Dave the Crab and the Giant Called Ned

Here is a children’s poem wot I did.

There once was a crab who lived under a rock.

He had a nice sofa and a grandfather clock.

It was big and proud

And ticked ever so loud

And stood atop an ornate marble block.

The crab was called Dave and he was ever so brave,

For he once fought a giant called Ned.

 

Ned was huge and ugly to see,

And refused to let good people be.

A tattered old cap sat atop his big head

And he needed nine mattresses to make up his bed.

He’d growl and he’d roar and with one rumbling snore,

He could shake the whole Earth to its molten rock core.

He wore no shoes for his feet were too big,

And weighed him down when he did his giant’s jig.

But he wore one large and heavy and ever so smelly

Polyester and cotton blend sock.

It may sound silly, or come as a shock,

But the one thing he feared was a grandfather clock.

 

Ned came thundering along the beach one morn,

Swinging his club and blowing a big brass horn.

And anyone he should chance to meet,

Narrowly avoiding being crushed by his feet,

He’d bend over and shout right in their face:

“Get out of my way, make some space!

Get off my beach right now I say.

This is not a place for children to play.

I shall smash any sand castles on my way to the sea,

And anyone that should try to join me, I shall gobble them

Up – I’ll eat them for my tea!”

 

Now Dave worked nights, so was attempting to sleep.

He’d never been in a fight and this record he wanted to keep,

But a rude man eating giant was something he could not abide,

This brutish bully he would not let slide.

So Dave poked his head out from beneath his rock,

He strolled up to Ned’s tattered and horrible sock

And gave his toes one heck of a pinch.

But the giant did not move not even one inch.

Ned scooped up Dave and looked him in the eye

And said “Silly crab, I will make you cry!”

 

He gave a big laugh and he raised his club,

“any last words before I make you blub?”

 “Yes,” said Dave as of his life he took stock,

“Please take good care of my grandfather clock.”

Ned paused and he spluttered, he stammered and stuttered,

He whimpered and shivered until at last he muttered:

“don’t mention them or I’ll knock of your block.”

Dave said “Just listen, you might hear a tick-tock.”

Ned pricked up his ears and listen he did,

And from under the rocks from where it hid

He could hear those doleful tones of the grandfather clock,

He could hear every tick and every tock.

Dave, well he couldn’t believe his luck,

And like a chicken he began to cluck

“Mr. Giant I don’t mean to mock,

But imagine being scared of an old silly clock.”

 

Ned dropped Dave back onto the sand

And covered one ear with one very big hand,

And said “never again will I come to this land!

Get away Mr. Crab, get back under your rock,

Attend to that terrifying grandfather clock.

One second it ticks and another it tocks

It never ends and it never stops

The tolling of hours, oh that nasty chime,

The constant plodding of unending time!

It makes me shiver, it makes me feel cold,

Reminding me that one day I’ll be old!”

 

And with that Ned left never to return,

All the beach goers need fear now

Is a spot of sunburn.

So, when next on the beach,

Give Dave a thought,

Should there be a giant you need to thwart,

Make sure a grandfather clock is in reach.

 

 

There weren’t that nice? My collection of ridiculous and utterly pointless short stories is currently free to download, so if you don’t you’re a fool.

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This New World

Below is a thing I started writing this morning. Maybe one day it will become an actual thing, but I have other things I need to make into actual things, I also have work in an hour.

***

In many ways she was deeply unhappy, but she didn’t mind that so much as she guessed most people were pretty unhappy, those that weren’t were probably in denial. It had been fifteen years since the Rift, as people had taken to call it. Scientists referred to it as, a flux in the temporal membrane, but Rift just sounded better.

The world thought it was in a sorry state of affairs before. Right wing politics on the rise, regular terrorist atrocities perpetrated by confused, fascist fanatics, rising sea levels and climbing global temperatures, a flimsy economy and severe over population. Now, well… it’s mostly the same issues just taken up a notch or two.

Emma put on her jacket, an army camouflage affair, dull green and occasional brown. She bought it because it was cheap, not because it helped her blend into the background of the city, which was mostly grey, occasionally beige. Marketing departments would have you believe London was the epicentre of culture, a point from which all modern history was made. A diverse hub celebrating art, science and industry. In reality it was just a tangled mess of apartment complexes and the occasional bridge.

Ortha House was about as cheap as you could get within the city limits. That was probably because it was built as part of an initiative to allow the Others to integrate themselves amongst the human populace, granting them a place to live at low cost whilst they find themselves in this strange new world. Of course, the fact that they were referred to as the Others rendered the whole exercise pointless.

