Category: Comedy

Rage Slave – Part 4

A new and exciting short story by me Cecil Thax, this was an entry I wrote for a ‘A bad science fiction writing jam’, I’m breaking it down into several parts so your mind isn’t overwhelmed by words and Sci Fi cliches.

Previously on ‘Rage Slave’ Jack Steel had woken from Soma sleep and found himself on Mars, after taking refuge in a barn an old gnarled farmer had captured him, brought him into his house and shot Jack through the lung, hung him up to dry and was about to eat him!

Part four- Payback!

The old man stood over his counter top slicing and dicing root crops, he planned several meals to eat Jack with, he would roast him, braise him, fry him, grind him into burgers and stew the bones. The old man hadn’t caught an unlicensed human in over a decade; he was going to savour Jack’s meat! After 10 minutes of preparing, the old man went into his pantry to remove Jack’s head; he would start with the brain, his favourite part. The old man opened the pantry door and walked over to Jack, the robots had wrapped Jack’s corpse in a thin cotton sheet to stop his internal organs plopping out of the hole in his chest. The old man approached Jack, he fondled himself while grasping at various parts of Jack, his old filthy hands caressed Jack’s head, he put his wrinkled old face close to Jacks, sniffing him, pressing himself up against Jack, kissing his cheek and neck, he started licking Jack’s face all the while grasping at Jack’s man zone, the old man drove his tongue into Jack’s mouth, exploring his still warm tongue. The old man pushed his tongue as far into Jack’s mouth as he could, that’s when Jack bit down as hard as he could, shaking his head he tore the old man’s tongue out of his mouth, blood gushed from his twisted old face, the old man clutched his mouth, a look of horror and disbelief in his eyes as he saw Jack free himself from the meat hook. Jack towered over the old man, kicking him to the ground, he put his boot on the old man’s throat and pushed, the old man’s neck slowly gave way and broke with a dull pop.

Jack had long ago been fitted with nanobots which would repair almost any damage to his body, only if his brain was destroyed would he be killed, that’s how he’d planned to survive in the tournament on the moon! Jacks chest was now repaired, there was just a slight itch in his lung as it was still being rebuilt. Jack set to work hiding the body of the old man, luckily for Jack the droids had no loyalty to the old man and simply helped jack tidy up the mess.

Days passed while Jack stayed at the farm, the droids took care of most of the crops and house work, Jack just concentrated on acquiring a fake license to be on Mars. They were easy enough to come by if you knew how, the only problem was getting to one without being spotted, if you got within 20 feet of a drone they would scan you, without a license this would mean instant capture and shot to prison on Phobos. His only option was to send a droid in his place which he would control remotely. This could be done via a telepathic rift headset which would download your consciousness into the body of the droid, should the droid become damaged or destroyed you would just wake up back in your body.

Jack slept all day, the light was too bright for him, his tired eyes couldn’t open in the harsh mid-day sun, so he spent his days unconscious and his nights drinking the moonshine the old man had been brewing in his basement. After a few nights rest the time came and Jack got into the rift headset and uploaded himself into a droid. The droid was nothing special, a squat four legged, one eyed dog like machine, Jack had fitted it with audio capabilities so he could interact with the people he was meeting. The droid started running towards the city at high speed, for the first time in a long time Jack actually felt an emotion other than anger, the thought of being in a city again sparked the smallest seeds of excitement in him.

Mars didn’t have slums, or ghettos, the cities were pristine, immaculate buildings of glass and chrome soaring high into the sky. The electric cars moved silently in underground tunnels, the people were all tall, elegant figures. The suburbs were perfect community hubs, all maintained by an army of droids tirelessly taking care of every aspect of human living. Having long since eliminated the need to burn anything for fuel, now using clean efficient Smaptons the air on Mars was the cleanest air in the solar system. It was a utopia. The people, for the most part, lived a life of pure relaxation, the need for work was none existent as everything was provided, the only so called ‘work’ was the things people created, art, literature, entertainment, new scientific discoveries or philosophy, but most people simply lived lives of leisure.

There were no shady corners where anything could be bought and sold freely. Nobody broke the law because the punishment was banishment from this Eden. The only way Jack could acquire a licence to be on mars was to trick an artist to create him a ‘work of art’ that just happened to be an exact copy of a license, including the DNA profile and required microchips. Luckily for Jack, the level of laziness the population of this planet had achieved such a high level that very few of them questioned anything, so when a talking droid dog arrived on Hildred Prudence Chamberlain’s lawn, she never questioned its motives, she simply thought whoever was controlling it wanted a work of purest art!

Hildred went about preparing her tools for the commissioned art work, deciding to mix traditional art processes with technologies she set up a 3D transmission space which allowed anyone viewing to see through her eyes. She streamed this over the perceptive tubes into viewers’ brains. The work she created took 5 hours from start to finish, Hildred created a perfect replica of a license and working microchips, the DNA was the hardest part to replicate but she did using Advanced Smaptons creams.

Hildred placed the ‘art’ in the droid dogs back pouch and the droid ran off at top speed, just as the droid darted into a sewer, police drones surrounded Hildred’s house, within seconds she was in a prison pod and being blasted to Phobos, the police had been watching her broadcast and convicted her of counterfeiting a license, luckily for Jack the policeman watching the stream had gone to the toilet when Hildred had written on the name of who the license was made out to.

Rage Slave

Rage Slave – Part 3

A new and exciting short story by me Cecil Thax, this was an entry I wrote for a ‘A bad science fiction writing jam’, I’m breaking it down into several parts so your mind isn’t overwhelmed by words and Sci Fi cliches.

Previously on ‘Rage Slave’ Jack Steel decided after witnessing the destruction of the Moon and waking from countless days in soma sleep he would kill himself by ejecting out into the void of space, but when he blew off the hatch to space, in rushed cool fresh air!

Part three – Unlicensed

Jack dragged himself from his now crippled ship, pulling out the needle that was still in his neck, he felt a light mist on his face. The ship has exercised his muscles so there was no risk of atrophy. He got to his feet and tried to adjust his eyes to the dim light, from the little he could see it was clear he was on Mars. Reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a half smoked cigar, he lit it and inhaled deeply. The fresh air made him feel sick. He scowled and went back into his ship to get the power core to the Zargon-9 ships engine and a few things he’d brought with him. Putting his rifle over his left shoulder, his sword over his right and his back pack over his the middle bit he made his way to the lit up city in the distance.

It was dawn, the few wisps of cloud were tinged with incandescent red as the sun rose slowly over the mountains. The grass was damp and soft under Jack’s feet, the cool morning breeze washed over his skin, blowing away any last remnants of the deep tormented sleep he’d endured. He was stone cold sober! Making his way through the tall grass, out of the field he’d landed in he saw in the distance some vehicles floating through the air towards him. He threw himself to the floor and covered himself in as much of the vegetation as he could, if they saw his body heat they’d take him in. You don’t get to walk on Mars without permits, if they find you and you’re not with permit then it’s 10 cycles in the securest prison in the solar system, secure because you’re fired in a tiny pod at Phobos which is surrounded by a protection net, you get in but you can never get out. Life on Phobos is hard; the failed terraforming means there is only moss and mould growing on rocks. The stories go that the longest a prisoner has ever survived is 38 months, this was mostly due to him eating other prisoners! No one really knows what happens on Phobos and those that do don’t talk about it, the things that happen there are born from nightmares, mutated creatures, what once were people now living monsters born from a cycle of horrific violence, rape and destruction. If there is a hell in the universe, chances are it’s a nice summer vacation compared to Phobos!

