Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Well let's see how that's going

So a brief excerpt of the actual text of this shitboiler:

And above the rise of hills, dim in the fore-gloom of beckoning even-dusk-tide, there was the faint glower of the golden sun descending on the flanks of the Frostbourne mountains. The hooven clops of his trusty mare echoing on the dry track between the thrusting boulders of the Gar-Thung-Chump Pass was a comfort to Chim's tired ears. The clink clunk of his sword Mumpbiter was interleaving with the rustle of shrubberies either side.

Chim snapped his eyes to the side for one moment, thinking he had caught a glimpse of a rock nancy leaping from one boulder to another- it's fanged grin glinting in the gloom.

But no, perhaps it was a trick of the light demon, Spankitorch.

Well, it's clearly shaping up to be arse on many levels.

Continuation: meta-reflexive

Our hero spends a whole bunch of time with these various pursuits (before any real plot advance is made):

  • Fighting crap wizards, and winning because of untutored and uncontrollable magic that is latent in his (divine/demonic) nature
  • Fighting orcs or goblins
  • Getting covered in shit
  • Walking a lot
  • Coming across things that need about six paragraphs of cod-poetic description, involving elven ruins, mountains and/or mysterious shrubbery

A lot of bollocks really.

Something will get said or done that may or may not have a point that is revealed later on. Maybe someone whispers his real name as he pulls his sword out of them, but he can't hear it? Something like that.

Book two.

Monday, September 29, 2008

Gets burnt by first interlude with enemy

Big-faced guy with backwards eyes fronts Chim out with magic (mainly cheap tricks with ur-gunpowder, some misdirection and a lot of hand-gestures). Chim retreats in disarray, trips over his sword, is sick in his mouth a bit, as he stumbles backwards into a ditch full of shit.

He's lying there looking up at the stars (it's night and he see portents again) and he has a moment of insight.

This insight makes him reconsider his quest. He questions his quest, a bit. So he fucks off and does some side-quests (mostly involving mean hardship, behest by some wise old bloke in a dress up a hill).

Clearly these side-quests don't kill him and (bit of Nietzsche thrown in) therefore make him stronger (levels up his skill tree in, oh, I don't know, badger-baiting or something).

So we have a couple of mildly amusing, but eventually worthwhile, pursuits that make him better, more rounded (he's humiliated a couple of times, mainly because of hubris, or because he's not as good-looking as he thinks he is. Yes, that's it, he gets spurned by a sassy heroine who features later, and is therefore humiliated in turn in this misogynist shit-bucket of a story).

Sunday, September 28, 2008

Random battles later

In the forest, up a mountain, in a cave.

Chim has levelled up. He's now beginning to get a handle on his (demonic/divine) powers.

When he is attacked in a surprise from the sides - where he wasn't looking - he makes light, in a blinding flash, appear.

He doesn't know this at first (we have to wait until he befriends a weak crippled thief in the town beyond, before this is revealed) as his eyes were shut whilst he sneezed (you can't sneeze with your eyes open - see? More science). All he knows that one minute he is walking along, next minute he sees reeling blinded assailants dropping their knives; forest/mountain/cave bandits that were clearly intending to cut him quick. He kills them quick.

Fantasy plots part two

Young man comes of age, unaware that his father was a demi-god (or semi-demon).

So far he has (unconsciously) used his demonic (divine) powers to become a really good blacksmith, what with smiting iron in the furnace effectively and whatnot.

Clearly he's meant for greatness, and equally clearly his disciplinarian blacksmith (cuckolded) father (who loved him really) and wilting (real) mother (who was formerly a great and terrible witch, now hiding in the hinterland in domestic obscurity) are both murdered by assassins unknown in the dead night, eve of his majority.

The blame falls on him, although in later centuries it would be put down to carbon monoxide poisoning from the charcoal hearth they kept burning in their mean hovel (they died pink-skinned, and that is seen as witchery). When they died sleepily he was out of the village stockade for the night, looking at stars and seeing portents.

So he is unwelcome when he gets back in grey dawn: forewarned because the village idiot savant/mage throws shit at him as he tries to persuade the gateman to let him back in.

He retreats. Covered in shit.