Emma left her flat and strolled down the cluttered corridor. Half full bin bags lay strewn all over the place, strange stains marked the walls and all sorts of noises drifted through the various doors.  Baldus was leaving his flat to start his day too. A dwarf many called them, though those who suffered from dwarfism complained that that was offensive. The dwarves referred to themselves as the Blendring, which to a human was just a noise, especially for the average English human, who thought any other language sounded ridiculous.

‘No axes Baldus,” said Emma, noticing herself how bored she sounded. Baldus clenched a fist and shook his head, his rigid Mohican wobbling a little. A shimmering, double edged battle axe was slung across his muscular back.

‘A blandring without an axe or hammer is no blandring at all!’ he lamented, hiding his face in his meaty hands. His black skin had been marked with red dye, criss-crossing his face in an elaborate and quite frankly ridiculous pattern.

‘No axes, thems the rules,’ said Emma.

‘Rules!’ Baldus spat, ‘what about the rules set down by the Great Sculptor? It is the duty of every Blandring to carry an axe or hammer, ready for war at all times!’

‘You’ll be arrested as soon as you leave the building. Just take a pendant.’

 

Following the Fifteen Minute war, the more reasonable of the

Blandring decided that the Laws of the Great Sculptor were

Very much open to interpretation. Whilst it cannot be denied

That all Blandering are expected to carry an axe or hammer

The scriptures never state how large said axe or hammer

Need be. Therefore, a blandring can still keep to the scriptures

By wearing a pendant sporting a tiny axe or hammer, which

Conveniently relieves it of its status as an offensive weapon. As

for being ready for war, it is said that it is a state of mind all blandring

Should be permanently in, rather than a physical readiness.

–          Blandring and Belief – pg 75 2nd edition.

 

Emma had thought a degree in Rift Cultures and journalism would be a good idea in the current environment. The world was changing, the Others were here to stay and the only way to live with such extreme difference of culture (and in many cases physicality) was to understand said cultures.

As it turned out, it had rendered her almost unemployable. Her ten thousand word thesis on the Fifteen Minute War and its effects had been a waste of time. How she managed to get ten thousand words out of such a brief period was beyond her. Like most conflicts, it could be summed up in a handful bullet points.

–          The Rift happened.

–          The blandring dutifully carried their axes and hammers and were ready for war at all times.

–          The blandring were told by the human government that they could not carry axes and hammers and should probably only be ready for war a few times a year.

–          The blandring decided they would not stand for such oppression and will not be ruled by a blasphemous government and gathered their forces and marched on parliament.

–          In the classic game of rock paper scissors, it is well known that assault rifles always beat axes and hammers.

–          The Blandring uprising was quelled in 14 minutes and 52 seconds. 58 were killed, 34 injured and many arrests were made.

Baldus went inside his flat grumbling audibly. Emma waited for him to return, when he did, a crude stone hammer hung from his neck. In her opinion it was still large enough to be considered a weapon, but decided to let that be decided by the police. There was always a police presence outside Ortha House, just to make sure the locals were integrating properly, and to arrest all those that weren’t.

Emma couldn’t blame them really. The pair exited the lift and passed through the cluttered and half destroyed foyer. She could see the unmarked police cars on the perimeter of the grounds already. Whilst the majority of those that lived in Ortha House were law abiding citizens just trying to make an honest living, some were level three shadow demons from the Realm of Darkness that occasionally consumed human souls, so precautions had to be taken. That and a Blandring who lived on the third floor had taken to selling drugs. It only took one idiot to ruin everything for everyone else.

They made it past the police cars without incident. Baldus lingered longer than necessary, in the hope of provoking a bored looking officer, but thankfully the officer in question didn’t look up from his phone.

‘Little boxes have stolen your souls!’ He grumbled as they moved on. The street lamps were beginning to flick out of life as the sun rose beyond the grey blanket of cloud. The factory wasn’t too far away. After months of unemployment Emma had secured an admin role at a meat packing company that prided itself in providing opportunities to ‘the Others’, almost 80% of their staff was made up of Rifters.

‘With your degree, you’ll be able to keep the rabble in line,’ the overseer had told her at her interview.

‘As long as you pay them, they’ll keep themselves in line. Most aren’t that different from us you know?’ she replied. The overseer nodded, grinning a broad and self-satisfied smile.

