Final Space – is Meh

I rarely write reviews.  I owe my 124 followers more than that. I know that’s a very low number for a blog that has been going on for a number of years, but they’re my followers and they deserve quality. They are not fickle like the followers of those blogs that have hundreds upon hundreds. I once read a post that had 327 likes and it was just pictures of logs. I know I can’t compete with pictures of logs.  Also, my best-viewed blog was entitled “13 Reasons Why is Shit” so I guess it’s what the people want.

I have nothing of value to say today. So, I will write a review of Final Space, I say review; it will devolve into a longwinded, directionless ramble.

Recently, I wrote about my current viewing habits. That was current back then. Now circumstances have improved somewhat, and I can afford Netflix again and my viewing habits have changed a little. However, to return to the article I linked (yes, I refer to my posts as articles; it makes me feel superior), I briefly touch upon the likes of Adventure Time and Rick and Morty. It’s worth reading for the nonsense I’m going to spout upon in this one. Go on, open it up in another tab and read. It gives me extra views.

A friend of mine repeatedly told me to watch an animated show called Final Space. He did so by saying it was hilarious. As it sits, I have watched three episodes. I have not laughed once. Admittedly, I haven’t laughed much for some time, which probably hints at a deeper psychological problem than the quality of an animated show.

Here is the premise, lifted from IMDB.

An astronaut named Gary and his planet-destroying sidekick called Mooncake embark on serialised journeys through space in order to unlock the mystery of where the universe actually ends and if it actually does exist.

Wikipedia quotes it as being an “… animated space opera comedy-drama.”

Thus far, I can say that it is indeed animated and it is set in space. As for the rest. Well…

Having been promised by my friend (who up until this point I trusted) that Final Space is hilarious, my first observation was that it wasn’t all that funny. I’m sure it was supposed to be. Gary screamed words and waved his arms around. At first, I was certain he was voiced by Chris Pratt. He is in fact voiced by Olan Rogers, who is also one of the creators. This is perhaps one of the issues. I find Gary’s voice and delivery irritating. Rogers seems to take the view that if you shout it manically, then it must be funny.

It also has the voice talents of Tom Kenny and John DiMaggio because every animated show has to have one or the other. Surprisingly, it also features an unrecognisable David Tennant. Unfortunately, it doesn’t matter who’s doing the voices because the scripts largely consist of something ‘whacky’ happening and Gary shouting ‘Woah! That whacky thing just happened.’

Rick and Morty (which this show is seemingly trying to be only without the wit) would have whacky things happen, to which the characters would hardly comment upon before continuing their regular conversation. Rick and Morty (the first two seasons anyway) has a great deal of rewatch value because amongst the surrealism are some great lines and little subtleties that can be missed on first watch.

Even at it’s best (thus far) Final Spaced has to have Gary spell it out, in case we miss the joke. I came close to laughing at this exchange.

Gary: Are you the Helper?

Helper: No, I am his assistant.

–   That would have got a laugh out of me, that’s all that’s needed. Only the scene has an extra line. –

Gary: So… you’re a helper helper?

It was funny when it wasn’t explicitly said damn it!

The sci-fi setting allows the show to be crammed full of ‘whacky’ (I will now donate money to charity every time I use ‘whacky’ within quotation marks) characters that seems to be a necessity to get an animated show produced these days. If Matt Groening wanted to get the Simpson’s made today, Marge would have to be a lizard woman, Bart a floating Brain and Liza an embodiment of the metaphysical concept of guilt.  Case in point will probably be Disenchantment if I ever get around to giving that a watch.  My only experience of that thus far has been to look at the poster, and I immediately think Adventure Time.

Final Space has a cat-like alien called Avocatdo. See, that’s funny, isn’t it? Mad. Absolutely crazy. A cat person… whose name is similar to avocado but with cat in it. Sure, the joke could be that it’s so banal that it’s funny. Like an ironic ‘this is a shit dad joke but we’ll include it anyway’ kind of thing, but thus far I’ve not seen any evidence that this show is smart enough to lift any irony.

Relax, it’s a kids’ show. I hear you cry.

