Love them or hate them, we all have them. They are counted amongst the darker, more mysterious recesses of the human body, and yet in most of western society there is no law banning their public appearances—only taboo prevents them from being openly flaunted. Shaved naked or furred, they are never listed as person’s most attractive feature. The humble armpit, or aptly abbreviated ‘pit’ if you come from the USA, is much maligned, and so I took it upon myself to lift our furry friends into the poetic realm for a much-needed boost to their public image. Continue reading
It may seem insincere to say I have the greatest respect for the Royal Family, but financial debates aside, I believe they all, and especially Her Majesty, have worked hard on behalf of charities, and for our country.
Two other facts are pertinent, however:
Firstly, The Queen is still a human being, Her Royal Biology no different from our own.
Secondly, when writing a poem about bodily wind, the more upper-class, and auguste the personage concerned, the funnier it is. It is simply one of the eternal rules of comedy.
So, this is not an attack on the Queen’s Royal Person, but rather an acknowledgement of the paradox that is royalty: that according to ancient tradition* they are God’s Appointed, sent to rule over, and take care of us, and yet, they are also human, and so subject to all of the daily comedies and tragedies of which the human condition consists.
So I offer, this, my humble poetic tribute to the humanity of our Queen, and hope that I may prevail upon the Royal Sense-of-Humour, not to hold this against me when one day, God willing, I will be nominated for a Knighthood. Continue reading
After this poem came to me yesterday I was forced, after much introspection and self-examination, to come to the inescapable conclusion that I am, in fact, a 9-year-old boy trapped in a grown man’s body. Again, you have been warned…
Snot, bogey, luge, luger, buger; its aliases are many, but even in its brief life there can be found the hands of fate, pathos, and drama.
This is my first attempt at poetry in, well, decades. It is written in a style vaguely reminiscent of Roald Dahl. It isn’t pleasant, and I’m not sure if it’s even good, but for whatever it is worth this poem is mine, even if it takes courage to own.
I believe you have had sufficient warning, please proceed at your own risk, as no responsibility will be accepted for any distress, emotional or mental, that is caused by the reading of this piece. Comments, and critique, are welcome. For your delectation: I hope you enjoy:-
Why does a later edit, where you attempt to finesse and polish a story, take so long? Because a sentence isn’t just a brick. In school, aged four and up, we start the process of building. Bricks are functional; they carry information:
Frontier Developments found itself at the centre of a storm of controversy this morning as another internet pressure group stepped up its campaign to ‘clean up the gaming industry and make it safe for our children’ as Anole Biddy (‘I think I look 21, don’t you?’) of No Irresponsible Playing with Plastic Leisure Entertainment Systems (NIPPLES) was heard to say to reporters, before telling them to remove their boots from her ‘immaculately manicured lawn’.
This is a frustrating blog post to type, and one that’s overdue as I didn’t post anything last month. Despite the project eating my available free-time, progress editing Out of the Darkness has been slower than I’d hoped. Assuming the rest of this edit goes at the same pace, the book will be out later than I stated in the Kickstarter (March, 2014). It’s most likely going to be summer before this draft is complete and ready for Frontier to review. For that, I apologise.
Submit! Quotation rumoured to be from an internal Frontier draft memo, ‘Maintaining Correct Relations with the Minions’, Chapter Two, ‘How the Writers MUST See Us’: ‘Yet across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic… regarded this earth us with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us.’ H. G. Wells, The War of the Worlds. As other Elite: Dangerous writers finish with editing and prepare to face Frontier’s vast and cool and unsympathetic intellects, the forums echo with the sounds of rejoicing. Yet, the reverberations are falsely hearty, covering the drip, drip, drip of insidious fear and slight loss of bladder control.