Spare a thought for young Ms FlatFish and her spawn. Female, black, destitute, homeless and single mother of two strapping fishlets, her home has been flattened by some crappy BP-type Mafiosi drilling for oil in her neck of the underwater woods. She’s been on the march for a new home for the longest time. Hungry, tired, despised, insulted by all & sundry and blamed for her circumstances to boot, she’s finally landed on her fins, it would seem. The Websters will take her in, give her a nice comfy cave and spoil her offspring rotten with Smarties. Alegrí­a! Alegrí­a!

Brief Encounter V. Make up your own stories, do. The Tree-Dwelling Fuzzy and his pal, the Cutting-Edge Tadpole refused to tell me what the (clearly-doomed-to-fail) transaction was all about. That’s all right with me. I have a lively imagination and I know fascist crap when I see it. 

Shoggdala. Say hello to the Shoggdala. Meditate on the many facets of the Shoggdala. Address your Ooooooms to the fractal protoplasm of the Shoggdala. Sing it songs. It likes that. NB. The alien eyes in the middle of the Shoggothic mass are the eyes that grace my favourite Nepali stupa. They’ve been with me, ingrained in my brain cells for the longest time. Here’s to you, me old china!

My First Cthulhu. Much as I like teddy bears, I can’t remember how and when I got my first one (‘though I remember what it looked like). But I can remember when, where and how I did what is now been reincarnated into this intensely blue mess. It was so much another time, and another place, and that particular wench I then was is so dead, that makes my head spin. Still. A Cthulhu is a Cthulhu. Never turn your nose at a Cthulhu. I say.

‘ere, ‘ave a panoramic. I’ve been wanting to do one for yonks. Next: a tryptic? There’s no end to my ambition, obviously. Warning: There might be more of this sort of nonsense soon, I suspect.

Update 18/07/16 Not quite the tryptic I was hoping for and pretty frivolous to boot, but I’ve just “discovered. a new font/text app and I could never resist doing something with text just for the sake of it. On the right corner we have the ineffable Black Goat of the Woods with Far Too Many Young doing a Robert de Niro, an attitude that suits Milady to a T. On the left, a public notice on behalf of young Erwin Oriol and the Library of Upper Leng. He’s lost his book .“or maybe it has been nicked by the Forces of Reaction, who disapprove of educating children .“or anyone else for that matter. The poor child is distraught and the little worm Chief Librarian thoroughly pissed off. The book is a cheap quarto paperback edition of Thomas Ligotti’s The Conspiracy Against the Human Race. New Atlantis University Press. 2001. Any intelligence, information, rumour, gossip, or even third hand hearsay as to the whereabouts of the damned thing most welcome. On the customary postcard, please.