Max is out of the closet.

Purely in a literal sense. His sexuality is not a matter I wish to consider. Anyhow, I've taken to asking him about his week. He keeps mumbling and shaking, huddling himself into a little ball in the corner. I gather that his time away on other blogs did not go well, and I blame Ben.
 "Why were you late back then?"
He looked at me, big puppydog eyes wide and big like the eyes of a puppydog:
 "Tried to leave. Had to run away, so I went to sea..."
He started to sob again.
 "What?... What happened?"
 "Came ashore, we all went to the pub. Drank a little to much, and passed out. I got press-ganged!"
 "What? Onto another ship?"
 "No!" He went on, "Into the fruit and veg trade!"
Max talked long into the night, his story punctuated only by sobs and explosive vomiting. I gathered, at last, that he had awoken to find himself chained to a stall in the East End of London. There, he was forced to fake an accent, and sell fruit and veg in the persona of a lovable cockney rogue. Understandably, the experience had been rather traumatic on poor Max.
 However, it isn't all bad. His experience seems to have gained him a new job, cameoing on Eastenders. I think he's going to play a carrot.

The picture of some darkness has little to do with this post.

"Darkness. Tight, small darkness. In it, and once the eye has adjusted, we can make out a figure. Crouched in the void, waiting. His name is Max. He has no surname. You don't if you're raised by wolves. You don't have a first name either, but that makes it hard to introduce yourself. So Max had crafted a name, using only the dirt and leaves, as nature intended names to be made. The void, all of time and space, all that can be, and will be, and was. All of it. And Max has journey through it, searching. Suddenly, a light. Probing. Scanning across his features like a demented cat. Erratic, jumping, scratching claws of light down his face. Nearby, in the tight confines of the endless void, as if outside, thuds. Footsteps on the endless face of God, resonating through the woody flesh, reaching out..."

I opened the wardrobe door. Max sat excitedly in the middle, a sheet shawled over his head and shoulders, a flashlight shone on his face. He was talking to himself again, muttering about time and space and other blogs. Still, I suppose it'll be good to have him back.

Actually, the novelty's worn off already. Would anyone like to buy him?

Counting down the days...

I took another sip from the drink. Blood didn't agree with me, but it had seemed rude to complain. The sad figure hunched opposite me tipped up his hipflask, more whisky flooded into his sanguine, and he drank.
 "And, boyo, you'd never catch me sparkling like that in the sunlight!"
 It had shocked me a little to find out The Count was secretly Welsh. I mean, his apparent alcoholism wasn't that surprising. The whole number thing had suggested an addictive personality to me anyway. But this was a new low. Why did he have to be like this every time he didn't get a part in a film?
 "3 movies now! 1! 2! 3! AH AH AH AH AH!"
I'd pointed out that I could count to 3 easily. At least 3 times. 1! 2! 3! But the evening had continued well into the night. My once well-stocked alcohol cabinet had not, however, lasted that long.
 "And water! I melt in water! Count that!"
I declined to count the world's water supply. It was a stupid idea. The Count, drunkenly, had began to stagger around my house, singing Land of My Fathers badly and poking my possessions in a misjudged attempt to count. This was ridiculous. At least this time, the count was clearly more suited for the role he'd missed out on - he'd visited a few years ago, complaining Christian Bale had stolen the role of Batman from him. I'd tried to explain that the role had not been available only to Welshmen. The Count, arguing it was, tried to claim argue Bale had dressed as a vampire to imitate him, and thus steal the role. I didn't even bother to argue with that point any more. But now, this was different. The count was ideal to be in the Twilight sage. His repeat visits to me had certainly proved he was annoying enough.
 In the distance, I could hear the count attempting to count the tiles in my kitchen. Breaking a chair-leg over my knee, I headed for the kitchen myself.
Good thing I stocked up on feather dusters recently...

The competition is over!

So, with great relief, I can stop reading the many hundreds of angry, sexual entries sent to me for this year's first and only Dog in the Water Pipe annual writing competition. With so many splendid entries, I find myself forced to award separate prizes in the fields of fiction and poetry.

1st place in the DogintheWaterPipe's Paul Blanchard isn't quite dead yet memorial poetry writing competition goes to : Lauren Salkin!

