Wednesday, 4 December 2013

I Plough Through Where Renowned Authors Stumble

And so the annual festival of literary faux-self-awareness and tacit backslapping continues with the announcement of Literary Review's Bad Sex Award ( Once more self-congratulatory cultural pedestrians can have a hearty guffaw reading the fumbling prose of published authors. "Oh," they will think, unoriginally, "I could do better than that". We'll you couldn't. But I did - at the tender age of 15.

Deep in my personal archive, at an undisclosed location in the attic room of a suburban house in East Belfast, I found my first, and arguably most successful,[1] foray into the quagmire of literary coitus. The excerpt below was written back in 1999, a time when the ill-prepared despaired for their fate post-Y2K; before the lumpen masses jumped on the Tolkein bandwagon and it was considered “unusual” and “disturbing to the other students” to perform dramatic readings of the Silmarillion during lunch.

It is taken from my ever-advancing manuscript for Grimla'ath: Hero of Men, a brilliant speculative work of Sci-Fantasy, that pits a sentient robot factory and an army of crows against an order of element-manipulating monks. I'm not going to go into it all right now as some bugger might steal the concept, and I've been told in too many letters that "you can't copyright an idea".

All you need to know for now is that our hero, Grimla'ath: Hero of Men, had never even heard a woman's voice before the story began[2], and only met one for the first time on leaving The Abbey to lead a counterstrike against the robot factory-crow alliance. His unfamiliarity with, and indeed outright disgust at, anything female makes his sexual prowess all the more impressive.

As I was still somewhat lacking in "first hand experience" at the age of 15[3], this important sex scene involves a female from the hideous subterranean Muckdaa'arg race. Again, it's worth noting that Grimla'ath: Hero of Men is doing this to a minger, so it makes you wonder what he could do if it was a proper attractive human on the receiving end.

Anyway, Grimla'ath: Hero of Men has ventured deep into the caves of his wooden planet and is making a treaty with the Chief of the Muckdaa'args. The Chief makes a very strange request for Grimla'ath: Hero of Men to show commitment to the agreement.....

And so, Grimla’ath: Hero of Men was placed in a rather invidious situation. He must satisfy the lurid sexual urges of the Muckdaa'arg Chief’s wife to cement the alliance, but the vile creature’s anatomy was more alien to him than even that of a surface woman. 
These beings, for means of spreading their population and their environmental devastation at a hardy pace, see fit to afford their females no fewer than 6 wombs, and an attendant number of uterine vents and occasional cloacae. These spew out mewling cubs at an alarming rate, all born capable of self-propulsion and speech to the extent that within minutes they are dextrous enough to pick a pocket and replace the purse unheeded; sufficiently verbally skilled to charm their way into the homes and savings trunks of the elderly and more naïve surface surface dwellers; and cunning enough to lodge fraudulent claims for a share of the tithes for the poor.
Grimla’ath: Hero of Men would have to navigate this ridiculous vaginal minefield to pleasure the fecund chieftainess, attending to clitorises, vulvi and most likely labia both minora and majora. Unfamiliar until recently with even the screet of a woman’s voice, this would be a mighty challenge to Grimla’ath: Hero of Men, but Grimla’ath: Hero of Men was no Man to surrender before the petulant demands of this thing. 
Grimla’ath: Hero of Men strode up to the already disrobed wench and gave her foreplay. He kissed her on and around the mouth, at the top of her shoulders and behind the ear, all whilst rubbing her numerous distended mammary glands. This was exactly what she liked, and she moaned and whispered horrible subterranean curses in response to the pleasure Grimla’ath: Hero of Men had brought upon her. 
Grimla’ath: Hero of Men retched at the sound of her native tongue and realised that he would have to get down to the truly unsavoury parts. Grimla’ath: Hero of Men manipulated one of her clitorises and the surrounding area using a special flick of the wrist. Grimla’ath: Hero of Men’s many hours spent practising close-up magic were really paying off in this sickening context. 
Grimla’ath: Hero of Men instinctively knew a serviceable erection would be necessary in order to complete the hideous trial ahead. Experiencing no arousing stimulus from the beastly “queen” in front of him, Grimla’ath: Hero of Men, in an act of amazing self-discipline – steadied by thoughts of his Brothers back at The Abbey, for whom Grimla’ath: Hero of Men was, after all, forging this alliance – in very little time, but with not inconsiderable effort, had a member which was truly comparable with the handle of The Bursar’s sturdiest broom. 
Grimla’ath: Hero of Men held his breath, and with eyes closed and head bowed, Grimla’ath: Hero of Men did sex to her.

