Back in 05/03/15 I threatened some more of those ad hominem attacks. Somehow I forgot to fulfill my promise (possibly because I uploaded them on the other site). Well, I hate to be forsworn so here they are.
And here be some more. Por mucho pan and all that, you know.
And some more-more and that’s it, I swear.
This is yet another experiment, this time in the layout department.
I’m totally fed up with this clunky, chunky, graceless old format of text, text, text and then a block of thumbnails. It’s boring and messy and diabolically time-wasting if you want to correlate a text entry with its image. It’d seem so much more logical and rational to have one discrete paragraph per picture and to separate one image from the next by aligning them right/left and pairing them each with its companion text. If any, of course; some of the images are “sin comentario“. So here we are with two lovely old jokes out of very old Punches.
The one about the polar bear must be one of my Top Ten Desert Island jokes of all times. I must try to find some more of those old Punchers. Also, I’ve just “discovered” that justifying the text is vastly more aesthetically pleasing and massively easier on the ojo, look you!
I can’t imagine why I never though of any of this before. After all it’s fucking basic and simple and not brain surgery. Perhaps I am lazy. Or going gaga. Or something not very nice in any case. But there you are, I have now. Better late than never, innit?
Update. Having found out how easy it’s to use this more airy layout, I’ve started doing the same to older posts. It’s a bit of hard work so I’m going about it the shuia-shuia way, but in time I might manage a few back pages.
23/08/15. I’m going to experiment with a new posting policy. One, two pics max. per post. If I don’t like it I will amalgamate posts and bundle them into 6-8-packs, as per usual. So here’s the first of the solo posts.
Roll up! Roll up! Come see a most wonderful Fly-By-Night Circus!
BigNose McGurk and His Children. A Sob Story with a Happy Ending. For the Silver Bunny and Rose Macaulay.
This is the story of Leo(pold) “BigNose” McGurk, a serial single father.
Soft of heart and chronically naive, he got himself mixed up, time and again, with a string of heedlessly unscrupulous misses who soon after giving birth to a strapping lassie or lad, left him literally holding the baby.
By the time he had collected a dozen of such semi-orphans finances were getting strained and things were getting a trifle out of hand and Leo acknowledged that drastic action was needed to provide for such an extensive family. Unwilling to betray his proclivity for unsuitable females or sell the babies into slavery, he decided to set up a nomadic entertainment troupe. And because all his children are very pretty, indecently healthy, bright as lights and possessed of a keen sense of fun, Leo’s Poly-Dimensional Flying Circus prospered rapidly and acquired great renown all over the Badlands, from the marshes of !Ting to the underground canals of Crapston Parva.
Such was its fame that it soon reached the ever-vigilant ears of the Shoggoths, who punctually despatched Rosie to lend a hand with the after-hours babysitting and the running of the finances. The delightful Imogen, Lapsed Larva once of the Final Void, offered her services as acting part-time* usherette and ice-cream & maracas girl.
The travelling jamboree has since been renamed The BigNose & Rosie Itinerant Flying Circus, in recognition of Rosie’s invaluable contribution to the concern and to underplay the poli-dimensional element of the spectacle so as to preserve the mystery and the element of surprise. Leo may well be non-female-savvy and a hopeless administrator but he has three priceless talents: a gift for parenthood, an unerring aesthetic flair and a past-master’s technique in the matter/energy/dimensions manipulation department.
See him here, making some of his niños appear out of nowhere in particular and cascade through the Loopy Singing Hoops. Behold! even Roderick, one of the defecting Lloigor (full-time blasé creatures as they are), is impressed and utterly charmed.
The circus has so thrived that the two eldest children are now at the University of Upper Leng doing PhDs in classic quantum mechanics and funky biochemistry respectively. Three of the deserting mothers have made pacific overtures with a view to obtaining access to their forsaken offspring. Rosie is dealing with their appeals.
Alien anthropology -word to the wise. The females of Leo’s species (Probuscicus Levitans) are universally notorious, as much for their beauty, glamour and social graces as for their mindboggling fickleness. You’ve been warned.
*Imogen has not given up her post as Chairlarva of the Spartacist League 2.0
Please note there are two versions. I dearly love the blue one (I would, wouldn’t I?) but it displays kind of too dark on certain browsers (looks spot on on the tablet, where it was made). Again, feel free to vote if you can be arsed.
