Monday, 28 May 2012

Video Gaming



Video Gaming

I’ve no truck with these video games that plant people in front of their televisions like so much vegetation. Ian is mad for them, of course. His dear old lady mother had her face well-raisined from years of watching the future Duke of Frisbee addle himself on generations of Grand Theft Auto. You’ll not find yours truly, Maximilian Willoughby, whiling it away on such gadgets and distractions. I haven’t the thumbs for it.
One dismal day, with the sky greyed out by pregnant purple-black fluffies, I hid indoors and was tempted to trying by Frisbee. He was gaping in lobotomised ecstasy at an array of screens upon which ran armoured spacemen, opening all aggressive on each other with spacearms. A man to a screen, his friends fanned out along the line. Vaguely sensing his pal’s rainy day distress, the Duke himself reluctantly allowed his good friend Maxi to take the control. I had little idea what could be done, and my spaceman made it only a few steps before I was mercilessly ambushed. After being killed for a fifth time and without being able to fire a single round I cast the controller firmly away. Catching Tetrahedron with the full blaze of a haughty eyeballing, I removed myself to a distant alcove to sulk. No question that the Duke was relieved to see me go. He had cultivated his gaming identity to proudly mirror the worthiness of his grand title, Ian Tetrahedron; Duke of Frisbee. He was far from desirous for Turgid-Fingers Willoughby to bring disrepute to his unmottled reputation.
The closest I allow myself to video gaming is when I suspiciously eye vending machines. I am deeply perturbed by any purchase I am forced to make where I am not availed of the opportunity to use my charms to secure a fairer compromise. The vending machine offers none of this, it simply demands an unquestionable, set price. True, they can be tricked and jostled, but I find this brutish and unsatisfying. If there is no other course, I watch from a distance while Simkins does the jostling. This way I can at least imagine myself akin to a mob boss.
These peculiar types who enjoy computerised entertainment surely just lack the means and/or the imagination to see to their own amusements in the real world. I’ll share this yarn with you, it will more than weather another recounting.
One glorious Summer our generous yellow orb was so eager to visit that we enjoyed a pointedly prolonged blistering. The sheer audacity of the sunshine drove the oxygen from every house, forcing our nation of sallow cretins to embrace the wilder side. I braved the Duke’s abode, offloaded his deoxygenated shell into a rudimentary gambo and trollied the unfortunate to the, relative, safety of the outdoors. Little did he know, comatose as he was, that we’d soon discover the most satisfying episode of gaming ever to be enjoyed.
Tetrahedron is a fellow for who land was, presumably, made for. He took to the owning of it as a seagull takes to the eating of the vomit of drunkards. That is to say, opportunistically and distastefully, but with aplomb and a great degree of success. We were utilising only a small amount of his land at the time, picnicking, although to our credit we were enjoying the expansive view, which in a way was finding an occupation for large tracts of his property. I was blonding my summery Fu Manchu with healthy doses of mischievous mustard, which was instigating a sandwich mutiny, when I saw a group of children following the leadering on the private property which I had been occupying with my landscape appreciation. I was on my feet in a nano and my legs became a cartoon watermill which churned me to proximity.
“Now! Now, now, now!” I eulogised, transfixing the trespassing oiks where they stood. One squealed like a piglet in the embrace of a Vauxhall, and I battled for control of my facial muscles. I kept it stern and authoritative; they stayed frozen. The squealer shook slightly, and the pot he was wearing about his head see-sawed, eventually taking a dive to earth. His hair, now revealed, sprang out, each strand a piglet’s tail to match his vocalising. He fell to his knees and truffled the pot back into his possession.
“This is the land of the Frisbee Duke,” I continued, smelling the clouds, so haughty was my flamboyant offensive. “What are you about, coming here?”
“We’re onna quest fotha ‘Oly Grail, in we?” was the noise which came from a verminous youth at the back, an impressive approximation of human speech for one of so unfortunate a genetic build.
“Well, it is not to be found here,” I sentenced, then I bade them follow, and delivered them into the custody of the house staff, to be shipped from the estate and back to their negligent guardians.

It was seeing them stood in one of the Hall’s stony antechambers that gave me the idea. With their wooden swords and branch staves, in utensil armour which lolled off them in ill-fitting glee, I was made wealthy with gifts from the epiphany troll. Tetrahedron was piled messily on a chaise longue, glad to be inside again, but still sullen in his exile from a console.
“Ian…” I began, “are you still under the yoke of soothsayers in the Westernmost field?”
His eyes sought out the back of his skull, leaving only whites to face the inquiry. It was a, rather fraught, yes. I knew then for what endeavour this intrepid band had been delivered to me.
“You four,” I addressed them. They were all aquiver now. “I have a solution to unweave this knotty affair we’re tied in.” All ears perked as though they’d supped black coffee. “Give up your quest for the grail and accept mine in replacement. Do so, and your parents need not know of this trespass.” All eyes widened in the very same manner as a lady when heavy with child. I scrutinised my ragtag band.
“You brave four shall be known as the Knights of Frisbee. It is now your sworn duty to rout the cardwizards from the perimeter of the Westernmost field and back onto common land. To this end I christen you with your knightly names. You sir,” I indicated the halest among them, “are to be called Montford Hale.” The little sausage swelled with the helium of pride and damn near took off. “And you,” my finger swung to the secondmost, “shall be known henceforth as Henceforth Secondmost.” A little confusion germinated, and I cooled my creativity. “You,” this was the ratty speaker from before, “are Ratkinder.” Luckily the grub had no German. “Lastly we have you, Sir Truffledandy Baconpiglet.” The chubby one split a frown, like a damaged doughnut. “Now off with you, to arms!”

I was rather full of it for the rest of the afternoon. I’d given something back to the community. The kids would inconvenience the mystics, and with any luck the mystics would give a little lesson to my roaming Knights. I was warmed by the heat of my one stone killing and then igniting an entire flock of birds. I had chilled quite considerably by nightfall, however, with no regrouping yet apparent. I laid my concern on Tetrahedron. He was the Frisbee to their Knights, after all. He told me to quiet my fretting. I inquired as to the nature of his quietude. He assured me of his confidence in the plan’s success. I asked him to clarify. He told me the kids would certainly be successful in the rout. I asked him why. He then indicated a large cabinet, which stood much depleted. Only dusty chainmail and heavy gloves haunted the furnishing.
“I don’t follow, my Duke.” As he then used words to explain, realisation hit me like a woman scorned. It was his old armoury cabinet. It had been filled heavy with his peculiarly violent trinkets. Asian blades and early firearms, as well as sharp little nasty things to throw at people.
“They were my Knights, Maxi, I couldn’t send them out equipped as they were.”
Entirely agogged, my fine moustache picked dirt from the ground at my feet. It was a logical course of action for the Duke to take, but I’d never known Ian to show initiative.
Skies above, the sight that awaited us!

The Knights were as ripe strawberries, so reddened with blood were they. One of them had even set the caravans alight. Soothsayers, mystics and cardwizards were dead; men, women and children. I saw the body of one with some of the nasty thrower-type things decorating her. I felt a curling in my top lip.
“I am a little shocked,” I managed, “especially at you, Sir Baconpiglet.” And I was. But more than this I was impressed with what the dispassionate youth can achieve when they are properly equipped and motivated. Feeling quite entrepreneurial at the helm of my pubescent Knights, I savoured the success of my own little crusaders.
Coughing in the woodsmoke, I did my best to smile broadly, but failed somewhat.

*****


I am terrible at video games, and that infuriates me.  The thing is, I'm a sore looser, and the world of video games does nothing to help me get over this personality flaw.  It's a bit like an exaggerated version of reality; if you haven't the skill, then you will die.  And if you want to, you can boil it down to that; I do not want to die. 

At it's worst, my VGR (video game rage) sees me bashing myself and anything that's at my reach and inexpensive, to within an inch of its' life.  I can't seem to accept loss in that particular context. 