Jack lay in the dirt and grass for 20 minutes, he only put his head up once to take a look. Two figures were loading his ship onto a truck and taking it away. They would begin the search for its pilot any time now, he had to get away. When they had loaded his ship and were leaving Jack sprung to his feet and ran to a house he could see in the distance, it looked like a lone farm, he knew this would be the first place they came looking for him, but it was his only choice.

It took him 3 hours to get to the house, because there were drones flying over each field of the farm. Jack had the foresight to bring a heat shielded blanket. Every time a drone got close he had to drop to the ground and get under it. His progress was slow, he was getting angrier and angrier. He wanted nothing more than to shoot them all out of the sky but that would pinpoint his location in seconds. His only chance was that they thought his ship had been flown here on auto pilot but as he’d removed the power source when he got out this was highly unlikely.

By mid-morning, a time of day Jack hadn’t been conscious in for years, he had made it into a small empty barn. The harsh morning sun burnt his eyes, his head screamed with pain, 142 days in soma sleep takes its toll on the body, Jack was in for many days of migraines and sleepless nights, but what was worse was the cold relentless sobriety. Jack needed a drink, his memories were far too close to his consciousness, things he’d not thought about for years were just on the surface, his deeds haunting his waking mind. He just needed a drink to make them all sink back into the mist.

Jack went into the barn, like everything on mars, it was pristine, there was no dust, no dirt, just clean fresh wood plank walls, a gleaming anti gravity tractor, a few hand tools which didn’t look like they had ever been used and bags of seeds. Jack checked for droids, there were none. He slumped against a bag of grain, his head was throbbing, he could hardly see, he had not felt this level of agony for years. He felt like someone had injected his blood with glass, every heartbeat made every inch of his head, shoulders, knees and toes scream in pain. He vomited on his shoes. Jack knew he couldn’t stay here long, he could tolerate the pain so long as he kept moving. Jack looked through cracks in the walls of the barn, he could see the farm house, there were no sign of any occupants. He went to the door of the barn and waited for the drones to move away before he made his dash to the house. They flew to a new sector of the farm, Jack drew his sword, the drones would easily detect any gun fire so if he had to kill someone in the house using a sword was the safer option. He began to run to the house.

He had not got 3 meters out of the barn when a gruff old male voice shouted “Now where you going son?” Jack spun round to see an old man sat on a hover pod just above the barn door; he had a rifle aimed right at Jacks head. Jacks brain went through a thousand thoughts, looking for an escape route, a way out. “Looks to me like you’re in a spot of bother son, best you get in the house” said the old man. Jack slowly turned round and walked towards the door of the house.

Jack entered the house, the door opened into a large room, there were chairs and seats everywhere, the smell of burnt circuitry filled the air, on each available seat was a droid, but not the human style with realistic flesh, these droids were stripped down to their basic components, wires and pistons jutted out, circuitry was visible, they all slowly turned to look at Jack. Jack felt the barrel of the rifle press against the back of his head “Go on, get in there boy” said the old man. Jack had no option but to walk into the centre of the room. He slowly moved onto a large rug in the middle of all the chairs, none of the droids moved but they all followed him with their cold robotic eyes. “Now, it looks to me like we got ourselves an “unlicey”, he aint gonna get far without a license is he boys?” announced the old man to the robots. The droids didn’t and couldn’t respond, having long since had their audio circuits removed. Jack was getting tired of being pushed around by this old coot, nobody pushed Jack around and lived long to talk about it.

Jack slowly turned round to face the old man, sick with sobriety, exhausted by the soma sleep, Jack’s patience had run out. In the blink of an eye Jack drew his sword, he lifted it to strike down the old man. Jacks chest burst in a cloud of blood and bones. The old man had fired his rifle at point blank. Jack looked down, there was a hole where his right lung used to be, Jack slumped down in a bloody crumpled mass. The droids quickly got off their chairs and went about cleaning the blood and body parts, they dragged Jack into the pantry and hung him up by his feet to drain. The police drones came to see why the gun shot had been fired, the old man told them he was just putting down some livestock, the drones left and the old man then went back into his house and began preparations for his feast; human flesh was a rare treat!

To be continued….next week!

Rage Slave

Rage Slave – Part 2

A new and exciting short story by me Cecil Thax, this was an entry I wrote for a ‘A bad science fiction writing jam’, I’m breaking it down into several parts so your mind isn’t overwhelmed by words and Sci Fi cliches.

Previously on ‘Rage Slave’ Jack Steel had managed to get the power core to the Zargon-9 ships engine and fitted it into his small one man pod, he blasted off towards the moon and the Luna fighting tournaments hosted there nightly

Part two – Space Spiders!

The trip would take slightly less than 5 hours, just enough time to prepare! Jack set a countdown for every hour, his preparations would have to be thorough, he couldn’t afford to be ill prepared for the coming battle and any slip in his preparations would mean certain death, and death was the one thing Jack was never prepared for! He checked all his components meticulously, 3 hours into the flight the whole ship jolted, the anti-gravity gave out, Jack was thrown around the tiny cabin, alarms screamed in his ears. He checked the readouts, it was space spiders, squat metallic robots, fitted with cutting lasers and powerful venoms to destroy and convert anything they might encounter into more space spiders! He was not prepared for this! When the Glanioks came they had released a few space spiders in orbit to trap anyone trying to escape, but as far as Jack was aware they had all been wiped out after the Smaptons!  There was only one way to destroy a space spider, by pure coincidence Jack had fitted his ship decades ago with reverse anti-gravity repulsers, he turned them on, the spiders were pulled into the hull of the ship and crushed under their own weight, to celebrate Jack took a swig of the last drops from his flask.

By the time he was in Luna orbit, he was ready. He could see on the surface, the lights were on, somebody was home! He didn’t wait for landing permission, he just took his ship down. When he got near the tallest building he had to laugh, the light’s weren’t on, nobody was home, the lights were flames. The whole city was burning, but due to the atmospheres mix, there was no smoke, every building was either smouldering rubble or gutted by bright all-consuming flames. “Figures” Jack said to himself. He flew on across the surface, luckily the power core to the Zargon-9 ships engine would keep his little pod running with enough power, oxygen and water for 9000 years. Technically he could live in there indefinitely, apart from there only being only slightly more than standing room, in terms of life support he was fine, but the ship couldn’t synthesize alcohol, only water, protein and air, so while he could survive, he wouldn’t be living, without alcohol Jack was nothing. As he flew over the burning cities he wondered what could have wrought such planet wide destruction.