16/08/15 Voyagers. Still in full view of the spires of Snoopton-on-Scree and not two steps into the Mountains of Uncertainty, Magdalena the Martial Teddy, Emiliano “The Mexican” and their guest, a young Flowerette on her first Grand Tour, are set upon by a posse of Plug-Ugly beasts. Oh, dearie me. These chaps… do they ever learn? The Flowerette is called Incy and she’s just decided Grand Tours live up to their riotous reputation. Note. I’ve uploaded an alternative, very, very slightly different version. In time I may decide which one I like best. Feel free to vote.
Update 19/08/15 The Grief Custodian. Bring him your tears, your grief and your deepest sorrows. In his cavernous belly, where stars germinate and suns are hatched, he’ll keep your heartaches and your gripes fresh and crisp until you need them again. Or until the galaxies grow weary of their merry spinning dance, whichever comes first.
Sometimes is as bitter as bile. Today’s … kind of OK. Those Bubbles, they might make us proud, yet. Unless Uncle Sam decides to send in the marines, that is. Anyway, good luck to them. Well fucking done. May the “infection expand! Sad update27/08/15. Look I don’t really want to talk about it, all right? I said it was too good to be true. And I still think that next is snap election (on the offing already) and possible Golden Dawn here I come. Oh grief… Grrrrrrrrrrrr.
Update 11/07/15 Never one for missing a chance to fulminate against dastardlydeedness and iniquities and having just heard of the latest Tory machinations, Mr Silky Bombarder, the wise old spider shaman prepares for his Ritual Deportation of Toxic Miasmas knees-up armed with the tools of his office: the sacred Crickitt Bat of Righteous Ire, the shrill Trumpet of Ruinous Exposure and the most holy Merry Maraca of Public Disrespect. Riding the sharp linear splendour of his spontaneously combusting aura, a pack of opportunistic Cagnolitos of Tindalos, forever on the lookout for unusual angles and attracted by the electromagnetic hoo-ha, have infiltrated the gaudeamus. They are much taken with the sacred Crickitt Bat, which they deem not only geometrically kosher but also extremely groovy and full of interesting possibilities. We wish them all a very happy shindig and even happier conjuring. May Chaos prevail!
Update 23/07/15 It never rains… I’ve been graphically alive but buggered if I feel like talking. So, here’s the latest batch. The first if for Iain. Yes, again. Got a problem with that? No, I thought you wouldn’t. The other two are small rants on the vexed question of “freedom” of speech in this our beyond proto- and practically neo- fascist western societies. And for the ongoing “Je suis sodding Charlie” mawk fest, and for those of us who refuse to buy into it and DO NOT belong to what my compadre don Attilio “El Caffarenito”described, more or less, as the easy, comfortable and comforting one single beating heart of “social” media. Fie, sirs! And even faugh!
Update 29/07/15 Rosie and BoomBoom are back fromtheir recent jaunt to the Equivocal Strata, where the Discontinuous Flowerettes invited them to attend a most intriguing ceremony; the more so because they offered no explanation whatsoever for the procedure, so that my bemused rubbery darlings are sadly unable to tell me whether they witnessed an alchemical marriage or a shotgun wedding, although they reassured me that they had a right riotous time and that the Flowerettes send their kind regards. Thus the cookie crumbles in the Fuzzy Heartlands.
Update 09/08/15 Introducing some recent arrivals: the Bipolar Worms and their Minders. The Worms are creatures of subtle psyches and cunning instincts, who can tell you what is what on either side of the fence on demand, any day of the week; but they are also somewhat delicate and a tad fragile, hence the fully tooled up Minders. The Minders look small and harmless but do not be fooled by appearances. They can apply the Sacred Crikkitt Bat to spectacular, almost pyrotechnic (not to mention lethal) effects.
The New Look! Gone is the glamorous but heavy-on-the-eye black. Say hello to a clearer display.
Update 11/08/15 Hey, hey! First post proper since the New Look. This here be my take on an event that is also NOT sodding Charlie. A tad beyond the officially approved date but better late than never, I say. Here’s a little memento mori for all the poor buggers, all 300,000-plus of them (a conservative estimate which does not include those who died later on of radiation poisoning, or had to live with hideous mutations, or even the victims of the Tokyo blitz), who died a horrible death at Hiroshima and Nagasaki, back in 1945, for no better reason that that psychopath and much-loved genocidal moron, Saint Harry Truman, though that a display of wanton sadism would scare Stalin. (And did it scare him? Did it bollocks!)
