Riotous Assembly

Drunk & Disorderly. In these godawful times of heightened pretentious nonsense and language distorted, when not downright corrupted, there’s a new kid on the pompous linguistic block: elevate. A perfectly ordinary, useful and sensible word is being tossed all over the place, in the most absurd of contexts, whether appropriate or not. In protest to this kind of balderdash, the young Webbies have decided to “elevate” mischief to new heights and, having broken into the private cellars of the Shub-Niggurath, have gotten gloriously plastered. They can be seen here re-enacting a regular session in our very own House of Commons -who seem to be getting commoner by the day.

This inglorious conduct has caused much shock and awe amongst their relatives and their governess, the Slender Butterfly Man. We, personally, are very much inclined to join in the fun. As I said, times are really crappy and any break from the unquestioned official piffle is most welcome. Even the Shubby has looked upon the misdemeanour with a nebulous shade of indulgence. After all she doesn’t drink, really. She only keeps a cellar to annoy the Final Void branch of the Temperance League, dontyouknow.

Today, instead of the usual un po’di mu’, I offer a snippet of wisdom found in, of all places, a P. G. Woodhouse novel. I dedicate it to Jeff Bezos, Bill Gates and Warren Buffet. Enjoy.

“He was suffering from that form of paranoia which makes men multimillionaires. Nobody would be foolish enough to become a multimillionaire if it were not for the desire to prove himself irresistible.”

Greenery

Budding Gardener. Times being so very lousy, it almost feels mean-spirited to have an Anti-Valentine. Why, even the BIC (Brainwashing Industrial Complex) seem to have toned down the mawkishness and the ersatz sentiment, poor dears! (Giggle, giggle.)

On the other hand it’s good to keep up some traditions, especially those that promote insubordination, so as a sort of via media, we have dispensed with our customary annual riotous shindig and taken ourselves to a quiet garden party thrown by Bella, the young novice gardener. She’s doing very well; what she lacks in expertise she more than makes up for in passion and taste. Behold the birdies a-fluttering and the tiny floating wraiths praising her efforts and the flowers (which BoomBoom calls “flehs”) thriving even before spring has had a chance to consider waking up!

The food served was scrumptious and the drinks pure nectar (what else?). We all had a grand time as well as miniature potted Japanese peonies as a souvenir.

Have a lovely weekend!

Cryptic Communication

Floating Messengers. A couple of glamorous floating thingummybobs and their wriggly retinue materialized last nigh in our living-room. They appeared to be some sort of couriers bearing some kind of message or news or something The problem is that they communicate in a language nobody here understands, not even the Shoggies, who are outstanding linguists. So we are completely puzzled and frustrated. For all we know they may be trying to tell us that Priti Patel has spontaneously combusted, owing to her internal circuits having melted; or that the Bozo has found God and buggered off to a Trappist monastery, there never to utter another word ever again. On the other hand they might be trying to warn us that “They” intend to summarily execute anyone who refuses to get vaccinated, who knows. We have sent for the Shub-Niggurath who is an even better polyglot that the Shoggies. Meanwhile we wait, we eat, we drink and we are merry. Have a splendid weekend.

Search Engines

Parley. She has walked miles and miles and slogged fathoms endless, through peaks and troughs and spiny forests searching for a Wise Snake to consult and get advice from regarding the terms of her release, only to find that she must have taken a wrong turn somewhere along the line because the Snake is all but quoting Kiko Veneno*. The Proctors tailing her are likewise frustrated and as footsore a she is. An all-round bummer, I’d say. Back to the Road and better luck next time, girl.

* Las cosas que yo se

las sabe un tonto cualquiera.

Mi corazón va solito

por la carretera.

Final Void Ornithology

Byakhee. It’s a little known fact that teddy bears like to have a baby just as much as babies like to have a teddy bear. On the whole, though, teddies tend to look after their babies better than the other way around. This one here, a keen Byakhee watcher, has taken his young miss out to The Edges on an Anomaly Reconnaissance Expedition for the first time. Baby is duly impressed. Her own teddy cannot believe its cute glass- button eyes; it thinks the world a mighty strange place.

