To carry on. Here be the Uncouth Larvae of the Final Void, again, with their subtly unique take on current politics. It could be called Imperial Diplomacy, I dare say. PS. I appreciate that the “stuff” in “stuf it” is missing an eff, but’s that’s entropy for you… Update 28/08/14. I’ll be brief because I feel like shit microwaved. Besides the pic is pretty self-explanatory. But, there is a funny coincidence here. Although while I was making it the last thing on my mind was my own deck’s 7 of Swords, the meaning of this pic is practically, word by word, so to speak, the same as the card’s. The theme of the Banality of Power must be hoovering around the back of what’s left of my mind full time. Not surprised if it was so, these days… Update 02/09/14 Waiting for the next batch of Feral Girls and their companions to come out of the oven, here. have a tile or two. Good for the soul, especially the B&W one, I think. Update 04/09/14 The new batch of Feral Girls is slow in coming. And they won’t be rushed; why, they might bite me or sommik… So, waiting for them, here be the latest JuJu, the Totem Pole of Conceptual Cleansing. See BoomBoom, kindly acting as the foundation and carrying the Garrote of Intolerance of Mediatic FlimFlam. On top of him stands the Grunting Goblin; he grunts and carries his tools of office, the Double Edged Twin Cricket Bats of Extreme Prejudice to Crapitalist Bollocks. And on the crown, the Fat Creature of Uncertain Origins and Unpredictable Outcomes. She clutches to her furry bosom the Sacred Cup of the Eternal Sunshine of Endless IceCream. There. Now, for some instructions on how to best use this particular Juju tool:Worship at this Totem Pole if you must worship anywhere at all. It’ll bring you wondrous good fortune and you’ll have more fun than by praying to any old crummy angry sky god, I promise. Dance around it naked on a moon-flooded night. Sacrifice an Obama or two, or, better still, a Henry Kissinger, to the tutelary entities that animate it. Groove on peple! Update 15/09/14 To end on a happy note again (old habits die hard), here’s the first in a series of Feral Girls. This be the Scaly Twins and guests, having an ice cream & moolight party. Zero the Badger has invited himself. In other words, he’s gatecrashed. But the girls don’t mind at all. The ice cream is endless and the sea is choppy, just the way they like it. Ask them nicely and they’ll invite you to the next shindig.
Or as the Spaniards would say: ¿No quieres caldo? ¡Dos tazas! You don’t want any soup? Have two cups! So it is with this yours truly and the vexed question of the selective silence of our “wonderful, free, balanced and impartial” media on the subject of the undeserving victims of eastern Ukraine & other unfashionable victims in general. The first one, Rough Trade, subtitled Los Olvidados, is for those Forgotten Ones. You know… the ones the meedja hardly ever mention, because they haven’t been sanctioned as “worthy” by The System, or because they belong to or are somehow involved with the designated enemy-du-jour.Or if they do, is only to add insult to injury by saying that is their fault if they got massacred to bits, like the Wall Street Journal said about the victims of the Odessa burning back in May. (And don’t even get me started on the Australian aborigines, or First Australians, as they are now called. Call them what you will, they’re still being exterminated, even as you read this.): Deadly Ukraine Fire Likely Started by Rebels, Government Says – WSJ The second, Boycott, is simply more of the same. In the middle of doing these two last doodles, I came across John Pilger in conversation with some guy, and he said what I just said earlier; almost with the same words. Uncanny or what ? Anyways, after that I felt a wee bit less mad, bad & dangerous for children to know. Thanks mate! http://rt.com/shows/going-underground/177516-western-media-victims-uk/ Have a nice day. Update 09/08/14 It’s not often I can manage a good p’litical poster. Odessa Calling was the last time I felt I had “done it”. Today’s offering is definitely IT. I’m quite chuffed with the way Netanyahu’s come out looking like a scary, unholy cocktail of himself plus Nosferatu plus the dread Blair Witch. May they all rot in hell. Note 08/02/15 I have uploaded the latest version. The text in this one looks much better and flows nicely. Update 10/08/14 “…and suddenly, things got darker.” The previos entry has not been all that well received on Flickr. That is, it has attracted a lot of disapproving, huffy silence. (Giggle.) On Ipernity it has fared better. There, it seems to have roused a few highly fed-up spirits. Nice. Well, it’s the old “lose some, win some”. Here’s the latest. Salut! Update 14/08/14 Ending post on a contray note. 1. Some more of that “soup” nobody seem to want: the mad girl with strong opinions who stands before tanks and dies youg; she has a poem wot might be hung of the poetry section and a twin sister in the offing. 2. A lady wot joggles live Wibbles. And if you think that joggling live, sharply self-aware Wibbles is easy, think again. Even the Shoggies are impressed!