It wasn’t until he reached the dark side of the moon that he found the cause. Huge swarms of space spiders as large as cities swept over the surface, melting everything in their path with their cutting lasers. Jack turned his ship around before getting too close, he could handle a dozen or so at a time, but in their millions they were indestructible. But Jack was getting sloppy in his old age, he’d left it too late to turn round, his ship couldn’t slow down quick enough, his flight path took him dangerously close to a swarm. There was nothing he could do but let the ship change its course, if the spiders saw him then they saw him. They did see him, a small clump of them began to float up from the surface towards his ship. Jack had no choice, there were about 100 space spiders floating towards him, he was just within the atmosphere of the moon, so he did the only thing he could, he grabbed his rifle, kicked open the entry hatch and leaned out of the pod and shot down as many spiders as he could before they reached him, he managed to take out clumps of them with the explosive setting of his rifle by the time he couldn’t breathe and had to enter his ship there was only about 30 coming up on him. He set the reverse anti-gravity repulsers to be double reverse, so when a spider touched the hull they vibrated so violently they exploded, it only took 5 spiders exploding to destroy the rest of them.

Jack growled as his ship sped away from them, he was free, but his freedom gave him little comfort, despite his instincts screaming at him to persevere and live, his mind had long since given up the battle to remain alive, he longed for death but he couldn’t resist a fight! His life was his punishment for all he’d done. Jack looked at his navigation screen, he had two choices, back to Earth, though there was nothing there for him or he could go on to Mars. There was nothing there for him either, but at least there were no memories haunting him there. He set the computer on its course and jammed the soma needle deep into his neck, he passed out instantly with the needle still inside him, the journey would take 142 days.

As Jack slept, his ship taking care of his limp fragile body, space spiders devoured every city on the Moon, 9.4 billion people, droids and animals wiped out, every trace of existence on that rock was reduced to a burning rubble, then that rubble was consumed and used to make more space spiders. They grew to such a large number they covered every inch of the moon’s surface. Within 60 days they were making their way to earth, 20 days later humanity had be exterminated from both planets, every living thing had been burned, broken down and converted into space spider components. The earth now was a vast silver crawling ball, not a spec of green or blue could be seen, just a seething writhing mass of metal inexorably crawling.

For days Jacks ship silently floated through the endless void of nothingness, all the while Jack dreamt, he dreamt of her, his mind tormenting him with twisted memories of her holding him, being with him, how things were back then, over and over again he watches as she slowly floated away, she drew cold, her skin peeling from her muscle, then back to the warm loving woman he knew, then again the skin, being torn apart in front of him, the twisted look of agony on her face, her torso being torn open, her organs spilling out over the carpet while the Glanioks feasted on them, his screams, the Glanioks holding him, he breaks free, she’s writhing in unbearable agony as the last remnants of life are torn from her, Glanioks swarm round her, their machines ripping her over and over again, it’s all he ever dreamed, it’s all he saw when he closed his eyes, it’s all he ever thought about, the agony in her face and the monsters that took her, while he was held down, forced to watch because he’d managed to kill some of them. His nightmare lasted for an eternity, trapped inside his own head, being dragged from short bursts of loving memory to sheer horror. When he awoke he wanted nothing more than death, his eyes didn’t function, he could barely move. He was going to do it, he couldn’t live any longer. He fumbled around in the dark, feeling for the emergency hatch button, he would blow himself into space, he’d float eternally through the emptiness. He felt around and found the button, with the last bit of strength in his barley conscious body he hit it. There was a loud bang as the explosive rounds blew the hatch away from the craft. Jack waited for the rapid decompression then cold and silence. These never came. The hatch exploded away but in rushed cool fresh air. Air that smelt so sweet, like early morning dew.

Rage Slave

Rage Slave – Part 1

A new and exciting short story by me Cecil Thax, this was an entry I wrote for a ‘A bad science fiction writing jam’, I’m breaking it down into several parts so your mind isn’t overwhelmed by words and Sci Fi cliches.

Rage Slave

Rage Slave By C. E. Thax

Gladstone’s penis began to sway in the spring air.  Lucy unpinned it from the washing line and placed it in the jar with the 7 others she had acquired over the year.  Since starting her collection she had killed 43 men, 9 women and 4 cheese plants, most times her method of dispatching her victims meant there was little left to keep as a memento, but this time there was genital remains and she planned keeping the souvenir as a trophy of her kill.  Her thirst for blood was only equalled by her desire for revenge.  Every murder took her one step nearer reaching Professor Judith Prippyplaitt.  Once trusted mentor and lover of Lucy, now deadly but highly erotic enemy.

A distance alarm bell tolled, Lucy ran into her caravan.  Grabbing the remote drone controller, she switched it to ‘search’ mode, the drone sprang to life, it hovered above the caravan, powered up its jet engine and shot into the air, scouting for bandits on the horizon.  Lucy prepared herself the sterilizing gel and applied it to her wounds.  Gladstone had managed to get a shot in before he was disembowelled on the lasers. His intestines lay strewn around the outside of the caravan, crows pecked at his spleen while a lizard gnawed lazily on his lungs. The stench of bile filled the air.  Lucy vomited all over her shoes.  An alarm sounded, the raiders had shot down the drone.  Suddenly the windows burst, glass sprayed everywhere.  A sound wave had been fired by the raiders causing all the glass to oscillate to the point of explosion. Jars shattered on the shelves.  Body parts flopped to the floor.  Lucy slipped on a liver.  She fell to the floor, face first into pile of shattered glass.  A shard pieced her eye ball.  She struggled to her feet, her eye jelly dripping down her bleeding face, every heartbeat forced a stream of blood from her wound. Her heart pounded as she heard footsteps outside her door, a stream of blood arched from her face and hit the wall.

A gnarled twisted figure appeared at her door, she couldn’t make out detail, she was losing consciousness, it was a man, he walked over to her.  She felt a burning sensation in her left breast, she looked down, a gleaming silver sword pierced her chest, she felt her heart spasm one last time before shades of grey flashed before her eyes.

The man looked around her caravan, it was nothing but a mess of robotic circuitry, glass, blood and pickled body parts. He walked over to the work bench, knocking through the mess of wires and metal with his sword, he exposed what he was looking for. The power core to the Zargon-9 ships engine. The last remaining source of power from the last remaining Zargon-9 space ship on the planet. Lucy had acquired it from Professor Judith Prippyplaitt after seducing her with her feminine wiles. The man laughed as he put the small glowing rock in his pocket, knowing full well that everyone who had come by the stone had acquired it in the exact same way, by murder!

The man was Jack Steel, one time best space pilot on the planet, now a washed up no good rogue willing to do anything to anyone to make just a few bucks to buy the next bottle of cheap hooch. He cared about no body and nothing, he was an outlaw, a rebel who played by his own rules, from a rule book he had thrown away years ago. A low down thief, who’d cut you as soon as piss on you. The universe took a dump on him and he took a bigger one right back. He lived in a part of the city where nobody knew anyone and those that did killed those that didn’t. A real dive, sex droids worked every corner, robber droids worked every ally and if either of those didn’t get you then Jack Steel probably would.