Nowadays, video games are very good at giving you an incentive to play them, whether it's unlocking hidden easer eggs, or just earning achievements.  I am fully aware that an achievement for destroying X amount of enemies in method Y is completely and utterly irrelevant to the real world, but by God I want it! 

Computer games can be both good and bad.  They can promote liberal though, as they do in RPGs that allow the player to choose the sexuality of their character.  They can be used to provoke thought regarding moral and political standpoints, and they can be used to develop thinking skills, such as creativity and problem solving.  

To be honest, I think that video games will soon replace films, because they offer an immersive storyline in an alternate reality, with an interactive element which films cannot, by their very nature, offer.  Although the appeal of watching a story line unfold in the passive manner which a film offers will never really disappear from humanity, it will, i think, wane.  Because, for me, art is about people, and people need involvement.  Video games provide a level of involvement and, to a certain degree, ownership, over their art which is hard to find in other sources. 

 *****



At last we've reached the fine topic of video gaming. A subject that i part take in so much, i find i have little to say about it. 

When i was young my favorite video game was called "Find the home movies and tape over them with anything on late night then forward through them to see if there was a good film with boobies in and secretly watch it on my own just to be naughty." But i couldn't really put that into a box, patent it and make myself a fiscal bomb that would explode my bank account into a plane to the Bahamas where i could live my days all happy.

But, then again, "Find the home movies and tape over them with anything on late night then forward through them to see if there was a good film with boobies in and secretly watch it on my own just to be naughty." was never about making money, it was about being sneaky and enjoying myself and also , like it says in the name, being a little bit naughty, just for the thrill.

Then i found a brilliant thing that didn't involve videos at all. It involved cartridges with brilliant pictures on them and a machine that made them come alive whence attached to your television. These were called Video Games. I called them "games" for short. 

My first ever game was Sonic the Hedgehog which set a pretty high standard for my opinions on games yet to come. Soon came Streets of rage 2, Dessert Strike, Earthworm Jim, Ecco the dolphin.....The list goes on. The cartridges started morphing and newer, better looking games came along. Then Compact disks.

Now-days video games come in many shapes and form. Im not just talking about the format you can play them on: Console, iPad, Internet, hand held... the list continues. But we have a plethora of genres that we can indulge ourselves in. 

I can enjoy them all. I've played fighters, strategies, first person shooters, hack and slash, RPG and even sudoku on my phone (i guess that's a puzzle game). 

I realise that this blog is just a list of things so far. Here's how i feel about it: Good, bad, silly, weird, stupid, tired and horny.

Although i love internet flash games and enjoy the odd hand held game im going to leave them alone for now. I also don't own an iPad so that can snuff off too. Im going to write here my feelings about your console games, classic and modern.

They both have such differing qualities. (duh (i just wrote "duh". Who the heck am I?)) It was the retro games that drew me into the life and love of controlling a picture on a tv screen with my hands. I think the main thing that appealed to me was the challenge (because they were harder back then) and the brilliant music that must've been necessary in the creation process because it never seamed to fail for me. 

From there it was an easy lubrication into the games that were more about the graphics the world they created for you to explore. Details became incredibly important and it made for a much more stimulating experience. I tip my hats to Ninja Theory for making the all out effort to make their characters look real in their expressions. They've also made me realise my goal of having the same job as Andy Serkis, which is basically gurning and making noises whilst acting brilliantly.

But wait! Im forgetting the RPG. Of course, over time they made STORIES more and more elaborate and challenging and down right brilliant to get through (sometimes).
My first RPG was Final fantasy VII. Less about graphics, more about story.

I went on to pursue new RPG games and discovered Knights of the old Republic. A brilliant Bioware game. I remember going to school and bigging up Bioware and then feeling bad because i never knew what Baldur's gate was. (I've played it now. It's hard) But i feel that Bioware have gone from strength to strength in story telling through video gaming. (I've even played the old Fallout games) 
Bioware, I salute you.

I'll end this entry with a Top Five. Game series'. But it'll have to be in no particular order because fuck you it's hard.


  • Metal Gear Solid
  • Zelda....
  • Gears of War
  • Final Fantasy
  • Uncharted


*****
Adam Gilder
Gethin Down
Dafydd Evans

Tuesday, 1 May 2012

Invent a new flavour of crisp

Invent a new flavor of crisps
I'd like to start this post by explaining that i've given myself many distractions during the upcoming week of this blog entry. It's deadline was saturday the twenty eighth of April and i am submitting mine on the first of May. 
I'd also like to point out that the title this month was provided by me and i truly regret writing the words down on the paper before putting it into the hat.

So here we go:

Ladies and gentlemen feast your eyes, mouths and bellies on a crisp. 
But what?
You've never heard of Prime Spud (trademark) before?
NONSENSE! Prime Spud (trademark) is the new crisp on the tip of everyones tongue. It has perfect texture. Perfect CRUNCH! PERFECT FLAVOURS!
That's right, our great variety of flavours will have you trembling with pure potato pleasure!
Flavours like: Number 1, number 2, number 3, number 5, number 7, number 11, number 13, number 17.......
Waaaaa?

THAT'S NOT WHAT PRIME SPUD (trademark) STANDS FOR!
We have REAL flavours, such as:
Dragon Age flavour. Wrap your tongues and bite your teeth into the tantalizing taste of Archdaemon Dragon stake flavour. It's Fiery!
How about Fallout: New Vegas Falvour? These crisps are RADIOACTIVE! And that's not even the best part! They taste better than a DeathClaw omelet! Mmmm.
If that's not you're style, why not try Dead Space flavour! Have you ever tasted pure zero gravity? It'll chop your limbs off! 
All these flavours and many more at your nearest Prime Spud Crisp stand. Or get them online at primespudcrisp.com/unreal/reallynotreal! Standard delivery charge.
 And for one month only you can get our limited edition flavour.
CROC FLAVOUR! You get the true taste of classic platformer legend Croc with a peppering of Gobbos just for good measure! It has that classic, colourful yet boring taste! GET IT NOW!
Prime Spud (trademark) 
stimulates your
Taste Bud!

*****

Another use for a crisp

Tetrahedron whined plaintively under the ferocious gaze of my dearest wife.  Such a coward, I thought, as I attempted to sidle through a nearby door.  No such luck.

"…and you, Maxi.  Why?!" she trilled at me.  Skies above!

Lounging in one of the many lounging rooms which festoon my manor house, Tetrahedron and I had been workshopping ways in which we could regain some favour in the eyes of our darling Queen Vicky-Tory I.  It is not easy to think up a novel gift for a Queen.  She is sure to have been inundated with an encyclopaedia's worth of novel gifts.  Our gift would have to be more than novel.  It would have to be trilogy.
"Dear Ian," I said to him "we are going to need a very trilogy idea to please Vicky-Tory."  He looked at me blankly.  Quite understandable, of course.  The joke doesn't really work, but I was damned if I wasn't going to use it.  I was irked, and it was the best I could do at the time, so he was going to have to lump it.  "What do you think, then?  Lay your ideas on me."
My good companion indulged in a spot of handwringing, his favourite pastime when he is caught without an idea.  If brains were like secret organisations then all of Ian Tetrahedron's secret operatives were often openly inoperative.  I gave him a moment, and saw the briefest blip from what I could only assume was a very lonely secret agent.
"Well~" Tetrahedron allowed, his hands having been entirely wrung "I've heard that Vicky-Tory is a bit of a snacker, Max, she loves new and interesting snacks."
"Does she?" I replied, feigning distracted disinterest, but in reality I was delighted to be given even this scrap of information.  After all, if this eventually was revealed to be untrue then blame would earth itself to Tetrahedron as the originator of the idea.  A very pleasing state of affairs.
"So I hear, so I hear.  Apparently, she becomes very enthused every time a potato crisping manufacturer runs a competition to invent new and novel flavours.  Rumours tell that she never invents flavours herself, but she is free and easy with her rewards for those who do."
Eyes aglitter with a plan spreading out organically in front of me, I smiled and clapped Tetrahedron heavily on the back.