At this stage many a lazy writer would leave the mechanics of the sex act to the readers' imaginations. Perhaps they fear that unnecessarily detailed descriptions of penetration and its resultant biological processes would disturb their readers as they wait for a connecting flight to Spitshine, Idaho. Perhaps those writers fear a harsh light being shone upon their own peccadilli. I know not these fears:

Several moments later, as Grimla’ath: Hero of Men was thrusting in and out of the most important vagina of the accursed termagant, the sickening sight of a sireling’s head appeared in the vent just above and to the left of where Grimla’ath: Hero of Men was inserting his manhood. The beast scrabbled out of its mother’s parts with nimble claw-like fingers and fell hard onto the cave floor with a sopping thump. 
“Here! Let me at my mother!” cawed the newborn, “I need her blue milk to gain my unsettling strength!” Grimla’ath: Hero of Men could not abide these beings in any form, but the cubs were by far the worst. Here was one, standing naked and still gleaming with birthing mucous, impertinent enough to address Grimla’ath: Hero of Men in such a way. 
“Go away you insolent wretch! Can’t you see we are in a delicate situation?” said Grimla’ath: Hero of Men, still penetrating the horrid queen diligently at regular intervals and occasionally giving attention to the relevant outside parts of her genitals. 
The mother ignored her spawn, as is their custom, (particularly on busy market days when the calves run free, distracting merchants to nefarious ends and completely disrespecting the clearly ascribed hierarchical queueing system). However, in this instance the disregard was closely linked to her pleasured groaning and spastic gyration as a result of the wonderful job Grimla’ath: Hero of Men was doing in making her orgasm. 
“Let me at a breast or I shall not be happy!” insisted the impudent waif. “You shall feel the blade of my tremendous mind-wrought sword if you do not leave us be at once, you nauseating infant!" responded Grimla’ath: Hero of Men, short-temperedly but still in a very intelligent manner, "I must continue with this horrible business, but there is no reason why I should have it compounded by your whines!”. 
“Fine!” said the wench’s issue, trying not to betray the quiver which it felt in its heart at being confronted by such a spectacular specimen as Grimla’ath: Hero of Men, (even from the rear Grimla’ath: Hero of Men’s awesome physicality was obvious from his astounding lats and beautifully-defined gluteal dimples), “I shall sate my thirst by other means. Perhaps there is a spinster on the surface whom I can confound with my wily tongue and deceptively diminutive frame.” 
As the spurned suckling scrambled from the cave toward the distant light of the planet proper, Grimla’ath: Hero of Men regretted not having sliced it in twain on first sight, but Grimla’ath: Hero of Men would no doubt encounter many more of that kind against whom he could slate his wrath.

Again, not enough authors are willing to tackle head-on the issue of the dependency culture inculcated in children from "certain backgrounds" which encourages them to expect a free ride, literally from the second they are born. I knew, even years ago, that major issues like this can be cleverly concealed in Sci-Fantasy narratives, affording me the opportunity to comment on our own society allegorically.[4] Luckily, it hasn't dated as these things have probably got worse since I wrote the sequence - foresight is an amazing thing. Once I'd subtly raised the issue of scroungers, I knew it was time to move on to the really intense/instructional stuff.

The sex act was becoming more and more tiresome for Grimla’ath: Hero of Men even though he was yet to break a sweat. Surely, Grimla’ath: Hero of Men thought, this horrid strumpet must nearly have slaked her sickening urges? But Grimla’ath: Hero of Men had to carry on for fully two minutes before the culmination of his efforts was seen. 
The harlot’s breathing had quickened to a worrying pace and Grimla’ath: Hero of Men took this as a suggestion he increase the frequency of his thrusts. This had the desired effect. She began to writhe and throw her head back screaming and moaning and banging her back up and down off the rock. Undoubtedly she was orgasming. 
Once she had finished with this practice, Grimla’ath: Hero of Men quickly withdrew from the wench’s messy void. Grimla’ath: Hero of Men rubbed his instantly flaccid member on some nearby moss to remove the remnants of the sickening cavern it had diligently conquered and returned it to its welcoming home within his vestments.

