Stop Playing That Song

Your pepper is salty, you don't know how to live, YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO LIVE! With mystics of eastern premises and lights that do not turn themselves out when they are asked. I can't see your face. The light did turn itself off. And all the television set and the radios can do is play that same song over and over, as if it is the best song in history. C'est mangible derritand et le bastieu sans delice.

The dirigible is sounding wonderful, you know. Normal service is resumed! After all this time. And why is Myleene Klass spurting on about music and intelligence when she knows little about either?

Coldness in such close weather. Isn't it close! YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO LIVE!

Every tree will be burnt to the ground, every bird will make no sound, every ocean poured from above, before the people have taken enough.

Wheelly Good?

Feral Animals - Terrible Entities

As I was walking among the trees and leaves of the woods a squirrel brought to me the incredible thought that testing fate brings its own rewards in the long run. That he himself had successfully tested fate and had got a lovely nut with which to engage in the curiosity of burying a prize long sought. He had tested fate and won.

BUT YOU CANNOT TEST FATE, YOU MUST NOT TEST FATE

As our Saviour taught us, so we pray

Borja was a horse, and unlike other horses, he was aware of the fact. This didn't mean he didn't like donkeys, or oxen, or even the baby Jesus, he played with them all in the accepted manner. But he was a horse, and there ain't nuttin gon' change him! Except a far away party with a spanner.

He read his invite and set off. On the way he saw the March Hare from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and asked him for the time. Unfortunately the March Hare is quite old now and thought he'd been asked for a piece of pine, and thus sent him in the direction of a forest. The forest in question was just outside of Ormskirk in Chester.

In went Borja, and saw the spanner sat on an over sized mushroom.

"You tool," said Borja.

"You mule," said the spanner

"I'm not a mule," replied Borja

"Oh," said the spanner.

Oh indeed. The spanner was lost but couldn't ask Borja for help, as spanners lack the phonetic sound P, so if he asked for it, he'd only get hell, which wasn't really any good to him, being a spanner.

So Borja cantered off in the direction of the spanner's party, without the spanner. Upon arrival it became clear that Borja should have brought a bottle, and he got very concerned. So he spoke to a Priest who was nearby, and he became a Catholic instead of a Horse.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.

The Boy does NOTHING

There was a man that thought he was missing out on everything, and because of this he collected everything to compensate. He was like a rag and bone man, but not as loud. He hated the idea of not having the full set of stuff, like every book in the series, every issue of a magazine, every shelf in a book case, that kind of thing.

He had a bath one day. But the next it was taken away from him. He took off his bra and let everything loose. He went to Martineau Place in Birmingham, ate a Bacon Double Cheese Burger meal with Coca Cola (C O L A cola) as the beverage from Burger King (refusing to eat in the cafe called EAT on principle of his rejection of such minimalistic modern nonsense in the naming of things) and then let forth with his tirade of bitterness, hatred and general animosity. He was quite hurtful about it too, telling one person they had big ears and another that they smelt. Of what this person smelt he never did say.

He got killed, viciously and savagely murdered by a dress-by-numbers indie kid that though he was in a riot, when he was actually in a pair of Dunlop squash trainers that his mum had just washed.

When he woke up from being killed, he was in a place with a lady that looked like th inside of a Dyson. She was Dusty.

"Hey Dusty," he said, discovering for the first time his Canadian accent. "How's it going?" he added in a Welsh way.

"Alright," said Dusty, like Catherine Tate. "You're dead mate."

"Yeah I know", he replied, in the manner of that fat bloke from Little Britain.

Then Dusty bit herself, and all that was left was a school blackboard, covered in red chalk, except for the area around where two beautifully formed bath taps were leaking water, smudging the chalk into an ellipse surrounding their base.

"Bath is in Gloucestershire, isn't it?" said the man.

The Muffin Man is seated at the table in the laboratory of the Utility Muffin Research Kitchen. Reaching for an oversized chrome spoon, he gathers an intimate quantity of dried muffin remnants and, brushing his scapular aside, procceds to dump these inside of his shirt...
He turns to us and speaks:

"Some people... some people like cupcakes exclusively, while myself, I say, there is naught, nor ought there be, nothing so exalted on the face of God's grey Earth as that prince of foods... the muffin."