He comes back around about teatime to find the village fucked, the wooden pike walls split and burning, everyone inside variously dead.

His parents are the only ones dead with no injuries: no blunt, or sharp, trauma. They are pink and peaceful. He sees this as evidence of mystery.

He finds the idiot/mage bleeding his last, curled up, hiding, in the communal midden. The idiot whispers something cryptic that gives him a quest, before dying with fingers and eyes crossed.

The blackmith's son heads out; the burning village, and stink of roast human, behind him.

His given name is "Chim". His real name will be revealed eventually: it is significant and will make you re-evaluate his back-story.

More later.

Wrong ring plot device

Should have chosen the right one. You had the chance. It was there, glowing silver. But you thought you knew better, thought it was a trick. So you chose the ring you thought was covered in rat shit.

You were wrong, it was rat shit shaped like a ring. There was no deception.

Maybe next time you'll be more trusting.

And so ends book one of the trilogy.


Oh, my, I was pissed off last night

Must have been the weather.

Brighter today though: the sun's out, the sky is cold blue and the wind is dead on the ground.

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Ok, now a solution

Throw out all the old shit

Clean up, clean out, garage sale of gathered crap

Clean slate, clean room, cleared out

Everything must go, including all your shit

Five year plan, with necessary purges

Fuck off to Siberia, stay there, write a book no-one will read

Then burn it

Ok, now a fucking rant

Seriously unimpressed with the way the world is now

Growing up in the desperate grey seventies it was my ardent wish that the future would be at least one lumen brighter. Places to go, people to meet, pellucid waters of some foreign clime enticing.

But no, if I am to believe the media, every border is either bursting with snarling fucks wanting to kill me, or economic (read, nearly dead through poverty) migrants wanting some of the tax and surveillance we have in our sparkling enlightened democracies.

And America became the land of fat dribbling morons and evil capitalist morons.

And Britain became the land of whiny liars and lying morons fucking everything up for the short-term lucre.

And the voluntary sector got filled with sanctimonious cunts.

And politics became an end in itself.

And most people are exactly shit and variously needy.

And nothing works just right, but there's always excuses.

Let's just admit it, things got too complex for our ape brains to handle. Things just got out of hand and we are fucking everything up with every breath.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

twitter fucked again. Now the fail whale has a password

And it is "needyFuckersComplainAboutFreeServiceDowntime"

Well, I thought it was ok

Clearly I am some kind of liberal commie bleeding heart.

So, to dispel that notion: fuck you conservative, I have enlisted the stasi, KGB, and a muslim fund of mentalists to camp under your bed, with cameras and guns and shit.

So any time you have unchristian urges they will kick your cock off.

And your paranoia will be vindicated.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Credit crunchies

The new breakfast cereal for merchant bankers (cockney definition is apposite now: masturbatory financial instruments turn out to be as useful as dildoes with trombone slides (stop trying to work out how that could work, pervert)).

Other financial instruments: french porn; guilts and bondages; wedge fundaments; private quitty.

Cheese beaks

Random I know, but that's ok.

This is not a metaphor

Time to realise that's not going away

Time to look into the water

Time to see the rusty shopping cart in the depth

With some little fish, gudgeons, sticklebacks and shrimps

With nettles up the banks

And brambles tangling broken bricks in the wall

Strings of barbed wire looped around the round-shouldered concrete

Cigarette butts and cans and crisp packets

This is not a metaphor

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Plan for unhappiness

Grow up in the nasty blank grey of seventies, sometimes made better by the long summer of seventy-six, when the lawn cracked open like an old man's face. Or when something or other happened that was not so shit (can't remember what that was).

In the arse-end of the seventies get the end of it.

Come of age in the early eighties when most was rain and concrete, cramped vistas of little enjoy. But sometimes better when a day got lit sometimes.

Watch another recession happen in the bitter years between.

Then summer comes in the nineties. And all is well (but still difficult) and you are happy with another, for a small moment.

Then the millennium happens and it dries up, and work is just worky work, and there's one minute to the next just being.

And then there's a flash of joy too small to recompense.

And that's it.

Good enough, wouldn't have it any other way, because of friends I've met and things I've undone.

So really, the plan for unhappiness didn't work.

