Monday, 26 July 2010

Radio Rental

The Facebook Killer—corny title, working title (for a story that will never rise above the ‘mad idea’ level)

A person creates a Facebook group that celebrates feline torture and abuse. Following an incident where unstable and nasty children had shot his cat with an air rifle, Mr Catlover, is, as the Americans would say, pissed.

His long term aim is to attract as many like minded people together, befriend them and shoot them full of air gun pellets.

I love avoiding violence and killing in my stories so this is not my cup of sherry but if any of my blog followers, want to use this idea then they can. It’s nonsense that some bright spark will be able to shoehorn into some comfortable and stylish literary footwear.

Monday, 19 July 2010

M a d I d e a--328c

In a world where no one has ever even considered eating animals a portly entrepreneur opens a shop selling animals, freshly killed, in animal-shaped coffins to customers with no concept of the will to purchase such nastiness. The venture fails to capture the public’s financial imagination. During a think-tank-thought-swim a rebel, a maverick, suggests, as a joke some say, that the dead animals could be heated up; their flesh made edible and sucked off the bone. This was tried and found to be nutritious and filling.

It was hard to persuade the public that actual beautiful cute animals could be eaten. But psychological training was used to help people cope with ingesting what seemed at first like inedible carcass.

Success grew bacterially.

Soon after, the meat diet became popular; everyone was happy. The downside was that eating human flesh became popular too.

Before the end of this horror story humans have eaten each other (themselves) into extinction. The last survivor, soon to be an a ex-survivor, eating himself out of sheer boredom.

The epoch of the non-human animals returns and the planet gets a nice long rest from humanity; until the next time, (this gives room for a sequel).


This guy buys a B52 bomber from a bloke in an alleyway behind a pub in a town with a bad reputation that had never one bloom of the year, ever. He parks it in the desert, near the sea, by the mountains. He had dreams of flying around the world for his retirement; adding a refueller to his collection of aircraft and crewing it with blonde Swedish, Danish or Nicaraguan bimbos (with aeronautical training).

After nine months of planning, scheming and note-taking he found that the giant ex-US air force bomber had been jacked up and its engines stolen.

He sliced off the wings and made the big bird into a boat with wheels and towed it round the desert with a specially modified Volkswagen camper van.

Was he mad? Yes. But he was happy, he was, he was happy; as can be.

Thursday, 8 July 2010

My Stories

Of the fourteen stories in Shorts You Will Never Wear my favourite is the last. It is an account of an annual festival in an Italian hilltop town called Cavallisghembi Citta (Town of Crazy Horses).

It parodies archaic social behaviours that are still going strong in many places; like the running of the bulls in Spain and the Palio in Italy. It makes fun of human behaviour with a respectful if eye-rolling perspective.

The delivery is bordering on mickey-taking because it is in a pigeon-style dialect. I find it hilarious. I love it to bits. As an example, here the narrator explains:

Everyone over a certain IQ and under a certain IQ has a role to take part in. There are no shortcomers lurking in Cavallisghembi Città. Like a great operatic play of passion the people assemble at relevant start points and await their cue. The flag is dropped by the mayor of Cavallisghembi Città, a man who in the English translation is rendered: ‘he who would change the trajectory of the Moon in order to light his own barbecue even if others have to roast flesh in the dark.’ Then with pomp and merry circumstance the competitors of the Scrambling of the Horse flee the pursuit of each other with brutal delight and lack of healthcare.

To ensure just fairness the fleetest of Sghembi are handicapped and wear thick and heavy iron shoes nailed to their hoofboots to level the playing field. Though the gaits of these gladiators are benumbed by iron shoes they have the balance of the scale restored by their ability to gallop rough-shod over the minds and bodies of the unfortunates. All of these racer-gladiator-gadabouters clatter about the course around the town, treading sometimes on themselves when they have fallen. No participant is any longer Mr. nice guy. The darkest most basic of all human behaviour surfaces and swims around on the sea of tradition. Family prides and reputations are at the stake; some will burn until flesh melts and bones char, yet others will emerge from the ring victorious.

It is truly a mad place, but at least no animals are taunted or harmed in the process, only the human participants. Having said that, there is some abuse of the year’s fresh crop of virgins.

Recommended Reading for Those with a Horse Condition/Confusion/Disposition/Etc.

This is a book that fills a niche that has been gapingly void for eons. If you deal with baby horses of any colour you need to read this book. Written by a top Horse expert, it fills in gaps and leads to an easier life for equine and human.

