Lulled By Lullabye-byes

When I was a wee little Keith my mummy-kins used to sing lullabyes to me... ah, fond memories. I sang these to my own younglings. Here is one of my personal faves:

Pissing in the wind some days,
just pissing in the wind
today's a fuckin right off man,
just pissing in the wind
Are you bouquet today?
No, I'm fucking weeds.
Forget your sliming rhyming words
There's no fucking answers here
I'm just pissing in the wind

Wank Song

I like to wank
it is pleasure for free
I like to wank
I does it for me
Get my tadger
in my hand
Play it like a
one-man band
Catch cum in a
wankerchief
stealing pleasure
light hand relief...

Monty Is A Wise Weasel

Monty is a wise weasel, oh yes he is (and don't let him hear you calling him an otter!!!). This is Monty during one of our Sylvanian Family Community days out. He is wearing his best dress. Doesn't he look smart.

Shadows Cast Within the Church

Here stands the church of St Andrew at Great Dunham in West Norfolk. It is one of the few surviving churches in Norfolk, that pre-dates the Norman Conquest. It is dateable through a series of architectural 'clues', which excite Dave and I, but the details of which I will spare you here. I cannot begin to imagine the countless 'invisible' people who have passed through these doors over the years. However, I can be quite sure that this wonderful building has never been witness to such extraordinary scenes as those that took place in there today.

For this is a tale of intruigue, deception and, ultimately - MURDER! No ink is black enough to describe the darkness of the tale involving this little critter here, Binky. I am still too stunned and upset to provide you with a coherent account. However, during the next few days I will try and recount the dreadful end which Binky met here.

Murder in The Church

It should have been just another informative Sylvanian Family Community Day Out. There's Monty the wise weasel talking about the Late Saxon dating evidence in the church of Great Dunham. It should have been a positive educational experience - a harmless piece of Antiquarian investigation followed by tea and jelly in the car. However, just as the clouds drift grey over the sun, this was destined to be a day touched with tragedy. As your eyes shall see, the evil eyeless Binky paid a terrible price for his intrusion upon the Sylvanian's. It should have been us all singing in the car afterwards, not sitting in sullen silence, with Haylett's tiny body lying limp on the dashboard...

Following the discovery of Binky's flattened body, the rural sleuth, P.C. Badger went into action. Monty applied his forensic intelligence to the investigation, and in no time they were interrogating Elvin, who they themselves had caught fighting with Binky a few moments before the long eared psychopath's demise. Following this piece of deductive sleuthing, the defiant Elvin - "Yo Muvverfuckers, leave the dude alone. I'm goin to tha Man. Tha Man'll kick yo sorry asses, dudes!" - was led away by P.C. Badger.

All the while, unnoticed, Haylett Owl slipped off and flew the short distance to the nearby Chief Executive's Oak in Money Maker Woods. It was there that Dave the Dan and I found her sad little carcass swaying lifeless in the branches. We will never know her thoughts. Was it guilt, or was she murdered? Twit-twoo-dunnit, that is the question?

Hard to Explain...

Waiting at the bus-stop the other day, it was a joyously beautiful day. I was rubbing my hands together with delight, which seemed to disconcert other folk waiting with me. Not difficult to explain per se - except that I had my penis between them at the time...

Toying With Reality

Monty the wise weasel - not a toy!

Monty is driving me nuts! Thinks he's a toy all of a sudden...

"You're not a toy Monty, you're a wise little weasel, that's what you are mate," says I. But still he won't be comforted...

"I'm a toy I tell you Keith - a flippin' inanimate, pointless little plaything..."

"No, no, no! You're a..."

"... an object upon which you project your infantile fantasies, you sad little freak Keith!"

Well, that wasn't very nice was it. Still, the eloquence with which he expresses himself only serves to reassure me completely that I'm not having conversations with my daughter's toys...

The Mystery of Dazel Rono Ontago

Today I was revisiting some research I did a few years ago, when I noticed a seemingly random list of words scribbled in my distinctive scrawl on the inside cover of the folder. These are the words:

• Dazel Rono Ontogo
• Eco Boy
• Wankpants
• Poland!

I have absolutely no idea what this is about; no recall about the context or meaning of this whatsoever. If it were not for the fact that it is written in my hand I would've probably assumed that someone else had been scribbling in my books. This has left me wondering - what's it all about? In fact, as I walked along on the way to a meeting this afternoon I found myself absent-mindedly mumbling the incantation - 'Dazel Rono Ontogo, Eco Boy, Wankpants, Poland...' [say it out loud please].