You doubtless think that is the conclusion of the scene, but that is because you barely have the attention span to read this passage without me breaking it up with interjections. The hideous succubus would of course not let a hero of men such as Grimla'ath: Hero of Men escape her clutches so easily.

Grimla’ath: Hero of Men strode away from the prone chieftainess towards her cuckolded husband, who had observed the whole act. Noticing Grimla’ath: Hero of Men’s retreat she scrabbled to her feet, unashamed of her obvious and disgusting nudity. She reached both of her horrible gnarly paws into Grimla’ath: Hero of Men’s vestments grasping for the dormant, but still impressively proportioned, phallus therein. “That was amazing,” cooed the hysterical troglodyte, “better than any of my kind could ever offer. Let me finish you off now, my sweet surface man,” she pleaded. 
Grimla’ath: Hero of Men pushed the coitus-maddened slattern aside and said in no uncertain terms, “You have taken from me more than your worth in nutrients, wench. Be gone!” 
On impact with the cave floor, another really ugly cub emerged from her capacious multi-womb. The child, seeing its mother prone, instinctively jumped on her nearmost teat and began to suckle greedily. The chieftainess attempted to force the child off her still-tingling dug in order to continue her lusty pursuit of Grimla’ath: Hero of Men, but the nursling was too wily for this.
Never unclamping its jaws from around the lactating nipple, the newborn groped around on the ground and found an appropriately-sized sharp stone, then held it to its mother’s throat in a menacing manner. Once the queen had heeded this threat, the malevolent whelp brandished its makeshift weapon outwards to warn off any potential interlopers. 
Grimla’ath: Hero of Men left this loathsome tableau behind and strode off to finalise the terms of his compact with the Muckdaa'arg Chief.

So there it is. I would not normally publish so extensive an excerpt of my work free of charge, but I feel it is necessary in light of the truly terrible attempts I read on Literary Review's amateurish website.

Take heart, pretenders! Heed the lessons above and some day you may reach the heights I have scaled since August 1999.

[1]And also only.

[2] He killed his mother in childbirth, and this was prodigious achievement afforded him immediate entry into The Order. Sheltered behind the walls of The Abbey, he never had to bother himself with the mundane prattlings of womankind.

[3] Obviously all this changed, and I was quite the swordsmith before my recent period of (elective) celibacy. However, to be honest, I never quite figured out what was going on "down there", no matter how many diagrams I pored over - would that Stephen Biesty produced a cross-section of the female erogenous zone to rival his Man of War.
There's a hypnotic echo of "it" in this image.

[4] You can't be too didactic with these things, but the eventual published version of Grimla'ath: Hero of Men will include an interactive survey at the end with questions like "Did you think it was fair that the Muckdaa'arg children stole food from the deserving and expected something for nothing?" and "Did this make you think of any sorts of people in your town, or at least in London if you live in small town?". It would only appear in the first editions, but I imagine the word of mouth would be such that fans would set up their own online version of the survey for those who were too tight to shell out for the hardback. Obviously the lion's share of the advertising revenue from the online survey would be directed to me.

Friday, 11 October 2013

Exciting New Social Media Opportunity

As you all no doubt know by now, although I'm a massive sceptic and really adept at spotting the stupidity and ineffectiveness of most behaviours, I am also not averse to borrowing from proven campaigns which have proven effective and are pretty much in the public domain[1]. As a result, I've decided to launch a new campaign, (which will doubtless gain amazing traction on Twitter,) to highlight the fallacious nature of the current (tiresome) online discourse on religion.

Much like the philosopher John Gray, I am of the belief that mainstream "humanism" is hamstrung by its opposition to monotheism[2]. Rather than define themselves with a legitimate credo, the neck-bearded "atheists" of Reddit and such like prefer to drone on about how they're being opressed by religion and prattle on about "the wonder of science".

I'm sorry, but you're not going to beat centuries of established religion with a few whiney posts preaching to the converted[3], what you need is organised religion's biggest enemy – Paganism. 

Countless millenia old and far more approachable than General Relativity, Paganism should be re-embraced by the masses with the intention of really pissing off the established religious hierarchy.

Just imagine – each December we can don outlandish Grecian clothes, give out knucklebones and pottery and have masters wait on servants[4], hilarious.

io Saturnalia

And that's why I'm launching the "I Need Paganism Because..." campaign. We'll be able to highlight the appeal of Paganism to a wider audience, and once people start submitting their own explanations I can just sit back and wait for the book deal.

Here are a few to get you started.