By day Jack slept, by night he drank, on the nights he couldn’t drink he’d drink anyway! He drank to forget, he drank to remember, so long as he remembered to drink everything was a’ok by him. Now Jack had the power core to the Zargon-9 ships engine he could get off this rock and up to the Luna cities. Up there a man with nothing but a quick wit and an even quicker draw could go from nothing to something in a night! The nightly laser tournaments could make or break a man in less time than Jack could polish of a bottle of dime store hooch. They were brutal matches, 10 men death matches, 10 men enter the arena, only one survivor, the catch? You only get 2 shots from your gun! But Jack had an advantage most men don’t, a hidden surprise for the other contestants, if he could just get to the moon and enter a match, he’d be made for life!

He got into his apartment, a rat infested hole, nothing worked, and what did work only did so out of spite! Jack kicked a rat clean across the room, it burst on the far wall, hitting the roof release button as its backbone snapped through its flesh. The roof retracted and pistons maneuverer his ship from the storage compartment. Jack crammed the power core to the Zargon-9 ships engine in his own custom made one man pod, the pod which had been void of power for the better part of 2 decades, since before the imperial collapse, burst into life, panels lit up, hologramatic displays displayed holograms, quickly the ships systems were in full working order. Jack drank his last half bottle of booze and climbed into the small ship. He took one last look at his wrecked apartment, the place where decades ago he had lived with her, the day the Glanioks came was the day he died and the husk he was now, was born, inside his emotions had withered and died without her. He took one last look at the spot where he had proposed to her and she said yes, now it was a pile of broken robotic hearts, the irony wasn’t lost on Jack. He hit a button and as the ship shot into the sky he felt nothing inside, nothing for the world he was leaving, nothing for the memories he was leaving, after she had died all his memories were like a poison to him, tainting every thought he had, he couldn’t even remember what she looked like. As he passed out of the earth’s gravity’s pull he finished the last of his booze, he would need to be utterly numb for what came next!

Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor

Super-fast Computer Performance Monitor
Super-fast Computer Performance Monitor

Dear computer user

Hello, please allow me to introduce myself, my name is Jimbo Vaginapouch, please don’t mock my name it’s an old family name going back several generations, I come from a long line of Vaginapouchs. My family ancestor invented the Vagina pouch in 1294, a Mr Hoobert Pouchmaker, the pouch was initially intended to house small clams but due to the material used and the hard abrasive nature of the clam shell meant the pouches would perish rather quickly, in time and with a surplus of said pouches Hoobert became disaffected with the world, he withdrew from society, shunning all and sundry, his clam based pouch invention haunting his every thought, he turned to drink. Years passed and Hoobert grew old and bitter, mostly because his primary drink of choice was bitter, or sometimes he would have a cider, usually in the summer months, but I digress.

When Hoobert turned 59 he was at his local tavern, he’d taken to using his pouches (of which he still had a large surplus) as a mini carryall for folded flat breads, by midnight he had passed out and the kindly bar wench (Mimi Von Unpouchedvagina, an eccentric German aristocrat working in a bar for fun) took pity on him and carried him home in her powerful German arms. When they arrived back at Hooberts house Mimi saw the piles of pouches, and as was her nature she tried to use one to cover up her lady zone, for she had been sold a pair of crotchless bloomers and couldn’t find anything to cover the exposed region well enough. It was a success, Mimi’s furry wizards sleeve was pouched and in that instant a union was born. When Hoobert pulled round he was married and had a new business partner, they were the only sellers of Vagina pouches in all of England. We now know them as underpants, but back in the day they had a very different name. So that’s me Jimbo Vaginapouch and I have a computer related product to sell to you, I feel you’ve got to know me now, you trust me implicitly so you will agree that all the claims I am about to make are 100% accurate and are in no way intended to entrap you and your computer into buying false, malicious software.

Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor
Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor is the class leader in providing client to user to business to bespoke pathogen peer to peer jargon to user experiences based on desktop interfaces. Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor will simply install itself onto any computer, laptop, unpleasant cat or diary whenever the user has accidently clicked on any unscrupulous advertising link. Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor is self-aware and once installed on any computer, removal is next to impossible, it will worm its way into every nook and cranny, it will install itself into hidden alleyways and show homes also it’s probably under your bed, depending on how much space there is under your bed of course, to be honest the more space there is under a bed the more versions of Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor there will be, so god help you if you have a bunk bed, or any other type of bed that’s on legs, of which there are many kinds and they’re not all bunk beds, there is a subtle difference, there is no shame in being a grown up and having a high bed, it means you can make forts and who wouldn’t want to do that?

But what does Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor do? I hear you think. Well, like the name suggests Super-Fast Computer Performance monitor pretends to speed up computers and monitor performance, this however is just its name, it can neither monitor nor speed up anything, in fact its name is the definition of irony because it will in fact drastically slow down your computer and the only thing it will be monitoring is your keystrokes and harvesting all your delicious information. After it has resided on your computer for no less than 30 days it will the demand you pay a fee to ‘unlock’ some more advanced features, you will of course do this for me, Jimbo Vaginapouch, for I am a very good friend of an auntie of yours. Go on, it’s only £219 for a year’s subscription to Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor. The added benefits of subscribing are that I can buy a new car and I can get my wife that back, sack and crack operation she keeps bringing up at church. Never marry a vicar, especially one with a ‘sack’, I can’t believe she kept that quite till our wedding night!

To sum up, please install Super-Fast Computer Performance Monitor on your computer if only for the fact that I get sexual gratification knowing there are hundreds of IT technicians having to uninstall and clean out programs like this every day, it literally turns me on to the point of orgasm thinking about them all sat at their nerdy desks spending 2 hours running various cleaning programs to get rid of my pointless and obviously malicious software. I love thinking of their blank gormless faces as they watch slow progress bars go from 0% to 100%, their frustration as my software changes all the home pages in all the browsers, then they open the browsers to see the owner of the computer has over 30 toolbars installed. Oh yes, that’s what I like! I also love to think about the standard computer user who when greeted with my software doesn’t understand its true purpose and thinks it’s actually helping their computer speed. I sit at home vigorously pleasuring myself thinking about all the time I’m wasting of these people, time they could better spend away from their computers maybe reading a book or being with friends, but no, I keep them indoors trapped in front of their computers angry, frustrated and annoyed at my software!

If you want to buy my product I take paypal, visa, mastercard and Tesco clubcard points, but don’t bother sending me your bank details, I already have them!

Thank you I’ve been Jimbo Vaginapouch and you’ve been reading the words that I’ve written!




Do you need any pouches? Only slightly used!

Write about what you don’t know

They say write about what you know, but then Bret Anthony Johnston (Harvard University man person) says “write what you don’t know”.  As this blog post is all about writing, I shall do just that, write about what I don’t know.

That is to say, it’s not a list of all the things I don’t know, but if it were it would look like this

  • How to drive a car
  • How to drive a train
  • How to drive

Well how to drive any vehicle really, save for a bicycle, pedelo and Eurofighter.

Further things I don’t know

  • What you’re thinking
  • The area code for anywhere in Cornwall
  • What happens when we die
  • What happened before we were born
  • What happens when people watch ‘chick flicks’
  • How Smaptons are made

The list goes on for another 372 pages, mostly about my lack of knowledge of DIY procedures.  But for this particular blog I am going to write a detailed and in depth report on animal husbandry, a subject I literally know nothing about, I’m not even sure it’s a thing that exists.

