forgotten Amazonian tribe,
flappy eared,
flappy lipped,
penis tied high up against navel,
and when the elders release you into the jungle’s dark night,
and insects bite
at your shamanjuice-infused blood,
you scream to be as a babe again,
innocent and free,
unvisited by terrors,
fears mad as dementia,
and caterpillars over fourteen inches long
with teeth
big enough
to leave scars on your eyes if you falter.

Be strong for September’s test.
For time’s elders call you to run for the trees now,
like that scared Amazonian child-boy,
to battle shrill echoes of emerging death.

You have no flappy ears,
no flappy lips,
but the tied penis of your inescapable plight
pulls tight against your straining gut
as fear of a silent demise at the hands of time
runs you cold,
frozen as an Icarus blackbird
fired from a cannon into a hailstorm cloud.

Lie still,
breathe still,
sleep soft under Winter’s shroud.

For Summer will come again
Oh September,
Oh, Oh September —
and every death it brings in its wake —
lies dead at the feet of the
first hare of Spring,


Monday, September 7, 2015

The Number One Habit Of Eminently Disagreeable Bastards

    If the world is about anything right now, it’s motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation.

    And (most important): MOTIVATION!

    times a hundred and ten per cent!

    These are harsh, austere, competitive times, and a man (or a woman man) gotta have spunk, plenty of spunk, squirting from those action glands into the marble tiled, genitalia-massaging hot tubs of success.

    Ultimately, we are all solely responsible for the outcome of our own lives, and if we’re wandering round complaining that we’re poor, unloved, disabled, dead, or shafted the hell on out of our bugger pipes for some other STUPID reason, then we only have ourselves to blame for THINKING THE WRONG THOUGHTS and TAKING THE WRONG ACTIONS and maybe BEING BORN WITH FUCK GOOFY TEETH.

    “Hose down your inner hot tub.”

    “Squirt Action Spunk as a fearless stallion.”

    “Crush the Feeble with the power of your dreams.”

    You’ve all heard the hot, new mantras, used them to fire up your rampaging gusto like the strongmen of circuses yore inflated cows’ stomachs to the size of zeppelins with the gush of their own piss — but what does it take to become such an eminently disagreeable bastard that the Law of Attraction blows all of its bounty YOUR WAY?

    OK — here’s the answer!

    Remember all the people mercilessly slain by Genghis Khan?

    No, course you don’t.  They were all put to the sword or burned alive or torn to pieces  way long ago during ancient history’s Mongol Horde Era.

    But if you believe in the spirits of the dead — as you must if you’re serious about luxuriating your butt off in life’s hot tub of success — then you can turn the pain, anguish and plain old hatred of these people to your advantage.

    Now, I see what you’re thinking.

    Gee, so you’re saying I can call upon the spirits of the dead to help me manifest my dreams and desires, kinda like some folks do with Jesus, only instead of drawing down the power of some do-gooder milksop, I ought to hit on a Big Time destructive barbarian from the savagest era known to man?  So — d’oh — why not go straight for the head honcho, and mind meld with Cap’n Slashbowel himself, Genghis Khan?!!!

    Seems logical, but remember: cruel and unrelentingly vicious though he may have been, Khan was just one guy.

    Plus, he was one of life’s winners, knowing little of failure, defeat, heartache, despair — and all the other max power emotion shit all the dead guys have in spades!

    You think Khan is still full of bloodlust as he’s romping around the spirit world on a mad horse?

    Nah!  It’s job done, game over.

    If he’s got any sense, Khan will be lying on a sun bed having his nails pampered by naked girls, quaffing milkshake after milkshake alongside Hitler, Pol Pot, and Rod Hull.

    Invite any of these losers to spunk up your mojo and you’ll be motivated and energized as a dishcloth!

    Truth is, you have to mix it up with all the raging dead guys Khan slew — every last one you can lay your spirit guided hands on.

    All these agonised souls had heads chopped off, bowels pulled out, eyes gouged from skulls — or else they were burned alive, thrown onto spikes, thrown to the wolves (and worse).

    Question: Do you think any of these hacked-up, mangled bastards are happy right now?

    And what do you figure are the odds on them being HUNGRY TO DO SOMETHING REAL MEAN TO EVERY MOTHERFUCKER GETS IN THEIR WAY — if only they could?