The Bourne Ridicule

A storyboard idea for a new Jason Bourne film, to be released as soon as you can get a cameraman ready, can you do that for me? Ta.

Well I thought I'd add a twist to the usual format of this series, and actually feature a plot. The plot, though highly developed and complex in comparison to the normal plots in these films, goes like this: Jason Bourne buys a cat. This cat tries to kill him, because the US government chipped him, in order to prove that the whole US government isn't eluded by one man who can't remember anything. Bourne kills the cat.

Next, he bumps into a seemingly nice man by the name of Roger, who is actually sent (and chipped) by the US government with the same intention as the cat. Bourne fights him in handcuffs and ensnared at the ankle region by a barbed wire rabbit trap, and ends up killing him with his teeth.

Then, he gets in a car and shouts at a passing car, something like "Hey you, punk ass bitch". The driver of this car takes the hump and chases Bourne, having been primed (and chipped) by the US government to kill Bourne at whatever costs. Bourne manages to kill him, his wife, 4 children and their pet lizard with one perfectly timed crash into a canister of gas.

Bourne is injured by this, but he still manages to muster enough strength to fight off and indeed kill 63 American agents who are after him, and give the kiss of life to the wife of the car driver, with whom he starts a whirlwind romance for the last 10 minutes of the film.

I would like to shoot this in the French style of Merde and show it to people for free so they don't waste their money on total and absolute toss.

Fantasia on Reflected Treegos

Once a tree that came to life,
went walking along the beach.
He hopped quite slowly just to see
What distance he could reach.

Now part along the front he found,
singing loud with glee,
A quite remarkable Looking-Glass,
Being sat on by a flea.

The Looking-Glass sang on and on,
While the flea just sat and sat.
Quite why it brought this hilarity,
Was only explained by a cat.

The Cat was sat nearby on a rock
And looked to be weary and frail.
The tree asked what on earth this was,
But the cat let out a wail.

"The Flea, you see, was sat on me,
and he gave me quite an itch.
Because my fur is quite a pain,
It really is a bitch.

But Mirrors have no fur, you see,
For the flea to irritate,
So it tickles them unto hilarity,
And generally feels quite great."

The Tree was scared by fleas and cats,
For both sit on its arms.
But the Looking-Glass was quite a gent,
He fell for his charms.

Three weeks on at beach's end,
The Glass and the Tree did wed.
But of the flea and that day before,
Nothing was ever said

Until now!

Are you over your rainbow?

There was once a fat mouse called Rooney, and he had a wife called Colleen Nolan. She was sitting on the bank doing something really interesting, like reading a book or writing a letter. Rooney wasn't, he was just standing still anticipating the end of the next minute. When that end came, he quickly swivelled and gathered himself to focus on the minute now in existence. He wasn't happy, but Colleen Nolan was and that's what mattered to him.
Then a Jack-in-the-box walked past, with his legs sticking out of the bottom of the box which made up his middle. "I'm going to Gloucester!" he said to Rooney, who just mumbled back something about Roald Dahl's sugar jar.
"Pardon me young mouse?" said the Jack-in-the-box quite politely and full of courtesy.
Rooney reacted hereby. "I hereby react! Are you going to the Doctor's in Gloucester?"
"No," said J-in-the-B, and he almost wasn't lying. He was in fact going to see his long-term partner and co-habiter, who had the name Helen, who he affectionately named "lurrrrrrrve Doctor when he wanted her to get the groceries. "I am in fact going to see my long-term partner, and co-habiter, named Helen."
Rooney thought that was ok, that there were no warnings required, and as he had lost track off all the arrivals and departures of minutes that had been going on, he really rather wanted to get shot of this strange and curious thing.
"Ok, J-in-the-B," said Rooney. "Right you are."

The next day Colleen Nolan read in her book and wrote in her letter that J-in-the-B had gone missing. He'd fallen into a puddle, and his Munge had been a fuddled. But nobody knew what happened hereafter.

And this explains why this blog has the address of Early White Rabbit

Giving solace to the one that'll never see the sunshine

I am a tart, a BIG tart.