Animal Husbandry – The meat and two veg of a farmers life

Cows, pigs, chickens and corn/maize/wheat/all plants come into the world in one way.  Via the Cramston method, this method is different for each species but primarily requires two components the dominant chef and the beta creature.  The chef will, when sufficiently gorged on nutrients and has reached emotional maturity, sidle up to the creature, with its belly and shoulders puffed up.  Then the ‘movements of the night’ will begin, the chef will stand still for a duration of no more than 4 minutes. All the while the creature will place its hands/paws/claws/straws over its eyes to hide from such a display.  This can last from anything from 4 minutes to 5 minutes. Never a second longer.  Once this stance is over, jets of genetic matter will spray fourth from the chefs nose, eyes, ears and lungs into the creature’s receiving pouch (usually located on its halo).  Then in 19 weeks a new baby is delivered via carrier hippo.

It is at this point a farmer will become involved and place the new baby ‘thing’ in a big shed, you’ve probably seen them on farms.  These big sheds have millions of microscopic cots in them for the new babies.  Each baby will get to select a cot which will then determine which university it will be accepted into later in life.  Oh the babies are obviously microscopic or something.  After 3 days the babies will outgrow their cots and have to move into something larger, generally this is a matchbox filled with sand or cat litter, used or un used, it matters not.  The babies will develop their own voice and vocal singing style, usually at this point the farmer will slaughter any babies with a tendency towards country and western after the horrific events of the ‘cotton eye Joe’ incident.  Though this practice is not done world-wide and thus this horrific blight on the musical landscape is still with us.  Due to the high salt and vinegar content in babies leaning towards ‘pop’ music these are usually spared and milked for their savoury milk.

When the infants mature to semi full maturity they are put in fields to graze and contemplate the deeper meanings of the universe and life.  The moment they come to a grand unifying theorem of the universe they are slaughtered and turned into foods such as chicken for dipping, ham based beef disks, hog legs, turtle shell soup and pies, eye slabs and of course spherical spizzas.

Those which never achieve any kind of spiritual or intellectual enlightenment are then split into two distinct categories, the dangly thrust poker and the squishy flap pocket.  They are then formed into pop combos and made to perform on Saturday night light entertainment programs depending if their life story is sob based enough.

I also don’t know anything about what it’s like to live on another planet.  But I know for a fact that the people of Mars live in giant underground antigravity spheres (which are actually rhombus shaped).  They primarily live on a diet of news feeds, information and cress.  They will spend their days working in their interchangeable buffalo fields separating out the various herds of buffalo which each night get mixed together due to very poor field and fence management.  If they’d just invent the gate, they would be fine and have far more leisure time.

The days are hard on Mars, but the nights are harder.  Usually due to all the earth robots raping the native Martians, this is because the suns radiation has caused the robots to become sentient and very very sexually aroused.

The only yearly festival they have on Mars is to celebrate the arrival of ‘King Two Buttocks’ (all Martians only have one large buttock, they have their anus on their forehead).  King Two Buttocks was born with a birth defect which made his buttocks look doubled.  That’s incredibly erotic for Martians.  They all dress up in fake double buttocks and hop (they only have one foot, but 4 legs) to each others houses and pass their bowel motions into other people’s mouths (Martian’s eat their own doings, to feed someone else in this way is the highest compliment imaginable).

Also once a year they have a running/hopping contest to see who has the sexiest ankles.

So there you go, that’s everything I don’t know! And now you know it, so I can now ask you about it, and learn what you know, so I will then know everything there is to know about what I don’t know about.  Or something!

I also don’t know how to use a ‘ correctly’s.

I'm sorry I haven't a clue!
I’m sorry I haven’t a clue!

Spam Cock

I feel like a master of the universe with my nine inch bazooka! I parade around the galaxy, smiting all, conquering planets, enslaving barbarian hoards all with my nine inch bazooka.  I fly in my intergalactic star ship, the only weapon I use is fear, intimidation and my nine inch bazooka.  I’ve fought the Kraimbulba people, freed the slaves of Nalbuoo 9, entered into deadly combat with the pan dimensional Smaptons beasts and bazookaed countless other races. I have done all this with my mighty nine inch bazooka by my side, which looking at other bazookas available on the market is actually pretty tiny, but never the less I have mastered the entire universe with it, despite its small size!

Which is how I expected the email to continue after reading its subject line which was “I feel like a master of the universe with my nine inch bazooka!” sadly in the email I was given a link which I dare not click on.

For you see, in the past week I have been getting a large amount of spam, normally I get not a whisker of spam, but for some reason I’m now being bombarded with 30 or so a day.  Some of which baffle me. I’ve had several, mostly to do with weight loss but one I got said by taking these pills “You will grow very large in just 2 months with our wonder drugs”.  Now I’m already quite a chubby fellow, my width is sufficient for me, but I would like to be taller, but to ‘grow very large’? How large 7 foot? 8 foot? There is a certain point where being large becomes more of a problem than something to be desired.  Specialist shoes cost a fortune.  As it stands I already sport extra-large t shirts, going up to extra extra large is a problem but XXXX-large? That’s just adding problems atop problems, and if I were ‘very large’ would I struggle to fit in my house? A car? Would my bed support me?  The whole thing is fraught with complications. Similarly with another email I got telling me to “Enlarge your pink just by popping a pill”.  My pink? I’m pink all over, will this pill make me grow more skin? Why would anyone want to get very large, maybe for some kind summer gala whereby you’re playing the part of a giant and want to be authentic in the role.  Is there a pill to get very small?

Then the spams started to get a bit freighting. “Scare people with your tool today”.  This baffled me.  The only tool I have is a screwdriver set with interchangeable heads.  And it’s pretty flimsy, I don’t know how I could really scare anyone with it or why indeed why I would want to frighten anyone with my tool!  My tool is useful for doing things around the house, it’s not an instrument of terror!

Then they started bringing celebrities into the mix making the claim that “Jay Leno found taking drugs” to which inside the email I am told “So hard you can break an egg”. So hard I can break an egg?! Jay Leno has to take drugs to get the strength up to brake an egg? I could become ‘so hard’ that I could break an egg? I can already break an egg, they are incredibly fragile, a baby could break an egg.  Do they mean some drug could make my penis so hard it could break an egg? On what planet is that a desirable or aspirational thing to want? Are people crying out for their eggs to be broken open by erect penises (peni?)? Does cracking an egg with a willy somehow improve the egg.  Of all the body parts I can think of, that’s one of the last things I would use to crack open an egg! Last thing being eye ball or testicles, I’m not sure which!

It was at this point I realized these emails were all about increasing the size of a penis. Which makes me wonder, who would read “Scare people with your tool today” and think that’s a good thing?

I was also offered the opportunity to “enlarge my pole with wonder pills”.  I can only assume they mean our flag pole we have in the back garden for when we’re feeling particularly patriotic.

