A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe

Greatness is there for all to achieve.

And it's not a case of "i can", "i believe".

Do it or not, or sit down and probe,

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

Every thing's there and you can take part.

Every new skill can be honed to an art.

Whatever you do, be sure to absorb

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

Beautiful comfort you'll craft in your nest.

Surrounding materials that suit you the best.

Except for the smell that stifles your robe.

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

And then you'll find love; the warmest of mood.

You'll want to do all sorts of things in the nude.

And eat with her/him the greatest food on the globe;

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

This month revealed a strange title that's resulted in a strange post from myself. Out of the four contributors of this blog i am the most likely to actually eat A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. But alas, i haven't. I have eaten a slice or two of pizza that shouldn't have been touched due to old age. I've eaten a mars bar that i found in the innards of a couch. (Which one contributor enjoys bringing up at social gatherings.) I am the inspiration of a game titled "What's this i put in your mouth" wherein i close my eyes, open my mouth and anticipate while my surrounding friends have a party. The worst was french mustard or a spice that i cant remember the name of. I haven't, however, got a story that involves me eating, or even having A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. So i couldn't really tell you about my experience of it.

I wrote you a poem instead.

(I did eat a rabbit shit sandwich for a dare, though)

*****

Rather an odd one for you this week but, my gosh, where are my manners. Hello and welcome to another slice of blog pie, the only pie to taste of soggy blobs (disgusting). Now, you’re probably looking at the title and thinking to yourselves (unless you’re psychic and are thinking to someone else) “That title seems rather straight forward. I wonder how he’s going to misinterpret that.”  It’s a fair point I suppose. I do have a history of taking words apart and re-coding them for my own purpose. But not today. This will be a run of the mill explanation about a bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. So buckle your helmets and don your best jodhpurs because we are going for a ride (on a horse apparently).

I had recently moved in to a new house with my parents. They had asked me to go in to the shed at the bottom of the garden and clear some of the mess that was in it. Being a child (of some description) I grunted some kind of accord and went about starting the arduous task that was clearly meant for those adult types. I began to have fun once I got into it, finding old treasures of the people who had lived here before us (in the house, not the shed). There was an old music player that had a giant brass horn for a speaker, all covered in dust. I wondered how majestic it would have looked in someone’s drawing room a long time ago (then smashed it up because I am a child). In one of the corners was a wardrobe on its side, leaving one of those dark triangular spaces behind it. Not daring to look at what was there I decided to stick my hand in and have a feel around. Immediately I was sick. Then I was sick again. Whatever it was that I had felt was one of two things. Either a mouldy bag of sandwiches or a ladies vagina. It was soft and furry and it felt warm from where the sun had been on it throughout the day. 

Sorry. I’ve just remembered that the story I started telling was Skellig by David Almond. Strange how you sometimes mistake your own memories with children’s novels. Anyway, here is my story about the long titley thing.

The garment lay fresh and new in a box upon the bed. Its velvet reds and silk greens gleamed as the sun glanced across it from the tall window on the east wall. The master had given it as a gift to commemorate my first day of service. Everyone starting their new post had to wear one but I was sure that I would look better than them all (especially that prick, Herman). I went to the mirror and put it on. It fit perfect in all the right places. Just as every chef looks forward to the day he earns his jacket I had looked forward to this day. The day I got my Wardrobe. To be the ward of a nobleman was no small thing (unlike myself) and was a feat that none in my family had ever achieved. I was now entitled to go on hunts with the master to carry his gun and other equipment. This robe was going to be the beginning of a new life.

The first task I was charged with was to go to the next village and procure for my liege a packed lunch. I was a little surprised by this request as we had people within our own village more than capable of making a sandwich. I was told, however, that the town of Derry Li was only two miles down the road and they dealt solely in lunchables (this is how fantasy works, you work with what you got). I began the short, agonising journey the following morning, my wardrobe still gleaming and lint free, with a bag on my back. I would have need of it to bring back my bounty (not the chocolate, coconut hadn’t been invented yet). I found the village rather quickly, if I’m being honest, what with the giant cow sigil above the gate. You couldn’t really miss it. It was a very busy village and the markets were so full of food I could have fed my family (for a change). I got the sandwiches and had a sneaky cheese triangle before starting on the return journey.