‘Oh yes, except none of them are unionised and have no concept of minimum wage. The ogres… they only need to sleep every four days and the little tasks we give them keep their simple minds occupied.’

‘So, you’re treating them like slaves?’

‘You could say that, but…’

‘But what?’

‘Oh nothing, just a figure of speech.’

 

It’s Hot.

It’s currently sunny and hot. I hate both those things. I don’t know why everyone’s so big on the sun, it’ll be the thing that eventually kills us all. People bemoan the rain. Claiming how it’s always raining, forgetting the fact that it’s plenty of rain that allows for production of crops and you know, all that water we like to drink – especially on hot days.

Rain is great, I love the rain, even beyond its life giving properties. Rain stays outside, it creates a nice ambience, it freshens the air. Same with cold, once you’re indoors with a jumper on, you’ll be alright. Sunlight on the other hand barges into your home uninvited and stabs you in the eyes. The heat is stifling, preventing sleep and worst of all, it brings people outside in droves.

Due to poor life choices and a job market in tatters, I currently work in a pub. It’s awful and if I’m still working there by July I’m finding a bridge to leap off of.  It’s a bank holiday weekend and it’s set to be a hot and sunny one, which means these fucking people are going to all think it’ll be a good idea to go out and get a beer and sit in the pub garden. All of them will think this, regardless of my opinions on the matter.

Then once they’re there they will think “let’s get some food” and who’s going to have to take that food out to them, burning their fingers just so they can stuff their faces? Me that’s who. Fucking sun.  some time ago it rained a lot and no one came out, I got to sit at the bar and do the crossword, it was good, I only had to cheat 3 or 4 times and the rest I texted my dad for answers.

I might not make it through till Tuesday.

I have read that this year is set to be hotter than last year, which was hotter than the year before that, which in turn was hotter before that and so on and so forth. This displeases me for a number of reasons.

A few years ago when I was still at school, global warming was mentioned everywhere. As a society we were very concerned about it. It was on the news on a daily basis. Now it barely gets a mention. We seem to have stopped caring. Admittedly, it’s very difficult to keep caring about it and not go insane with the knowledge we have killed the planet.

I have done some reading to find out where we are at with the global warming stuff. The most recent thinking is that, we’ve fucked it. We’re past the point of no return and the rising of the sea and the roasting of the land is inevitable. There are not enough life boats to save us all, many of us will have to go down with our little island. The polar bears will also die.

The fish will be okay… apart from all that plastic.

With that in mind, will we view the hot summers with suspicion and dread? Will we stop using our cars so much, stop using so much plastic and all en masse tell China to get their shit together? No, you’ll all go to the pub and make me work hard. Drinking away the worry until the world around you turns to desert, or you’re swept away by a tidal wave filled with dead polar bears and Asda bags.

I hate you so much.

Movies and Their Overcompensating Sound!

I both love and hate watching movies. Interesting characters, thrilling plots and fine acting are all well and good, but whoever’s in charge of the sound ruins it for me. Those fucking sound guys.

Movies have been around for ages, so why hasn’t this aspect been perfected for home viewing? What I’m saying is, why is every sound effect and blast of music so damn loud and the dialogue mumbled? To get important character development and integral plot points I have to turn my TV up to about a million at which point the sound track kicks in and one of the guys who lives up stairs falls through the ceiling. Admittedly, they’re really fat and loud and are as heavy footed as a T-Rex wearing platform boots made of lead, so they’re always falling through the ceiling, but that’s not the point.

Why are the words of various protagonists delivered in barely audible whispers, but the creaking of a door loud enough to make my ears bleed? There doesn’t seem to be a setting to balance this, and by setting I mean a number, I’m not fucking about with overly complex sound systems, I just want to watch movie late at night without convincing the town that WWIII has finally kicked off, but still be able to hear what’s going on. I mean, I know realistically that a gunshot will be significantly louder than someone muttering exposition to someone else and many gunshots will create a bigger racket, but I’m watching Robert Downy Jr. flying around in a metal suit powered by some sort of reactor in his chest and punching a metal armed mopey kid who has been brain washed by Nazis, so realism has pretty much gone out the window.

It’s fine when you’re in a cinema with lots of other people who have paid to see a film so some noise is expected, but what about us people who can’t sleep at night and have angry neighbours?