We found ourselves in a large industrial building the next day, not in the main hollow but, passing through an officious-looking portal we were shown to a smaller, meticulously clean room.  It was a spacious kitchen area, the surfaces gleaming with fresh cleanliness and the reflections of the equally clean implements which adorned the walls.  The room's cupboards had glass windows, behind which we could see all manner of pots and pans.  In my suit, I felt a little out of place.  I would have felt worse were it not for the similarly besuited Tetrahedron beside me.  The presence of my correctly attired butler, Simkins, became an instant annoyance.  We'd brought him along as we figured that he had more practical experience when it came to… well, maybe not cooking.  Perhaps we simply felt he was more practically experienced generally.  He certainly has silver hair, which suggests an amount of experience.
I could have directly confronted Simkins, since it was his butlerian responsibility to clothe me appropriately.  How was I to know?  It is not for me to know which clothes I should wear, that is why I employ the man!  But it doesn't do to directly confront the staff.  It simply isn't Done.  The Willoughbys never confront their staff, and in this way we can hold our heads high and proclaim that we have the best staff; staff that never make mistakes.  Catching my eye, Simkins closed the space between us and with an imperceptible lowering of his head informed me that factory clothes for Tetrahedron and myself were contained in the rucksack he'd prepared.  I would have felt bad for doubting him, but fortunately I am a Willoughby, and so I hadn't.
Mentally wiping my brow I caught sight of a figure approaching us at a pace.  With a stride so strident it approached goose-stepping, the figure bore down upon us and in our turns visited us each with a wank-stopper of a handshake.
"Basil Fullsugar, gentlemen," he declared, steadying himself and sucking a full breath through teeth clamped tight in an eternal grin.  Ah yes, one of Isabella's friends.  It never ceases to amaze me that my dearest wife, Lady Isabella Willoughby, manages to keep acquaintances with people so many and varied.  Such strange creatures, most of them.  This Fullsugar fellow was an entrepreneur who'd made his mark on the business world because of the fascinating and commendable things he thought to do with potatoes.  Quite scandalous, some of them, but you know the sorts of things that'll excite the plebs.  Who better to help us in our endeavours to win back the favour of our splendid Queen?

All kitted out appropriately, we were soon up to our navels in potato viscera, and we juddered industriously in a frenzy of creation.  We were Veg Lords, Masters of all that Grows Below Ground.  When the snackers of the world experience how delectable our snack is, we thought, they would curse themselves as buffoons for ever having delected anything else.  The value of deliciousness was about to be engorged beyond all recognition.  Or so we thought.

Fullsugar had insisted that he would accompany us to Court so that we could present our new flavour to the Queen.  You don't get to be a successful entrepreneur by missing a trick.  Fullsugar was a canny devil, he had developed a second sight which acted like a sheet of coloured gauze which could descend over his eyes and highlighted each and every trick in a prominent golden colour.  "I am a fucking trick!" each trick would scream, "don't miss me!"  And he didn't.  However, as the miners who discovered the sparkling faeces of the underground armpiglets now appreciate, not all that glitters is gold.
Resplendent in her regal finery, a shimmering magisterial glow hovering around her, Queen Vicky-Tory Thronetaker the First choked on a crisp.  A detonation of jagged fried tater shards hurriedly evacuated her mouth and settled in the hair of her nearby sycophants.  I swear I saw one of them pick a crumb out of his hair and ferret it away in his pocket; a potential family heirloom.
Shocked, hurt and angry, Vicky-Tory's gaze swept upon us like the beam of the lighthouse of utter buggery.  Had I not seen him since, I would swear that the look turned Tetrahedron to ash on the spot.  The Queen was quickly ushered to seclusion, and we three inventors made ourselves scarce.  We were confronted by Coyster, the Queen's secretary, as we attempted to make good our escape.  He pushed our crisps into our reluctant arms, and with eyelids at half-mast droned at us.  "Gentlemen, while some saucy individuals may delight that their rubber preventatives have the interesting flavours usually attributed to crisps, no single person, and certainly not our Queen, enjoys the situation being reversed."

We later discovered that Tetrahedron had gleaned his secret information from none other than Dominic leRevven, the greasy sponge, who'd set us up for a fall.  No doubt he was delighted by the stupendous scope of our regrettable misfire.  Condom flavoured crisps.  How was I to know?  I've never had the misfortune of tasting such devices, nor have I visited such on my dear wife.  No indeed.  We use no protection, and should we have the grand misfortune of falling pregnant then we will have an abortion as the Lord intended.
As I had done countless times before I glanced at Tetrahedron and wondered why I continued our acquaintance.  My wife fumed animatedly and the room become claustrophobic as it filled up with her copiously offloaded ire.  Slumped in my fourth favourite armchair, Basil Fullsugar was a pathetic, broken figure.  He had built his reputation on potatoes, and now his empire was mash.  How fickle is popularity I thought, safe in the knowledge that I had never had the ill-fortune of being popular.  Weeping wanly into his golden cufflinks, Fullsugar deflated even further.
Well, I thought to myself, though this has largely been a complete mess of a day, at least a well-respected, successful businessman has been brought to his knees for no reason at all.  Though nothing of worth had been achieved, nor any progression or advancement made, at least the status quo had been shaken up a little.  There's little worse in this world than stagnation, I thought to myself, dipping a bourbon biscuit into my milk and eating it with a single bite.



*****

Dafydd Evans
Adam Gilder

Sunday, 1 April 2012

Rules. RULES!

Ever hear of the story about a little boy who broke all the rules? Have you heard the one about the boy who obeyed all the rules? What about the one where the rules broke the boy?

I haven't heard, read or told any one of these. Until now!

The boy who broke all the rules
Sammy was eight and lived in his treehouse. He built it himself from wood that he stole from the pallet factory not far from his parent's house. He stole his dad's hammer and pulled nails out of the useless furniture he found dumped in skips and dumps. He wasn't supposed to go wandering the way he did and he filled his parent's with worry but he always came back in high spirits.
His treehouse was built without plans but to his credit, it was quite strong even with it's jagged edges and creaky walls. He lived there as long as he could, until he grew out of it's limited space. Against his want he lived back with his parents to take advantage of its size and heat and significantly smaller distance to a shower. Much like the treehouse the boy grew into a quite strong being with jagged edges and creaky walls, in that he didn't react well to a simple telling off and he didn't let people get to know him. He often dismissed orders, not for a lack of respect , although many people saw it as that, but for desire to do his own thing. He lived in his own body and wanted it to move to his own will. Although, he wouldn't dismiss an opportunity to indulge himself in a good idea, regardless of the lips that expressed it. He wasn't daft.
This man had created a blanket of independence and wrapped himself snugly in it. So snug in fact that his independence had manifested a deadly efficiency. The man was a builder, a craftsman, a man of vision and excellent hands. He honed his skills during his years of constant exercise and experience. His curiosity had fueled him into a master. He had developed an ability to maneuver his hands to create any shape, any tool, any object that his world needed or his mind wanted. This had earned him a comfortable living as his skill was in demand. The boy who broke the rules was now a man who made his own.