This task was not so easy. My village, the village of No Frills, had no large sign or significant feature that made it easy to see from a distance. It didn’t take long for me to become completely lost. Then one day, some two months later, my remains were found about a hundred yards from Derry Li. There was nothing left of my body. They say I was eaten by Dunkers. All that was left was a bag of mouldy sandwiches at the back of my wardrobe. My master took on smarter, less blind wards from that point on and soon forgot about me (except for when his tummy grumbled and he wondered where his sandwiches were). So I write this now, in the present, as a warning lest anyone repeat my folly.

If you don’t believe that story you really won’t believe anything. There was real world references in that to keep you grounded in truth. But if you really want to know, I’ll tell you. I used to have packed lunch in school. I never liked cheese spread sandwiches but rather than tell my mother I used to hide my uneaten sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. One day, during a clear out my mother discovered the bag of mouldy sandwiches and almost vomited. So basically, both Skellig and the other story are true accounts of the same tale. Good Night!

*****

Dafydd Evans

Luke Sampson

A pigeons religion

The tale of good old Rawk

Rawk the wizen pigeon emerged from the rubble. his perch was reduced to rubble just one day before. Funny how earthquakes can do that to certain train station buildings. Twenty six hours Rawk had to sit there trapped. The first five minutes were panic. Then  fifty five minutes of acceptance. Then twenty hours of despair and waiting.

Then there was four hours of enlightenment, probably due to hunger and a thinness of oxygen. In this four hours Rawk encountered a vision. He found it strange because every pigeon knows that you have visions, you don't encounter them. This must not have been his own vision, but one of a creature so powerful that it could summon it's visions. 

"You look like a blue and purple version of me with a few extra ounces of size. What are you?" Squawked Rawk.

"I HAM HIMPORTANT. YOU H'ARE HIMPORTANT. YOU MUST SURVIVE. YOU MUST TELL PIGEONKIND OF WHAT'S IMPORTANT. JUST INCASE THEY'VE FORGOTTEN."

"Whoat?"

"TELL THEM. TELL THEM WHAT YOU KNOW H'IS HIMPORTANT TO YOU, TO THEM TO THE WORLD. TELL THEM SO THAT THEY CAN PASS H'ON YOUR WORDS TO HOTHERS THEY MEET SO THAT HEXPONENTIAL GROWTH OF YOUR WISDOM IS HACHIEVED AND THUS, THE PIGEON CAN THRIVE."

"But... What's important?"

"TWENTY FIVE HOURS YOU HAVE BEEN HERE. DURING YOUR FIRST FIVE MINUTES OF PANIC WHAT DID YOU WANT? WHY DID YOU WANT WHAT YOU WANT? YOU HALREADY HAVE THE HANSWERS! NOW GO FOURTH AND HEDUCATE THE WORLD!" The vision then turned into the world just before disappearing, which thrilled Rawk with the revelation that the world was round, not like a rectangle with teleportation devices at the edges.

Powered and inspired by this knowledge and quest, Rawk set to struggling and bravely persevered for forty five minutes. And got nowhere. His feet were neatly pinned by the devices that thwart pigeons from hanging out under train stations: The ouch-spikes. 

Suddenly Rawk had a glimpse of his first memory. He was terrified and the first thing he saw was two black beasts chew on a wailing smaller grey beast. He stayed hidden whilst peeping under his half a shell that had fallen on the floor. He noticed how easy it was for the beasts to peck through the now silent grey beast. Then he realised that the two big beasts weren't beast's at all. They were Mam and Dad! He called to them whilst pushing the eggshell from on top of him. "Rawk" they said and they picked him up and took him to their nest.

