It is Wednesday night.

Sure, Wednesday isn't exactly your big night for socialising. It hasn't the pretension of Saturday or the sheer end-of-week joy of Friday, but its a good night. So, taking into account that I'm young and handsome. Well young and relatively unscarred, with a selection of waistcoats, how am I going about painting the town red?  It's pretty obvious how. I'm in my pyjamas, drinking blueberry vodka and lemonade and doing a crossword. A crossword, alone and drunk. And I'm not doing well. The crossword is alone, papery and defenceless against my drunken advances. I have a small pencil flopping around in my hand, and the internet to help me pin the crossword in place and... Wait, I don't like the direction this metaphor is taking..
 Well, the point is I'm a smart guy and I'm cheating, and I can't finish the crossword. I'd say it's frustrating, but that opens the doors for another unpleasant metaphor.


I used to be someone. Not 'someone', in an important sense - I was never the mayor or a timelord or anything like that - but I used to be a person. Now I'm just a gelatinous blob, devoid of form or bones, a giant pink sticky ball that keeps sticking to things and smudging the print on my newspaper.I had such dreams, and now I just lie around worrying, knowing the next time I have a shower I could disintegrate and wash away, the next time I stand next to an industrial fan I could be sucked up and sprayed across a wide area like pink jelly thrown inaccurately at a cat. My hands, although much better at cleaning surfaces of dust and surface debris are formless and without worth. My opposable thumbs, so long the topic of idle boasting at the zoo, are slimy and ungripping, no longer worthy of the jealous stares of chimps and gazelle.


Hear my lessons and learn well from them children, for I was once like you - vain and arrogant, with firm bones and a solid if comfortably proddable body. I have been cursed for my hubris, regressed like the primordial slime from which we once emerged. No more shall I know what it feels like to gently caress a pakora or stand on a grating without oozing through it and entering the drains.

Go quick from this place children! I already feel my form hardening, my jelly-like mandibles freezing like cement. Let us depart, and may my draining life-force be used to fill in a pothole while I still have some worth.

Religion.

There was a small, balding man on my doorstep. For once, this isn't a doorbell story, because the man was just standing there when I opened the door. To be fair to him though, his arm was extended, his finger pointed and ready to caress the buzzer afixed to my wall. I had merely stumbled upon him, hoping as I was to slip out in the early morning dew and dispose of a body.

 Not, I should point out at this juncture, a human body. Just a Rhesus monkey. I strangle Rhesus monkeys sometimes, but I'm planning on giving up after Easter. Anyway, dressing gown barely covering my dignity, dead monkey wrapping in newspaper in hand, I met this strange little man on my doorstep. I recognised him; his name was Brian or Barry or something like that, and he worked in a corner shop a few streets away where I sometimes bought glue. He had a nervous looking face, and little round glasses.

 "Oh, hello" He mumbled, the initial shock of our meeting having passed.

 "Good morning!" I replied unnecessarily loudly. "Can I render unto you assistance?"

 "Well, I was just wondering if you might want to have a look at these fliers?"

 Nervously, he presented me with some fliers. On them, I noticed a large cross, and assuming them to be religious, smiled politely and took them. With any luck I could avoid a theological debate, I hoped feverishly.

 But I was wrong, and BarryBrian continued to stand, hoping from foot to foot with a look of expectant optimism on his face. I smiled politely again and looked at the fliers. The first thing I noticed was the crucifix. Secondly, I noted it was upsides-down. Underneath was the message, "Hello! My name is Barry, and I'm the Anti-Christ".

 "So Barry, you're the anti-Christ then?"

 "Oh yes!" Barry replied, "That's me!"

 I waited patiently, expecting him to capitalise on this opening and tell me more.

 "So. I'll bet that keeps you busy, doesn't it?" I asked, my face a mask of pained enthusiasm.

 "Oh, you'd think." Barry replied, "But actually, I've not got a lot to do really."

 "Right." I replied.

 A bird began to sing in the distance, and a chill breeze passed us by.

 "I'll just be off then." Barry said.

 "Great stuff." I yelled, my mouth contorted into a grin of unbearable enthusiasm. "Right so, have a good day."

 Barry smiled politely and turned to leave. I watched him as he walked down my path, crossed the road and approached the house of old Mrs. Aaronovich, who probably wouldn't put up with any Anti-Christ nonsense.

 I began to scan the leaflet unenthusiastically. Really, there was very little to it. ("Hello" I heard in the distance."I'm the Anti-Christ.") Largely, it contained poorly-Xeroxed exerts from negative reviews of the local Church's performance of Jesus Christ Superstar. (Across the road, the voice of Mrs. Aaronovich cried out in protest that she didn't believe in Jesus, let alone anything else.) Underneath the almost unreadable reviews there was a crudely-drawn picture of what I assumed to be Jesus, underneath which was the message, "You suck!". I retired into the house, dumping both the Rhesus monkey corpse and the leaflet in the corner.

