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Solstice Shubby. Here she is, the one and only, the splendid, the ineffable Black Goat of the Woods With a Thousand Young -currently on holiday in the Plateau of Leng and hence not in the picture. She’s commanding us wretched souls to have a fab Solstice in spite of the all-pervading crap that’s engulfing us. Milady’s cortège think (but not say; not aloud anyways) that she is, indeed, glorious and incomparable and unutterable but she has no social graces whatsoever. I say nobody’s perfect. And she means well, I’m sure. Follow her advice and do try and have a great Transition. Things are very unlikely to get any better but at least Apollo is turning his chariot around and heading back our way. Any time now, snowdrops and wee buds. Menos da una piedra…

And un po’ di mu’ seasonal. (I know, I repeat myself. But I love this song and it’s not everyday that a couple of eccentric Scots write a song for me just to cheer me up.)


Stay sane, folks!


Birds of a Feather. Have a little sequel to this year’s Ash Memorial. This is what might (or might not) be going on in that splendiferous place that Ash’s particles might be kicking about right now (or not…). Gossip is rife there and often of the most frivolous kind you can imagine. Here you can see Julian and Sandy, the Shady Birdies, a disreputable pair as there ever was, updating the Mystic Tadpoles on the latest scandals, spurious rumours and bad jokes currently making the rounds in the final void. The tadpole on the right dreads what’s coming, for Sandy’s jokes are truly, magnificently and crisply outrageous.


Ash’s 8th. I’ve changed my mind and decided to do yet another Ash Memorial.

I still can see him as he was the last time we met, there, standing in my kitchen, arms waving, eyes ablaze, ranting like it was going out of fashion about the absolute need of this wretched country to acquire a constitution. Also the even more urgent necessity to clear out the English language (or any other language, for that matter) of jargon of any kind: legalese, psychobabble, poliflummery, pseudo-science bunk and other though-terminating linguistic evils.

I would entirely agree with him on the language thing but I though he was being naive on the first point and I would remind him of all those countries that have constitutions and are still a fucking mess and/or a pain in the gluteus maximus, like the good old USA and Australia. He was undeterred by this last argument, for as well as a master-ranter he was as stubborn as a mule; now and then he would even out-rant me. But we never quarrelled and we always had such fun rearranging the world. Ah well… sic transit gloria us puny humans. And everything else.

I hope his sub-atomic particles are having fun, still and forever, somewhere spiffing, where constitutions are not needed and paranoid empires are unknown and cant is regarded a mere joke, something to pass the time in between oscillations.


At The Lighthouse. Here’s a little something, a wee pre-Solstice snack to cheat this gut-wrenching hunger for light we feel. Have a grand week if at all possible. Stay sane.

Gypsy Prince

Spiny Forest. The Barbed Borderlands is a strange, dour region. Exceedingly fertile and therefore half impenetrable, its forests tend to bring forth minimalist types of tree and shrubs, all branch, no flowers. To this austere place the tiny One-Eyed Itinerant Babbler has come to try and induce said stern trees to let their hair down and be merry; nay, even frivolous! So far his efforts have met with a small degree of success: two of the severe woody thingummybobs have sprouted flowers.

The little birdies are charmed by the youngster. In their collective bird-brained memory lingers the image of a long, long gone Italian geezer who used to talk to their kin on regular basis and once persuaded a wolf to go vegetarian for a while. (The experiment didn’t last owing to the crappy attitude of the local humans who, as usual, mistook grace and goodwill for weakness.)

Us, too, is charmed by the wee chatterbox and us hopes that he’ll soooooon come amongst we the masses and convince everybody that life might be like a chicken coop ladder, short and full of shit, but that a) that’s no reason to pout and b) beauty and love still matter. Now more than ever.

Small Good News

Cummings Is Goings. aka Cumming a cropper. I’m still pinching myself in utter disbelief but there you have it. He’s gone. Ding dong the beast is dead! Nice. Get the vodka out of the freezer and animate the will to fight. Still, do keep an eye on Her Indoors, the Symonds creature. Anyone willing to shag Boris Johnson to the point of actually breeding with him is not to be trusted. Eyes peeled, comrades.

Remember Remember

Amnesia Sunday. aka Lest We Wake Up … and remember (if we ever knew) the real phoney reasons and mendacious justifications for that most wasteful, unnecessary and criminal of wars. Let the sentimentality and the cheesiness lull you into a sense of saccharine virtue and snug ignorance. Above all, do NOT connect this kind of events with what’s going on in the factual world outside them; and please do not notice that the show was barely on the road when one of our top brasses was already trying to boyscout the nation into being prepared for WWIII owing to the Chinese Virus and Putin’s interference.


This year I’ll refrain form quoting Wilfred Owen in full for the Nth time. Just this: that dulce et decorum est pro patria mori only as long as the moring is being done by you and your children and not by Them and Their children -and even those don’t take survival precedence over Them Themselves; remember Abraham.

PS. If you thought that these yearly rants are indication that I don’t care for those poor buggers who died in that war, and all the other stupid wars of empire bickering, who died only to fertilize the ground for the next conflict, think again. I do care. Deeply and incandescently. It also scares the living shits out of me that that generation bough, lock, stock and stinking barrel, the lies, the propaganda and the mis/disinformation fed them by their elders; just as the troops sent to kill, rape and main in Iraq believed that Saddam has tons of WMD because The Blair Witch and the Guardian said so. Bumba alone knows what this generation will buy. 🙁

Have a spiffing week.

Apocalypso Now

Phantom Fireflies. One of these days a Dies irae the size of a small moon is going to fall on our heads like a sodding ton of bricks. And then both the black sheep and the black-sheep-shooters will run around in panic and despair and there’ll be much gnashing of teeth, although not for long, for the end will be very, very painful but quick.

And all the while, the Meat Puppets in No. 10 and its peripheral add-ons are having a laugh and just going with the flow, or, as they call it, “the scientists”.

And the good WeThePeople wear their little mostly-useless masks and stay home after dark and buy stuff from Amazon. And in their plentiful spare time they indulge in whatever degree of witch-hunting they can and call the dissenters all sort of unpleasant names. Torches and pitchforks and public Auto-da-fés in Hyde Park next, I daresay.

Welcome to the New Subnormal (soon to be Sub-Human). Have a lovely rest-of-the-week. And un po’ di mu’. Long time no un po’ di mu’… 🙂


Te tengo ke ver llorar, descalcito por las calles primo, por lo ke tu me has hecho pasar.

The Latest New Subnormal

Hound of Tindalos & Little Fox. aka Dogged Fury. Practically paralytic with rage and virtually mute with irritation. Vex to the core. Annoyed beyond endurance. Yet we must endure and Beckett the storm best we can. Since I cannot speak, let the hounds howl and the little foxes gnaw at and spoil the vines of The Man. Resist. Bite. Chew. Have a nice week.