This is not a flaw evident in action flicks either. I was watching The Truman Show last night at roughly 11:43 PM. Whilst this is unquestionably one of the best films ever made and I’ll fight anyone that says otherwise, it suffers the same flaw. Unable to hear the dialogue, I turned it up until I could just about hear the dialogue, at which point young Truman and his fake dad were caught in a storm, possibly the loudest storm ever. It was a manufactured storm yes, but the point still stands. With each flash of lighting and subsequent bark of thunder I felt the floor shake and my innards vibrate with such intensity my kidneys exploded.

So, I hastily turned it down. Then once the storm was over, I couldn’t hear what the fuck anyone was saying, so I turned it up again. At which point the soundtrack made itself known and the army turned up looking for Godzilla.

I know the composer of the soundtrack and the sound effects guys don’t actually get to appear in the films, so need to make their mark some how, but come on guys, you’re in the credits, is that not enough? We know you’re there and you do a good job, just… shhh.

Why? Why is this so? Why can’t we get sub-settings on films like you get on video games, where you can turn the dialogue up, whilst turning the rest of the shit way down where it belongs? I get that it all adds to the adrenaline pounding experience, but I’m very unlikely to miss important pieces of information if I miss one gunshot. Stop it movies! We get it, you like loud noises, but I tend to watch my films late at night where no one likes loud noises, so I want you to change everything just for me.

Good, now that’s out of my system I should probably go look for a job.

We Lowly Millennials.

First let me tell you, my computer broke, so I wrote this hastily on a computer in a library (they have computers now!) and I only had 30 mins to do so. Then I copied it to my phone and from my phone am pasting it here. No proof reading was done, it’s not very good and it was more venting on my part than anything else.

Also, I still don’t know what millennial really means, or quite why it requires 2 Ns.

 

In the space of a month or so, I’ve gone from being a copy editor to working in a pub. I had to work hard to obtain this job in said pub. Who’d have thought that we’d one day live in a world where even bar work was a competitive industry. I saw a line outside the Job Centre the other day, there were eight people fighting over an application form for Clarks. Some one pulled a knife – he had a degree in astrophysics.

I have been applying for many jobs. It is a soul destroying exercise in futility for anyone in their 20s. No matter how you approach it, you’ll always get the lazy responses ‘thanks, but no.’ Or, worse than that, you’ll get ‘you have not got enough experience.’ If you ask how you go about getting the necessary experience when every company turns you down for your lack of experience they mutter something unintelligible before pointing behind you and saying ‘what the fuck is that?’ Like a fool you turn, and when you turn back they are gone.

If you ask what happens when all the people with experience eventually die, their faces adopt a far away quality, as though they are staring into some murky abyss, before whispered words escape their puckered lips ‘…then God help us.’

The problem is, most of us were conned into going to university, and for most of us it was a con. A massive fat CON. We were lured into it by talk of walking out the other end being more employable than those who didn’t go. We were told not to worry about the massive debt, because our degrees would propel us into roles so well paid that it’ll be gone within the week. All of this turned out to be a lie. Everyone has a degree, and when everyone has a degree than we may as well not have bothered, especially if your degree is in performing arts.

I suppose it doesn’t help that I went to the University of Hertfordshire, which is less a university and more a community centre catering for unemployed millennials. Which brings me on to the crux of my point.

What the fuck is a millennial? I think I am one, but I don’t know what it means. Everywhere I read or hear it, it sounds patronising, dismissive and dripping in ridicule. Often when we lament the lack of jobs, those in positions of authority say “there’s plenty out there, you just have to look hard for it.” or the problem with millennials is we “have a huge sense of entitlement,” and “want success handed to us on a plate” (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-4232696/Millenials-generation-huge-sense-entitlement.html)

Others say the problem lies within our work ethic and maybe we should all work in bars and restaurants and do so happily without complaint. Stefanie Williams writing for the Huffington Post writes about her success in The Problem With Millennials and Work Ethic: All of this was afforded to me not in the first month I was working at a restaurant, but after I put in the hours, made the sacrifices and sucked up my pride in order to make ends meet and figure out what I wanted to do and how to do it.” (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/stefanie-williams/the-problem-millennials-work-ethic-talia-yelp_b_9282244.html)

Well done Stefanie, though as well as hours and hard work you missed out huge dollops of luck. However, with astronomical rent prices climbing ever hire and even those restaurant jobs being harder to come by as well as the cost of living forever climbing, we millennials will be aged and haggard by the time we start earning enough to make a proper go at life. We’re the first generation that on the whole, will be worse off when compared to our parents. Most of us will never own our own home and as to having a career progression to boast about, the vast majority can forget about that, what with our chaotic Cvs. Worked in one bar, worked in another bar, had a brief stint in IT support, was made redundant as it was outsourced, worked in another bar.