The most resent spamulation I got says “There’s no trick to becoming a true man, with our wonder pill” but isn’t taking the pills a trick?! What’s the definition of a true man? I would say a true man is a chap who can with one hand, use a remote control while at the same time feed himself crisps, never dropping a crisp or missing his mouth, while also never missing to mute the TV when adverts come on or some embarrassing person starts singing or being ‘madcap’ on a quiz show, and also channel surfing with all the skill and panache of the slobbiest slob . While the other hand masterfully hold his cola beverage and is also able to get a cushion to hide an embarrassing erection should one rear its ugly head.

In the end I’ve got so fed up that I’ve decided to make my own growth pills, which are basically boiled sweets with a few drops of baby bio on them.  I shall email everyone I know saying “hard miracle growth pill lumps guaranteed to make your cylinder expand along all its dimensions, people will run in terror at the sight of your giant ungainly swollen cannon”.



I’d like to tell you about a special time me , my father and mother spent together several years ago. I may have embellished some of the facts, only slightly for dramatic tension, these embellishments are very small and hardly noticeable so you may not even detect any form of exaggeration. Thank you!

It was a Thursday, I had returned from a tedious shopping trip, I’d parked my rocket powered jet pack in the hovering platform outside my bedroom and handed the shopping items to my favourite house droid. As I slipped out of my antiperspirant onesie, I happened to catch sight of a man flying down the street with a cat on his head. I put a drone on guard in case this meant cats were at war with us again.

I teleported down stairs to see my mother and father taking their afternoon constitutional perambulation in the holospheres, todays walk was ‘Gentle hill, with views of Pompeii burning’. I hooked into my holoshpere and joined them on their walk, save for I sat on my mobility scooter to prevent my ankles the horror of movement.

As we walked/sat up the gentle green hill, listening to the birds tweeting, the wind billowing in the trees, the hundreds of people being burned alive, a thought crossed my mind and came out of my mouth. “We should enter Caravel! “

“Oh Paul, what an excellent suggestion, you are very clever and brave and most would say handsome too, you smart little man” I said. Mum and Dad didn’t agreed with me, but they wanted to enter Caravel too! So I booked us three places for a week on Tuesday and gave myself a crisp pizza cake as a reward.

We had 8 days to prepare for Caravel, so to get us all in a fit condition for it, I created a preparation schedule for us all which reads as follows

Tuesday (today) – Apply ointments hyperbolic 4 and 7, wash the unfloatable unicycles, speak with Crimravii about ankle protection, extend Cecil’s left shin 4 Klinkoids, if possible ask Mum about being allowed to view the rules of Bivmivirum and watch the reprimands on the telly.

Wednesday – Apply ointments Creaso 54 and 2.5, file letters B, C and 54 with the department of justice and hope, enter hyper sleep for 20 minutes, have a nap for 50 minutes, go to the toilet and brush my teeth.

Thursday – Have a wank!

Friday – Conditional 7 should be applied, put Cecil in his travel cot, wash the clams and de wash the fear charms.

Saturday – Watch cookery programs all day

Sunday – Take Cecil out of his travel cot, clean his bum, put him back in.

Monday – reprogram all the house droids to murder anyone who comes in the house while were away. (Make sure to add our remaining family/friends to the list of unkillable people, there must not, repeat, not be a massacre like last time!).

Tuesday – Parade the prarvule, de apply any remaining ointments, fill in forms 5,7,39378b then enter Caravel! (HAVE A WEE FIRST!).

Though after half an hour eating constituent crisp snacks, my mother told me not to bother with such a list system as they had been outlawed by the unicheif. All lists, notes, inventories and directories were now illegal and punishable by leg waxing. The public libraries were in utter disarray! So I just said we would have to do some stuff over the next few days.

And for the most part we did, though Dad felt it necessary to write the words “untouchable noodle clamps” on both his fore arms and skin. To this day, I don’t know why!

By Thursday we had been given permission to enter Caravel, waves of nerves swept over my body like Traimilo particles on an Attraxing warship. I took liniment 7 and fell into a deep omni sleep.

While slumbering I had a vision, a thousand drones marching on the streets, banners in hand, firing their weapons at all the humans lining the roads. People fell, as the weapons payloads hit them, people moaning and wailing. The relentless march of the droids continued across the planet, taking humans down where ever they were. Shot after shot after shot. The streets ran red. A world taken over by an army of sex droids, spraying their slippery red love juice all over everyone, causing untold pleasure the second it touches skin. A world of pure pleasure. Then I woke up. I ordered my house droid to clean my sheets.

God I hope that comes true one day, one of the droids had a nipple showing!

In the afternoon I tumbled dried the cat. Then fixed its urine circuits, it kept pissing everywhere.

Parliament man 4 rang up Mum, her ability to enter Caravel was in question as her ankle supports were only mark 3.4 and obviously you need at least a mark 8.6. So we had to get them upgraded.

We traveled to sector three, in zone 15, of district 92 at constituency 329 in the neighbourhood of 4. It took ages, even via trans warp rocket pants. I slept most of the journey, which is a shame because I hit four people on the way, but as the law states “If you’re not conscious, you’re not culpable”.

We waited bloody ages to see Doctor Bad Cheese, the only ankle specialist of any note. Four quick slices and insertions later and Mother had ankles of mark 39! They put mine to shame!

Cecil got very jealous of her new ankle parts and got himself some too. So it’s just me that will have to go through Caravel with slightly dodgy ankles, god help me if I slip!

We decided to take the Prentillan car home, slipping into sedative seats I thought about Caravel, everything I had heard about it filled my mind with wonder, but also fear. I can’t believe Mum or Dad have managed to live this long and not decided to enter it. Oh just think of the memories if we make it all the way through. I fell asleep thinking about what protective clothing I might need.

Time passed and eventually it became the night before we were to go. Everyone had packed their clothes and favourite holographic vision clamps. Cecil fixed axillary 7 to his transmottic eye. Then we sat down for our last meal, Cecil had frozen fire on a cloud of sapphire hope, with a crystalline entity’s soul on a bed of temporal lava, mum had wisps of fragmented Saturn cloud, roasted within an endless fountain of myth, gossamer shards and toasted imagination. I had three pizzas!

The night time! We all slid into the somnia tubes and were deposited in our beds suitable dressed and dosed with sedative 4. But even with this I found sleep hard to come by. The sedative enhanced my dream lobes and I watched as my dreams were projected on the inside of my sleep pod. I dreamt we all entered Caravel, it was a giant enclosed dome, filled with buildings and forests and we had to try and make it to the other side while fighting off deadly plants and animals. This of course couldn’t be further from the truth. Though in the dream only I survived to the end.

While my body rested and my mind played its bizarre games and I watched the imagination in front of me, outside my pod house droid 7 went about its nightly business of cleaning my mess up. Unbeknownst to it, everything it knew was about to change. As it was suckling away my pizza crusts and phlegm excretions, by pure happenstance, a life orb was dropped from one of the roof tubes, entirely by accident. It landed in house droid 7’s AI pouch. Instantly consciousness was transferred and house droid 7 became truly sentient. Unfortunately the second it realised it was alive, an over whelming depression swept across its soul at the realisation that while alive, it was not organic and could never love another of its kind and procreate, so it ripped out its brain circuits and committed suicide. Double unfortunately this started a fire in its veryunobtanium core, which seconds later exploded , starting fires in sectors 3 to 19.

