Sunday, October 12, 2008

“Hefty the tome that snags,” ruminated Borgenvik, her feet no longer recognisable as such, her nostrils awash with bogies both dried and moist, and as she began to meander brackishwaterwards, there to meet with brave Sandstol, it dawned on her that her body was, indeed, made of sunlight.

Sandstol (left) woos Borgenvik with his rendition of It's All About the Benjamins

Locally it was almost universally held that to afford terrapins any nomenclature at all, let alone Norwegian same, was arrant silliness of the first water, and representations were made to “Uncle Ptolemy” Zang, the beloved regional potentate. Bronze-Age intertribal relations being what they were (the “ras clat babblings” to which Gibbon alludes in Decline and Fall: The Prequel), fatuous nettle was the order of the day, save in such instances as those known to us in our supposedly enlightened times only as “Fetch hither the ineptitude” neap tides.

"Uncle Ptolemy" to his subjects, Giddy Zang was born of eccentric parents into extreme lackadaisicalness

The Cuneiform Crew had shrewdly spotted the chink in the armour of the prevalent orthodoxy and done unto their portfolio whatever it is that portfolios have done unto them while petty and protracted public brawls captivate a frenzied, decadent populace, and long before anyone had the slightest inkling that anything was in any way amiss, all was irrevocably and probably tautologously destined to undergo a roots-and-branches transformation.

Most cryptologists now believe this rare surviving tablet to refer to stock acquisition, though some still interpret it is as the dangerous and fanatical rantings of a megalomaniacal psychopath

Wimple specks, or more precisely the removal thereof, had preoccupied the secessionist baboons of Svalbard since at least the latter part of the early Cretaceous era, Zang announced to a roomful of perplexed journalists shortly prior to his resignation, taken, so the People’s Committee for Truthfulness in All Things assured a second and hastily assembled roomful of aforementioneds, in order to spend more time with his family (and, Zang later curiously insisted, with his pet marmosets, Hector and Mistress Furry).

The formerly exuberant masses were now cowed.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Whether constant reference to Dunstable’s curious plea for trellises in this, its hour of need, would cause Renfrew to reassess the Hubble Constant and thus send an arguably unnecessary wave of panic rippling through the Shropshire thimble industry was the only subject which the delegates at the 73rd gnat symposium of western central Ghana were prepared to discuss without notes or occasional recourse to the jolly flange of gastropods (pernickety in nature) that did bask in the glow of reflected glory emanating from their illustrious forbears, the Nitty sisters’ apothecaries.

The Nitty sisters circa 1722

None of this had escaped the attention of Ragwort Stopes, whose pent-up rage was periodically vented on the icons of the venerable Puddle that adorned his shed walls. He sent forth for the elastic and curiously recalcitrant truffle of Turkmenistan, a decision he was later to regret with a bitterness akin to that felt by Snooty Headrest immediately after the calamitous Felt Negotiations, in which her great-niece had, against her better judgement, engaged seventeen years later; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.

The two sides come to blows at the ill-fated Tbilisi Felt Negotiations

Certain eminent and rotund geologists contend that had Stopes not embarked on this catastrophic course of action, which even the ordinarily feverishly pro-Ragwortian Mitochondrial Herald described as “the silliest course of action ever undertaken by anyone, anywhere at any time” - though I am grateful to “Edwin” Chidgey for drawing my attention to the fact that the Clanger family of Droitwich objected in a letter to this same august journal that their attempt to navigate the Strait of Hormuz in a bucket had been, all things considered, sillier, given their contemporaneous ingestion of vast quantities of peyote – he would have been able to retain his twigs; but as things stood, it was only a matter of millennia before the whole shameful edifice would tumble, thus fulfilling the prophecy of Puddle’s most fervent advocate, the skink known to us as Hector Constitutional Anomaly.

The mescaline-ridden Clanger family.

From l - r: Doris, Horace, Boris and Morris

Into the subsequent vacuum stepped Dilettante Rusk and the Four Whelps, all of whom, by an extraordinary coincidence, were direct descendants of the Clanger family of Droitwich, a fact upon which they were (some would say opportunistically) keen to capitalise in those nostalgically inclined times in which they found themselves. Rusk wasted no time in commissioning the discovery of a cure for windows, a notch for treadle pedals and a simian-only version of Love's Labour's Lost, thus gaining the quintet great prestige and the affection of an intellectually challenged nation, both of which they could be said to have gone on to squander in the foolishness that was the Papplewick affair.

