T.I.P.P.P. ( Things I Phind Phunny on Phriday) #2

Yay! I’m doing something twice! Surely this counts as me being consistent? Maybe there is hope for me.

I’d like to share two completely unrelated yet equally funny-bone tickling things this evening. The first thing is a hilarious response to the feelgood ( yet kinda overdone)¬† “most satisfying video” trend. Behold The Most Unsatisfying Video In the World Ever Made:

I watched this with my 9 yr old this evening, and we were both in tears of laughter and frustration.

The second thing is something I’ve posted numerous times over various online incarnations. Because it just never gets old. It is the Guitar Lesson from ‘Snuff Box’. Whilst personally, I’ll always be more of a ‘Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace’ kinda gal, Snuff Box had plenty of golden moments, and this one never fails to crack me up:

 

I can’t get enough of the ridonkulous editing that these guys love to employ as a comedic device ( see Darkplace and ‘AD/BC: A Rock Opera’ ūüėČ )

Hope you got a giggle!

Much love xx

Insomnia self-portrait with bed hair and falling-off mouth (with bonus demon not worth facing)

notlookingmeagainBedHairMou

*black biro ( not looking) and watercolour pencils ( looking)*

I can’t complain about not sleeping tonight, as I had a great sleep last night. Also had a fantastic dream that as I lay in bed, a garden of sumptuous, jewel coloured satin and velvet flowers began growing upon the ceiling. The flowers looked like butterfly wings under a scanning electron miscroscope, but much bigger, and as I watched, they began growing faster and faster- extending down the walls in glorious stained-glass-vivid vines. It was so beautiful that I felt I must get out of bed and show someone. But then the thought crossed my mind that the flowers- now growing at quite a pace- might grow over the doorway- locking me out if I left….. or, alternatively- if I stayed- trapping me within this¬† butterflyflower garden all by myself, with nobody to share it with. As I had this thought, some large ants, (which were running for cover from the flowers) trickled down the wall, and to my horror, one jumped into my bed. I woke up brushing invisible ants off me.

 

Paperclip Down

rabbits- acrylic on wood

“But why we gotta go NOW?” asked Ripkin, who was- somehow- clutching a beer; his blue paper bum making no impression whatsoever on the stained old faux-suede couch, but feeling oh-so-comfortable nonetheless.

A5er shot Ripkin one of his “Don’t crumple with me” looks.

Ripkin sighed. The cricket was on in 10 minutes and all.

A5er was small, but feisty. And sharp. Oh yes.  He could give the stiffest of bunnies a papercut with a narrowing of his eyes alone.

Marbiggles resented the authority A5er seemed to have gradually siphoned away from him over the past months. A5er had the enthusiasm, alright, but he was a cocky young buck; lacked humility; grace; class. Still, Marbiggles knew the kid was right. They had to go. And sooner rather than later.

“Bottom line is: we need some-”¬† A5er stopped and pointed his paper paw around the room.¬† “Look around; what do ya see?”

Ripkin’s eyes dutifully followed A5er’s paw around; the rest of his face blank as a fresh sketchbook. His blue paper bottom fluttered gently as a pocket of air escaped its careless valley folds.

“The three of us!” Spat A5er in frustration. “And that’s it. Strength in numbers, boys. And what’s our number?¬† Three. How the hell are we supposed to rule this place with an army of three? I’ve heard word from the chatterboxes up north that the Cranes are verging on one thousand now. To say that we’re¬† vulnerable to attack would be an understatement!¬† We gotta get our numbers up. Pronto. I’m talking kits. Baby bunnies, gentlemen. And without being crude, I think you know where baby¬† bunnies come from….and it’s not Ripkin’s arse, thank Christmas card.”

Marbiggles snorted in spite of himself. Ripkin continued blanking.

“So, ” continued A5er. ” We gotta Get Busy, if ya catch my drift. Find ourselves some fresh ream; get us some folds ‘n’ creases, yeah? Some mountains and valleys, ya get me? Some lady-makin’ for some baby-makin’. Some origaminion populatin’” He winked at the lads, leeringly.

Marbiggles winced at A5er’s crassness. He took a deep breath. When he exhaled, though, it was not without some staccato about it. Against his will, images of semi-transparent vellum paper and delicately patterned Washi bending and folding seductively flashed through his mind. He wiped his forehead before any lasting damage could be done.

Ripkin swigged a sip from his tinny. Beer dribbled down his front, making his chest soggy. His big, dumb eyes stared nowhere in particular.

A journey to The Stationary Cupboard sounded good in theory, sure. But…it was SO far away…..and none of them had even seen it. For all they knew, it¬† didn’t even exist. Reams themselves were probably nothing but a mythical fantasy. And if this were the case, Ripkin was perfectly happy to leave it that way. He had origami manuals and a right paw. Why mess with an efficient system?

“Can’t I just stay here?” He implored.

With a rustle, A5er¬† swiftly leapt over to the old couch and leant in until his nose was level with Ripkin’s. He lowered his voice to a whisper- oh, how menacing A5er was when he whispered- and, looking directly into Ripkin’s eyes said simply:

No. You can’t. You’ll do as the rest of us do, Rippikins. Or I’ll feed you to the shredder. And by ‘shredder’, I don’t mean Jimi Hendrix…… because he doesn’t eat paper, and is no longer alive. Just like you’ll be, if you continue. To waste. My time.