As the non-existent visitors to this site must have gathered by now, I like to end my 6-pack chunks on some note or other; happy by preference but I’ll settle for whatever is going on at the moment. Today I decided to start on an optimistic-contemplative mode. Think of this illustration as a little piece of wishful thinking, a modest attempt at sympathetic magic. I neither live in a cave, nor do I have any need to invoke bison or fallow deer. If I want food all I have to do is walk down the shops. But my vestigial hunter’s soul still longs for the Big Game, it does, poor thing. It also longs for some justice, a modicum of groovy righteousness and merry retribution. But there’s none to be had; not here, not now, not by me, worse luck. So, it’s up to the Ineffable Black Goat of the Foggy Woods of My Mind to enact the reckoning. And for the Flowerettes to rejoice and celebrate Milady’s exploits. Cheers. Update 18/07/14 It never rains…etc. Here be the latest. The first is just a wee please-yourself exercise in tiling. No more no less. The secons shows a family scene: The Mice Queen, with her flaming heart of fire, travelling on her polydimensional vehicle, has come to exchange gifts with her mates the Mice. The Mice are staunch Republicans and the Queen is a devoted Anarchist, but they both like to play anachronistic games, what can I say? It does pass the time and sharpens the old acting skills. And last (BNL): Rejoice! Or weep, as you feel fit. It’s Adopt-A-Lost-Soul-Day again in the delta of the Urook. It comes once a month; it has to, in these unhappy, entropic days. The Flowerette on the right has decided to adopt the little Triangulated Thing, if only on temporary basis, as the LTT is already doing very well -he was last heard attempting to whistle The Internationale. The Flowerette on the left has opted for a “surgically stricken” Palestinian child. Always a plentiful option, alas… Update 31/07/14 A family snap. aka Shindig in the Primal Void. It’s a little known fact that the Mother of Bumba, back in her vertiginously distant yuff, was a wild, wild Thing and very fond of notional ice-cream, dancing and playing pranks on the Other Things. She used to sneak behind the ProtoAzathoth and scream “Order!” Order!” top of her voice. That got the poor bastard every time and made him jump a couple of dimensions to the left. When she grew more solid and sedated, and after she had her only child, the lovely Bumba, she remained very fond of dancing and music. Eventually she went on to invent what later would descend through the aeons and the dimensions and become Flamenco. Here she can be seen sponsoring a juerga with the Turtlelettes and the QuasiSnake Girls. Bumba has just invented the Flamenco guitar, bless his stardust socks. Update 01/08/14 Let’s end on an unhappy, ranty note, shall we? I’ve said my say on Gaza, so it’s back to my ongoing gripe with the Zombi MeejaWhores, and the fuelling of the hot cold war of words, and to kissing American ass, and to trying to drag Russia into open (armed) conflict. I do hope like hell that Putin will continue NOT to buy into the sort of hysterical shit. Nuff said. Here’s our advice to anyone willing to listen.
For reasons unknown, lately I’ve been craving blues and its relations. Must be the Muse in a wobbly mood. Anyways, here are some. The first is a common or garden mandala, or an anti-mandala. The second is a snapshot of the Fuzzy Demonettes and their Shoggy chums in their beautiful night garden. From it they bring you the Fleurs du Mischief, as the TeddyBear Tree is not in season (it blooms later in the year). Put then on a vase; or make tea out of them (VERY good as an antidote to BBC vibes)…Or put them in your pipe and smoke them; and then wait for the pretty allucinations to beging (highly recomended). Update 09/06/14 It’s back to basic reds, apparently. Don’t ask. Here be The Fish Dancer. He dances fishes, he does. He doesn’t dance with them,or makes fish dance, he dances them. Once the fish have been danced they’re never the same again. Big juju, this being danced by the Fish Dancer. If I were you, I’d make sure you never meet him in a dark alley. Also, an improvised birthday card for the Fenian, born on the 4th of July. Honest. Update 10/06/14 I’m closing this segment on a s-tile-ihs note. Voilà.