Dad and Mum were ejected from their sleep pods into the garden, a safe distance from the fire. I got stuck in the tubes and had to use my wings and hooves to free myself. We stood on the geomech lawn, the grass warming our feet, as we watched the house expand and contract to contain the fire.

By 6 AM the house had healed and we went back in, 2 hours till Caravel. Everything in the house was new, fresh and clean. We ate the required palliatives and sat with our luggage as we waited to enter. At 8 AM on the dot, the Trimpallia bells sounded, the walls of the house expanded, the droids stacked neatly atop one another, I took Cecil’s hand, he took Mothers, we stepped deftly forward 8 paces, began to chant the sacred words of Caravel

“Oh Caravel

Lest us enter yea

Partake we do

A Bivmirrum untertoe

Let the cillica seal!”

And with that we took a side step into the Prillams and entered Caravel!


Would you like to buy anything?

“There is nothing more daunting to a writer than a blank page” Bibianna Ringworm 1823

Luckily for me I’m not a writer, I’m primarily a care giver, receiver and lover of good crisps! Though the care I give usually comes in the form of helping my elderly father work the remote controls for the TV, Freeview box, Freesat box, Sky box, DVD, VHS, VCR, Blu-Ray, Curtains, Stereo, robot vacuum, retractable toupee conveyer belt and animatronic Margaret Thatcher doll. We really do have a lot of junk! And it mostly doesn’t work, mowestly!

I have a work hard, play hard attitude. For my work, as you all know, I make very popular YouTube videos of me and my father playing computerised video games! The 3 hours a week this takes is utterly exhausting. So to unwind, we will relax playing videofied computer game.

For reasons unknown to me I gave my father a challenge, to ‘create a new device but without using any existing technology’. This meant he couldn’t have it run on electric, clockwork or some such, he had to create a whole new power system. He tried, bless him. By the end of the week he had a lump of wood with some Marmite

God knows!
God knows!

smeared on one end and on the other was 4 pen lids. He broke down weeping as he presented it to me and Mother. When questioned what it was and what its purpose was, he simply said “tasty paperweight”.

But he is an idiot, I however am not, I’m really smart! And so, please, let me inform you of some new products I have to sell unto you, my dearest customer base. Pray, come sit a while and listen to my explanation, contemplation and remuneration of some products what I invented last Wednesday week!

Last Wednesday weak!

Picture the scene in your mind’s brain, a week ago last Wednesday you were woken early, perhaps your nipples had become too aroused, maybe your spouse kicked you in the vagina, or simply, you had solid night farts. So you were up at the ungodly hour of 8am! You skipped breakfast because your only son trapped his kneecap in the fridge and your frogs had burst. The traffic on the way to work was both horrific and slow, then all day at work your boss was riding your back.

The life of a race horse is frantic, hard and should you break a nail, ultimately fatal. But you’re not a horse. But you might feel like one if you have a hectic day for several days in a row. Which then leaves you weak since last Wednesday.

We now have for you a once in a life time offer of a shit load of energy drinks condensed down into a paste which you inject directly into your brain for added stimulation and stamina. 89% of users will think they are 4 Jesus’s and will begin baptising otters. 4% die instantly while the remaining percent go into coma’s*. £15 or there about!

*100% of users die within 78 hours

News Shoes

Shy? Socially useless? Foot fetish? Or have some other reason to be constantly looking at your own feet? Interested in local, internationally local and nation local news? Then news shoes are for yous! The shoe, which looks like a standard man’s brogue has a news ticker tape device subtly welded onto the side, meaning as soon as news has gone across the wire, it is printed out at your foots convenience. You can have optional extras, such as mild electrical shock for that important must see news alert. Or how about the open toad version, made from 100% pure toad skins. All the newest news, with all the style, sophistication and deliciousness of toad skin! £9.9.9

How’s your father?

This new application made exclusively for the iPhone, Android, Windows mobile, Linux and Windows desktop (and all Macs) will keep you updated with constant information on how your father is. The various data displayed are

  • Waist measurement
  • Affection level for ponies
  • Back hair length and dispersal patterns
  • Fear level of clowns, spiders, mimes and youths

    iPhone (cr)apps
    iPhone (cr)apps
  • Fart release proximity
  • Level of forgetfulness of how to use modern technology

All we require is a small chip to be replaced somewhere in your fathers skull hole (or to use the technical term ‘brain pouch’) this will send a signal to a small transmitter located in a bum bag (or for those of you in America ‘Vagina pack’) which then transmits a signal into a much large unit which your father will have to carry in a ruck sack (Ass satchel for our US cousins) which then transmits to your phone, computer or pocket otter. The whole package will set you back £400, with charges of £19.99 for the first 18 months, then your father is downgraded and your monthly charge will be £41 with the option for £19 if you want to pay us more.

I simply cannot abide it!

Miss Prissy is, not just in name, a very prissy miss! She’s a right proper little madam. She comes with 3 dresses, each adorned in bows, frills and ruffles. She comes with her own little house, a nice 18 bed roomed mansion, it’s dead posh! She also had a friend Mr Pert, who ironically isn’t pert at all. They are dolls of the most exquisite quality. You can’t have them! They are too nice for you, you’ll only get them dirty and being dirty is something Miss Prissy simply cannot abide!

Now that’s the products flogged to you, I’d like to discuss the very nature of the universe with you, the reason for existence and what is really going on and why.

But I’m thick as a brick in summer, so I’ll just make up a load of old bollocks

In the very beginning, before anything existed there was not nothing, yet there was not anything. There simply existed everything and yet nothing. It was a yellow colour, apart from the bits that had gone brown. Some parts were a colour you can’t visualise so I won’t be discussing those.

For a long time nothing happened. Yet in another sense everything happened! But in a more real sense absolutely naff all happened for a really long time, like, about 7 years!

Then one day, suddenly, for no reason, there was a burping sound, it lasted 40 months, and during that time, giant balls of hot light started appearing all about the place. They were bloody huge and really hot. Then as if from nowhere, a boardroom appeared, in time 50 old human men appeared, all in suits of material. And thus began the age of creativity.

The board men discussed everything and once they had talked about an idea, it burst into existence.

Ping pong, gold fish, the French, interchangeable screw driver heads, postage and packaging costs, tins of tuna, tuna, tuners, post it notes and the scaffolding work for the Hollywood sign.

Then three weeks later they invented death, sadly they all died later that day in an accident with the flying elephant gun knife they had invented that morning.

And so thus was everything created. For absolutely no reason.

So now if this is the only document to survive our civilisation that is what they might think we believed. Which someone might, I don’t know, people will believe any old cobblers. Which brings me to my final product to try and sell to you!

Any old cobblers

Contemplate this brain picture if you can. It’s 1940, you’re walking along a harbour, the waves smashing over the sea wall like Margaret Thatcher beating a well-wisher. Water is spraying it’s salty foam everywhere, the cold wind lashing at your cheeks, your exposed buttocks wobble in the harsh environment. You turn, begin to run, a wave breaks over the wall, water hits you, washing you away out to sea. You’re tossed this way and that, being pounded hard, as if being pummelled by giant salty fists. Fists pounding you hard and salty! You slip into unconsciousness.