Ripkin still didn’t understand why he had to come along, but he wasn’t about to argue with a whispering A5er, especially when shredders were mentioned, no sirree. He clutched his tinny with an increasingly damp paw, and shifted the nonexistent weight of his increasingly damp, blue buttocks, wishing he could just flatten himself like a greeting card and go find an envelope to slide into for a while.

“Moving on…” came A5er’s voice- abruptly restored to its regular volume. “As luck would have it, a certain Napkin Swan (who shall remain nameless)¬† has most generously provided us with a map of The Biglands….” He produced a rolled up document from his left ear and held it victoriously aloft.

Marbiggle’s eyes widened. A cooperative Napkin Swan… that sounded too good to be true. Was this map the Real Deal?¬† He glanced over at Ripkin, but Ripkin was nonplussed, noticing only the rolled up map’s¬† resemblance to a joint.¬† Now that was something for a day like today…

A5er unrolled the map and stepped toward Ripkin.¬† “Give us a paw, Rips,”, he ordered, motioning toward the bowl of peanuts and the empty packets of kale chips littering the coffee table. Ripkin promptly obliged; sweeping the chip packets onto the floor, and moving the peanut bowl into his lap.

“Give us that,” commanded A5er- referring to the bowl. “And that,” he added, this time referring to Ripkin’s half empty beer can. Ripkin obeyed, and A5er carefully positioned the bowl on one edge of the map, and the beer can on the other, to prevent it from rolling in on itself.

“Now. The Stationary Cupboard lies beyond Mount Desk; east of Laptop. It’s accessible by foot….. but there are obstacles. Dangerous ones. Mount Desk is littered with dead pens, and other heavy junk which sometimes tumbles down the mountainside faster than a souped-up paper fighter jet . If you’re not quick on your pads, it’s wastepaper basketville for you. Now it’s also rumoured that a giant, whiskered beast with claws as sharp as thumbtacks roams the entire breadth of The Biglands, preying on anything that moves. So we gotta have our wits about us…”

Ripkin wasn’t really listening. He gazed wistfully at his beer, which was no doubt getting warm. He figured he could at least maybe grab a handful of peanuts without causing any undue drama. It’d make A5er’s talk less boring, at any rate. He reached for the peanut bowl, but as he did so, his generous, soggy girth dragged across the coffee table- knocking over the beer can and sending its warm, lightly foaming amber contents spilling across the map’s landscape like a golden tsunami, reducing¬† roads, rivers, and mountain ranges alike to a meaningless, smudgy blur. Utter annihilation. Total bevvystation.

The stunned silence was guillotined clumsily by Ripkin’s blunt voice.

“Oops.”

A5er snapped, letting out a roar that almost tore his own body to shreds.

” RIPKIIIIIN!! YOU’RE GONNA GET RIPPED!!!!”

Ripkin figured that by “get ripped” A5er hadn’t meant he was gonna get killer cardboard abs and guns of foil. Especially as A5er was now hurtling straight over the coffee-table map-ocalypse towards him. This was it. He was actually going to get ripped into pieces and die. And he’d never even get to find out who won the Test Match.

“WAAAIIIT!!!!!”¬† Roared another voice. Thunder to A5er’s lightning.

Marbiggles raised his voice so rarely that both Ripkin and A5er had forgotten how formidable he was when he did.

Marbiggles prised A5er off Ripkin, and planted himself  between the two of them, his eyes wide as paper plates.

“Control yourself, damnit! Or I’ll do it for you. You’ll not touch a single corner on this lad’s head. THIS boy,” he continued,¬† gesturing towards poor, already half crumpled Ripkin,¬† “may be thick as 2 pieces of 600 gsm watercolour paper;¬† as idle as a ten tonne paperweight;¬† as useful as braille on the inside of a paper straw…. BUT! He has been loyal; like a brother to you- and a son to me-¬† all these years. I’ll not stand by and watch you scrunch him up like some worthless supermarket receipt over some dubious bloody Napkin map! ”

Marbiggles glared at A5er- nostrils flaring. All the resentment that had built up inside him of late was rising to the surface now like the waters of a blocked toilet.

A5er – almost frozen in shock- searched for words. The ones he eventually found were:

“You- you faded, dog-eared, pamphlet! You don’t call the shots around here anymore, old boy. A5er does!¬† I’m A5er. YOUR LEADER! STAND DOWN AND OBEY YOUR LEADER!”

“You’re no leader, ” continued Marbiggles. “No leader of mine! For all your posturing and prancing, you’re but a standard tyrant! Selfish; cowardly; without substance. Like a crumbling, overused tissue, bringing nothing but grazes to the nose that blows! You sir, are nothing but a common piece of one-ply generic brand CRAPWRAP!…….”¬†

(And here he paused dramatically)

“…And my finger’s just gone straight through……

Of course, Marbiggles didn’t have fingers per se, but the point was made- and now sharpened, as he drew a pair of scissors from god-knows-where and pointed them at the space between A5er’s eyes.

YOU will stand down, A5er….NOW.”

A5er quickly weighed up his options. He was expressionless for a moment…..then the evil crease of a grin stretched across his face.

“…Or what?

The grin widened.”…Grandmabiggles.”