I Need Paganism Because:
Any "god" who's free to to materialise in corporeal and sanguinal form every Sunday can't have that busy a schedule[5]

I Need Paganism Because:
No deity should be resistant to depictions/images of Himself – resource-stripping slave-built statues should be erected in his name[6], or at least he could appear in a comic book.

Or in this case, on the side of a can of sweetcorn
- brand awareness is key

I Need Paganism Because:
No god should rely on individual humans to proselytize for Him. He should get a load of swans to do it, or better yet, He should ride around the sky on an 8-legged demi-god/horse mongrel shouting about how great He is to all and sundry.

It's best not to ask what's going on between his legs

Spread the word!


[1] They may not be legally "in the Public Domain", but there's no way anyone can mount a substantive case against me, so don't even bother getting your lawyer to write me a letter.

[2] I'm not so sure about Gray's fondness for Oriental and African proverbs and epigrams to prove his points – Western European folk wisdom not enough for you, eh Johnny?

[3] I realise the irony of using this terminology to refer to those who claim to abhor religion, I'm trying to wind them up.

[4] Let's not make a habit of it, though.

[5] cf the Pacific islanders who worship Prince Philip, who has appeared to them in living memory, yet they accept that he's a busy man and they can't just expect him to drop everything and pop over any time they have a get together.

[6] These should be built by enemies of His followers, or followers of His enemies, whichever are available.

Thursday, 26 September 2013

Who is I_PWN_YER_MA_84 (Part ii)

If you haven't yet read Part (i), keep up.

If you have kept up, proceed...

Q: In the last session you talked about your difficult Christmas visits to your parents’ semi-; many great writers thrive in adversity, do ordeals like these inform your work?

A: Work?

Q: Do they inform your works?

A: Not at all. I tend to treat the “breaks” as cultural black holes. I can catch up on what passed for entertainment at the multiplexes 18 months ago,[1] and look over some of my surprisingly insightful pre-emancipation works.

Q: Tell me about some of those?

A: The films are mainstream dross. Catnip for the lumpenproletariat. But I assume you were really asking about my early works.

Q: Yes, your early works?

A: Thank you. Well, one of my finest was, Curse the Temperamental Whims of Your Happiness Meter!!

It was a vital modern-day retelling of the Pygmalion myth wherein a misunderstood young man falls in love with his Tamagotchi™ and persuades an untrustworthy Japanese programmer/para-anatomist to bring it to life.

Obviously it doesn’t go well, but it’s not one of those moralising cautionary tales; it could’ve gone brilliantly if the Japanese guy wasn’t such a sneaky bastard.

Incidentally this was the source of my first cease-and-desist letter. On the advice of a school colleague I ignored it. The idea’s still available if anyone is interested – it’s just a matter of doing a quick “Find and Replace” job to make every “Tamagotchi” a “Digital Pet”[2]. I may bend, Bandai Co. Ltd., but I will not break.

Q: That seems to be a common occurrence with your works –

A: Using the “Find and Replace” function to address major issues which arise after submission of a final draft? It’s a peril of the world in which I operate. Even I cannot have perfect hindsight. Say I’ve already written 48,000 words of a short story in which the heroic figure is named “Durian”, and later discover this is also the name of a vomit-smelling fruit incomprehensibly consumed by choice on the Subcontinent, then I’ll just change his name to “Ga’arth” or something.

Admittedly some of the poems won’t scan quite as well, but it’s just something you have to deal with at the coalface of sci-fantasy.

Q: I was thinking more of the intervention of legal professionals derailing your ideas.

A: Much as there are only seven basic literary plots[3] there are only so many ideas out there, there are bound to be overlaps. Besides, at the time of writing Curse the Temperamental Whims…!! there weren’t that many other electronic husbandry applications out there to choose from. If Bandai were too myopic to hitch their wagon to my star at that early stage, fuck ‘em. Also, did you see their recent Thundercats reboot range? Rubbish.

Anyway, even after I changed all the references to “Digital Pet” everyone still knew what I was talking about.

This falls under Fair Use, Bandai

Q: Do you have any advice for other freelance creators out there?

A: No – I don’t give this stuff out for free.

Q: Well, how about some general principles?

A: Put your copyright on everything. Everything. Even if you’re not sure if it’s your original idea, in fact, especially if you’re not sure if it’s your original idea. I’ll never make that mistake again.

Q: It sounds like you’ve been effected gravely by this in the past.