Wednesday, 7 July 2010

Clippety Clips

One of the stories in the collection starts:

The telescope, an antique of untraceable origin, was a prize in a competition that no one could remember entering. The little girl who won the telescope put it to her eye and found a magical new world. One day the little girl, a strained eye glued to the telescope, noticed something that not even the biggest space agencies and organisations had noticed. Way beyond the reflection of her own eye she saw the surface of the Moon. It was strangely cut up and scuffed. She looked every day; in the morning long before school and in the evening before she had to go to bed. On the tenth day of intense gazing she reached a point of clarity: there was a horse loose on the Moon. There could be a hundred reasons for a horse to be on the Moon but she couldn’t think of even one. She felt close to him; she thought she knew him, even if it was only from a picture-book or telly-ad. She knew him as Ol' Clippety-Cloppety.

The story involves a lost Cloppety, and a missed intergalactic conference due to the Blue planet being infested with deadly bacteria: humans. I hope the story isn’t too spoiled by telling you that Ol’ Clippety gets his Cloppety back before the last full stop brings the curtain down.


You can download this book of short stories to your phone at Smashwords.

Sunday, 4 July 2010

The Trouble with Talent

In a story called, The Trouble with Talent, a man finds success in failure. It begins:

The best years of my youth were disturbed when my grandmother died. My grandfather wobbled for a while on the edge of a deep hole before he found he could fill it with a certain eight year old boy: me. My grandfather devoted himself to moulding me into the performer he had secretly wanted to be himself. He tried me with most forms of entertainment, but when, at last, with frustration wracking his mind and body, I proved to be the world’s worst ever ventriloquist, his heart and soul gave up. His last words were, ‘He can’t sing, he can’t dance, he can’t even tie his own effing shoe laces.’

In a way, his death was a release for us both. At sixteen I became a free agent, wallowing in redundancy and craving attention. After school I worked in a factory. I liked the job, but every day voices screamed, ‘you loser’, ‘you quitter’, ‘you nobody’, as though granddad’s spirit were goading me.

After dealing with fraudsters and a psychopathic ‘adult’ clown called Kokayne the Klown, he comes to a light at the end of the tunnel of nightmares …

Saturday, 3 July 2010


When the sun rose this morning I felt inspired; I felt inspired to stare, gaze in wonderment. Now I can't see a blithering thing.

I need to recover my sight for the sunset. I love sunsets; I watch until the sun has gone and only the dark circle etched on my retina remains as a visual echo.

I wait for morning and the new sunrise.

Friday, 2 July 2010

Animal Welfare

It has just occurdeth to me that most of my stories have an animal rights twist; a moral slanted look at the way we treat our domesticated animals. We live among some pretty cruel happenstancings and the more we realise this the more we will, hopefully, adjust our social behaviour.

One story (in my collection) subtley introduces the fact that the UK is the butcher of Europe when it comes to horse flesh for human consumption. Few people know this and that is why the industry is involved in mass torture of innocent, sentient beings while the public turn an ignorant eye.

I personally think more needs to be done to protect animals. We have an obligation to look after them which is, sadly, often wanting.

Wednesday, 30 June 2010

Mad Ideas keep stopping and picking me up!

Ideas can come from anywhere. If you don’t think they will they wont. But ideas, like women (or men dressed as women), will not be stalked. You cannot corner them and pin them against the wall. You cannot clip them with shot like a scuffle of game; wing them and pounce upon their injured, glistening, half-naked bodies. No, the ideal idea receiving state is called the ‘Bus stop modular sub-psychosemantic- elfhouse5’. It is all about simplicity. Pull up a chaise and grab your note book and learn:

You wait, metaphorically, for a bus that was never scheduled. You wait in silence, still as a city of tombs. As no buses run on this route it would be perfectly imaginable that no bus will arrive; but wait, wait, don’t divert from the purpose; don’t be tempted down blind alleys or retire to drinking and/or whoring establishments. Make yourself amenable to the possibility of a bus appearing like a dream; like the idea cavalry relieving your last stand (bus stand). Oh, what is this you spy? The number 60b, its destination: where you are going. Where is that? Who knows? Patience blog-fiend-friend.

I have used this technique staunchly and with the tenacity of a warrior-terrier closing in for lunch for some years now. It has borne fruit, though the fruit has been bruised, soft and unfit for consumption. Because when the bus arrives it is the mad bus, the bus with nothing but nutters on it, including the devilishly laughing driver.

I wake up from disturbing dreams. I sleep rough at the bus stop with no buses. And groundhog-like: the same mad fucking bus with the same but different mad fucking passengers. Shoot me now; shoot to kill.

Tuesday, 29 June 2010

I had an idea this morning but forgot it. I had a small ceremony in the garden, burying the idea. I gave it a solemn send-off showing how much I care: I don’t, though, ask anyone who knows me. Ha, you can’t, nobody knows me, I have been keeping myself a secret. That’s why it is best to forget the ideas that ship from Idealand. Post them straight back, return to sender. Yes, the idea I forgot was not forgotten without a huge effort on my part; the ceremony was an attempt to ritually pass on from the aching annoyance of yet another idea that will never go anywhere.