Max. Max. Max.
What are going to do about Max?
He's a flack and a hack and looks for trouble at the oops I lost it, drop of a hat.
So, WTF are you going to do about that?
Max. Max. Max.
He thinks he's cool, but he's just a tool.
He likes to spy, likes to hide and suddenly he's in your face like a scary ride.
Max, go home. Be alone.
From now on we just do business over the phone.
 
Thanks to Lauren for that poetic entry, reminding us all that the best thing to do is really to just avoid Max. Lauren, I'm working on drawing some sort of crude prize as we speak, so that should be with you soon! Everyone else, if you haven't already, should visit Lauren over at Think Spin!
 
1st place in the DogintheWaterpipe's annual fiction award open to anyone and it would be racist to suggest Ben won it just because he's from a several racial minorities  goes to: Ben Tyson! Ben wowed us with a sporting outing featuring a visit from our favourite fool:
 
Having foolishly agreed to look after Max while Paul was experimenting with Microsoft Paint, I decided to treat him by taking him to Wimbledon. Whilst there, Max was struck on the head by a flying bowl of strawberries and cream (don’t ask. It was a typically ridiculous occurrence, however, I can assure you). When he regained consciousness several minutes later he came to the conclusion that he was at wimbledon so, therefore, must be a tennis racquet. He then insisted that two very scared and confused twelve year-olds use him instead of their traditional metal and string jobs. Unfortunately, their nearby parents saw only a strange man asking their children if he could hit their balls. This, as you can perhaps imagine, did not go down well. I imagine the situation could have been rescued were it not for Max’s decision to wear assless chaps to ‘upset the traditional order of Wimbledon’. As it was I could only look on as the fathers grabbed him by his dog collar (again, I have no idea why he was wearing one) and proceeded to beat him up till they got bored and went home. Nearing dusk Max finally awoke from his second trip into unconsciousness. Before we left I popped to the toilet. Upon my return I could see a large hairy thing on the grass some way in the distance, but no sign of Max. Becoming worried that I would have to explain to poor Paul that his fictional creation had been eaten by a bear in South London, I decided to look closer at the hairy thing. It was Max. Picking up rubbish. In a womble suit. Growing tired of his antics I forced him into the car and went home. I felt womble was significantly better than tennis racquet so I didn’t bother taking him to hospital, but dropped him off at Paul’s house glad to be rid of the strange man. I never did get to see any of the tennis…

Ben's work can be viewed here. Ben, since I'm lazy and live with you, you're not getting a prize.

So thanks to everyone for entering, and please continue to do so. Even though the competition is closed, if you send anything in, I'll strip Ben of his prize and award it to you.

Just a reminder.... PRIZES! SURELY YOU WANT FUCKING PRIZES!

My exciting, superb, half-arsed competition closes tomorrow. Or was it today? Well, I'll give you until tomorrow anyway. So come on, write a story featuring Max - perhaps in surroundings unique to your blog, perhaps in a windmill, I don't care. If you enter, you're almost guaranteed to win, because I want Ben to be thoroughly beaten! So come on, win some glory, upset a 20 year-old!

Observations about gravel...

Gravel. It's not overly exciting, is it? I mean, it serves its purpose well enough - covering a drive or path, sprinkling on cereal or porridge for trolls, burying grandma alive in - but generally, you wouldn't consider gravel a hot topic of conversation. Not so at my home. "Come and visit us!" My parents encourage me. It is, after all, summer. And I was in between houses for a few days, so it made sense.
 "We're getting new gravel!" I'm told. Right, I think, good for you. And I expect this to be, largely, the end of the subject. Perhaps I will be occasionally reminded the gravel arrives on Friday, or asked if I'm still free to help spread it or so on. But that should be it.
No such luck. Gravel appears to be the happening thing. Yesterday, we prepared for the gravel's arrival. We cleared the drive of weeds and ridges where the old gravel had compacted, we swept away leaves and twigs, we set out balloons and hung streamers. My grandparents called. I heard dad on the phone to them, "Yes. 8 tonnes. Oh yes, about three-quarters of an inch. Yes, about an inch-and-a-half covering"
 The gravel arrived this morning, 9:30 sharp. We'd been out since 8, preparing for the arrival. My father talked to no less than TWO people about the gravel before 10. Admittedly, one was our neighbour who noticed our preparations, and the other was the man delivering the gravel. Then we spread the gravel. The gravel said nothing. It didn't even touch the jelly we prepared for it, just sat around expecting us to do all the work. I was not allowed to set fire to it.
 But, it's over now! No longer must I hear about the topic of gravel in great length! No more will I bore my girlfriend with technical details and specifications about gravel! No more must I blog about such subjects! I'm free!