It was a mistake. Marbiggles was getting older, sure, but not weaker. He was made of high quality parchment; stiff shit. A5er stood two chances: none, and jack. The scissor blades sliced him in twain before he could even process what was happening. His neatly bisected self fell, in slow-mo silence, either side of the map-mush, onto a rustling bed of empty Kale Chip packets.

Marbiggles stood motionless for some minutes as it sunk in. He’d wiped A5er like a serviette across the mouth of death. He was a murderer. Oh god! And Ripkin- the poor kid….he’d been close to death himself- then witnessed it. In cricket season no less. He’d be traumatised for life.

Ripkin- where was Ripkin? Marbiggles scanned the room. He must find Ripkin!

*

There’s wisdom in the old proverb: “Don’t run with scissors”.¬† Alas, old Marbiggles- noble, disgraced, Marbiggles- in his frenzy, had completely forgotten that he was still clutching the binary blades of doom as he dashed toward the kitchen door in search of poor, dumb, Ripkin. So instead of heroically rescuing the beer-swilling bunbun,¬† he’d tripped and fallen- impaling himself on the deathblades.

It seemed Marbiggles and A5er would have to work things out in The Great Stationary Cupboard in the Sky.

*

Ripkin, who’d managed to wriggle free whilst A5er¬† was distracted by Marbiggle’s monologue, was now safely in the kitchen, cracking open a new beer and a fresh bag of kale chips, oblivious to the gore beyond the door.

A half minute later, the oblivion vanished, as Ripkin exited the kitchen with his tinny and chips, only to be confronted by the dismembered forms of his ex-bunny-brethren.

Ohhhhh, man, this was not good. Not good!

Panic set in.

It was a mess. Oh, what a mess! And oh how Ripkin hated cleaning!

But…. hey…wait a minute. Now that there was nobody around to boss him about, he didn’t have to clean…

Panic subsided; realisation dawned.

He didn’t have to clean…. and he meant not to. Ever again!¬† He rearranged the empty Kale Chip packets so that they covered the two bodies. A shallow grave, yeah, but as A5er had always said: “paper don’t rot, bud”. They’d flatten down nice after a few kitchen/ lounge round-trips. Sweet as! What’s more- the map on the table had soaked up most of the previously spilt beer- so win win on the not-having-to-clean gig.

Ripkin settled his soggy blue bum onto the stained old faux-suede couch and took a gulp of beer. A little rivulet of it ran down his chin and onto his already soggy belly. It’d spring a leak soon, for sure.

Ripkin didn’t care. The cricket was starting. As for Cranes, they were probably just all off to a wedding or something. He munched down on some crunchy green salty kale goodness, and lovingly wrapped his soggy paw around his tinny. His damp nether regions¬† melded¬†lovingly¬† with the couch- becoming one with the stained old faux-suede. It was oh-so -comfortable. Oh-so- stationary. Yeah, stationary. As if he’d ever want to be anything else.

***

The Tap

Day 1:

12:30pm

Needed a break from the monotony of unpacking. Decided to go for stroll around new neighbourhood; check out the sites. On way out, noticed strange fixture on hallway wall. Have no recollection of seeing this during initial inspection. Utterly perplexed.

 

1:30pm

Didn’t end up leaving the house at all. Still weirded out by this thing; need to get to the bottom of it.

 

1:43pm

It’s just a tap handle. But that’s the thing. It’s JUST a tap handle. Completely isolated upon the wall; the actual tap component nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps builder was making some type of postmodern statement. Or maybe it was functional at one point, but renovations since made, and somehow tap handle was overlooked somehow.

But why so high up?  Have to get on tippy toes just to reach it. Were original inhabitants really tall?

Tap handle confusing and annoying.

Tried looking around the house to see whether there’s a tap anywhere without a handle which may correspond to hall handle, but to no avail.

 

1:46pm

Just read over all that. Maybe I need a hobby.

Time to stop obsessing over irrelevant crap and go get something done.

 

8:17pm

Am probably being neurotic, but tap handle is freaking me out. Was almost quaint and quirky during the day, but now that it’s dark, it’s taken on a sinister vibe.

 

8:30pm

Just read over that. How can a tap handle be sinister? I need to get out more.

 

8:42pm

Phoned Liam. He says not to worry about it. Says I’m being silly and that random tap handle on wall is hilarious.

Will Liam forget me now that I’m here? He didn’t sound that sad over the phone about me moving away. I bet that annoying April skank is rubbing her skanky little hands together.

 

8:46pm

Just read over that. Sounds a little catty. I can’t honestly say I’ve ever seen April flirting with Liam.

She is a skank, though.

 

9:00pm

Wanted to watch a movie then go to bed, but can’t find the DVD’s. Wish I could remember which box they’re in.

Nothing but static on telly.

 

9:48pm

Static was apparently long, boring, experimental film about getting pins and needles.

Went on facebook, but no real friends online.

Posted status update anyway.¬† Wrote: “Am I the only one who finds this weird??” With pic of tap handle.

No responses yet.

April has new profile pic. Of course, she’s posing in a bikini. Pic looks photoshopped to me. Caption says: “My hair looks SO bad today! LOL”.

Oh FFS.

Typed “Yes, it does.”

Felt rude and deleted it. Logged off.