It is not. It is another show that despite being animated, is in fact for the adults. Cartoons aren’t just for kids, man. They’re art. Yes, in the hands of artists perhaps. This series does have an overarching narrative, in which the adorable alien ‘Mooncake’ is, in fact, a planet-killing weapon and the evil Lord Commander (Tennant) wants to use it for his own nefarious deeds and there’s some sort of rift open somewhere. There’s violence aplenty and apparently, there are moments worth sticking around for that makes it more than just a ‘whacky’ animated comedy. Already, I know there are two Gwen’s, one apparently from the future who has come back to ensure Gary survives because he’s important. No doubt this will lead to the notion of alternate realities or timelines or lead us to question our very universe, but anyone who’s sat through one philosophy lecture can do that.

This is yet more evidence for my ‘everything is trying to be Adventure Time/Rick and Morty’ theory. There are lots of shows like this floating about, and it’s indicative of the dark times. We have had the luxury of passing through the Golden Years of television. We have seen the rise of streaming services. We are no longer slaves to terrestrial TV. We make the television schedules now. We can watch what we like, when we like and as often as we like. What we want is more, when is now and we want to do this forever.

It is consumerism at it’s very best. Great television and convenient services have created an insatiable demand and studios are desperately trying to supply. It is capitalism at its very finest. Endless, easy to digest blandness is coming our way. It’s the only way to keep us content. Greedy fuckers that we are.

It’s not that the show is necessarily bad it’s just not that good. I would offer a rating as critics tend to, but here I get confused. Do I offer stars or a percentage? Sites tend to vary. Also, Amazon’s maximum is 5 stars, IMDB goes up to 10. Does that mean one Amazon star is inherently more valuable than one IMDB star?

With IMDB, I refuse to watch anything that has less than a 7. Anything below that is going to be awful. People will watch anything so if it has 6.9, it’s not worth watching surely? And yet, that’s 69%. That’s markedly better than average.

So instead, I will rate it ‘meh’. It’s by no means a ‘bleurgh’ but it’s certainly not an ‘oooh’.

I’ll give it until episode 6 to change my mind. I gave 13 Reasons Why that courtesy before I condemned it.

The Golden Age is ending. All good things come to an end. Mediocrity goes on forever.



Beard Syndrome

I write this having consumed, currently consuming and planning on consuming more wine. That is wine consumption in both the past present and future, which is quite a feat. I say this now so that my loose approach to grammar and inability to write a sentence that doesn’t meander on and go off on tangents is put down to the imbibing of alcohol, not lack of talent.

First and foremost, I love the fantasy genre. This needs to be said because it will seem like I’m throwing a lot of shit at this beloved section of literature. There was a time when fantasy was much maligned. I remember trying, as a young adult, to find an agent for my young adult fantasy series. Most websites for such and a few smaller publishers (that were still excited by the prospects of new authors) who accepted unsolicited manuscripts categorically did not accept fantasy. It was as if it was the literary world’s shameful secret. Like an obscure fetish that should be hidden at all costs. It was something to be sneered at.  Why this was is beyond me. LoTR is fantastic and it depresses me that I’ll never see The Shire. Star Wars is life. Yes. Star Wars is fantasy. Spaceships and laser guns is not the definition of sci-fi. If anything, Star Wars is LoTR in space… old wizard, young unsuspecting farm boy, destruction of an ultimate weapon.

Good fantasy is far superior to any other genre out there. That is fact.

Noticing the literary world’s apparent disdain for the genre, esteemed academic (me) wrote in his (or her) dissertation Is Fantasy Fiction Worthy of Academic Study? That: “Yes… yes, it is.” Although, he (she/I) went on to say that, “Whilst it is undoubtedly worthy, maybe it shouldn’t be.” Primarily because I feel the idea of reading a book with the purpose of ‘studying’ it is the most preposterous pursuit one could ever undertake. To steal and then paraphrase a quote, and use it entirely out of context (my method throughout my academic career) E.B. White once remarked “Analysing humour is like dissecting a frog. Few people are interested, and the frog dies of it.” It works the same for analysing a book.

This prompted my tutor to ask why I chose to do an English Literature degree. My go-to response was ‘Because theatre has very few career prospects.’ She laughed, but in hindsight I know she was laughing at the irony of it all.

Now as a proper adult (26), having given up on the young adult series and concentrated on some literary fiction,  every bugger seems to be accepting fantasy. I put this down to all the money Game of Thrones is making. The fantasy section is packed full of books. The Kindle marketplace has even more to offer (though this is largely down to the fact that just about anyone can publish there). There’s so much choice. There’s fantasy in abundance. However, the last three attempts I have made at reading a fantasy book have not gone well, and I have started to realise why (historically) fantasy has struggled so to finally find acceptance in literary circles. It’s because so many people are shit at writing it.

