Me Laughs Me Eyes

Graffiti

2010-03-21T12:46:00.000-07:00

CALIFORNIA! CAL-IF-OR-NI-AH!

2009-10-12T02:35:00.000-07:00

Every few weeks I'll be feeling meh - then I'll put on this tune and BAM! Feeling good again! (And also humming the damn thing for the next three days straight)

howsyournews.com

A Warm Welcome From Muncaster Town Council

2009-10-11T03:33:00.001-07:00

WELCOME TO HISTORIC MUNCASTER!

MeLaughsMeEyes is the Official Website Partner of Historic Muncaster, a picturesque town at the heart of the heavy doily-making industry during the nineteenth century, and now one of Britain's top tourist attractions*.

*data provided by Muncaster Office of Tourism - 3 The High Street, above the closed down w.h.smith

Muncaster! Where you'll find literally things to do - for the young (and the young at heart!)

MUNCASTER ACTIVITIES:

Here's just some of the exciting activities you might like to happen to you:

Go Falconeering!

Dare you grab “The Dangler”?

Eat a traditional cheese!

Look at the rabbit - then prepare to meet Squirrel Nutsack!

Have a walk on the crazy paving

Relax

Go from place to place

Visit the gift shop – kids are sure to love our range of coasters and scented doilies

And be sure to start your day with a trip to the visitor’s centre where you’ll find a drinking fountain and a toilet

*New For Autumn!* toilet wiping-paper now 2-ply

For All Posts On Muncaster Activities, Click 'Muncaster'

Your kids will go ABSOLUTELY apeshit...

2009-10-11T03:29:00.000-07:00

for Barometer World & Museum, Muncaster. Just one visit to this high-octane thrill-palace of kinetic insanity is never, EVER enough

What's Horatio Lord Barneyquist-Barneyquiste eating?

2009-10-11T03:15:00.000-07:00

Yeaaaah... what IS Horatio Lord Barneyquist-Barneyquiste eating?

Lo!

2009-10-10T20:07:00.001-07:00

Click these images for the Good News!

Please note, there WILL be a test on this, and it WILL count towards your final scores

Cheers - God

Showbiz Exclusive! Rolling Stones / Annie Leibovitz Photoshoot!

2009-10-10T20:05:00.000-07:00

Keith (left) & Mick look relaxed in one of the stylish shots by acclaimed celebrity-snapper Annie Leibovitz. The rest of the set can be seen in January's edition of Vanity Fair magazine

RIP Pimlico, our old school

2009-09-05T12:28:00.000-07:00

Sorry, reader - a short break from silliness. Westminster Council have rushed through the first stages of demolition of Pimlico School, in order to preempt a growing preservation campaign for the brutalist masterpiece which was built between 1965 and 1970.

Rest in peace, you broken mirror

you dark cave

You high cliffs

You memories

When the destruction is complete - behold! Pimlico Academy

What utter, utter buttnuggets.

Sorry, not sure of picture credits. In my sadness I gathered these few images from the web. Thanks to those who thought to take them and post them. I wish I had done the same.

Me Cries Me Eyes.

Intermission

2009-01-17T03:13:00.000-08:00

Clicketh, To Engorge Ye Pictograph

In Bed With Chris Needham

2008-11-23T05:05:00.000-08:00

Last night my friend Al Doyle showed me the best thing ever.From BBC's excellent 'Video Nation' series, this is part one of Loughborough teenager Chris Needham's 1992 video diary - which intimately and unflinchingly records the progress of his band 'Manslaughter' toward their first gig. Along the way, the enormously likable, borderline adorable Chris Needham grapples with well founded doubts about the talent of his band, about his relationships with people around him, the future, politics, war and death.

This film is a completely perfect time capsule. Watching it is like stepping lightly through a door into the world of 1992 - you can smell it, you can taste it. This is why documentary is the best, most vivid and stimulating, deepest and most important artistic medium on Earth. (Yeah - fuck you, painting. Right up your arse, installation art.) In 100 years, Chris Needham's life, character, values and humanity will remain as tangible for our great-grandchildren as they are here for us. In 1000 years, people in silver jumpsuits with jet-packs on their backs will still be able to meet, laugh and empathize with the long-dead Needham. The moving image, still so new, changes the way people are going to think about the past and the temporal context of their lives. Long live film, long live documentary.

Anyway, that's a real tangent. All I really want to say is that this is a wonderful, wonderful half-hour of film. It was uploaded by some guy called Kristian Goddard and I thank him. In the comments I found a couple of people who knew Needham at the time. One said - "Thank you for this! It's hair bleachingly embarrasing as it is, never mind that I was just the same at 17!! I used to see him around Loughborough when I was at college......poor boy - that program ended his social life faster than a place on the child offenders' register....." I hope that Chris didn't suffer too much off the back of this program. With the benefit of hindsight, we can see today that Needham was the coolest guy around - an iconoclast, and a damn nice guy to boot. Wherever he is today, good luck to him. Rock and roll.

Here's part 2 to keep you rolling - after that, the other five parts can be found on YouTube.Additional - thank you, "Hot", for commenting this and providing the following link to a modern day interview with Chris. Sounds like he's keeping it pretty damn real.

Oh, and he has a myspace page!

Do you collect gun knives?

2008-11-15T04:17:00.000-08:00

Do you collect gun knives? I certainly do, and if you're a discerning collector such as what I most am certainly, you should know that every detail is perfect on this particular piece, right down to the illustration of Billy the Kid on the butt. How apt! Well, half apt. The gun aspect is apt. The knife aspect is sort of not related at all, but let's not split hairs.You must agree, it's an inspired piece. It shits class. Thank you to Jimbo for bringing it to my attention.

An Interview With Dan Savage

2008-11-10T06:21:00.000-08:00

Here's a really enjoyable hour-long interview with sex & relationship advice columnist Dan Savage. He's smart, witty, profane and brilliant, and I wish I could employ him to run my personal life for me because he's so on it. This is the gay man straight people should totally be listening to, because after following his column and podcast for a couple of years I have to acknowledge that we're all fucking nuts and we're just making one another deeply, deeply unhappy. Dan explains how weekly here. He also crops up sometimes on the awesome This American Life, and he's written some entertaining books (the best one is 'The Kid', about him and his boyfriend adopting a baby). If you're speculating that I have a great big gender-confused-man-crush on him, you're probably guessing right. But if you haven't already, reading his column, listening to his podcast & this interview should clarify why. He's one of my favourite awesome people of goodness.

The interview itself is from the Sound of Young America. It's another Public Radio International production (like This American Life) and from what I've heard so far has a lot to offer. Check out the interview with Louis CK for example - funny, funny stuff. Between these radio programs and Barack Obama, England is starting once again to look like the pallid, second rate cultural asshole it really is. Oh, hey, what's this? David Cameron waving a DVD box-set of Little Britain? Yeah... cheers.

No way. Yeah, right.

2008-11-09T12:16:00.000-08:00

(Good grief, this was funny. from Felix via Al via Pat or James - I can't remember who, but I thank them for bringing this silly lIzard into my life. No way. Yeah right.)

Worthless Bastards

2008-11-07T05:21:00.000-08:00

Clickenum to embiggenum

The Pied Piper Of Hamelin

2008-11-06T17:38:00.000-08:00

Click the image, to embiggen and consume eyewise

The Enchantment of Dolls Part Two: Amber and Ricci

2008-10-28T13:17:00.001-07:00

Here's two new adorable porcelain scamps in our occasional series celebrating the brittle, dead enchantment of dolls.

Davros

2008-10-26T14:27:00.000-07:00

Davros prepares eggs
Davros awaits a phone call

So long, cat

2008-10-26T12:33:00.000-07:00

ACTION. PARK. Of AWSOME.

2008-10-12T12:35:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls - I give you...ACTION PARK!

"...A few people did not get sufficient speed and they landed face first on the inside of the top of the loop. One person injured his two upper front teeth when he did this... ...The biggest problem is that sand and dirt and such would collect at the botton of the loop and the people would start comming out with abrasions over their entire backs. Then they would have to close it down and clean it out. I believe (and I could be wrong about this) that what finally closed it down was that after it was open for a short while an insurance adjuster finally came around to look at it and went ballistic."

In New Jersey, Action Park is legendary as the most awesome water-slide park ever created. Built up the side of a densely forested mountain it was apparently designed by the bastard son of a thousand maniacs, with a strong emphasis on thrills and little or no regard for the subsequent spills. Accordingly it achieved the crowning glory of any adventure park worth its salt in a less regulated age - multiple injuries and deaths of patrons. Which by all accounts were absolutely worth it.

The owner was borderline criminal, but the punters weren't complaining - presumably because they were dead. There's a Wikipedia page about the place: "At least six people are known to have died as a result of mishaps on rides at the park, and it was nicknamed "Traction Park", "Accident Park", "Class Action Park", "Danger Park" and "Death Park" by doctors at nearby hospitals due to the number of severely injured parkgoers they treated."

But amongst several wistful internet descriptions of the place, my favourite can be found at DomainOfDeath3. Here, a native New Jersyite has written an excellent and affectionate eulogy for the place, which closed down some years ago - depriving me of the chance ever to risk my life in the Roaring Springs, Cannonball Falls or Riptide Slides.

