Archive for August, 2009


August 12, 2009

I was on my way to see my Grandparents this afternoon, and had settled against a wall by the bus stop, tapping a bit of Chocalypse stuff onto my phone, when I sensed shadows crossing my vision, and I looked up to see three girls standing around me, 18 years old or so.

“Hey! Can we have a hug?”

“Sorry er… what?”

Another of them blushes.

“Could you give us a hug, please?”

“Eh, sure.”

One of them goes in for a hug, and then the other two pile in hugging as well. It’s one big, random, bus stop hugfest.

I said something lame like, “Group huddle eh? Can’t be bad.”, and after a few seconds the hug was over, they all beamed at me, blushing, then hurried off as my bus arrived and I, slightly embarrassed, pulled my headphones on and fumbled for change.

Also bizarrely, later on the bus,  there were two more hot lasses eyeing me up, flashing coy smiles (and on a couple of occasions underwear) at me through the journey… What the hell? Did we pass reality three stops back?

Maybe the beard was holding me back. Perhaps some hidden tap of previously repressed magnetism has been unleashed! Well lock up your daughters, ’cause this tatty-haired writer geek is hitting the streets without mercy…

Oh alright, he’s slouched in the living room on his own, browsing a Baldur’s Gate RPG site, listening to Sherlock Holmes in French and eating Maltesers while Bonnie the cat engages in fierce warfare against the legs of the sofa.

Yep, on reflection, they were probably all taking pity on me.

Anyway, upon arrival at my grandparents’ house, my Grandad (who, for the record, is an absolute legend of a human being) comes up to me with a grin, holding a pan in his hands.

“Take a look at that, Al,” he says.

I look inside it, and at the bottom are two newborn chicks, still all bloody and goopy from hatching. It takes me a moment to realise I’m not looking at a Chinese take-away.

“Newly hatched,” Grandad says proudly. “Mother hen abandoned them, so I’m trying to keep them alive.”

After a few minutes in the boiler room, where it’s good and warm, they were chirping away, and had begun to move about a bit. We went out for a great meal at the local pub, and when we got back they were still showing signs of doing alright…

Wonder if they will survive the luxuries of my Grandparents’ boiler room. Grandad used to be a farmer, and still keeps hens, so if anyone could keep them alive, he can. We’ll see!

Edit: Ooh also,  Liv Tyler’s got back to me, and we’ve arranged to meet up on Saturday afternoon! Sorta looking forward to it, sorta wary about it. Sounds about right!


Death By Chocolate

August 10, 2009

Somewhere between the senses – not in another dimension as such, but hidden deep in the rarely-trodden tunnels between taste and touch – Death By Chocolate cleared his nasal passages. The process sounded like thick, melted chocolate draining through metal pipes, and as he swallowed the congealed mass with a gulp, one of his subordinates oozed towards him. It was sporting a look of wary excitement on its, for want of a better word, face.

“What do you-ouu think?” it bubbled.

DBC looked at the telephone on the table. Was it really that time already? He double-checked the figures, rolled the calculations once more through the sinewy wringers of his mind, and found himself satisfied. It was.

There were a lot of phones in his little part of the Sugarverse, but this was the really important one. It was the one he only got to use once every few thousand years, and he took a few nanoseconds to savour the opportunity. Naturally, he was not a fan of anything savoury at the best of times, so before his distaste could spoil the moment he snatched up the receiver.

He would not miss Obesifer. And although there hadn’t exactly been a cheer when the pale horse had made its move, the mood in the observation room had become noticeably sweeter.

“That one will do,” he said, his voice a decisive, brandy-snap crunch.

Doesn’t He Remember What Happened to Samson?

August 7, 2009

Photo 392

As any writer worth their salt knows, an author’s literary chops are directly proportional to the amount of facial hair he or she has. (Ain’t that right, Fifthwinders?!) The only reason I even managed to write a completed first draft of a novel is because I was unemployed for most of that time and so had had the freedom to maintain a decent level of beardliness!

As this period is rapidly coming to a close however, I’m sadly forced to start doing things like -gasp- getting haircuts and, as of tomorrow, shaving regularly to get into the swing of things for when I actually have to present myself as a professional individual and all that. Plus, the other day I was ordering a pint in a bar and as the barmaid was handing me the glass, it cracked and the top half of it exploded! Maybe the concentrated aura of writing power around the beard is building to critical mass… (In all seriousness, it was quite odd!)

So fair warning – if the quality of my writing begins to slide quicker than oiled-up jelly on an ice rink, you know why 😉

Mega Shark VS Giant Octopus

August 6, 2009

“There’s poetry here,” says the protagonist of Mega Shark versus Giant Octopus as she potters about beneath Arctic waves in her poorly rendered cgi submarine.

The titular titans of the prehistoric seas were engaged in a battle to the death millions of years ago when they were encased in ice (those ice ages certainly do jump up on you), only to be released – rather dubiously – into our time by an unexplained sonar device and some pissed off whales, an event the monsters deal with by going on a global ocean killing spree while people in tactical emergency rooms utter subtle, nuanced lines like “There’s something big out there; something really big.”

Wordsworth, eat your heart out. (Or a Megalodon shark will do it for you.)


Meet mankind’s intrepid eco-warrior saviours. Looking at the above picture, you might think that lead character Emma looks less than excited/distraught/insert-dynamic-emotion-here to be caught up in this clash of monsters. She’s certainly pretty nonnchalant about it all in the film, going in the space of about twenty-five minutes from “We have to make every attempt to capture these creatures alive. For science.” to a half-hearted “It’s going to be a bloodbath :)”.

Not that I blame her, mind you. If I was surrounded by a cast of such horrific stereotypes, I think I’d be gunning for a bloodbath too. I wouldn’t get one though; not with this kind of budget. There are entire scenes where a boat or something will be destroyed without a single shot of whichever beast it is performing the attack, leaving the viewer wondering if the crew had perhaps succumbed to realisation of where their careers had taken them, and sunk themselves.



The film is, of course, still a blast to watch 😉

(Not even the clouds are safe from GIANT OCTOPUS!)

An Early Mourning Adventure

August 4, 2009

It’s an adventure, because I’ve never posted this early in the morning before… yeah, that’s what passes for adventure these days. Enid Blyton would be sorely disappointed.

Just seen my auntie Den and cousin Indi head out on their holiday to Scotland, and I’m here manning the fort at their house with fattus cattus regalis, aka The Minion, known in some quarters as Bonnie, for the next couple of weeks.

It’s mourning, because today was their husband/father (and my uncle) Steve’s birthday. He was killed in the 2004 Tsunami, and would’ve been 59 this year. If you’re out there, have a good one Steve – we all miss you.

As I slept,

August 2, 2009

I dreamed of a den dug deep in darkness, where the dust-covered dead, deprived of day, delight in a deluge of dance and drums. The din, disregarded by the dozy denizens of the dwellings above, dabbles with my disposition as I descend.

Definitely dead, you demand? Yes… yes, I dare deliberate that they were the departed. Dead on.

I determined doubly that this demented dancing was not to be disdained, as I divine some deeper devilry is afoot down in the depths, dithering ‘twixt dark and daylight.

Deeply disturbing…