As for being self-entitled, we have lived and are currently living in one of the worst economic crisis in recent history. An economic crisis that was not our doing. In fact, we had nothing to do with it. Yet we must be the ones to fix it, we have to be the ones to suffer the low wages, the lack of jobs, the crushing financial burdens. I say again, most of us will never be able to afford our own home. Either because they’re too expensive, or because we’ll just end up having that nuclear war we’ve been talking about for so many decades.

Of course we expect a good job, we were promised a good job, coaxed into spending a lot of money on higher education due to the that promise. Of course we want more than bar work, as we approach our mid-twenties. These are the years we should be starting on our path to a career we can be proud of. Soon we’ll be in our thirties, maybe wanting to squeeze some of our own children into an already over-populated world, how can we afford to do that when we’re barely getting by on our shifts at The Wobbly Cow or The Fat Crustacean or The Whorish Whore or Wetherspoons?

Just give me a fucking job!

13 Reasons Why… is shit.

Angst Angst everywhere, but not a drop to drink. Or something like that.

Living with another human with only one TV means sometimes I’m sometimes forced to endure her choice of television. I could get up and sit in another room, but I’m a prisoner of my own laziness and alcoholism.

The latest Netflix Original that is being forced into my retinas is 13 Reasons Why. I would say something “clever” like “13 Reasons why you should watch something else!” Hoho! But then most critics have beaten me to it, though much to my chagrin they’ve been saying “13 Reasons Why you should be watching this show”.

Words like “powerful” have been thrown about, which is a strange word in terms of critiquing something. The Nazis were powerful, they were still shit. Stupid Nazis. It’s based on a book apparently – 13 Reasons Why that is, though the Nazis were also based on a book so legend has it.

The premise is thus. A girl (Hannah something) commits suicide, because her life at the age of 17 isn’t going quite as she would like, but before she does it she records 13 tapes describing why she killed herself, naming and shaming all those who contributed to the decline of her life and mental health. Which in some ways is the main issue with the whole thing, as in my mind, these are the actions of an unstable person who would probably have ended up killing herself or someone else. Each episode we see Hannah’s life and all the shittiness that comes with it as well as those dealing with the repercussions of her frankly short sighted and selfish act except with the added pressure of these tapes.

There are a myriad of issues with setting a drama series in an American high school with mostly teenagers as the focal characters. One is real life teenagers are awful. They’re the worst things in the world. The second is, for the sake of drama, TV Teenagers are unlike any real life teenager, but are equally as awful.

Now, one of the main characters name is Clay and I refuse to acknowledge that there’s anyone in the world called Clay. What a fucking ridiculous name. The others I couldn’t be bothered to remember, so they’ll just be referred to as a number, which is just as well, as each seems to represent a teenaged trope and have nothing else.

So there’s the friend who has a lesbian experience with Hannah and then is like ‘oh shit, everyone has seen a picture of our lesbian experience I’m so embarrassed, my life is destroyed, never mind that it’s the twenty-first century and we’re all a bit more open about this shit.’ There’s the tough guy whose every piece of dialogue is something like ‘game’s changed.’ Or ‘I’m going to use my fists to punch that guy’s head and then everything will probably be okay after that.’ There’s the basketball guy, who plays basketball. There’s the cheerleader. There’s a poetry man. There’s the pervy stalker who is conveniently the photographer, and everyone knows he’s a pervy stalker, but no one seems that bothered and let him photograph away. And then there’s this weird guy who has a mob like family and seems to play the role of aged wise guide.

No one seems to have sat these kids down and told them that what they’re feeling, these feelings of melancholy, rage and constant uncertainty is just life and it’s only going to get worse. No one seems to say ‘fuck at least we don’t pay taxes’.

The worst character however, is Hannah, I’m sort of glad she’s dead, but outraged that in death she’s still the most annoying character. She’s apparently an outcast, despite being fairly attractive and socially aware. She writes a poem, because of course she does. Writers it seems are so bitter about the fact that no one liked them when they were young that every protagonist they write turns to the written word for solace and for incredibly forced moments of profundity.

There’s a concept in literature, films and TV known as ‘The Manic Pixie Dream Girl’ the quirky outcast that changes the lives of the dull miserable men. They’re really fucking irritating. Hannah is sort of this, but worse, more obnoxious. She has monologues about how school makes you conform and takes away your ability to make decisions, ironically played as she peruses a number of different stands there to give information so she can make a decision as to what university, college or career to go into.