I hate facebook. Maybe I’ll just delete my account.

Tap Handle is still freaking me out and if Liam’s name is amongst the “like”s under April’s PP, then I’ll know he’s cheating on me with her.

 

 

2:00am

Just read over what I last wrote. Maybe tiredness makes me jump to conclusions.

Time for sleep.

Maybe just one more FB check first.

April has commented on my tap pic:¬† “Haha, your a riot, girl!¬† ūüėÄ ‚̧ “.

“*YOU’RE”, I reply.

Then feel rude; delete it. Write “haha, thx lovely; i do try ūüėČ Love you! ‚̧ ‚̧ <3” instead.

God, she’s such a fake tho.

 

 

2:21am

Can’t sleep. That bloody tap thing. Is there a secret camera in it or something? Because I had to walk past it on the way to the loo again, and…I know it sounds stupid to say, but……I really felt like it was watching me the whole time.

Got up on a chair to take a closer look. Doesn’t look like there’s a hidden camera there or anything. It just looks like a regular tap handle….. except up high on a wall all by itself for no apparent reason.

Feel an overwhelming desire to turn it to see what happens, but am afraid of the possible consequences. What if built-in-wardrobe suddenly becomes flooded or something?

What if it was put there by spies, and turning it is some sort of secret sign to go ahead with something untoward somewhere far away? Like, what if I turned it, and the next day there’s an evil, sundried Orangutan with a basic grasp of the alphabet in charge of a whole country or something?

Ok, that’s a bit unrealistic. But why is it so…spooky? Is it normal for a tap handle to be spooky?

Maybe I’m going mad.

Maybe it’s just the stress of moving; the unfamiliar environment; the nagging doubts about the boyfriend situation.

I really want a snack, but I forgot to go shopping before so all I have is cereal and some bay leaves I brought here from the old flat. And that awful cheap champagne Tilly gave me.

 

 

3:13am

Heyyyyy

Tilly’s chm,p[ange not too bAD actually.

Watched stupid infomercialses and ate cereals out of the packet. Thinking about buying a motorised swirling spaghetti fork. Takes the misery¬† out of eating basghetti. Protects¬† wrists from RSI, plus playS¬† amusing tune while you eat! ( You know- the one about a meatball that rolls away) . SO cool. I’d never get sick of that. Comes with¬† 24 free¬† gold carrots on a necklace. And if you buy 2, you get a bath mat that looks like a face.

NEED.

That guy on the ad¬† was sorta hot too. Kinda like santa, but when he was young and sexy. He can empty his sack into my chimney any day if ya know what I mean, wink wink nudge nudge, eh? eh? ..I’m naughty AND nice, hahahaha. I liked the way he said¬† “Aaaaand, that’s not all!”. Saucy. I’d twirl his spaghetti any day if ya know what I mean.

Dunno wht i mean

Whatevers. If it doesn’t work out with Liam I’m gonna try for a beardy fella. Never had a beard.

Checked fakebook. Doesn’t look like Liam’s been on.

Took selfie of myself holding my Aries mug  full of champagne. I look actually pretty cute in my cowprint onesie pyjamas actually.

Posted selfie to Tilly’s wall with the caption: “Tillyyyyyyyyyy!!!!! Best moo-ving present EVVAAAA!!!!”

(Get it? ‘Moo-ving’- ’cause I’m moving, but also ’cause my PJ’s have a cow pattern! Hahaha!)

SEE, April? I can be sexy too! I’m sexy cos I’m confident, see? I don’t conform to ANY type of stereo- i’m above that- ijust don’t care. See?¬† I don’t care about being hot, therefore Im hot! My awesome personality is what makes ME sexyy. I am NICE and FUNNY and LOVELY person. So I hope you die in a shit lake you fuckin cow.

Liam dunna ‘preciate wot ‘e got ‘ere eh. Fuck ‘im! FUCK ‘IM eh!

Feelng a bit sick

 

3:20am

Why’s evthing so SHIT?

My head hurts an im thirsty andim just gonna bcome a NUN ffs  WHY r men so suprficioal and WHO putta TAP on my WALLs????!!! Focken STUPIF.

Nooooooooo chmpgn LEFT (or right hahahahahahaa)

I wnder if the ‘C’ on th tap handel stands fr “CRAP” instead of¬† “COLD”, and it’s turnd on FULLfull pressure and I don even know

Is not. Fwell off chair. Owchy elbow and head and hip

but no mattr – got back up turned it on to see if anthing happn.

didn’t.

Must go bed. Hungry, but. Wonder what happens if  eat a bay leav. Evrything ouch

 

 

Day 2.

11.00am.

SHIT.

 

12:08am

DOUBLE SHIT.

Not only do I have the MOST brutal hangover in history, ( and bruises everywhere-what the hell???)  I just realised Tilly has her FB wall comments set to public.

Drunk in cow-print PJ’s under a fluorescent light isn’t the most flattering look on me.

Tilly has commented “All class ūüėČ ūüĎĆ “.

Liam has commented “Dork. Miss you <3”. Which I suppose is nice.

And of course, April has commented “10/10, WOULD BANG “.

Condescending slag. What is with all this fake nice crap???¬† All this: “how cute are you?”, and “such a gorgeous gal ‚̧ ” and “I’d go out with you” and “crushing hard…. </3 ” all over my damn FB wall and photos. And generally right after Liam writes something first…..Why doesn’t she just outright proposition my boyfriend right in front of me already?? FFS.

