My 5 Least Favourite Horse Names

For no real reason, here's my least favourite names for horses:

5.  Jingle all the Way

4. Clive

3. Margaret Thatcher

2. Otis Redding

1. π 

I know many of you aren't planning on getting me a Christmas present...

Family Christmas Portrait, 2011

I know that, because many of you assume I'm a rhododendron, you think I don't celebrate Christmas and would be offended if you were to give to me a gift.
 This is actually incorrect. I would not be offended if you were to buy me a Christmas present. In fact, I'm not even a rhododendron. I don't know how these rumours start.
 Actually, I know exactly how these rumours start. I spread them. I spread them like lying butter over a slice of gullible bread, sometimes coating them with a layer of jam if I so desire. The jam isn't part of the metaphor. I just like jam. In fact, that's what you could get me for Christmas.
 That or some new pruning shears.

For all you Dr. Who fans

A Dalek costume, obviously.
From Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk

This is a terrible costume, right? It's not just me that thinks that? Like a giant, diseased robotic penis... With arms.

 My apologies for anyone who came here looking for a succulent discussion of Rousseauian philosophy...

My Months of Hard work bear fruit!

After several months working hard in my lab, my twisted science has born fruit! Not real fruit, like a mechanical pear or a hairless plum, but a metaphorical fruit. In fact, I shouldn't have used that metaphor, it confused me, leaving me riddled with syphilis like only a poorly chosen metaphor or sex worker can do.

 Instead, what I mean to say is that after months of hard work, my twisted science has born elixir! Not such a great statement, seeing how elixirs aren't really born (unless they're made from liquidised baby giraffe or something, I suppose) but are made. Regardless, I've been doing evil science and it worked. That's what I wanted so say in the first place, and that's what I should have said. Curse you hubris.

 Anyway, at first I worked on a potion to make myself into a catfish. I was inspired by two things, firstly my hatred of human life, and secondly, my love of animals named after two other animals which eat each other in the order they're named (I also like kettlefish and foxgloves for the same reasons).

I was a big boy. Except that's just a catfish.
Via Fishguild.com

 In the end, that experiment was a success, and I turned into a catfish. My legs fused into a tail, my penis rotated 180-degrees around my body and grew into a fin, and my face imploded on itself to make gills. However, I was nowhere near water and would have quickly died if not for my twisted lab servant injecting me with the serum that made me human again.

 So back to my most recent experiment. I've started blogging again recently, as you may have noticed. A Christmas treat for you all, you delightful sexual deviants, and wanted more followers. So I made a chemical compound, a liquid mixture I could sneak into the water supplies of individuals around the internet, inducing a state of baffled euphoria and most importantly, causing them to promote my blog on their blog.

 So in other words, Doug over at I Like Cheese has spoken some kind words about my blog. So thanks to him, and welcome to any new readers who've arrived because of his promotion of myself. Sorry about the mad ramblings...

Earlier, I accidentally clicked on a Spam link, one of those "enlarge your penis" ones. It was actually real, although it affected more than my genitalia. You'd think this would be some kind of boon, but in reality, my entire body has grown three-fold, and as a result, my clothes no longer fit me and doors are getting annoying. Tall, wide, terrified, I roam the streets, waving my long arms and flapping my ragged, torn clothes. My hair, spread long across my head lies thin and straggled, my teeth spaced out and widened terrify children.
 All in all, its wildly inconvenient...

A tale of childhood innocence.

                When I was seven, my parents left me to stay with my Uncle Andrew for a week. They didn’t, of course, and I have no uncle Andrew. I don’t even have parents. But this isn’t a story about how I was born with neither mother or father. This is a far more banal story, about wood.

                Uncle Andrew had a nice enough house, a semi-detached old townhouse in the middle of some town. It doesn’t matter where, none of this is real. Two floors, 2 bedrooms, living room, study, kitchen and en-suits for all, even the two free-standing bathrooms of the house. I’d met uncle Andrew a few times as I grew up, and he seemed a nice enough gent, absent-minded and flavoured somewhat like hazelnuts, but harmless unless you were a otter - an animal he detested. Anyhow, my parents pulled up outside Andrew’s house, and he met us on the garden path. Running late as usual, my parents had to leave then and there, after only a few pleasantries were exchanged, and my luggage dumped unceremoniously on the footpath.

            “Hello my boy!” Uncle Andrew boomed at me. Despite the image that the booming voice of Uncle Andrew might have portrayed, he was actually a small, thin, timidly moustached man.

            Taking me by the shoulder, he led me towards the warm and appetising front door of the house. The warmly-scented aroma of freshly-baked pie wafted from the house rousingly. Reaching the base of the steps to the aforementioned sexy door, Uncle Andrew guided me past the portal with his firm grip. I threw a sideways glance at the door in panic, making out the approaching form of a coal-bunker with worry.