They, the dead 300,000 are not Charlie, either. People like them, the Great Disposables of the Earth, Washed or Unwashed, never are…
But I AM them. You can bank on it. Happy anniversary.
A little blanket In Memoriam for all my dearly departed of the last couple of years. (Howard, Gore, Ash and Iain). Gone but not forgotten, indeed. Your music lingers.
Update 13/06/15 The HoverBugs have been quarrelling for the second time this season. Most unusual, as their squabbles are customarily a highly formalized bogus ritual. So the LoveWorms have sent for the Chunky Peace Envoy and asked her to soothe the choppy waters with her levitating metchik. She’s doing all right, as we can see. She’s half way there already. The other micro-organism will soon calm down, go into a trance and wake up refreshed and with no memory whatsoever of what the goddamned argy-bargy was all about. I’d like to point out here that the CPE has an over-the-average success rate (97.7% in fact) in this kind of manoeuvrings, and her fees are exceedingly modest (travel expenses, board & lodgings and a fiver a day, which she invariably donates to the local Merriment For All Creatures charity). Which is why she was never given the job for the Middle East instead of that ghastly dangerous clown wot used to be our prime minister. Pah…
Update 20/06/15 The stardust-spawned Small Fry have summoned the Chubby Ancestor and its entourage to the yearly Festival of the Crossing of the Fire & Brimstone Bird. They also invite you all to join in the revels, si le cœur vous en dit, and share in the blatantly defiant delight of greeting the onset of darkness.We wish them –and any of you who may choose to attend- well. Likewise great joy, endless grooviness and a speedy recovery from the hangover that will ensue. (The Ancestor has brought a few kegs of the high-grade Leng Moonshine Candy, AOC, 120% proof. Novices beware.) Now I’m off to build my own bonfire and to weave a few miniature wicker baskets for to burn in effigy a few grandees of Cancerous Crapitalism. Happy solstice!
Update 24/06/15 St John’s Day in Spain. Bonfire night was last night, for them. Salut!. Now, for something totally unrelated… A couple of Vermicimorphic Farfalloide anchorites have found a strange being asleep in the woods and are much intrigued by it. They think the creature might be an apostrophe. The otherworldly but highly imaginative hermits have no idea what an apostrophe is, but still they think the little entity might be one such thing. No, I don’t know either. Ask BoomBoom; he might know. (For Robert Sheckley, also gone but not forgotten).
Update 26/06/15 Agravación Delaney, the young Irish witch, congratulates her Zapper Wolves on completion of a highly successful Special Op. The beasties themselves are rather chuffed with the outcome, too. See their smug little smiles? These wolves were, originally, a gift from the Morrigan, who as well as a substantial pack of black dogs, has a nice side line in highly versatile (or Heisenbergian) wolves. Pedantic Footnote. Delaney: Irish surname. From Dubhshláine. Dubh: dark, black + slán: defiance (or Sláine, Gaelic for the river Slaney; possibly Right but less Romantic). Agravación: An avant-garde Spanish name. Her mum was called Irritación, and her granny Visitación del Dios
Update 03/07/15 I though that that find in the forest would have a tail… It has had. To wit: Lost & Found. Part II: Possession Is 9/10s of the Law. Following a very nebulous tip from the HoverBugs the Bearoid Monster and his missus, distraught parents of the lost (and arbitrarily renamed) “apostrophe”, have finally managed to locate their missing offspring and so an unfortunate fortuitous meeting has occurred in the National Gallery (after hours; relative time). The ensuing argument has quickly moved from initial manifestations of joy, relief, and incipient gratitude (“Erwin, my baby, Bumba be praised! Oh, you kindly folks, thankyouthankyouthankyou!”), to the first inklings that all is not as it seems (“What do you mean, “your” child? It’s ours. We found it in the woods.”, “Are you crazy? This is our eldest, Erwin Oriol!”), and well beyond acrimonious assertions of ownership v duty of care (“You lost it, we found it. It’s ours.” “Piffle! Return it at once!” “No.”). It has now reached the stage of mild insults and discrete threats exchange. I’m off to find the Peace Envoy before things get beyond mending.
Here’s a little bit of what your soul may fancy. Behold the young VeggieBats guard the stony RosaMundi ever so lovingly and the small but perfectly designed devotees do their devoted bit. Bon profit.
Update 21/05/15 Quickly, a couple of “tiles” I made for an ailing mate and the first, perhaps of a series depicting the life cycle of groovy alien races.