Heaps of peeps ‘liking’ this pic though. Reassuring to know there are people out there who actually appreciate a sense of humour, instead of just being shallow bastards obsessed with boobs.

What’s this?….Someone calling himself¬† “The Keithinator”¬† has sent me a friend request, and a message saying ” U R Qt. ūüėȬ† A/S/(hopefully ūüėČ ) L?”. In his profile pic he’s wearing dark sunglasses and a T-shirt that says ” SEX INSTRUCTOR- FIRST LESSON FREE”¬† on the front.

Ewww.

Another one. Calls himself ‘Big Donno’. Has PM’d: “If u need milking im yr farmer ūüėČ ”

Double ewwwwww. Wtf is with all the creepers??

Oh, crap. Just noticed that one of the pyjama buttons isn’t done up properly in the photo, and my nipple is showing.

So much for faith in the human race.

 

12:23pm

Pic deleted;  sleazy creeps blocked. Maybe I really will delete my account.

Sigh.

Oh well. One positive is that I couldn’t care less about the stupid wall tap anymore. It obviously doesn’t do anything.

Going back to bed for the rest of the day. Tomorrow is a new day, blah blah, etc. etc. The world will go on as ever before, and nothing really is ever of lasting consequence.

Laters.

 

 

the-daily-yakweb

***

 

Mysterious competition of mystery

As the title hints, I’m running a mysterious competition. If anybody guesses the nature of this mysterious competition, they win a mysterious prize, which is so mysterious that I can’t tell you about it. There is also no way of knowing whether you’ve entered the mysterious competition, or whether you’ve won the mysterious prize or not. But if you do win, then you will win. Or you won’t.

Good luck!

Anyway, jokes aside, that was no joke. I want to make something cool and give it away- hopefully to somebody whose name I will pull out of a hat. Or to somebody small enough to literally pull out of a hat. Or somebody of average or large size that I pull out of a very large hat…..and so on.

The “something cool” being given away will be a little mini package of miscellaneous curiosities of a mysterious, curious, and miscellaneous nature, which I have crafted in my above-ground lair ( ie. pool*) . Obviously, this is a VERY good prize.

How to enter:

  1. Comment with your best guess at how best to enter. The most imaginative comment will make me smile, and MIGHT make you win a thing. Who knows? I’m a mysterious, sexy woman.
  2.  Disregard the first step and choose to play tennis, or sniff pizza or books instead.
  3.  Await results.

Now. I do realise how ambitious I’m being here, what with my posts averaging at around 3 views apiece. But on the positive side, that greatly improves your chances of winning. Plus, it means I won’t have any trouble fitting all the names into my hat** ( unless you have a REALLY long name ) .

Just to tempt all one or two of you, here is a list of example things that you may already have won in the future after you entered my competition, when time became (becomes?) nonlinear and crocheted up into a mothball-scented time doily on the antique coffee-table of the cosmos .

A:¬† a type of game- invented by me ( possibly unplayable) to play with your friends and family. Maybe there will be cards? Maybe round dice?¬† Maybe it’ll just be a sudoku only one square across. Maybe something very different to that. But whatever it is, it’ll be non-stop FUN. And VERY mysterious.

B:¬† Something arty, like art. A drawing, for example. Or some stickers I made.¬† Or an imaginary product I invented, complete with beautiful packaging, to distract from the disappointment that the product doesn’t exist.

C:  Something crafty, like a woollen testicle.

D: A little story, all stapled together like a miniature book, with a little cover and everything. When you put it with all your bigger books, they coo and sigh over the cuteness of the little book, but unbeknownst to them, the little book is…. evil.

Oh, it starts off subtlely enough. You get home; you wonder: “Where’s the budgie?”. There’s no way of proving that a tiny book ate your bird, despite your understandable suspicions.

Next day it’s:¬† “I thought I had two cats..”. You don’t want to think that sweet wee booky is responsible…so you put it out of your mind.

But when Aunty Mim disappears and you find her semi-digested walking cane by the bookshelf, you know you can’t run from the truth any longer. You make plans to destroy the Little Book.

Unluckily for you, Little Book is able to read your mind, and thwarts your plan to throw it onto the fire, by eating a banana and strategically throwing the skin on the floor by the hearth…

Unluckily for Little Book, you are also rather talented in the psychic department, and thwart its attempts by failing to buy bananas in the first place.

Little Book decides to take matters into its own hands, and goes to the market to buy some narnies. But the moment it leaves, you lock the door behind it, knowing it can’t get back in, because it’s too short to reach the handle.

Unfortunately for you, Little Book plans to eat you the moment you next open the door. You must now stay inside your house FOREVER.

Unfortunately for¬† Little Book, you’re a recluse who doesn’t mind.

Little Book starves to death on your doorstep, and you live out the remainder of your days a happy recluse/ internet shopping addict.

The End.

E:¬† An egg…. in the shape of an egg.

F: Laundry detergent that makes your clothes smell like you could be my uncle. Everyone will comment on it, and in a weird way it will bring us closer together; almost as though you actually were my uncle, and I, your favourite niece or nephew, or aunty. You’ll end up adopting me, and teaching me how to smoke cigars and build a Harry Potter themed model train station. What dear memories we shall carve into the tree-trunk of the future, which we shall look back on warmly when it becomes the past. etc. etc.

