The Minute Collection of Absurdity.

Below is an extract from my latest waste of time – I mean work in progress.


Hubert J Watergipridget is, without a doubt, the greatest novelist that ever did live. It is said that his texts are so important, that many have cured seemingly incurable diseases. It seems that no genre, subject or medium was beyond his talents. His subtle political satire ‘All Politicians are Cunts’ is still as relevant today as it was when he wrote it some time in the forties.
Little is known about the author’s private life and education, in fact only a scant 5 800 page biographies have been written about him, as well as one ‘speculative biography’ which makes a few guesses as to what he may have been like.
Following the phenomenal success of The Tiny Compendium of Ridiculousness and the huge sums of money it brought in, researchers have conveniently uncovered another collection of previously unpublished Watergipridget works. These are for a more mature audience and as such, explore more daring issues and controversial topics. The Head of Humanities at Oxford University has gone on to say of the collection that it ‘is very much more of the same’, so we can be rest assured that The Minute Collection of Absurdity will do just as well as its predecessor.

When asked of his success and what advice he’d give others, Watergipridget remarked that “In life, there are those who work hard and with dedication and those who seek the easy path. Both are good options, as it’s all down to luck anyway. There are those with more success than they deserve and those with more failure than they deserve and the simple fact is, whatever choices they made, however talented they were and however hard they worked, none of it made the slightest bit of difference. We are all particles being fired through space, occasionally by sheer chance some of the right particles smash into one another and create something interesting, but more often than not they explode and fuck everything up.”
Watergipridget’s acceptance of the chaotic nature of the universe went beyond explaining the perplexing career advances of the undeserving, going on to become the driving force in everything he did, as well as the excuse for everything he did. He was once charged with drug possession, three counts of soliciting and the assault of a police officer. In answer to these crimes he simply stated “We’re nothing but insects scurrying around in the dust, a slave to electrical impulses in the brain and chemical reactions in the body. I have no more control over my own actions than a worm does whether he gets eaten or not.”
He was later released without charge. However, the policeman in question and a number of his friends did leap out from behind a bush and break his legs. They were let off as a result of using the same defence.
So, the volatile and bleak nature of the universe is often reflected in Watergipridget’s work, which of course, by his own admission, he can’t possibly take credit for because his thoughts are the result of the afore mentioned chemical reactions and electrical discharges.

This collection contains the following.

The Man Who Believed Himself to be an Octopus.  (An earlier draft can be found here
I’m Old and Likely to Die Soon.
Of Mice and Slightly Smaller Mice.
He Who Watched All The Porn
She Who Watched Most of the Porn.
Never Let It Be Said.
And more, if the researchers bother to find any.

The Tiny Compendium of Ridiculousness can and should be bought here. If you don’t own a kindle, message me and I’ll phone you up at night and read the stories to you.



Tiny Compendium of Ridiculousness: Sales Report

3 copies this month. 3.

That is the worst number there is. 1 has a brooding loner quality. 2 can be as bad as one, since it’s the loneliest number since the number one, but 3… that’s boring.

Since I have no real marketing going on, I suppose I should be proud of that 3, but I’m not. You people need to hurry up and realise my genius so I can get a proper publishing deal and live a life of luxury. All I want to do is never work again, is that so much to ask?

Look, just go and download my Amazon book. It’s like 99p in the UK and some amount of dollars, euros and other silly money.  It’s less than a coffee, and you all drink excessive amounts of coffee, so you can afford it damn it.

‘Yes, but we enjoy coffee.’ I hear you say, ‘reading your contrived collection of ‘comedic’ short stories isn’t enjoyable.’

In which case I say buy it, and then don’t read it. I don’t care. Give it a terrible rating, let it be known as the worst book ever, then people will buy it out of sheer curiosity. And I’ll get a publishing deal, much like the 50 Shades of Grey woman. It’s the way the world of literature is going. We’re taking the written word away from the pretentious, intellectual elite and revealing it for what it really is, a pointless collection of ultimately meaningless words. Which was the original tagline for the dictionary.

Buy it.

 Tiny Compendium of Ridiculousness

The Reaper’s Son (Extract From a Work in Progress)

Greetings fellow humans. This is the opening to a young adult book I have been working on. About death, death and its inevitability, that’s what the young people are into these days. I joke I joke. But it is about death and Grim Reapers and stuff. Give it a read and let me know if it seems like a good idea, otherwise I’m just wasting my time.

Here we go…


It was entirely fitting for it to be raining. Millie Hatcher always liked it when it rained. It made her job feel dramatic. Of course it was going to be dramatic for some people, one person in particular, but she had done it so many times that for her, it had become somewhat mundane. The rain helped make it… well it just seemed right.

She took one last glance at her list. She had committed the name to memory already, but there was little else to do for the moment. Henry Bantershot. A very colonial sounding name, Bantershot. She wished he had a moustache. A name like Bantershot deserved a moustache, a big bushy one, curled at the edges. Underneath his name, which was written in archaic curly lettering, there was a detailed picture of his decidedly unmoustached face. It was a plump thing, rosy cheeked, with round sparkling eyes peeking out from behind a pair of outdated looking glasses. His greying hair (a little long for a man of his age) was slicked back revealing a profound forehead. He had an authoritative looking mouth, with protruding lips and a little mushroom of a nose.

