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.
http://www.counterpunch.org/2015/07/01/no-je-suis-charleston/

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 cÅ“ur 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.

Election time draws nearer and behold! campaigning activity’s picking up. Here we can see little Jimmy Two-Tails trying to persuade the Hermit ProtoShoggoths to vote for his faction, on the grounds that although they (the PSs) haven’t got tails, they can easily grow as many as they like, as they are protoplasmic and all that. Jimmy has brought with him his campaign manager, a young Night Gaunt (very inexperienced but very enthusiastic) and a string of Dancing Puddies -who, may I emphasize, are NOT goose-stepping but actually trying to do a Ziegfeld musical, bless their furry socks.

Update 11/03/15. That’s it folks, the electoral brouhaha starts here properly. Meet your firs candidate, from the Coalition for Real Chaos (Final Void Splinter): the ineffable Shub-Niggurath, The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young, a single mother of far too many Young, each and every one a nogoodnik, and two monstrosities she disowned and disinherited eons ago. In a perennial strop herself, she can offer the nation nothing but blood, pain and tears. She thinks that if that did for Churchill she can’t see why it shouldn’t do for her. She promises, however, special dispensations from blood, pain etc. to anyone (excepting Karl Rove et al) willing to babysit on regular basis. Also, she brings her own cabinet, civil service and armed forces, that is, her Thousand Young, aka the Shub-Niggureths, as part of the deal. She’s all for nepotism because she is a great believer in family values. She also promises to preserve a free NHS so that the blood, pain, etc. can be somewhat mitigated. Under her monstrous management you will suffer horribly but if it’s any consolation, so will Henry Kissinger, Warren Buffet and them of that ilk, for whom she has a very special kind of affliction in mind.

Update 15/03/15 The fight is full on, with the other heavy weight butting in and young Jimmy pitching his bid. And today’s plats du jour are: For the Heads & Tails Unified Combo, Jimmy Two-Tails, the new Kid on the Worm Block. Mutant vermicello. Distantly and vaguely related to the Uncouth Larvae of the Final Void, runs on a simple ticket of physiological discrimination: Two tails, Good, No tail, Bad. His campaign managers, Aspic and Aspan, the obstreperous tadpoles, are not quite sure about that NHS caper, for they think it sounds a tad Stalinist, but young Jimmy’s adamant. The NHS stays. Trident doesn’t. Mr Sheepshape and his little son Roderick are fascinated by the pledge of universal, free Irish whisky on demand. They don’t know what whisky is, poor mites.

And for the Final Void Hegemons, Yog-Sothoth, the One-In-All and All-In-One. The Gate and the Key. Also every Path that leads to the Gate, and all the Service Stations in between. He offers you oblivion without peace, darkness without end and everlasting dementia. Will suit masochists very nicely. He hasn’t got the foggiest what the NHS is but he’s willing to incorporate it into the communal nightmare. He will not renew Trident, which he regards as pathetic little toys for mentally deficient children, as he can do far, far better with a mere twitch of his smallest tendril. For a fully Comprehensive and Integrated Reality, for that Theory of Everything you spent your entire life searching for, for that Ultimate Truth your soul craves, vote Yog-Sothoth and merge with the whole shebang. Just…caveat emptor.   *Today’s complimentary quotes on the nature of reality:

The illusion of freedom will continue as longs as it’s profitable to continue the illusion. At the point where the illusion becomes too expensive to maintain, they will just take down the scenery, they will pull back the curtains, they will move the tables and chairs out of the way and you will see the brick wall at the back of the theatre.  Frank Zappa                                                                                                                                                                    …Suskind quoted an unnamed aide to George W. Bush (later revealed to be the sinister Karl Rove). He wrote:”The aide said that guys like me were ‘in what we call the reality-based community,’ which he defined as people who ‘believe that solutions emerge from your judicious study of discernible reality.’ … ‘That’s not the way the world really works anymore,’ he continued. ‘We’re an empire now, and when we act, we create our own reality. And while you’re studying that reality… we’ll act again, creating other new realities, which you can study too, and that’s how things will sort out. We’re history’s actors… and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do.'”    http://www.informationclearinghouse.info/article41179.htm

