Month: February 2022


Siamese Trees. aka Cada uno en su casa y Dios en la de todos. For Ukraine 3.0, of course. And for Yemen and for Syria and for all the other wretched counties afflicted by the Masters of the Universe’s thirst for power and domination and meddling and demented delusions of ‘democracy’ exporting. Plague take them all! (The MotU, that is.)

Cada mochuleo a su olivo & Cada uno en su casa y Dios en la de todos. Old Spanish proverbs. Each owl to his olive tree & Each in his own house and God in all of them.


Twin Hearts. AntiValentine 2022. And here we are again, my friends, taking the piss of that goofy invented tradition that’s Valentine’s Day. Just like last year, though, it’s hardly worth the effort to mock it, so somnolently it’s being pushed by the Holy Markets. Why, going by what I see on the idiot-box, only the greeting cards sphere and a couple of jewellery retailers are making any effort to encourage the congregation to part with their lolly. Even the chocolate mafia is being oddly apathetic. Could it be because the so-called “social” distancing and the masquerade flimflam are having some pretty lousy effect on folks? After all, who can (or even wants to) snog through a sodding mask or hold a hand that smells of disinfectant gel? Will lovers refuse to make love to their darlings unless they can show a triple vax certificate? Is there life before death?

Anyways. We are being pretty low-key ourselves, as we are deeply engaged in more essential stuff. Like surviving the new tricks & wiles and the general chicanery of our local Idiocracies. Still, you’re all very welcome to pop in to my garden party, from Friday 11th to Monday 14th until 7pm. The Shoggies have promised to stage a new tableau mourant and with a bit of luck you might even get a goody bag or a souvenir if I can persuade the Mi-Go to do their magic. The Bach concert will have to come from my CD collection and you can bring your own poetry, si le cœur vous en dit. Have a spiffing life. And keep trucking…:-)

PS. This will have to serve as the obituary for the divine Lata Mangeshkar, who died recently, aged 92 (well done, girl) after a lifetime of giving enormous pleasure to us poor wretched lovers of what used to be known as Bombay Talkies playback music. Bumba speed, my darling and thanks for the audio memories. XXX

Big Truths

Messengers. For the lovely (and ineffable) Premila, Da (of the Desert), Eric Fromm and, for the pure hell of it and because he got the ball rolling, for poor old dead Terenci Moix. The caption is not a pun, not really; or not only. Meet Eleuterio, the free & easy clairvoyant, emissary to the Fringe Badlands Numina. He reports stuff as and when has been decreed by said High Spirits. He has a girlfriend called Cassandra whom nobody likes because she goes around saying things like ‘Dooooom’d we be! Doooooom’d! I’ve got a touch of the dooooms!.’ But Eleuterio loves her dearly because she’s kind and sweet and funny and in between gloomy prophecies she mixes the meanest bullshots this side of the Delta (of the Mighty Urook). Have a sponditious week.