It’s good to know where one is. The more so if you are a free-floating Ronin Balloon with a tendency to getting lost, especially in the Badlands. Thank Bumba for helpful creatures like the Hospitality Birdie and the Silly Clouds. PS. The paranoid-looking wee flower has an excruciatingly sad story of her own and a very good reason for looking perennially askance at all & sundry strangers. I might tell it to you some other time if the spirit grabs me.
All praise Priceless Protoplasm! The Shoggies have coalesced in a single massive entity to celebrate Shoggothohood, see just for the Hell of it. The baby flowers with untidy hairstyles have joined in a merry tribal dance. Just because they feel like it. So…Viva Sevilla y olé! (Why not?)
My politics are not popular. We knew that. Still, the more they are disliked, the more the p’litical stuff bubbles out. Preverse, I call it… So, have the latest batch. Fishy shenanigans. Decisions, decisions… The story so far. 1. The button. I don’t know what the button does. 2. The Tadpoles. Well…Tadpoles will be Tadpoles, that’s a well-known fact. 3. The helpful small fish. His whole extremely large extended family was wiped out a few years gone in the Gulf of Mexico courtesy of BP’s little accident. His name is Leonardo. And that’s all I can reveal, honest. They never tell me anything… 🙁
The Scrounger. Creep Cameron was in Brussels, prattling away with his forked tongue, boring everyone to distraction. With one tongue he raved against foreign-imposed limitations on our sovereignty. With the other he has just sold the country down the murky river of the power of the Multimafionals to sue the pants of anyone impertinent enough to demand they pay taxes. And the NHS to Simon Stevens. Back at the home Chicken Ranch, the Farrago Fright and sundry large cattle of that ilk (most of Laughbour included), also rant against foreign powers European (but not Transatlantic) in particular and foreigners in general. The small fry bleat away the Daily Mail Mantras or the Guardian’s Party Line, according to preferred diet. Nobody mentions (if they know at all what it is) the secretly conceived, developed, discussed and soon to be passed TTIP. Everybody thinks we should bomb another “middle eastern” country. Possibly flatten it to kingdom come, so we can stop once and for all this horrid stream of ghastly migrants hell bent on swamping our green and pleasant land with the sole aim of assaulting our women and making away with all the council housing, hip operations and orange juice. Shoggoths very seldom weep, just in case anyone was wondering.
A great wind has risen from the South, tearing a breach between the worlds and carrying in its wake BoulderGirl and her Companions and her spinning Wibbles. See her come leaping over the Mountains of Madness, to bring us the merry dance of chakra scrubbing (whatever a chakra may be when it’s at home), for to rid our poor souls of Crapitalist Crud and other Chicagoesque miasmas. Watch her Wibbles wobble and whirl and swirl and fade in and out of several dimensions all at once. You have never seen Wibbles like this in all your travelling days, for these be not only self-aware Wibbles but self-determining to boot. They know neither god nor master, like BoulderGirl herself doesn’t either. They travel and minuet with her only because it pleases them to do so. Even the Webby ProtoShoggoth is impressed; he thinks that were he the marrying kind he would very much like to marry the unruly lot of them and to hell with the quiet life he always claimed was his fondest heart’s desire. The Flying Bijou Elephantine Entity, ancestress of all things pachydermic, is simply trunk-smacked with delight. Come, get up from your spuddy couches and out of your petty shell-worlds and join us in a spot of carousing and ecstatic boogie-woogie. What do you think you have got to loose, other than a few preconceptions? Look, even the delectable Kokopelli has come out to play us a tune or two! Allons enfants, Avanti, o popolo, life is effing short and true pleasure even shorter, not to say more infrequent than a Tory with a brain. And who knows that all that dancing-dancing might not open a proper sipapu in the fabric of our crummy old self-inflicted reality and then…Fifth World is our oyster!
Here’s wishing you all a happy Serpentine’s Day, this year’s groovy alternative to that other Mawk-Fest, Valentine’s Day, aka Consume, Consume You Mad Fools II. Observed and celebrated by aether drifting Serpents, insurgent Shoggoths, absconded Lloigor, defecting Larvae of the Final Void, educated Snails, stroppy Gorgons, sundry Monsters and other such like truly chic Entities, on February 13th. Or thereabouts, we’re not particular. On this date we exchange unusual gifts, Chinese takeaways, Jolly Rogers, cuddles, fiery rants, crappy jokes and imaginative, colourful insults provided they are dispensed in a non-threatening, recreational sort of way. They who can also exchange portraits of famous free radicals*, rogue subatomic particles and pussycats rescued from Schrödinger’s infamous box. Them so inclined renew their vows of love, comradeship, mutual cooperation, reciprocal back-scratching and highly profitable communal dodgydealery. Flash dancing in the streets, impromptu morality plays, kamikaze happenings, garden parties (see pic), riotous shindigs, concerts and improving lectures will take place all over East London as from today. All events are free and accessible to everybody but they are advertised only through telepathic hallucinations; so, if you wish to attend keep your inner ears sharply open. Else, you can ask Rosie, who this year has volunteered to act as Chaos coordinator.
*Likenesses of The Two Davids, Rosa Luxemburg, Buenaventura Durruti and the Cthulhu Brothers remain great favourites. In fact, this year we ran out of “I Love Rosa” T-shirts by mid-January.
What with Serpentine’s Day drawing in on us all, the Uncertain Zones are beginning to stir and bubble like a clutch of baby snakes. Taking advantage of a briefly operational tunnel between their worlds, the Free-Floating SpiderThing and her Shadow have popped in to visit their friends the Rugose Vermicelli and to bring them the traditional seasonal gifts. The SpiderThing has brought them a new ornament; she is adamant that no creature can ever have enough ornaments. “Por mucho pan nunca mal año” is her favourite motto. The Shadow bears the Holy Carrot of Eternal Chumminess, a sprig of Oakish Stuff, for strength and endurance, and a nice raceme of stardust, always so useful, don’t you know.
PS. On the said principle of “Por mucho pan…”, I’ve done a grey version as well. Vote if you can be arsed.