Monday, 31 January 2011

Thirty One

Off to the rooftops again for the Mack Daddy.

Mack tells people he's a gossip columnist. Which is in some ways true.

It's just that he happens to report to a higher power than Heat magazine. And the gossip he gets has the power to crush entire business empires rather than fragile ladies' self esteems.


I am terribly sorry this one is late. I had it written last night but er, fell asleep. Sorry chaps!

The curious Grumbleton Fumbler
Is a marvelously unusual beast,
He chunters and trundles,
Meanders and tumbles,
From the corners of West to the East.
The curious Grumbleton Fumbler,
Never cares about being much thinner,
He peruses green groves,
With a dilligent nose,
Searching for mushroomy dinner.

Saturday, 29 January 2011

Twenty Nine: White Cat Weeps

The white cat whistled in the wind,
A remnant of what once was
And viewed her home: solemnly, intangible
Through the clouded window by the silver birch.

The birds, unmoved by her non presence,
Tittered and flitted through her
As she gazed into the living room.

With as much fondness as a cat can muster,
She stared and thought of how
This was her chair or that was her bowl,
Or that was the woman who opened the door and called
Some kind of sound that was at once strange and familiar

Almost as though it had once belonged to her.

Friday, 28 January 2011

Twenty eight

The stuffed animals were plotting. Soon, they would descend from their lofty position suspended from the ceiling and steal the little rotter's undeserved orange juice.

Thursday, 27 January 2011

Twenty Seven

The modern mummy tapes his eyes
And face with masking tape,
He sleeps in a casket made of gaffa
And at night he's kept awake

With restless thoughts of Kings and Queens
Who died and were embalmed;
Of weighted hearts and heart eaters,
Of afterlives and calm.

The modern mummy goes to bed,
And sleeps 'til half past three,
As though he's scared to wake the dead,
Until he wakes and makes some tea.

Wednesday, 26 January 2011

Twenty six

Exceedingly tired
She fell asleep at her desk
Head in a tea towel

Tuesday, 25 January 2011

Twenty five!

"Until you start getting up at the crack of dawn to pray to your giant bird god, I don't think you're one to talk to me about dedication."

Monday, 24 January 2011

Twenty Four: Steve should never have gone to Paris

The scientists faced the universal kilogram, bowled over by the weight of its reverential mass. With clipboards and white coats they scrutinised its features. They viewed it almost like an ancient, once majestic beast losing its power. What had happened to the master kilogram, they asked each other in hushed voices. Why was it losing weight?

Silence, scribbling. Silence.

And then, from the back, a voice piped up like a mouse raising its head from shelter.

“If the master kilogram continues to get lighter and if the world continues the way it’s going…”

The rest of the scientists turned to face the owner of the voice, ears pricked to its reasonable tones. The owner shuffled, uncomfortably.

“… Erm, I mean, if you think about it, people will be more obese than ever before but actually weigh less. Funny, innit?”


Sunday, 23 January 2011

Twenty three

The space jellyfish came to John in the night. He was used to it by now and did not even bother to lift his head out of the fridge.


it demanded.

John unscrewed the milk and sniffed it experimentally, "Sorry mate, you know I can't. Mum's orders. I don't even know where it is."

The jelly fish did not respond and continued to hover patiently.

John closed the fridge and turned to look at the floating gelatinous mass, "I think she might, you know, sleep with it nestled to her or something? Maybe she's buried it?"


said the jelly fish


Saturday, 22 January 2011

Twenty two: Some day I'll get mine


The advertisement dangled alluringly in front of my face. I'd stopped walking; my face glued to the shop window by some kind of magnetic force (or the oil of my skin, I wasn't too sure). It twinkled in the shining corner shop frontage and my eyes twinkled too in the dim and dirty reflection.


Of course I did! Me, in untied shoelaces and full length school tie. Bent glasses, bowl haircut: the kind of kid that goes out at the weekends for a milkshake with his nan (which I enjoyed, by the way) instead of destroying things, wreaking havoc and stealing Mars Bars as all future revolutionaries should.



There was no questioning it. People didn't question posters promising great things any more than they questioned the universal benevolence of the Green Lantern Corps.

I turned left that day, into the side street by the corner shop.

I did not encounter a soul enriching experience, or attain, "badassery". I lost my lunch money; my dignity and returned home resembling a swollen panda.

I have never listened to a poster since.