Recently, I’ve come across a guy on Ipernity who uploads pictures of snails on his page. Also, occasional information on the mysterious workings of snail brains. I’ve concluded that he likes snails. So this is for him. As usual, that deep. Update 31/0514 Yesterday I got an email from Schiffer announcing that the 10 complimentary “author’s copies” of my deck are on their way to South Hackney, via Byakhee Express. (No, sorry, it’s FedEx. My mistake.) So, here’s the “poster” announcing the happy event. The Deck is now flesh & blood. Or ink & cardboard, really. Welcome to the family, oh wee bundle. And to round up a day of wonders, behold! young Olufemi’s got himself a girlfriend. Olay! Her name is Adebola; Bolita for short. She just wandered into one of our tactical briefing sessions, out of the deep dark forest, sashayed her way into our midst, batted her eyelids at poor Femi…and the rest is mythology, as they say. And here they be, the happy pair. Olufemi’s showing Bola the newly-minted book and he’s bragging a bit, saying: “I’m in it, don’t you know…” And she’s saying “Blimey! That’s nice.” And “So, who’s the blindfolded bint with the dog, the cat and the rat and the snakes on her bonce, then?” And so on. We’re all are really happy for Femi, who, we all think, works way too hard and has but few distractions. Bola will see to it that he doesn’t overdo it from now on. She’s awfully glamorous and very good-natured, but you can sense the iron claw beneath the velvet paw. (Atta girl!) Update 11/06/14 Waiting for what has to happen to actually happen (oy! am I getting restless…), I sit and meditate. Meditation’s a grand thing they tell me. The Turtlelettes are not quite so sure. Thank Bumba and his darling Mother for the good ol’ faithful, ever-vigilant WakeUp Croc, I say. (The Shoggies are having a laff…) Update 16/06/14 You know how it goes…You do a pic with a croc; someone says “what a nice croc!”; next thing, you’re doing a pic with nothing but crocs. Oh,… you don’t know? OK, only me then. In any case, voilà. Have more crocs. Next time: piggies! (Unless it’s mice, of course.) Update 17/06/14 The story so far. HanuPiggy, riding his chariot of clouds, clad in his best ceremonial dress and carrying his sublime two-headed truncheon, has come to have tea with Calpurnia and meet her babies, who were born a few years ago. The monkeypig is a very busy creature and couldn’t find the time until now but all the same everybody’s awfully glad to see him. The friendship between the Rats and HanuPiggy goes back a long, long way, even to the times when HanuPiggy was an ordinary pig called Tarquin who meditated a little too long on Hanuman, the Hindu monkey avatar, and strange transactional shit happened as a result. And if you want to know why he didn’t get a monkey’s tail as part of the deal, the answer is that who needs a tail when you’ve got twelve pseudopods? (You can only see six in the picture; the other six are hidden behind his enormous bloomers.) Update 21/06/14 Come greet the return of Darkness with the Solstice Wasp-Demonette! Dance around her bonfires. Drink the heady wine of Decline. Sacrifice to her a Warren Buffett or two (if you can catch any); or even an Obama or a Cameron, she’s not fussy. But on no account will she take Nigel Farrages. Even a fiend has got standards, what!