She tries to apply for a top university, is told that only those with the best grades get the financial help to join and then rants about how it’s only available for those with money and doesn’t for an instant think ‘maybe I should work on my fucking grades’.

Sure, there’s a certain elitism to the education system that can be exploited by those with money. But that’s not the point. The point is, why does this girl feel so entitled? Other than the fact she’s a teenager? How can I feel empathy with a girl that feels life isn’t worth living because a few people have called her names and not liked her poetry? There’s one scene that really sticks out.

He with the stupid name is reading the poem and says ‘I like this poem.’ And Hannah says something obnoxious. And Clay says ‘Whoever wrote this is a dark person, I like the poem, but I’m not sure I’d like to hang out with her.’ At which point Hannah looks sad and wanders off. Why doesn’t she just say, “I wrote that poem?” I mean she’s already had it confirmed that he likes it, and they already hang out, so he’d go “oh, cool, wanna talk about it?” and then the choice would be hers.

Just once, I would love to watch a show portraying a “social outcast” who truly is socially inept and at the very least plain looking. And just once I’d like to see a drama centred around teenagers where someone says ‘IT DOESN’T FUCKING MATTER! So people laughed at your poem, that’s what you get for doing something as stupid as writing a fucking poem, get over it, there’s children out there who are living in war zones and don’t have any food, deal with that you arrogant, self-obsessed pieces of shit!’

But that may be just because my teenaged years flitted by in a drunken haze, I was in a band and shit and we didn’t really take it seriously… we won Hertfordshire under 18s battle of the bands. No one wanted to have sex with me and that’s okay because that’s their choice, and I’m a fucking moron, so it’s all good. My teenaged years were boring, maybe if they had some drama I’d feel differently, but I can’t help but feel Teenagers are misrepresented in the media.

What was I talking about?

Right. So, why should I care that this obnoxious middleclass white teenager died because other teenagers said they didn’t like her or her poetry and there was some bullying? Thousands of teenagers go through that, it’s really mundane.

The whole show is poorly written, it’s angst, angst and more angst. None of the characters are likeable. Yet, people are enjoying it, so I guess that’s the main thing.

Recreating Success.

My collection of short stories The Tiny Compendium of Ridiculousness has sold around 50-60 copies. This means I only need to sell about 700-800 more for it to be considered a catastrophic failure.  It is perhaps very niche in its appeal and marketed entirely on this blog and my Instagram account, so 50-60 copies is surprising. Whilst I attempt to find an publisher for my actual hard work and full serious novel (three rejections so far), I keep myself sane by writing more short stories. Therefore, it is a joy and a privilege to announce that there will indeed be a follow up to The Tiny Compendium of Ridiculousness called The Minute Collection of Absurdity.

This is a work in progress at this moment and I can only confirm a handful of the short stories that will be appearing in it. They are as follows:

The Man who Believed he was an Octopus:

This has appeared in an early draft on this very blog if you were paying attention, which of course you were not. It got 8 likes, 8!  It follows the story of a young boy growing up and struggling to accept himself for who he truly is, which is an octopus.

The Establishment’s Eating Habits.

Frank works in the Houses of Parliament. He regularly sees, and sometimes interacts with, members of the governing elite. Had this been published sooner I’d be hailed as the genius who correctly predicted the EU referendum result and the American Presidential Election.

Anyway, Frank works in the Houses of Parliament. It is a cold winter, a now independent Scotland is clamouring for war. They finally got what they wanted, only to find that reality is always a bitch. Frank begins to grow suspicious of the elected officials he works for. He always sees them with food, but never eating. Against the advise of friends and colleagues he investigates to find that it’s not just their own heads that they constantly shove up their arses.

The Woman Who Has Everything and is Incredibly Happy.

Money cannot buy you happiness, but it can buy you things and that’s pretty much the same.

The Life Lesson.

Various people from various backgrounds all do shit and learn something.

The Snake Summoning Tennis Racket.

Jamie Kendall wants nothing more than to win Wimbledon. She asks her local demon to grant her this one wish. The demon gives her the greatest tennis racket that ever did exist, forged from the spine of an angel and the guts of … I dunno… Jesus? she cannot lose if she uses that racket. However, every time she hits something with it, it summons snakes.

 

and maybe some more, who knows the last two were just made up on the spot.

Download the Tiny Compendium of Ridiculousness.