She rolled up the scroll and tucked it inside her pocket as a yellow car rolled by, kicking up a fine spray, making that lazy ‘Shwwwarr,’ noise they did. Traditionally speaking, Jessie should have been with her, but as it was raining she had defiantly refused. Millie glanced at her watch. Time to get to work.

She dashed recklessly across the road, not looking either way, flat shoes slapping on the damp tarmac. She hopped up the next curb just as a bus pulled up, spitting out a number of ragged looking students. It being eight thirty in the morning, they did not look pleased. They blinked through the drizzle with vacant eyes, scratching at their fuzzy heads. They paid her no attention as they passed, entering the university campus. It was a new, modern looking building, all red brick and fancy glass. The fact was, if Millie had wanted to, she could have marched right up to the zombified horde and slap each and every one of them in the face, and they still wouldn’t have noticed her. It had taken her years to get used to The Cloak’s many powers, even longer to get used to her own minor abilities. Although, it was only a cloak by name. She habitually brushed her hands down the breast of her suit jacket. It had been tailor made, in a way. It fitted her perfectly, hugging her thickly built form.

Not a single drop of water clung to it, but most importantly, whilst she was on the job, it rendered her invisible. Well not quite invisible, everyone could see her, she always felt sure of that. The Cloak simply convinced them that they didn’t. As the students entered the campus, Bantershot strolled out. He seemed like a man who could adequately be described as jolly. His ruddy face was decorated with a pleasant smile as he nodded at the early comers.

‘That’s what  I like to see, eager to learn!’ he half bellowed, to a chorus of half-hearted grunts. He walked in a way that required desperate swings of his arms, and made him look as though he was bouncing. He was no doubt about to cross the road to visit the nearby coffee chain for his morning brew. Millie sighed cynically. Had he just had a cup of instant, or a filter coffee from the cafeteria, he might have lived another day. She strolled casually into his path and reached out a hand. She brushed her pink fingers across his cheek and closed her eyes.

It only took an instant.

Millie used to believe in fate. She used to believe moments were set. She used to believe that death was preordained and a person’s time was their time. However, it was far more complex than that. There was no fate, Millie had learned, there was just luck. Death can occur to anyone at any time. It was all about The List. That was the one constant. That was the only thing that came close to Millie’s fate. Once a name appeared on The List, there was no changing it.

The trick was avoiding getting your name on the list for as long as possible. Henry could have avoided it by getting his coffee elsewhere, or at the very least waiting for the bus to pull away first, or maybe if it wasn’t raining.  Too late now, it was done.

He bounced off the curb, fixated on the red banner of the coffee shop. At the same time, an impatient driver hurrying down the road, pulled into the other lane to bypass the bus. There was a loud screech as breaks were applied. The tires squealed against the road. There was a hefty thunk as Henry Bantershot hit the bonnet and rolled over the windscreen.

Millie didn’t know if he was quite dead when he hit the ground, but he definitely was when she arrived by his side. There were shouts and screams. People came running out of the coffee shop, the bus driver got out his bus, some people just stared dumbfounded. For a brief moment chaos ensued. Millie heard the sound of someone calling for an ambulance. She was vaguely aware of the impatient driver standing nearby, head clasped in his hands, groaning in terror.

A thin pool of blood was being watered down by the steady rain around Bantershot’s head. It is often said that the bodies of the dead look peaceful, that they resemble a sleeping person. This is only ever the case if the person in question has the good fortune to die peacefully in their sleep. Millie reached down into Bantershot’s chest, through his tweed suit and damp shirt, and pulled out his soul.

He stood there looking at her for some time with a bemused look on his now translucent, blue-grey face. He gave off a pale glow, as though he were radioactive, which the soul may well be, Millie didn’t know. He met her eyes and smiled politely.

‘Can I help you?’ he said.

‘Nope,’ Millie replied, ‘unfortunately, you’re in no position to help anyone.’

‘What’s that now?’ He asked still confused, he licked his lips. This would have been out of habit than anything else, his lips couldn’t have been dry, but if they were, Millie doubted licking them would help. Not with an incorporeal tongue anyway.

‘You know, they should really put speed cameras down this road. That car almost hit me, did you see it?’ He asked shaking his head.

‘I saw… and it did hit you.’ Millie responded casually. This was a common occurrence. Very few people were ever immediately aware of their demise. The fact that they seem to continue to walk and talk gives them a false impression.

‘I err… what’s that now?’ he asked politely, though his voice faltered a little. He cast his eyes down to the crumpled heap that was once him. Then, he turned about to look at the car that just minutes ago he had been killed by. Then he looked to his despairing, accidental murderer. Then he looked back a Millie.

‘I rather think this is going to be a particularly bad day.’ He said.

‘We all have them.’ Millie agreed.


Just a short little prologue thing. Also, if you are a fan of surrealism and stupidity you might find this Kindle text interesting.

It’s not written by me, no not at all, I wouldn’t stoop to such shameless self advertisement. it’s a collection of highly absurd short stories. Here is a brief description.

This 20,000 word collection is an experiment in absurdity. Watergipridget, though a real person, is only real in an entirely fictional sense. These stories are NOT intended to be read to children, they are simply what happens when an unemployed man takes a joke (which wasn’t particularly funny to begin with) far beyond what is reasonably acceptable. If you choose to download this text, please take them in the whimsical manner intended.