That's it! That's what Rawk had to do. He had to bite through his legs. He'd seen some older pigeons that had only one foot but he always had too much respect to ask them what happened. Rawk now looked at his legs and went to work on his left, getting as close to the ankle as possible whilst minding that an ouch-spike didn't poke his eye out. The harder he bit, the more pain he was in, which resulted in him biting harder to deal with it. The pain was fierce but he'd pecked himself a stump. Now it was time for the more awkward right foot. Two ouch-spikes to avoid, one protruding towards his face. He had to bend around in an uncomfortable position to get to his ankle, and even then an ouch-spike scratched at his breast. Rawk remained committed and cut through, leaving him with two stumps and a red line etched diagonally across his breast.

But at last he was free! And the freedom of flying came with a pang of mighty hunger. He stuck to the plan and flew to the nearest and most popular city centre. Then his mission took a back seat while he pecked at loose chips and seeds and cigarette buts, making sure to eat the edible things and discard the litter.

When his hunger was satiated the mission took the front seat once again. He flew for twenty seconds and the mission took another back seat while Rawk flew to a roof of a building, carrying a leaf of newspaper. He huddled into a corner, hiding under the paper and balanced neatly on his sore breast and he slept, dreamless.

Basic need fulfilled he flew back to the city centre and positioned himself under the large, black, unmoving, wingless beast (statue) and called to his kin.

With his wings akimbo and his eyes passionately closed he squawk the words:

"Fellow pigeons, hear me. I am Rawk and I have to tell you what you are here for. You see i nearly died yesterday but i was inspired and saved by the vision of something incredible. The vision sent me on an hurgent path to tell you all what's himportant! You must all listen to my words and be reassured lest you have forgotten what is significant in life!"

Rawks confidence grew with his words and he opened his eyes. The sight deflated him but he kept his wings out. No pigeon was listening. They were all bobbing on the ground looking for some food. Rawk looked at his stumps and his scar to remind himself of the severity of his life. He then looked out again.

"I will persist, for you may hear this even though you may not be listening. You all have beautiful lives and you must never forget this. Please know that what im about to tell you is imperative to our way of life and you must never forget it!"

As he said this a wingless beast threw some delicious bread to the ground and stirred his crowd into a frenzy. Rawk smiled. He realised that they already lived what he was about to say.

"Pigeons" Rawk commanded impotently, "Just coo what you need to coo!" And with that, he flew off for some free bread.

*****

A Pigeon's Religion

Herein I shall endeavour to relay to you the TRUE nature of the faith-leanings of our winged cousins.  All efforts should be made to shield yourselves from the widespread showering of ill-informed dreck which is being ploughed into you wholesale by none other than THE MAN.  This is the only true pigeon's religion.  Disbelieve all others.

As everybody well knows, the path to pigeon heaven can only be discovered by the enlightened and educated pigeon-fathers of The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC).  Here I will explain the, to the outsider, peculiar tic which infiltrates the faithful when they talk of The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC).  The suffix '(TKTC)' which MUST ALWAYS follow the name of The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) is an honorific which, when fully revealed, reads 'They Killed the Cat'.  The cat has always been a fearful demon to the pigeon community, and The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) became the renowned force they are today by proving their divinity, by the slaying of the cat.  Word of their deeds is has even been seen infiltrating the world of the speaking-monkeys, though quite clearly they do not fully appreciate it's import.  The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) is the One True Way to pigeon heaven.

The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) was founded by SkKwarr Flangeahgh, who was subsequently canonised as Saint Rupert, The Planner of the Killing of the Cat.  He was a very clever pigeon.  The miraculous deeds of his youth are popular yarns at the stolen-chip parties of all the teen pigeons.  Perhaps the most widely spake is the Tale of the Mocking Jumbo.  The story is a long and shaggy beast, but in the interest of time I will inform you that the denouement involves old Saint Roop stealing a jumbo sausage from a fatty at Brighton Pier, tossing it into the sea, and then returning to gloat.  Such malice was the frequent vice of Saint Rupert, which proves that he was the ideal candidate for plotting the killing of the cat.