Armado frees Costard early on condition that he take a letter to Jaquenetta for him. On his way, Berowne gives Costard a letter for Rosaline. Costard however, gives Armado's letter to the princess (who claims to be Rosaline).

Holmund's controversial staging of Love's Labour's Lost saw the welcome return of Mr Scratchy as Armado.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

Mtobo, amici, und willkommen bei dem Mbashtablog, as we, stranded as we are in the frozen climes of Babylon-Ruritania, are permitted by papal decree to call it on those Sundays easterish in nature. Today’s promises to be an good blog, replete with foolishness and nonsensical gibber such as is pleasing to the alienated, drug-addled ne’er-do-wells that do populate the streets of sundry sub-Saharan slip-knot sesame. But to dwell on such things were folly; rather, let us hie us unto the scented pleasure drome that is Blenheim Gardens. Home to The Untogether, this notorious inner-London gaff has witnessed scenes of debauchery unknown since the times of Tiberius. Was it not here that George of Cheddar Gorge did deflower that most pure of maidens, Carmen “The Barman” Jarman? Did not said abode bear witness to the naughtiness of the amoeboid plectrum? We should be told.

That being as it may, the fact remained that Ezekiel and his Icky Stooges did lurk in doorways dank, rapacious and lupine in their recently loaned cloak of hemp. Sticky McGrew avoided them as a point of principle, hackles up and eyes a-smouldering, yet could but incline heathwards upon hearing the plucky semi-conductor/newt cantata of Johann Sebastian. “As an molten epicentre were’t,” averred Heisenberg 'The Uncertain' Chessington, lamenteur professionel de Crackenthorpe, and it followed that all around did make merry, as was ever the case northwest of central South Carolina in the latter part of the early nineteenth century. Paddock, and all that he represented, could but fritter and phlegm: this was at last made clear to Frenk and her “Ethereal Toadies” of the swampy region. Heh heh heh. Clump and fungus, arguably the only true survivors of squander 67, were seen to limp asunder for the benefit of the assembled “There is no true beauty without decay” throng, and all was as July 4 save for the wailing of an infant child (comparatively unencumbered and unassailed).

It had by now come to the attention of the Committee of the Odd that the intelligentsia held that we inhabit a random and indifferent domain and that subsequently we were free to do whatever we pleased, the committing of mindless acts of racist violence included. T’committee put out a pamphlet or two to staunch the flow of withered despair, but ‘twas as the insertion of the finger in the dyke; and so the requisite avatar was dispatched and the two-steps-forward-and-one-step-back process lumbered along. The hegemony of the Wissenschaft geezers was subject to a full-frontal assault, and once the dust had settled it was found that something rather intriguing had arisen in its stead. This, however, was in time perceived to be an Obstacle to Truth and itself done away with.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

“The sating of the rhizome,” sang Burlington with customary disdain, “offsets the assertions of the Assyrians.” The multitude did clap. “Unto all eternity,” she added, gilding the lily somewhat in the opinion of Königsberg, Zimmerman et al. She had a point, though: Whipsnade had struck lucky that month, negating the Röntgen après Flume in a manner not witnessed since the fall of the people of the plains. Bolin notwithstanding, Hubble or not, Edie was determined to fathom the bark, which went some way to accounting for the considerable precipitation Sedgwick way. Heh heh heh. Mtoki n bzzzzzzzzzzzzz.


“Fenato ho vem-na, sa bunta, i zoouoop. (Heh heh heh!)”
(The dying words of Woo “Rio” Ferdinand.)

Heh heh heh

“Ta monko, ta bunga-bo neet, fo larti hep 'toastie'?
Tosti no suba, no suba mineshta! Heh heh heh.”
(Ancient Scythian proverb.)

