Monthly Archives: June 2013

My Girl’s Pussy–Harry Roy (1931)


There’s one pet I like to pet, and every evening we get set.
I stroke it every chance I get, it’s my girl’s pussy.
Seldom plays and never purrs, and I love the thoughts it stirs.
But I don’t mind because it’s hers, it’s my girl’s pussy.
Often it goes out at night, returns at break of dawn.
No matter what the weather’s like, it’s always nice and warm.
It’s never dirty, always clean. In giving thrills, never mean.
But it’s the best I’ve ever seen, it’s my girl’s pussy.
There’s one pet I like to pet, and every evening we get wet.
I stroke it every chance I get, it’s my girl’s pussy.
Seldom plays, never purrs, and I love thoughts it stirs.
But I don’t mind because it’s hers, it’s my girl’s pussy.
So often it goes out at night, and returns at break of dawn, break of dawn.
No matter what the weather’s like, it’s always dry and warm.
I bring titbits that it loves, we spoon like two turtledoves.
I take care to remove my gloves, when stroking my girl’s pussy.

Cinemascopic Surroundsound

REF ONLY Fire_Gypsy_performing_fire_poiWhoooa, I love what I’ve written this afternoon – or at least, I loved what Alex Brightsmith calls “the cinemascopic surroundsound experience of the composition itself”, i.e. the events described and the emotions felt. I actually punched the air at one point, and exclaimed “YES!”, which startled the cat somewhat.

I doubt that I’ve written it very well, for I tried writing longhand for a change so that I could sit on the comfy chair. I have produced pages full of cryptic scribbles, crossings out, weirdly angled arrows and tiny sketches.

Ah well, I’ll type it into manuscript form later, and then we’ll see how it pans out. For now, though, I believe that it’s the best entrance for a character that I’ve ever written. I’m a bit breathless from it.

Charlie Farley enters the blog

IMAG1512[4]My first two customers this morning were already known to me, and to you if you’re a regular reader. On your right is lovely BREWSTER, who actually played with a stick on our walk. Now, he’s not renowned for sticky playfulness (i.e. with a stick, not sticky EW), so I really enjoyed myself. He then licked my face off and did a huge poo. IMAG1469[3]LEVI, on the other hand, to your left there, was a right little bugger this morning. He was startled by a sudden noise as I took him out of his kennel, and never really recovered. He was full of NO and NOT GOING THAT WAY, and continually made a weird whingy noise. I’d calm him down with a bit of a love, but a minute later he’d be refusing to move again.
IMAG1542Lastly, I took CHARLIE out. At first he really pulled at the lead and I thought I was in for an energetic walk, but after hauling me bodily out of the yard and into the lane, he found a verge and did the massivest poo in the whole world. Two bags worth, in fact. After that, he was calm and didn’t pull at all. I imagine he just wanted not to make a mess near his ‘home’. He was a delight to walk, graceful and elegant, with delicate foot movements and a soulful expression. Lovely dog. Sorry about the photo, which has bent his face cos I moved the phone as I took it. He’s pretty, really.

“Ah well – I’m sure he had a long and happy life”


Today I have a crumper bop of dogs for you, you lucky lot. Wait – reverse that spoonerism. A bumper crop, because I wanted to make up for not being able to get to Bleakholt at all yesterday, due to ALL THE TRAFFIC JAMMERY IN THE WORLD happening.
BettyNow just look at this lovely face on your left. How could anyone resist her? Yes, yes, alright, she’s not the prettiest of pooches, but she has a big heart and lots of love to give. Yes, it’s BETTY SPAGHETTI, who you met in an earlier post. She’s a five-year-old bulldog who was dumped by her owners (the twatmongers) and arrived at Bleakholt about three months ago. She’s a playful girl – we found an old ball during our walk today and had a good game of catch for a while. Then she decided that enough was enough. She set her legs and refused to move in any direction other than back to Bleakholt with her new ball. And let me tell you, those legs and that chest are strong. I complied.

Meet BREWSTER, one of the old fellers. He’s ten years old and came to Bleakholt when his owner died. He’s a friendly chap who was well-behaved and, I’m told, gets on well with other dogs as well as cats. Brewster and I decided to wander down the opposite direction to my usual square, and Brewster decided to catch all the bees he possibly could, and then to eat ALL THE GRASS IN THE WORLD.