    So, forget Khan, forget Hitler.

    Fuck it — forget EMU.

    Leave these pussies alone.

    Real Deal Headhonchoville = all the dead guys the Mongol Horde Era skewered, burned and butchered from the face of the planet.

    Call those guys down, and you’re rampaging over the corpses of your enemies, people.

    You’re dreaming big and actioning the impossible, tooling up your motivation to crush all before you like ants.



    Make it the biggest tool in your Motivation armoury, and YOU.  WILL.  RULE.

    No question.

 Jacuzzi Spakkert is an internationally renowned clairvoyant, mystic, business guru, and motivational speaker.  He has written scores of bestselling self-help books including The Zodiac of Love, How The Stars Can Get You What You Want, The Coming Age Is Yours, and DESTROY THEM DESTROY THEM ALL.  His latest book, There’s No I In Team But Plenty In DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE! hits bookstores in October 2015.  Jacuzzi lives in a self-built temple in Virginia with his wife, Maureen, their two children, Izaak and DEATHTOTHEBASTARDCRAWLINGHORDES, and twelve thousand devoted followers/mercenaries.  The Spakkerts famously sponsor a neglected donkey called Tony.

You can find out more about Jacuzzi Spakkert and his inspirational work here and here.

Thursday, September 3, 2015

Evolution Shafted My Squash Poppet

    The single squash that’s been mushrooming away in my vegetable patch for the entire summer has turned out to be something of a disappointment.

    I’d prepared myself for clumps of them, bulging over onto the lawn like the thrashed buttocks of a badly co-ordinated trapeze act from a circus hot on stick and ignorant of all things carrot, but no such thrust of luscious vegetables protruded.

    Instead, I have a novelty potato, beached above ground like a veggie maverick, its curiously albinoid skin marginally yellowed by the sun’s ferocity.

    In a world run along savagely evolutionary lines, where one miscrinkle of walnut allied to infinite butterfly effects could change the future of the cosmos forever, a squash evidencing such feeble squashiness could easily have earmarked its entire species for extinction with its unbravado.

    “See here, Gods of Merciless Atomic Swish,” it cries, oblivious to the pulse of its own puniness (and the rules of evolutionary mayhem), “isn’t it about time you finished off the tomatoes in the greenhouse for being good-for-nothing wastes of space?  That way, me and my kind can rape the soil with our roots and proliferate across the universe in an unstoppable bonanza of bulbous squashery!”

    Maybe I should lend a hand — an invisibly Darwinian snuffer/swatter of an Adam Smith ‘red in tooth and claw’ hand — and call over a bunch of neighbourhood cats seeking promise of mock peyote.

    “See this weirdsy Veg Thang, Adventure Kits?” (Picture them now, a group of 6-8 assorted felines, gathered at my welly-clad feet as I indicate the feeble mis-squashed potato-thing with the tip of a bamboo cane.)  “Now is your chance to make with your claws against its rubbery exterior and siphon — with the aid of cat piping I know you conceal beneath your fur  — nature’s most potent hallucinogen this side of Sarah Palin’s underarm cheese the heck off into your kitty Tupperware.”

    It’s a tough call.

    To mess with nature or not to mess with nature?

    Last time I stuck my neck out for this kind of deal, everything went worse than pear-shaped...

Monday, August 31, 2015

The Afternoon I Helped Sara Blizzard Prevent The Death Of An Elderly Spinster — With A Weathercock

   It’s a rainy Bank Holiday Monday and everything is down in the world. 

   I know this in advance as I autopost on ahead not because I am a God or a precogGod or a precogGodbarometeroid — it’s just that when it comes to all things climatic and predictive, I owe everything to Sara Blizzard, weathergirl incarnate.

Sara Blizzard: In All Likelihood The Most Accomplished Weathergirl On The Planet

   According to Wikipedia, Sara has presented the weather for the BBC since 1999, and viewers in the East Midlands region have lapped up her talents down the years, planning holidays, excursions and loft conversions on the basis of her sage advice.

   Taken this way, her story reads Local Girl Made Good or Great Dresser Nabs Top Beeb Weather Slot, possibly even Hairdo On Legs Ready For Any Tornado.

   But there’s more to Blizzard than meets the eye — as I found out for myself back in the day when I strimmed the lawns for the National Trust as part of their UK-wide turf maintenance S.W.A.T. team.

