Plant y pwll. Here’s a little something for Arthur Machen, writer of some of the weirdest, creepiest horror stories ever, and, I think, conflicted Welshman. That is, he seemed to love his native Wales to bits (and who wouldn’t?) but appeared to be in two minds about the origins of its people and the alleged survival of some dodgy race of old. I’ve never gone very deeply into this so I’ll stop the pontificating. Have a spiffing penwythnos. (Sorry, Rhis, me old china… It’s all online translators Welsh, I’m afraid…)
In The Garden. As every gardener worth her muck knows robust, healthy roots bring forth vigorous plants which will produce prosperous flowers which in due course will become delicious fruit. Now, to have strong roots you need good soil. Good soil relies on on good manure. Good manure is largely based on waste matter; so, by all means, pile up the doodoo. However, do NOT attempt to nourish your soil with reprocessed politicians of the Dominic Cummings or the Gavin “Spiderman” Williamson ilk. Yes, they are excrement, pure tapeworm droppings one and all, but not the kind of guano your veggies will be at ease with. There is wholesome shit and pestilential shit. Now you know.
This scrap of horticultural advice was brought to you by the Alternative Gardener’s Question Time.
Have a splendid week.
PS. This is for me mate, The Dude, who’s been having problems with his melons, of late. Also because the background of this pic is in tune with his latest spirographic productions. In fact is a wee tribute to them. Cheers, compadre!
Foxis of Tindalos. What’s that? You though because having done the Cagnolitos and the Tadpoles I’d stop mining the Tindalos vein? Think again.
Here be the delicious Foxis, also native (if the term can be applied to these creatures) of the same enigmatic and dicey locality. They have temporarily deserted their home dimension (again, a relative term in this case) to throw some light on the subject of language and meaning and on some of the perversions, distortions, corruptions, misconceptions and similar shenanigans so hysterically in vogue lately. Slanted language breads disordered thoughts which in turn often lead to despicable actions.
Have a nice day.
A man may take a drink because he feels himself to be a failure and then fail all the more completely because he drinks. It is rather the same thing that is happening to the English language. It becomes ugly and inaccurate because our thoughts are foolish, but the slovenliness of our language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts. The point is that the process is reversible.
False words are not only evil in themselves, but they infect the soul with evil.
New Gusanito. Indeed there’s no such thing as too many of those. That’s what I think, anyway. And when you think about the slimy, slithery, venomous, scary vermin currently populating 10, Downing St. and Whitehall and Parliament, you’ll have to agree with me. My worms are cute, wise, pleasant to know and very good for your mental health. Have a spiffing week and don’t fret too much; it’ll all come out in the wash, sooner or later, when the wee worms and the tardigrades and the rats inherit the Earth. Love and whizzes.
And here’s a little bit of day music to help you through the week.
Veggie Queen. There. This is the only kind of royalty we’ll ever welcome ‘round here. And if you think she looks too fruity, think of Boris Bleeding Johnson’s brand new cabinet. They don’t come much nuttier, they don’t. Also dangerous. Priti Patel (she of the covert Israeli army money-funnelling shenanigans, “migrants are to blame for the NHSD crisis” and “bring back hanging”) as Home Secretary? Bumba help us all!
There’ll Be Tears. Some more sound advice and tips from Adelita, my cheery, well-informed, incisive and upright demonette.
For any Latinists out there, here’s the quotation in, well, Latin.
Efficiut Daemones, ut quae non sunt, sic tamen quasi sint, conspicienda hominibus exhibeant.
And for any stray Lovecraftians, a true morsel from that most excellent book, the Kitab Al-Azif, aka the Necronomicon.
Cursed the ground where dead thoughts live new and oddly bodied, and evil the mind that is held by no head. … For it is of old rumour that the soul of the devil-bought hastes not from his charnel clay, but fats and instructs the very worm that gnaws; till out of corruption horrid life springs, and the dull scavengers of earth wax crafty to vex it and swell monstrous to plague it. Great holes secretly are digged where earth’s pores ought to suffice, and things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl.
This whole jumble of pop wisdom comes straight out of H.P. Lovecraft’s The Festival. I “dedicate” it to the mindless clowns currently trying to construct another Gulf of Tonkin Incident only this time in the Strait of Ormuz. Make of it what you will and have a grand weekend.
Captain Fizz. Here is another little bit of that HMCA (Heavily Modified Clip Art) I love so much, plus an original wee worm. A darling Beluga and mates. One can never have too many Belugas, that’s what I think. This one is for Captain Carola Rakete, a sea she-wolf with more balls than many of her male counterparts. And for Judge Alessandra Vella, the woman who got her out of jail and validated her defiance. Here’s to you girls! May your kind multiply and tell the bastards what’s what.