But it is not Saint Rupert himself who did the deed.  Nonononononononononono.  It fell to a much younger piggyjin to Do the Deed.  Her name was Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn.  It was she who slew the feline.  She was a celebrity in the pigeon world long before the act which is unambiguously considered the zenith of her activity.  She was Champion of the Order of the Oncoming Car, High-Priestess of the Movement of the Toilet-Statues, Full-Caan of the Stolen Chip.  It was she who slew the feline.

Cats are near impregnable, this is well known.  The inner layers of the cat may be wet, weak and greasy like reheated cottage pie, but it's thick outer crust is firmer than any natural material known to pigeon.  It is said in the holy manual of the Order of the Oncoming Car that even if a pigeon's beak attains maximum velocity and is tipped with the Diamond Nib of Gwak Lv. 5, still it is not a sure thing that the cat will be scratched.  A pigeon will sooner break through superadamantanium than a cat's shell.

But therein lay the rub.  The true genius of Saint Rupert, and the impeccable skill of Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn, who was able to perform the deed.

Much like the Death Star, every cat is known to have a small, vulnerable aperture which, if it can be breached, will spell the end of it.  Saint Rupert discovered this, and calmly, evilly, he drew his plans against it.  This is how it went down.

First they scared the cat.  Different pigeon factions disagree vehemently on the method used for the distraction.  It is very important how it was done.  Pigeons are often killed for believing the wrong way.  It is right that they should be put to death.  ONE TRUE WAY.

So, yes, they distracted the cat.  It was done with a scary picture of a screaming dog.  The picture was dive-bombed into the cat's vicinity by a magpie POW who'd been promised her freedom for doing this task.  Afterwards, she was freed.  What I mean by this, of course, is that she was freed from life by the merciless fangs of a cat.  Duly distracted by its meal, the cat did not see the sure descent of Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn.

WHOOOOOOOOOSH!

She buried herself bodily in the anus of the cat, not even a smidgeon of her pigeon toes remained in sight.  Well, let me tell you, the cat was surprised.  She began to caper around the garden, mewling and screeching.  "Shut up, you bugger!", a nearby monkey yelled.  But still, on she went, wailing and careening hither and thither in the greenery.

Have you ever wondered what it might feel like to have an entire pigeon forcibly dive-bomb its way twixt your innards?  Let me tell you, the idea only occurred to me roughly halfway through this story, and I wish it hadn't.  It seems to me that there are few more horrendous end-game scenarios than having a small, ugly bird wedged in your intestines.  If you can imagine it, stretch yourself further and imagine how bad a cat would feel in the situation, possessing as it does, a much smaller beefhoop than you.

The cat died.  Not from shock or anything short term like that.  No, the cat spent the best part of 3 months uncomfortably smudging around, being poked fun at by the other cats, who knew full well what Tibbles was concealing in her faecal womb.  A grown up pigeon.  Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn died on impact, thank goodness gracious, but she took her sweet time rotting.  She slowly souped into a green, deathly sleeper cell which poisoned the living cat from within.  Sleeper cell, more like sleeper smell! (hysterical laughter and applause).

This is a pretty horrible story.  In the end, all the pigeons went to heaven, where there were lotsanlots of stolen, traditional British food for them to gorge on, and they did.  The Ned.

*****

Hello and welcome to the new format blog entry from ACRE member Luke ‘Handsome Boy Aint He’ Sampson, wherein I actually try to write a fucking blog and not leave it months and months before writing one (even if the one I write is in fact funnier than the other threes combined efforts for the entire year). So apparently some arsehole decided that the first entry would be titled ‘a pigeon’s religion’. I have no idea what that even means because I don’t know two of those words already and I’ve eaten the other one so there. Anyway, I thought I would give it a go and see where it goes (hopefully a tunnel to the bottom of a tub of meatballs in Subway…mmm).