Update 17/03/15 Happy St Patrick folks! Here, allow me to introduce, for the as-yet undecided-but-just-in-case candidates for the In a Permanent State of Flux Party: The Hounds of Tindalos. Curves keep them away from our worlds and angles let them in. They are older than anything you care to mention or even imagine. They beat Azathoth by a long chalk in the chaos and mayhem league tables. If they could be bothered to boast, they’d boast they can offer the nation really new angles on your common or garden Nietzschean outlook. They claim, when they remember to claim anything at all, that their ice cream is, verily, yea! something else; truly sinful stuff. Right now they still haven’t quite made up their scatty minds as to whether they want to compete or not. They say they are far too busy having and rearing new puppies, looking for crinkly spaces, or linear chunks of time, so they can invade Reality and give everybody a time they’ll never forget. And generally behaving like the yahoos they are, although they don’t put it quite so bluntly. I want them to run because I have only four candidates and 4 is a bit of a boring number. I pointed out to the fuzzy creatures that five is a much more dynamic and disruptive number. They did not react in the least to the word dynamic; they just sat there looking for imaginary fleas (no parasite is stupid enough to invade these creatures), scratching non-existent scabs and looking vacant. At the word “disruptive., however, their ears pricked up, their tails started going like the clappers and they began salivating in a manner that would have made Pavlov roll his eyes with delight. So they might enter the race after all, which is why I made them a poster of sorts. And yes, they are not the most endorsable of candidates, but then again neither is Nigel Farrage, now, is he

Update 21/03/15. That’s it, chaps. One more poster and we’re done. Here we are introducing to you and proposing as candidates for the General Election 2015, UK (a junior branch of Transatlantic Exceptionalities Inc.):  Spartacist League 0.2: Gibbets, Imogen and Rudolph, Renegade Uncouth Larvae, lately of the Final Void.      They run an ideology-free shindig.  They pledge free Belgian chocolate, free drinks, free drugs and free high-cholesterol takeaways for everybody. A full restoration of a universal, free, and Big Pharma-free NHS to be implemented forthwith.  They are also quite keen on letting every Tom, Dick, Harry and Johnny Foreigner into the country because a) It’s a good prophylactic for inbreeding and b) It SO irritates Nigel Farrago and the Daily Mail.       Loosely aligned to:  Emiliano “The Mexican” McFluff, of the Rosa Luxemburg Lives! Conventicle;   Zorro the WonderDog, of the Free Bones & Biscuits Party;   Edwina the Singing Chicken, of the Loopy Fringe Chamber Ensemble;    Tampopo, the Educated Whale, of the Sleeping with Fishes Cabal.           Their motto is:  Life is too short and ideologies are for peasants. Eat, drink, smoke yourself silly and be merry for tomorrow… who gives a toss? Carpe diem, mate, the party’s on us!

Let’s start this 6-pack with some wise quotations and a warning, shall we? “Our leaders are cruel because only those willing to be inordinately cruel and remorseless can hold positions of leadership in the foreign policy establishment. People capable of expressing a full human measure of compassion and empathy toward faraway powerless strangers do not become president of the United States, or vice president, or secretary of state, or national security adviser or secretary of the treasury. Nor do they want to.” – William Blum. And: “You can’t believe a word the American media says. If they say anything correct, it’s just an accident.” – Paul Craig Roberts. (I’d like to point out that this applies to all media, anywhere in the world. Just for the sake of accuracy.) And the warning: see pic, text in box. I can get Biblical, too, if need be, don’t you know!

Update 23/02/15 The sequel to the Saga of the Three hearts. Part II: The Upgrade. It’s not easy living with three souls, I swear to Bumba. Sometimes I wish I was a pebble.

Update 26/02/15 And so things go in the desert and strange meetings take place whilst in the distance the Shoggoths dance the Tango of Brotherly Love. And I’m grateful for small mercies.