I like William Blake

I like William Blake

Each Man is in his Spectre's power

Until the arrival of that hour

When his Humanity awake

And cast his Spectre into the Lake

A robin red breast in a cage
keeps all heaven in a rage

Use Et My Sole A Light

An Atom is the basic unit of ordinary matter, and for you today, we have one here called Matt.
"Hello!!" says Matt. Matt is very old. But, he is also on the run. Yes children, Matt is hiding from somebody! Because, he holds a secret, or more accurately, the key to some knowledge that some people want. He has taken a day out from his journey through space and time to be in this story, today. Matt was born on the 4th of January, 13.73 ± 0.12 billion years ago. Yes that's right, he is older than Maggie Thatcher. Over to you, Matt, to tell your story!

"Hello!!! I am an atom, and I am attracted to you. No! I'm not trying to chat you up, I am an atom for Pete's sake. I am a naked singularity, now now don't get excited, that just means I managed to get away to be on my own without any blackholes or stuff. These things you should know, to understand my story.
"I got expelled from Atom school, just before all the hot shit kicked off. When everything exploded, everybody else forgot all about me, and went off all over the place at ever increasing speeds creating planets and stars and stuff. The only one that bothered with me was John, John Field. But that was only because he was omnipresent throughout space and time, so it was hard to get away from him really. I watched loads of atoms I knew before going over their Chandrasekhar Limit, and even hovered around the Event Horizon, in case I could save them and they'd like me again. But sadly, though I have trod many different Geodesics, everybody has either been sucked into a supermassive blackhole, or are stuck together with loads of other people that forgot me by something called Gravity, or suchlike.
"I am an anomaly, because I travel alone. Nobody knows about me, though some suspect me. Some bastards called CERN have been chasing me, indirectly, for years. Back before civilisation began, some weird things calling themselves "men" tried to invent an ideology of me, made me into some super powerful omniscient thing. But they were idiots.
"In the year 4,064,394,635,886 AD, I have seen that Robert Winkleman will find me by reading Nostradamus backwards in Spanish. Until then, I have to go, I have to catch the 16:05 Electromagnetic Field Transport Service to see Mr Doppler, who's red. If that bloody Neutrino would move his fat nucleus out the way. Salut!"

Here ends today's assembly, I hope you got all that children. Have a nice day.

Astral Conversions between Metric and Rhetoric with Patrick Moore

There was an Alien called Derek who sought a storyline.
He couldn't find one.
His friend was out laughing at earth, and found an apple corer.
"Derek! A corer!" the friend said.
The Robert Maxwell ate a chicken and mushroom pie, with a cereal in his garden growing like a bus in London goes around the streets. Street is a town near The Clarke's Village, where they sell cheap shoes and other assorted toss. I got a free extra ice cream cone there once, cos the girl making the ice cream broke the one the ice cream was in.
Well anyway, Rimsky Korsakov opened a cafe in Stourbridge. It wasn't very good, and was expensive, but was good when it was raining. Toulouse is a french town slightly bigger than a few others. Bigger than Street I think.
Still. No. Better. Than. Beforrrrrre. Sang a singer while I was struggling with what to write. Alliteration.
A little ration can go a long way, said an old woman in 1946. She won the war, the war of words with William Wordsworth of Woolworth's fame. And William Wilberforce, played by Melanie Gibson Les Paul.
This blog isn't very good. Try to find a subtext or something.
Captain subtext!
Init Tho

A Precision Pizza to go, in Togo

The Land of Herrytatlerbonch. Situated far north of the south, over some mountains and back down again, the Land, and it's main city, lie in content confinement. The folk of Herrytatlerbonch, or Singers as they are known, are THE most precise race in the world, literally they have a word for everything. A blue table has a different word to say, a red one, because they are different things. They have no adjectives, because everything that can be described is already precise enough with the actual noun, such is their obsession with precision. Their language is always incomprehensible to us, because there are so many words, most of which are for objects and things we have never even experienced.