The boy who obeyed all the rules
The boy who obeyed all the rules was truly adorable. He did what he was told, like you'd expect from a boy with such a title. He was well kept and life was easy. He always knew what he had to do and did it to the best of his ability. School was easy and quiet. He had a couple of close friends, all of which were loyal to each other. They knew this was important in an environment as volatile as school. Their defense was to remain unnoticed to the kids who enjoyed mischief and drama, while quietly nabbing the attention of the authority figures who set the rules they obeyed so well. The close friends hit their late adolescence hard and had developed a need to impress their peers, mainly the ones with pretty eyes and full breasts. But the boy had his rules. One that was ingrained was to not have a girlfriend, for they distract him from his work. The rules, set in place by his family were there to protect him from his life's path (also set by his family) to be a doctor. A credit to society. So the boy did what he was told, achieved the necessary, perfect grades and went to university, where despite living away from his family he followed his rules and kept to himself and achieving his necessary, perfect grades and went on to be a doctor.
It was here that his life was turned upside down. True, there are many rules to follow when you're a doctor. Certain diseases and illness' require certain, specific treatments in order to achieve the desired results. However, patients, a.k.a. people have such different rules of engagement. To deal with this he used one very important rule: Ask Questions.
He asked beyond the necessary questions; "How/why are you not well" or "what happened". He asked about them. Their lives, their stories, their interests and so on. He learned that most of these people were there because they broke a certain rule. He also learned that these same people usually had a reason to break the rules. Through this he learned that rules are useless without your own reason to follow them, which he realised that up until now, he hadn't.
This was a conclusion that changed his life and lead to a new beginning.

The rules that broke the boy
There was this boy who broke the rules deliberately to be "cool". This eventually got him into jail. He changed the way he did things. He followed some rules that lots of people followed. But then he realised that man of the rules that the mass of people were following often contradicted themselves. This put a lot of stress on his mind and he couldn't figure out what to do so he jumped off a cliff. The rules broke the boy.

*****
"I never was one for rules," quoth leRevven, tossing back his caramel locks with a vicious whip of his neck. His hair flowed straight back to its original position, running in the well worn rivulets of his ludicrously flamboyant 8-inch collar which jutted directly to the heavens. Blinking languorously at me and indulging in a sneer which revealed one of his canines, leRevven flumped impolitely into my favourite armchair. Swinging his legs over an arm, and arching himself so as to be looking at me upside down, he continued.

"In all honesty Max, I've come to see rules as things which apply exclusively to women, foreigners and the poor."

Dominic Grothandler leRevven, Viscount Yellowpool, is a man who puts the dick into lack of decorum. Swinging his kinkyboot clad feet playfully over the side of my armchair, I concentrated very hard on the possibility that he in fact was an apparition of my overtired mind, but as much as I willed him away, there he remained. For all his declared disinterest in rules, his face obeyed the edict of gravity, and I was treated to the oddness of having the flab of his face sinking to his forehead. I redoubled my efforts to will him away.

"Nevertheless, dear heart, our good Queen sees things differently, and so here am I, to collect her dues, as per the rue-ells."

In many of the lands of this world who deign to appoint monarchs make the claim that those who reign therein are God's chosen. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, for us, our Queen is actually God's chosen ruler. We know this for certain because of the intriguing and rather colourful goings on which are the meat and potatoes of her Court. Early on in her reign, the voices of dissent were many and varied, as the aristocratic class had become used to the jellyspined rule of her predecessor, King Andreas "Jellyspine" Fondura IV. We perhaps should have foresaw a different approach by taking note of the way in which our current Queen came into power. It will go down in history as the least complex, most direct coup de tat ever witnessed. There was young Jellyspine, giving in to us as usual, in the middle of a hearing, sat in his throne, kinging well and good, when Vicky-Tory Towncharger simply storms in, lofts a mace above and her head and mushes him entirely. Poor bastard.

She was an ageing marauder who'd tired of the constant travel and the limited amenities that brought with it, and she'd seen fit to alter that situation, because she could. Vicky-Tory was not born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but she'd bloody well got one there now. Her moniker, Towncharger, had been earned as she was avoiding justice in some far flung shanty town, and in the course of her making good her escape, she found she was being blockaded by an entire town, which had slunk from nearby to assist. Not lacking resolve, she'd reared back on her trusty steed Hog and simply charged. Rumours have it that even the taverns dived out of the way.

She was definitely a frightening sort of woman. At least Jellyspine would have been utterly anaesthetised as the mace made pudding of his skull; as she towered over him he would have been eye-level with her thighs, which were the sort of thighs which could grind a horse to dust between them. Legend says that to see her thighs is to leave your mind with no room to think of anything else.

Since taking the throne, Queen Vicky-Tory Thronetaker I had decreed very little, she simply asked that anytime a noble left the country, they are duty-bound to present the Queen with a gift on their return. I had recently visited the Duchy of Bastard, a small stakeholding in which I have an interest, and due to Circumstances whilst there, I found it necessary to beat a hasty retreat. Gifts the last thing on my mind, I returned home, and that explains why I was being graced with the presence of my dear, dear friend Viscount Yellowpool.

"Where's the gift, Max?"

I became slightly irked by his insistent tone. Sat in the corner with his head bowed and hands between his thighs, Tetrahedron, the Duke of Frisbee, was clearly entirely engaged in an attempt to will himself elsewhere. He had accompanied me on my excursion, but since he was a man of a more Bastardly outlook, he had not flown when the situation orgied. As such he had remembered a gift for our dear Queen. He had already handed leRevven the gift, a curious girdle with an ornate statuette of a long mushroom jutting out of it. Quite what the good Duke was thinking I don't know, but not knowing the use of such an accessory, I cannot begin to speculate. As good a friend as Tetrahedron is, he hadn't remembered to pick up a second gift from me, and for that he was in the shithouse, what?

Mercifully, it was at this point that Lady Willoughby cannoned into the room, and like trick photography leRevven vanished from his rude position in my very favourite armchair, and reappeared, stood rigidly to attention, several feet further into the room. His face was glistening with a sheen of what we refer to as the "leRevven Lady Willoughby Sweats". Isabella does have quite the effect on Dominic, childhood friends as they are. She simply smiles and hurries to a task at hand when I bring it up, but through the grapevine I've discovered that his tremulosity around her stems from a youthful hijink where she held him captive for several days at the bottom of a well on her, quite expansive, family estate. Dominic cannot hear the name of Crosshill Quartz without twitching very noticeably.

"Ehurghahahaha, Isabella, bella!" released leRevven, a gatling staccato of nerves escaping his vocal aperture. Lady Willoughby swept across the room, her skirts trailing out behind her dramatically, giving the impression of a swimming octopus entangled in drapes.

"Domma! Why didn't you tell me you'd come!? Here you are hiding away with Maxi and Ian, when you could have the pleasure of my company! Surely you've become unstable to have chosen them over me?"

Making a noise like a plug being pulled out of a bath of golden syrup, leRevven swallowed and, gesturing slightly too energetically, whined

"It is on business I'm afraid, Bella, in and out."

"You're being run ragged by that Vicky!" declared Lady Willoughby stridently, a cartoonish pout swelling on her.

"Yes, indeed," I quickly interjected, so as not to appear sidelined by my better half.

"Ehurghno, no," he assured us, "it's an honour to serve her Majesty. Collecting gifts for her is a joy!"

The dawn of false realisation broke over Lady Willoughby's face with the subtlety of nuclear holocaust. Fortunately, in his state of jitters, her thespianic efforts slipped past leRevven unnoticed. Delving wholehandedly into her expansive pockets, Lady Willoughby extracted a vial which contained a vivid electric blue substance of jam-like consistency.

"Here's Maxi's gift from Bastard, he offered it to my protection when he returned. You know how absentminded he can be!" she whinnied, releasing a full bellywobbler of a guffaw afterwards.

"Ha." I rejoined, to show game.

"It's a salve, Dommy. It's possibly the most exciting thing that Maxi could have brought back. It is said to heighten all the senses. I know that Vicky's days of adventuring are behind her, but should she ever take it upon herself to embark on some grand effort, she is sure to enjoy herself far more should she utilise this lotion."

Understanding well her meaning, Dominic leRevven had the vial in his gloved hands and quickly exeunt, ever eager to escape Isabella. As Lady Willoughby shook her head at Tetrahedron, I thought of how I owed so much to my darling life companion. I had so very nearly come acropper of our Queen who, while not a vicious tyrant, enjoyed gifts to a frankly excessive degree. Her eyes then fell on me, and as I offered a silent thankyou by way of a nod, I wondered which would have been the worse for me, bearing the scorn and whispers which would have accompanied my lack of gift, or missing out on whatever use my dear wife had originally intended when she'd purchased that vial.