Because it's ok sometimes.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Baldy banjo

banjo bastard

on being on your own

It's the little things you miss:

A smile when you get home

Sounds of someone upstairs

Kitchen clatter

Things done you forgot about

Having to put things away you took out

And fucking

Happy happy joy joy

Going to get my Touring 2000 back on the road!

that bastard

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

had enough

really quite fucked off with all of this continuing litany of shite

from fucked up post to another shite pillar

every time I try to be slightly better than a fairly crap person

well, then, I get called out for being crap

piss, maybe I should stab teddy bears, or fuck unicorns up the arse

can't get much more evil, apparently

poor me

fuck that

the unicorn liked it


Fuckety damn

That horse was brown, I tell you

Really, really shit day

Well, it made me hollow in every respect

There's no going back, wish there was

Perhaps things can only get better, or more tense

Fuck off, I'm dead

This has got to be the shittest day I've ever had

Career in the balance

Relationships likewise

And I'm short of breath, constantly

Fuckety damn

Still, in other news, I have a kitten

Monday, September 15, 2008

Made a bad mistake

I wrote an SMS text to a friend who was upset.

The text was supposed to be nice, sensitive and reassuring.

But I forgot that written words have no inflection, and if you're in a place where you're going to take something the wrong way, and there's little foundation in that few words, you can build anything on top.

Like imagined insensitivity, flippant disregard and disrespect.

So I don't have that friend anymore. Just because of the one word at the end: "bye".

Sunday, September 14, 2008

Saturday, September 13, 2008

No work, no word, no worse

When, in the little light that's left

You try to make out the figure in the doorway

And you can just about, almost, see that it's nearer you than it's ever been

Then you'll see clearer than you ever have

It's not a surprise; somehow it's ok

When it reaches for you

Sam in pictures

Sitting on his bed, still wearing his suit, the once locked box open on the beige carpet, the bullets like gold maggots around, and he pushes one after another into the revolver, and takes them out again.

He claps one metal chunk into another and the click home is satisfying.

He can hear his children arguing downstairs, over who gets the controllers for the xBox (he has two controllers and three children).

He hears his wife talking on her mobile to someone he doesn't know. Whoever it is is making her smile. He can hear her smiling, it's been so long now he can hear the smile.

So he puts the gun back in the box, gathers the bullets together and puts them away too.

He locks the box, puts the key in the crack in the skirting board where he always hides it. Puts the box in the back of the cupboard one more time.

Another day done, then.

today is my wedding anniversary

All good then.


Quiet desperation

A tutorial.

Sam has a gun, the gun speaks to him. It says things he doesn't want to hear.

He gets a sexual word every time he puts a bullet in a chamber. And he sees it as anticipating some fucking thing that he's going to do.

He wants to tear holes in people with the bullets from his gun.

He knows this is wrong and so he hides his gun in a locked box he keeps in a cupboard.

But every now and then he has to take it out, take the bullets out and put them in again.

You are probably thinking Sam is some hick in a trailer. He's not, he comes home from work in an S-class Merc, his wife is well turned out. He smiles at clients and only has a couple of drinks now and then.

He's not mad or poor, not fucked up in any particular way. He's just fairly fairly normal. And he grits his teeth when he thinks of this, and occasionally screams when he drives home.

His only problem is that he does not want to be embarrassed when he finally kicks off and kills his wife, his children, and everyone he can get a bead on before he eats his gun.

He doesn't want to shit himself when the police come. He doesn't want to kill anyone who is not random. He wants to be insane.

But he's too middle class and too considerate to make a mess when he starts shooting and tearing holes in people.

Dietary concerns

"Eat shit and die," is a good diet for some.

"Fuck off and die," is not a diet, but appropriate to the same people.

"Die horribly," is also not a diet, but as you will see, you would lose weight doing it.

Traffic statistics

A useful compendium of traffic analysis for the travelling public:

  • Cars: 75%
  • Lorries: 13%
  • Aquaplaning above sea level: moderate
  • Trees: within accepted limits
  • M5 M6 Interchange: between 5 and 7 until the end of the week
  • Central reservation: down trending
  • Grit and gravel: equal
  • Slip roads: 5.1 variance
  • Exhaust: 1

Friday, September 12, 2008

Fruitless pursuit

Chasing mandarins

Just deactivated facebook account

Which doesn't mean the shite I have posted there isn't still there.