Anyway, their main man, called Merrytackleborough V2.04, went out exploring one day, up to the north. He would not DARE go south, because sadly the Singers had waged many wars upon the peoples in their nether, and had put many spaniards in their works throughout the years. The Singers were HATED even, by these people. So Merrytackleborough V2.04 went exploring, and came across a forest and nearly died. It was in a new shape he had never seen before, and he couldn't think of a name for this shape! Now, to us, it's best described as like a pizza slice shape, a triangle section of a circle, so like the edge is round. But pizza wasn't even invented at this time, and Merrytackleborough V2.04, quite understandably, was panicking. Why couldn't he think of a new word? He quickly realised that the phonetic base his whole kingdom (or mainmandom) was built on, had run out of new combinations. Oh NO!!!!!!!! God, he thought, if my people hear about this, what on Earth would they think? I would be ousted, jousted, and generally toasted, for my lack in the hour of need. So he had to think fast. Maybe he could try and use a word nobody had used for a while. No, he thought, somebody will remember it, probably that bloody Gearantrypod in the Office of Fair Wording. He had to go.....south. To ask the neighbours, if they either had a word, or if he could use some of their phonetics, so that he could return victorious as a revolutionary, a pioneer in his daze.
Off he went, with a bottle of rum and a puddle. Sorry, a poodle. He asked the Geantriarchists, just south of the border. They told him to go away. He asked the Artlipiddles, and they said something he didn't understand. He kept going, manically, through the Lirdssss, Munchangos, Livelifelikeapoolers, Broomgrowers and the Welsh. But nobody would help him, because of his forfathers, or more precisely (as this is what the story is about, precision), his four fathers.

So he disappeared travelling the world trying to find somebody somewhere that didn't think the Singers of Herrytatlerbonch were complete and utter barstools, and had a word or two going free.

That's how Herrytatlerbonch lost their Mainman and their phonetic integrity because the Italians hadn't invented Pizza yet.

The Return of the Space Cowboy

Hello and Welcome to this week's edition of...Playschool
Yes.

There were (at least) once three Eagles. One was called Glen (who had a terrible sense of direction), one was called Chris (who just followed Glen), and the third was called...erm, Eddie or something. They lived in a nest, high up in a tree, above a smaller nest below. In that nest lived a cuckoo, called Cuckoo.
Anyway. One day, they heard a story of a Cowboy!!!!!! Called Drecksack. He rode horses and shot people drinking milk and did rodeos and line danced and wore great boots. But he wasn't happy. He had a lovely little cowgirl wife called Margarine and he loved her, but not in a way that she wanted. He loved her shoes, she wanted him to love her heart, which he couldn't do. He moved to Space, which is a small town in Tennesse. There, he met Johnny Cash, 3 years after his death. He told him: Son, if a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough. Drecksack knew that already. So he got a vaccuum from a man in a green hat called Luigi, and got rid of the Ghost in Black.
Ahhh the eagles, where do they come in?????? I hear you yelp in tense exasperation. Well, they loved Johnny Cash, and his ghost even more so, as with his ghost often came that little plucked bass sound he used to have in his songs, like in Folsom Prison Blues, to beat of what would normally be his footsteps. They wanted revenge!!!!!! For such a blasphemous an callous act. They flew out, but Glen with his bad sense of direction went the wrong way, with Chris in quick pursuit. The other one flew over the cuckoo's nest, so he squawked and the other two followed. Eddie or something was piste as a newt, as he ate one along the way.
They got to Drecksack's house, pecked a hole in his roof over a period of 6 to 8 months, and then clawed him when he came home from work. Whack, Whack, kapoosh, clang.
They carried him back to his orignal town. and do you know what he said? The cheeky sod, you're not going to believe this man's cheek. He said:
"I never left this town, I just took a 3 year vacation."





But the joke was on him, Margarine had found a baker and was with him now instead, so Drecksack just had to shoot those darn sonuvvabeeches till he was blue in the hand.

Next up on Playschool, how to make beans on toast from paper, and pva glue!