Curtly goodbyeing Tetrahedron, we retired to the bedroom.

*****

The act of completing this piece causes me to both flout and conform to rules. I flout it by completing it passed the agreed upon deadline, it conforms to them by having me actually complete it.

I have always had a strange relationship with rules, being someone who both respects and gates them. I loathe being told what to do, and am often the sort of person who is a reverse psychologists' nocturnal emission. But the, I respect the boundaries which are imposed by them.


I think this has a great deal to do with my being a person who is easily irked. I can also have a certain rigidity about me which I actively try to work against.


But rules are important, like it or not.


I like to imagine a game of chess. The amount of patterns and combinations that can be created is phenomenal, as is the fact that you could spend a lifetime studying the game in order to attempt to master it. But this is only made possible by rules, because without rules, the pawn would swamp the board, the queens would terrorise the board and the knights would trample everyone.


Equally, if we had chaos and no rules, then society would be like this game.


But rules are a touchy subject in society, because depending on what rules you like and what rules you don't can dictate how acceptable you are and by whom you are accepted. Political rules, social rules, sexual rules, behavioural rules. They're all complex issues that are decided upon by the majority and is often decided upon unofficially, unspoken. And when were we given the choice?


We are almost certainly living the life decided upon by our ancestors. We are reaping the rewards and the chastisements of our forebears.


To sign off from this unfunny and, to be honest, hastily written piece, I leave you with this thought;

Rules are only as valuable as the people who abide by them.

*****

Dafydd Evans
Adam Gilder
Gethin Down

Tuesday, 28 February 2012

Koala Bears and Other Small Creatures Indigenous to Oz

The Modern Alternative Zoological Encyclopaedia Australica (Selected Excerpts (in No Particular Order))

“A Kangaroo!”
- Exclamation of drunken Scotsman who’s fallen bodily and become impossibly entangled therein.

Koala Bears
- Enormous aquatic mammals often seen performing at SeaWorld. Beware splash zone.

Dingo
- Reclusive invitee.

Box Spider
- Thin and stringy pubic hair growth.

Stingray!
- Stingray! Duh-duh le-luh le-luh!

Steve Irwin
- Manchester United left back of the 1990s. Not a fancy player, not a scorer of goals, but a firm hand on the tiller, Irwin earned the respect of the fans for his solid performances and his long tenure at the club. That’s Denis, isn’t it?

Ned Kelly
- Prototype robot, badly designed. Not even as good as C-3PO, who is Shit.

Big Crocodiles
- Seriously big ones. DON’T FUCK WITH THEM. If you put an elastic band over their jaws they won’t be able to open them, but there’ll probably be others nearby who will croc you to death. Not to be confused with a cockodile.

Billabong
- Fairly popular clothing brand. Clothes often strangely damp. It is believed that this is due to the ghosts of angry aborigines haunting the garments with their ghostpiss.

Australian Football
- Ludicrous joke taken to extravagant extremes.

Fosters Lager
- Export only: DO NOT DRINK!  message found on Fosters cans (translated form the Australian).

Julia Gillard
- She seems good, and she is an atheist. Well done Oz.

Desert Frogs
- Eddie Guerrero’s distant relatives, who are better adapted to living in the sand than their Hispanic sibling. They show little intention of following in their kinsman’s pro-wrestling frogsteps.

The Laughing Kookaburra
- Very silly creature. Has little regard for propriety or for the feelings of those nearby. Most often seen around old folks what have done a falling over.

Duck-billed Platypus
- Feline that is frequently charged for the purchase and consumption of mallard meat served on a particular kind of tray.

Oystercatcher
- Bird. Catches oysters.

Cassowary
- Dinosaur-looking turkey-thing.

Moths
- Foul creatures.

Seadragons
- Like seahorses, but several thousand percent more awesome. Seadragons of Oz have been known to have battles on a grand scale with the Skydragons of Zeal. The SeaDs launch themselves from the water, steam coruscating as it hisses around them. They tense their long bodies to points, so as they hit the SkyDs they are utterly skewered, sending hot jets of bahlood all over the ocean. It is a cool thing to watch.

Fairy Penguin
- Benders. Ben-duuuuhs!

Great White Shark
- Evolved form of the Rubbish Beige Shark. Pants.

Sugar Glider
- Little flying squirrel/mouse-looking thing which glides through the air super cool. They are marsupials, which means they like soup from Mars. It is very expensive to ship it in, so they have signed up for Amazon Prime. This is not related to Optimus Prime, who is a Transformer, and not a megalithic online shopping source. Optimus wouldn’t involve himself in such an industry.

Bandicoot
- Popularised by Crash, who was a cartoon one of these. I liked the mask that went “ooga booga!” when you collected it. Ahhhh, those halcyon days; no worries, no concerns. Where did those days go? Now they are lost, forever and irretrievably lost. I am locked in the joyless world of adult life and I cannot escape from my responsibilities. They weigh me down like an albatross around my neck, pain me like a radio in my anus. Why must we live in a world which requires such seriousness? Can we not mess around a little more? Why not dick around? You can’t stop me from dicking around! Who do you think you are, you joyless Jerry Joyce. Heaven above and Tutankamun Almighty! I need to lie down and stop for awhile.

*****

Koala bears and other small animals indigenous to Oz.


I couldn't be any less prepared to write about this somewhat criminal subject. Here's what i know: Koala bears eat eucalyptus leaves because they enjoy smelling bad.


That's not even true. Not to all of them anyway.


Yes my knowledge of the original tree hugging hippie that is the flat nosed bastard of an Australian bear is very limited. And as you read that sentence again you can probably tell that i am not in a mood to write about it.


Australia is a strange place for it's animals because next to the passive bark dweller; the koala, Australia is also home to the most deadly spider, Vicious snakes and the late Steve Irwin. Quite the variety isn't it?


My favorite animal from that region is a certain Tasmanian devil. No not the kind that spins wildly and eats fridges with ease. No, the Tasmanian devil im talking about is Hugh Tasmanian Devil, his father. He has an awesome voice and his love for "O J" (juice, not alleged killer) tickles me.


But that is not under the criteria of the title. Oz is not the name of the continent. Oz means Australia the country so Tasmania and New Zealand don't count so i cant even talk about the kiwi.


So im literally literarily stumped, which is a better term for writers block, though much harder to say.


But wait! Hang on there just a second. How can i be stumped when there's such an abundance of brilliantly named animals in that place! Dingo, Wallaby, DUCK BILLED PLATYPUS! Why couldn't popular culture have better names for it's animals? My theory is that we take things too seriously. Or rather; things that are considered and named using the english language are taken too seriously.


A dingo, wallaby and DUCK BILLED PLATYPUS would've been named: Dog, Deer-rabbit and DUCK-SEAL. If it wasn't for it's linguistically playful aboriginal origins. That's just my theory based on my knowledge/ignorance of Australia's cheerfully named critters.


Although im thrilled to hear and read the names of these animals I still know a mites worth of knowledge on the subject. Nor do I care enough to tell you what i think about them.


Other than their sooooo cutey-wutey they make me want to slay humankind... ... .


Then they can prosper and little wallabies can have little wallaby homes that the wombats can build because they are the kings of construction in the Ausimal society. Their construction company is called "Wombat in a hard hat" and they pay all their taxes. The dingo's own the casinos and they run the streets in their Mafia-esq family style, hunting in packs. Dingos are the main concern of the Kangaroo Government. The Emu police will enforce the law but a few bad eggs hatch and end up in the pocked of the dingos which slow down the performance of the force.