Update 01/03/15 Another death anniversary coming up soon, in April. Iain Banks. Scottsman, ranter, writer and general irritant to the bienpensants. Author of some of the very best Sci-Fi ever and namer of my only object of devotion: the good ship Ethics Gradient, to whom I, the miscreant with no religion, god, master or mistress, prays every night to come and take me away to live in a darling Hub as near Andromeda as possible. Amen.

Update 05/03/15 Let’s end with yet another personal attack, shall we. But why settle for an ad hominen one when you can prod an entire group (if with a hive mentality, admittedly)? So, here’s to that tribe of zombies that is the American Israel Public Affairs Committee, may they all burn in some quickly improvised hell. PS. This is the first one of a series.

And memorials. Here’s my modest contribution to the current spate of “I’m This or That” posters, memorial days, public displays of…grief? and so on. My wee “Not charlie!” poster started an almost-trend on Ipernity of posters remembering those totally forgotten, unfashionable and not-worthy-of-notice(-let-alone-mention) victims, like the American Indians, the Uyghurs, etc -although not the Australian Aboriginals. I wonder why. Too recent? Too ongoing? So I did this one for a very nice Ipernity contact. Bon apetit, folks. NB. I don’t think I’ll be doing any more of this stuff because 1: the possibilities are too-too endless and 2: I have other fish to fry. Having said that, I may indulge myself and do one in memory of all the people who that much-loved mass murderer (and pimp), Winston Churchill, managed to obliterate during all his sad years in power. Hai! Hai!

Update 05/02.15 That other bloody MawkFest and awful concotion of middle-life Crapitalism is fast approaching and the “encouragement” to buy-buy-buy is relentless. So here’s the first of my antidotes to it. I’ve tagged it under Homages, Politics and, naturally, Love.

Update 08/02/15 Have a topical one of sorts. Ad hominem attack? Damned right!Who does the ghastly little man think he is, going places to tell folks what should or shouldn’t do? Or who they should bomb to smithereens or not, as the case is here. Pah!Mind you, this is a specific-but-not-exclusive ad hominem attack. If the spirit prods me again (and if I can be bothered…) I might do one for Obama; or Cameron. In fact, I could do one a day for a whole year and still not run out of targets. But I would not do one for the Farrago Thing; his wet dreams are probably too, too obscene for images. A Gorgon has standards, what!

Update 12/02/15 And here comes an antidote to all that Valentinic nonsense, folks. The story so far: Two defecting Lloigor have come together to share vino and tittle-tattle. One of them has just had a very scary meeting with the itinerant spectre of one Margaret “Maggots” Thatcher and is now recovering from the shock and commenting its harrowing experience with its mate. The chum’s last remark and final word is “Stupid old cow!” in Welsh. (Translation courtesy of my most learned compadrito, don Ricardo Hincks.) NB. This is my first collaboration ever. The creature I’ve used as a foundation for this illustration is a Lloigor figurine crafted by John Morey, ridureyu1 on Flickr. Here’s a link to the wee resinous chap itself. Do have a shufti at John’s page if you like your monsters tri-dimensional; some of them are absolutely to die for.  https://www.flickr.com/photos/74529773@N07/8592983461/in/set-72157632510311496      John provides some information about these much maligned creatures on that page but you know, for mucho pan nunca mal año, so here’s some more. The Lloigor are rather enigmatic non-material beings made of some kind of psychic energy or other but capable of manifesting themselves occasionally as massive dragon-like creatures.  The Cthulhu Mythos Encyclopaedia (Daniel Harms, Elder Sign Press) has this to say about the Lloigor, amongst many other things: The Lloigor are filled with a never-ending pessimism. Their minds are not divided into the id, ego and superego, as those of humans are. As a consequence of this, they are unlikely to put any of their plans into action.(Which is not only good news for us puny humans but also very wise in any case. Would that NATO should observe such exemplary behaviour!) Still, it should be realized that they may be dangerous foes to those who learn of their existence. My own experience of these beasties (limited to the defecting variety though it is) is that you buy them a few drinks and volunteer to listen to their bitching about Azathoth till they turn purple in the face and you’ve got  friends for life. NB2. The reason this lot here speak Welsh is because Wales happens to be one of the traditional centres of Lloigor activity. Having said that, these two have long absconded from their original tribe and only hang around Wales because they happen to love the place. And who wouldn’t?