Wednesday, 19 January 2011


Nikolai Mooncat went to space
In a beautiful pea green ship,
He took some ‘nanas, one pair of pyjamas,
And plenty of breadsticks and dip.
Nikolai gazed out the porthole cabin
And said to a small space fish,
    “Oh, dearest fishy! Oh fishy my dear!
     I don’t have a clue where I am,
     Not a clue where I am,
     No really, I am very lost.
     I don’t think ordnance survey maps exist for space.

Tuesday, 18 January 2011


Dying, the old king
Regrets saying, "You try,
running a country!"

Monday, 17 January 2011

Saturday, 15 January 2011


Me and Julie started a club. We call it the, "Fuck Beiber" club, because all the other girls seem to be all about fucking Beiber. Fuck that. We made the rules and we don't have a tree house (but we do have a tree, so we can make all our world domination plans there).

 I think everyone thinks we're dykes. The rules tell you what I think about that. I think we need another sheet of paper for some more.

Friday, 14 January 2011

Fourteen: For Vin

Multi storey car parks are classy places, but it was ultimately where she ended her Campari Quest; a mountainous adventure for that elusive almondy elixir, unaviablable in the aisles of ASDA, Tescos, Morrisons or other well known supermarkets.

But here she was after scouring the land, exhausting every big name supermarket chains and the small, hidden shops she found on her trips in between them. It had come to this, the secret Campari man in a van, doling out doses of the precious liquid.

The grey sky rolled past them: bottle and money were exchanged. She scurried home with her precious cargo and it was only when she got there, bottle steadied above her glass that she noticed the post it note: “I think you can get it in House of Fraser. x”

Thursday, 13 January 2011


For years, physicists have pondered over Captain Methering's black hole eye. Where did it come from? Why has it not absorbed the rest of Methering himself into his murky depths? These are the questions I sought answers to when I hunted down the reclusive Methering.

Fully aware that this is a once in a lifetime occurrence, having this titan of a man with an eye that is more than nothingness directly in front of me, I pluck up the courage to ask him the question.

Naive, perhaps, but one that no one had dared ask.

"When did your eye become a black hole?"

The silent, stony man shuffles in his seat. He leans towards me and points a stout finger into the abyss inhabiting one side of his face,

"I were twelve. And some lad chucked a pencil at me."

"A pencil?"

"Yeah. But from the science museum, it were."

Wednesday, 12 January 2011


For all the good in the world I could not stop them, those three hurtling graces falling from heaven: burning up, speeding towards the city. Though, they looked quite slow from where I viewed them: far, far away, from the window.

No one knew why the planes had fallen. Terrorists, a pilot suicide pact, I had heard the care workers say as though I wasn’t there - as though my hearing aid was switched off. We watched the window, horrified, quaking, thinking of lives potentially lost. Even those too senile to understand what was going on wailed in their armchairs; had to be calmed.

And then, remarkably, in the sky, three dots too small for planes and too large for birds pelted into the sky, buffeting the falling wrecks and softening their fall. Silence as they floated down. No crashes. No screams. We could not see they had landed but imagined the groove in the concrete as those superhuman dots slowed the plane’s drop to a feather light touch.

The breath we held exuded itself in whoops, cheers and cries of adulation. Care workers hugged us (we must not smell as badly of oldness and prunes as one girl had once complained), hugged each other. In the midst of all these celebrations, Agatha leaned over and said to me,

“Remember when we used to do that?”

“Yes,” I said, “and remember the costumes! Imagine the friction burn they’re suffering now. Imagine the wedgies.

We laughed and awaited the celebratory cups of tea.

Tuesday, 11 January 2011

Monday, 10 January 2011


Somewhere in the darkened street,
Past the ever flocking fleet of taxis
And those night time bastards
Who tower, swagger after you,
But give up quick, weighed down by booze,

And under all the loose odd socks,
The dying pens, the cardboard box
That you forgot was ever there;
The things that, thrown away, strip bare
Your room and all your intuitions.

And underneath there’s still ambition,
Bubbling underneath the skin and
Letting in the light and magic,
Straying up from underbellies,
All over the world.

(Under all this is a small wizard).

Sunday, 9 January 2011


Sometimes, God listens. Not because certain prayers are more worthy or certain persons more pure, but because he is bored. Occasionally, God tunes into the human race and decides it might be funny to interfere.

Most of God’s action or inaction can be blamed on absenteeism or boredom. New species discovered in the Amazon? God got bored and made a new one. One of his particularly favourite tricks is to hide all the pandas to make everyone think they are endangered.

In fact, there are thousands hidden in a small rift in time. It’s just that no scientist has ever dared suggest having a, “proper good look” instead of setting up a complex, costly breeding programme.