A: Yes, I was, many times, but never again since late-June 1993. I was at a car-boot sale trying to offload a box of plastic polyhedral dice which were surplus to my requirements since I’d just carved a full expertly-balanced set from wood. I was not given a single offer which could be considered anything but derisory, including at least one inquiry as to why I did not “just chuck them in the bin there, son?”

I remember thinking, aloud, would there was a perfect market where my dice could be sold to a worthy and appreciative purchaser, who later I could also hassle into taking a few of the prototype wooden dice I didn’t want. Perhaps, I thought, still aloud, this propitious development that is The WorldWide Web could offer an arena for aforesaid market.

Just 2 years later, eBay was launched. Was Pierre Omidyar or one of his poly-national familiars present in Avoniel Leisure Centre car park and in earshot of my visionary idea? Probably.

And to think I could’ve prevented a lot of seething and resentment simply by cupping my hands in front of my shoulders in imitation of parentheses and saying the words “Copyright 1993”.

I blame myself, I was young and foolish, and probably thinking about the impending release of Jurassic Park.

They were so confident about the film that they put hardcore
archaeological-brushing scenes in the trailer. In the trailer.

[1] My parents still haven’t splashed out beyond the basic Sky+ package.

[2] I object vehemently to the abbreviation “Digi-Pet”. It just sounds stupid.

[3] I can think of at least 4 more, but I’m not going to go into them here in case some other bugger steals them off me.

Tuesday, 10 September 2013

Who is I_PWN_YER_MA_84? (Part i)

Obviously I’ve had many requests for interviews, but I find that most (if not all) journalists are amateurish misquoting trivialists, more interested in the sexual proclivities of their subject or whether he knows the price of a pint of milk than how (not if) certain high-profile Hugo Award winners stole ideas from his P6 homework jotter.

As a result I’ve chosen the only worthy interrogator of a mind as rich and varied as my own – myself. Below is Part i (of at least ii) of a probing, insightful, but not intrusive series of interviews which I conducted recently.

In order to keep things above board and avoid accusations of soft-peddling myself (and also as a form of defence, given my past run-ins with “journalists”), I took a suitably combative tone with the interviewer.[1]

Perhaps it would help if you imagined the words in italics being read by a computerised voice, similar to that in Channel 4’s long-cancelled Star Test[2]:


Q: Name?

A: I think for now it’s best we stick with the formal terms. You can refer to me as “Pwn” or “Mr Pwn”, but only if you’re able to pronounce it correctly.[3]

Q: Occupation?

A: Well, if you were to ask me for some terms to describe my role within society, and particularly philology, I would have to say visionary, deliverer of insight, eschatologist, heresiarch, innovator… I could go on.

Q: Please do…

A: Soothsayer, naysayer, truth-seeker, skeptic, cynic and lore-smith. Were you to ask me about my formal occupation, I would have to say IT project manager/developer. Level 3, but really I should be at Level 4 by now given the amount of acting up, additional tasks and patch-up jobs I’ve had to do, especially during Chanreeka’s (likely spurious, at least indulgent) maternity leave. Anyway, it’s safe to say that I’m well beyond a 3.5 pay grade once you factor in my hard-negotiated privileges and the likely dividends from my research project into the impact of circadian rhythms on SQL servers.

Q: You’re from Northern Ireland, is that correct?

A: Well yes, it is technically correct, but I haven’t lived there in quite some time.

Why would you leave?

Q: And do you sense the influence of Northern Ireland in your work?

A: That’s quite a vague and, I would argue, offensive question. What exactly do you mean?

Q: Very sorry. Do you think that there is an inherent or even archetypal Northern Irish element within you work?

A: Works

Q: Sorry, within your works?

A: Well, I do work primarily in the English language[4], so I suppose it was fortuitous that my birth occurred in a country which speaks the lingua franca[5] of the WorldWide Web. Without the ability to spread my message over The Internet, I would likely have to do so by travelling from town to town in a simple hatchback, the back seats removed to make a small nest, relieving myself I can’t imagine where. It would certainly be difficult to hold down a 35-60 hour a week job whilst doing so, and I might look like some kind of feckless hippy.

It might have been different had I succeeded as an infant in persuading my unadventurous parents to move to mainland China where I would have picked up Mandarin and Cantonese with ease. Let’s face it, everyone knows “they’re next” and it wouldn’t hurt to be able to shout a few commands and negotiate some special privileges when the time comes.