The Snoog & I

Recently, I have developed a penchant for knitwear. There is nothing I like better than to recline in a comfy chair in my knitted body-stocking with hood, and sit in silence with my new pal, The Snoog.

The Snoog has a towling body and a sullen underslung fish mouth, fringed by a blonde roof of hair. We flick through Sixties pattern books together and I occasionally punch him in the gob - a random act of violence which, as The Snoog himself declares, is 'an act of irrationalist randomness sure to crack the edifice of petit bourgeois complacency' (not so random actually - it's comments like this that tend to prompt my rather unbecoming outbursts of physical rage). 

Anyway, gotta go now as I'm absolutely kippered, and I've got to be up early for a delivery of angry dolly limbs which Aunty Gary has asked me to collect on his behalf. 

Concerning Ladies With Large Heads...

Today I realised that I have a liking for ladies with big heads. When I look at them from a distance they look like glamorous tadpoles to me. 

Appraisal

A look can say so much. And there I sat, smiling knowingly as I stared into the eyes of my boss during my appraisal. Looking into those scared eyes, I got the message...

"Keith, to my mind you're a despicable little shit who insists on having his own ideas and challenging mine. What is more, I get the distinct impression that you have blown my cover. I might not be able to do my job, and I might, therefore, make it my business to crack the whip in diversionary displays of petty power-play, but just remember this, you despicable little shit; whatever the rights or wrongs - I HAVE THE POWER."
... blah-di-blah-di-blah... and I have a shack surrounded by weeds; a place of mind where I am free to be ME in all my splendid silliness. 

Alas, bullies and power-trippers; corporate constrictors; puffed-up nobodies full of grim reality. It's like a cancer, they're everywhere. I admit it - there was a time when I tried to play their game. I'd wear my pin-striped bikini for interviews and walk like I had a metronome up my arse, but it wasn't true me. 

... now I have a shack surrounded by weeds; a place of mine where I am free to play and be ME in all my splendid absurdiness. I have that power.

Instead...

I was going to write about how the humidity of this stormy evening turned my milk to cheese. I was going to write about my obsession with Uncle Les' pock-marked neck. I was going to write about the traumatic effect of the under-cooked egg which my Aunty Joyce served up to me when I was a younger being. I was going to write about the time the old lady got her leg trapped in the automatic door of the bus, and how I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of her hopping along as the bus pulled away. I was going to write about how a couple of curious children are going to pull George Bush's legs off and roast his stumps in the sun, "because it's just a phase they're going through, bless 'em." I was going to write about...

But in the end I chose to do this instead...

Muddling Sense

Preamble...


A most perplexing development. It all started a few days ago with what I thought to be a small cut on my finger. I paid it no particular heed at the time - until, that is, I heard the voice.
"What is it!" I cried.
Some people around me gave me queer sideways glances in their very English way. I was at Dan's pyromaniac party, held at his country retreat. It must be the drink talking I thought, as I suspiciously examined a whisky bottle (I am teetotal you see). The drink was saying nothing though. So there I was, in the middle of a scintillating conversation with a volumptuous bald lady, with a head like a potato and an extremely small face - when it happened again.
"Eeek!"
The cry left my anguished lips completely involunantarily (try saying that after x6 joints and a bottle of something strong, Mack!!). What was it! Where was this tiny whisper coming from? It seemed to be emanating from the direction of my glass of alcohol-free absinthe. I was in the process of investigating this improbable possibility when it sounded once again...

And that was the stomach clenching, ring-piece flexing moment of terror when I realised that the small nick on my finger, was actually a tiny little mouth. A tiny mouth with a chilling message -
"Kill Dan..."

Later, on the bridge...


I love this photo, and the 'play' between the 'reality' of our feet, and the 'ghost' of our reflections (together with the pretentious nuance of the over-used quotation marks I liberally used on that sentence... I'm a bit of a wanker, don't yer know!). It was Dan's idea to take this picture, and mine to twist it to this narrative. What a team we are! 


Well, it's time for me to hit the hay now. Dan & I will now wave a watery 'goodbye' to you, loyal and patient Reader...