For a brief period, it was rendered even more awesome by sitting dormant as an abandoned mountainside water-slide park of death; some bright sparks (presumably Scooby Doo and Shaggy) got a few photos of the place while it languished in glorious, spooky decrepitude. ...Like, zoiks. Let's get outta here, Scoob.
For those images we can be grateful to abandonedbutnotforgotten - another excellent website, for those who love the unsettling frisson of exploring derelict spaces.

These days Action Park has sadly been reopened by some pencil-neck who actually listens to the tedious drone of Health & Safety advisers, with their "loose, rusty bolts" this and "sharp, gouging edge" that. The death-traps have been dismantled and the whole operation renamed Mountain Creek. "Mountain Creek"? Pfft. It is reportedly a very pleasant day out for all the family - which is just sad, considering the glories that once were.

I strongly recommend reading the essay at 'DomainOfDeath' - it's a highly enjoyable lament for a braver, more stupid age when nobody was counting kids before jumping in the car to drive home, because it had been such an amazingly exciting day that well, who gave a fuck?

PROPER NUMPTY

2008-08-15T07:27:00.000-07:00

Testes the Troll: Chapter One

2008-08-10T01:23:00.000-07:00

Testes the Troll lived under a hobbledy-bobbledy stone bridge in amongst the greenest countryside you have ever laid your eyes on. The bridge was not a big one, but neither was Testes the Troll an especially large Troll and the spot suited him very nicely indeed.

Nobody a-roundabout was quite sure what the bridge was for. Some called it the Green Garden Bridge - a mighty fancy name for such a hobbledy-boddledy old thing, for though it was made from nice sandy stones it looked as if it might have seen better days. Leading up to the bridge was a small, meandering path, which commenced again on the other side of the bridge with a rather casual kind of an air, immediately losing itself in great sprigs of weeds and grass.

Beneath the bridge was a dried up kind of river bed, though almost no-one could recall when it might last have been full of water. An old lady from the village claimed that she could remember bathing and paddling in the cool water as a child, but this old lady was senile and forgetful and nobody paid much mind to her gabbling and wittering on.

At some time or another not so long ago, along comes Farmer Pumpkins down the meandering path from the village to have a word with old Testes. By rather roundabout means he lets it be known that since the bridge was not much used nowadays (he might have said "not at all"), he would very much like to scavenge the stones to build himself a nice new shed for his heffers.

Well old Testes fell to ruminating and considered this long and hard, for not being the vindictive kind of Troll that you might have heard about before, he was always keen to keep his neighbours happy. Then again, he was very very fond of his little spot amongst all the weeds beneath the bridge and not at all happy to give it up easily.

So it came down to this in the end - Farmer Pumpkins refused to budge and so did Testes, and they stood there in silence mulling it over for what seemed like a week, but was as a matter of fact only 5 days and 4 hours. Still, that's plenty long enough to be standing out under the sunlight and the starlight, and though the summer evenings were still warm, the night air was bitter cold and it was all Farmer Pumpkins could do to keep his teeth from continual chattering. Old Testes, who had a thick hide of matted, dirty hair, didn't feel the frost but hated being out in the bright daylight. He had a perpetual frown and a glare which Farmer Pumpkins, had he not know Testes so well, would have mistaken for ferocious grumpiness.

After such a time had passed and neither of them had budged an inch nor spoken a word, Farmer Pumpkins cleared his throat and spoke out in his big plain voice - "Now listen 'ere Mister Testes sir. You be a Troll as good as yer word an' everyone knows that a Troll's word is solid as the stones they're built of, so they say anyhows. So what I propose 'ere is a kind of compro-a-moise."

Old Testes squinted at Farmer Pumpkins, preparing to concentrate and to mull, for mulling was a particular skill of his. Old Testes was something of a specialist when it came to mulling and oftentimes he had been known to mull for weeks on end. And wise Farmer Pumpkins, he squinted back, wondering what Testes was squinting at. Then he turned his beard a-ways about and pointed back up the path with his whiskers. "Do you know, Testes", he said, "You h'aint been up in't village these past six weeks gone, not since you last comes up for your moldy Trollbread. But since last quartermoon, you h'aint be the only Troll round heresabouts."

Testes cocked his head at the farmer. "Is that so?" he says, his head still cocked right round.

"That's right," says Farmer Pumpkins. "Another Troll come done wandered in't village these past 10 nights, an' stationed imself under Trundlecart Bridge."

"Oh yessir?" says Testes, his head cocking round even further than before. He began chewing thoughtfully on a wart in his cheek.

"Oh, yessir", said the farmer, "Aye. Calls hisself 'Giblets'".

Testes nodded, and slowly uncocked his head as an expression of rumination fell upon his wrinklechops.

Testes well knew what all Trolls and Human Folks alike knew; a single Troll was generally acceptable in a village, keeping himself to himself, making himself useful with rat catching, mulching, or other small errands by which to earn his Trollbread. A Troll alone would usually keep his spirits in check; would not overindulge in Trollwine of a night, climb the belltower to sing Trollish odes or help himself to raw eggs from the chook-coop.

But Two Trolls together - ah! Two Trolls together was a different story. That afeared most Human Folk and often led to nasty businesses - sometimes involving jeering crowds, ultimatums delivered by fiery torchlight and eviction. Two trolls together was incorrigible, or so was sewn the fears of the Human Folk.

"Aye", said Farmer Pumpkins again. "Giblets."

Testes nodded. "And how seems this 'Giblets' to the village folks, sir?" he asks.

"Well", said Farmer Pumpkins. "Giblets ain't best behaved". He turned his whiskers back up the meandering path once more, chewing awhiles on his bottom lip. "Nup", he said to himself. "Giblets ain't best behaved one ... little ... bit." And he spaces those last three words out just like that, all careful like he was placing three delicate vases on a wobbly table.

He turned his beard back on old Testes. "Point of fact, Giblets been making the most f'rocious stink since he arrived. He took a bath in the trough on the square an' since then the 'orses aint drinkin frummit no matter 'ow many times the water's changed. He's got a barrel o'Trollwine which he protects mos' fiercely, an inspite of the regulations he drinks frummit mos'nights, an' then sings his lewd Troll-odes right beneath the rector's window."

Testes raised an eyebrow.

"When th'rector ak'sed im stop, he took a tombstone from the grevyard, an' he ett it. The village people been getting fierce tired of 'im, but e's a large troll, see? An with a nasty look about him - not like yesself, Testes. We're used to you, and you're 'always civilized like, considerin' your heritage and all. But this Giblets - he's a very different manner of Troll, very different. Why, yesserday he fahrted a huge cloud. An' it took three hours an twenty to dissipate."

"I see", said Testes, squinting and frowning and mulling for all he was worth. He thought he could see where Farmer Pumpkins was leading.

"An' that bridge unner which Giblets 'as established hisself is a sight nicer than this ol' pile here" says wise Farmer Pumpkins, taking a moment to survey Green Garden Bridge before continuing on.

"When you first kem 'ere many moons ago, Testes, the village folks dint know your good character, did they? So you kem here to live unner Green Garden Bridge, outside of the village proper. Well, I'm sure that you'd be looked upon with different eyes now, after all your hard works around and about. Ann if you were to 'ave a word with this Giblets - you know, Troll to Troll... an let 'im know it's time to be movin' along - well... I'm sure the villagefolks'd be only too 'appy to 'ave you installed unner the Trundlecart Bridge, in 'is place, y'see?"

"I see", said Testes, now sucking on the wart and squinting. The bright sun was low behind Farmer Pumpkins, who was by now a silhouette. The heat and rumination and mulling was making Testes a little dizzy and a little sick. "Yes, I see", he said again.

******************
Coming Next In Chapter Two

Escape From Triden 15 Part Three: Bullets Pinged All Around Her

2008-08-07T14:30:00.000-07:00

Welcome once again, crap writing fans, to the ongoing abridged and annotated serialisation of the sci-fi epic of breathtaking awfulness that I wrote when I was a teenager - "Escape From Triden 15". If you haven't yet endured the early chapters, click here for parts one or two.

Before I get cracking, a quick plug for a funny looking new thing from the 'Jemaine' half of the very likable TV comedy duo 'Flight of the Conchords' - ronaldchevalier.com. It's a glorious sendup of terrible sci-fi authorship (and is also a plug for an upcoming movie of his). I heartily recommend listening to the "Cyborg Harpies" audiobook - I had to wee from giggling.

But we're not gathered here for Jemaine Clement's hilarious faux terrible sci-fi writing; no, we're here for my genuine terrible sci-fi writing. Buckle up.

Chapter 3 "The New President Arrives"

Mathew Myways’ expensive heels of his expensive shoes clicked on the polished floor as he walked along the corridor. His hair was impeccable, his tie exactly vertical in front of the gleaming white silk shirt that disappeared into his dark, costly suit. Myways was in his late thirties. Click click click click click click click click click click - his feet kept perfect time; his long strides carried him along very fast. He was obviously very fit. This wasn’t due to a tough workout daily – it was just that he could afford the implants that muscled up his arms and legs. He even had robotic bones hidden in his arms and legs that gave him huge strength. That tiny scientific miracle had cost forty million. And that was small change to Myways.

He had been in the government from the age of 29, and had shot up through the ranks with incredible speed. This was probably at least partly due to his image, his popularity, his glistening white teeth that were constantly displayed to the public.…The room he entered was very grand, a large window creating the backdrop to a long desk, actually made of wood, shelves on the walls with electro books, and a soft carpet underfoot.

