Wednesday, 20 February 2013

How I Learnt the Truth about Learning the Truth

I haven’t been on blogging on my bloggity blog blog for a while because I have been away. Far, far away: Travelling the whole entire wide world and in my magical travels of wonder and amazement I heard about a wonderful guru person that could tell me everything I needed to know about whatever I wanted to ask. 

When I heard about this great and sage wise woman I decided that I needed to have a bit of a check-in with her as I haven’t had any visions or dreams of any great significance since Dr Oetker told me to take over the world. He’d then promptly buggered off leaving me tired, confused and lactose intolerant.

I want to know exactly how, in a step by step plan, I’m supposed to win the favour of millions and become queen of the world. So I went to a funny little completely imaginary place called ‘Delphi’ and found this oracle woman sitting in a cave.

“Look” she said wobbling slightly on her wobbly stool, I think she had tooth ache, either that or a really disturbing twitch. “Look” she said. I think she’d forgotten her train of thought but she got back on track after a drag on the vapour wafting up from her crack. 

Her crack on the floor! You hideously, dirty, minded gits!

“If you want minions—”

“I do I do!” I shouted back enthusiastically, causing some of the people in the queue to whisper amongst themselves about the drop in quality of the latest darklings attending these kinds of sinister underworld meetings. 

“Shut up!” She replied. I respected her for that. “If you want minions” she said “You can’t sit around like an overfed swamp goblin waiting for them to come to you. You have to at least let them know you exist.”

“Oh what do I do, oh great and mighty one!?” I didn’t choose to address her like that, I am not that grovelling, even when I need something. It just so happened that was the way I addressed her in the script. So I was forced to say those words, either that or pay a farthing and I had just given my last farthing to a midget claiming to be a soup dragon, I had been suspicious but intrigued. He danced for me for a full seven minutes, by which time I had grown bored and hungry, so I punched him in the head and stole his miniature accordion. It tasted of French sadness.

“You could build a castle on a hill.” She said, twirling a lock of silver hair, it wasn’t her hair, I wasn’t quite sure where she had got it from. I looked at her for a moment, perplexed and befuzzled and then I remembered what we were talking about.

“I’ve already done that, they turned it into a museum.” I was sad at the loss of my great castle, I had liked that castle, its roasts and parties, its huge tapestries, the sound of screaming echoing up from the dungeon – however it just isn’t the same with a gift shop and a never ending array of disinterested children wafting through the doors and poking things.

Unscrupulous, we looked at one another, trying to work out if we were both unscrupulous or whether it was just one of us, if so… which one.

“Digital.” She shrieked! Almost wobbling off the wobbly stool.

I peered at her, wondering if it was still me she was addressing or the imp with long fingers, wearing fox gloves.

“You must go digital.” Her eyes had gone completely white. I didn’t know if she was tuned into receiving messages from beyond or if she had accepted a sponsorship deal from Virgin Media.

“Compootor?” I whispered my question, questioningly.

“You must spread the contagion of your mind amongst the internet ones.”

There was a loud crash as a dustcart toppled over, spilling its rainbow contents to the ground, the rainbows sparkled around the room, shooting from wall to wall and creeping up my nose causing my breath to be slightly stifled in concern. I assumed at this point that her crack vapour was getting to me.

“I know this!” I harked, angrily due to the anger such a statement had incurred within me. “I know word of me must be spread, but how? How must it be spread?”

“Spread?” She said

“Yes, spread.” I said.

“Spread.”

“Spread.”

“Spread.”

“Spread.”

We continued like this for quite some time until eventually she clipped me around the ear and I was carried away by a Shetland pony. He called himself Smith, but he had a distinctly Norwegian accent.

I was devastated beyond devastation and skulked away from the mountains of Delphi no nearer my answer than when I had arrived.

I foolishly drowned my sorrows in some dubious troll mead and proceeded to drunkenly shout “She’s a farcical fakeroo!” at the queue waiting patiently to see the oracle, but they politely refused to look in my direction, save a small child that whispered “Why is that hag lady wearing pyjamas?” but its mother shushed the child, and once again I was escorted away, secure in the knowledge that even the most worshiped of gurus are talking out of their cracks.

