Thursday, December 31, 2015
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
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 17, 2015
Thursday, December 10, 2015
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
Thursday, December 3, 2015
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.