[Just to clarify, I don't have a clue what I thought 'electro books' were. Also - after a couple of references already in the chapter one - I'm starting to think that my 14 year old self considered 'carpets' to be a signifier of spectacular luxury and opulence.]

A second man looked out from behind the computer on the desk. Myways didn’t offer any greeting. Silently he walked to the wall, smacked a switch, and from a panel a glass of red wine emerged.

[Wow! It truly is the future!]

He took it, walked to the window and looked out on the city, most of which was far below – the floor they were on was 2 and a half miles up. Finally he spoke. “How are we going, Simp?”

The man was a lot smaller than Myways, quite short and nervous looking, with short hair and dark eyes.“Not well sir. 57 / 43, dropping by the minute for us.”

“Oh shit. Ok, implement the code.”

“Sir, are you sure? If we do that, and get found out, it’ll be very serious, ah. And, ah, I don’t know if ah, I really want to…?”

“DO IT SIMP!” Screamed Myways, suddenly losing control.

“Sir, I…”

The larger man grabbed Simp and hurled him across the room. Simp crashed into the wall and a sherry purred out of a hatch and poured itself over his head. The computer beeped. Myways walked to it, and looked at the graph it displayed.

[Prepare yourself for some wretched, wretched... really, just very very wretched computer business now. It's just not at all well done. I had never really used a computer at this point in my life. Enjoy.]

The title was ‘Votes Cast For Presidency’. Myways saw that he was lagging behind two other candidates. In the corner a number was counting down fast – under the words ‘votes to be cast’ it said 20,019, and was dropping.

“Give me the fucking code” breathed Myways. Simp groaned. Myways walked to him and again lifted him into the air. Simp was very still. “Simp. Simp. The fucking code, Simp.”

Myways pulled a gun from inside his jacket and pushed it into the other man’s cheek. “76490-countercheck E49, enter” whispered Simp. “Thank you” smiled Myways. He walked to the computer and started to type fast.

It beeped and the screen changed to “Illegal entry to city mainframe network – please enter command”. Myways tapped enter. The screen changed again, now it read – “Votes cast 90%; to be cast 15,940”.

Myways typed in – “Cast votes – 15,940”.

“Candidate?” the computer asked.

“Myways” typed Myways.

The computer beeped and whirred. “Illegal entry to city mainframe. Votes blocked”. Myways started typing again. “Override: code 76490 Countercheck”. “Beep”. E49………Enter. The computer whirred for a moment, and then the computer gave in. “Override accepted……….Votes Cast…….Triden 15 Election. 15,940 Candidate Myways (Mathew)……..Stop”.

Myways smiled and slapped the off button on the computer. The screen died. He pulled the disk out of the drive and walked over to Simp, who had pulled himself up into a chair. “Thank you Simp. This escapade won’t go any further than these four walls will it now?” Simp made a slight murmuring sound. “Good” said Myways. “Oh, and get rid of this for me would you? Thanks.” He dropped the disk into Simp’s top pocket, turned on his heel and clicked back out into the corridor, closing the door behind him.

***

Saphire walked along the street, her bag slung over her shoulder. It was getting dark and the wind was picking up again. The street turned into a flyover, and as she rose higher and higher Saphire could see the rocky barren landscape of Triden 15 in the distance, which the city of Reeana hadn’t yet spread its substantial self over yet.

[It's like I'm writing in tongue twisters. Anyway, we've agreed that Mathew Myways and his villainous pals look a lot like David Cameron and the villainous Tory shadow-cabinet; but who does Saphire look like? Well, I remember picturing Lecy Goranson (the original 'Becky' from Roseanne) when I was first writing this.Actually, I seem to remember 'picturing her' even when I wasn't writing this.

Incidentally, Lecy goranson has some fairly radical tattoos these days.Mmm - nice. She looks like she could beat the shit out of me and it would just be sexy as hell. Sorry - that's off topic. Where was I? Oh, yeah, the sci-fi epic.]

…She was still in the posh part of town and as the flyover started to descend she saw the outermost buildings of the government headquarters below her. Suddenly a man came running out from one of the buildings. He was quite smartly dressed but his hair was matted and he seemed very shaky. Without looking he stepped out into the road. Saphire saw the whole scene a mile before it happened.

[In that respect she was very like the readers.]

A huge truck was roaring along the road towards the man. It swerved and ploughed into cars coming in the opposite direction. The man was flung to the ground. Something caught Saphire’s eye and drew her attention away from the horrific scene before her. Some small object had shot from the man’s top pocket and scuttered across the ground toward her. She bent down and picked it up. It was a data disk. Why was the man carrying a computer disk in the pocket of his shirt?

[Curiouser and curiouser...! What's even more curious is why they're using floppy disks in the year 3079. Perhaps computer technology has deteriorated while our best scientists have focussed on making drinks come out of panels in walls.]

The man who walked in front of the lorry was obviously dead (his head had hit the ground very hard and was hideously disfigured). Saphire looked at the disk again, pocketed it, and turned to walk hurriedly in the other direction. She wanted to find out what was on that disk and she knew where to do it.

***

Saphire felt totally out of place in the large department store. She was walking through the brightly lit Women’s Clothes section. Seeing a rack of beautiful jumpers ahead of her she considered slipping one into her bag but remembered her mission in hand and walked on, following the signs to ‘electronics’.

["A rack of beautiful jumpers" - ha. Not dresses or diamonds or shoes, no. Beautiful jumpers. That's good writing.]

A disembodied voice floated over the intercom and informed the “Ladies and Gentlemen” that “The store will be closing in 20 minutes. Please pay for anything you are going to buy now.”

She found the electronics – this was better. Dark; people didn’t notice her scruffy appearance so much. A wall of TV screens were showing the news – she stopped for a second to watch. “The headlines tonight, 27th Jano 3079. the new President by a large surpise majority is Mathew Myways – we have a special report. In other news the late Drake Harwood’s kids are to take a vacation to receive therapy, and computer genius McPherson Simp is killed in a shock road accident”.

[1 - That's awfully contrived plotting. And 2 - "Jano"?]

Colour ran from Saphire’s cheeks. So that’s who he was. She quickly found the demonstration computers, checked nobody was around and sat down at one. Sweating slightly she slid the disk into the drive. The screen glowed and came to life. Saphire looked at the keyboard. It all seemed simple enough. Tapping a few keys she saw the screen had changed. Now it had a new message: “Illegal entry to city mainframe network – please enter command”.

“What the hell” said Saphire. Then numbers started to flash up – “76490 Countercheck E49.” Then there came a shock. “Illegal entry override – cast votes 15,940. Candidate: Myways”.

“Fuck” said Saphire to herself. “A surprise victory…. He cheated!”

[It must be said, for an uber-powerful super-villain Mathew Myways wasn't too hot at covering his tracks. It's taken about 45 minutes for a homeless street-punk to uncover his rigged election and lay her hands on the vital proof.]

***

In normal circumstances it was against Saphire’s better instincts to even look at a policeman...

[Guess the next line]

...but these were not normal circumstances.

[Bingo!]

She boldly walked into the police station and, trying not to stare at the drunk man shouting obscenities at all and sundry, approached the reception desk. The policeman behind it looked up from her tits to her face as she said “excuse me”.

[I'm trying to pretend that my writing is hard boiled but really I was just getting off on writing about her breasts again. At least I didn't say "large tits". On the other hand, I clearly haven't changed much since I contrived a reason to include that hot photo of Lecy Goranson up there.]

“Yes Madam, what can I do for yuh?”

“I need to speak to your chief superintendent. Your… top guy.”

“I’m sure I can help you” said the policeman, grinning. “OK” said Saphire, smiling back and fluttering her eyelids ever so slightly.

[I'm relatively certain that I meant 'eyelashes'. Unless she was pretending to have some kind of erotic... fit, or something.]

“Can I meet you after work?” “Sure” said the policeman, now smiling more broadly than it seemed possible. “Where?” “Do you have a pen?” asked Saphire. “Wait a second” said the policeman, nearly running into the backroom.

“Dumb shit” said Saphire as she slipped through the door marked “Private”.

***

...Sergeant Brown’s office was a far cry from the rundown, flickering light reception area of the police station. It was clean, carpeted and modern.

[See! "Carpeted" again. Why was I so impressed by fucking carpets?]

Right now he sat behind his desk, typing. He was surprised when a young, scruffy looking woman burst into his office. She looked at the nametag on his door and said – “Are you Sergeant Brown?”

[This scene may have extra resonance and amusement for those readers who have seen Werner Herzog's 'Grizzly Man'. Remember the bear who has the fight? Remember what he was called?]

“How did you get in here?” asked Sergeant Brown. Saphire shut the door and locked it behind her, then walked up to the desk. “Look at this disk” she said, passing it to him.

Brown looked like he couldn’t decide whether to throw this strange scruffy vision out, or to actually see what she was talking about. He obviously plumped for the latter, because he put the disk into the drive and pressed enter. He was silent for a moment as he took in the information displayed on the screen. Sergeant Brown was a kind looking man, which is why it came as something of a surprise when he took a gun out of his drawer and pointed it at her head.

Thinking and acting at the same time Saphire pushed the computer monitor into his lap and Sergeant Brown fell to the floor. Saphire was at the window in seconds, wrenching it open, then she remembered the disk. Turning back she saw that Brown had gotten hold of the gun again. Saphire kicked it out of his hand – it flew across the room and went off as it hit the wall. He expensive wood-effect door got it in the handle. Officers who had been struggling with the locked door in the hallway burst in. Saphire whipped her gun from where it was secreted in her jeans.