Let me first try to make sense of the word that I do know, Pigeon. This is not to be mistaken with the flying rodent that congregate around Ponty square and plot about shitting on poor, defenceless OAP’s and passing avian flu on to sickly, pale children. They are to my knowledge called Pijuns, which is a homophone of Pigeon but sadly that is where the similarities end (and no I don’t mean a Blackberry Curve or a Samsung Galaxy, a homophone is when two words sound the same, fucking idiot). No, a Pigeon is of course a measurement of time. This is plain to see if we look closer at the word. Segment the word into two and we have: Pig, a farm yard animal usually kept for meat and recreation and Eon, a long time. Now I know what you’re thinking, “Ye, stupid, we can all see that it is two words and we know what both of them mean but what does the word mean put together, div?”

Well, it is clearly the largest amount of time imaginable by a pig (or a billion years whether the pig likes it or not, whichever comes first). But to really fathom just how large we need to look at how a pig perceives the other three dimensions in his life (because time is the forth dimension, not fucking wind or snow or cold seats like Ice Age will try and have you believe, smug cunts). To do this I put 100 pairs of 3D glasses on 100 pigs then made them watch The Avengers. The results were very surprising. After only an hour of the film half the pigs had fallen asleep (or comma, I’m not a doctor of animals), about five per cent had started screwing and the rest were rooting for Loki to win. When I put this through my fancy computer programme it told me that the reason for this was that pigs see 3D in super slow motion which was making the film very boring (except for the Loki bits). With this in mind I was able to come up with an hypothesis on the Pigeon. It is as follows:

A Pigeon is a very long time. Too long in the opinion of the pig. It’s like watching Titanic or the new King Kong when you’re already tired. It transcends time as a linear factor and takes into account  the emotional state of the pig. As a term to be used by humans it would be the expression of something taking longer to do than you have the energy for at that particular time. Like sex before breakfast. 

So, being pleased with my understanding of the word Pigeon I have pondered as to its relevance in the title. But having still no idea what the other two words mean I decided to do some research. And wouldn’t you bloody know it, I found the word religion. Apparently it refers to a group or organization that all follow a set of rules that were laid out by someone called God. They do the same things all the time except for a Sunday (or a Friday if they are the curly haired ones) when they have a rest and pat themselves on the back for getting tickets to see God in concert. From what I can see the title cannot be referring to the Muslim ones because they think pigs are filthy (which they are, that’s a fact rather than a religious pillar). If I didn’t know any better (which I do) I would say the title makes more sense with Pijuns since they are organized and terrorists. But, alas, it is not so I’ve taken my research along a different path. I asked some famous people from ‘religion’ what was the longest thing imaginable to judge which of them had feelings most closely resembling a pig. 

First up was Big Bad Ratigan from the Vatican, Pope Benedict 16^th. His idea of a pigeon was absolution. He felt that it would take more time than he had energy to forgive all the sinners in the world (which is fair enough since it would take several days just to cover the wanks I’ve had writing this entry). Next to be put on the hot seat was Dai Lama, King of the Buddhi. He said it was a pigeon to eat solid food after midday. I understood what he meant straight away because I remembered Napoleon Dynamite trying to feed him in that film he was in and he was having none of it (although he looked a lot better after a shave I must say). Lastly I spoke with a strange magician on the street called Henry Christopher. He had an haircut like Tung Po from Kick Boxer and wore a shit pair of jeans under his costume. Also he said that he wasn’t greedy which was a lie because we was eyeing up my pasty pen (details to be revealed at a later date) the whole time I was eating it/writing with it. Anyway, he said that he always had energy to do all the tasks that needed to be done (possible ADHD) but that people he stopped in the street often said that it was a pigeon to even contemplate stopping for him (I would agree with this).

So the religion that was most pigeon was the Henry Christophers because if nobody is willing to stop for them, they have no flying hope of following them (especially on one of their stupid conga lines through town). All that was left to get to the bottom of the title was the word ‘A’. Now, unfortunately, I checked the dictionary and discovered that the word ‘A’ does not exist. It’s just not in there. Therefore, after all that research, I have had to discontinue the investigation so I guess we will never know what was meant by ‘A Pigeon’s Religion’.

*****

Dafydd Evans

Adam Gilder

Luke Sampson

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 Pebbledash^TM 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