Fantasy seems to attract a lot of people to it. I put it down to the fact that it’s packed full of excitement and imagination. It can cover the entire emotional spectrum, feature interesting characters who have to make hard choices. It ultimately holds a mirror up to reality and allows us to see reality from multiple perspectives all whilst being entertaining. With fantasy, anything can happen.

Which makes it all the stranger that the same thing keeps happening over and over again.

It takes me a long time to settle on a book when I’m choosing, primarily because I have to sort through the books that suffer from what I have called ‘beard syndrome’. Beard syndrome is a funnier way to say a cliched piece of shit. I am drawn to a book by its cover, which is apparently something we shouldn’t do, but then if that’s the case why don’t books just have blank covers and why do publishers spend so much money making fancy colourful ones? Well? Why? Of course, you can judge a book by its cover, even if you’re taking it metaphorically. See a man with a man bun, you can almost guarantee he’s a cunt. Sorry… that’s the wine.

Any fantasy book that features a photograph of a model holding a sword is instantly out. They usually look all dark and brooding. Book covers should never have photos… it just seems wrong.

If I like the cover I read the blurb, which is usually where most books are discarded. Here is a blurb:

Centuries ago, the Thru’ghar were defeated and their dark powers contained by the Sandstone Order. Peace and prosperity have reigned over the land and innocence have been allowed to flourish. Alas, all good things come to an end. Rosha, an orphaned thief plies her trade on the streets of Vericia. Each night she dreams strange dreams.  A shadow is rising in the south.

 The gates to the Sandstone Temple have opened once again.

That was the blurb for The Shadow’s Heir a fantasy novel that was just made up by me just now to illustrate a point. This is the general format of the blurb found on books with Beard Syndrome.  A dark age, followed by a golden age, interrupted by the coming of another dark age. There will be Dark Lord’s galore. Cloaks will billow. A sinister and world-changing threat will loom on the horizon and at some point, a bloke with a beard will turn up. It might be a big long beard or a short well kept one, but it will be there. He’ll know a lot about a lot and will generally be fairly two dimensional.

Anyway, I’ll save a deeper explanation of beard syndrome for when I’m less drunk

So, of the massive amount of fantasy novels that exist, many are discarded because of their covers and many more are discarded because of beard syndrome. Then what of those that remain. Well, some will appear to have an interesting premise or a certain flair, after all, even if their plots do seem cliched and worn out, it’s often about the journey, not the destination… and all that. So it’s about the way they’re written. And so, some books shall eventually be bought by me. Then I shall start reading them. And then my frustration mounts. Because of this small percentage of chosen books, a large portion of them are written by people who can’t write.  And I seem to be the only person who notices!

I say this fully aware that I am not a published writer, so therefore have no grounds to accuse successful novelists of being bad writers. But I will do just that damn it. Not outright, just in case they read this and decide to track me down and try to kill me.

The book I’m currently struggling with has an average of 4 – 4.5 stars on most sites. That’s almost the highest number of stars you can have. In theory, this should be good. In theory.

“___ chest tightened a little as he watched her. As the last few months had flown by, he’d faced plenty of fears about becoming a Shadow. It had been only recently, though, that he’d realized that never being able to see Asha again was far and away the worst of them.”

This is immediately after the first female character has been introduced. I did a few creative writing modules at uni and discovered they were terrible. However, the main thing they kept banging on about is show don’t tell. This is a clear case of the latter. Whilst I disagree with the notion as if well written, telling can be much better than showing, this is not well written. The character has literally just turned up and straight away it’s rammed home that there will be some form of romantic subplot. I hope that the character develops into something more than an object of desire, but such is the demand for romantic subplots, I very much doubt she’ll escape this particular shackle.

“Students were not supposed to speak to non-Gifted about their training, but he and Mistress ___ regularly flouted that rule. She had looked after him for years after he’d been left to the school’s care as an infant. She had the right to know at least a little of what was going on in his life.”

Originally, this seemed to be from the point of view of the main character. Now it seems to have shifted to omniscient. If so, it’s clunky exposition. If it is still from the position of the main character, then his thoughts are odd to say the least. The author is trying to give us context, introduce context and characters, and their relationships. This is a novel that spans close to 700 pages. Why are these points crammed into lifeless paragraphs?