Canon Frockhart-Felatio-Wilson

I have a mind-squatter living in my head. Some time ago I learned that his name is Canon Frockhart-Felatio-Wilson. This is what the old fella looks like:

The Canon, relaxing with his pets.
This morning, whilst enjoying a Brazilian in The Room of Mirrors, I saw him peering out of my left eye, the whiskery little bastard!
"Get otta there you whiskery little bastard!" I exclaimed.
I could see him mouthing some words, but I could hear nothing. Only Monty has ever spoken to him; and that is on those rare occasions when the Canon "takes the air" through one of my ears. 

Most of us have mind-squatters, only we just don't realise. I hope, one day, to become a mind-squatter myself. It would be interesting to get into other people's heads and occasionally pop thoughts into their consciousness. And now I'm off to play with Mrs Grumpy and her collection of dolly limbs. Bye!

Window-Brain World - A Very Different Reality

A VERY DIFFERENT REALITY: Here in Window-Brain world every one can see what you are thinking. Our thoughts are displayed on a small viewing window on our foreheads. I sometimes use a mirror to see what I am really thinking. Hat production is our biggest industry.

Dear Stanley...

I bought this LP a couple of months ago for pennies in a charity shop. It is a jazzy/funky esoteric piece by the great bass player, Stanley Clarke (and it features, among others, my favourite drummer, Steve Gadd). 

Anyway, I noticed something of interest on the sleeve notes. There is a message which says (and I quote):
"If you'd like to write to me - I'd love to hear from you! If you'd like a reply, send a self-addressed envelope to me, c/o Theta Management, Inc., P.O. Box 498, Huntingdon, New York 11743."

Well that's right friendly and welcoming, so I have decided to write to him. It has been pointed out to me by a sensible person that this pledge was made in 1975, but I have no doubt that Stanley will write back. Look at him sitting there by the window, waiting... I believe in the man!


Here's what I wrote...



"Dear Stanley,
It is November 2006, and I am listening to your album, 'Journey to Love' - had me dancing in my leotard earlier, it did! Anyway, I noticed on the cover reverse that you want people to write to you, so here we are.

My name is Keith and I live in England, in a magical place we call, 'The Weedy Shack'. I hang out here with my best buddy, Dan, and all our other menagerie of friends and characters. In particular, we are graced here by the presence of an incredibly precocious three inch high wise weasel called Monty. He is (metaphorically speaking) a huge fan of yours, and, indeed, turned me on to your funky bass licks.

You may recall that you have met Monty, Dan and I back in 1975, when you were sitting by the window and we gate-crash your tranquility in our unlikely time machine. In case you need your memory jogging a little, I was the one wearing a black crush-velvet bikini; you know, the geezer with the beehive hairdo (composed from back-combing my shoulder hair, incidently!). It really was a pleasure to meet you in person, and I'd just like to say that we think that your reaction to 'the incident' was very gracious. We agreed that you were one seriously classy cat Stanley, sitting there so patiently and peaceful. You the Man!

Salutations!
~ Keith"

The Lost Land of O

I sometimes wonder: whatever happened to the land of 'O' when Czechoslovakia was divided between the Czech and Slovak Republics? 


The poor people of O - all one hundred and twenty three of them - vulnerable and stranded; forgotten in the shadow of their vigorous new neighbours. At first they were ecstatic to be cast asunder, welcoming their new-found obscurity with displays of wild abandon which I will not attempt to describe...

However, after a while, as they sobered up and looked out to the rest of the world, they fell into a condition of bewildered funk. 

Leos, citizen of 'O' in the midst of a bewildered funk.

A meeting was held in their Capital village, Pretzel but a vow of secrecy was sworn by all attending, so we have no record of what was discussed. What is clear, however, is that these desperate people got their flip-chart out and had a brain-storming session. Consequently, at the end of this it was decided that they would concentrate on bringing the world what they did best.

We in The Shack are delighted about their fateful decision, as, to this day, they continue to supply us with what is by far the finest Fickle Cake in the world - mmm, ratherer! Therefore, with cake in hand we Keiths raise a slice to the noble calling of the inhabitants of the lost land of O, and send them a raucous cry of "HUZZAH!" as an indication of the esteem in which we hold these fine peOple.

The Man!

"Yes, well you see Dan, the vast majority of folk need leaders because The Mantalk about talk like their shit don't stink, and that gives people the excuse to disengage their brains and be drowned in a bucket like old beagles thanking their master for preventing them being a burden..."
I was in full rant mode.
"... I don't believe that them leaders are giving us any good titty milk. No Dan, it's some bad shit they got us suckling on. Freakin' control is what it's all about, make no mistake about that. Say NO to the nipple of The Man, Dan!"