[Where exactly was it secreted in her jeans?]

She pointed it at Brown’s head. “I’ll shoot him if you come an inch closer” she said.

Saphire reached for the disk and slipped it into her bag, then jumped out of the window. It was a short drop to the first floor roof - then a run to the edge and safety. Bullets pinged all around her

[That! Is! Good! Writing!]

as she leapt down to the road. In the office Brown was shouting at the officers to get after her. Stepping out of the window and down onto the roof they did so. Left alone, Brown grabbed the phone, punched a button and said “Myways – we’ve got problems.”Saphire ran down the street, over the flyover, and was still running when a car drove out of the government buildings and hit her.

***

And that's the end of the third thrilling chapter of 'Escape From Triden Fifteen'!

Now come on - admit it, you're just a little bit gripped, aren't you? Aren't you? You aren't?

Well, regardless - soon I'll type up chapter four, in which we'll discover who was in the mysterious car which just ran over Saphire! I'll give you a tiny clue to whet your appetite - it was Tems and Al, the orphaned sons of recently dead president Drake Harwood. More than that I'm not going to say - I don't want to ruin the tightly coiled tension.

Just so you can be sure that the writing is of equally high calibre - here's a line from Chapter 4: "The first thing he noticed was how beautiful she was. The doctors had washed the grime off her face, revealing fat red lips, long eyelashes..."

Not long 'eyelids', then. But 'fat red lips'? What was I thinking? Anyway, don't miss it.

A final PS; this post with thanks to Tessa and Jimbo for the kind words of support. As the Mongolians say, May angels fart gold in your mouth.

Mayonnaise is 20 pence - More!

2008-08-07T09:27:00.000-07:00

When I first saw this video it kicked my ass so hard one of my buttocks came half off and I had to fix it with tape.

As best I can make out, it's from a lively group of fun loving youngsters who call themselves 'Red Hot Entertainment'. I wouldn't for a moment question that choice of name.

Directed to me via Sam, Berry & Diane - thank you, you're good people.

The Enchantment Of Dolls Part One; Gabrielle, Justin & Jacelyn Nicole

2008-07-31T15:22:00.000-07:00

Perhaps like me you're persistently single and emphatically childless.

Perhaps like me, you think with misty fondness of the completely inaccurately recalled innocence and unbridled happiness of your increasingly distant childhood days; of the time when you blinked at the world through wide, dewy eyes and didn't have to worry about the stresses and anxieties of adulthood like taxes, conversation or deodorant.

Perhaps like me you're single, don't get out much and have a cat.

Perhaps like my cat your owner sometimes dresses you in a bonnet and bib and encourages you to spend time in a rickety old crib by hiding cat-biscuits under the blanket.

Perhaps like me, you read Doll Reader magazine.

This magical publication celebrates the achievements of artisan dollsmiths, whose subtle and nuanced craft distills the essence of early youth in beautiful, cold, dead, brittle porcelain.

In a new, occasional feature we'll be highlighting some of the finest achievements of the great doll artists of our time. We begin the series with these enchanting little creepy static bastards. Click to enlarge.
Felix Adds:

I particularly like the second doll here, Jacyln Nicole. The blurb claims that the doll has the 'look and feel of the old composition of the 30's and 40's'. I would counter that by suggesting that the doll has the look and feel of a terrifying succubus which is depicted just as it has emerged from its larvae, poised to leap onto an unsuspecting face and suck out the brain.

'Justin and Gabrielle' meanwhile look like a couple of murdered kids that an enterprising psychopath has stuffed rather amateurishly and preserved as garden ornaments. The eyes are truly haunting.

The Man With The Gold Part Three: I'm Reaching Them

2008-07-31T15:08:00.000-07:00

We present part three of our series of excerpts from the terrible, terrible autobiography of Mr T. If you've yet to enjoy the first two parts, just click the Mr T tab at the foot of the post.

In this episode, the violence fixated Christian summarizes his life and achievements with the quiet modesty and articulacy we've come to expect from the scowling man/toy."If I didn't have God in my life, yes, I would get a very big head and success would spoil me. Because I am very successful, I am a millionaire and the money keeps coming in and adding up. Everything I touch turns to gold. My Mr. T dolls have been breaking sales records everywhere. When the dolls first came out three million were sold in three months. My dolls outsold the Cabbage Patch dolls by ten million. I was invited to the White House, where I met the President of the United States, Ronald Reagan, and his wife, Nancy - what an honour. I went to Hawaii and did the hula dance with Bob Hope. I was interviewed by Barbera Walters on a special. I was toasted by Dean Martin and his friends in Las Vegas. I was voted Male Star of the Year by the fans at the People's Choice awards. I was give the key to the city of New York by its mayor, Ed koch. I was given the key to my own city of Chicago by Mayor Harold Washington. I was invited to Amsterdam, Holland, where the members of the A-Team were met at the airport by 15,000 screaming fans - what a feeling!
You see what i mean. It would be easy for me to trip out on the success and think I am so great. All I want to do is keep my feet on the ground and my head towards Heaven. Success to me is helping someone, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked and visiting the sick... ...I'm not interested in being a 'movie star', some kind of media celebrity. I don't take that serious. I know I'm just a piece of meat here in Tinsel Town. I know soon they'll be tired of Mr. T and looking for someone else... ...I plan to go into the ministry in four or five years, so when people come up to me and say 'Mr. T, how long you think this is going to last?' I say, 'You forget that I'm doing God's work, so I'll be occupied for a long time.' I'm not just about making lots of money. That would be short-changing myself and God. Money can't bring total happiness. I see that every day on Sunset and Wiltshire and everywhere else. This is a platform for me to reach people, to reach kids, these rich folk's kids, strung out on drugs. Mr. T is reaching them. These poor kids who don't have any hope. Mr. T is reaching them. These middle-class kids all confused about everything, I'm reaching them.""So the answer to your question, 'Will Success Spoil Mr. T?' is a big fat NO! But I am not here to try and convince you because I know how the human brain works, and you are going to believe what you want to believe. Now I will say this: if you stop worrying about Mr. T and concentrate on your own life you will be a much better person, and success might just come your way if you live right and treat other people right."

Escape From Triden 15: Incredibly High Winds

2008-07-07T15:31:00.000-07:00

Welcome to part two of my teenage Sci-Fi Action opus 'Escape From Triden 15' (abridged). If you missed part one - that's here.

This is essentially an ongoing celebration of How Awful I Was At Writing When I Was 14. This might not seem much to celebrate - but as a 28 year old who fervently wishes he were actually a good writer I can certainly celebrate that I'm not as bad as once I was.

Looking at it again, I can see that my book is dreadful literally from the 3rd word of the title. I called my fictional dystopian future hell-planet "Triden". Because it's 'Trident' - without the T! You see? No, nor do I.

Teenagers usually try to emulate - or straightforwardly copy - the work of artists they themselves admire, and this is generally embarrassing for two reasons. One is that in our culture, the artists teenagers admire are transparently dot-eyed waxwork bastards with all the tangible humanity and warmth of a monochrome hologramatic businessman. The second reason is that as a feverishly stupid teenager you're not only unhealthily obsessed with picking through the gaudy diarreah sluicing from the collective cultural asshole of the celebrity pod-people, you're fundamentally intellectually and linguistically under-equipped to recreate it.

But pretentious teenagers with delusions of artistry have little inkling of their own millimeterish short-comings and I was no exception to this rule. When I was a teenager I was convinced not simply that I was going to be a best-selling novelist - but that I already was one. I was really trying to write a hard-hitting gripper, something a bit like BladeRunner. Let's see how I'm getting along in Chapter 2 - "Meet Saphire". I should say - I'm going to paraphrase a hell of a lot of this. My adolescent writing generates a lot of heat but not much light. And not much heat actually, either.

Saphire was 14, and homeless. She lived on the roughest streets of Reeana...

- sorry, can I just cut in - "Reeana"? What the hell is that?

...and in her short life had been raped twice and mugged or otherwise attacked more times than she could remember. She never reported these incidents to the police - for one thing it wouldn't do any good, and for another thing she suspected it was the police who did it. She had been living on the steet all her life, having been born of a homeless prostitute. At the age of 10 she had been given up by her mother and since then had lived alone. She had no friends, only acquaintances, other street kids she had shared an empty warehouse with.

To look at, Saphire was stunning. Her face consisted of wide blue eyes, high distinct cheekbones and naturally deep red lips were topped by waves of long blonde hair.

So I guess that means she had long blonde hair growing out of her top lip. And 'her face consisted of'? How about 'She had'? Sheesh. But I'm not finished yet. Oh no, not even close -

A long neck...

How long?

...led to wide shoulders...

How wide? And what the hell else would her long neck lead to?

Well I guess if she had long blonde hair growing out of her top lip then her long neck might have led to almost anything. So what was beneath those wide shoulders?

...and large breasts...

Ah, yes. I was definitely 14.

...then a slim waist and perfect legs. She could have modeled if they didn't have androids that did that already.

OK, so blah blah, Saphire's a babe but she's on hard times. This description drones on for a bit - her clothes are ragged, she carries a gun tucked into her jeans, and she's got a knife her mother gave her in her boot. Kick ass.

At that moment she had even less money than usual, hardly enough to buy a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Previously when things had been this bad she had sold her body, but she had decided that if at all possible, that was something she never wanted to do again. The wind started to blow hard...