It’s this that gives fantasy its bad name. It’s this struggle that leaves me grappling with a love/hate relationship. It leaves me worrying what’s going to happen in the remaining 575 pages I’ve yet to read, not because I’m caught up in the adventure, but because the writing is sub-par.

I suppose that’s why literary fiction gets such an easy ride. When the story is about nothing and everything that happens must be grounded in reality. Then the writing needs to be damned good. Otherwise, what’s the point? Who’d read about reality otherwise? Reality is boring. You can see reality by looking out the window, it won’t cost you £8.99 to do that.

Anyway, that’s the third glass down. I’ll stop there, because I realise this has lost its way and the point isn’t really worth making.


The Worst Book Ever

There are times when you stumble upon an old, mostly unknown book and it changes your life. The prose is thought-provoking, poetic and profound, the characters are rich and so well crafted it feels like you’ve known them for years and the story (or stories) so engaging you just can’t put it down. Then there are the times where you come across a largely unknown piece of writing and you wonder why it isn’t more known, primarily because it should be held up as the worst thing ever committed to paper.

I recently discovered a collection of previously unpublished short stories by one Hubert J Watergipridget. Some brief research tells me that he was active during the 30s-50s but was well known in literary circles long before and after. It is suggested that it was he who inspired Tolkien to write The Hobbit. I can only assume that this is the case because Tolkien read Watergipridget’s work and was inspired to write something good.

The collection I found is entitled The Tiny Compendium of Ridiculousness and was completely free to download, and yet, I feel ripped off. The only good thing I can say about it is short, but it won’t feel like it when you’re wading through what feels like an endless river of shit.

Each short story is needlessly introduced and analysed by a professor of English Literature because you can’t be trusted to form your own opinions. Yet, despite this, it’s impossible to make any sense out of the gibbering and morose texts.

The first short story, The Girl Who Would be a Caterpillar attempts to be a critique of the education system and the societal pressures put upon the young but has all the subtlety of a pig dressed as a nun vomiting on a pile of textbooks.

The second, Alec and the Magical Housetree reads like an Enid Blyton book, if Enid Blyton was a dribbling moron who could barely string a sentence together and her editor was a crack addict. Still, in Watergipridget’s defence, he’s considerably less racist.

The less said about the third together. The fourth, however, is where I really start to get mad. The Elephant Who Often Forgets and the Giraffe Who is Always Late for Things, is without a doubt the most egregious thing I’ve ever read and I’m not just saying that to use the word egregious for the first time in my life. Framed as an environmental novel, this patronising tripe exploits offensive stereotypes about elephants and giraffes and, once again, bangs on about how we need to protect the environment. I for one am getting sick of this view. We don’t need trees, they’re fucking cunts.

The book then delves into some awfully laboured poetry before finishing with a final short story The Man who has Baguettes for Dinner. I can’t help but feel this is where Watergipridget revealed himself for the weird and twisted pervert that he was. Admittedly, everyone in the arts back then was a pervert to some degree, much like they are now because some things never change. Anyway, it involves an unhealthy obsession with jam.

In short. This was one of the few literary ventures that I actually felt myself getting stupider the more I read of it. My brain cells preferred to commit suicide rather than work to process the information they were receiving. The only people that would like this book are those who have been lobotomised or have no appreciation for the written word. Alas, in the age of piss poor journalism, third-rate fantasy novels and poorly conceived (and ultimately tame) erotica, this could be a mainstream audience.

I beseech you all to download this text now so you too can see just how diarrhoea inducingly terrible it truly is.

The Stephen King Conundrum

With imminent homelessness looming over me, lack of career and many personal failings, now seems like a good time to vent about Stephen King. I sit here writing now being disturbed by loud neighbours and loud flatmate and her loud offspring. The child got a laugh when she sung something loud and out of key, and now won’t stop. Children are like that, they’ve yet to cotton on to the law of diminishing returns and keep repeating the same shit over and over. They’re like small Stuart Lees only without the sense of self-aware irony.

Anyway, Stephen King.

I have a love/hate relationship with Stephen King. One thing we can say for certain is he is a very prolific writer.  He is one of the highest earning writers and has a huge back catalogue of releases. The Green Mile is hands down one of the best things I’ve read, let’s just get that out there.

Some of his novels are great, others are so damned awful it makes me mad. I would rage that there’s a conspiracy and he gets other people to write some, but I know that’s not true, as the bad ones stink of self-indulgence.