   Return with me now to a heady August afternoon in 1997 as I stand, scythe in hand, overlooking the architectural magnificence of West Wycome Hall in Buckinghamshire.


   Julie, the ice cream girl, is hard at work dispensing her home whipped Strachiatella to the tourist throng, and some juggler from the Black Country is going down a storm as the hapless target for infant-hurled missiles thanks to a combination of too many beers at lunchtime, a pollen-induced sneezing fit, and a glitch on his GP’s computer that substituted laxatives for his epilepsy medication.

   Even before Blizzard appeared on the scene, it was turning into quite a day.

   Little did anyone know that it was about to get even quiter.

   Just as I’m scraping a crescent of clogged grass from my scythe’s blade, a voice cries out from the National Trust promo marquee on the far side of the Hall’s sumptuous lawn and one of the marketing team streaks from between the bee-print tent flaps, her frumpitude bundling adults and children alike from their feet.

   “There’s a masked gunman,” she shrieks.  “Doris and I tried to stop him from opening up the till but he was too strong for us!  He overpowered Doris and stuffed the better part of £157.52 down his underpants — and I know this because I’d only just counted it up with a view to getting some more change from the café inside the Hall.  Now he’s got Doris in an arm lock, with a pistol held to her head, and I believe he means to make his escape with the loot using my dear, dear friend as a hostage.”

   An angry Dad, primed to beat up the juggler for inflicting misery on his two daughters, steps forward, rolling up his sleeves to reveal the tell-tale signs of heroin addiction.

   With a flick of his head, he addresses the crowd.  “Come on, lads.  Let’s take the fucker out.”

   As several of the nearby men leap into action, along with a woman I’d presumed all afternoon to be a man on account of her waist-length beard, Doris’s friend urges caution.

   “Didn’t you hear me?  That masked gunman in there has got a gun.  And a mask.  He’s more than a match for any Dad’s Army of have-a-go heroes.”  She stills her flagellating breast.  “It’s a sunny August afternoon in rural England.  No one deserves to die.”

   “Ain’t that the truth!”

   (The Titan of Allure stepping forward was Blizzard, clad in the OTT Elizabethan attire demanded by the youthful exuberance of a fledgeling weathergirl starlet, but I didn’t realise right away.  No one did.  This was back in the days before she was famous.  The BBC were road testing potential new presenters for the Antiques Roadshow, and this sunny August afternoon just happened to be her virgin media audition — alongside Fiona Bruce, Claire Rayner and Jimmy Somerville.  Just sayin’.)

   The formidable figure surveys the scene, the rolls of her Elizabethan gown complementing her confident demeanour like whipped cream works with strawberries or ladyboy buttocks.

   “What we need,” she says, whooshing a 15th Century weathercock from beneath her bustle, “is for me to disarm this evil villain under cover of a considerable distraction.  I want all of you to start screaming — NOW!”

   Cacophony erupts, kids first, and Blizzard ducks behind the marquee.

   She's so heroic, so assured, like the first Queen of England herself, and I must have presumed it was game over because I lit my pipe and dug out some loose change for an ice cream.

   Then two very bad things happen.

   First, the masked gunman sneaks his head from the tent and proffers a gagged and bound Doris.

    “No one move,” he yells, “or the fat lady gets it.”

   Second, Blizzard trips over a tent pole and sprains her ankle.

   In that moment, as the superstar weathergirl-to-be writhes and moans in a bed of pansies, and Doris toys with the handle of a flick knife hidden in her ‘anti- cellulite tsunami’ corset, I knew I had to act faster than Sir Ian McKellen playing King Lear on amphetamines.

   I hurl my pipe at the gunman like a boomerang and dash over to where Blizzard lies writhing (her ankle clearly bruised, and her gown split along the midriff to reveal the best Haircut 100 tattoo I’ve ever seen).

   “Hit me with the cock,” I scream, as the dull thud of pipe on gunman cranium lofts o’er gasps to kiss my eardrums.  “Seems I’ve managed to stun the bad guy, so maybe now I can follow through with a spectacular impaling.”

  Blizzard throws me a distressed look, like a shot putter mis-tossing a rotten pumpkin.  “The beak is caught in my gown!  I can’t…prise it…free!”