You wake up, dry, in a hut, laying on a bed. There is a lit candle to your left and a window to your right. What do you do?

You look out of the window of course. You’re on a tropical island, palm trees, maidens wearing nothing but coconut bras and pants. A steel drum band is playing and ruining the atmosphere a bit. A man walks into the hut, he offers you a drink, you refuse, you’re angry, confused but not at all racist! You just don’t want the drink, it doesn’t look like it’s in a clean glass, and you don’t know where it’s been or what’s in it. What’s wrong with that? It’s not racist it’s just being careful about what you drink.

You walk outside and die because you were attacked by 400 mating spiders who bit you to death. And so, your belongings are sent to your relatives and as per your wishes, your shoes are given to any old cobblers. And that’s what this service is, as disposal method for your shoes when you die.

Fourteen quid!


Chubby P. Thax GCSE esq (Tesco club card) (license to imagine what a nipple looks like)


Typing into the computer at work to make is sound like you’re working is a very dishonest thing to do. But I bet thousands of people do it every day. Just think of all the nonsense written into computers in the name of ‘pretending to work’. For example this whole paragraph is such text, there is a woman on the phone on the desk opposite me, whom I’m hoping my typing makes her think I’m doing some very hard and important work. I’m not though, I’m so tired I just want to go to sleep! I might draw eyes on my eyelids and have a kip. Under my desk would make for a lovely cosy den if I had a duvet, I would warrant I could get away with it too, no one comes into my section of this room. Though saying that if I did want to sleep the constant sleep farts I suffer from would no doubt give me away. Whilst asleep I often sing the ‘Hello mutha, hello fadder’ song too.

When I say I’m a work, I mean I am sat in our living room, at the writing desk while Cecil is lying on the sofa, writhing this way and that because he is poorly. I want him to think I’m doing work because he’s asked me to write him a story to help him get to sleep. While mum is on the phone talking to her sister, not technically at a desk, she’s sat on the foot rest, it looks like it might buckle under her weight at any moment. I would love to video that at high speed so I could slow it down and see the look on her shocked face as she fell! She’d hate that, you can’t mock her if she does something wrong, god help you if you laugh at her failing! Or falling!

But poor Cecil, he is poorly. He’s got tonsillitis an affliction which I myself am just about recovered from. It’s been round the Thax house hold like a demented throat demon bent on causing agony the inner mouths of every Thax alive.

If you have never had tonsillitis, let me explain the horrors one is subjected to during this horrific illness. Firstly you have a slightly sore throat, nothing too bad, you shrug it off “Oh I’ll just drink a honey lemoney beverage, that will sooth my boo boo”. One delicious drinky later and all is fine. For half an hour. Then the ache is back. 24 hours later the throat is raw, sore and red as road kill. This is the point at which you should run to the doctors and beg for medicines! Because as I found out, waiting to see if it improves on its own will not do you any favours!

My throat got bad, and by bad I don’t mean “ohh that’s a bit sore, I better have an aspirin” I mean “AAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHH my throat was raped in the night by a monster with razor wire for a penis!” it got bad late on a Friday night, and my doctors don’t work weekends. So I had to endure the horrors over Saturday and Sunday. By the time Saturday morning had come, my throat was riddled with ulcers. Swallowing was about as pleasant as running a red hot poker over my nipples, and so because it hurt so very much to swallow, my body decided to produce copious amounts of saliva to help increase my agony. My own aural cavity had turned against me, it was war. Biological war! My weapons of choice were hot Lemsip’s and lozenges. The Lemsips helped for several minutes, slightly elevating the pain. The lozenges may as well have been taken as a suppository for all the good they did! To combat any attempts to cure myself, my body decided to use throat to body missiles which once impacted caused a fever. And not a saucy Saturday night kind of dance fever, no, more a dripping with sweat, incapable of sleep fever. And when I did sleep, the dreams were both frantic and horrific in nature.

By late Saturday night I was in agony. My little throat boo boo was now a kin to a nuclear waste ground. The charred remains of my uvula dangled helplessly in the burnt foul smelling breeze. My tonsils, little more than fleshy lumps of ulcerated matter and my throat, a swollen throbbing tube of agony. It was time to break out the big guns! Some ultra chloraseptic throat spray was bought. This claimed to numb pain in seconds! So I sprayed it all on my throat, hoping it would act be as effective as napalm in the 60’s and decimate any agony I felt!

It worked! My whole throat was numb! It felt very odd, very swollen but numb! Thoughts shot through my head, until this point I hadn’t eaten any solid food since Friday morning. In my fever I began to imagine and hallucinate a feast! Roast mutton, a whole hog, a goose as big as a boy, tables of cake, buckets of crisps, a bath full of twigglets, troughs over flowing with melted chocolate and hats bursting with cheeses. I rushed into the kitchen and made marmite on toast, then began to eat it!

That was a mistake!

Upon the delicious salty yeast extract coming into contact with my many ulcers, the pain returned and returned 10 fold! I may as well have been gargling with shattered light bulbs, that’s certainly how my body interpreted the sensation of marmite on ulcers. What possible benefit is there in being able to feel such horrific pain in your throat? Yes I can understand it on any external part of your body, pains the bodies way of telling you that something’s bad or damaged and needs attention. But there was nothing I could do about this, I was aware it was poorly, making it utter agony didn’t help the situation at all.

Sunday came and went, I spent most of the day in bed or at my computer, sweating and not swallowing. I must have been ill because I remember just lying on the sofa watching mums loose woman that she’d taped. Though technically she hadn’t taped it, but I don’t know what it’s called when you record things on these modern non VCR machines. Then late on Sunday night, just as I thought this couldn’t get much worse, my body decided to throw a little agony spanner in the works. In the form of a cough. So now, not only was I dripping with sweat, my throat was in terrible pain and I felt dreadful, now I had a cough to deal with. As you can imagine this took me into new realms of pain, every time I coughed it would sound like “couhhhghh AGGH uuughnn UUUGH” cough followed by whimper of pain followed by cough followed by whimper.

Finally Monday morn came, and I was up at the crack of dawn, mostly because I was bursting for a wee wee. The other deeply unpleasant symptom of it was my mouth and throatal zones were constantly dry, arid, like a camels anus in the height of summer, so I would have to drink a bath’s worth of water every hour. Thus meaning I was going for a widdle constantly. Which was deeply inconvenient at half past three at night, now I know how my father feels, what with his walnut size wee pouch!

Finally a doctor’s appointment was made, and several short hours later penicillin was prescribed. But my agony didn’t end there, both Monday and Tuesday were filled with terrific pains, coughs and spazams. Then finally by Wednesday, the gaping hell holes had sealed, the agony was now just a low painful tingle. Come Wednesday evening, I ate my first bag of crisps in a week. They tasted weird. Recovery was quite rapid from then on, and by Friday night I was back eating 15 bags of crisps an hour and loving every minute of it!

And now my father is on the sofa watching loose woman, holding his throat begging for ice cream! Well I didn’t get any ice cream so he can sod right off!

Oh the pain

Oh the pain
Oh the pain