Next up is JESS, who has already found a new home and is waiting to move there. This is no surprise at all, as she’s a beguiling two-year-old Lakeland Terrier / Beagle cross with a lot of intelligence and a right cheeky grin. Obedient, though – when I told her she was not allowed to chase the ducks that she’d spotted she stopped pulling and sat down by my feet. And stuck out her tongue.


MICKEY! Little clockwork legs blurring back and forth then a sudden STOP at a fascinating smell, tail stiff while he draws in the rich aroma then wag-wag-wag scuttling along to the next olfactory encounter. It took a while for commands to get through to him, such was his fascination with the big old world.


Say hello to COOPER, readers. Cooper’s an affectionate lad, with a placid, friendly nature. His big furry ten-year-old tail waves about gracefully when you scratch his head (the rest of him is ten years old too – he’s not had a tail transplant or anything). He was rehomed once, but came back because he was “very protective of the home, causing a disturbance when strangers passed by or visitors called”. I don’t understand that – isn’t it what all dogs do? Bark like buggery when they hear a noise, or the doorbell rings? Still, I know not the details, so shut your gob, Wombat.

Moth Girl vs. The Bats, Part the Second

This is the second part (of five) of a new short(ish) story inspired by a conversation with @theagilmore and @ratporchrico on Twitter, and referencing Thea’s haunting songs. You can read Part the First, “Start As We Mean To Go On”, HERE.

This Is How You Find The Way

The following night Thea stood ready behind the cottage door, mantled in the heavy shining cloak, flying helmet and goggles snug on her head. She had a knife and a flintlock secure on her new belt, for who could predict what might shortly happen? Thea herself hadn’t the faintest idea what to expect.

Outside, the deadly bats were still about their evil business, whirring and keening and destroying all in their path. Their usual hour of disappearance was near, however, and Thea stood ready.

Ratporchrico fussed about her cloak, checking each individual bat wing’s newly fitted remote relay. One click of the big red button on the buckle of her belt should activate all of the cloak-wings at once. If that actually worked, if Ratporchio’s intricate little switching mechanisms all functioned as they should, then one of two things should happen. Either the wings would gently lift Thea from the ground and take her with the rest of the bats back to whence they came, or she would be flung forcefully upwards to smash her head against the cottage ceiling. She devoutly hoped for the former.

“Bend your knees,” the old man told her, and she complied, her boots creaking. He stretched and fiddled with the contraption attached to the back of her helmet. The “Automatic Blue” he called it, one of his many inventions. It was at heart a small boiler, perhaps two inches square. The tiny chimney attached would pump out a viscous blue vapour as she went, leaving a small yet visible trail that would linger for up to a day, so that she could find her way home again after… well, after what? Who knew what she’d find?

Ratporchrico patted her on the backside and she stood upright again. The Automatic Blue made a small pocketa-pocketa sound to show that it was working. The racket outside died down slightly. She let out a huge sigh. Nearly time.

“Ready, Moth Girl?” Ratporchrico asked.

“I’ve told you—”


“Yes.” She opened the door tentatively. The bats were milling about the square, circling aimlessly. They did not try to attack.

“Then it’s time,” Ratporchio told her, “Engage the bat wings, and just, you know, do your best.”

“I will not disappoint you.”

“I know. That would be impossible.”

Thea smiled at him.

“Oh wait,” he said.

“What?” she frowned. “Snag?”

“Did you have a wee? Best to go now. Who knows when you’ll next get a chance?”

“Yes, yes, I’ve been, you disgusting wazzock.”

“Then go, Moth Girl, and stay away from any naked flames.”

Smirking, Thea pushed the red button.

Oh whoa.

What the f…

The cloak lifted around her and her feet left the floor. It was only bloody working! Wait, the doorway – how the hell was she going to get out of the doorway? She should have stepped outside before activating the wings. She waggled her feet frantically, which achieved absolutely nothing.

Moth Girl bloodRatporchrico sighed, and gave her a push in the small of the back. Thea floated serenely outside, then slowed to a steady hover, bobbing up and down slightly in the pre-dawn light. A splash of blood on the snow beneath her feet marked where a bat had torn her flesh the night before.