Update 15/02/15 Depressed about the latest political shenanigans in Ukraine? Deeply despairing of things EVER getting even a micron better? Bored to tears with ObamaBabble? Scared stiff that some multinational is going to start fracking in your back garden? Not to worry. Ask Ibliss, the Massive Shoggoth and his associates to take you on a Free-Floating Experience weekend break. Free, painless and very good for your complexion. And far, far healthier than FaceFuckingBook! Look how happy the Discarded Teddy looks. You, too can feel the bliss of detaching yourself from gross matter and your vile body. Bookings now open.

Update 17/02/15 To end on a cheerful note… (Peripherals by the Gorgon. Sitting skeleton pic found in Flickr’s Powerhouse Museum Collections. Acquisition credit line: Gift of the Estate of Raymond W Phillips, 2008 Thanks Raymond!)

Which has begun with a couple of small massacres. But…because they were perpetrated on “us”, the Good Guys, the outcry and the outrage and the outpouring of crocodile tears and herd sentimentality has been overwhelming (not to say nauseating). Mmmm. Does anybody remember, ANYBODY at all, in our wonderful “free, balanced and impartial” western meedja, or on our “must have” “social” networks, shedding a single tear, raising a single solitary dissenting or complaining voice when last May nearly 100 people were criminally incinerated in Odessa? No, of course not. So, here’s my version of free speech. Take or smoke it, it’s all the same to me. By the way, this vexed question of free speech… The way it’s handled in these our thoroughly indoctrinated cultures reminds me of something that Henry Ford was supposed to have said regarding his cars: You can have any colour you like as long as it’s black. Thus “free speech” chez nous. You can say anything you like as long as it’s the correct, appropriate, sanctioned thing. What nice times we live in… The second is a little bit of pre-election blues. Mrs Worm is having all sort of interesting encounters on her way to or from the forest market, these days. Lucky her. Update 17/01/15 The back has been playing up like it’s going out of fashion but it hasn’t really stopped the flow. Zo zorry… Only slowed production a bit. Here be the latest. The nearing-extinction Dinos is for me, because that’s how I feel more often than not. I refer not so much to physical extinction, naturally, but to the fact that a generation or two may possibly see the disappearance of any form of dissent but the most sanctioned kind. The one that is safe to “express” and “share” and “liiiiike”on FaceFuckinghBook and Twatter. Oy vey… The second is a small but passionate tribute to all those wonderful Big Mouths all over the world that have caused/cause/will cause embarrassment (not to say irritation) to the psychotic cleptocracies wot rule the world. Chapeau, les enfants! The last is little Jimmy Two-Tails’ contribution to the impending election. Ma foi! if I could, I’d vote for him, I swear. Mind you, given the current “choices”, I’d vote for a fucking tadpole. Or the Shub-Niggurath. She’d like that. On a happier note: the reaction to the Not Charlie! poster was quite unexpectedly mostly positive on Ipernity, look you! Apart from a feeble attempt at censoriousness (oh, how can you?!? etc), the damned thing opened a small can of closet worms of its own, started a lively discussion (blimey! never had so many comments on a single page of mine…) and out of the woodwork slithered all sort of supportive comments, nods, nudges, winks and say-no-mores. Even on the more “sedate” (like in Vallium?) Flickr it attracted a few brownie points. Sorry gold stars. See, life does NOT always stink, ye Gorgs of little faith. Update 30/01/15 To end on a nice agit-prop note, here be a modest p’litical poster to celebrate Greece’s swing to the…I hesitate to call it Left. Still, as I never tire of saying, a girl must dream.