Update 25/05/15 Here be the two latest. A little bit of free mysticism and a watery Maternitá (wich is far more cheerful than a Pietá, lets face it). 1. Dakini Dance: The soul’s equivalent of anti-rust oil, this whirling 3-in-1 troika of Dakinis is now on a special offer: invoke one and get three. No need to state your requests or articulate your prayers. The girls will know what to do. Just fix your gaze on them and watch them spin (each wheel on a different direction) until your head swims in a sea of holy confusion. After a while it will either explode or you’ll attain total clarity. Either way, no more perplexity. Happy meditating! PS. These are genuine Dakinis (Cold Waste, Plateau of Leng branch), proper Sky Goers. No relation whatsoever to any silly elf-like fictional folk.
2. Deep Sea Life. The young Mermaid has just got a little tadpole. It’s her first and she’s thoroughly chuffed, of course, although, for her scaly life, she’s not at all sure how things came to this particular pass. She does remember, vaguely, a really wild party, at the Whites of Yha-Nethlei, to celebrate the Subsuming of the latest batch of Innsmouth Home-comers, where cartloads of extremely exotic beverages were consumed by all & sundry. Beyond that everything else is a pleasant blur. Be it as it may, the other sea creatures are duly filing past to offer their offerings, congratulations, best wishes and the occasional mildly snide remark.
Desperate note 28/08/15. Here be bugs! It’s either that or there’s a curse on this page. NO matter what I do the layout persists in coming up totally wonky and not at all what I want. I give up. Make the best of it, folks.
Primero deMayo. May Day. Day of Rosa-red dreams and Promethean fiery hopes. All done (in) and gone, now. But as Mehitabel would advice us: Toujours gai! Toujours gai!
Update o4/05/15 And now, for something slightly different and to somewhat assuage the pre-election blues…a little bit of frivolity!: The Well-Dressed Demonette’s Summer Caper. She’s wearing an exclusive Maison Shogg little number designed especially for her by her devoted admirers Rosie & BoomBoom. Over a cute neo-romantic peasant style blouse of pure Unresolved Waves muslin, she has a dark matter bodice embroidered with semi-tame particles, which could go rogue at any time thus adding variety and an element of surprise to the outfit. The bloated skirts and supernumerary petticoats are made of authentic HyperSpider’s silk, woven for the occasion by her half cousin twice removed, SpiderGirl, with an embedded motif of real pulverized bones of transnational CEOs and City of London PR men (and women). The classic pompom-shaped earrings and matching horn guards have been forged with -honest-to Joe (Stalin) Purloined Moscow Gold, personally nicked by the Shoggies from the vaults of the Dolores Ibarruri Charitable Foundation, and fashioned by Vulcan himself for the stylish miss, to heighten the irritation factor just in the off chance that any elderly members of the Ancient Régime be looking. Dry Blood of the Proletariat red stockings and black Flamenco pumps put a playful element in an otherwise exquisitely nightmarish creation. We wish the young lady great success at the Larvae garden party. Go knock ’em out, girl! Also in today’s entry: Two old wines in new-ish bottles. So there.
Update 10/05/15 In between post-election despondency and pre-birthday blues, here’s the latest. It has the distinction of having been banned/rejected from two groups on Ipernity, on the flimsy grounds that they are “family groups” (whatever that means) and therefore the language is “unsuitable”. One could almost admire the sheer hypocritical chutzpah of either statement (who decides what is “suitable”? families never swear? children are not exposed to swearing outside these groups? and so on; don’t get me started…) were it not for the repulsiveness of it. ‘Nuff said.
Update 12/05/15. It’s always best to end on a silly note. Especially a silly note with long sharp fangs. Even if the fangs are pretty cryptic. Entienda el que quiera entender, chaps.
And carry on in spite of the freely flowing shit, young Gorgon. Here we have again the indescribable meta-canines from beyond the dimensional pale; or as they are known chez nous, Los Cagnolitos de Tindalos. It says a lot about the kind of politician we, as a society, produce these days that the perennially famelic creatures, who will eat everything and anything, are even now hesitating about devouring the …things… that a fortuitous rent in the fabric of space-time has uncovered. ‘Nuff said.
Update 08/04/15 It’s been spring, officially, for days, but I seem to keep my own times, these days, so, here’s my Spring Demonette to celebrate. Now go and listen to Tom Lehrer’s Poisoning Pigeons in the Park.
Update 110/04/15 Sin comentario.