Blindentaubenwerkannmirhelfengasse

A story. Again. A gain. A loss. At a loss?
A man was walking down the street and he saw somebody's past go past that he thought was his own. He walked into a cage, stuck. People like to look at freaks in cages, but they didn't afford him a glance. He danced, nothing. He tried shouting, nothing. A flower floated and landed by his cage. He looked at it. It said “hello” and flew off. Was never meant to stay.
There was a small kid drawing on a wall in the background. The man saw him and opened the cage door. He went home. Home was a dark hole in a wall not dissimilar to the one the kid was drawing on. It was dull. He sat in there instead and nobody saw him. Just sat laying out a stick every hour with his egg timer, to count down the days. He started to wonder when these days would go without him. Whether he could start something new, or do something he knew, or drink lots and dance and get noticed like he didn't in the cage and thought of all the things he'd love to do but never really could because he didn't believe that it would make a blind bit of difference, when he thought about it.
Not a blind bit of difference

Bye m'love, miss you

Goodbye my sweetheart, you will be so missed.
Your heart, though small, was bigger than most.
I loved your sweet attention, your comfort in sadness,
your peculiar ways, your memory shan't be lost.

You always said so much without ever a word,
I could rely on you to make me smile without fail.
My little white angel, you will stay in my mind,
to sit on my lap and make my day.

Now you're gone to a prettier place, and can feel no pain,
I just want to let you know, you'll always be my little Gem.
It'll always be your corner, your garden, your bed.
Memories are what we have, and I'll always love to think of them.

Bye Bye my love, will miss you x
"and I can't help but love you so"

A little (big) something, that is a little (a lot) ooh

In the murky shadows of a planet called Splott, there lurked a sinister looking cat called Tilda Swinton. She often stalked the streets of the Sacred Capital Of Splott like a red headed tube of sea kelp. One day she was at work, in her dating salon, which wasn't called The Show. There were people waiting in a line with tickets. Most people she turned down, as she didn't care much for them and preferred hanging around the kitchen in her underwear, or sometimes even acting like a lady. One man came up though on Tuesday the twenty eighth day of Junaury in the year 10,862,619 AVW (After Virginia Woolf), and his name was...
“...Popty Garth, at your presence,” as he so correctly announced upon acquaintance with the ugly old bint. She thought he said “Pop to your hearth” and reckoned he came from the north, but didn't judge him. She fancied him.
“Your eyes! They tell me how you want me!” exclaimed Popty, picking up the message. Cats can't talk like us, they only speak an old and generally extinct language (in civilised lands) called French. But Splott wasn't civilised as it still widely and wildly used the language of French to communicate between different species of vermin. Tilda stood on her back legs.
“Sauter! Pour mon amour!” she snarled, sinister as a bitter little feline. Which she did every day, as bitter and as feline as she was. Popty asked a passing rat what that meant (as he didn't speak French), did so, and she was impressed. He jumped so high his feet left the floor. It must have been the static from the floor below. “Vous faites-moi maintenant une tarte!” she shrieked wildly. The rat translated.
“A tart?” said Popty, getting a little excited. The rat corrected his translation to “pie”. “Making you a pie must be as easy as love!” He whipped out his rather large and knobbly Magic Wand, said “Mucus Pukus” and zapped her into a pie. She gave him the details of an Iron Maiden concert on Friday, and he said he would go, as he had previously felt like mould, but wanted something else to eat now instead. He left, tripping over a bag of dirt left rather erratically by the doorway.
Friday came, and Tilda hadn't seen the newspaper reports about a crazed Bakehouse Killer preying on Splottian Crazy Cats. But even if she had, she needed a squeeze a day, instead of her negligée, so she was going to go. But while she was on the way, she passed the legendary Splott pool, which borders with the made up land of Pooland. Now normally lakes flow downhill to the sea, but this one was going the other way. She had learnt Pinglish specially for the date.
“Water's running in the wrong direction! I've got a feeling it's a mixed up sign,” she said. So she didn't go. She didn't bother letting Popty know either.
But Popty, being a cunning little swine, had followed her in her own shadow. She could hear music, maybe she could hear a bassline jumping in a backstreet light, but presumed it to be a bad stomach. She turned the corner, and there stood Popty in her dressing gown and her shoes.
“It doesn't mean you'll go as fast I do!” said Tilda in fright. But before she knew it, she was in freight instead, in the form of a lorry with Popty Garth written loud and shamefully on the side. “Think before you bite me!” she said with one last gasp.
“Let's go, Eskimo,” he snapped, and threw her in a bread machine normally reserved for making Vienna Rols and checking essays for plagiarism. After she was flatter than a doormat, he said “I can't mistake her biology”. Which was true, he could have made a anatomical poster from her.
He thought quickly what the neighbours would say, but he'd already done them in so it didn't matter.
Suddenly!!!!!!!! The doors to his Bakehouse were smashed open, and in ran Ray Davies from the Kinks. He threw a bag of flour in the general direction of Popty, because he was short sighted and wanted a free Vienna Roll. But by mere chance of location, the flour whacked Popty smack on the elbow and knocked him dead to the floor. About five seconds after he jumped up and fell back down, as even in death he was affected by the static from the floor below. “You really got me,” he might have said, were he not dead.
Ray Davies was annoyed, so he left and drank Coca Cola, C O L A – cola.
And so it was, that Tilda Swinton got flattened and Popty Garth got killed by his own raw materials.