I have just finished reading the Bazaar of Bad Dreams, one of King’s many collections of short stories. My experience was meh. Or for a more thoughtful critique, it was ‘hmmmmm well, maybe some… meh.’

The first short story starts with a young child trying to prove himself cool by going to an old, run down and long abandoned service station where all the ‘big kids’ hang out. He finds some vodka, drinks some and falls asleep, then a man-eating car turns up, decapitates a guy, eats a woman and causes general mayhem before the aforementioned kid sets it on fire with a magnifying glass and it flies away.

If it was a piece of surrealism played for laughs, it would have been great. Unfortunately, there was a stony seriousness to it almost.

There were some nice stories among the turds. Nice being a fairly bland word. They were good ideas and read well, but the whole thing felt like it was written by a creative writing student. Creative writing students are the worst.

The law of averages dictates that with so many books to his name, some are bound to be shit. The shit ones don’t make the good ones any less good and the good ones the shit ones any less shit. The problem is, the name Stephen King sells. This means he can release any old turd he likes and get a few million for doing so.

And perhaps that’s the problem.

Or maybe he just writes what he wants and fuck the haters.

And maybe that’s the problem, because that leads to constant Dark Tower references or subplots to appear in just about anything he likes.

Hearts in Atlantis was almost a good collection of short stories, particularly the first entitled ‘Low Men in Yellow Coats’. That was almost a brilliant story. Troubled kid with a bit of a shit mother and his friend befriend a mysterious, gentle man who has low men after him. It’s never explained what he’s done in the past and there’s allusions to all sorts of potentially sinister things.

He’s a quiet lover of literature who helps out these poor kids where he can.  Lots of things happen and long story short the low men in yellow coats catch up with him… in a shapeshifting car and they demand he return to the Tower to use his psychic powers to help break the beams.

For anyone who has read the Dark Tower series this would be jarring. To people like me who haven’t this is unforgiveable. Don’t get a reader passionately engaged only to fuck them over at the last minute. An underwhelming ending is fine, endings are often just that, but a bullshit ending is just silly.

It would be like if Casablanca ended with the titular character turning into a squid creature and returning to his home planet before Earth is immediately destroyed. No foreshadowing, no clues, just that.

I mean I haven’t watched Casablanca, so that may well be what happens.

It’s irksome. King is still being held up as the figurehead of all things literature. People seem to hang onto his every word as if he’s still relevant. Maybe he is. But it seems like someone needs to give him some honest feedback rather than just seeing dollar signs. There are so many of his books that would never see the light of day if he didn’t have a famous name.

But he does, so instead they get published and he laughs atop a mountain of cash.

I don’t know what I’m doing, I just read a book I don’t like and I’ve got no one to speak to and writing this has allowed me to forget I have my own problems.

Yes, I’m bitter. Please keep writing Mr. King, but keep them good.



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.




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.


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



Drawn Man Dragged Off Page.


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.




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.


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.



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.


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.












Where’s My Millions?


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!


Despise Change, but Hate the Everyday.

Pretentious title I know, but I like contradictory statements or oxymorons, they please me. Anyway, I feel that my obsession with doodles is some what reflective of a low state of mind. Not because they’re ‘out there’ or ‘messed up’ that people often like to claim to be when they’re definitely not, in a vain attempt to seem interesting. More because I tend to doodle most when overly anxious or taken by a miserable bastard kind of mood.

Many figures throughout history, when taken by such a mood create musical masterpieces, or paint glorious pictures or write works that last through the ages. I draw stick men in various situations and try to pass it off as ‘wit’. However, it’s easy to pass things off as wit, you just have to say it with a certain level of smugness or tilt your head to the side a little. Because I no longer have a scanner, I have taken pictures on my phone, and emailed them to myself and then uploaded them here, so the quality will be (as we say in the art world) shit.

Anyway, this piece is called “The Generational Gap.”


The young and the old are destined never to understand one another . To one, eating a banana is a fairly mundane thing. to the other, it’s worthy of a ‘good ole fashioned axin’.’

This is called “The Hunt For the Loch Ness Monster”


Turned out to be easier than the scientists first thought. They didn’t even get to unload their fancy equipment. Typical.

“Waiting for a Bus!”


Because let’s face it, if you were Death, where would you choose to stand? Think of all those OAP’s with free bus passes, it saves him lots of time.