That's... not the only thing that was blowing hard. I'm fairly sure that I was sweatily getting off on writing about this gorgeous, punky girl who sometimes had to submit herself to the lascivious desires of brutish males. But that's like 90% of straight male writers who've ever written about a beautiful prostitute. Otherwise all these "golden-hearted hookers" wouldn't be so damned attractive! Who's writing about ugly hookers with hearts of gold? Not too many people. Still, I was 14 - what's the excuse of the guy who wrote 'Pretty Woman'?

Anyway, Saphire hides from the wind in a warehouse, falls asleep, wakes up to find she's being robbed, gets shot, passes out, but then wakes up and seems remarkably chipper about everything.

Pulling open the heavy door, she was blinded for a moment by the bright light. Both of Triden's suns were up, and stepping outside everything was hot after being in the cool damp building. Feeling suddenly uplifted, Saphire walked to a nearby main street in search of something to fill her stomach. Looking up and down the crowded road her sharp eyes spotted a coffee machine.

She spotted a coffee machine? Damn, those eyes of hers are sure sharp!

...Right now there was a traffic jam down the middle of the road, cars inching their way along a two mile stretch. It should have been a metallic nightmare full of irate drivers, but Saphire could see through the open windows that everybody was too hot to be upset.

Oh, it should have been! It really should have been "a metallic nightmare full of irate drivers"! Oh, well. Anyway, Saphire gets herself coffee and a donut, but the shop keeper thinks she's stealing from the machine. She does a bunk and ends up in a fancy park near a government building. She finally looks at her GUNSHOT WOUND but decides it's not too serious. So she eats her donut.

Saphire was only fourteen, and yet in her life she had lost her mother, had been attacked and raped and shot. She was completely homeless and didn't have enough money for a chocolate bar right now. But Saphire was still filled with hope and was sure something would turn up. And it was a fair enough thing to think because when it came to Saphire something always did.

And scene.

So, a quick recap - In Chapter One, President Drake Harwood has been killed in a particularly fiery explosion of death on his way home from checking out some multi-million dollar prototype law enforcement androids which he was going to nix because he couldn't trust his shady bastard government colleagues not to use the terrifying robots for ruthless purposes. But he's dead, dead, dead so we can definitely expect some androids on the scene at some point. Drake Harwoods kids - Tems (wha-?) and Al saw it all happen on TV and they're really upset about it, but Al would probably get over it pretty quickly if he happened to meet - oh, I don't know, a large breasted street punk with a radical attitude. But that sounds like a chapter 4 kind of occurrence to me.

If I know my 14 year old self - and I think I do - Chapter 3 is the perfect place to be introduced to the ruthless scheming bastard bad guy. He's probably really rich and arrogant. And he's probably got an alliterative name so you know what a badass he is. Something like... Mathew [sic] Myways.

Myways? Myways? As in 'But more, much more than this, I did it [Mathew] Myways'? Again, sheesh.

Coming up next! Chapter Three - 'The New President Arrives'. It features the line "Bullets pinged all around her". Don't miss it.

A Night Walk

2008-07-03T16:18:00.000-07:00

In January this year I had cause to spend an hour or two walking the Brighton beach front by night and alone. (No, not cruising.)

A gale was blowing cold hard squalls in off the ocean and the pebble beach was deserted. I was invigorated by the weather; it felt good to be buffeted and stung by the exultant storm so I walked down close to the waterline and turned my face to meet the spray. It was very dark away from the streetlights, gloomy underfoot but sheer black out to sea. I walked past the derelict West Pier, though could make out nothing beyond twenty feet or so. But I could hear the water slapping and slopping around some sleeping hulk not far out there. The waves crashed in, bullying and pushing one another and then rushing out again, rattling the pebbles.Outside a boarded cafeteria, a sign reading 'Popcorn; Ice Cream; Candy Floss' agitated against its hinges. Where the boats were moored, ropes slapped aluminum masts frenziedly, sounding an urgent ring like an emergency bell. Here and there I came across ornate Victorian architectural follies - pavilions standing sad and stoic in their weary uniform of peeling, faded paint. They must have weathered thousands of gales like that one, alone in the elements, unlit and unloved.At length I reached the East Pier which was lit up in full watted resplendence, despite being nearly deserted as the beach had been. A handful of boys had congregated in the arcade at the bulbous point of the pier half way along, but on the slippery wooden deck without I was a solitary figure with my collar turned up. Despite flashing and winking their inducements the rides were unmanned and static. Their light shows played out dumbly, undulating and strobing at the empty deck and impassive night sky above like one of those florescent creatures in the very deep sea, signaling for a mate. I was mesmerized in particular by the merry-go-round which positively blazed with hundreds of bright white bulbs. They made the golden and red paint shine like the centre of a stove-fire. With expressions fixed the wooden animals stood impaled upon their poles, devils inured to the furnaces.The next morning was calm, still and cold. I went to the beach again in the flat shadowless light. There I revisited the remains of the West Pier. Everybody calls it skeletal and indeed it is - like an animal collapsed, spine exposed, picked bare by the biting sea, bones shifted by scavenging currents. Where once hundreds and thousands of holiday makers, Edwardians and Victorians, Dandies, Greasers, and Teddy Boys hurried beneath the arch onto the boards it's now fenced up - with smart red signs declaring 'Danger, Unsafe Structure, No Entry, No Swimming, Submerged Debris'. The fence is unrusted, a stout steel cage. A Tourist Information board details the pier's history in three or four bland paragraphs. It's been reduced to a sad museum piece, something to look at for 30 seconds, or 20, to snap a picture of and then keep walking to somewhere more populous.Yet even so long after abandonment, derelication and immolation, there the old pier still stands right where it has for 150 years. Now naked and embarrassed, it sullenly wallows in the low water and awaits the final kindness of dismantling. It seems to brood, perhaps contemplating the hardships and terror of these past thirty years...Or maybe thinking of much longer ago than that.

Ian Fleming's Swiss Arithmetic Franchise

2008-07-03T12:36:00.000-07:00

Hello, friends.

About five years ago I was working for the National Union of Journalists in their membership department. I worked the database, mostly processing applications and pursuing feckless bastard journos who'd let their membership dues lapse (they're exactly as bad to deal with as you imagine. Particularly Daily Mail'ers).

I never really understood that damn database. I just clicked around, altered names and numbers and hoped for the best. Luckily everybody in the building used it and so I had reasonable deniability whenever a colossal fuck-up was uncovered - like a Daily Mail hack paying £850p/a instead of £600. Ooooops!

Anyway, one day at about 3 the post got brought in and amongst the usual application forms and complaints about mysterious payment fuck-ups that day was a rather unusual letter. It was in a dirty, wrinkled envelope. On that was written, 'To The Clerk, NUJ' - meaning it had been delivered by hand. Inside was stuffed one of those daily-headline posters for the Evening Standard.

Scrawled in slanting biro on the back of this was a rambling anonymous letter which detailed some kind of plot against humanity involving the royal family, the government, Swiss banks, a fat person, a person outside Planet Hollywood with horns growing out of their head, and Ian Fleming (the writer of James Bond).

I held in my hands the 100% genuine ravings of a madman.

Which, dear reader, I present below. We should perhaps pause a moment to reflect that this is a window into somebody's decidedly scrambled thoughts and I'm sure you'll join me in wishing the best for whichever poor soul wrote this. God knows what their internal monologue must be like but possibly it's something like this -Madness is not, of course, to be mocked. Nevertheless, it's interesting to consider how exactly this extraordinary paranoid jigsaw was assembled:It's incoherent and addled but still quite a piece of writing. My favourite line is - 'He is believed to have the habit of standing upon stilts'.

Of course it's always possible that the author is onto something. If I suddenly disappear - beware the fat man.

Cold Feet

2008-07-03T09:37:00.000-07:00

You see? The man is afraid of the baby.

The Man With The Gold: Part Two

2008-07-03T08:23:00.000-07:00

Here's part two of our serialization of the dreadful autobiography of Mr T. If you want to start with part one, click here.

We're reading once more from the third, hopeless chapter. We join the human toy as he dishes up pain shaped justice to ne'er do wells (oh, all right, 'fools') who've interfered with the Family 'T'.

Again."My mother was robbed on Tuesday, and I found the guys who did it a week later on a Thursday. I would like to add, up until that point I had never killed anyone before. I will not say what I did to those two niggers who robbed and threatened to kill my mother, but I will say this: 'No one will ever see them again and I don't have no hurt in my heart anymore'. I am at peace once again because I did what had to be done. And I pity the fool who don't protect his mother. In the process of finding those two guys, fourteen people got beaten up pretty badly, three women got slapped around for interfering with us, and a lot of property was damaged.""Ain't that some shit? Here's two punks trying to rob my father that brought me into this world and they have the nerve to call me brother! Damn! I ran back and grabbed my .357 Magnum and returned to the window and saw the two guys running. I fired three shots from the window. Then I jumped from my window on the first floor to the ground with nothing on but my underwear (a pair of white shorts) and my .357 Magnum in my hand. I jumped out of the window instead of running down the stairs because it was faster... ...when I hit the ground I landed on my feet and immediately started to run. I was running in my underwear with a big gun in my hand chasing two black guys down the street.
Every three or four steps, I would take a shot at them. This was the time of day when everyone would be returning home from work. The streets were crowded with cars, buses and people. I chased these two guys five blocks, shooting and running. We ran across 55th and Garfield. I jumped over one car, stepped on the hood of another, and ran around a bus full of people. Three cars crashed into each other because the drivers were watching me run in my underwear with this big gun in my hand. I chased and shot at these guys until they got out of sight and I ran out of bullets. On my fourth or fifth shot I could have sworn that I shot one of them in the back near his shoulder. When I got to the area where one of them had fallen from the shot, there was some blood but not enough for me to be satisfied with., so I can't take credit for something I'm not sure of. In chasing them, I had two goals: (1) to capture them or kill them, and (2) not to shoot an innocent bystander, which I didn't.