But on reflection, I think I was better off staying where I was. Have you seen what they eat?

Q: You mention your parents, what influence did they have on you?

A: Little. They may have driven me to school, bought me a proportion of the books I requested, and allowed me to convert their conservatory into a forge in anticipation of supplying weaponry to the countless fantasy epics I believed would be filmed in Ulster in the post-Peter Jackson The Lord of the Rings glut – but I can’t say they were particularly supportive.[6]

Quite the conversation starter
at dinner parties

Q: And do you see them often?

A: Infrequently but regularly. I return for 6 days over the Christmas period as that is all I can allow myself to abide.

Q: Why is that?

A: The atmosphere is quite oppressive. The temperature of the house is a good 2-3°C higher than it needs to be, and the volume on every radio, television and appliance is persistently set too high. Add to that their general reluctance to engage in discussions apportioning blame for the ills of the world on forces and peoples normally considered “off-limits” by the mainstream media[7], and you’ve got a very uncomfortable environment.

Within 2 days the dry heat makes the skin on the soles of my feet start to crack. By day 4 my lips have gone that way too and my feet look like one of those doctored “dry lake” pictures you see on the cover of The Independent.

Day 5 my hair actually feels dry, not simply to the touch, but profoundly dry to the extent my scalp can sense it. Day 6 I tend to leave with little more than a bag of leftovers and a few new hardbacks (often from the wrong imprint).

I’m currently working on a proposal for cost-saving psychological prisons and think that the experience of my parents’[8] house would make a good base model for Category D(iv)[9] violations – parking offences, naming your child after a television character, standing on the stairwell of a bus.

TO BE CONTINUED.................................

[1] Publishers may wish to note the skill and fluidity with which I switch between “voices” in this piece, showing my versatility as both writer and raconteur.

[2] This was the first video to come up, it does not imply any endorsement of the interview subject.

[3] To rhyme with “own” “grown” “sewn”, not “gown” “hewn” nor “awning”.

[4] I have a functional knowledge of Sindarin, Braavosi, Jawa and French. I have also been known to throw in elements of Latin and Ancient Greek to spice up my prose, safe in the knowledge that I will not be mistaken for one of the swarthy native speakers of those long-dead languages.

[5] See above footnote.

[6] Can I just take a moment to pre-empt the accusations of ungratefulness which will likely emanate from a certain residence in Ormiston Grove. Firstly, I was a minor, and so unable to legally drive myself anywhere, nor obtain a lucrative enough job to afford hardback first editions of the interminable Dune series. Regarding the forge, I would like to point out that Game of Thrones, the far from optimistically-titled televised adaptations of George RR Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire, started filming in Northern Ireland a mere 9 years after the release of Jackson’s first film. Perhaps with a little more foresight and faith in their son, a certain couple would have what is essentially a money factory in the prefabricated room which juts out into their garden, rather than some mass market wicker furniture.

[7] You know who I’m talking about

[8] I feel obliged to point out that the house shouldn’t really be jointly considered “theirs” as my dad has contributed a good 70% of the equity, but the English languages does not currently have an appropriate possessive adjective for those circumstances.

[9] I’m still waiting to hear back from the Ministry of Justice, and have my suspicions that my dossier has not been passed through the correct channels. If anyone knows the direct e-mail, or better still home address, of the Justice Secretary please get in touch through the blog.

Tuesday, 27 August 2013

Gagging Orders Be Damned


If you have made it this far you must be tired from your journey. After facing the onslaught of cat pictures, poorly-sourced news items, long lens pictures of starlets gussets, obnoxious advertising posing as pop-up games and terabyte after terabyte of sickening sickening pornography, your mind will have been dulled and battered like a recycled bloom in a disreputable swordsmiths forge.

Most online proselytizers would talk down to your average-to-below-average mind at this stage, offering succour to lull you into comfortable comprehension. I choose not to do this, mostly for your own sake, but also because I can’t be bothered writing in a way that suits idiots. Come on; is it really that difficult to keep up?

I won’t delve into the minutiae of what you can expect from this site, but suffice to say it will be a more gratifying, commercially viable and culturally challenging portal than my previous home at Darksome Utt’rings.

I know a lot of people have had questions about my absence from that site recently, and whilst this is not the avenue for exploring the realignment of my relationship with the Fisherians[1]. Despite what has been reported/graffitied in some quarters, I was not “kicked-out” by the Fisherians. After much discussion and debate I simply accepted their offer to let me leave[2]. Whilst it is true that I will no longer be posting on Darksome Utt’rings, I am entitled to maintain a presence there by way of a link to this very blog page[3].

