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Funny old thing. At a time when there is other, juicier, more rant-inducing news around (like the ongoooooooing saga of “The-Russians-Are-All-Evil-Liars-And-We-The-Good-Guys-Must-Bash-Them-Or-Better-Still-Kill-Them-All” piffle, for instance), the one that sticks in my mind, not to mention my craw, is that one about the £1.5bn open bribe to the Paisleyites. I just can’t get over it/can’t stop salivation Continue Reading
This one comes with a po’m. Or kitchen sink rant, if you prefer. Yes, sorry about that. My Muse is a bully wot cannot be denied and I fucking wish she’d retire and go live in Sicily, or somewhere far enough from me, or run away with a nice boy Muse, or just run away Continue Reading
Meeting Strangers. (For Jane Austen.) It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single FlatFish in possession of a large cave and several square feet of tasty seaweed must be in want of a wife. Or two. Pushy mothers are not the sole preserve of the human race, obviously.
The Storyteller. Sometimes on moonless nights with nothing half decent on the telly I metamorphose into this blue blob-like thing, borrow a few cats from the neighbours, gather my Shoggoths and I tell stories. They are all arbitrarily made up and bear no relation whatsoever to any known narrative tradition, foreign or domestic. The Shoggies Continue Reading
Funny old life. You plod through one of those long dry periods where nothing happens and nothing will come and then you get the art equivalent of the runs. Not complaining about the diarrhea, though. I’m enjoying this abundance enormously. So, here they are, the latest paridas. BoulderFish. A very distant relative of our old Continue Reading
Small Mercies (aka Ugly No.1). Here be a perfect example both of the simple, innocent delights of a jolly old ad hominem attack and the health benefits of selective schadenfreude. Take a leaf off this here Ugly’s book: No matter how ungainly and ill-favoured he may be he will never-ever be as repulsive as the Continue Reading