One Pure Thought / Martin & Youle

2008-07-02T05:50:00.000-07:00

The excellent video for Hot Chip's 'One Pure Thought' by the artists / designers/ photographers / videographers/ overachievers Bevis Martin & Charlie Youle. They get up to all kinds of interesting things and you can visit them here.

Some sample images from their website to confound your senses and trouble your dreams.

Are You Mature? Find out with this easy test.

2008-07-02T04:23:00.000-07:00

If, you like me, you found all these pictures funny then no, you're not mature.

And I can cheerfully recommend Photobasement! (I found it via Why, That's Delightful!)

Commissioner Gordon, You Are A Poo-Poo

2008-06-21T10:07:00.000-07:00

I don't know who did it but I wish it was me. Cartoon found at Fist Of Blog (home of the 'Shiny Guy Always Worries' video, which I liked too).

Photos of Places

2008-06-21T09:42:00.000-07:00

Click To Embiggen

Shropshire Backyard of the People's Palace, BucharestFlowersInside the very head of Lady LibertyThe Spooky Niagra People

Photos Of Animals

2008-06-21T09:35:00.000-07:00

Click to Embiggen.

A PigLizards With Insects: StudyLost GoatStomach [With Balls]The nocturnal cellar-work of my cat

From the archives of The Muncaster Trumpet [Number 1,862]: February 12th 1953

2008-06-21T09:06:00.000-07:00

This Sunday, Why Not Come And See Duncan Pantie Tethered Naked To A Cartwheel?
Bring the kids down to Muncaster town hall this Sunday, where local 'good-sport' Duncan Pantie will be tethered naked to a cartwheel and suspended by ropes 18 feet above the ground. It's just the latest inspired whim of our glorious master The Fifth Alfred Lord Cecil The Percy of Muncaster IV and the Muncaster Town Council expressed their ecstatic gratitude for his spectacular benevolence.

Duncan's delighted to have found himself the subject of his Lordship's inspired, not to say completely arbitrary and unpredictable attentions. Despite the surprise of the honour that has befallen him, he's clearly looking forward to the unquestioning fulfillment of his suddenly altered destiny; "Touch me and I'll bite you! Untie my hands" he told the Muncaster Trumpet in an exclusive interview. "Why did they put this chain around my neck? Where's Angie? And who was that man with the needle and the hood?"

Starts 11am.

The World Of Historic Robin of Sherwood Forest Museum, Muncaster

2008-06-21T09:03:00.000-07:00

LOOK OUT!

It's the SHERRIFF of NOTTINGHAM!

Not really, of course. But you'll have to pinch yourself when you come face-to-face with the ULTRA realistic waxworks you'll encounter in The World of Robin of Sherwood Forest Museum.

But don't worry - it's not only Nasty Nottingham you'll meet when you come to The World of Robin of Sherwood Forest Museum, Muncaster. All the characters you know and love from the hit BBC TV series are present and correct - look, there goes Friar Tu... or possibly it's Little J... or... or just... some kind of erm...

...jester or something

The sights! The smells! The feelings! Our cast of costumed actors will bring Medieval England back to life with total authenticity!

And why not feel comfortable to leave your kids unattended with our professional young jobbing actor / catalogue models?

'So... you here with your parents or what?' - Ha, ha! Oh, Robin. Remember what the manager said last time.

Mm! Cheese!

2008-06-21T07:29:00.000-07:00

Lanark 'The Stone That the Builder Rejected' MP3

2008-06-20T16:43:00.000-07:00

Here is an exclusive link to download a song that Felix and Al made a couple of years ago, which featured on the Hot Chip 'DJ Kicks' compilation back in 2007. They are currently recording an album under the name Lanark which they are hoping to release sometime in 2009.

LINK : LANARK "THE STONE THAT THE BUILDER REJECTED" mp3

Escape From Triden 15: How Much The Tiny Form Needed Him

2008-06-20T13:03:00.000-07:00

// The Mortified Shoebox Show //
'Mortified' is a website / theatre project celebrating (or exorcising) the awkward, idiotic or otherwise excruciating ephemera we create in childhood. That's a neat idea, and we here at Me Laughs Me Eyes are not above shamelessly copying people.

I have a small selection of embarrassing childhood artifacts that have somehow avoided the rubbish bin these past 15 years. I'm not talking about photographs - though they can be embarrassing, sure. ...Nice hair, junior.

Nor am I talking about the fact that I still have an official carry-case of Micro Machines stashed away in my cupboard, though that too is embarrassing. (I just can't bear to chuck them out. At least not until e-bay starts showing me some real numbers. I loved my tabletop Micro Machines city and I still regret being persuaded to give it away in 1998 to the little boy who lived downstairs from us and then moved to Oxford. I hope you're enjoying your ill-gotten riches, Jack Pilston.)

No, here I'm talking about childhood art - things we actually wrote or made, lovingly crafted and then proudly showed off - utterly assured that we were ...well, talented. Specifically I'm thinking of art from the 'school' of Pretentious Teenagers.

I was a pretentious teenager.

One of the most significant manifestations of my pretention was my writing. Oh, I fancied myself quite the man of letters. At about 13, I was in a WH Smith one day and perusing the gaudy covers of the horror novels. I turned over one by Stephen King, and saw embossed there in golden letters - 'Words Are His Power'.

It went around my head again and again. That, I thought, could be me! Words had to be my power - after all, if not 'words' then what?

Certainly not my 'effortless charisma around girls'.

Anyway, I decided that one day I too would have a worldwide best seller with gold embossed lettering declaring 'Words' to be my 'Power'. I had always drawn cartoons and written stories, but for a the next 3 or 4 years I became a prolific, and cheerfully dreadful, writer.

Beginnings were my specialite du maison. Every week I'd launch into a new, wildly ambitious novel. It would always be in a fresh pad - I couldn't stand starting anew in the pages after an abandoned project. The book would be blighted. Since almost none of my books got beyond chapter two, to this day I have hundreds of notepads with fifteen pages of awful writing and then

- nothing.

When I got the bug but didn't have a new notebook to hand, I'd score the offending pages out of an old book and chuck them. I was self-aware enough to be disgusted by my own abortive literary efforts of yesteryear, yestermonth, yesterweek and indeed yesterday. But every time I started over, I felt certain that this time, This Time, it was the one: the book that would see me rightly acclaimed as a master of suspense-drenched prose. I really thought these things might get published. Perhaps not in my head, but in my heart. I could just see it so clearly.

Today, I have a whole lot of first and second chapters of ill-conceived genre novels hand-written in spiral bound notebooks with the 'Coca-Cola' logo or Loony-Tunes characters on the front. Mostly, they're action stories; lots of helicopters, lots of guns. Reading them back, I see that I had no idea about writing for other people. I was completely absorbed in my own escapist fantasies and that's all I required from the process. It focussed my mind and fueled an imagined other life; one in which I was an action-hero, movie star and celebrity.

And had a girlfriend of course.

My writing gave me direction through adolescence, something to aspire to and aim for. Perhaps because I was trying to excel in such feeble-minded milieu ("Action-Sci-Fi", "Action-Adventure", "Action-Suspense" & "Action-Romance") my teenage offerings are particularly bad. Playing the violin terribly is one thing; but playing the bagpipes terribly is even worse, if you see what I mean.

(I'm saying that bagpipes are the "Action-Sci-Fi" of the instrument world.)

In coming weeks I'll be posting excerpts from such exciting titles as 'The People From The Desert' and 'Project Sample Y'. But to kick off here's some prose with concrete boots on from my 1994 effort 'Escape From Triden 15'.

Remember, Words are my Power.

ESCAPE FROM TRIDEN 15 [Excerpts]

Chapter One: It All Begins.

"Approximately 300 million people on Triden alone were watching the TTV news special - live - as the dropship Galaxia Voyager cruised ever closer to the landing pad. They were waiting to hear whether or not their cities and lives would be invaded by gun toting multimillion dollar law enforcement androids.

'And' reported the TTV worker, 'we can now clearly see Voyager not 500 metres from us...'

Suddenly an explosion with incredible force tore through the side of the dropship. 'Jesus!' cried the reporter.

Within seconds the ship was a blazing fireball that screamed towards the aerodromes terminal building. The blazing dropship crashed through the huge ground floor window of the terminal taking out a supporting pillar as it went. People who had been crowded at the window waiting to catch a glimpse of the president had no chance of getting out of the way. The fiery metallic monster ploughed into and through the crowds of people.

In the living room of the presidential housing in the governmental buildings of Triden, the colour drained rapidly out of the two boy's faces. Neither of them could breathe as their minds failed to take in the horrendous scenes depicted live before them upon the television screen.

Finally, the younger boy, Tems, gasped to his older brother, Al: 'Dad's dead'.