   Quick as a flash, I summon all my ‘fight or flight’ adrenaline, and flex my innards till it squishes in miniature fountains from my skin pores.

   Before me, in the pansy bed, a rusted garden fork stands pronged into the sod, its mighty tines screeching to be used as a gown shredder.

   I grab the fork and twist the least sod-enclodded tine into the split in Blizzard’s gown next to Nick Heyward, and screw on down till the seam tears right up to her neck.

   The weathercock tumbles onto the feisty weathergirl’s outstretched thigh, and before you can holler Jack Robinson, I say, “sorry about the dress, missus, but I’ll make it up to you after we’ve fixed the villain thing” — then I wang the poultry-themed ironmongery at the concussed gunman.

   As it turned out, Doris had slit the guy’s throat while I was fumbling around freeing my weaponised cock from Blizzard’s Elizabethan finery, and Julie the Strachiatella girl took a hit to her arm which cost me £34.55 in replacement blouse fees from Fenwicks.  But that’s another story.

  Main thing was, Blizzard and I had saved the day, and it was all Fiona Bruce could do to nab the Antiques Roadshow presenter slot after Blizzard’s heroic performance.  Had the BBC’s all time favourite weathergirl not sustained a sprained ankle and not ended up inappropriately semi-naked after her heroics, I’m certain she’d have won out over the competition (Jimmy Somerville included) and gone on to thrill the nation with both her love of antiques and her beautifully formed shoulders.

   I still send a Christmas card every year, but to date Blizzard has not responded.

   My guess is that the ankle took a while to heal, and the day-to-day demands of being the BBC’s flagship weathergirl must necessarily take first place over looking up the random guy with whom she tackled crime so effectively in her youth.

   But that’s life — and this is another rainy Bank Holiday Monday in England.

   Whatever you're doing today, I hope it's exciting.

16851 033
 Jimmy Somerville in his Erasure and Pet Shop Boys Heyday

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Down To My Underpants For Oscar

    It’s a ‘throw on the jazz and throw off everything but your pants’ kind of a day today.

    And remember — most of my current posts are prepared in advance like trussed boy bands hurled before the skinhead masses of some deprived and depraved fascist regime, so rest assured that no jazzery pantery is taking place at 10am on a Thursday morning.  Right now as I touch tippies to keys it’s Wednesday afternoon, and after a dull, rain-blitzed day, the sun has shown its face with Madonna on the cover of Vogue unashamedness and it’s all I can do to Duds Off and Peterson On Down.

    Some would call me an exhibitionist, but there’s no-one else here to witness my trill-inspired semi-naked cavorting, which kind of nails that analysis as bogus.

    However, as a writer, I have to get all this stuff down immediately, including the near stumble at the top of the stairs as my underpant hem snagged in the door.

    You want my take on all this?

    It’s a curse — a miserable, wretched, life-sucking curse.

    As for the pelvic thrusting to piano lick after piano lick, I’d do more if I could.  I’d get up and on and active and maybe even go and climb a mountain or something.

    But my combination of nature and nurture has marked me out as an instant vomiter of all I consume — the parabolic, projectile gusher of the moment.

    I’ve learned to live with the deal, along with crying myself to sleep most nights over how I’m so frequently stolen away from the heart of the action to write crisply about the throb of its pulse, but I content myself with the thought that the boppo dance halls of the world are being spared my juvenile cavorting.

    Last time I tried that squat thrust gymnast breakdancing shwmoodle, I snagged more than the hem on my underpants.

    But that’s another story.


Monday, August 24, 2015

Barnacular Vernacular con De-Miracular Synapsia

    Experience is a weirdsy thing.

    Whatever field you’re in, the accumulation of knowledge (along with its practical and constructive application) makes great stuff possible.

    Whatever you have, you refine.

    Pump out, take stock, refine some more — and so the process goeses.

    Knowledge is what makes the killer difference when you ring round for guys to fix up your constipated horse.

    Don’t believe me on this?

    Then take a look at these two Klarify-4-U scenarios.

Scenario 1: The Horse Knowledge Expert

You: Hi. I need urgent help for my sick horse. She ate a whole bunch of cheapo noodles, and now she’s rolling around in the yard in agony and I think it’s some kind of blockage. Can you get here right away?

HKE: Sure.

[Screech of tyres, Venus flytrap gulp of emergency veterinary holdall packed with equine-friendly kaboodle slamming shut.]

minutes later...