The idea would merely have toyed with me beat sore my fingertips as they enthusiastically bashed out internal imagery into recognisable shapes that form lines of meaning. Then with furrows on the page, on my fingertips and on my brow; a slow realisation: ideas are not enough. Ideas are cries from the elemental collective unconscious, calling for better; calling for evolution, screaming: ‘this is not good enough! Open a better path out of the forest?’

My idea, if indeed it was mine, was a deformed seed. A grass-like thing meant to help fill a summer field with the raw material of sustenance. But this seed has other ideas; genetically superior notions. This seed is a transformer sent to change the course of Mankind. Except, in negotiating the laws of chance it has travelled way off target. Unable to fathom that it is so much in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Damn the idea has come back to me. I must go and dig it up out of the garden and cremate it.

Wednesday, 23 June 2010


Last night I dreamed I was asleep. At the end of the dream I woke up, went to wrestle huge vaginas in Swaziland and then had another dream. Tonight I am hoping to dream I am awake. I also hope the vagina wrestling venue is in Switzerland.

Thought of the Day

And then, in the lull, the winds change. Warm fire laps encouraginly around my ankles. Daggers made of stuff that makes iron look flimsy strike out from my core and blood broils out in vast red-water rapids. And all this without breaking wind; wind is precious, don't break it, wait for the forces of nature to carry you aloft.

Mad Ideas 3:

An Eastern European couple book a two week holiday over the Internet. The destination is the delightful Happy Inn at Membleton Services. The holiday is spoilt by the high prices and lack of quality of the cuisine. The only food of any worth they could get at their branch of the chain in Oskcovorad. They are impressed by the industrious nature of the British, whizzing here and there and making no complaint at the terrible standard of food and the rip-off standard of billing.

There is more to this mad idea but I am not sure I can be bothered.

Monday, 21 June 2010

Mad Ideas 2:

Don’t ask me where this came from; it dropped out of the Idea Tree and glanced off my peach-like, pineapple-like head, nearly making my ear cauliflower-shaped. The story, if it had legs, would be set in a hotel run by terrorists. But these are not your every day terrorists, oh no, they belong to an organisation called Make War Subtle. The movement, a cobbling together of retired warriors and serving artists, advocate peaceful terror. Fighting by means of minor aggravation; water drip, drip, dripping can forge great canyons.

I could not be bothered to think of the filling for the sandwich.

But the end piece of bread is buttered by the fact that the ‘team’ who specialised in appalling service, dog-grade cuisine and manners to sicken the most insensitive of guests had not been informed of British customs and standards. The aggravation was turned on the would-be perpetrators when Shellhampton Council awarded them the Golden Promenade Award for most popular hotel. Insulted beyond repair they opened up a restaurant: ArabAnglo Fusion: the food was great but unappreciated.

Saturday, 19 June 2010


My, my, what have we here, another clipette?

This is from a tale about a confused person who escapes a hospital bed but cannot escape the hospital.

The smell of dinner, a Brussels sprout-like odour, was my prearranged signal. Welcome to the ‘in-the-moment zone’: the only mind-place you can make consistent and correct decisions from. Until that moment you know nothing. But I was not surprised by my actions. The faithful staple of all bipeds the ‘amble’ took me under the noses of my persecutors; the ‘trundle’ took me away, until I was safe to make the transition to a slow, ‘western Asian quarter-skip’. Then I was free, on my own, in the vast, life consuming hospital.

Wow, what's going to happen next?--the tension is vile and uppity

Friday, 18 June 2010

Teaser--Be Teased, Teasee.

Here is a snippet from one of the tales in the book. It elbows convention in the ribs and shouts loudly from deep within the human psyche. This tale about coming of age in a brutal age begins like this:

Bob’s Progress

He was told that the tribe only had one story, but it changed with every generation. The one and only story told of a young man who, when he got to a certain age, had to leave the tribe and join the group of bachelors where he would dwell ‘half-lived’ until the day came when he had to find and negotiate the ‘Path of Least Resistance’. It was just a story to Bob until he was a tree frog’s finger into puberty, when he was made to leave the tribe and go and live with the bachelor group. The story, it turned out, was about him.

Tantalising? You decide. I’ll drape some more morsels in the shop window soon. Be here or be queer—your choice, no pressure, and relax …

I'll put the table cloth on and ratchet up the old stove--biscuits?

Thursday, 17 June 2010

Mad Ideas 1:

I have a mad idea I think might work: a series of posts about mad ideas that just won’t work. Like one I just toyed with and had to put chewed and broken into the bin. It was about a world where all food and animals are removed and humans can only eat other humans. They take a while to work it out. They take a little longer to figure out what they need to do to survive; in the meantime they are getting hungry; but how long until hunger brings the first murder and how long until murder becomes an act of human survival, unupholdable in any court in the land, any land, or at sea?