That said, it should be noted that, for all his lamentations over Hetty “Mata Hari” Frond, Hastings had never before had cause to isolate the causality in quite so brusque a fashion, and as a consequence heads turned, glances were exchanged and a tacit understanding began to develop, little by little, that came in time to engulf the larger part of humanity. Not to worry, though, it was concluded.

Mundanity and the Nine Furniture, headlining that night at the Crazy Settee, blew everyone’s mind, thanks in no small part to the allegations of impropriety; the licence to practice Blind Lemon Jefferson would be revoked at the eleventh hour, ennui permitting, and to the relief of everyone the notion was frittered in a waxy stylee. Semantics O’Lizzerd fought tooth and nail over the bangle – or so it is widely held – but the tuba/forensic wastrels refused to countenance the idea: truth be told, they scoffed. Tinkering blithely only resulted in the unleashing of Wilbur and the Stoat People for the twelfth time that month, as prophesied by Rolf Harris in the unexpurgated version of “Mein Kampf: The Musical” (score available at all good Edgeware Road outlets), and Sentinel Weasly cemented all bib.

Monday, January 28, 2008

I feel the urge to put down on paper (more properly, on computer screen) that which floweth through me cerebral cortex. Trouble is, it changeth from second to second, single malt whisky being what it is. A thousand thanks to the paternal one therefor (as opposed to therefore). Cannabis is now gone; nonetheless, there is a preponderance of double vision, a propensity to chuckle, etc. Thoughts turn to this, that and the other.

Have just watched sadly compelling documentary about the Jamestown massacre – 909 dead. “Google it” is my recommendation, inebriated as I am. Opined to Pater that such cults are to orthodox Christianity what al Qaeda etc are to orthodox Islam. Pulled on a finger, then another finger, then the cigarette.

Am way out there at the moment. You’re watching yourself but you’re too unfair. To transcend has been my guiding star for the past 26 years. Chamber music. Many rivers to cross. The universal om; the plenum void; the beatific vision; satori; transcendental bliss; all that kind of thing.

I consider myself above the common herd, it grieves me to admit, in that I have considered at length (a) the doings of the ancients, (b) the malfeasances of the present bunch of egomaniacs and (c) Dr Alien=futuredoings. Some external force is needed to force our hand with regard to planetary desecration…

Thomas of the Bolin


Watched fascinating Inuit flim hier soir: shots of interiors of (a) igloos and (b) hide-covered dwellings frazzled me brain. Light, lucidity, Lucifer, Lucy in the sky (Previn, D.)

And it ain’t not ‘avin’ one thing, nor not another, either, neither is it anythink whatever

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Forasmuch as to circumnavigate the isle of Tungsten Gnash (the secret life of Arabia), Sir Man Tixz had commissioned the finest scuttle. That is to say, that which the Bulgarian milliners had hitherto considered unassailable transpired to be merely the alleged straddling of the chasmoid, the honeycombed mosaic palpitations, the unwarranted allusion to the tightrope of Paganini.

Venice was, indeed, a fine place to be at that time of year. Though in large part owing its faded splendour to Dr Byzantium, yet was it indisputable that the operative word was that what rhymes with “fender”, the modus parlandi of Blackmore . he can’t get off the carousel . And – and it is a superstition that that word cannot be used to open a sentence – I’ve forgotten what I was going to say now. Be that as it may, tulips, rainbows, light reflecting off DVDs: jolly tripped out, what? Indeed.

Betty Hill was asked by her abductors what she understood by “yellow”. Comment antworten?

Reg Reshun, Barney and Betty Hill

The mantelpiece of doom: that was what they elected to call it, all the evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. Rimsky-Korsakov had shuffled aggressively on being informed, and soon after began his lifelong obsession with twine and its derivatives, the ramifications of which are only now beginning to be understood. Tajikistan bore the brunt, as always, and the Bengal Lancers could only stand by and gesture oddly as the millipedes worked their way into the affections of Numpty McPherson-Wursen and Dibble, her two-toed sloth of seventeen years’ standing.

Hill was also asked what she understood by “a year”. Light, time. All that kind of thing. Jolly tripped out, innit? Indeed.