 

So there you have it.  A very clear and concise set of instructions. You know what must be done.

Note: You have 2 weeks in which to enter. If nobody enters, I will enter the competition myself, and await my announcement that I have won. When I receive my prize, I will devote a blog post to gloating over my win, and you will all be very jealous.

* I cannot be held responsible for any water damage your prize may have sustained.

** A cat ran off with my hat. Suggest an alternative vessel. An extra prize will be awarded to the besty suggesty.


Tetrachromat sees (or hallucinates) a Mantis-shrimp strawberry

It wasn’t there before, and now it’s here- languishing in the fruitbowl, listening to Planet Caravan by Black Sabbath on repeat. Where did it come from?¬† Maybe it was there all along…:

waterberryWeb

*watercolour pencils ( with water and brush, obviously)*

I’m not as happy with this as I could be, but it took me all evening, so I’m posting it.

Obscurity is three-masted*

When I was studying to become an Art School drop-out, I discovered , one fateful day in the University library, a Surrealist Games kit. Intrigued, and already determined to begin¬† procrastinating on the essay we’d just been set, I borrowed it immediately.

From that day, I was hooked. Over the coming months, I seized every opportunity to coerce my fellow student friends into sitting around a table with me to partake of surrealist writing games (and the obligatory cheap booze).

Eventually I succeeded in becoming an Art School drop-out, but my obsession with the role of chance as an aid to the creative process has endured. ( as has my love of procrastination, but that’s another post for another time; I’ll get around to it at some stage.. )

Whether it be imaginary definitions, cut-up poetry technique, or the joys of google translate’s epic sentence mangling capabilities, my¬† enthusiasm for literary lottery borders on creepy. My fridge is covered in magnetic prose. My “dining” table is cluttered with notebooks and¬† Surreal Sentence Generators- in the form of homemade card games, cardboard¬† word wheels with badly attached spinners, and little bags full of cut-out words. Mixed in are my daughter’s drawings, which aptly cover subjects such as bee vomit, Olympic cubes, and chickens selling hand cream.

So I thought it was about time to incorporate more of that sort of thing into my blawg. I’ve been self censoring too much; trying to be too linear¬† and relatable in my bloggage, and it’s just not working . For my own sanity, I need this place to be less of a “how do I¬† WordPress properly” affair , and more of the uninhibited outlet it was originally intended to be. In short: things are gonna have to get weirder.

And with that, I’ll leave you now with some freshly frankensteined¬† cut-up poetry I done didded the other day.

(For those of you unfamiliar with the cut-up technique, here’s the basic idea: Take a block of text, such as a magazine article, or page of a book. Cut out every word of said text, and place them in a small bag or container of some sort. Shake them up. Remove words one by one, writing each down- or gluing them onto the page, as I did- in the order they come out. This forms your “poem”.)

Disclaimer: Admittedly, I did cheat a little by eliminating/ ignoring the more aesthetically boring, grammatically confusing combinations, such as: ” he which and are they¬† a were then as with”. But other than that, the direction of this poem was entirely dictated by the element of Chance. The original Surrealist idea is that whatever comes out is a representation of things hidden in your subconscious mind. Whilst the main attraction for me is the non-linear, twisty word rainbow of it all, I dig this Deep Darque Secret Mind Exploration idea in a Jungian way. Given that- and the fact that the text I used came from a randomly chosen page of a book I was reading months ago- I was amused and¬† a bit spooked¬† by the results!

 

cutup3-forweb

 

NotlookingatpagePoetsWeb

 

Above: Bonus ‘Not-Looking-At-Page’ drawing. “Poets hand Love hints in the dark”. Inspired by the last line. I wanted to draw Shakespeare ( for some reason. Do I need a reason?) , but then changed my mind and did a picture of Rowan Atkinson¬† as Lord Blackadder in Blackadder 2 instead.¬† ¬†

Conclusions:

It seems to be about ugly revelations, or hipsters with sailor tatts voting with irony for a laugh. Or about Art and love being a guiding light in darque thymes. Or about how Art perhaps inspires Love just as much as Love inspires art.

It’s stupidly deep and deeply stupid.

Bonus bonus: If anybody can correctly guess which famous novel I photocopied a page of and dismembered for this exercise, you will be correct in your guess.

YOU HAVE NOW REACHED THE LACY HEM OF THIS FULL LENGTH POST.

(the next one will be more of a mini, I promise)

*like a sparkling potato

Top 10 Tips to Trigger a Textual Tornado- Writing Advice from Beautighe’s best bibliophillerupperers

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What to write? And more importantly, how to write? Wouldn’t it be useful and realistic to have¬† practical, universally relevant advice on these very subjects presented in one unpretentious, no-nonsense article?¬† I posed these very ponderances¬† to a handful of Beautighe’s most successful and well regarded imaginary authors, who generously agreed to provide their own tried and true Top Ten Tips for all clueless, aspiring writers. I’ve shared these Top Ten Tips in the following section of this blog post. Read on to locate aforementioned following section, which I mentioned earlier in this current section.