The platypus are often victim to discrimination and are rarely seen outside of the rivers. The bandicoot's are tycoons of the fashion industry, opening successful shops mainly selling torn denim jeans. The kookaburra's and the budgerigars are having not turf but tree wars because both are selling dangerously addictive narcotic seeds to all paying animals. They need trees to avoid the emu police. The Kangaroos who run parliament, setting strict rules through sophisticated debating and bare knuckle boxing rely on the saltwater crocodiles to run the courts as they are the only animal that no other would laugh at while they wore stupid wigs.

Everything is perfect in Ausimal society.


Like i said, i don't care that much.


*****
Adam Gilder
Dafydd Evans

Sunday, 29 January 2012

A Portrait of Ezekiel 'Pebbledash' Grimfonte

Taken from the biographical sagas of Chief Cunt-Stubble Schlong-Bonk, Bellendium Cunt-Stabulary.

“…and then the rusty looking gentleman went running down the street.”

Schlong-Bonk looked the woman up and down, an incredulous look on his face. He had never seen this woman in his life and could not understand why she would burst into his office unannounced…and midsentence.

“Who in the name of Django the Fierce are you? And what’s all this about a rusty looking gentleman? Why don’t you sit down and start from the very beginning.” That’s where the Cunt-Stubble liked his stories to start. They seemed to make more sense that way.

The woman sat down on the chair across from him. She was dripping wet and rather distraught. It was evidently raining outside, or inside as was prone to happening during Bellendium’s freak storm season.

“I’m so sorry. I should have knocked first. My name is Eliza Tankwater Grimfonte. I came because I have witnessed a crime and I didn’t know where else to go.” She began to well up so Schlong-Bonk handed her a towel. A tissue would have been hopeless as she was still drenched. And his interest had been peaked. He’d heard that surname before.

“Grimfonte you say? The Grimfonte’s of Belltrim Manor? You people are world famous. Didn’t your Great Grandfather invent some kind of house coating? Like breadcrumbs but for buildings.”

“You seem to talk a lot for someone who asks so many questions. If I had said no to your first line of questioning you would have subsequently wasted a lot of time. Luckily for you I am who you think I am. And yes, my Great Grandfather was the inventor of PebbledashTM and that is how we made our fortune…overseas. Now, can we get back to the crime?”

Schlong-Bonk grinned. He liked this girl. She had spunk. He liked spunk. He also liked justice. Hard justice.

“Tell me about the crime. How many people were murdered? Was there blood everywhere? Gosh, this sounds like a hard case already. Where’s my whiskey”

“No, it’s nothing like that. There was a burglary at the manor and the culprit took something very important. It was a large portrait of my grandfather, Ezekiel Pebbledash Grimfonte. You have to help me get it back.”

“You want me to get a picture back? That’s it? No murder, no blood, no entrails hanging from lampshades. All sound a bit boring really. But I suppose since it’s a Sunday and I have nothing better to do I’ll help. Now what did he look like?”

She looked at him puzzled. “Well, kind of like me really. Only older and a man. Oh, he was starting to fade slightly on the left side of his face…”

“I didn’t mean your grandfather. I meant the burglar. Did you see his face? How tall was he? I need descriptions you dumb broad.” He honestly couldn’t believe someone could be that thick.

“He was long and gangly. He was incredibly pale too. I thought at first that it was the light in the room but when he turned and looked at me I saw that it was his skin. He had the complexion of Scotts Porridge Oats. It was all lumpy and deformed. He also left a horrible orange stain on the carpet. That’s why I was referring to him as the rusty man at the start of this story.” She looks out as if to an audience and smiles. Then she continues, “And he smelled awful. Like a rancid flannel used for cleaning decrepit lady gardens. Do you think we’ll find him?”

“I’m sure of it. From what you’ve told me there is only one person it could be. Oddwich Sandjob. A mental bastard of a man who loves stealing shit that no one else cares about. He’s dangerous and ginger. And I know where to find him.”

“Where?” She felt worried. Why had a crazy ginger person stolen the only picture of her grandfather. What could he possibly want with it?

“Just leave it to me. I want you to take a carriage out of town and stay away for a few weeks. It won’t be safe to go back to the manor until this is all over. Understand?”

She looked at his the way someone would look upon a hero. “I will. Be careful.” She leaned over the table and kissed him on the cheek. Then she turned and walked out the door. From the window, Schlong-Bonk watched her get into a carriage and as the horses pulled around the corner he sat back down in his seat.

He looked at the calendar on his desk. “Three days until retirement,” he thought to himself. “Like fuck am I chasing after a painting of the worst exterior decorator in the world. I’m moving to Clitoria where the weather is warm and the drinks are always flowing.”

He grabbed his coat and hat, dowsed the lamp and opened his office door. He glimpsed his name on the door. ‘Chief Cunt-Stubble Schlong-Bonk’ it read. He had always meant to take that hyphen out. He smiles to himself and walked out into a now dark Bellendium.


*****


Ezekiel "Pebbledash" Grimfonte was a man of unfortunate proportions and unnatural speed. Born with his left leg twenty four inches shorter than his right, he came to be recognised by his distinctive unicycle, which he wore strapped to the runtling limb.


The son of a minister, he would forever be haunted by the shame of his mother, who had knowledge of his father's favourite horse. It is believed that this massive trauma is what caused the horrendous malformation of Ezekiel's hind leg. His forelegs were shaped in such a manner as to be taken at first glance as arms, although his hands were suspiciously hoof like, albeit hooves with the inner glow of religion.


At the age of fourteen, Ezekiel developed a taste for strong liquor and artificially coloured foods, which, coupled with his fragile stomach, resulted in the nickname "Pebbledash".


His teenage years were tragic ones, due largely to the discovery that he was not granted super powers by Earth's yellow sun. He would spent his days wheeling around the country, often heard to be muttering "dun duru dunturun, dun duru dunturun, dun duruduuun dun dun dun!" This was invariably followed by a failed attempt at one such super power or another. It is reputed that he once glared at a candle for three days before resorting to matches. After numerous failed treatments, his father twated him with a Bible, and brought him to his senses.


For years following the twat about the skull, he was only able to speak with a faux Japanese accent, which many mistook for racism. It wasn't. It was brain damage.


At the age of twenty five, he fused the unicycle to his freakishly short goat leg, becoming the world's first true cyborg, resulting in a dependency on WD40, from which he would never recover, hating, as he did, the squeak if an ungreased wheel.


As a result of this cyber enhancement, he was able to walk at super sonic speeds, but only if he was in the mood, and providing the weather was right.


Perhaps it is worthy to note that his eyes were a peculiar shade of green, enabling him to feed using photosynthesis, a skill which aided him greatly during his years spent imitating a shrub.


His death was a tragic one. He had, in his last few days, taken to growing blue fur all over his body, strapping carving knives to his hands and screaming "I AM an xman!".


Of course, he was not, and the lack of a mutant healing factor eventually killed him, after he fell off a cliff.


Grimfonte currently spends his time in the afterlife, where he drinks gin with Amitabah Buddha and bullies the living Christ.


About the author:

Lord Professor Vivian Smartie-John is a world class Expert. Don't argue.


*****


This is an excerpt of Jon Eseikiel Pebbledash Grimfonte's eulogy, delivered by is oldest friend Medi Hydref Jones.


I had many nicknames for Jon. My best and oldest friend. I remember the first day we met in the Super Nintendo games isle in Woolworths. We both went to pick up the same copy of Earthworm Jim 2 AT THE SAME TIME! Coincidence? Yes, and an important one to us it was too.


I suppose it's not very often that you saw a young girl pick up a copy of such a cool game but when he saw me, the first things he did was push me over. I cried and cried and kicked him in the shins and cried some more. I think Jon forgave the shin kicking but he always says that his mother came to stop him from reacting to that. He gave me the copy of the game and then sulked to his mam and walked off.


He was still sulking on the bus on the way home. I was surprised to see him on my route. He was quiet but i've never seen him on my bus. And then he got off at my stop! What was this? Was he new? I had to know! "Oi, boy." I said. I know, i was nuts wasn't i. I could tell he heard me, even though the bus was pulling off. Stupid bus. "Where do you live? I live just up the road by the old park that's now a nothing. It's like a slab of tarmac."