P.S: In the interest of racial equality, I have made God green in this picture. The little green men of this planet are highly overlooked.


And so begins the torrent of terrible improvised songs!


"Grateful as I am, I don't think this lumbering beast is an effective cupcake transportation device."


Thursday, 6 January 2011


I'm going to London for a little bit (to draw toys and kick ass), but will still be doing my stories and should have three by the time I come back.

I.O.U three stories and that fiver you lent me that time.

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

Tuesday, 4 January 2011


Not everyone knows about it, but deep in the recesses of every human mind lies a portal to a far away land. It may or may not contain dinosaurs, depending on your viewpoint of dinosaurs and how sociable they are feeling on the occasion you visit them.

Sigmund Freud knew about it; he discovered it by accident, but opted to keep it a secret from the world on the grounds that, “I’ve shocked them enough already. They’re going to start thinking I’m being silly soon.”

Anyone in a coma knows about it, although if you know anyone who has ever been in a coma they will point blank deny this knowledge. This is because they are made to sign confidentiality agreements when they arrive.

Alice knew about it. What else could Wonderland be? I like to imagine she only dictated her memoirs to Mr. Dodgson and all the while he tentatively expressed his fears.

 With all due respect, people are going to make the most dreadful gossip out of this, Alice.”

And of course I know about it.

But I only use it as a place to hide my midget gems.

Monday, 3 January 2011

Sunday, 2 January 2011


The Princess had been crying for two days now.

Her high pitched wails resounded through the castle, winding through nooks and crannies that even the smallest servant could not fit into (somewhere, the royal mice were blocking their ears and bemoaning this terrible noise).

A chandelier, the day before, had been broken and while this was probably because the castle had been swindled by a pair of moonlighters promising to install it cheaply without a clue as to what they were doing, the rumours persisted that this breakage was down to the Princess’ resonate bawling.

The King and Queen had at first been sympathetic to her plight, knocking tentatively at her door and leaving her dinners outside (which she left, untouched). Now they paced wearily around their chambers. Misery was rife: the kitchen staff had only just threatened to leave, and the Queen did not imagine they would be placated by her gift of cork earplugs and free cabbages for long.

A sob wracked the castle and the King tore a large chunk out of his hair, “Oh, make it stop!”

The Queen, silently and tiredly thought. She had attempted talking to her daughter (suspecting that her misery was partly due to her being banned from attending a party on the grounds that if she could not afford the bus fare, she certainly could not take the Fairy Godmother’s pumpkin coach) but to no avail. Her daughter had not opened the door and only sobbed upon questioning.

“I think,” murmured the Queen, at a loss to a solution, “That we should call the Doctor.”


Doctor Stotts had been in the Princess’ room for quite some time. So long in fact, that some thing of a crowd had formed around the King and Queen, handkerchiefs held nervously to their mouths.

They waited. And waited. And finally, the crying stopped. It did not subside, but came to a halt, as though someone had pressed the off switch.

A reedy, grey man poked back through the door. He cleared his throat, straightened his collar and looked grey and solemn.

The King, Queen and shuffling crowd of house servants held their breath.

“I am afraid,” began Doctor Stotts, his beady eyes wavering nervously beneath his bushy brows, “That the Princess has turned into a cassette player.”

“Somehow, ducks,” piped up the gardener from the back, “I don’t think that’s quite right.”

Saturday, 1 January 2011


Nurse Anna had not expected to find Daniel so blithe and alert. But here he was, sat up in the bed and beaming warmly, as though watching her coming to open the blinds and make morning small talk was the greatest thing in the world.

She was frankly surprised he was upright at all, given the military precision tucking of hospital bed sheets.

Nurse Anna parted the blinds, letting in the dim, grey morning light. She looked over to Daniel could not help staring at the bandages on his wrist. They looked, she thought, a little like they could be tribal paint.

“And how are you this morning?” She queried.

“Not bad,” he replied, looking thoughtfully to the ceiling (the only thought that occurred was that it was rather dirty), “I’ve decided to give it up.”

“Give what up?”

“Oh, you know, being dead miserable.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, yeah, I mean…” He either ignored or did not see her cocked brow and continued, “It takes a lot of effort, being upset all the time. And whenever I think I’ve reached the pits, there always seems to be some hope.”

She smiled at him absentmindedly, “Can you pass me that pillow to fluff?”

“Of course,” Daniel duly obliged and spread his hands in a way he hoped would be honest, “I guess what I’m saying is: I just don’t think I’m very good at it. Misery.”

Anna propped the pillow behind his head, “Maybe you should take up gardening.”