            “Here we are, here we are,” Andrew boomed, throwing open the bunker lid. “In we go, child.”

            With that, he threw both my bag and myself into the container. Caught momentarily in an avalanche of coal, I pulled myself up blackened and bruised to peer over the side of the bunker.

            “I’m sorry about this lad,” He said with an appropriately sorry face. “But, well... Ever since your Aunt passed away, I’ve rather taken up woodcraft. You know, a hobby to keep me occupied.”

            I nodded. The statement itself was, of course, fairly acceptable. But it hardly explained why I’d been deposited in a coal bunker.

            “Well, I’ve been working on a scale model of Saint Francis of Assisi, you know how it is?”

            I nodded. I did not know how it was, but I was seven and agreement seemed sensible.

            “Well, the problem is it’s not a one-to-one scale. And, well, I’ve filled the guest room with a 17-foot wide model of St. Francis’s foot, you understand.”

            I nodded again. I really didn’t understand, partly because I didn’t think the guest room was big enough to accommodate a 17-foot wide model of a Saint’s foot, and partly because it was stupid.

            “And, well, I can’t varnish it and soforth until I’ve finished the foot, and with the rain coming, I wouldn’t feel right about putting it outside. Can you imagine St. Francis’s face, ha ha, if an effigy of his foot got rotten in the rain!”

            Uncle Andrew continued to chuckle in a snorting, obnoxious manner for several moments. I contemplated St. Francis of Assisi, who’d always seemed a decent chap and would probably be more concerned with the idea of keeping children in coal bunkers that the conservation of his effigies - an item I imagined he would oppose the creation of most strongly.

            Above us, a rumble of thunder, and the heavens opened. For a moment, I hoped it would be the blessed Saint, descending to earth to at least bring me an umbrella, but it was just rain. Uncle Andrew, always thoughtful towards other, closed the lid of the coal bunker. Opening the small flap at the front that coal comes out of, he retreated into his house and began to converse loudly with me from the kitchen window.

            “This is a two-by-four!” He yelled out happily, holding up a plank of wood. “The interesting thing about a two-by-four is that the name refers to the dimensions of the end - you see how it’s two inches thick by 4 inches wide? Well, actually 1 ½ inches by 3 ½, a ha ha ha! Well, that’s what the name refers to. You have to specify the length you want separately, you see. Now, isn’t interesting?”

            “No,” I thought to myself, biting into a piece of coal. “That’s boring.” Still, the whole event was shaping up to be one of my better birthdays.

Winter.

 It's cold in this cave.
 I'm in a cave, you understand, in the cold. The snow, in fact. I've been travelling up hills in the snow recently, mainly because it seems like good, safe fun. Anyway, as usual, I've become trapped in a frozen cave by a blizzard. Snow it piled up around the cave mouth, and I think some yeti are pointing and laughing at me from a much warmer cave across the way.
 I've managed to start a fire. It's a small fire, and frankly, I wouldn't use it to try and impress a woman or seduce a lamb or anything like that. But still, it was doing its duty and keeping me alive. Then, outside, a noise! A dog, barking, help?
 Something appeared at the mouth of the cave. I could make this description more interesting, but I know you'd like to get straight to action, so I'll just confirm that it was indeed a dog. A St. Bernard's, with a small barrel of brandy around its neck! I was saved!
Sure, it took me a while to roast the dog over the pitiful fire I'd made, but the brandy made for an excellent sauce to roast the mastiff in.
 In which to roast the mastiff, sorry. It's getting cold now, and I used the last of my energy to correct that grammatical error. God help me if I actually proof-read the rest of my blog.
 Was I going somewhere with this? Who knows...

A doorbell? What a novel concept...

The doorbell rang. I know, I know. But it’s been a while since I had a doorbell story, and I’ve been sadder for it. Probably a coincidence, but still, let’s take no chances. Happiness in 3...

2...

1...

Ding!

            I opened the door. Outside, a postman with a large package. By that, I mean he was holding an item of some sort, wrapped in brown paper. This isn’t a porn script, probably because it features no sex. The postman smiled sadly, clearly going through the motions and not enjoying his job.

            “Morning sir,” he said. “Package for you.”

            I smiled politely, confirmed I lived in my house and signed for the package. And normally, that would have been the end of the affair. By that, of course, I mean event, rather than romantic affair. For you see, I have some standards,[1] and the man in front of me was rather hairy. In fact, it was because of this I asked the following:

            “You look familiar. Did you go to Dingwall Academy?”