“Bendy Man Walks On Tiny Legs Whilst Whistling a Tune.”


That’s pretty much it, not all art has multiple layers.

“Pyramid of Necessity.”

pyramid of necessity

The Beatles once sang “All You Need Is Love.” Bet they didn’t have to do a proper day’s work in their life, the lazy bastards.

“An Empty Day”

I made this partially 3D, so it get’s marks for trying.

I’ll leave you with this. As I have to rely on public transport I spend a lot of time waiting for buses, the below is an angry email which I sent to one bus company. I have yet to receive a reply, but I’m cautiously optimistic that I will see justice served.

Sent: 03 November 2015 20:37:38

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Dear Lord Of All Buses,

I am a simple man, a humble man if you will. I want to do what is best for Planet Earth, which is currently my place of residence. I never learned to drive, thinking (perhaps arrogantly at the time) that I would forego the needless ritual of driving lessons. I did so under the impression that, not only will I have a lesser “carbon footprint” than most, but I would also save money and save myself from wasting hour after hour searching in vain for a place to park.

I have saved no money. Alas, rather than wasting hours looking for a place to park, I appear to be wasting numerous hours of my life awaiting the arrival of your elusive buses. £30 pound a week is no small sum, it is a sum that could purchase me a large amount of flapjack, and I love flapjack. For such a price I expect a good service. Several times your buses have failed to turn up at all, they are almost always late. I assume when creating your time table you take in to consideration variables such as traffic. 5 minutes late is fine, ten minutes is frustrating but sometimes inevitable.  Any more than 25 is taking the proverbial pee.

It is my suggestion, that you either lower your price to better represent the service, or replace all your timetables with a sign saying ‘Your Guess Is As Good As Ours.’

Waiting for many hours for a bus is probably not what Blaise Pascal (inventor of the bus service; if Wikipedia is to be believed – which of course it isn’t) had in mind. He’d be disgusted, and he’s French, he could take disgusted to the next level.

Now, I am not a vengeful man (or woman, you don’t know!) but, if I do not see improvements soon, I will have to come down to your headquarters and defecate upon the floor, with a rather stern expression. My diet is very fibrous, so I suggest – as I suggest to everyone – that you work hard to please me.

Yours Sincerely,

An Anonymous Man (Whose name isn’t in his – or her- email address)

Success? That’s for Losers!

Ordinarily, I would have some faint idea as to what the titles of my posts were in reference to, and then waste everybody’s time explaining. Today is an exception… in terms of knowing what the title is about, not in the time wasting. As you can see, time wasting his occurring this very instant.

Recently, word has it that we should be eating 7 portions of fruit and vegetables a day. Why we should spend several long hours chewing tasteless veg and peeling incredibly demanding fruits, is simple. Fruit and Veg are magic.  They can set right any wrongs, cure any ills. Look here for example. This carrot is so distraught by the notion of poverty, and the ever increasing gap between the mega rich and the poor that he’s punching a capitalist in the face on our behalf. If we all get our recommended 7 a day, it won’t be long until economic balance has been instated, by our brilliant veg.




Still on the subject of veg (my mind does this quite a lot) here is a picture entitled ‘Captive Scarecrow.’ I do apologise  about the Jesus imagery, it wasn’t intended. I am in no way saying that scarecrows are in any way like Jesus. No matter how well they protect our agricultural investments in peaceful, non-violent ways (much in the way Jesus might). That sort of stuff tends to offend people.



I don’t know what you said to these eyes, but I think you should be ashamed of yourself.


This is called ‘Honest Satire.’ You see, I was taken by pretention and thought I’d try my hand at some sort of political satire. For those that can’t read my scrawling, which will be many, the sign says ‘I wanted to do a piece of political satire, but I don’t know enough about politics, so honesty will have to do.’

honest satire

This piece is called ‘Medicate Me.’ Because that seems an arty, deep justification for a silly drawing.  Look! Look at its face!


I was busy reading over a man’s shoulder on the train the other day. Unfortunately, he was prepared for the likes of me and swiftly turned the page. Touché train man… touché.


Poems? Who’s for some crappy poems. I only have 2 this week, and they’re short silly ones. The first you have to click on to be able to read it.



And lastly a poem called ‘An Arse Hole.’

Please don’t hate me for having no control

Please don’t despise me for what I don’t know

But feel free to not like me for being an arse hole.