Fierce Creatures

JellyFish2. Again, feel free to associate this image & message to the inept handling of the CV-19 predicament by our dear leaders; or to the puke-inducing servile party line taken by the Daily Mail re. King Clown’s latest “cute” proclamations. Personally I dedicate it to one of my favourite objects of my contempt: the creators, promoters, instigators and fuel-feeders of that most disgraceful of capers of the past couple of years, the (Silly) Catalan Question. Far too long since I picked on them. May they all rot in some tailor-made Hell.
And here’s why:
This article is a poor rehash of a couple of articles I found in El País and Público a few days ago. The ones in the Spanish papers were better and juicier (and more detailed on the Cervantes/Shakespeare connection), but this one will do. See, even the Guardian has its uses, sometimes.
And here’s one to that most surreal -and still inexplicable- of sagas, the run on toilet paper (in Spanish):
And one to a simply marvellous bit of relatively unrelated but utterly divine surrealism:
Have a spiffing, panic-free week. And un po’ di mu’, of course.

Doing A Churchill

Doing Your Bit 4 Britain. aka Churchill ‘em to death! That is what the wee bastard is dong isn’t it? Trying to Churchill the nation into dying and dying happy. And the worse? That so many drones & zombies will buy it. Some people have been waiting a long time for a return to the “spirit of the Blitz”, innit. Pah!
Tomorrow: (almost) more of the same. The Ranter is back, Bumba be praised. 🙂

Moving On

Evolutions.  Here be two modest depictions of the joys and agonies of evolution. Feel free to associate them to the latest crowned-pain-in-the-butt hysteria. Or to the engineered success of that King of Gaga, Joe Biden. Or any other subject of your affection and/or detestation, it’s all the same to the little ones.


Shubby&Co48M. Generally I avoid “Days” like the plague but sometimes is nice to make the odd exception. Here’s one. This is for all the mad, bad and dangerous to know brave girls wot will take to the streets tomorrow to tell rancid masculinity what is what.
A las barricadas, quillas! Por la sangre derramada! Que se enteren los casposos!
En la calle de los Muros
han matado una paloma.
Yo cortaré con mis manos
las flores de su corona.
Anda jaleo, jaleo:
ya se acabó el alboroto
y vamos al tiroteo.
Federico García Lorca
And for the sheer hell of it. 🙂

Stringing Along

Puppet. She’s lost her head, poor thing. (Mind you, I can’t blame her. What with all the latest Crapitalism’s shenanigans; and now our own Psycho-In-Chief about to reproduce. Oh, the horror…The horror… Perhaps there’s something to be said for selective eugenics after all.) Anyways, we think the Honourable Oops Ibn-Niggurath, our favourite judge, may be inclined towards leniency, provided that she minds her strings from now on.
Here, have un po’ di mu’ and have a sponditious week.

Further Travels in Hyper-Reality

Postcard. Wandering as lonely as a lead balloon among the Hills of Temporary Oblivion, not a sodding daffodil in sight, I came across the tutelary spirit of the region, the Solid Marble Maiden. I introduced myself very politely and asked her for political asylum. She was much amused and not a little bemused, but she was also very polite and quite sweet about the strange request and said she’ll look into it, since she’s not sure she can grant such a boon on a) short notice and b) to a perfect stranger with no more recommendation than the company of a small snake and no local sponsorship whatsoever. I said I’d have a word with the local Shoggoths, or even the Ineffable Shub-Niggurath. At the mention of the Ineffable One, miss Solid Marble’s eye’s brightened and immediately said that my application was very likely to be successful, as she has tea & cakes regularly with the tremendously fertile Black Goat of the Woods With Far Too Many Churumbeles. Awaiting the verdict, I remain, yours sincerely, despondent, semi-desperate and as stubborn as ever.


Bring Back Cthulhu! This is just a quick visit to upload one of the best cartoons ever, even if it comes from the dreaded Guardian. Or Martin Rowson, whom I generally find on the crude side. But this is genuine archive stuff. It’s very gratifying to see that my exhortations to incorporate the Great Catnapper of R’lyeh into the psychopathic current body-politic are beginning to have some effect and are finally infiltrating the collective unconscious, no matter how subtly. Here’s to you, oh great tentacled one. But beware of succumbing to the temptation to work for anyone vastly more hideous and lethal than yourself. Never say I didn’t warn you, me old china.


Mystic Biology

Alien Squid. Have some more mystic squid. This lot are very good for your mental health, sing beautifully and can do a thousand and one interesting things with seaweed, from vegetarian sashimi to high-class jewellery. If you ask them nicely they’ll send you vivid dreams of the R-Evolution. For a modest burnt offering they’ll send hideous nightmares to the likes of Priti Patel -not that she’d know a nightmare from a hole in the ground, being one herself, but still…

Smiles & Tears

Love Sneaks. A Weird Valentine for an Aching World. One of the best things about living by your own rules and making your own traditions is that you can break them and skip them as you see fit. So, this year, almost as a protest (but not quite) I’ve done a rum version of a valentine. It’s dedicated to Anita O’Day, who did a delicious, sensuously lazy version of that rather bland song. And to my mate, the learned professor don Ricardo Hinks, because I remember once, a long time ago, we discussed apostrophes over coffee and hot chocolate. And of course, to all the lost souls out there wot are dragging themselves best they can along the disconsolate trails of life-after-Brexshit. If you can call it life.
Also, this year, no anti-schmaltz feast. We are too busy planning the R-Evolution, which is more needed that ever it was. Make your own (both the fest and the R-Evolution). But have a spiffing 14th of February all the same.
And remember: language matters. Language precedes though. You get raised by toads, you’ll never evolve beyond croaking. You don’t mind how you speak and soon enough you won’t mind how you behave. And so on.
Have un po’ di mu’and a couple of links with fangs: