Build It and they will come… so long as it’s free.

So once again I have been permitted to enroll my book in the free offer. It is now free for 5 days. Free. Well 4 because i did it yesterday. It’s free and because of this the downloads have started trickling in again. Did I mention it’s free?

Go download it now.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tiny-Compendium-Ridiculousness-Hubert-Watergipridget-ebook/dp/B00NX63R1W

Mindless Self-Indulgence

I was 2 [A4] pages into an in depth and passionate piece about climate change, when I realised, no one cares about climate change anymore, that’s so 2012. Now we’ve decided it’ll be too expensive and too much hard work to do anything about it so we may as well live in denial and blame all our problems on immigration. So instead of trying to make what little difference I felt I could within my limited means (without having to go outside), I thought I’d return to my more popular posts, of my shitty artwork. I don’t have a scanner anymore, so it’s photographs of artwork, which adds an extra layer to the artiness of it all. Pictures of drawn pictures, reflecting the technology obsessed youth, how we are all experiencing life through a lens and all that.

 

Natural

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I can just about draw breasts. I love breasts. Boobs, whatever you want to call them. I have an insatiable appetite for them. This piece represents the patriarchal society and how women are objectified, look at her face, she ain’t happy about that.

 

Flat Mate’s Shoes.

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As well as breasts, I really like drawing these terrible flowers

 

 

Drawn Man Dragged Off Page.

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There was once a whole man on this sketch pad, but They came and got him. This is clever as I ripped the page, making it more immersive. It looked better ages ago before I left it under the sofa and it got flattened. Trust me, if you had seen it when it was first done you’d have been blown away, both metaphorically and literally. The force of this drawing would have hit you square in the chest and blown you across the street.

 

Wit

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For those that can’t read my writing, the man is saying “Your art work is derivative.” To which the woman replies “So is your face.” The glasses symbolise her intellect, her boobs symbolise her boobs. On closer inspection I also realise my flies are undone… this is basically porn.

 

I Enjoy Taking Pictures of Myself Whilst on the Toilet.

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It’s like an addiction. I’ve had a haircut since then, if you saw my hair now you’d be blown away, metaphorically and….

This represents societies self-obsession and how even though everybody poops, we think our own bowel movements are somehow special. Mine are.

 

The Judgemental Hand of God.

 

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What is he really angry about I want to know.

 

A Pictorial Representation of the Phrase – Better than a poke in the eye with a blunt stick.

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For those of you that wondered about this phrase. It’s origins lie in one single event where a man was poked in the eye with a blunt stick. He really did not enjoy it. It gave him a new perspective on life. When anything bad happened he would shrug and say ‘better than a poke in the eye with a blunt stick.’ this was a sound philosophy until he once had both his eyes poked with two blunt sticks, which rationally speaking is worse than a poke in the eye with a blunt stick. He had a crisis immediately after as his world view was shaken and unfortunately killed himself.

Close Up of an Oil Candle.

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Bark

 

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Caffeine.

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Where’s My Millions?

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Having viewed my work, you are probably asking yourself the same question.  Where are my millions? Would no doubt be a more grammatically correct question, but it doesn’t flow as well. My flat mate told me this is the best thing I’ve done… art wise and in general. That makes me very sad.

Buy my surrealist book for .99p do it or I’ll sneak into your house and rearrange your furniture. It has a five star review from a random person, I don’t know them at all. I certainly didn’t ask them to rate it 5 stars in a vain bid to sell more copies. Shut up!

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tiny-Compendium-Ridiculousness-Hubert-Watergipridget-ebook/dp/B00NX63R1W/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1469272168&sr=8-1&keywords=tiny+compendium+of+ridiculousness

 

Where are all the Adults?

Where have all the adults gone?

 

I’m well aware of a large number of recent tragedies and moments of political upheaval that may well go onto have global repercussions, and a skilled writer would be able to generate an engaging an interesting article on any of these things. However, I am not a skilled writer, nor are the large majority of bloggers, yet it hasn’t stopped them. So instead of being another self-important piece on the cabinet reshuffle or terrorist atrocities, where I try and show how politically engaged and intelligent I am, I’m going to write another self-important piece on Pokemon Go.

Being roughly 24-25 (I honestly don’t know, I keep having to text my dad to find out), I existed in what you might call the Pokemon generation. You will notice I refuse to use the accented e. as Poke-Mon sounds cooler, like a Star Wars character. I watched the series, collected the cards, used cleverly worded tricks and promises to swindle my friends out of good cards in exchange for bad ones and even played the games. I used to dream about belonging in the world of Pokemon, so I can leave home at the age of 11 and wander the world, beating wild animals to the point of submission before keeping them in cramped conditions for lengthy periods and occasionally forcing them to fight others. So why, when I heard tell of a new augmented reality game that incorporates the real world and those scientifically questionable monsters, why was I not the least bit interested?

It turns out, it’s because I’m roughly 24-25. I have moved on. Pokemon was a huge part of my childhood and there it remains, for the very same reason I no longer hang out at The Ditch and pretend to be a Power Ranger.

Aside: The Ditch was a place situated between my house and the house of a good friend of mine. It was, as the name suggests, a large overgrown ditch, in which one might find a trolley, or on a good day, the door to a tumble dryer.

This week, I have been forced to endure endless conversations about Pokemon, where to find them and the where the gyms are situated. One heavily bearded “adult” passionately exclaimed how he found an Eve (spelling may not be correct) outside KFC. Grown men and women, with jobs and who pay tax venture out on their lunch hours in the hopes of finding that elusive Pigeott.

Why? Where have all the adults gone? When did we become this nation of the perpetual child? It’s strange, unnerving even. I’m accused of being miserable, pretentious even. I’ve even been accused of trying to ruin everyone’s fun, simply because I don’t get excited over the idea of using my phone camera to see a fictional worm sitting on my desk! Madness! Madness I say!

Someone even tried to defend it by saying, and I quote “It’s good though, because it’s helping me lose weight, because before I wouldn’t bother going out, but now I’m going for walks in the evenings to try and catch Pokemon.” He says this with a serious expression etched onto his features. Pokemon… convincing someone to go outside and walk to combat weight gain? Why is being a fat shit not inspiration enough?

It was recently reported that two people fell off a cliff whilst playing this game. I laughed. Admittedly as I continued to read I felt bad for doing so as they were really hurt, but that’s the news paper’s fault for starting an article simply saying that some people fell off a cliff because they were too busy looking at their phones. Once upon a time this might have featured in a satirical sketch show, but no, so engrossed in this endless obsession of ‘catching ‘em all’ people are walking off cliffs, off piers, strolling into the waiting arms of angry bears, crashing planes and all sorts.

It’s not just the current Pokemon Go fad that makes me feel this way. Recently, the Deadpool film hit the cinemas and people loved them. This comic book adaptation had an 18 rating, meaning it was intended for adults. I’ve not seen it, it may well be a clever dig at the superhero trend and Hollywood’s obsession with churning them out. I did see Captain America 2 not long ago. It was alright, but the story was (if one liked to over analyse) one of post 9/11 espionage and government policy and the changing nature of war and global threats and how we are all at risk of accidentally surrendering power to sinister, totalitarian regimes and organisations in the name of security, this is clearly not a theme aimed at children. It was still Captain America, and one in a never ending list of films about costumed folk beating up badguys in whatever form they come, which adults spent their hard earned money on watching.

Why WHY! Why can’t we just grow up like people did in the good old days, where they reached the age of twenty-two, decided their days of having fun were over and started wearing jumpers?

Because… the good old days.

Nostalgia, that’s what it is. We yearn for the carefree days of playing the Pokemon games, swapping the cards. Nostalgia is a good feeling. But Nostalgia is also dangerous! It’s more addictive than any drug. Just walk into a building and say “do you remember the Crash Bandicoot games?” and watch everyone go mental.

It can ruin lives nostalgia. People get so lost in the past they forget they’re in the present, they don’t see the future charging towards them before it’s too late and they’re dead. I lost my father to nostalgia, I asked him what school was like in the 70s. His eyes glazed over, he let out a long breath as he travelled back through time several decades. He’s been trapped in the 70s ever since. It’s a genuine fear of mine that he’ll try and do something differently and the paradox that ensues would leave me fading out of existence.

“So what do you do that’s so much better than this eh? If you so begrudge free independent people their moments of thoughtless entertainment in a world of constant uncertainty and woe?” I hear the Pokemon Go players screaming.

Well, I drink a lot, and when I’ve run out of money for drinking, I masturbate.

TheFuzzyRambler.

If Music be the Food of Love, Stop Playing Oasis

Below is a self-indulgent rant against buskers. I set myself the target of producing blogposts as often as possible, but have discovered I rarely have much to say. Enjoy.

 

I like music, I am a musician of sorts. I even won Hertfordshire under 18s Battle of the Bands many years ago. We were awarded with £300 and the chance to play an outdoor concert in the centre of Letchworth Garden City. It was during a cold winters day, the instruments went out of tune with each strumming of a chord, and an old man told us to be quiet, but we didn’t we stuck it to the man (at least that particular one) by playing for our allotted time and then buggering off.

So it might seem a bit hypocritical when I say I hate wannabe musicians and their insistence on trying to get people to listen to their music. In my defence, I am a hypocrite, it’s one of my few consistencies. There are many reasons for hating them. I know it may seem a bit extreme to brand them with such a powerful word, what with all the people in the world more deserving of it (Isis, Boris Johnson, various cowardly Leave campaigners who campaigned, got what they want and then fucked off, Donald Trump, Putin, James Franco, paedophiles etc.).

First of all – for all their claims to love music, and for music to be their life, they warble on with the same tired and basic songs. That is buskers and those that play in pubs. I have more respect if they do their own songs… even if they’re shit, at least they’re not cheating. Any beanie wearing twat you see playing in a pub, whenever they eventually (for they will, it’s inevitable) start strumming the opening chords to Wonderwall, be sure to stand up and punch them right in their arrogant and most probably bearded faces. Oasis were shit, it’s a well-known fact. Their terribleness is apparent in how popular they are at open-mic nights in pubs and how everyone sings along. Their songs are easy, culminating in tuneless wailing, which is why they go down well in such a location, because drunk people can sing along with ease. It’s cheating. Anyone can get a reaction by playing Wonderwall to the ignorant masses who don’t know any better.

Buskers in a busy town or city centre utilise the ‘Oasis factor’ as a shield. They think people will tolerate them more, if they’re ruining known hits that have been played so much that they’re already ruined. In which case, become a background buzz, like an annoying fly constantly batting its head against a window pane. Bland enough to be largely ignored, but loud enough to be irritating after time, an act they expect us to pay them for.

There is one particular busker round my way, who wears sunglasses, whatever the weather. Occasionally, he wears stylish musician hats. He seems to think he has all the ingredients necessary for success, sunglasses, hat, acoustic guitar and a set list of bland songs. I hate him. I hope he dies of some rare blood disorder. Harsh I know, but one must be honest in life.

The problem may be due to the lack of music specific venues willing to give amateurs their chance. Contrary to what I have just stated (here I go again, I’m a complex individual in many ways) I do enjoy seeing live music, particularly from artists (and I use the term in its broadest sense) we have yet to experience. However, I enjoy them at a time and place of my choosing. I resent them when I go to my local for a pint and a chat with the friends I haven’t seen for some time (because they’re actively avoiding me) and in these narcissistic bellends march, acoustic guitars in hand with egos completely disproportionate to their talent. They play obnoxiously loud, with songs we have heard time and time again, done in the same way, actively preventing people who just want to drink, from drinking. I hate them, I hate them all.

Don’t get me started on opinionated bloggers. They’re everywhere.

 

TheFuzzyRambler.

 

 

Extract From a Thing

I have literally nothing to write, but it’s been a while since I wrote a post. So I’ll use this as a moment to share some of my other writings.

For a bit of fun I’ve been writing a blend of fantasy and science-fantasy (as in Game of Thrones, mixed with spaceships n shit). Ordinarily, I try and write interesting social critiques, or profound novels involving complex characters – but they’re not very good so I gave this a try.

****

Cutter ducked under his doorway, thick fingers fumbling in a leather pouch at his Tinuch Weed. The night air was fresh, damp even, but the star dotted sky clear. A half-moon hung in the centre of it all, making a commendable effort to keep the world lit. Cutter nodded his head in respect to Ardvurn, sitting up there in his cold marble prison.

A few grullets were hopping in and out of the muddy puddles, their stumpy little legs caked in brown ooze. Strange little creatures, would almost resemble children, were it not for their squashed, angry little faces and five little horns. That and they were incredibly stupid.

Cutter squashed a pinch of Tinuch into his pipe and began to dampen it.   The torch light about his door flickered, setting shadows dancing across the floor as he scooped over his kindling box. He pulled out a serviceable twig and put it to the torch. Once it was ablaze he set about lighting his pipe. He liked the ritual of readying the pipe for a smoke more than the smoking itself. Though he did enjoy that to some degree. It left a tangy taste in his mouth and relaxed his muscles. The ache in his back seemed to mellow after one or two puffs.

Two of the grullets started to fight noisily in the sodden grass, growling and spitting at one another. The others hopped about excitedly, yelping their support. Pursing his rough lips through his tangled black beard, Cutter let out a thin trail of yellowed smoke. He watched it rise into the air, twisting and spiralling towards the trees of the great forest. Aside from the squabbling grullets, there was a pleasant tranquillity to the evening, foretelling of a quiet night. Cutter could already hear the rumbling snores of Big Dog, in the hut by the fire. The smoke was taken by the wind and was no more. Cutter put the stem of his pipe back to his lips, eying the multitude of stars that winked at him.

Strange though.

He eyed one star, feeling his bushy eyebrows descend of their own accord. Perhaps he used a touch more Tinuch weed than he thought. After all, with his big hands most things looked smaller than they were. Yet… yes, it was. One star was getting bigger. Or was it getting closer?

Cutter, felt what he assumed to be unease creep over him. Having spent the majority of his life living by the Great Wood – The Hungry Forest as some called it – his ability to be uneased had been dampened over time. He searched his hazy memory for a story. A story that told of a falling star. He was sure there must be one, it sounded like the sort of thing that would be in one of the stories. Like a sign… a sign for something… probably not good.

The star was falling. It was plummeting, and as it plummeted it made an awful noise, like a cackle. Like the cackle of a Hag. It was engulfed in flame, or perhaps it was flame. Flame was not good for trees, that Cutter knew, and it was headed right for them. He managed to tear his gaze away long enough to glance at the village at the foot of the hill. It was mostly obscured by darkness, but he could see a few dots of fireplaces peeking through windows, or the occasional wavering torch.

In this time the star smashed into the forest.

He felt the ground shake.

The Hungry Forest had swallowed a star.

Cutter turned about and moved back towards his hut, remembering to tap the ash from his pipe. He placed it on the wooden mantelpiece by the hearth, where he always kept it and snatched up his best axe from the corner. He nudged Big Dog with his booted foot.

The slender grey creature looked up at up at him with an unimpressed expression.

‘Gerrup y’lazy lump. Time t’go t’work.’ Cutter grunted. The dog let out what sounded like a sigh. Cutter wasn’t sure what the purpose of a sigh was when a people did it, let alone the creature before him.

He was more tall than ‘big’ thin coat of fur and a savage looking face streaked with wisps of white. When he moved, Cutter could see the angled shoulder bones protruding from his back. When stood on his hind legs, Big Dog was as tall as any grown man. Cutter shouldered his axe and headed outside. The Grullets had given up their game, startled by the noise. Fortunately, it seemed the damp was working in the trees’ favour.

‘C’mon then.’ Cutter growled before heading into the trees.

 

***

 

It was suicide, of course it was, it had been from the start.

Any military vessel would have been picked up as far back as ninety clicks and treated as hostile. When the Skuriak treat something as hostile, they become incredibly hostile in return. A military vessel had always been out of the question. Azul cursed the Collective, and the Splintered Alliance more so. Idealists, if there’s one thing idealists lacked it was money, equipment and above all else, a logical – well thought out plan.

The pod shuddered a little, he guessed the gravitational pull of the planet was becoming all the more powerful. He had his doubts as to whether the stealth Infiltrator Mk3.2 could resist any amount of gravity anyway. He had laughed when he saw the little white egg, laughed even harder when the General (a ceremonial title if there ever was one) informed him that that was the chosen ship to get them to the ‘uncivilised’ planet. He stopped laughing when he was the one to be flying it.

‘I never really got very far with flying lessons… civilian flying lessons that is.’ He had protested.

‘We’ll send you on your way, just point the front at the planet. It’s a big planet, be difficult to miss it. It’s the one with all the Skuriak vessels around it.’ The General had laughed.

And here he was, edging towards certain death.

“Cloaking is still in its infancy.” He had been told. “Theoretically, bending light around an object would prevent it from reflecting it.”

“Rendering it invisible… however you can’t bend the light around our eyes, as then we’d be blind.” Azul had interrupted.

Precisely. What we have done however, is place a number of cameras around the vessel, which takes an image of the surrounding area (or perhaps more apt in the case of space travel – things very far in the distance).”

“And projects it around the hull, making it difficult to spot with the naked eye.”

Azul hated that woman, she spoke to him as though he was an idiot. Which was something he definitely was not. He was not a soldier, he was not a strong man, nor a particularly agile one. He was smart though, which made him wonder just how he had gotten himself into such a predicament.

“You could get a good job in the ministry Azul, job offers from Lytel… even the academy, yet you keep talking about the Shards.” His mother had said.

“The Splintered Alliance,” he had corrected her.

“Lobby with the Ministry if you care so much.”

“The Ministry won’t do anything, this is the very thing the Collective was set up to prevent, yet they’re just sitting there letting it happen.”

“So you, little Azul, are going to go and save this planet?”

“I have to try!”

“A planet filled with people that no doubt think their world is flat, and when it rains it’s the angels weeping?”

“From what I’ve researched none of their current cultures think that.”

It seemed a rather moot point now. Azul was beginning to think his mother had a point. He may have sold out his morals by staying and working at Lytel, the Qual’karian System’s most prestigious academy of all things science, but at least a fiery death wouldn’t be particularly likely – even in the most extreme failures there hadn’t resulted in explosions for a long time.

The illegal blockade of Skuriak ships was getting larger and larger. Well it wasn’t, it was all a matter of perspective, but perspective aside, they were big ships. It was difficult to tell with the Skuriak which ships were military class and which ones weren’t. It was often joked that even a Skuriak Leisure Cruiser would be loaded with Class A cannons and enough missiles to take out a small planet. The joke being the notion of a leisure cruiser even entering the mind of a Skuriak.

Entering range of sensors, suggest terminating engines and all nonessential mechanisms. Said the pod.

Here we go. Azul hoped to the gods his civilisation had long stopped believing in that the cloaking device was a good one. He killed the engines. As it was, there was no sudden loss of speed, in the vacuum of space there was very little to slow him down. He half toyed with the idea of shutting off life support, allowing himself to slowly suffocate, eventually he’d pass out and be none-the-wiser.

There was an awful silence as he stared at the blue planet, blue dotted with green. It was much like a number of other’s that existed in the ‘habitable zones’, there was very little to suggest it held anything that couldn’t be mined from the billions of asteroids, dead planets or ‘grade 3’ life bearing planets. From this position, the sphere of rock and water almost blotted out the sun, save for an arching lip of potent orange light. The star wasn’t remarkable. Azul had studied bigger in his school days when he was barely more than a seedling.

Agonising minutes passed before anything worthy of note happened. Azul almost cried as he past under the hulking mass of grey metal that was a Skuriak frigate… or was it a mining vessel? He was very much aware of the multitude of swivelling pulse and flak cannons that could vaporise him in an instant. For the time being, the cloak seemed to be doing its job.

We will be entering the atmosphere in approximately eight point three minutes. Said the pod. Azul hated it already. It was Chellik in design. The Chelliks were childish creatures, obsessed with giving all their tech a voice of its own. ‘we this,’ and ‘we that’ Azul preferred his machines not to talk with him, he certainly didn’t want it to befriend him. Made it all the harder when it inevitably became outdated… for the Chelliks anyway. He had seen chelliks floating about the cosmos in vessels older than some people he knew, simply because the owners couldn’t bear to let go of their precious AI.

Azul was dragged forcefully out of his self-defensive reverie by two one man fighters whooshing past his screen, no doubt on patrol. There were so many! Why so many? Just one undeveloped little planet of whose people were barely out of the iron age… some cultures were still very much in it! Though, come to think of it in the more remote regions some were still in the Stone Age and insisted on eating the eyes of their fallen enemies to give themselves the ‘foresight’.

Was it possible that the Darubians were ever like that?

They couldn’t have been born space-faring and the renown for their terraforming capabilities.

We will be entering the atmosphere in approximately four point five minutes. Please ensure you’re safety belts are secured.

“When we’re on fire plummeting towards a mountain, I very much doubt a few safety belts are going to do much good.” Snapped Azul.

Logically speaking, it will always be more beneficial than not having them secured.

“What if the ship is about to explode? Wouldn’t being flung through the front screen away from the blast increase the likely hood of survival?”

Negative, as you well know the front screen is made from top of the range polymers, hardened to deflect projectiles and treated to with stand extremes of temperature. If you are flung towards it, you will certainly die from blunt force trauma.

“I was being facetious.”

I do not know what that is.

“Of course you don’t.”

Should I do a network search for clarity?

“No.”

We will be entering the atmosphere –

“No doubt very soon. Now shut up!”

I do not know how long Very Soon is, should I do a network –

“Mute AI!”

The monotone voice died upon command. Azul wished those back at the university had such a function. The pod began to rock and shudder as – as the AI had adequately predicted – he nudged his way into the atmosphere. The front screen dimmed to combat the sudden brightness as the hull began to burn red hot. His vision shook as his head was rocketed from side to side. There was such a roar of energy that he almost didn’t hear the ominous warning that sparked through is communications system.

“Chillek craft! You have been found in violation of Skuriak stella space. This is an act of aggression that will not be tolerated! We see through your cowardly cloak.” There was a slight delay as the instant-translator mixed up the words. Though, Azul prided himself on being particularly good with languages. He couldn’t speak Skuriak particularly well as his vocal chords were not adapted for such a language, but he could understand it well enough. Chillek he could speak fluently, along with a couple of Tylanthian dialects, though there were so many and they were so filled with pompous pride that they saw their refusal of a collective language as a good thing.

“You are in violation of Planetary Interference law three-point-nine!” Azul screamed.

“We are merely observing, there is no law against that.”

“With an entire fleet?”

“Hah, this is no fleet. A Skuriak fleet would span a solar system!

Azul would have very much liked to have doubted that claim. First of all, solar systems tended to vary in size. However, true to form it seemed the Skuriak had grown bored of conversation. The words Missile Lock. Flashed on his screen. At such a range Azul didn’t even bother reaching for the controls, he was not a great pilot by any definition. Firing a missile when already travelling through the atmosphere of an underdeveloped planet was a dangerous move, even for the Skuriak. Azul wondered what it was they were trying to achieve, and was bitterly disappointed that he was going to die before he found out. He directed all available power to his aft shields.

The missile struck. He thought his fragile spine was going to snap as he lurched forwards. A red Warning light filled the cockpit. Sparks flew dramatically and he began to spin out of control towards certain death.