Just got weary. Too much crap scrabble, too much chess, too much hanging on for messages that can't come. Oh well.

Twitter is better.

Fucked off facebook

Had enough

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

new politics

I agree with what everyone has said, except those I don’t agree with. They really need to get their facts straight. It’s not rocket science, what they are saying is obviously wrong. But the people who I agree with are right. However, one of the people who I don’t agree with made a good point somewhere, and I agree with that, but it doesn’t contradict my position that those who I agree with have won the argument.

well yes, of course

On being a twat

I'm good at it, that has to be established at the start.

Also, I have a lot of experience to draw on: many times in the past I've been a twat. Sometimes by making stupid mistakes; sometimes by being less than generous to people I should be happier with.

It's genetic too: I come from a long line of twats; tracing my lineage back directly to Twatbold the Bold, renowned twat from the middle ages (not between 35 and 55; no, within dark centuries of ignorance when being a twat was indistinguishable form being able to breathe).

I have no issue with being a twat - some of my best friends (whom I don't particularly like) are also twats.

So there you are, I have a good twattitude.

Tuesday, September 09, 2008

Loving my grandad, because he killed Nazis in the war

By all accounts, and mentioned in despatches, he killed a lot of the fuckers.

Just found this in my journal

From a couple of years back


In the 2147, before the holocaust, five thousand cybernetic warriors descended on Bethlehem, frost contrails bleeding silver from their leading edges, and nothing in between. Sparks of laser in the mist burning hot holes before their basilisk gaze.

They landed and they destroyed, casting about in the dark, severing men, women and children, cats and rats with their laser eyes.

But Herod, the orbiting AI, had miscalculated, the end-time was not on schedule, not about to happen, and he missed the messiah by a week, man-made comet messaged above the little town.

In a mechanic's hole, below the entrails of a 4x4 Subaru sports utility ATV, the baby god was born.

Attended by three euro-bureaucrats, three engineers and one confused father ("I haven't fscked her in a year"), the child was spewed out of the holy hole into the swarf and oil on the concrete floor (whilst all about was bright with exploding munitions).

Sunday, September 07, 2008

Balls, run out of cigarettes and beer

Therefore everything stops

Particularly this

That's good then

And we got to the Oort cloud

In our red rockets, and gas filled space suits

As we looked out of our round port-holes

We found the carcass of God

Rotting in the vacuum, strings of blood-red matter reeling out

And He was vast and shining once

But now He's just a traffic hazard in the interstellar routes

Where liners full of fat tourists stop off to see

Where the two miles wide godhead breathed and loved once

Now just a tangle of dead dark matter

Saturday, September 06, 2008

God dies crying

Thinking this is the end as He falls down through layers

Each one a different way of being that He no longer feels

A continuing anaesthetic descent into sleep

He hurts less as He dies, love goes away, and He stops seeing

Stops feeling everything and everyone, as He goes away

Miss you, wish you were here

Now you are going away

I made this

Somewhere there's a little death

And it has a tune. A little tune that has too much treble to be appropriate.

I'd like it to have deep, portentous bass; like some bleeding god in a pit shouting last words.

Instead I get a squirrel on a speed OD, running round its last circle, squeaking out its brittle disappointment that this, this whole bleeding out, this is the end.

Not even in focus, or well lit. Just a little death.

Fusel reappears

He comes up out of this dark hole, where the light switch had been turned off. Its plastic surround scuffed and marked with many fucking fingers crawling all over it, so that the bulb was lit from within, in the vacuum therein.

And then there was a howling dark that was full of shadows inside it, but somehow became bigger, kind of expanded, the blackness leaking out.

That's what I saw. That's what I will remember. And if it's a dream, well then, that's good enough. I'll take that to be real memory. At least he's not dead there.

Shit and fuck, can I not get out of these spider traps?

No, thought not. Ginger is still there.


Got enough to be going on with.

Need to reduce that.

Realising I'm a bad man

Because everyone tells me that.