"I've just moved near there." He told me.

"Okay, then. So do you want to come over mine and play Earthworm Jim 2? We can go life each or something." I said. Our mother's smiled at each other. I don't know why, but they did.

"Oh. Ok then. Can i go after dinner, mum?" Yeah, he called her mum. That meant he wasn't from here. We say "Mam" down here in South Wales. This boy was interesting.

"My name's Medi Hydref Jones." I said.

"Im Jon" he said with a frankness that never left him.


The first nickname i gave his was Earthworm Jon and he liked that I think. He played along and went to hit me with a snot string which was gross but also the funniest thing i've ever seen, ever.


We were close ever since, and i've called him everything I could think of, often depending on his mood. Zeek when he was in a fun and helpful mood. Pebbles during his dimmer moments. I called him Grim often during his adolescence because he was capable of being a stropy-bottom.


I grew to depend on Jon. I remember the day i lost Stupidface my pet cockateel. Stupidface was a sprightly bird and evaded my grasp when i was cleaning his toes. I remember the tears spewing out of my eyes and nose when i told Jon who simply said "Stop crying. I'll get him. Do you want him alive or dead?". My face must have looked like a confused walnut when he said that, but it stopped me from crying. He knew me.

I didn't see him for 2 hours. To this day i don't know how he did it but he brought Stupidface back to me in one piece. It honestly was the same bird, I know because his toes were clean. That day his nickname was "Huntsman Care-hands".


I remember the day I fell in love with Jon. I suppose it was the the day i realised i was in love with him. We were always close. Gosh, we were attached. While we were at university, he studied what he loved; Women. And history. He'd come to my room every night he could to tell me about both. He got attached to his lecture Mrs Shallnotbenamed and they were doing things that i probably shouldn't be talking about at his funeral, so i wont. Needless to say, he needed me, and i needed to say that. This was the first time i was needed by him. He was always my knight and i, his damsel. But as the round table turned i found my self, not only caring about his feelings but i wanted to show him that i could fulfill them, like he had fulfilled mine.


The night i told him, bared my feelings, i was overjoyed to find that they were reciprocated. I dubbed him "Lancealittle" and he smiled before proceeding to show me that his new nickname was inaccurate. We made sweet, passionate sex and he died of unknown causes.


I've never felt such sorrow as im feeling today. I love you Zeek. You shall forever remain in the little loving heart of Medi Hydref Jones.


-Later Mrs Grimfonte slapped Medi in the face and a fight broke out between former best friends Mrs Grimfonte and Mrs Jones. It was a pretty awkward wake.-


*****


Ezekiel Grimfonte Jr, son of a fruiterer and a maniac, achieved more than could have been expected of him. Born in the early hours of a misty Wednesday morning sometime long ago he came writhing and screaming into the world, covered in his birthing gore and as unseemly as that would imply. His father, a fruiterer, remembered that it was on a Wednesday because when the babe was finally quieted, the bin men came to pick up the bins. Ezekiel Grimfonte Sr, also known as Le Grand Zeke for his astounding rise to be the head fruiterer in all the land, was a man who put great store in the bins, specifically their removal. Unfortunately for Zeke Jr, he put far less interest into his son.


Ickle Zeke, as he came to be known by some, could have been doomed from an early age, for while his father cared not a jot for him, he was drowned in the affection of his psycho-, socio-, telepathic mother, Imelda Staunton Grimfonte, nee Miles Davis. She was a maniac, and often threw her baby boy down things: stairs, mineshafts, matter transporter tubes, straws, throats, gutters, the gaping maws of long-dead stegosauruses and the like. He was quite fortunate not to be killed, or badly grazed. Fortune smiled on young Zeke, however, for on his fourth birthday his mother was caught in the beam of a Cosmic Ray, which had asplode from the sun and she evaporated INSTANTANEOUSLY into a poof of potpourri. Ezekiel Sr was unconcerned, having long ago wearied of his wife, and quickly and pragmatically arranged for a tutor and carer for his son.


His father selected Salvador Dali for the task, and the Spaniard, his queer moustache dancing merrily in the antici…pation set about his task with aplomb. Realisation that one single plomb would not be sufficient, El Salva ordered in an entire bunch of plombs to undertake the care of his new charge. Perhaps unsurprisingly Salvador Dali's tutoring revolved mainly around art and facial hair maintenance, although he also had an unexpectedly nifty talent for shooting a man's left nut with an air rifle from any angle. He could even accomplish this with one hand restrained behind his back and with a slender lady rubbing her thumb and forefinger together in front of his face and making repeated flicking noises with her tongue. Ickle Zeke never mastered the air rifle to that extent, but he was a dab hand at the old art. Ol' Sally was proper pleased when Zeke started to flail a paintbrush, and rewarded him with unwanted sexual attention.


Zeke Sr was not a man who like art, it transpired, and he had hired Salvador Dali purposefully in order to come to hate his son. At 17, Zeke Jr broke Salvador Dali's heart by emigrating to Papua New Guinea in order to escape his father's ire. At least, that's what he told them he was doing. In reality, he was going to the moon!


He didn't have the means to do so though, so he only got as far as the top of a nearby hill, and jumping ineffectually there he lost enthusiasm and went home.


He returned to his father's manse to find Salvador Dali's emulsified corpse dangling from a balustrade. He was an odd man, even in suicide. Zeke Jr quickly left the house again, weeping thick matte tears of deepest lavender, as Salvador would have wanted.


In order to fill the gap Zeke sought out Pablo Picasso, who had eloped from his native land with a dusky Romany beauty named Masskkerrinne le Guaravadiere. He had taken to referring to himself as Portmanteau Zippedeedoodahday le Guaravadiere, and he grabbed Ickle Zeke by the ear at the mention of Dali, and forced him to run barefoot across a stony beach. It was at this point that Picasso, drunk from chasing both the dragon and the green fairy, began referring to Ickle Zeke as 'Pebbledash'.


Ezekiel Grimfonte was fucking pissed off with that, and got his revenge years later when he invented the technique of pebbledashing, and for his first public demonstration of it, decided to pebbledash Picasso. Picasso was less than pleased, but he was a bit of a dick, so fuck it.


Later, Pebbledash invented the internet, apple crumble,and quicksand, as well as winning the Boer and Vietnam wars double-handedly and then he died, of fog.


The End.


*****


Luke Sampson

Gethin Down

Dafydd Evans

Adam Gilder

Thursday, 29 December 2011

The Morality of Serial Killing through the Ages

Suffice to say that the morality of serial killing hasn't changed too drastically through the ages. It is bad. It is a very bad thing to do. However, the scope of what counts as serial killing has certainly changed over the course of many thousands of years, and there continues to be a discrepancy even from place to place geographically in one time frame.

According to Wikipedia:

A serial killer is typically defined as an individual who has murdered three or more people[1][2] over a period of more than a month, with down time (a "cooling off period") between the murders, and whose motivation for killing is usually based on psychological gratification.

This definition is, of course, nonsense. If this definition were accurate then you or I might be considered serial killers, which is clearly unworkable, because we are not bad people. I certainly am not.

Now, just over three months ago I killed a ticket inspector on a train, because I didn't have a ticket. Clearly, this was an action based not in psychological gratification, but in simple practicality. Ticket prices nowadays are ludicrously expensive, and I felt utterly justified in killing the man. In fact, I consider his checking me for a ticket an act of suicide.

A few weeks later, I was watching a national-level sporting event in a public house, and was distressed to discover that I had been surrounded by other viewers who were far more demonstratively approaching the game than was I. One fellow shouted at a sportsman in quite an alarming way, and I, not expecting the yell, was quite startled. Well, of course it is quite rude to startle a gentleman who you are watching the game with, and so I was quite forced to mash his fizzog into a mushed pulp of skinflakes, bone fragments and gore. Thankfully, his yelling quickly abated. I can be uncharacteristically merciless in the doling of justice. It is just rude to shout out; be quiet for goodness' sake.