HKE: Lemme see...lemme see...

[Horse Knowledge Expert applies four deft forefinger taps to horse’s stomach.  Horse whinneys, leaps to its feet, and does that thing with its teeth that our anthropomorphic stupidity interprets as a smile.]

HKE: Ok, mate — that’ll be a hundred quid please.

Scenario 2: The Noob Horse Guy (moonlighting to help sub his job at the pet food factory)

You: Hi. I need urgent help for my sick horse. She ate a whole bunch of cheapo noodles, and now she’s rolling around in the yard in agony and I think it’s some kind of blockage. Can you get here right away?

NHG: Sure.

[Screech of tyres, Venus flytrap gulp of wife’s old make-up bag rattling with a couple of biros and a bent nail file.]

NHG: Lemme see...lemme see...

[Noob Horse Guy paces around, prods and pokes the horse at random, Googles and the Train Your Cat hotline, boils a kettle, strokes the horse, asks a zillion questions, works on through the night, pacing, pacing, pacing, massaging, massaging, massaging — and all the while the horse keeps grunting and straining and barking and rolling around till morning when a big ole bolus of compressed Ken Hom Shanghai Noodles pulses from the its backside au painful naturelle with the schloop of a comedy magician  regurgitating a “swallowed goldfish”.]

NHG: Uhm, this one is on the house. And I’ll throw in a free nail file.

    Okay — so do you see the killer difference? between the two scenarios?

    All the knowledge, experience and wisdom of the Horse Knowledge Expert condenses down into a kind of equine Spidey sense whereby he knows exactly what to do to solve the problem — and then he hits the nail on the head like a golfer striking a hole in one.

    As for the Noob Horse Guy, maybe he gets there in the end, and maybe he relies a little too much on luck, but what he lacks for certain is the killer instantaneousness of informed brain to fix the horse’s bowels right away.

    So why is this important?

    Because sometimes there is no constipated horse, and sometimes the solution to the problem before us becomes less available to us the more our knowledge snowballs like a noodle bolus along the digestive tract of our expertise.

    It’s why writing new stuff can be so difficult, and why this difficulty seems to flip over into the impossible the more we fill our brains with exactly the right information.

    The more we become writerly equivalents of the Horse Knowledge Expert, the steeper and more inaccessible the white cliffs of Blank Page Terrorville appear to be.

    Where once there were sparks whaooing onto the page before we even figured we’d thought ‘em up, now only calcified layers of knowledge and wisdom and certainty and experience remain, and the white rectangular void that seeks nothing more than to become a selected mirror reflection of all substance invites only scribbleswirls to knot and garotte every synapse pulse hidden deep and nowhere inside Expert So Expert Skull.

    For writers, knowledge can barnacle up the synapses like a diet of fried pigflesh atherosclerosifies the arteries of an obese hooker with a niche target market.

    It’s a horrible truth, but new, fresh, original stuff flees from the barnacles of certainty.

    So don’t get too hooked on what you know, don’t mainline on what’s been whupping round your cerebral bloodstream for centuries because that’s stupider than drinking your own piss.

    Remember: everything you know about not writing presents itself in the milliseconds before you go on to write nothing at all.

    Getting to this level of instantaneousness of informed brain takes experience.


Monday, August 17, 2015

Twinklikins The Kitten

    Maddy squeezed her new friend hard.  “Thanks, Mum.  Twinklikins is so much better than a hamster.”

    “Happy birthday,” said Mum with a smile.  “But be careful how you hug her.  Kittens are very delicate.”

    Maddy’s brow furrowed.  “What do you mean?”

    “If you squeeze too hard, you might damage her internal organs.  Squeeze very hard indeed, and you might break a bone or injure her forever.”

    “I don’t understand, Mum.  I was only loving her.”

    Mum took Twinklikins from her daughter’s arms.  “Inside Twinklikins is a skeleton, same as yours, only smaller, and cat-shaped.”

    “You mean bones?” said Maddy.

    “That’s right.  And all around her bones are lungs and kidneys and intestines — and her heart.”  Mum gave Twinklikins a gentle squeeze.  “All cats like a bit of fuss but you have to be terribly gentle.  Squeeze them like this and they really don’t like it at all.”

    “What did she say?”