I did say there’d be another Odessa massacre, didn’t I? Let’s hope it doesn’t get any worse. Meanwhile, gather your Potemkins, folks. We’re going to need them. Update 07/05/14 It is indeed a day of woe for a narcisist when even his own reflection starts taking the piss. Update 11/05/14 Happy 67th birthday to me. So far the only one that has remebered the date (other than The Fenian) has been the automated system at the Nightmare Network. Don’t you love computers? To celebrate all the lovely death and decay I see all around me, I’ve decided to upload the heartwarming story of how the Shoggoths ambushed the Fatty Orphan in a remote corner of the Gardens of the Twilight Zone. Instantly spotting her as “one of us” and much taken by both her size and her substance, and just for a lark, they offered to worship her as a goddess. The bulky miss was a bit uncertain to begin with, but soon entered into the spirit of game and has actually decided to stay in the TZ as a resident tutelary presence. The Shoggies ara making arrangements to introduce her to Milady of Willendorf (with whom they are in excellent terms) and Milady can then introduce the Sugar Dumplin’ to her chum, the Shub-Niggurath (to whom the Shoggies most definitely don’t talk). At which point, and if I keep going the way I’m going, I think we can legitimately get the Really Big Girl’s Club going in earnest. Size Os of the universe, tremble & quake in your silly Jimmy Choos! Hai! Hai! Update 15/05/14 This is for the two lovely Medialens Davids and their merry variety of Buddhism. The events that inspired it are too long-winded and convoluted to detail here. Soko ni! Update 19/05/14 I swear to Bumba! The Shoggies are getting SO excentric, lately. Here they be, strongest creatures in the hood, and they insist on being carried, and on getting piggy-backs. Honestly… Perhaps it’s an excess of Smarties beginning to affect their electromagnetic fields and they’re becoming like children? Or, as probably rightly I suspect, they just take the piss? I lean towards the second hypothesis. Update 23/05/14 To end on an exemplary note -which makes a change from a happy one, here’s the story of the Pulcinio Polemico, a mini documentary sponsored by Nu-Clear Causic Soap Inc. Bringing Cheap, Cheerful and Efficient Satitazing Devices to Disadvantaged Parts of the World Since 1963. The story so far: The Polemic Pulin -a Genoese variety of high-octane baby chicken- has come to the Dismal Plains charged with the task of introducing the Doodlely Dudes to the raptures of the Dialectic Method. The Dudes, who are unadulterated innocents and prodigiously ignorant to boot and have never heard of Marx, let alone Hegel, are therefore not understanding a single solitary word of the passionate diatribe delivered by the fiery chickie. But thinking it a sort of groovy alien music, and being very musical themselves, they respond in kind. Observe that even the little Triangulated Creature, who never sings or even ever makes a sound, is suddenly attempting a timid tune. Xeno-Zoology Footnote. The Triangulated Creature is a profoundly unhappy being, for it is not in its nature to be triangulated. Triangular yes, but not triangulated. It was forcibly thus moulded by the evil spells of a wicked Third Way warlock who caught it off guard one evening as it was coming home from the George and Orange. Taking advantage of its small size, limited brainpower and high level of ethylic intoxication, he inveigled the poor wee thing into experimenting with fashionable ideologies. Bozhe moi…! A sad case if I ever heard one. But now, perhaps under the influence of the vivid coloratura of the Pulin’s rant, we might see the beginning of a slow recovery, who knows? Hope springs eternal.
Ojos chicos de mi cuerpo y grandes de mi caballo. And so on. Them wot know their Lorca will know what I’m talking about. This vexed Ukraine shindig is beginning to give me another bad case of rabiosa silentia. I’m sure it’ll pass, though; they generally do. Meanwhile, have a post Easter feline and his mates. They speak for me. Now more than ever. Update 23/04/14 And just in case I wasn’t making myself clear… This is for each and every child whose life and limb and childhood has been destroyed, when not obliterated, by some underpaid and overindoctrinated slave with half a brain operating a video game machine in in some godforsaken underground basement somewhere deep down under the Nevada desert. The little Spook Dancer has come to the Elysian Fields of Defiled Childhood to bring loads of Celestial Icecream to the poor wee wretched wraiths who inhabit them, in an attempt to assuage their alienation. NB. I’m not sentimental about children, but I do feel incredibly sorry for them. Especially those who died, and still die, everyday, in agony and terror because the pshychopaths du jour in power think that’s expedient to kill as many peasants as possible, as quickly as possible and to the least cost to their filthy pockets. A pox on them all. Update 03/05/14 Too knackered for anything else, here be a few New-Improved versions. 1. An homage to beloved and much missed Iain Banks. 2. The new-look Story of Edwina. These last three I dedicate to my good compadrito, Don Attilio “El Caffarenito”, bearer of wild flowers to a dead red, red Rosa. Cheers, mate.