I opened my eyes, and the world swayed as one.

Rocking, slowly, from side-to-side, I noted that my room shouldn't sway as such. It dawned on me, as it often does in such circumstances, that it was not the room swaying. It was I. It furthered dawned on me that, for once, I was not drunk. It similarly dawned on me that I was surveying my room from a high shelf. It dawned on me also that I shouldn't fit in this space, unless I had shrunk. The reason for my tiny swaying head also dawned on me. I was a bobblehead.
 Dark magics are at work here...

 Don't forget folks, still time to enter DogintheWaterPipe's Excellent Competition

Something about coffee. I was in a coffeeshop

And, to be honest, it seemed kind of boring. I hadn't seen Max for a few days, he'd said something about "wanting to see other blogs", whatever that meant. So I'd gone out for coffee. Don't get me wrong, of course, it was nice to get up in the morning and live without fear. For instance, I could shower without the fear of Max - desiring efficiency - having electrified the shower. I looked around the coffee shop, noticing for the first time the rows of fish tanks that filled the back wall. Finishing my coffee, I went for a closer look.
 The tanks, varying in size and shape, were all full of typical fish decorations, little divers and gold chests and castles and the like. Full of water, air filters filtered away, little pebbles covered the bottom. But no fish. That was the interesting thing. Intrigued by this obvious flaw in an otherwise flawless display of the life aquatic, I enquired about the fishlessness of the young coffee-server.
 Nearby, a newspaper obscured the features of an onlooker. As I enquired about fish, please imagine the camera panning to him. On the word, "fish" the newspaper is quickly pulled down so the onlistener can listen better (As it is commonly known that newspapers impair hearing).
 Unseen by me however, the mysterious stranger followed me out. Disappointed that no-one could tell me where the fish were, I planned to go home. I take fish based disappointments hard. At least, I thought I did. But, compared to some people, they bothered me no more than the genocide of strangers bothers people who can't see it.
 Following me into a nearby alley, the stranger quickly covered the distance between us.
 "So," He called out, "Coming into the cafe like you're the big fish around here, aren't we?"
 I paused. I wasn't sure if that was a rhetorical question or not. I wasn't even sure what he meant.
 "Wanting to make a big splash, weren't we?" He enquired further.
 Clearly, he wanted an answer. Furthermore, I assumed he was one of those people who used "we" as an impersonal pronoun when addressing someone else. Or maybe not, I'm not entirely sure I remember what a personal pronoun is properly. But you get the idea. He certainly didn't mean "we" in the sense I would use it anyway. I certainly had no intention of going 'round, making splashes with this man.
 He had picked me up now, gripping my collar with two Popeye-sized fists and holding me to the wall.
 I decided to reply. Cliches seemed appropriate:
 "I have no idea what you're talking about!" I replied. Well, kinda squealed. In a manly way, of course.
 "Really? So I suppose we just 'happened' to wonder where the fish were, while we were enjoying our morning coffee. Perhaps we have nothing to do the biggest fish kidnap this century!"
 He looked rather smug now, as if he'd made and proved a point at me. Well, maybe he had. I still didn't really know what was happening. I struggled on, speaking as articulately as possible, in the form of cliched, made-for-TV dialogues:
 "So, you're saying someone kidnapped the fish. I'm innocent. Innocent, I tells you!"
 "Hmm, maybe so. We don't look like the fish-kidnapping sort, do we? We look more like a wet fish!"
His use of 'we' was getting annoying now, as was his use of fish-related phrases. But he was a big guy, so I tried to keep him calm.
 "Who are you anyway?" I asked.
 "Isn't it obvious?" He replied. "I'm the marine biologist."
I paused, taking a look at the bulging muscles on the man, the crew-cut, the tank-top.
 "When you say 'marine biologist'?..." I hesitantly asked.
 "Well..." He replied. "I'm a biologist. I'm also in the marines."
Yes. It was pretty obvious now he pointed it out. Of course, I could have taken him down there and then. You know, if he fell and concussed himself, I could have taken him no problem. Instead, I decided to spare him and play along. He sent me home. He told me he'd be in touch soon. Someone had to deliver the ransom, then he'd get the puffer fish, he said. I think 'puffer fish' was an insulting term for the kidnappers, but I don't really know. I went home.
 I miss Max.