            “No.” He replied.

            “Are you Bigfoot then?”

            He shook his head from side to side, then answered slowly, ashamed.

            “Yes.”

I smiled kindly and invited him in for tea. He was very polite, like that Tiger I had round for tea last week, but less homophobic, and he fell asleep very quickly when I drugged him. Confident the mythical beast was sound asleep, I shaved off his hair.

            I don’t like a hairy man.

---

[1] Not really.

Long time, no speak.

Sorry its been a while, I was kidnapped again. For weeks, I've been kept prisoner in a dark, squalid dungeon, allowed out only occasionally to judge village fêtes.

Day after day, I could hear them outside, assembling the latest fête, setting up stalls and tents, preparing cheeses for my pallet, arranging gladiola for me to consider.

 Then, they would drag me out of the dungeon kicking and screaming, and when I acquiesced to their demands, pile assorted crap before me for my judgement. Without care, I would hand out ribbons and trophies, awards and cash prizes, always under the title of the 'Mayor of Funville'. But I was no elected official, nor was I fun.

 After God knows how many fêtes, I resolved to escape or die. Half starved; they dragged me out of the dungeon to judge a display of dioramas. Small town squares, with churches and little, Victorian shops, that sort of thing. After seeing three or four, I was dragged, in my Mayoral garb and handcuffs, before a rather stunning display. Lifelike, scale replicas of a Church and row of shops shined out at me, above a complex reconstruction of the London Underground, a reproduction as stunning as it was out-of-place. 

 I turned to the creator, a boy of 9 or 10.

 "How... How did you create this, surface dweller?" I asked slowly, words inconsiderate strangers in my mouth.

 He looked at me coldly, the level stare of a serial killer, and replied in the silky voice of an angel:

 "Mice."

 I looked at the diorama again. In the forecourt, teams of mice in period clothing were going about their business like snouted midgets, selling tiny wax fruit and buying new suits.

  It was beautiful. For the first time since I had been captured, I cried. I dropped to my knees and sobbed, tears streaming through the filth on my face and spilling dirtily onto my Mayor's sash. 

 One of my captors stepped up to me in time, and dabbed my face dry. 

 "You want your freedom?"

 I nodded, tears still trickling downwards.

 "You may have it. Destroy this town, and it is yours."

 I shook my head.

 "No. I will not do as you ask. The mice are innocent."

 "They are not innocent. No-one is innocent. These mice are guilty of sins before God and their fellow man. Strike them down. Take this sickle."

 His hand extended towards me, offering a small frying-pan that was, amongst other things, not a sickle.

 "No! I cannot!" I said. Not least because my hands were still tied behind my back.

 "Then you are not fit to be the Mayor of Funville!" The man shrieked.

 I shrugged. "I never wanted to be Mayor." I said at length.

 "Really? Oh, cool. Right, on your way then." He said, untying my hands and stripping me of my mayor's gownage.

 I got to my feet slowly. The mice, having gathered to watch me decide their fate, applauded and cheered. One offered me a shoe, but I didn't take it because it wouldn't go with my dungeon rags and was very small. Flexing my arms, I stretched out and left.

 The mice watched me go. Then, after I was out of site, they turned on my captors and devoured them. Such are the wages of sin.

The Letters' page

This is not the letter I received.
Via Wikipedia

I haven't written in a while. I've actually started working on an elaborate lie to justify my asbcence, but first, I feel I must reply to one of the many items of fan mail I've received here in the DITWP mail box.
 The letter, authored by a man who may be familiar to readers of this blog, sexual deviants and fans of the handwritten everywhere, is as follows:

 Dear Paul,


 it has been some time since The last time I crafted you a lovely handwritten letter, so I Thought now would be as much of a good time as any.


 For the most part I have been avoiding your blog of mystery and confusion, since it provides me with mental problems whenever I do. However, it comes to my attention That you are growing a moustache for "Movember"


 This is an interesting feat! Here is a demonstrative image of what I would like to see.


 (As you can probably tell, I don't have a scanner. Anyway, imagine a hand-drawn picture of a moustache, a little thicker on the left than the right, curling at the end.)

 ... but preferably more even. This is of utmost importance to The success of your mission. I will accept no substitute ~

 I look forward to reading your response.


 Regards, Neil.


(Fans of this letter can see Neil's original contribution to this blog here)

Obviously, this letter comes from the past. That is to say, Neil gave it to me a while ago and I've been too busy to transcribe it. I grew a moustache. It was disappointing, and I shaved it off today, as it is no longer November. (You can see it here, and laugh at me, if you want. I think you can still sponsor me - the moustache fights cancer). So now, I shall craft Neil a letter as charming as it is flammable.