A tear rolled down the cheek of Tems and he let out a tiny frightened whimper. This pulled his big brother out of his trance, and Al pulled the tiny, unprotesting child to him and held him tight as Tems started to scream. His entire body shook with wails that shot straight to Al's heart. His little brother's wails strengthened Al as he realised how much the tiny form needed him, and he was silent as his own tears started to flood out of his own eyes and make a salty taste in his mouth.

At the aerodrome, fire, ambulance and police crews had arrived, but it was no less hectic. Some people were still screaming hysterically, others just wandered slowly in shock. For every ambulance crew there were at least fifty people who needed serious attention. The ground everywhere was littered with bodies - some barely recognizable as bodies. It seemed as if everywhere was on fire. Crumbling black ash was still raining in clouds from the sky creating a choking, thick layer of perverse snow over everything."

___

...gripping stuff, think you not dear reader? (Be kind, I was 14.) Join me next time for excerpts from Chapter Two, 'Meet Saphire'.

In chapter two of most of my books the highly desirable heroine is introduced. She's generally sassy, gorgeous and a bit older than the sensitive male lead protagonist. Saphire is no exception - in fact, "to look at, Saphire was stunning. Her face consisted of wide blue eyes, high distinct cheekbones and naturally deep red lips were topped by waves of long blond hair."

Don't miss it. Or your face will 'consist of' a scowly, downturned mouth and salty, tear drenched eyes.

Free Lunch

2008-06-20T11:50:00.000-07:00

Hard Luck

2008-06-20T10:58:00.001-07:00

Click To Embiggen!

Jimmy Wonder!

2008-06-20T10:57:00.000-07:00

Dennis and Mick

2008-06-20T10:54:00.000-07:00

You Toucha My Cake?

2008-06-20T10:53:00.000-07:00

The Man With The Gold: Part One

2008-06-20T05:58:00.000-07:00

"...I wanted to become a millionaire by age thirty-three. That was a special number to me because that's the age Jesus died. You see, I was thinking bigger and faster than the average kid in the ghetto."In this Me Laughs Me Eyes Showbizz Exclusive, we're delighted to be serializing excerpts from the rambling, incoherent, astonishingly vain and troublingly blood soaked autobiography of rabid right-wing God-botherer and much loved children's entertainer Mr T! We join him here in full flow two thirds of the way through Chapter 3 ('Living In The Ghetto') - confronting some thieves who've made the foolish decision to purloin the T family television set.

"So you want to meet Mr. T, personal and up close. The man with the gold, not just around his neck but deep down in his heart. Well, this is my story about my life, and I wrote it myself - without a ghostwriter, because if I had a ghostwriter my book would have become his story instead of my story. I am sure there will be other books about me, but they won't tell it like it is. So if you want to read the honest-to-goodness truth about Mr. T this is it. But, on the other hand, if you want to read lies, scandlas and half-truths, then read someone else's point of view about Mr. T. Lies sell more books and make more money than the truth because that's what a lot of you want to read and hear. Even though we know the truth yet we still lie. I am glad I follow the the teachings of Jesus, and he said, 'speak the truth and the truth shall set you free'. So here is the unadulterated truth, told, written and spoken in such terms that even a fool can understand what I'm talking about.
I have something to say, and I said it in this book the way I talk. It's unconventional and not like everybody else's style, but this is me. This is the me that makes me me.""The first thing I did was change my clothes. I changed out of my suit into a black turtleneck sweater, black pair of pants, black combat boots and black gloves. I went outside to question some of the local punks, thugs, winos and low-lifes..." "...I said 'I'm going to kick your ass for the things you've done. Like snatching that lady's purse three weeks ago.' I started slapping them, then I threw both of them down to the ground and began to kick the hell out of them. That's when the other three jumped in and that's what I was waiting for. Now it was a fair fight (five against one). We started to fight. They jumped on me and then they jumped right off me, rather I threw them off. I gave two of them a flying drop kick, one a punch to the throat, and one I kept picking up and throwing back to the ground. The other, I held his head by the hair and kept punching to the face until his nose and mouth were bleeding. I went back to the two I had kicked and grabbed their heads and started to run them into each other until they were also bleeding. The one I had hit in the throat, I grabbed him and hit him in the stomach so hard he folded up like a suitcase and rolled over. I picked up the one I had thrown to the ground a couple of times, and he begged me to stop and said he'd had enough and he would tell me whatever I wanted to know..." "...It is strange: the only way to get results sometimes is you have to go upside someone's head."

Mikey Likes To Have Fun A Lot

2008-06-20T05:37:00.000-07:00

It wasn't so damn funny when this jerk brought Mikey to my uncle's funeral.

Slide In All Directions

2008-06-17T15:12:00.000-07:00

This is an old clip of Leonard but I draw your attention to how incredibly good it is. I was lucky enough to see him in Dublin over the weekend, a concert of such astonishing excellence that I am still struggling to come to terms with it. A show that honestly made me feel that almost every other band on the planet should give up.

True Love

2008-06-09T15:19:00.001-07:00

Ice Show Cancelled

2008-06-09T15:18:00.001-07:00

After a quick succession of near fatal accidents on the very first day of rehearsal, this year's Chingford Ice Show - "Stairway To Heaven" - has been cancelled. Creative director Susannah Heurgh offered her apologies to all disappointed ticket-holders.

"We had thought that the addition of several vertiginous flights of frozen stairs would add a real touch of excitement to our choreography this year" said a clearly disappointed Ms Heurgh outside the arena. "Everybody thought that the routines looked terrific on paper - particularly the complicated tap-dances we planned to perform on the 200-foot spiral ice-staircase in the centre of the rink. Unfortunately, an inexplicable series of accidents at our first rehearsal has left our 50-strong troupe with only 3 unbroken legs between them."

While the cancellation of this year's ice-show is regretful, happily the ever-popular Garry Bushell has leapt in to fill the void with a welcome return for his "big, big variety show".

It's the show where fat people and only fat people get to show off their quivering talents. Set to return this year are knife-throwing double-act Graham and Stephanie LeMezmo, who wowed audiences last Octember when Graham threw 25 knives directly into Stephanie, all of which her body absorbed and ultimately digested.

And don't forget to stick about for the late-night show, when the kids are gone and Garry lets loose his outrageous humour*!

*sorry, no blacks, asians or non-whites.

Or gays.

Or cripples.

Or women.

Nigel Wriggley *seats still available

2008-06-09T15:13:00.000-07:00

For Stool Pigeon by Lindsay & Tom Brass

moochowski.com.

Rapitty Rappity Rap

2008-06-08T12:50:00.000-07:00

Grovesnor: Drive Your Car

2008-06-07T09:13:00.000-07:00

Yes! Another massive smash from Grovesnor - myspace.com/grovesnormusic

Fantasy Farm

2008-06-07T09:03:00.000-07:00

"Your rides are now scattered as seeds to be sewn
the days spent with you were the sweetest we've known
My kids will never know you, I'm filled with regret
past echoes of laughter I will never forget."
- Gary & Kevin Miller.

www.fantasyfarm.org

Historic Pounding Muncaster

2008-06-07T08:33:00.001-07:00

CLICK THE IMAGE TO SEE IT IN EYE-WATERING FULL-SIZE!

SHOWBIZZ EXCLUSIVE! First Pictures From New PIXAR Animation!

2008-06-07T08:30:00.000-07:00

Below are first, exclusive pictures from "BangBangBang and the Wartmonkey" - the new, hundred million dollar computer-animated spectacular from PIXAR, makers of such beloved modern family classics as "Toy Story", "Mosters Inc" and "Finding Nemo". In recent weeks studio head John Lassiter has vehemently contradicted rumours of drug misuse amongst his team of top-flight animators behind the walls of PIXAR's high-tech California headquarters. "We're all really proud of our work on 'BangBangBang and the Wartmonkey', said a dressing-gown clad Lassiter at an impromptu press-conference convened early yesterday morning at the studio gates.

"We're all really proud of our, of our" he added before tailing off and gazing at his hands. The film features the vocal talents of Angelina Jolie, Tommy Lee-Jones and Daniel "Harry-Potter" Radcliffe - who stars as BangBangBang, a loveable talking Uzi obsessed with tracking down Giblets, the wart-skinned monkey who drank his father's aura before disappearing into the enormous pulsating vagina in the wall (Jolie).

Me Laughs Me Eyes Matinee: Buster Keaton's One Week

2008-06-07T08:26:00.001-07:00

This is the complete version of Buster's 1920 short in which he builds a house with his new bride and - surprise! - everything goes wrong. The plots were never too strong in Buster's films, but they didn't need to be - athletic madman BK was one of the most gifted, yet hardest working screen performers there's ever been.

He'd dive off buildings or under cars without a second thought. He didn't even need a camera rolling, he'd do it for the edification of friends or passers by. During one shoot he broke his neck and didn't even notice - he wasn't just a badass, he was a Vaudeville badass.

Those old school entertainers laid the foundations of Hollywood with reconfigured and expanded incarnations of their stage acts. Buster had been at it since 1896, performing in the family act from before he was even a year old. He was a superstar by the age of two, already celebrated across America for his house-cat deadpan.

It's bittersweet to watch the amazing comedy and acrobatics on display in these early silent shorts because at the same time as witnessing the birth of Hollywood you're seeing the death of Vaudeville. Seeing this kind of performance live must have been something else.