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The first list is provided by the renowned and respected¬† Lord Horryd Twattington-Spiff, who brought us “The Truffle With Harry”; the brutal and unwavering biography of Harrison Porkleigh, a man-turned-pig-turned-man-again,¬† and his unfortunate brush with the Darque Arts, the resulting cognitive dissonance surrounding breakfast, and the frustration of pearl casting aspirations amidst increasingly prohibitive and ironic circumstances.

  1. Rise no later than the birds. Preferably before the little blighters. This way, one may enjoy the unadulterated silence- or, if one is less hard of hearing as myself, the cacophony of yawning spewing forth from the filthy mouths of lazy peasants as they toil idly in the fields. Walk the length of your estate- weather allowing or not! Walking ‘midst the hills and moors in inclement weather strengthens physical and mental fortitude, and stimulates the imagination. Indeed, the idea for my novel “My Balls” came to me amidst a blizzard, when I fell into an icy pond and struck my forehead against a frozen duck.
  2. Breakfast cereal is a ludicrous notion. Keep away from the stuff at all costs.
  3. My balls.
  4. Take on a mistress. Only between the hours of midnight and 3:00am, however, and watch her around the silverware. Actually, Chive- can you give the cabinet a quick once over? I forgot to check yesterday. The one in the hall, yes. There’s a good chap.
  5. Unmarried? Remain that way, lad!
  6. For God’s sake, limit transitive verbs to a minimum of 8 per chapter. Any more than that and you run the risk of sounding like Wonder Woman’s ‘to do’ list, *guffaw guffaw*.¬† In the first 80 years of my career, regrettably, I used them willy nilly. I shudder to look back at those days! * hortle chortle* But, one must shoulder one’s balls and trudge on. Pass that pork belly, will you, Floptington. There’s a lad. Mind my balls. Whizzo! *muffled noises*
  7. Any book under 900 pages isn’t worth writing. Leave your 300 page pamphlets to the wind and go back to Cafe Latte commentary on bloody instagram where you belong.
  8. Balls.
  9. Use a typewriter, not a computer. Keeps the fingers robust. No respectable writer I know of ever typed words on anything but a sturdy Olivetti. Never use the internet, either, unless you wish to reveal yourself as a technological sycophant. No internet! (Even pornhub. Get your jollyrockers off to antique erotica instead. If you’re going to deploy the troops to Towelsville, at least let the poor fellows die with some dignity, ie. at the hands of hands accustomed to handling dusty old postcards from 1920’s France)
  10. Become acquainted with my body of work, if you’re not already. Pick it to the bone. Take these bones and coat them in your own flesh and blood. Literally. Put your balls into it. This is the art of writing, my boy! Oh, and.. girl…thingy. *shrugs then coughs uncontrollably* Chive! A new handkerchief, if you will. See that Maid scrapes this one out before chucking it in the wash…now, dust my balls, there’s a good lad……yes, with the new feather duster…ooh- tickly! Oh my…*trails off*

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The next wheelbarrow of wisdom comes from award winning writer, Amelia M. E. Leah, Author of the spellbinding and poetically rich “Cascade of Crows”, in which we meet ornithologist, Clara,¬† who is on the cusp of proving her hypothesis that corvids are not only capable of graffiti, laughing, and swearing , but are the original masterminds behind them. Her experiments may lead her to amazing discoveries and fame in her field, but also threaten to destroy her relationship with her prudish, insufferably judgemental neighbour, George, whom she loathes.

  1. Remember meter. Manipulate meter. Meter, meter, pumpkin eater.
  2. Disallow alliteration; no matter how alluring, alleviate; circumnavigate! Stop strained sequences of esses strung in ceaseless succession. And try not to rhyme too much; you’re a novelist, not a rapper. Fool.
  3. I’m serious about meter.¬† 4/4 timing; minimal rhyming. I’m reiterating on the alliterating, which you may find frustrating; addressing rhyme a second time, which may not seem of prim…ary importance to you, but it is, so take it on board, or forget fame; forget awards.
  4. Don’t write from a desire for fame or reward. Say what you need to say, unashamedly and unselfconsciously. Fuck the critics!
  5. Pick your target audience and cater to it. You are not an artist, you are a waiter in a literary restaurant. Remember this.
  6. Avoid contradiction. Decide what to say and say it with conviction. You’re not here as a waiter. You’re the head chef, in the kitchen. You could probably hock up into the soup before it’s served, and nobody would even notice. I don’t know what that means, but you must pretend to if you want to be taken seriously as a writer.
  7. Never name chapters. Number them neatly. And in order.
  8. Learn to let go of your work. Once you’ve completed your novel, delete the files; rip up the documents; burn the manuscripts. Destroy it completely. Even if it’s fantastic, and took 6 years to write. Time is nothing. Time is nonexistent. Time is infinite. Time is¬† what you make of it. Time is a Pink Floyd track . But time is also of the essence, so don’t waste it.
  9. Don’t just write. Labour over each sentence for at least 2 days in order to minimise rewriting and editing later. Forget “flow”. Make every word immaculate. Now by this, I don’t mean¬† to literally write the word “immaculate” over and over until you’ve written it enough times to fill a book. That would be plagiarism, as fans of my early conceptual work “Immaculate” would know. My point is, take the time to refine as you go. My books take about 15 years to write. And this is why they are the epitome of brilliance and perfection.
  10. Just write. Don’t think about it. Write and write until you’re done. THEN go back and edit and rewrite. Make it as good as you possibly can, but know that perfection is nonexistant. Be humble.