I don’t know why I’m so incensed with the latest Ukraine-Crimea-Russia v USA-&-Sundry-Slave-Minions shenanigans. I should be totally immune to this sort of crap by now. But obviously I’m not. And I am furious. I can’t even listen to the beeb’s stomach-turning headlines without bursting into a torrent of abuse at media whores, craven countries, US hypocrisy, etc. Oh, well… There’s always the Beasties to help me express what I think of the above-insulted ghastly cunts. Oh, Ash, wherefore are thou, my friend? And now, you will excuse me. I must go and buy a few bottles of real Russian vodka before “they” ban it. (Shame I can get some frozen Russian assets. I love frozen stuff…) PS. I don’t even like vodka, but it’s the thought that counts, I’m told. Oy gevalt! Update 30/03/14 ‘Been waiting all my life to do one of those. Now, I’m off to read bits of Ecclesiastes, or Thomas Ligotti… Giggle. PS. I think it’s a crying shame that nobody does Vanitas anymore. The more fools they. Update 11/04/14 Behold! the latest of SpiderGirl’s sprogs has fallen madly in love with BoomBoom (and who would blame her?) and can be seen here trying to mesmerize her bulky beau into loving her back. BoomBoom is enormously amused by the creature’s antics but thinks that, ultimately, he’ll have to dissapoint the youg lady, as his heart belongs to Art & Smarties only. Exo-Zoology note from the Scribe: Miscegenation, or cross-species interbreeding, is quite common in the Dreamlands (which explains why it’s such a weird and wonderful place), so nothing unusual here. The brat herself is the producto of a HyperSpider and a Werewolf. Coming next: I never “do” Easter but this year I’ll make an exception. But I’ll be buggered if I upload a Bunny… See you next week. Update 13/04/14 I said NO bunnies, didn’t I? Happy Alternative Easter, folks. Behold a thoughtful Japanese Demon, come to bring us the Eastern Egg containing the Cyclopean Chicken Prodigy. She thinks that in a world where two-eyed people can be so very blind (not to mention stupid), a single-orbed creature may fare better and shed some light upon this wretched planet. Milady claims to be vaguely related to the Onibaba, the demon hag, but I suspect her from being of the Shikome (the wild women of Izanami), travelling in mufti. With Japanese demons it’s hard to tell, you know. She has not, as yet, revealed her name, not even to the Shoggoths, who absolutely adored her on sight. Update 16/04/14 And to end on a happy note…more about the vexed “Ukranian Question”! Here’s a couple of Kiev felines wondering where the fuck is all the fish gone (not to mention all the flowers) and that plus ça change… from Blackwater to Greystone. Oh, dear… Medlers, don’t you love to hate them? Pah!
I promised rabbits, didn’t I? Well, I’d hate to be forsworn… There you go. Rabbit No. 1. Unconsciously inspired by my Flick’r pal, the splendid Matthew Watkins. Cheers, mate! Update 10/02/14 The Young Prophet has come out to spread the Groovy News and to teach the Eight-fold Path to happiness! Rejoice! He started with the Shoggoths, to whom all this is so much coals to Newcastle, but the Prophet didn’t know that. He’s young and inexperienced. Anyway, the Shoggies liked his enthusiasm and his merry disposition, so they gave him some tea and send him the way of the Uncouth Larvae, whom as we all know, are in much greater need of encouragement and hope. NB. The young one is an unexpected love-child of the Flutterby. The lady herself, pig-headed as it’s her wont, refuses to name the father, contending that “who gives a toss who the sodding father is as long as the child is healthy, strong and wild?” Quite. Update 14/02/14 Here’s the imcomparable Boom-Boom, disguised as Shogzilla, wishing you all a wonderful Anti-Valentine’s day, folks. And may all my dreams come true… Update 23/02/14 Meet the Siamese Demonettes. They sprang fully formed and equipped from a recent dream of the delicious Bumba. They travel the universes in their sailing bubble, with their Macchine Diaboliche and their pals, the Angelic Sardinettes (offsprings of the Celestial Sardine), in quest of true horrors and the mission of neutralizing them. (I can’t wait till they get to Ben Bernanke and Henry Kissinger… ) The Sardinettes are called Snip and Snap and they just lurrrrve to push the buttons. Update 19/03/14 Mistery solved. Here’s what happened to flight MH370. Celestial blobs are patient creatures but you can push them (and shove them, and bully them and invade and pollute their territory) only so far, I dare say. (Actually, originally I got the idea from a short story by A. Connan Doyle, whom I’ve been reading for the very first time in my misspent life.) Update 27/03/14 Just for the hell of it. Too long since I did anything with Shoggoths. Hai!