I am a bad man because:

  • I don't return texts immediately, irrespective of the circumstances I'm in (you know, like separating my small boys from each other's whirling fists)
  • I have a "phone manner"
  • I reply to long rambling emails with one-liners
  • I think it is clearly ok to let my boys play on the Xbox, the Wii and the iMac until they get square-eyed and LCD irradiated
  • I am not interested in how shit your day was
  • I don't tell you how shit my day was, because I don't think you would be interested
  • I drink alcohol and smoke cigarettes
  • I don't give a flying shit about issues you have
  • I drink coffee with three sugars
  • I sing about killing people on youTube, and this is not taken as a joke
  • I have no time for religionists, and do not respect their lunacy
  • I am taller than you
  • You are unlikely to be taller than me, or better looking, as you are all ugly dwarves (and that's a joke too)
  • You don't get my sense of humour
  • You are a fat midget
  • You are self-important enough to think I'm talking about you in particular, whatever I say. Fuck off, I have other concerns, not involving your neediness
  • I have built a nukular backpack bomb for squirrels
  • I swear a lot
  • You're a twat

So there you are; clearly I am Doctor Bastardpants

Amateur psychiatrists will have a lawn day with that.

Thursday, September 04, 2008

Murrican politics as I have understooded it:

Monty Python's sister is McCain Ovenchip's Advice Presbytarian and there is a Lama Barracks for keeping yaks in.

I have read some Dikipedia, Lama Barracks is part of this Demosthenes Pasty. They don't like the Republians. And that's in Murrica.

Murrica has this three things: the Senapod, the Legible and the Conkers. All three fight a lot. The Republians are scared of the Lama.

And also in Murrica there is a Tony General and Subprime Court. They have the laws. But the Legible writes them down, if Conkers let them.

The Murricans are fighting in Winerack, and the Rushions are fighting too, but in Jawjaw. They have a Knitted Nations where they argue a lot.

In Britland we have the Conserves and the New Maybe party. We also have the Library Demonstraters: they are in the middle.

The Conserves and the New Maybe party don't like each other. Rabid Camera is head of the Conserves, vs. Corduroy Brown, king of the Maybe.

There is a river between Britland and Prance, where Nicholas Sarcastic is king, and his lovely queen Italian Lovely Lady. They are nice.

Tuesday, September 02, 2008

I keep on doing this

"Why?" I don't hear you ask.

"For shits and giggle," I reply, even though you didn't ask.

Monday, September 01, 2008

Would you like, in the rain

To go to Whitby with me?

And see the homes piled up around the deep cut where the sea comes in?

With the boats and the stone?

No, thought not.

Kill all birds

Because they have flu.

And you know how shit men are with flu.

Now think about men with wings and flu.

(or in planes, flying flu, whatever)

That is good enough reason to kill all those flying things,

Insects with wings too,

In fact, anything with a penchant for transcending the two dimensions we are nailed in.

I speak from the arse.

Good day

Things that were good happened.

Things that were bad, didn't.

That was ok.

OK, got a bit, you know, mad right there

So now I'll retract on that, into the trenches and redoubts I have built out of the mud here.

There's this big hill of shit that I have dug a hole in.

It's nice, I've hung lanterns from the eaves, and the ingle nook is lit with burning things heaped up in the middle of it.

There's butter brought in on special buses, and bread grown from genetically modified maize. On a plate, in front of me, with a knife and fork either side, and a tin cup of tea.

Outside, the wind is making noise and is making things swing, and other things stay still (heavy things, mainly).

And other than what closely follows...

I'm fine, thank you,

Everything is dandelions and wine.

Oh fuck off, fuck off, fuck off

All you dribbling windowlickers on the special bus,

All you nasty, nasty people, fuckers inveterate that you are,

No spine, no backbone; all variously remonstrating,

Against the shit hand you got dealt,

Fuck off, fuck off, stop whining,

Your high-pitched, high maintenance, dirge sets my teeth on edge,

Fuck off; no really: fuck off,

I don't want to hear your special pleading any more,

Leave me alone,

Shut up,

I have enough already.

Can't you see what you're doing?

I have stuff and thing to get on with myself,

And you're giving me an ice cream migraine right now,

Just behind the eye,

Fuck off.