Sunday, 3 February 2013

POISON!

Inspired by a blog much better than mine, I'm going to relate to you my terrible story of lactose intolerant woe, using cartoons wot I did by meself

Don't expect it to be funny.

A Story about a Poisoning

Right I’m not going to go into depth about who poisoned who, or how the poisoning was done. All you need to know is there was poison involved.

The sickest most evil type of poison in existence – the kind of poison that is squeezed out of a heffer and left to rot until it congeals then all the juicy rot is dribbled away and the resultant soft and squidgy brick of stinky rot is left for weeks until it goes all mouldy and then its served to you like some delicate fragrant ambrosia of the gods, usually by the French.

Well this poison was disguised, like polonium in tea, and I had no sense of what was happening to me until it was too late. 

OH IT WAS TOO LATE!!

I sit here bemoaning my fate to you, relating this sad tale but you cannot truly know how I suffer!

When the icy hand of pain stands beside you, casting its long shadow over your face, you know that the pain is near, you can feel its breath upon you, you know it will strike! You know it will strike out at you any moment but there is nothing you can do!

NOTHING! 

You must wait for the pain to come and suck you into its little sucky hole – this is not pleasant but it is not the last of the unpleasantness it is only the START of the unpleasentness. 

It is followed by the sleep. The curse of the sleep.

This is not nice sleep, this is not cuddly lovely sitting in a blanket looking out at the world and thinking ‘ahhhh’ sleep. NO! You have that wrong, you do not know what the curse of the sleep is. You have no idea you hateful nonbelievers!

The curse of the sleep is a veil of darkness, not a soft and lovely light wifty veil – a heavy weighty block of concrete that pushes down on your eyes with both of its thumbs, it sits on your chest and stops you from moving.

the 'curse of sleep' is invisible
 ‘You want that glass of water do you? The one on the side table? Oh you want that do you?’ it asks, in its special voice reserved for taunting you ‘go on’ it says, ‘get the water, what’s stopping you?’ you try to reach out with your hand, your heavy hand, you didn’t know it was made of lead and gold and other heavy things but now you see that it is, a hand so heavy it cannot reach the water and couldn’t lift it anyway, your mouth is dry, your body is weak, your head is feeling the pincers of dehydration piercing into the skull, right at the soft bit behind the eyes, your tongue is naught but salt and sand; but you cannot reach the water. The water will make it all good, but the water is out of reach and you must sleep, you must be pulled under the thick black veil of accursed sleep until you are rested. 

But this is a curse of sleep. A curse I say! And since when will a curse be gone from you so easily?

For this is not a sleep of resting! You are a fool if you believe this! For you will awake just as tired as before. You will wake as if coming up for air in a blackened sea of tar that pulls you beneath its waves. 

in case you didn't work it out: this is me, in a sea of tar

You will not rest in this sea of sleep, only weaken. 

But the water is so close, the water is but a breadth of a gnats wing away. Determination to cure the pain spurs you on to reach the water. It has a bit of dust on the surface because it has been sitting there for so long and ordinarily you would go and fetch another glass but right now, right now there are no other glasses, those other glasses are a century away, a different world, a world unreachable and all you have is this, this slightly dusty water. So you drink it. You gulp it down, the water that cleanses you, the water that purifies you, the water that cures you of all ills. All ills, but this.

The curse of sleep stays with you until it is gone. It stays until it grows bored of your pain, you cannot hope to shift it, you cannot hope to cure it – you will only anger it.

You must wait. Wait in patience and misery while it steals your lifeblood, like a demon vampire – a really fat and heavy demon vampire – and then, when it is at its fattest and its heaviest, it will finally release you. It will slide off and lurch away to hide in the shadows, waiting until the next time it sees that you are weak.



For now, it is over – my thoughts are once again my own, my hands are not so heavy and can be used to tap tap my story onto the tap tap machine, but I am forever alert, forever aware of my nemisis and forever vigilant.

Other than that my week was pretty quiet.