Mad; never work. I have about six hundred and ninety such ideas; I keep them in a bucket beside my head. Some people eat cars; I keep buckets of ideas that will never work by the side of my head, in a bucket. If you want me to stop posting email, I’ll see what I can do.

Wednesday, 16 June 2010

Shorts You Will Never WearClick on this image and you will receive a dish washer, six buckets of 'previously experienced' cloth, nine plastic thing holders, and a month's worth of dead aliens (from sector nine--they might not be dead, quite, if not, make sure you despatch them with something nuclear or your life won't be worth maintaining. Be warned: adventures can sometimes go horribly, painfully wrong.) Okay, let's go, when you hear me squeak, press the mouse button and hold on .... 'SQUEAK!'

Titled Parsnips

I had many ideas for titles but settled on Shorts You Will Never Wear. All the titles had reasons to dismiss them with a guffawry wave of the arms. I could just have easily called the collection any of the following:

The Horse Who Couldn’t do Algebra--No horses to my knowledge do algebra. I'm not a horse but I can't do it (whatever it is).

Twelve Couples Cut a Dash at Sainsbury’s--Who cuts dashes these days; they'd have to have been wearing swords.

Urk--too irksome.

Bloomfontein High Street from a Faulty Web Cam--What can anyone really see from a faulty camera?

Beaches, Dams and Madame Krsatskas’s Trowel Sharpener--Trowels don't need sharpening if used for the purpose they were designed for.

Four weddings, Four Funerals and Two Barrels of Gunpowder--Too Swiss, too formulaic

Screaming for the Sake of it--I like it--screaming for the sake of it--but not as a title.

Entering the House of the Subconscious, Humming a Dissonant Tune and Legging it--it has good parts but in the end it was unwieldy and weirdy.

Swinging on a Branch That Will Snap or Not--too much what if, we want snappings not the promise of what a snapping may bring.

Doctor Manifest the Goon Japist, of Lower Hutt--Might to well in the antipodean market but not north of the equator.

Tales from Nowhere--Trying too hard to be clever and heading for an orificy end, so to speak.

When Does the Dropping Stop?--Good title but had little relevance to any stories in the book.

Squirrels, Squirrelers and Squirrelophiles--Too squirrelly.

Pyjama Hems Frozen in Jelly--Reminds me of a nightmare I once had and can't forget.

Daytime and Night-time: the same thing but different?--Cheap shot at Outer Mongolian Footwear (a funk band from Broadstairs in Yorkshire).

Shorts You’d Wear if Pushed--Perfect we'll go for that. No wait; straining, one last push.

A Collection of Tales--Damn it; lost. Think, you bastard, think!

Shorts You Will Never Wear—bingo let’s go down the pub.

This was my circuitous route to a title that feels, looks and smells okay to me. What do you think? Can you think of a better title?
The sole purpose of this blog is to act as a marketing tool for my Amazon Kindle book, Shorts You Will Never Wear—a book of short stories literally belching with originality and bristling with danger: this is a new world, a new age-ish. A ‘marketing tool’ might sound cynical but if I said ‘we are all going to die’ it would not sound quite as cynical by comparison, would it, no, it wouldn’t, I wouldn’t think so anyway—email me if you think otherwise, I could do with a laugh.

I am still hiding the serious ‘under-the-counter’ stories from human eyes. The ones that strike deep at the heart of things we cannot admit to: the Skippy-the-kangaroo-meets-Lolita-in-a-nunnery-full-of-Sumo-wrestling-dwarfs material. That’s for the next generation of short story that is oozing its way down my creative pipeline to the unsuspecting shores of Amazon Kindle.

This is a ‘testing-testing’ post. I am not talking to myself (but, though, of course I am). I have a number of topics that will act as tasters for my stories in the hope someone will purchase my book (US Amazon, $ 2.94—introductory price). One person has already bought one. You could be the second. Though the first was probably the CIA, or FBI, or whoever has been tasked with keeping an eye on me, WI, maybe, Women’s Institute Internet Watch, don’t laugh; be afraid.

Topics I intend to cover in this blog are: squirrels; apocryphal back cover quotes and recommendations; failed and clumsy attempts at titles for the collection; mad story ideas that will never work but seem in strange light like they might. And the (lack of) limits of movie-making, given that spesh effs are so creepily realistic. Oh, and what will the world become now that some insane professor has invented synthetic life. Following these marketing ruses I intend to be insulting and angry, sulky even. Only as a last resort will I begin begging and inviting profound pity.

Many thanks to any wanderer in the blog desert who comes across my blog and decides to peek in for the next post instead of heading towards civilisation and safe ground.

Bon Bloggatito