The Automatic Blue provided a small amount of thrust and in a spirit of experiment she leaned forwards a little. She began to move ahead, slowly, but steadily.

She was just experimenting with steering by lifting her arms to angle the cloak when she suddenly shot forwards, head first, legs trailing behind her. The breath was sucked from her lungs by the sudden speed. The bats were on the move, and they were taking her with them.

She sped upwards, and due south. Around her, the mechanical bats flickered their wings. Her grimace slowly relaxed as she realised that the plan, impossible as it had seemed, was actually working. She was following the bats back to wherever they originated, back to their cave.

Oh God, she was following the bats to their cave. They hadn’t entirely thought this through, had they? For a start, how was she going to stop? She briefly considered hitting the red button again, until she noticed how high they had risen. The city below was tiny already. It turned beneath her feet as the bats curved to the right, eventually settling on a westward course.

Perhaps she could direct her own course a little. She angled her right arm up, clutching the hem of the cloak in her fist. She veered to the left. She lowered her arm and brought her direction back to that of her bat companions.

Success! In your face, Ratporchrico! The old fellow had been adamant that she would not be able to influence her direction of travel at all. He had thought the pull of the wings on her cloak would be too strong for her to divert. He had thought wrong.

She tilted herself to the right, beginning to enjoy herself. Her cloak brushed aside a few of the nearer bats, who simply ignored her and resumed their original flight plan.

Moth Girl starsThea became more ambitious, she swooped and soared, turned and twisted, her breath vapour-trailing behind her to mingle with her faint blue lifeline. She laughed aloud at the unexpected joy of flight. She shouted with excitement. She imagined herself an angel, an avenging angel swooping to the rescue of her beleaguered city. The stars wheeled about her almost as if she controlled their arc through the heavens, and a song grew in her exhilarated mind.

There are angels in the intervals and angels in the stars
There are angels in the radio waves

She devoutly hoped that she would be able to experience this glorious feeling again, once her mission was over. Her thoughts were reluctantly dragged back to the mission. The ability to direct her flight, in addition to being a breath-taking experience, significantly improved her chances of dealing with whatever she found.

Now, when they reached their destination, she might be able to direct herself to a safe place. A shadowy hidden corner of the cave, perhaps.

She glanced around. Her tiny companions flew mindlessly on, rising still higher. The freezing air was getting thin, and Thea was grateful for the woollen gloves she wore beneath her gauntlets, and the extra set of underwear that Ratporchrico had insisted she wore.. The bat cave must be on the pinnacle of a high mountain, or perhaps even—

Wait, what was that ahead? Thea didn’t dare release her grip on the cloak in order to clear her goggles, but through the misty glass it looked like an overly bright star. It was not Harpo’s Ghost, that bright guide-star beloved of mariners and trans-desert caravans. There was Harpo’s Ghost, over to the right, close by the fading face of the moon. And the dot of light ahead was growing bigger. Stars don’t grow.

This object did grow. Or rather, she realised, it appeared to be increasing in size because it was getting nearer. Obviously, Thea reflected, clockwork bats do not roost in caves. Clockwork bats roost in… whatever the thing was that they were approaching.

It began to take on form as they closed the distance. It appeared to be vaguely wedge-shaped, with a protuberance at the point of the wedge. The sides appeared to be moving, rhythmically pulsing. As it came closer, Thea began to make out more details.

It was a mechanical behemoth, and now it filled her vision against the lightening arc of the sky. Huge pistons, driven by steam if the exhaust jets were anything to go by, pushed vast wheels around. These in turn acted via cogs and pulleys on great articulated sheets of metal that rose and fell in the roseate tint of the beginning dawn. At the rear of the flying machine, for such it was, a metal chimney of ornate design disgorged dark smoke. At the front, two large triangular satellite receptor dishes emerged like ears from a spherical cockpit, and below them a pair of large ocular windows allowed Thea to see figures moving about inside. This was plainly a craft of some sort. The whole contraption was a titanic mechanised creature of the skies. It was…

It was a colossal steam-driven bat.

Thea and her cloud of attendants were approaching the massive head. She hoped that the bats surrounding her, mere toys compared to the giant ahead but legion in number, would be enough to mask her approach from any sentinel that might peer out of the windowed eyes.