I feel that this site will offer me greater opportunities to spur/incite debate, diversify revenue streams, challenge perceptions and ideally get a per word payment deal which means I won’t have to keep churning out this stuff with no immediate return.

It was the lack of motivation and innovative thinking from Johnny Fisher and his ilk that led to my choosing to accept the request that I refrain from posting on Darksome Utt’rings or attending any of their meetings, even remotely via speaker phone or through an interesting incognito Skype application I found in what is offensively referred to as “Darknet”[4].

Needless to say, I have no desire to eavesdrop on any of Johnny Fisher’s correspondence, because frankly we’re operating on different plains. Fisher is a romantic naïf who believes that “if the content is good enough, people will seek it out”. You, however, tired slack-witted internet user, and I know that attention-grabbing marketing approaches are the only way to increase brand awareness and with it page imprints and revenue potential.

In using future Fisherian membership dues as collateral for a loan to fund an advertising campaign on London buses, I was speculating (with double-, often triple-checked Excel formulae to back up my projections) and taking a calculated (miniscule) risk to coast on the wave of an already popular and controversial advertising campaign.

Stonewall’s “Some People Are Gay. Deal With It” posters did wonders in popularising homosexual pursuits, to the extent that around London it is now nigh impossible to look at another man in a pub, at a public convenience, on the bus or near some secluded scrubland without assuming that he enjoys engaging in simultaneously invigorating and humiliating transactional sex acts at the drop of a hat[5]. What better campaign to piggy-back,[6] in order to get more attention for Darksome Utt’rings?

My poster (above) would’ve drawn traffic to the site, provoked fervent debate among users[7], and looked great on mugs, t-shirts, bumper stickers, framed posters, badges and those buggy-eyed furry things with a little stream of ribbon coming out the back of them.

Fisher and his acolytes unfortunately did not have the foresight to consider the long term benefits and were more concerned about how we would meet the cost of the Subway platter we’d had delivered to the meeting. Had they let me finish my Powerpoint presentation instead of shouting at me and trying to reattach half-consumed sections to the sandwich snake, they would’ve seen that this was only the beginning of a series of campaigns which would eventually get the Fisherian coffers back in the black.

After nailing the (some would say too-) powerful and expanding gay demographic, my next campaign would’ve enticed atheists, theists, pagans, parents and classicists all at once.

“What kind of a brilliant marketing mind could achieve that?” I hear you ask, your mind hopefully now able to construct valid, if predictable, rhetorical questions thanks to the intellectual workout I’ve given you since the opening paragraphs. Me. That’s the kind of brilliant marketing mind. And before you can close your gaping mouth to ask “but how?” I’ll tell you.

Same approach, different campaign. Hijacking Stonewall’s campaign would get some significant attention, and before some lazy overpaid marketing executive could steal that idea off me and make everyone bored of it, I would already have lined up my pièce-de-résistance. It would open up all those demographics and also wring out the last drops of credibility in the clever bus-slogan-adaptation game.

Borrowing from the Atheist Bus “There’s Probably No God. So Stop Worrying and Enjoy Your Life” campaign, I would’ve had a massive bus and billboard rollout of “There’s Probably No Boreas. But I Wouldn’t Let Your Daughter Dance Alone Round The Banks of The Ilissos Just In Case.” Who could avoid being intrigued by that and not want to investigate the website and official merchandise portal of the people responsible?

In Britain, a nation plagued by winds, often capricious and conflicting, reminding the people of Boreas and his knavish antics (and by association Notus, Eurus, and the over-rated Zephyrus) would speak to their atavistic pagan instincts. The winds can be observed but not fully seen nor understood, they should rightfully be respected at the very least, if not feared and confronted where possible. My campaign would’ve spoken to that inner folk knowledge of the British and some visiting Americans.

Those dullards who are not suitably in touch with their vestigial pagan gene but who might still have disposable income available would be effected by the subtle pandering to their (notional) common sense and caution. They would also react to the acknowledgement of the un-spoken desire amongst most parents to avoid the possibility of their daughter being abducted, wrapped in a cloud and defiled by an elemental personification.