It did not matter to me that Dan was fast asleep with me pressed at the window of his bedroom at around two in the morning, because I know that he is with me in spirit. Over the years we grow tolerant of each other's foibles.

Making Space

We live on a crowded island, in a crowded shack. Over the many several centuries of our dwelling in such confined conditions we English fops and dollies have developed many strategies to overcome such stifling proximity and clutter. Initially, it is true, we simply murdered one another; or lived in conditions of such unspeakable dirtiness that death harvested a good many of our number. Over time, though, we began to tap our noses knowingly and, winking, conjured up cunning ploys to create a condition of the utmost spaciousness. Indeed, my own family have one such 'trick' passed down through the male line, from mother to daughter. 

Accordingly, I have been busy today, bringing some more of the outside inside - and into The Weedy Shack. To date I have managed to empty around twenty seven large boxes of outside in here, and it's looking considerably more spacious already. Dan Tangle will be back in a couple of days, and I know he'll be pleased to have some space to stretch out his poulaine's

Keithly Owl

The toys couldn't hide their shock at what little Keithly Owl had just said. Murdoch mouse, wearing his pretty pink dress, exclaimed - 
"but I don't even know what wank-fuck means!"
And he didn't. In fact no-one does, for this despicable phrase simply has no meaning. 
In the meantime Keithly savoured the ambience of this shocked indignation. 
"I got edge" he mumbled through his clenched beak. 
That he has...

The Round-Saw of Obliteration

The remains of Betty Pretty

Decimating scenes of complacent tweeness, the Round-Saw of Obliteration leaves a trail of cleaved limbs in its' wake.

When I Ink About It

I was off my face (high on lime jelly with mandarin segments - the hard stuff!) when I found myself staggering through MySpace... 

"Im 4 luv an tha wan2 meat cool boyz 4 funtim... " said 'Jane E!'

"Where's the grammar!" I screamed, fair splitting my tweed body stocking in the process. Furthermore and all that and everything, when I looked in the mirror, to my amazement I had transmogrified into an angry ink cartoon figure. As this pissed up old granny I once helped in front of a bus once observed:
"You'll smell of piss yourself someday sonny, so you will!"
"No I won't," I hastily replied, "but I might become an angry ink representation one day, so I might."
And now I have and that is that and relax to the music...

Beware The Blurrys

You see people like this on the TV all the time. When there are dodgy goings-on of one kind or another, there they are with their blurred-up faces. I saw a 'Blurry' (as we like to call them) in the supermarket the other day. I watched as he was arrested for theft and bad breath, and wearing white socks with brown shoes. 

Later, I was watching a documentary about Stiff Herberts de-frauding the fishing industry of valuable kipper tears, and - what do ya know! - there were Blurries there too. My advice is, keep a look-out for these types. Wherever they are there'll be something fishy going on!

More About Flirty Peter's Wood...

This is Flirty Peter's Wood; and it is here where I trod in dogshit. Here, dappled in the honeyed summer sun I took a stick and tried to scrape the ordure from the elaborately incised grip of my walking boots. I sat down as I did so, and thereupon did proceed to sit in the foul droppings - a turn of events which necessitated me to remove my trousers and thong. Distracted, I absent-mindedly put the soiled stick in the breast pocket of my safari suit, and was, therefore, compelled to remove this item too. Here is Flirty Peter's Wood, where people run away from an imploring naked man with a good line in back hair. Here is an idyllic setting to see one's promising career in public life reduced to rubble

Horse Laughter

I went for a swim in a local watering spot when I was swept up on the back of a giant sardine. Swept off and carried way out to sea where I was used as a kind of human beach ball by two frisky marine mammals. Oh, I don't blame them really - any damage they caused to my person was not done on Porpoise. These things happen.

Anyway, whilst I was being batted to-and-fro between the fishy-breathed enthusiasts, I had time to step back a little from the day-to-day hubbub... time to reflect. It was during this time that I suddenly realised that the reason that horses unsettle me is that their bodies are the hosts of the spirits of dead Nazis. Yes, that's right! Dead Nazis. They chose the horses as the perfect host, as a horse typically has an ostensibly gentle eye, and they did not want to raise suspicions. And that is why, when I look into the eye of a horse and I see the hateful glint of a Nazi fanatic staring back at me, I am rather freaked out to be quite honest...