A COMPETITION!!! Because I was bored...

Yes, that's right folks: it's the first annual (maybe) Dog in the Water Pipe competition! Gather round, one and all, gather round!
 The rules are simple: I want you to write me a story featuring our dear friend Max. Hell, it doesn't need to be a story even - draw a picture, write a poem, make a short film demonstrating his quirkiness through expressive dance! Whatever... Then, after you've composed this masterpiece, post it on your blog! (Or tattoo it on a cow, I don't care) Explain what it's all about, and leave me a comment linking to said piece of artwork!
 So, Max can be doing whatever you want - maybe you've got a fictional character on your blog you want him to interact with, or an account of a holiday with your friends and family you want him to ruin. Hell, maybe you take pictures of bridges, and just want to crudely photoshop a stick-figure into one. Whatever, as long as you remember to make Max stick to his rigidly defined character! The best piece(s), as judged by me (and Max, of course) shall be declared THE WINNER!

Prizes: Apart from the FAME and GLORY you will surely gain, you will receive a handsome mention from me! And, a computer-drawn piece of artwork created specially to commemorate the occasion! It will, of course, be crap. But that isn't the point. There may even be runner-up prizes.
The Closing Date is a week tomorrow, the 10th of July!

So come on, enter now! Maybe you've ALREADY WON! (No, you haven't. Not yet...)

Disclaimer: This is not a real competition. I mean, I intent to do all the crap I mentioned above, but if I don't, you can't sue me. Your work remains your own property, and any subsequent republication will only be done with your permission. You know, in case I write about this day so our children may know of the glory we shared on the field of literature.

The fog machine had gone, so had the whore. It seemed logical to assume one had stolen the other, so I assumed that was what had happened. Max, tired of his role-playing, had resorted to a superficially-similar subject; that of board games. Right now, he was in the basement, modifying his set of Monopoly. I still don't know why he always uses my house for his stupid antics, he's got a perfectly adequate house of his own, even if it lacks in walls and ceilings. But whatever...

 I settled back into my comfortable armchair. Ah, this was relaxing. Max hadn't disturbed me for a while, and I looked like I could drink some tea in peace and watch the news. For dramatic effect, I took a large mouthful of the aforementioned tea. Then, cheeks bulging, I paused as a thought occurred to me. "Modifying the Monopoly" he'd said. And he'd taken a lot of wires and crocodile clips. But no, that wasn't what was worrying me entirely, and the tea just dribbled inefficiently down my chin. Shrugging, I sank back into the chair and once again hamstered my mouth with boiling water. Then, it hit me. Tea sprayed from my mouth, covering the television, embracing and drowning pictures on the wall, dripping like the blood from a cosh, recently used to knock out an elderly man. Dripping like the blood from a cosh recently used to knock out an elderly man like the one Max had dragged into the basement.
 Rushing downstairs, I found a scene of unexplainable horror. Indeed, if I were to explain it, I would say Max had gone back to role-playing. But he was playing the role of GOD! Strapped to a chair in the middle of my basement, the elderly man. A pale moustache the only substantial hair on his head, he struggled to keep his head up and his consciousness conscious. "Urrgh!" He moaned crucially at me. Nearby, Max. Hunched manically over a sewing machine, he created. A suit. Trousers. Nearby, a top hat stood to attention, waiting for the right time. Nearby slightly less near, a dazed dog, a boat, a double-decker bus.
 Waiting, frozen, I saw Max make Mr. Monopoly in front of me. Taking his semi-macabre figures, he wandered over to a giant Monopoly board set up in the corner of my basement. Laughing an insane laugh, he produced giant dice.
 "Want to go first?"