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!