At this point we should pause to reflect on the phenomenon of the Elucidation of Emmanuel, as it is commonly known to the mediums, as opposed to media, being an thing what am what it am, as in the tao what speaks its name not being the true tao and so on (inna synonym/analogy stylee). Having thus reflected, Romanian counts excepted, we should acknowledge that said singularity/

(maybe down to new orleans . -

Friday, October 19, 2007

"The Procurator Fiscal, her emblems all ablaze,
Recumbent in the summer’s warmth did dwell on earlier days
When she and Woodward Parpy, the major’s second son,
Atop a bus did howl and cuss and do near on a ton."

That, at least, was Pilkington’s assertion, and at so late an hour there were few who would demur. While it was no secret that Whittaker and Pluck (pictured here in training for the gruelling Bratislava triathlon) had cajoled their metaphorical hoof into revealing the Way of the Curmudgeonly for the twelfth time that hour, that was scarcely an excuse. “Ezigbo ututu,” their opening gambit, as it were, had given the impression that all was knit, and the mome raths outgrabe (albeit imperceptibly). Put more accurately, the snipe was laden, and follicle: whereof do we click?

What none of the above knew was that the appearance of Xerxes, Darius and Philip of Macedon (CB Lowe) at the Yalta conference had resulted in the immediate expulsion of the Paraguayan delegation, the source of the immeasurable ire to be found amongst the chattering classes in Asunción to this very day. The subsistence farmers could care less, of course, but only inasmuch as it pleaseth the most noble slipper lobster, which it very rarely doth, things being what they are (not). That is not to say that the Kaduna hypothesis, as it came to be known, was invalid per se, as Whelk and Toaster had maintained throughout the arduous “Bupp” trial, but it is incontrovertible that froth had yet again played its insidious part. As Asher D and Daddy Freddy wisely point out, “Mm frog an’ toad, mm dat a road.” (I am indebted to JN “L” Brandnubian for drawing my attention to this arcane factotum Pole zap art.)

Totem pole

Zap art

At that very moment a column of weasels was marching to the outskirts of Tong Hua with malice in mind. Wei-Ho Zapatista (as distinct from Zap Artista, "the Milwaukee Tentacle") had been monitoring their movements since their still inexplicable departure from the fleshpots of Ulan Bator and had of course alerted his superiors, a nest of crickets from Wimbledon - the infamous Tok-Fobadu, feared and loathed in equal measure – but their response had been muted, he felt. Perplexed, he dithered.

Above: Bad Weasels (Naughty Division)

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

“The fidget,” blared Beric O’Pondweed, “knows no remorse!”
Hearing hiccupping, however, he faltered; all semblance of normality had faded, to be replaced by the paradisiacal. Thenceforth skipped the stew, forasmuch as to assuage the nomads, and filch was butter melon cauliflower for all but the most fleeting of nanosecondial quoit.
Above: Berwick-upon-Tweed

The above was enough to send the bamboozled into a state of apoplexy; they perceived each passing greeting as a slight, each reference to their existence as condemnation, and thus contrived amongst themselves to fashion an clog, like unto those of yore to be found in the Logan Trees, and refer to said clog as Sandra the clog, spinster of Gozzards Ford, redeemer of all that is oddly shaped and spangly. “Most meagre of cloggy ting,” chanted one and all the length of Cheapside.

Into this latter bracket plummeted the last remnants of the 84th, devastated and defiled by the odious Shrimp twins and their old muckers, Routine and A’Toutine. (If Lovász is to be believed - which, Takácz would have us believe, she isn’t - this calamity was largely of their own making; but cf Kratochvil, The Gilded Chubb, 1872, pp 972 - 1404 et seq).

The implications of this were all too evident to “Tetchy” O’Leary and his brigade of stools – so much so, in fact, that they all let loose with Hyderabad-learned harrumph à la bullimong. “Bullimong nfobi – twikki bullimong, twekko bullimong-na” (old Mhutu proverb).

The Stool Gang, Deptford, spring 1952

Saturday, October 06, 2007

I feel compelled to repudiate all that is in the below blog. (Somehow it grates that the below blog is not the above blog, but such is life.) This repudiation stems from a recognition of the fact that it could be argued that Decabalus pre-empted the Marxist-Leninist critique en disant, famously, "Kotoga fonangu (po)," though probably unsuccessfully; however, that need not concern us for the time being.