 I very much doubt Barry, a 45 year old man with thick little glasses and a cardigan, was the Anti-Christ, but to be sure I'll sneak into his house later and shave him of what little hair he has left, just in case. Then we'll see who has numbers on their head.

Once upon a time in the Kitchen.

One of them Fridges what I've been talking about. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A gentle breeze wafted through the kitchen from the open window, a soft caress of air fondling itself across my chest. The sun was shining happily and I was did likewise, emitting a piercing heat that destroyed anything in a nearby radius. Well, that part was a lie. I was actually washing the dishes, my mind wandering and skipping through happy fields of thought as I scrubbed and scoured. My idyllic sluicing was disturbed, however, when a voice called out from behind me.

 "Hey, hey you!" It shouted in the manner of one recognising an old friend.

 I turned, happily, and gazed at my fridge.

 "Fridge!" I exclaimed, "You've taught yourself to talk!"

 "Yup." Fridge replied, "Sent off for some books and stuff, picked it up over the weekend."

 "That's great news." I said, "So, what's up anyway? Bet you've got lots of things to tell me."

 "Nope." Fridge replied. "Just been sitting here, waiting for you to open me up and stick your hand inside."

 I nodded. Now, as the situation dawned on me, I had absolutely no idea why I'd been so happy my fridge could talk. Even in the best-case scenario, there was some lettuce in the vegetable crisper that was probably a  little too crisp to say the least, and a lot of almost-empty jars of jam scattered around the innards of my now vocal refrigerator. But now, of course, the fridge had manifested itself as some sort of sexual deviant. I mean, this is probably more of a reflection on me, and I'm sure it wouldn't take much of a psychologist to read something in my homoerotic overtones. But anyway, let's return to the real problem here, talking fridges.

 "Oh, right. Well, that's... That's great fridge."I lied.

 "Yup." Replied Fridge, "You're running low on Tomato Ketchup by the way. Might want to stock up before your fancy dinner party."

 Damn, I thought, he was right. I was having a fancy dinner party this weekend, and I would need a lot of cheap, store-brand ketchups to feed my guests. I was pondering this thought, and wondering if I could just keep everything in the cupboard from now on (I'd cut out its tongue months ago), when another voice interrupted.

 "Oi! What's all this then?" The new, icy voice called out.

 "Well, well, well, look who turned up!" Shouted Fridge, "Finally got your act together, did you, you bastard!"

 I watched in horror as my Fridge-Freezer began to argue with itself, both components vying for superiority. Slowly, I began to edge across the room, hoping to reach the plug for my nightmarish white goods were happily plugged in. Suddenly, as I reached out my arm, they realised what was happening. Cries of indignation rang out, and a half-eaten tin of chopped tomatoes and a small pile of ice-cubes were launched in my direction. Shielding myself, I fled the room to jeers and taunts, which only ceased 5 minutes later when I cut the power to my house.

 Sadly, I unplugged the Fridge-Freezer and reconnected the electricity to the rest of my home. Dragging the verbal behemoth outside and into the boot of my car, I reflected sadly on how this seemed to happen every few months. Shaking my head sadly, I began to forge a suicide note in my best fridge handwriting. Tomorrow, I would put the Fridge-Freezer in the driving seat and push the car down off a cliff. I was beginning to wonder if the police would ever find out. Probably not, I'd tell them my car had been stolen along with my Fridge-Freezer. In a few days, they'd turn up and I'd show them the suicide note I 'discovered' recently, and they'd believe me, and that would be the end of that.

 Slowly, I returned to the house, checking no-one was watching. I'd ditch the car later, when it was dark, and then in a few days I'd file a new claim with the Insurance people. And no-one would ever be the wiser...

A Heartless wizard of Oz parody (Because no-one's ever done one of those before)

He's all like, "Arrgh! I haven't got
a heart!" Image via wikipedia

 The hospital was bleak, dull and ironically lifeless. An attempt at Christmas cheer had been made, garlands in brightly-coloured bunches hung from the walls, moulded plastic decorations grinned at us from walls of grey breezeblock. With Christmas long over, it would have been appropriate to take the decorations down, but no-one had done so. A thick coating of dust had settled on the icy iconography, a testament to the cleaning staff of the hospital. The decorations themselves, dust aside, were disturbing on their own merits, and regrettably, I locked eyes with them.
 I looked into the cold, dead eyes of a Snowman, looking back at me with the emotionless grin of a psychopath from beneath a warn top-hat. Stick-arms gripped a broom, his twigs curling around the handle in what I took to be a dark parody of hands. His coal eyes fixed on me, following me around the room, burning with a hatred I found frankly surprising. I wasn't even sure why a snowman needed a brush. He couldn't move, for one thing, and what was there to sweep away in winter but snow? His body was made of snow. It would be like us sweeping human flesh from our driveways, making small mounds of the stuff and laughing happily as our children threw it at each other, if snowmen were allowed to sweep up snow. Probably.