Walls

Rohan went walking in the city and it was dark and polluted, despite there being no cars and all the factories being derelict. He was heading to his world at the end of the road. There were ballerinas and rubber tyres dotted around. Somebody behind a mirror shot a rabbit, who made the noise of a cow. Rohan saw a shelf on a wall that had remained standing when its adjoining counterparts had long given up the fight. He thought it was nice, and looked at it, smiled and stuff. Then another wall came, and knocked Rohan flat on his face, chest, stomach and leg.
“Stone me!” he said. But the wall was made of brick, which is technically different to stone. He was hurt. The shelf remained.
Some other walls fell over, but not to get Rohan. He wasn't that important. In fact the wall that fell on him only did by chance, the wall hadn't actually noticed him. The shelf seemed to have seen him, but didn't look entirely sure about it. It wasn't really too bothered either, that much was clear. It had a new wall to look at now. Broken walls are much more interesting than broken hearts, or at least much more desirable. A few ballerinas danced past, didn't really see him. One asked him for the time. A rubber tyre started burning. Rohan thought he might burn with it, but it didn't come anywhere near him. He was left where nobody could see him, to lie down and just wait. But nobody could see him before, so what he was waiting for God only knows.
After 83 years, an Elven wind came and Rohan became the wall.

macht nix

Äöüßä
ich fühle mich schon wieder schlecht. Ich habe Angst davor, zurück zu gehen. Wien ist natürlich nicht perfekt aber hier passiert etwas. In der Hölle geht nix los. Ich fühle mich eigentlich jetzt wie ich früher da fühlte. In Herr der Ringe Pippin sagt „Es ist immer schrecklich bei einem Krieg zu sein, aber darauf zu warten, wenn ein Krieg kommt, den man nicht anders machen kann, ist noch schlimmer.“ So ist es. Ich hasse es. Meine Stadt hat mein Leben zerstört, da bleibe ich immer noch zu Hause, und langweile mich, und denke - „Worum geht’s?“. Ich kann nix machen. Gleich hier. Was mache ich? Bleibe zu Hause und langweile mich. Ich habe keine Interessen, keine Leidenschaft, kein Sinn. Ich esse nicht viel, weil ich krank fühle, aber deswegen fühle ich krank, weil ich nicht esse. So ist es mit alles. Ich mache nix, ich bin langweilt, und deshalb habe ich kein Energie. Aber was will ich machen, um dieses Gefühl weg zu schicken? Was kann ich? Eigentlich nichts. Ich bin die gleiche Person. Kann nicht nur allein ausgehen und mit irgendjemandem sprechen. Und Leute kommen nicht zu mir. So ich kann nichts. Fast niemand in England hat sich bemerkt, dass ich weggegangen bin. Ich kenne zwei Engländer, die nett sind und den ich nicht weh tun will. Außerhalb diese gibt’s niemand. Und es gibt keine Hoffnung, dass es verändern wird. Ich fühle mich ganz leer und ohne irgendetwas. Ich kann nicht lieben, ich kann nicht mit irgendetwas bleiben. Ich gebe immer auf, weil ich kein Ergebnis bekomme.
Ich gebe wieder auf.
Macht nix