For another fortnight I saw no wrong in the world that needed my direct intervention. Just as I crested the event horizon of that fortnight, I was confronted with what I must consider the nadir of human decorum. Having travelled to the Capital of the fair nation which has the honour of housing me, I entered a restaurant, nothing too fancy, just some common place where the common people may go to partake of their common fare. I sauntered up to the bar, for there is no waiting staff in these types of places, no one comes to take your order, you have to go up and actually order it yourself. It's a clever system. The very fabric of the place is designed to erode your dignity. Hungry as I was, I forced myself to the bar, hence my sauntering, and locked the serving wench with the iron glare of an angry eagle who has spotted something annoying and is trying to stare it out because he is an hard bastard. The wench, a veteran of this workplace, was unfazed, and spat right in my eye. I was impressed, and suddenly I felt all my anxiety melt away. The spittle, sinking in the cleft between my eye and my nose, ploughed by endless years of sleep deprivation, tricked my body into believing I was crying, and as such things always do, this belief cyclically perpetuated itself, and I began to weep. The serving wench, regaining her balance after her colossal spit, knew exactly what I was about. With a cry of "Blood alive, man! To a seat with you!" she swandived over the counter and, driving her head into the very top of my skull with the entire weight of her body behind her, we crumpled to the floor in a fallen mess. I was a little disturbed by this, but not knowing the ways of the peasant folk I kept schtum so as not to conduct any undesirable faux pas.



Groggily regaining my feet, I whipped around to face the also recovering wench, and landed a solid haymaker on her collarbone. Hearing it snap and pop, I smiled, and she led me to a nearby table and promised me that a plate of cod and chips, with mushy peas, would arrive within 10 minutes. It did, and it was piping hot and looked all set to be delicious. I arose from my chair to peruse the condiments, and alongside the vinegar, the salt, mayo and tartare sauce stood an overlarge bowl that was almost sarcastically empty. It might not be normal to have with fish dishes, but I need tomato sauce. I fucking lost it at that point. Leaping onto a nearby table, I lashed my foot out in a vicious 180° arc which caught three diners; one in the nose, another in the ear, and the third was entirely decapitated, spraying viscous red fluid into the empty tomato sauce bowl, the irony of which enraged me further. Rising unsteady on his or her feet, the diner that I'd punted in the ear made a clumsy attempt at my legs, which I'd foolishly left on top of the table; a rather perilous position. Due to my acrobatic background, I was able to avoid such a clumsy attempt with complete ease. Slipping nimbly off the table, I planted myself firmly and pushed against my clueless combatant. The force of my push sent the diner careening limply into the air, where an acquaintance was made with an adjoining window, but was short-lived. With this troublesome individual dispatched, I turned to the fellow I'd kicked in the nose. Looking down upon his crumpled remains, I discovered I'd killed him with the blow. I can be very deadly when I've been wronged.



Bracing myself back a step, I made a quick dash and with an effortless handspring, leapt into a series of cartwheels and somersaults which took me across the length of the room, the last of which raised me high into the air and, sailing over the bar, my legs, acting as fleshy javelins, speared the barmaid, with precision, through the sternum. My fish and chips remained uneaten.



I'm in jail now, because I've been "caught", apparently. What I did wrong I'll never know. One man's anecdote is another man's horrendous crime. The occasion on which I was detained involved self-defence on my part. My flatmate was trying his level best to watch a program I believe is called 'The Goblin People Argue over their Goblin Children', and for the entire half hour of the show I found it necessary to dry my hair using the most powerful setting on my hair drier. Of course, he complained because he couldn't hear the show, which was the entire reason I did it. I hadn't even been in the shower, or moistened my hair even slightly. He came at me with his fists, but using my deft fingers I was able to unzip his jeans, forcibly insert the blow drier where the dry does not blow, which caused him some measure of discomfort, and eventually butchered him thoroughly, due to a power malfunction with the device.



The police have no sense of humour, which is why they end up in fights so often.



*****

When I was told to write about the morality of serial killing through the ages i thought "Well i am far too humble to only offer my opinion to something as deep and complex as this." So i did some interviewing. I interviewed two very high profile celebrities. My first interview took place in heaven with a being called God. My second interview took place in the universe with a planet called the Earth. I hope you enjoy our conversations.

"What?" Quizzed God. "What's my view on serial killing?" God reflected. "Well, I'll tell you shall I? Yes. While I was growing up i went through a serial killing phase. Nothing i could help, i assure you. It was my hormones running wild, like when you see an elk rape a she elk; It is rape but it's also natural. That's how the species grows.
You see, when i was young there was this girl. I made her in my image, but with tits and an inward penis. (That's not true at all, really. I just told some people that as a joke and it's sort of snowballed). This girl grew into a woman who ended up bringing more men into the world. And this continued. There was at least, I would say millions of these humans on this earth and i got jealous of them. They got to play with the whole of the Earth, and there was plenty of it to go around, but they sort of, just had sex and kept to themselves. So all these boring people were being boring in a very fascinating place while i was stuck in an itchy cloud.
So to make my complex TV seem more entertaining i got drunk. I opened a my first can, declared aloud; "ENJOY THE SHOW WITH A CAN OF BOW" and drank.
A couple of minutes passed which is the equivalent of 300 earth years and i got "MEGA SHIT-FACED" I think some humans call it.
Well i learned a valuable lesson that night. When i get drunk and have a good time, i paint the world red. With the blood of people. And animals.
Now i've got some mathematics to explain why it's gone on for so long. Now, a couple of minutes in heaven is like 300 years on earth. I drunk constantly for 2 weeks straight. (Don't try that at home, I can handle it because i am God and you aren't.)
I suppose it was a little irresponsible because all that killing is a bit immoral, but people were very boring, you see. What i didn't realise was that i sort of solved my problem. I wanted more drama and curiosity and I achieved it all with a holy can of cider.
However. Since i have seen more and more people on this earth there is a huge variety of channels on my complicated television. I can watch the adventures of all the explorers of your planet. I can watch some people bickering in a supermarket. You humans have done very well for yourselves haven't you. I find it a terrible shame that these brilliant TV shows can be canceled by a stupid serial killer. And to think i used to award my best ones at one time. I was hammered then, honest.
So here's my answer to your question. The morality of serial killing has always been constant. It is immoral. But. In my eyes it was necessary which is an unpopular opinion."

----------

"Serial killing?" Pondered the Earth whilst gently rotating. "The taking of a single life performed on multiple occasions." Continued the Earth. "And you want my opinion of it's morality? Im afraid that's a complicated issue. Does the serial killing of different species count? I mean you are still extinguishing a being that i myself nourished from birth through life."

"No, just humans on humans for today, please the Earth." I explained.

"Ah. Ok. So. You wan't me; The Earth to comment on the morality of serial killing, specifically amid the human kind." The Earth ensured whilst orbiting the sun.

"Yes" I confirmed.

"Ok then I will." declared the Earth.

"Thank you. You may begin." I instructed whilst trying my very best not to let go of my humility.

"Well I was only telling the Moon about this last millennium. WASN'T I THE MOON"

"YES" howled the Moon. "YOU WERE TELLING BE ABOUT HOW.."

"I'LL TELL THEM THANK YOU, THE MOON. Sorry about that. Once we get into it, the Moon and I can chat for decades. As i was saying. The morality of serial killing. Here we go. Are you going to write this down?"

"I certainly am the Earth."

"Ok. Well on one hand i don't like it. It's a complete waste of that which i have given you. I think that humans have something wrong in their DNA, Which I discovered, thank you. Yes, serial killing is an awful thing.
On the other hand it tickles my surface when you bury them".

*****
Adam Gilder
Dafydd Evans