Useful note for users of Transport for London and/or British rail “services”. Byakhees are plug-ugly and none too clever, to be sure, but they are very comfy, pretty reliable and easy to summon and make them do your bidding, if you know the right spells. I recommend them as an alternative to what Mr. Khan has to offer the common or garden travelling peon. As for their proverbial infamous smell, I daresay it cannot be worse than the fragrances that emanate from any London Tube burrow on any given day. You’re welcome.

Existence

Wise Dragon. ‘ppy No-Year everyone!Here be a small vignette of home life, love and angst in the Marginal Outer Limits. This is for the Red Baron and the Ferret. May your hovercraft be forever full of eels, as my mate the Beast of Balfron Tower used to say many, many centuries a-gone.

Sic Transit

New Year’s Eve 2020 And so 2020 passed ignominiously and pathetically, with a whimper and a whinge. Brexshit by the skin of some vampire’s teeth; dodgy vaccines; allegedly novel mutations of the lurgy; culled minks; ice shelves crumbling; divisions multiplying and the Masters of the Universe conquering like it’s going out of fashion; the Left transmogrified into some kind of genetically modified Right and the Right screaming “Marxist!” at the least provocation and always inaccurately (poor old Karl must be turning in his grave…). And, of course, the eternal, canonic Russia/China/Iran trilateral dastardly plot to destroy our wonderful, freedom-loving, democracy-exporting Hollywoodized way of life. (Guantanamo anyone?)

Ah, me…! It’s seems almost cruel to wish you all a splendid 2021, as it’s highly improbable that it’ll be any better that 2020 was. In fact, we’ll be lucky if it isn’t much, much worse, but hey, as Mehitabel never tired of saying, whatta hell. Life is short and full of trouble but there are a few thing we can still do to make it less crappy. Use your imagination.

Also, resist, bite, dissent, object, rebel, disagree, hug a Chinese, love your loved ones and try and acquire new ones to love and cherish. Love is also mutating, from revolutionary to subversive. Cultivate it. Tend the gardens of your soul. Weed your hearts. Give Them as good as They try to give us.

Personally I shan’t complain too much. The Pantomic has affected me far less that has afflicted (when not downright destroyed) the lives of so many other people; and there have been a couple of sponditious bright spots in my life; and for this I’m glad, grateful and inclined to be gracious. Stay sane, stay groovy, stay Gramscian, have a nice life. And un po’ di mu’, of course.

Monstrous Sadness

Cold Waste Blues. Things are bad. Really bad. Really, really bad.

I’ll tell you how bad things are: even the Repulsive Moon Beasts of Leng are having massive fits of the megrims, that’s how bad things are. In fact, things are SO bad that even they, the RMBoL have had to rig several off-the-cuff support groups to deal with the epidemic of despondency that has oozed even into the farthest reaches of the Final Void. Any time now we’ll have the idiot god Azathoth phoning the Samaritans and Cthulhu complaining he can’t have a half decent night sleep as he keeps on being waken up by nightmares of Priti Patel trying to deport him “to Woga-Woga Land”, where all these bloody foreigners come from, as everybody knows. Or so says she.

What kind of universe are we creating, I ask you?

Never mind. Have a thoroughly dissenting, obstreperously merry Xmas, if that’s what you celebrate. In fact, celebrate anything you feel like, be it only to spite the Tories. And Keir Starmer as well, that goes without saying. Love and firecrackers!

Old Stuff No. 3

Oops & Mates. Series Old Wine in New Bottles No 3 Same story but not quite. This is a crude, B & W reworking of a much more colourful and refined version of one of the last vignettes of The Story of Oops, the one and only comic strip I have ever attempted so far and which remains unfinished owing to my back being total crap and refusing to let me sit at my desk for any reasonable length of time and thus use my surviving desktop, where dwells my beloved Flash MX, which is the tool I used to do most of my stuff before my body sold me down the river to the vagaries of osteoarthritis and the like.

Old Stuff No. 2

Euclid’s Chagrin. Series Old Wine in New Bottles No 2 This is a reworking, like No1, At The Lighthouse, of some ancient stuff I did on the elderly (but still functioning, look you!) Sonny Reader. I just fancied revisiting some of those doodles, authentic garabatos, done in the massively crude drawing tool wot came with it. The original was called Wrong Geometry! and had a wee po’m attached. This version could be also called A Shoggoth On The Roof, as a loving tribute to the wondrous spoof of Fiddler on the Roof that the incomparable H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society did a few years ago. There, that deep.