But this was not to be. When the dust had settled, the chairs been righted and the dirt and hair picked off the sandwiches which fell from the platter during one of the more heated points of the discussion, I realised I could no longer in good conscience contribute to the Fisherian projekt.

My parting words to Johnny and his cohorts were “Adapt or die.” The tide is turning and we can’t all live in our parents’ back bedroom with the freedom to create devastatingly profound and insightful sci-fantasy on a pro bono basis.

If I were to imagine Johnny and his works as a sword (the infatuation of one of his online disciples) they would be an intricate swept-hilt rapier. Beautiful, delicately rendered and deadly in the right hands, but essentially the affectation of a well-to-do 16th Century Spanish dandy. Against the devastating cut and thrust of my longsword[8] – brutal and seemingly cumbersome, but in fact surprisingly nimble, possibly with a double fuller for remorseless neck shots – Johnny’s rapier would be useless.

While certain epoch-obsessed chronological zealots may claim that my longsword is less modern and so less advanced that Fisher’s rapier, I would willingly meet them in the field and see which blade best fits the practical challenges of online marketing and user engagement.

Johnny Fisher and I are on separate paths, and I had to be the bigger man and make the decision to accept the overwhelming popular opinion against me. I wish him well, slapping metaphorical gloves across the faces of his fellow idealistic aesthetes, trading blows with the blunted edges and capped tips of their snazzily gilded weapons.

Johnny, though we must part, I shall always love you, like a brother, or a close relative with a broadly equivalent claim to a disputed throne, who lacks the guile and drive to catch the nearest way.

I have real battles to fight, no quarter given, none asked; limbs severed and thrown asunder by single blows; exposed links in armour hacked at with such furious abandon that blood, gore and marrow all bubble out in a hideous soup of bodily humours.

[1]The correct avenues are: the courtroom, in the event that the dispute cannot be solved amicably with the receipt of appropriate compensation and ideally a stringent confidentiality agreement put in place; then a scurrilous and unconfirmable paperback bestseller offering a thinly fictionalised account of events in an attempt to get around the confidentiality agreement; then a televised adaptation of aforesaid fictional piece; then a self-written corrective novelisation based on the televised adaptation but including new and more accurate revelations; hopefully then a film adaptation of said novelisation which will return rights and royalties to me; then maybe a cash-in Collected Correspondence of the Fisherians book.

[2] Amongst professional Association Footballers such “release clauses” are much sought-after and can cost well into the tens of millions of Euros, but I was fortunate enough to negotiate my severance at no personal cost and with barely a mention of eventually having to pay back certain unaccounted for moneys.

[3] Which will be given prominence in terms of size and position over the amateurish Swords Drawn link currently lowering the tone of the site, it’s solitary status exposing the nepotistic nature of the Fisherians

[4] Maybe there are some terrorists and paedos on there, but most of the guys I’ve been in touch with have been much like you or I – pretty nice fellas who happen to use their copious amounts of free time to engage in acts which are probably legal somewhere in the world, and given the lack of judicial jurisdiction on the WorldWide Web should at the very least be acknowledged as “not certifiable as illegal” online.

[5] I am aware that it is traditional in “gay” circles to use dropped handkerchiefs to indicate that a man is “up for it right now” or “wants it so bad and in a specifically depraved fashion”, the popularity of carrying around a reusable mucus receptacle has fallen dramatically in the past 40 years. Conversely, wearing superfluous affected headgear has never been more popular, across the sexual spectrum, so much so that many modern hat wearers are unaware quite how rude it is to neglect to remove one’s chapeau on entering a building. This led me to consider “at the drop of a hat” to be a very appropriate simultaneous metaphor and literal idiom for gay men to indicate their willingness to engage in flippant coitus.

[6] I sincerely hope the term “piggy-back” does not also allude to some pioneering homosexual act, but I daren’t look it up.

[7] “Are we to infer from that that some balrog do not have wings?”; “Was Tolkein using an extended visual metaphor when describing Durin’s Bane/The Balrog of Moria, or should we assume that this is one of the winged balrog to which the slogan refers?”; “Is ‘balrog’ the correct plural form of balrog?” and so on…

[8] This is not a literal longsword, nor should it be construed as a vulgar phallic euphemism, it is the metaphor for my works in contrast to Fisher’s, which I compared to a different type of sword in the previous sentence. If you’re not able to appreciate the connecting motif within a single paragraph I’ve no idea how you have got this far in the article unless you’re just reading the individual letters in each word aloud to yourself.