King Clown Watch. (No. 19.) Here be the ever-useful subatomic particles Smith and Jones, shining stars of the Far Fringes Commentariat, expressing their considered opinion on the latest tactics dripping from No. 10 to get rid of as many as possible of the superfluous, non-productive, non-consuming, pension-cashing members of this our wonderful Late-Late Crapitalist society.
And here’s a nice bit of gossip:
Snakes & Spirals. It’s a little known fact that our galaxy is guarded by a couple of hyper snakes called Tilly and Tully who are distant cousins of Odile, the Strident Sneak. Tilly is the mother of Tully. Tully is very young, a little vain and still a bit wet behind the ears but she’ll do very well, Tilly thinks. They consider the Milky Way to be their precious pearl and so they guard it fiercely. Their verdict on and advice to us, poor carbon-based humanoid bipedal peasants is: You are fools. You must stop being fools.
I’d listen to them if I were you.
Here, have a wee bit of juicy gossip:
FraidyCats2. No comment needed. Let the moggies do the talking. But…have a shufti at this:
JellyFish2. Again, feel free to associate this image & message to the inept handling of the CV-19 predicament by our dear leaders; or to the puke-inducing servile party line taken by the Daily Mail re. King Clown’s latest “cute” proclamations. Personally I dedicate it to one of my favourite objects of my contempt: the creators, promoters, instigators and fuel-feeders of that most disgraceful of capers of the past couple of years, the (Silly) Catalan Question. Far too long since I picked on them. May they all rot in some tailor-made Hell.
And here’s why:
This article is a poor rehash of a couple of articles I found in El País and Público a few days ago. The ones in the Spanish papers were better and juicier (and more detailed on the Cervantes/Shakespeare connection), but this one will do. See, even the Guardian has its uses, sometimes.
And here’s one to that most surreal -and still inexplicable- of sagas, the run on toilet paper (in Spanish):
And one to a simply marvellous bit of relatively unrelated but utterly divine surrealism:
Have a spiffing, panic-free week. And un po’ di mu’, of course.
Doing Your Bit 4 Britain. aka Churchill ‘em to death! That is what the wee bastard is dong isn’t it? Trying to Churchill the nation into dying and dying happy. And the worse? That so many drones & zombies will buy it. Some people have been waiting a long time for a return to the “spirit of the Blitz”, innit. Pah!
Tomorrow: (almost) more of the same. The Ranter is back, Bumba be praised. 🙂
Evolutions. Here be two modest depictions of the joys and agonies of evolution. Feel free to associate them to the latest crowned-pain-in-the-butt hysteria. Or to the engineered success of that King of Gaga, Joe Biden. Or any other subject of your affection and/or detestation, it’s all the same to the little ones.
Shubby&Co48M. Generally I avoid “Days” like the plague but sometimes is nice to make the odd exception. Here’s one. This is for all the mad, bad and dangerous to know brave girls wot will take to the streets tomorrow to tell rancid masculinity what is what.
A las barricadas, quillas! Por la sangre derramada! Que se enteren los casposos!
En la calle de los Muros
han matado una paloma.
Yo cortaré con mis manos
las flores de su corona.
Anda jaleo, jaleo:
ya se acabó el alboroto
y vamos al tiroteo.
Federico García Lorca
And for the sheer hell of it. 🙂
Puppet. She’s lost her head, poor thing. (Mind you, I can’t blame her. What with all the latest Crapitalism’s shenanigans; and now our own Psycho-In-Chief about to reproduce. Oh, the horror…The horror… Perhaps there’s something to be said for selective eugenics after all.) Anyways, we think the Honourable Oops Ibn-Niggurath, our favourite judge, may be inclined towards leniency, provided that she minds her strings from now on.
Here, have un po’ di mu’ and have a sponditious week.
Postcard. Wandering as lonely as a lead balloon among the Hills of Temporary Oblivion, not a sodding daffodil in sight, I came across the tutelary spirit of the region, the Solid Marble Maiden. I introduced myself very politely and asked her for political asylum. She was much amused and not a little bemused, but she was also very polite and quite sweet about the strange request and said she’ll look into it, since she’s not sure she can grant such a boon on a) short notice and b) to a perfect stranger with no more recommendation than the company of a small snake and no local sponsorship whatsoever. I said I’d have a word with the local Shoggoths, or even the Ineffable Shub-Niggurath. At the mention of the Ineffable One, miss Solid Marble’s eye’s brightened and immediately said that my application was very likely to be successful, as she has tea & cakes regularly with the tremendously fertile Black Goat of the Woods With Far Too Many Churumbeles. Awaiting the verdict, I remain, yours sincerely, despondent, semi-desperate and as stubborn as ever.