Update 15/04/15 For me mate Rhis, who shares with me a great dislike of Ed Milliband’s voice (also, of “perfect” sunsets and “perfect” butterflies, and so on)
Update 21/04/15 Sarita’s Day Out.- In a few hours the Seville Spring Fair, or Feria de Abril, will kick in with its usual panache and splendour. The kindly rabbi Esther Oliveira (cheremed and self-exiled in Toledo) has given her girl golem the week off so that she can attend and have some relief from her chores and studies. (Rabbi Oliveira is very progressive and believes in educating girls, human or golem alike.) So there they go, young Sarita and her mates, merrily off. A few miles outside the city walls they are ambushed by Alegría the Serpentine. Greetings are exchanged, Sarita proffers and invitation to join in the fun, doña Alegría accepts and by now they should be nearing the outskirts of this most civilized of cities. We wish them a spiffing time, although doña Alegría, who is very good natured but prone to mischief (she’s nebulously related to Loki on her mother’s side) is bound to land them in the soup at some point or other. Fortunately Zorro the Wonderdog and Bryan the Trouble Teddy are in attendance and ready to extricate them all from any entanglement with the authorities. So, Viva Sevilla y Olé y Viva Triana! Sorry I can’t be there, too, oh beautiful bride of the Guadalquivir.
Update 01/05/15 Look, tiles are good for you, OK? So, don’t argue. Sit with the tiles, stare at the tiles, sing to the tiles. And happy dribbling.
A wee bit of what you like is good for the soul. Having discovered that the MyPaints app on the tablet has interesting possibilities in the geometrical stuff department (see the Hounds of Tindalos on last post), and having drifted again to that old favourite gamut of blues and greys, here’s another couple of variations on the themes.
The B&W one was made for darling Carlin, who is having a rough patch (again, poor mite); the second is for me, for the sheer delightful hell of it, porque si y por la cara. The campaign posters are momentarily in suspended animation. They’ll be back.
Update 27/03/15 Recently there’s been more ding-donging on Ipernity on the vexed question of “To Politik or Not to Politik”. Some people have been suspended, some for the third time. All fairly tedious. So, as a public service, to promote love, peace, siblinghood and semi-Zen calm, here’s some soul-candy. Meditate on the tiles. Muse on their rotund shapes or their jagged edges. Sing them a song, even if you’re tone-deaf or out of tune. They’d like that and they will repay you with much serenity and groovy insights. Soko ni!.
The deeply shocked fishis are a terse quasi-cautionary tale on the damned arrogance of the “Artist”. Ah, if our creatures could speak their minds…
Update 01/04/15 NB. This is NOT a Poisson d’Avril. This is the last of the election posters. Honest. Introducing The Rosie & Zippy Mellow Metal Combo. Rosie, faux-young Shoggoth and Zippy Stardust, MiGo elder. Plus camp followers: BoomBoom, Rosie’s pseudo twin, Bryan, the Trouble Teddy and Leah, the Bubbly Demonette. Please do not vote for them. They really are not interested in power, hegemony, world domination, exceptionalism, crapitalism, demockracy, ideological export games, paranoid doctrines, hysterical fairy-tales or feeble-minded market theories. They’ve only come along because some of their friends are running. Were they to run, however, they would guarantee cost-free, hassle-free, painless, efficient and durable MiGo Molecular Reshuffle to anybody who wanted it, thus ditching, once and for all, the vexed question of the NHS. Plus free ice cream, Smarties, teddy bears and fresh flowers, of course. Having said that, they’ve pledge themselves to work with whichever party wins the election, even if it’s the Shub-Niggurath (with whom the Shoggies have …history), in the areas of health, entertainment and culture & sport. The MiGo will look after the public health and the Shoggies have volunteered to run free for all educational workshops on subjects such as Disrespecting Authority, Guilt-Free Reasoning, Understanding the Paranoid Mind, etc. and organize equally free and accessible to all art events ranging from Bach recitals to short morality plays of their own devising such as The Defenestration of Ben Bernanke. Also training in groovy novel sports, like Banksters Tar & Feathering, Politicians Tossing, Facebook Sabotage (Beginners, Intermediate and Black Belt) and Monsanto CEOs Nipping. Electoral motto: Let’s go to the pub instead, shall we?
Update 05/04/15 Let’s have some more tiles, shall we. They’s good for the soul and they empty the overloaded mind like nobody’s business. This lot is slightly p’litical, look you.