 With time, my gaze rolled away from the snowman, returning at last to the only occupied bed in the ward, in which my friend slept. His face to one side, his hands put together as for prayer under his head, he looked peaceful for a moment. Better to sleep, I supposed, than sit here cold and alone, and contemplate Christmas decorations.

 Dully, a CD looped behind us. Christmas songs are one thing, acceptable in their place and so on. But the CD was stuck on Wham!'s Last Christmas, repeating over and over again. And besides the insanity-enduing monotony of the whole thing, the song wasn't entirely appropriate. As I mulled this over, the sleeping figure stirred. Seeking to spare him the musical hell, I leapt to the CD player, and tempestuously switched it to radio.

 "What's happening?"

 I looked to the bed, "Nothing Nick," I replied. "Go back to sleep."

 "No, why're you jumping around? Are there flying monkeys?"

 "No, don't worry." I replied, patting my friend's outstretched arm. A hollow echo reverberated throughout his tin limb, "I was just fiddling with the radio, that's all."

 "Oh, right. Any news on a donor?"

 I shook my head sadly. Despite the assurances given to my manly tin friend, it turned out in the long run one cannot live without a heart. I mean, he didn't need it for any emotional reasons because that's not how biology works, (Yes, I'm objecting to the idea of emotions coming from the heart, but not the idea people can have their bodies replaced with tin and keep on living) and he didn't need a heart to pump blood or anything. Regardless, he needed a new heart for some reason I didn't understand. I'm not a tin man doctor, leave me alone.

 We sat in silence. Truth be known, I didn't really know the tin man very well. I'd met him a few years ago at a counselling session for the survivors of flying monkey attacks, and when I heard about his medical troubles, I'd come to visit out of sympathy. However, he didn't have many friends in the area, so I'd continued to visit regularly, a grim experience which out-of-season decoration did little to improve. (I met a tin man once before. Clearly, it was a different guy. If you wanted a consistent narrative, you've come to the wrong place)

 Behind me, the radio blared on. My mind drifted, then centred on the lyrics. Tina Turner's, What's Love Got to do with it?, just arriving at the chorus. My mind focused, and my eyes widened.

What's love got to do, got to do with it? Asked the lyrics.

"So, Nick, want to get out of here?"

What's love but a second hand emotion


"I'm in a hospital." He replied. "I haven't got a heart. Where would we go?"

What's love got to do, got to do with it

Too late, I thought to myself. Desperately, I tried to think of something to say, hoping to drown out the next line. But it was too late.

Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?


I panicked. Nick Chopper, his mind elsewhere, didn't even hear the line I was so worried about, but I didn't realise that at the time. Instead, I threw out the first thing that came to mind.

"Why do you rust? You're made of tin! What's wrong with you?"

 The tin man cried. Small, oily tears streamed from his eyes and streaked his face, staining his exterior and dripping onto the bed linen. This continued for a few minutes, an unremitting sadness carried out under the watchful eyes of a stern Santa head you wouldn't let near your children. Time passed, and so did the tears. The tin man addressed me thusly:



  "Why are you my only visitor anyway? What happened to all my other friends, and where are my Winkies?"

 But his question remained unanswered. Visiting time was over, and I was too busy laughing at the word "Winkies" to offer any reply.

The time I met Hitler's cat

There came, with eminent foreboding, a knock upon my door. Nothing new there then.

 Upon opening that dreaded portal, I fount 'twixt my door-frame a small cat. I could tell he was down on his luck, because his suit was rather worn and tattered. It was an unusual suit, resembling the kind of thing you might see on an 80s business man. A grey jacket adorned his shoulders, a white collar on a blue striped shirt affixed with a yellow tie. As he bowed down and his arms parted back and pulled, I even made out braces. Red, burgundy perhaps. But his suit was worn, torn and unloved. And, suit or not, he was a talking cat; that's always worth a laugh or two.

 I smiled politely at him. A cold light shined on us from the sun. Probably a little bright, if I'm totally honest. He spoke:

 "Hello. May I come in and have some tuna? Perhaps a little warm milk, or even some clean water?"

 "Well," I said, "I don't know. Have you had all your jabs?"

 "Please sir. I used to be Hitler's cat, you know."

 He left that piece of trivium hovering in the air between us, shimmering in the early sun. I looked down at the cat.

 "Oh" I said at length. "I didn't know Hitler had a cat."

 "Well no." He replied. "I try to keep quiet about it. I am ashamed."

 I nodded wisely.

 "What's your name?"

 "Mr. Socks." He replied abashed.

 I let him in, and he ate some tuna. After 2 hours, he had even taught me how to use a tin opener. Then he left.

 Later, I discovered him to be nothing more than an illusion, a fiction I had dreamed in the midday sun as its gentle rays caressed my face and affected my brain. Cats don't live to 70 years old, and Hitler didn't have a cat. But if he had done, imagine what new light Mr. Socks could have thrown on the Third Reich.

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...