    “My point exactly.”  Mum wiped a trail of blood and mucus from Twinklikins’ wet little nose.  “Probably she was saying please leave me alone, because I ruptured her insides or something.”

    Maddy shook her head.  “I don’t understand, Mum.  It just sounded like a normal meaow to me.  What’s the difference?”

    “Listen,” said Mum, stroking Twinklikins’ head gently.  “She likes this.  That’s why she’s purring.”

    “Got it.”

    “But now, when I do this,” Mum continued, lowering herself onto Twinklikins’ head, “now she’s saying please leave me alone again because I’m placing too much pressure on her tiny skull.  Do you see?”

    “No,” said Maddy.  “It sounds like she’s saying get off my fucking head, bitch — you’re squeezing my eyeballs right out of my face and I’m struggling to breathe.”

    Mum tossed back her head and roared with laughter.  “Don’t be silly, dear.  Cats only understand very simple words.  They’re like monkeys that way.  Listen when I bounce up and down on Twinklikins.  She’ll just say please leave me alone again — only louder, and more insistently.”

    “No, Mum, she’s screaming fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,  meaooooaaaugh!  — and now she’s burst.”

    Mum lifted up a leg to reveal Twinklikins’ prolapsed eyeballs.  “So she has.  And that’s why you have to take extra special care of her.  Like I said, kittens are very delicate.”

    Maddy took the dripping moggy from her Mum’s hands.  “And so much better than a hamster.  Especially for my birthday.”

    “Time for bed now, Maddy,” said Mum.  “Sweet dreams.”

    “Same to you, Mum,” said Maddy, waving gently with one hand while dragging Twinklikins upstairs by her tail with the other. “I’m so glad I have a proper pet, and not some lousy rodent.”

Thursday, August 13, 2015

Baby My Rainbow

    Back in the day, when my hair was down to my ankles, making a trip to the barber was a biannual event — along with shaving, washing, and entertaining a thought.

    In recent times, necessity of smartness and sparseness of follicle have combined to transform my old ritual into a monthly commitment to the common good.

    But you know how it is with commitment.

    What masquerades as a single, overarching aim is sometimes but a small part of a swarm of competing virtues.

    So my appointment with Regular Haircut has taken second place to other pressing concerns like ironing, decorating, and having my scrotum inflated by rowdy hillbilly types.

    Right now, I have the look and feel of a mid-level pop star battling his way bravely through the third week of recording his fourth studio album.

    There are groupies, there is a monkey in a cage who’s gotten sick, and the studio manager smokes cigars way too big for his face.

    A bug nestles on my arm as I tune my guitar for the 6th take of Baby My Rainbow, and the manager calls out for someone to keep the monkey quiet.

    Don, my drummer, touches brush to snare, and I follow with a crisp E.

    Baby My Rainbow
    Take care of me.
    My shoes are worn
    And I don’t have a care.

    Girls, they wear buckles
    And braids all of gold
    But I’m riding out
    On a mare.

    Oh my Rainbow
    Baby My Rainbow
    Sun, sky, and water
    And death.

    Come, girl,
    Come lay beside me
    Come, let us kiss
    With our breath.

    So, yeah, maybe I should get a trim before the week is out.

Monday, August 10, 2015

Is Your Finger On The Pulse?

    Is your finger on the pulse?

    Checkin’ the beat? Checkin’ the beat? Checkin’ the beat?

    Feelin’ for the rhythm of your ACTION?

    Press down, pump up, ride on out.

    Tune in to your inner thrust.

    When the beat pumps on, ride harder.

    When the beat pumps on, pump harder.

    When the beat pumps on, press harder.

    Feel that pulse!

    Really feel it!

    Whup your fingers smack on the artery.

    And get yourself ready to party.

    Feel that pulse!

    Really feel it!

    Press harder as the beat pumps on.

    Love the pulse!

    Find another one!





    Get everything pressing on.





    Feel the pulse pump on and on!

    Can you feel it?

    Can you feel it?

    Can you feel it?

    Press on that pulse!

    And soak it all up!

    ‘Cos soon it will be gone!

Orville D.K. Hoolihan is the author of over 250 self-help books in 2,500 languages. He has helped trillions of people solve problems in their lives and his methods are taught all around the   Slovakia. He lives in Margate, UK, with his wife Bonnie and their two sons Gordon and Listerine.