Behind her, the sun finally broke the curve of the horizon and threw blazing light on the craft ahead, which shone and dazzled like a fiery inferno.

Stay away from any naked flames, Moth Girl.

It was too late now for her to heed Ratporchrico’s advice. She was headed straight for the bright flame of the mighty head.

She shook herself out of her fascinated torpor. It would be better if she could angle around to the side, maybe find a way to creep secretly into the body of the beast through the struts and cogs that worked the beating wings. She angled her cloak accordingly, but was rewarded with only the slightest of movements.

Damn. It had worked before. She tried leaning the other way, but was unable to affect her course significantly in either direction. Either the aerodynamics of the cloak were less effective in the gruel-thin air at this height, or the power of attraction between the mother ship and her minions was far stronger at this small distance.

Thea tried loosing her grip on the cloak entirely, leaving her hands free. It made no difference. The cloak, attached securely around her shoulders, continued to support and direct her. Wherever the bat cloud was going, she was going too. She briefly considered hitting the power button on her belt, but a glance to the shadowed earth, far far below, convinced her that stopping the wings would only lead to long cold fall and a certain death.

Perhaps the rising sun would dazzle any watchers ahead, and allow her to slip in unnoticed. It was difficult to make out much through the dazzling reflections, but she could not see anyone gazing out of the windows at her; just dim, blurry figures moving about. Another movement of darkness drew her gaze down.

Below the eyes, a dark crack appeared in the bright metal face. It widened slowly. The maw of the beast was opening, hungry and black. Thea, enveloped in her glittering swarm of attendants, was flying directly into the mysterious blackness and into the belly of the beast.

Superheroes print

BNORpgqCUAANLYe.jpg large
Heroes all! If any of you are interested in buying a print of this magnificent work by @captain_doodle (at cost: no profit to me and Doodle), then let me know.
I’ll order them from the place where I get prints of my photographstake a look, you mighty want to buy one of those too! *winky face*
The printers are reliable people and the prints themselves are good quality. You can then reimburse me through Paypal.
A 16” x 12” print (just the print, for you to frame yourself, cos other options are way expensive) including P&P would cost you £6.
A 12” x 9”, should you want a smaller version, would run you a fiver).
Let me know on Twitter if you want one and I’ll make a little list.

Bring out the hostages of Hitler’s passion cave

How DO teenage beatniks get to be that way? By being between the ages of 13 and 19, I suppose, and wearing black turtleneck sweaters, berets and dark glasses while playing bongos.


#YSPtweetup Update

#YSPtweetupIt’s TOMORROW! I am orgasmic* at the prospect of seeing you all, chums. You too may go ‘squee’, if you wish. Here’s a few reminders of the bits you need to know.

  • YSP is just off the M1 junction 38. You might want to allow extra time for your journey in view of the forecast rain.
  • Meet between 10 and 10:30 near the main car park, by the entrance to the main building. If it’s teeming down, you could always pop inside.
  • Car Parking is £7.50 (it says on their site, although someone else told me eight quid). Pay by a machine that takes cards or cash, and asks for your car reg. number.
  • The Car Park is HUGE and everyone will fit in.
  • Bring picnic food & drink OR buy stuff in the cafés there. Tap water is available free.
  • Image1Bring a paper bag if you want to try ‘The Trick’.
  • The weather forecast at the moment is for light rain as we arrive, ameliorating quickly to occasional showers, and then cloudy with sunny intervals. Wear stuff for wet play (fnarr) and don’t worry about a bit of rain. Click the forecast on the right if you can be arsed to see a bigger version.
  • If you have any of my books you want signing, bring them along.
  • We don’t have to stick together the whole day, but I hope we can at least get a big team photo of the whole company like last time.

CLICK HERE for the earlier blog post with much more detail, including a map.

CLICK HERE to visit the YSP site itself.

CLICK HERE for a PDF of ‘What’s On’ which also includes a map.

*not literally, cos that would be disgusting.

Chewed to bits by giant turtles

She’s not helping much, is she? “I’ll show them my cleavage, perhaps that will frighten them odd!”


The Teenage Nazi She-wolves of Berlin


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