2013 is nearly over. There were one or two good things in it, but on balance it was a pretty crappy year; what, with all the political shenanigans, and the mass-snoopping on us, poor chilangos. And Old Chthulhu (my older computer) died for good, and my eyes are playing up. To round up the shit, this computer, my last surviving one, is giving worrying sings of wanting to follow its companion to the cold computer common grave. Oi!… So, in case this happens (if it happens) before the year is out, here comes Blott, the Badlands Golem and his fearsome bodyguards, Pearl and Lisette, the UltraChickens. They bring us the Cup of Mixed Blessings, full to the brim with a powerful brew of severe bloodymindedness and sarcasm laced with a generous dose of disbelief of ANYTHING the BBC and/or The Guardian says. Salut i força al canut, as the Catalans would have it. Update 01/01/14 Happy New Year & All That. (Sounds cruel, doesn’t it? And it probably is. Sardonic, at the very least…). Have a good one, anyways. Or as good as you can make it; or circumstances will allow; or………………..(enter your option here)………………………….. Stay awake. Stay stubborn. And semper adversis, naturally. Update 14/01/14 We was having a drink, us girls, and the Shub-Niggurath was bitching non-stop about her all-too-numerous and exceedingly badly behaved Young, as usual, when the delicious GorgoMormo had a splendid idea: Instead of wallopping and scolding them all the time, why not give them a treat? Then I remenbered that once, back when and up to the 9thC. AD, there used to be a flourishing cult of the Ineffable One in Sicily. Why not revive it, to cheer everybody up? So we did. And the Young were so taken with the whole enterprise that they even volunteered to learn the Tarantella Siciliana and stage a demo for Mother’s benefit. And would you know, it went swimmingly! The Young ones behaved almost well and danced even better -with the odd exceptions here & there, of course. (They are monsters after all…). So a couple of them did a Sevillana instead of a Tarantella. And one of them insisted that maracas was essential to the soundtrack. So what? We all had a marvellous time, even Milady, who never once smiled, or stopped grumbling or fessed up to having a grand time. See here the snapshot of the shindig at its peak. The “solid”refreshments have been left out of the picture so as not to offend the sensibilities of they who think bankers, politicians and transnational CEOs are nice people and should not be eaten by bulky transdimentional creatures. And here be a link to one of the inspiring tarantelle. Salute! Tarantella siciliana – Marranzanu – Scacciapensieri Update 22/01.14 Right now all that stands between me and a Blues the size of the Taj Mahal is my graphics. So whatever little real, usable Time&Space the pain, or the shortness of breath, or the general impaired vision will allow me goes into them. Shoot me now… The first one today is one of those for-tablets-crappy-free-tool/Flash crossbreeds. The second, a tribute to those two Caledonian past-masters of chaos and aural dissonance, the glorious Cthulhu Brothers. (See link to their site.Do.) It’s been inspired by the … things that grace their site. Cheers, lads! NB. In due course, my two … things, will move. See if they don’t! Ha. Update 29/01/14 To end on a happy note…a bit of bad poetry and a couple of girls that most definitely don’t shave their armpits. May their fuzz grow long and their contrariness prosper. Next post: Rabbits!