Saturday, April 14, 2007


Jolly hockey sticks and a bottle of rum!

It's Friday night, the weather outlook for the weekend in this part of the Empire is glorious, and I'm feeling rather chipper. So I thought I'd do one of those cheery blog posts; you know, the type where one tips the wink to fellow webloggers and points out amusing and/or interesting things they've been up to this week and all that. Pour yourself a drinkie (I nearly said another drinkie, but I know you're not that naughty!), change that Vaughan Williams compact disc to something a bit more racy like the Beatles, and enjoy!

First up: Dr Maroon seems to have been peering a little too deeply into his cup of mead this week! His latest post makes even less sense than usual. The poor fellow's deluding himself that he's actually met another blogger, and that the two of them re-enacted the Yalta conference! Careful there, Jock, och aye the noo. Oops, bit politically un-PC, there, Foot...!

Next: Philip Challinor has just published his first novel! Beelzebub, it's called. Sounds a bit daring, doesn't it! Philip's a sound sort of chap and one you'd trust to open the batting against India, so I dare say his tale is something you could safely order for Aunt Flo for a birthday prezzie.

FatMammyCat is in thoughtful mood and reflecting on the state of the world. She's reading something about terrorism and the nature of evil. Steady on, old thing! I mean, there's a time and a place for seriousness, but it isn't as if the clergy has been completely extinguished, and they are paid a decent stipend to work out these sorts of problems for us, aren't they? That said, I'm all for ladies' power and their right to express opinions and that.

Mr Old Knudsen has some fairly fruity images for us on Friday the 13th. The delightfully goatish old rogue is clearly trying to shock, though those of us who have been through Harrow remain unmoved, having seen what we've seen back in the day! Eh? Lads? (Are there any 'smileys' to be had showing an index finger laid against a nose beneath a winking eye? If so, be a sport and pop 'em in the old email.)

Sorry if I've missed you out. It's just that Henrietta's braying from the bedroom and one doesn't want to keep one's filly waiting unridden for too long, does one? Bottoms up, I think (both with and without an apostrophe!)!


This is one of the stupidest bastard ideas I've ever had for a post. It will never happen again. I swear it on my grandmother's grave. FE.

You cheery half drunk tosser, reduced to a round up I feel better about my man with a bottle up his bum now.
What do you mean, half drunk? It's Friday, and we Welsh true Celts can lick your Scotch arses. Metaphorically, that is, and in the drinking arena.

Watching The Departed at the moment. It's shit. Scorsese, hang your head in shame. Read these blogs to learn how to work an edge into your scripts. Pah.
Thanks. A plug is a plug, even from someone who can't buy his own work, let alone mine.
Don't push it, Sunny Jim. A plug is only a stopper that can be violently withdrawn, to quote Ben Jonson, loosely.

As it happens, my forthcoming first novel, which might or might not end up being printed by Lulu, was originally called The Brayneworm Junket. Brayneworm being, of course, one of Ben Jonson's best-loved characters.
Ah fucket I'm pissing myself with this intercourse.
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