So there we are... some say that DeBunkem's thoughts are actually the deranged ramblings of a senile 95 year old man with a shock of silver hair and huge leather ears... some say, that DeBunkem was knocked down by an Ice-Cream float and that you are currently reading the inner thoughts of his mind - his coma ('coma' you fool! Not 'comma'). Some say - 

"Haddock tears tear my heart apart... isn't it" [Jurgen Gavin]

Perhaps we will never know. Why so? Because, my Reader, I am an unreliable narrator!

Caro Zen Spiderpeace

Hippy lovester, Caro Zen Spiderpeace, says that his, 'head is in a bad space right now', following the attack on him in London's Charles Hawtrey Community Centre, right in the 'ert of the ole East End. When asked if he felt love for his attackers, Caro responded with an extraordinary barage of expletives (which we will not repeat for fear of offending the weak-minded).

Hours later, our roving reporter photographed him after he had paid a visit to the barbers, and signed up to the Right Wing United Kingdom Independence Party (or 'U Bastards', as they are sometimes referred to as).

Caro, leaving the UKIP headquarters.

The said reporter then proceeded to challenge Caro regarding this remarkable volte face, but Caro simply punched him in the face five times, saying, 'we're not fascists in blazers, you little Commie cunt!'

Quite extraordinary!

Cut Cut Slice Slice

We've all done it haven't we. Love's getting the better of you, making you a bit goggle-eyed. Next thing you know...
CUT CUT SLICE SLICE


Have you ever chopped a body part off of yourself? If so, why?

Have You Heard The One About...

Have you heard the one about... no, nor have I. 

Anyway, this guy walks into a shop and asks for a packet of fags. The shopkeeper goes to get them; then, for no good reason, shoots him in the nuts. The man falls down screaming, shouting, moaning, groaning... eventually, he looks up at the shopkeeper and asks,
"Wodja do that for!" 
And the shopkeeper, shrugging his shoulders replies, 
"I did it cause this is a joke gone wrong, and my author is a twisted cunt." 
Boom boom!

Flirty Peter's Wood

I was strolling along through Flirty Peter's Wood the other day, when - among the dappled sunlit beauty of it all - I had this thought - 'my life is shit, and I'm a cretin.' It took some time for me to adjust my being to the implications of this revelation. After that time, I decided to kill myself. Yes, clearly I failed, otherwise I wouldn't be writing this.

Running very fast into trees hurts, but it does not kill you.

We Shall Transgress

There she is - our lovely Time Machine. Created by Dan, Wee Davy and I in a drunken outburst of unlikely inspiration, we chanced upon the key to Time itself. Quite a responsibility, yes; but trust us, we shall abuse it (at this point I recline on my couch, absinthe in hand, look out at the scrubby weeds and laugh like a Mexican bandit in a Spaghetti Western).

Here in Heathen

Here in Heathen we play with our toys and dance The Potato. Our resident monkey writes poetry and does not wear a suit; nor gets off by telling everyone else how, or who, to BE.

Here in Heathen we put our heads together and say 'whizzy whizzy' in arbitary acts of irrelevance (which we know to be irrelevant, and are, therefore, amusing to us).

Here in Heathen we close our eyes and think wude thoughts. Sometimes, we allow ourselves to become lost in the swirl of our minds. We pity the Stiff Herberts who pretend to have answers to everything in the name of a 'God' or a creed.

Here in Heathen we like to swear and fuck about in all manner of ways. Now I go and eat a nice slice of Fickle cake... yum yum.

Azerbaigum

The land of Azerbaigum is a black and white place, where everyone is permanently exhausted through walking too fast - you know, like in the old movies. It is where us Keiths go for our holidays (we have a dacha there!).

One thing they have there though is oil. And it is this that allows them to do what ever they fucking well like. When quizzed about their abyssmal human rights record, officials simply growl, "cockska" (Azerbaigumbian for 'fuck you'). A recent report by Amnesty International describes a litany of abuses, including prolonged exposure to Manilow. Referring to this venal practice, an Amnesty spokesperson said - "Along with Hucknell, exposure to Manilow is a completely inhumane practice; one which we condemn in the strongest probable terms."
Finally, in common with Iraq, Azerbaigum loves the moustache. Everyone wears them - even the menfolk.

All Will Be Keith

So much pain. So much suffering. Surrender to your inner Keithness and all will be Keith...