As with all Buster Keaton films, the pace in 'One Week' isn't exactly white hot between the big comic set pieces. But since he and his rag-tag buddies were pretty much inventing cinema on the spot, we can give them a big break for all the bits where characters gesture and gesticulate for five damn minutes after they've fallen down. Or simply walked into the room.

One Week isn't quite as good as 'The Scarecrow', another short co-starring Sybil Seely.
She's my favourite of Buster's onscreen romances. She's got good comic timing, she can take a fall and rough it with the boys. She has a great line in mischievous glances and she's also - in my humble opinion - a whole wide world of hot. Watch out for her in the bath - In the 1920s this was pretty sizzling stuff.

So - grab a cup of coffee, and enjoy Buster Keaton's One Week. You might want to put on your own music - seriously... otherwise, take it away Mr Plink, Plunk, Plonk Piano Man.
Best bit? The cyclone. Or the train.

Roll On

2008-06-07T07:32:00.000-07:00

Lindsay: I made this video for a UK release of a Jenny Lewis song (remixed by 'DNTEL'). I like Jenny Lewis although the remix here is not my cup of tea. Ultimately 'Moshi Moshi' (records label) put the kibosh on my work but I still like it. So here it is, a 'Laughs Me Eyes exclusive.

Me Laughs Me Eyes: We get the exclusives other people don't even want

Hot Chip: Colours (Home Made)

2008-06-07T07:03:00.000-07:00

Lindsay: In 2006 my film making colleague Sam Lawlor & I made a video with Hot Chip. It was shot on a budget of £0.00 and we never quite finished it but recently I stopped procrastinating and edited the footage for fun, so here it is. Sorry the picture's a bit pooh, me no so clever with der video uploadylinks.

Thanks a lot to Hot Chip, they rock the party. Unfortunately I'm an inveterate hermit with all the va-va-voom of a arthritic barnacle so I'm rarely actually at that party. But I listen to them while I do cartoons in my bedroom and oh boy, they get me dancing in my underpants. Sorry, that sounds like a euphemism. I mean I dance around while clad in my underpants, which is standard attire for an underemployed man of the arts like myself.

The Record Company

2008-06-07T06:51:00.000-07:00

Captain Music

2008-06-07T06:47:00.000-07:00

The Miracle Of Birth

2008-06-06T16:32:00.000-07:00

Cedric's Recital

2008-06-06T16:30:00.000-07:00

Slightly... dare I say it... racist?

2008-06-06T16:14:00.000-07:00

I've personally never found it at all difficult, or even particularly interesting, to put my music collection in any kind of order. Things that I listen to regularly end up in piles, the composition of which is generally known to me and allows for quick and easy access to, say, side 2 of the Bob Dylan album "Saved" should the mood strike me. Occasionally something eludes me and this can be frustrating - I want to listen to "Midnight Lovin'" by Marvin Gaye and I can't because I'm not organized enough.

For the casual home listener then, the situation is not without difficulties. For the record shop owner, the situation is ten times worse. Staff at a popular record store need constant access to all the music to meet with customer demands, and the customers themselves need to be able to easily browse the music across genre and artist.

For the German online record shop, decks.de, the situation obviously became very bleak, and the only solution appears to have been a (whoops) bit of a racist one:Yes, by all means order your music by such genres as House and Techno. But "Black" a genre?Am I out of my mind? Isn't this just really odd and bad? And not especially enhanced by the dynamic punching fist used to signify the aforementioned "Black" genre.

Isn't it weird for people working at the shop? Do they have different areas of the stock room laid out according to racial background? Perhaps they could go the "whole hog" and order everything according to skin tone, starting off with Marilyn Manson and finishing up with Issac Hayes (though Michael Jackson would be a real headache).

It seems to be like an example of what I have come to know as "European Racism". That is, a seemingly cheerful and easygoing brand of racism unique to the continent of Europe which creates bizarre stereotypes of black identity and then puts them into everyday use with no apology whatsoever. So the Dutch have "Zwarte Piet" ("Black Pete"), the completely racist festive character:

(Incidentally Chris Ware writes very amusingly about the awkwardness of this character in the latest volume of the 'Acme Novelty Datebook').

While the Spanish STILL have the completely racist sweet Conguitos (recently spotted on sale in Barcelona Airport!):God help us all.

80s TV Themes - what a fresh subject for somebody of my generation to blog about

2008-06-06T16:04:00.000-07:00

But honestly - some of them were funking brilliant. Listen to this.

I mean - just listen to this.Dyyyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn!

Right?

I know that you want to listen to it again. Well don't let me stop you, go right ahead. That piece of music is a flat-out masterpiece and we should all listen to it a lot. It's the most exciting music ever written. Guy Who Wrote The Theme To Treasure Hunt: I salute ye.

And Anneka Rice, I'm saluting ye right now. Incidentally, what's going on at the 24-second mark? Right when the tune really kicks in? Is Kenneth Kendall taking those women hostage and screaming his demands into the camera? Because I missed that episode.

In fact, looked at in another light, the whole thing could really could be an 'Airwolf' style action drama about a sexy, crime-busting secret agent. The show would star Anneka Rice as jumpsuited, canoeing & parachuting action-woman 'Treaure Hunt' who has a talking helicopter and every week must defeat the maniacal plans of super-villain 'Kendall' whose machinations are orchestrated from his secret lair in a ruined castle staffed by old people.

Which would be seven shades of awsome. I've actually just blown my own mind, thinking of that. I imagine the clown in the golf cart is either comic relief or a creepy henchman in disguise.

Here's another:Woaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!

Right?

Holy shit it's like a disco from the future with lazer beams and spaceships shooting off all over the damn place. It's like Tron. They could really write a tune back then, and they weren't afraid to use their synths either.

Go on, listen to it again. I know you want to. And you know I'm going to.

Because it's awsome.

If That's The truth, One Must Accept The Truth

2008-06-06T16:01:00.000-07:00

Ah yes, the Antiques Roadshow, a Middle England institution that has, in keeping with the show's format, presented viewers over the years with countless hours of worthless dross and precious few moments of genuine pleasure. Fortunate, then, that someone has collated several "highlights" into a wonderful set of vignettes.The compilation reveals Middle England as a place of sheer, unparalleled banality. Looming crowds of gawping bystanders peer at the unfolding "valuations", acting as a drab Greek Chorus with their pantomime 'Ohhs' and 'Ahhs'. Into this theatre of valuations step the main players - amongst them the bald man at 1:07 who looks like he will sick up an egg when told of the value of his table and the bizarre (drunk?) young woman at 3:00, shocked to her core by the worthlessness of the utter tat she has brought along to be valued.

But the real value of this video is from 3:46 onwards. I really appreciate the way that the presenter is oh-so-subtly giving a real 'screw you' to the owner of the crappy tea-chest (that whole bit with the 'wood-dust' is priceless). Little did this gentleman know, when he awoke one fine summer morning in 2003 and decided to take his complete dross to Chichester for a valuation, that one of the greatest and most acute moments of humiliation he would ever experience were to be perfectly captured on film, broadcast to the nation on the BBC and later packaged up neatly in the Antiques Roadshow's own '30 Years of The Antique Roadshow' highlights, and now distributed to the whole world forever via the Internet. My God, this is the definition of egg on the face, it really is. The terrifying Death Stare that he gives the presenter and the tiny 'oh' noises he makes are a vision of sheer, white-hot rage in our own unique British style.

And the whole passage is set off beautifully by the bit that follows (from 5.28), where a man, upon being told that he owns a set of drawings worth hundred of thousands of pounds, is able to give only a very slight spasm (at 9:44) to indicate the heights of pure ecstasy that must be going on within.

The Hot Chip Novelty Theatre

2008-06-06T15:57:00.000-07:00

Woo

2008-06-06T15:50:00.000-07:00

Just A Minute!

2008-06-06T15:49:00.000-07:00

Just Minute! Sir! Madam! Could I have a moment of your time please? I really won't take more than a moment, I promise. It won't be in the least bit awkward or embarrassing. And I guarantee that what I have to say will make a real difference to your life, from the moment that you hear what I have to say to the moment that you close your eyes for the last time and let go 'this mortal coil'.

Sir! Don't walk away Sir! Could I persuade just to linger here for an instant longer - that's all it should take. Just a moment or two, promise. Aha! Thank you Sir. Just over here Sir, you need to follow me into this ... That's right, just over here, through this little doorway ... Yes, just follow me, we'll be in there in a moment and out of there just as quickly, you'll see. Oh! It's terribly exciting I must say! We haven't had a customer for quite some time, let alone one of your ... caliber Sir ... such a privilege and an honour to have you in here Sir and it really won't take a moment.

Yes! The stairway is a little narrow I know. And I'm afraid it is terribly dark in here, though remember we are coming in from a very bright afternoon. Oftentimes that can make it seem darker than it is. But granted, this little cellar is very dark and gloomy, not a place to a linger, especially during the summer months. And linger we shan't Sir, not for a moment longer than needs be. Not a moment.

Promise.

Origami

2008-06-06T07:44:00.000-07:00

A 2006 stop-motion video for a tune by Tom Hopkins (or 'Punkton' as I sincerely hope he commits to calling himself). The music is composed from filtered & manipulated sounds of paper folding and tearing. Tom's a new cat on the minimal techno scene and he's got some hot new tunes in the tunepipe.

The video really gets going at the 2 minute mark so stick with it or skip to it. This was a first go at stop motion and it's pretty primitive, but there's a lot I liked about it.