It is essential, firstly, to keep in mind the maxim of Wormsley "Lancastrian" Cousteau, unforgettably relayed immediately prior to the great Heng incident of 727: "Hwanon ferigeað ge fætte scyldas, græge syrcan ond grimhelmas...?" Secondly, the impending sloth of a trillion slugs need not, of itself, perturb us: for is it not written that the chosen few shall, by this stage, be so inebriated as to collapse, chuckling unto themselves? The Ink People, of course, contend that it isn't, but we shall dwell no longer with their intolerable apostate rancour than did Toby "Goal!" Sopwith-Camel with the Clan of Parpingforth during the calamitous Tingling of 1479. And so say we all, amen. Deus omnipotens omnisciensque est. Amen.

Thirdly - and I say this most advisedly - we should not allow ourselves to lose sight of the fact that, no matter to what extent the gainsayers may lambast, it is an inviolable truth that the sine qua non of post-modern existence remains the hoop - hup-tabonguu, as we say in my language. Quite why the hoop should hold such an unassailable position in 21st-century consciousness is not for us to question: it is written, and that should suffice to silence all but the most cursed of wretches incarnate.

Many hoops - hup-tabongui

Having said that, it almost goes without saying that the hoop is unquestionably a construct forged by malevolent rodents from the near future.

Such discourse leads inevitably to smelting, one of the nine acknowledged svatoburi listed in the Book of Ip. (It should at this point be noted that books are, by nature, considerably holier than collections of writings to be found on, for example, the internet. The Jehovah's Witnesses, for example, in their infinite wisdom, at no time refer to "the blog of judgement"; nor does Johnny Mohameddan allude to "the people of the website".)

Having thus established the pupstamma, as the Inuit, with their unfathomable insight, term it, we can only conclude that the Hengist/Horsa dichotomy echoes with ever greater resonance as time progresses: the papal nunciate has called time on Nisti, the crop-rotation fiasco is at an end and all is maya.

Nonetheless, it remains a fact that ambassadorial erosion tends to preclude snipe.

(c) Flummox & Tbbbb, 1847 (latter part thereof)

"A multiplicity of rhizomes," seethed Rufus 'Hoagy' Carmichael, staggering doggedly between the Spider Club and home, wot for him were but a box under a nartch somewhere in saf Lun'n.

"Him cyaan tan up," opined the countermanders, those in overall control of events terrestrial superterrestrialque - that is to say, those who answer not to mortals. The thrust of the utterance was not lost on Hoagy, but it seemed to him of minimal consequence. During his sleep, angels came to him and warned him of the potential of peril. On waking he bathed in the Thamesganges and contracted some horrendous disease which necessitated plasticine and stoat, the nebulous Snatch triplets of
Chuck Hatch.

"Hang on," said I: "My spliff's gone out." This proved to be a problem swiftly rectified.

Where was I? Ah, yes: the roof, as he was known in certain areas of the Bhutan/Tibet borderlands. "A ne'er-do-well," according to Pirandello, "whose coruscation brought about the conflagration of 1834 wot dun for the a'zees of parlim'n." Strachey refuted this with a degree of strenuosity not witnessed since, save for that exhibited by Fotodo-McLaughlin in her groundbreaking Countermand Boopi?, famously described by The Nib Gazette as "fobada-hushti".

Strachey "Ng-Fingzabh'it"

The contention that many have hoisted but few are importuned - the Carmichael family motto - was a moot point as far as the residents of Carlton Miniott were(n't) concerned. For them, the considerably more pressing affair of the Alleged Spatula Rescindment loomed larger in that which passed for their imagination. "Long time I," they would mumble knowingly, Ogden on their collective shoulder, a twitch in their nether regions and a nonchalant muzzle to hand. Such was that which passed for discourse in those sable days; yet from dung heaps do not praeternaturally astonishing fings bloom?

A praeternaturally beautiful fing.

NB: For those for whom bliss is but a notion* I would advise the dropping of some d-lysergic acid diethylamide-25 and the contemplation of this photograph or, better still, its real-life lotoid equivalent, for a minimum of an hour.

* Azure posed two button ocean