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I recently discovered a collection of previously unpublished short stories by one Hubert J Watergipridget.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.

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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.

 

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

 

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.”

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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”

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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!”

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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.”

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

“Pyramid of Necessity.”

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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”
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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.

From:
Sent: 03 November 2015 20:37:38
To:

.ExternalClass .ecxhmmessage P { padding:0px; } .ExternalClass body.ecxhmmessage { font-size:12pt; font-family:Calibri; }

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.

                                                                         5aday

 

 

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.

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

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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.’

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

Finally, a space to write something pointless.

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I am oddly proud of my ability to ignore everything going on around me and put all my focus and attention into creating something of a fairly poor standard. I have recently been diagnosed with a rare condition, called Doodleitis, which means I am unhealthily obsessed with doodling. I am no artist, nor am I a poet… nor am I really a human being, but rather a small ferret like creature posing as one.

I have a book that is getting filled up with doodles, poems, writings, scribblings, collections of fallen leaves and pebbles that resemble political figures. As I am bored, I feel compelled to share with you some of my personal favourites that I have written/drawn/spawned this week. Prepare your mind holes for a grand feast of originality and wit.

 

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This is a drawing and a short poem. The poem reads:

“Sad Moon, Sad Moon

You’ll feel better soon.

   Or maybe you won’t

And if you don’t

I’ll still look up to you.”

 

It has a melancholy sort of feel, and I like that. Also the picture makes me laugh for no reason.

 

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There’s nothing worse than a badly drawn laptop telling you that ‘your concept of reality is flawed’. I’ve had to return many computers back to PC world for their constant need to make philosophical and/or psychological remarks.

 

 

EPSON MFP image

 

This one is fairly self-explanatory. It’s a man/pineapplelizard/fox with wellington boots. He’s yelling the word gherkin because he’s angry with society.

 

Now for part 2 of this art exhibition. The following are some statements I found scrawled in my book.

 

  1. The real problem with hindsight is that it’s never there when you need it.

 

  1. Violence is never the answer. Unless the question is what word can connect the following: Fight, War, Kill, Stab, kick….

 

  1. Never say never! Unless the situation calls for it.

 

 

If you got this far I thank you for your patience. Unfortunately, there is no payoff for reaching the end. I was going to reward you with a picture of a transvestite ancient Greek philosopher shouting obscenities but my scanner decided to stop working at this point. But I will tell you the obscenity was fuck. Which apparently is a really bad one. Fuck… FUCK.

I don’t fully understand why because I can say the word Duck with the same sort of aggression and in the same context and no one would really care. If I walked into a post office and shouted DUCK YOU, YOU’RE ALL A BUNCH OF DUCKING WASTES OF SPACE. DUCK DUCK DUCK! I’ll probably have to undergo some sort of psychiatric evaluation, but no one would be too offended. What’s that all about? Why are bad words bad? Surely it’s the context that makes a word bad. If Cunt meant ‘extremely nice person’ we wouldn’t reel back in horror at its utterance… cunt… cunt. Punt…

YOU DUCKING PUNTS!

 

Are you offended by that? You should be.