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Next, some hard-hitting advice from the hard-hitting¬† writer Max O’Ffence, who brought us the hard-hitting “Fuck off and leave me to my super hard drugs, you massive shits” ( now a major motion picture directed by Roger Federer, starring¬† John Revolting and Una Thermal).

  1. Fuck off
  2. And
  3. Leave
  4. Me
  5. To
  6. My
  7. Super
  8. Successful and glamorous
  9. Career and lifestyle
  10. You massive shits.

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And lastly, some sage words from Beautighe’s best loved Crime Fiction writer- and personal friend of mine- A. K. Drusillacado, whose latest offering of psychological suspense “Before the milk turns” will be out any time now; probably when you least expect it. Extra thanks to Ms. Drusillacado for taking the time to answer these during the middle of the birth of her second child, Ochroma Pyramidale Applecart Oberon Titanium Mig-Welder Drusillacado. Congratulations to you and your wonderful family!

  1. “Heroes and villains… Just see what you’ve done…do-do-do-do…” What do the Beach Boys mean by this? It doesn’t matter. It’s already stuck in your head. How? Finding – and closely guarding- the answer to this is your mission as a writer.
  2. Before starting your novel, write character outlines. Fill them in with texta. Interview these characters. Better still- interrogate them. If they don’t cough up the information, feed them to the fishes. Interrogate the fishes. If the fishes don’t cough up the information, fry them. Serve them with a home made tartare sauce and rustic potato wedges. Two, four, six, eight- dig in, don’t wait. Interrogate your family. If they don’t cough up the info, feed them to the fishes. Interrogate those fishes ( which I’m tempted to describe as “fish”, but won’t, for literary reasons beyond my grasp ) . If they don’t cough up, maybe leave it there; you’ve become trapped in a cycle. Seek salvation in the pain of having fed your entire family to fish, by using it to imbue your work with authenticity.
  3. Make the reader feel like a detective. Engage them by hiding key pages around your city, leaving a trail of subtle but tantalising clues ( lime and black pepper crisps, for example).
  4. Make it plausible. In my initial brainstorming for “Dribble, Fiddle, Fig” I’d envisioned Durian as a school girl! As you know, she ended up as an 82 year old grandmother. Sometimes it’s necessary to tweak certain details- or remove them completely-in order to make them more believable. And in this case, the story came together more cohesively with an elderly woman as the main character. Although I was still rather attached to my original idea, in the end, it was simply more plausible to have a blind elderly lady bumping off her granddaughter’s rival soccer team one by one with an antique Stradivarius and disposing of them in an orchard than have a 6 year old do it. Which brings me to my next piece of advice:
  5. Don’t get too attached to your characters. It’s terribly needy. Be a total bastard. Cheat on them. Dis their clothing choices. Leave the seat up, despite numerous polite requests not to. Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen.
  6. Include at least ONE helicopter chase in each story. “Dribble, Fiddle, Fig” had five!
  7. If you’re writing about crime, make the crimes weird. Choose motives which are¬† plausible yet original. Jealous lovers, sociopathic-since-childhood serial killers, and demonic children, have been done a billion times. Cats which are fed up with the same damn dry food- day in, day out, finally cracking and going on a human-poisoning spree, only to be thwarted by a red headed cat shelter worker who’s secretly¬† “more of a dog person” ? Not so much.
  8. Consider how your writing will be affected if your book is translated into languages other than the one originally used. You’re likely going to have to renumber the pages.
  9. Lacking inspiration? Remember, Real Life is the ultimate muse, and every experience is a potential writing prompt. I’d been suffering the worst case of writer’s block in my life¬† after the launch of my debut novel, “To Slice a Watermelon”. I remember I was absentmindedly pairing socks when I dropped a pair which rolled under the couch.When I reached under to grab it, to my surprise, I found an old skull under there. When I questioned my¬† 4 year old, Semolina Jane, she admitted to graverobbing. Although I was initially annoyed,¬† I couldn’t stay mad for long. Not just because she was such a cutie at that age ( still is! Little huggybear <3), but because without that very incident, the seeds of what would be “Dribble, Fiddle, Fig” would never have been planted. Semmy and I still laugh about it today.
  10. Finally, by all means seek advice, but when advice doesn’t resonate, do the exact opposite. Use semi colons in every sentence; after every word, if possible. Write sober, edit drunk. Compose entire paragraphs of the words, “suddenly”, “very” and “quite”. This is how you break new ground. Remember Samaia Ladyperson’s poem “Suddenly It Got Quite Quiet In A Very Very Sudden, Silent Way”?¬† Of course you do. It’s pure genius. And genius heeds no rules.

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So there you have it. Follow these simple guidelines without question, and you too will soon be on your way to being a brilliant and successful writer.

Stay tuned for next week’s exciting installment of ‘Top 10 Tips’: The Origami Edition, where I meet with esteemed A4 enthusiast, Johnson Bollock, to discuss rectangles, parallelograms, and the mythical Oblong, plus interview the nation’s leading¬† Origamists on how to fold the ultimate chatterbox . See you there, for all those things, plus more things!

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