Low Spirits

This was an odd competition as only two of us entered so we both became default winners. Before it was announced there were hints that the topic would include ghosts, which gave me some trepidation as I cannot take them seriously. Due to me inability to take ghosts seriously I realised that I could write the story as humour, which led to around 600 words just flowing straight away. Then the competition was actually announced and the topic wasn’t simply ghosts, but had to include humour, sex, or both. This bothered me because it meant that my story might not stand out, but then the topic was changed due to some confusion and became simply ghosts. This was my contribution.

Low Spirits

Night was drawing closer, like the scribbling of a small child who has discovered the ability to make marks on paper with a pen. Two men were standing, surveying a grisly scene. Their faces were similar, though one of the men was substantially larger and hairier than the other, looking as though one day he had eaten three of his friend and the universe decided that “you are what you eat” should be taken quite literally for a moment. The larger of the two showed little interest in the crimson carnage at the foot of the cliff, most of which was the car, whilst the smaller looked close to tears. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked his hirsute companion.

“A right load of bollocks, if you ask me, Pete,” came the reply.

“I was asking you.”

“Well then now you know; ghosts aren’t real.”

“I don’t know how to say this, but I think we are ghosts, Carl.”

Carl laughed, his beard shaking, “Why on Earth would you believe such nonsense?”

Pete pointed at the wreck in front of them, “Well, I think those two bodies are ours.” He gestured towards a slim corpse just outside the car and a larger, hairier corpse which was too big to have been ejected during the crash.

Carl scratched his beard and looked pensive for a moment. “I always thought that you were a handsome man, but you make a bloody ugly corpse, look at your face, it’s a right state!”

“I don’t think that’s my face,” Pete responded, “it might be my elbow.”

Carl continued to laugh, “Anatomy was never your strong suit, or so your wife tells me.”

Pete looked horrified, “A joke about my wife, at a time like this?”

“What does time mean to a ghost?” Carl pointed out. “What are ghosts meant to do anyway?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“You’re the expert, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Pete pondered for a moment, or at least he looked like he was pondering, he may have been getting gassy, if ghosts can even get gassy, “maybe we have unfinished business.”

“I’m going to sneak into changing rooms and watch women getting undressed,” said Carl with a hungry look on his face, which appeared to be his default setting. It is no surprise that his ghost beard had bits of chicken from a past meal, tangled in the hairs. Somewhere out there is the ghost of a chicken, looking to be reunited with parts of its limbs.

Pete appeared to be furious, “We die and all you want to do is be a pervert?”

Carl was unfazed by the anger, “Unfinished business. I’ve not seen nearly enough naked women and now I have the power of invisibility, isn’t that what everyone wants to do when they become invisible?”

Pete gave this some thought for a while, “The best idea I read was to beat up a mime.”

“Can we move things? Are we pole-vaulters?”

“You mean poltergeists.”

“Yeah, them, I wonder if we can work out. If I sneak into a changing room in a gym I may as well use the equipment, I need to get in shape and I can spook people at the same time, it’s a win-win-win situation.”

“There’s a lot we have to learn.” Pete looked close to tears again, possibly having gone full circle through all the emotions he could muster. “What do you think the funeral will be like?”

“Mine will be better than yours, more people will cry, and then there will be a massive piss-up. I hope we can get pissed too.” Carl was wondering what beer tastes like for ghosts and thought about making a joke about spirits.

“We’re brothers; we’ll have the same funeral.”

“I’ll be there to comfort your wife, you’re out of the picture now and I’m sure she was only with you to get to me.”

“You’re a ghost too, you idiot.”

“I told you, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

Carl watched as his brother stormed off, unable to decide whether to follow or to wait for the emergency services to arrive at the scene, which might have allowed him to hop into one of the vehicles and get a lift to somewhere closer to town. Eventually he decided to head up to the road at the top of the cliff, as it was better than doing nothing; ghosts should always be doing something, that just made sense to him. Whilst at the top of the cliff he considered throwing himself off again. He’d never been bungee jumping and this was surely much more extreme, even though ghosts couldn’t die. Or could they? Carl decided not to risk it, as he’d hate to become non-existent like fairies, dragons, and ghosts. He’d never really figured life out and would be damned if he could not figure out this strange post-mortem existence, perhaps even literally. As Carl looked down at the bodies below he decided to have some fun, picking up a rock and hurling it at Pete’s body. But nothing happened. Carl had to face the fact that as a pole-vaulter he would never touch and feel again. No more sex. No more food. No more sex. No more drink. No more sex. Not that he really got much, but it upset him nonetheless. The ghost of Carl collided with the floor at the bottom of the cliff with the same amount of force exerted in a staring competition.

As the Sun set, giving off colours which suggest that the child had discovered crayons, Carl morosely shuffled home, a failure in life and a failure in death, unable to even kill himself a second time, though he might have been responsible for the first. Several cars sped straight through his body, if you could even call it a body, clearly unable to see him. He’d have given anything for a car to swerve, even if it took them off the road, that way he could have a few friends, mentoring them in the way of the ghost, which Carl thought sounded like a form of Kung Fu involving blowing on your attacker and making eerie noises. Bouncing off of a bonnet would have been a God-send. As Carl walked into the town he passed through a bus full of passengers, a couple of people jogging, two old ladies having a loud conversation about some youth who had spat at them, a young woman walking a dog, and a youth who was spitting at old ladies.

The streets were all familiar, yet seemed so strange and unreal to Carl. He wasn’t sure where to go as his ghost pockets held no ghost keys so he couldn’t go home, not that they’d have worked anyway. After a short while of wandering, probably not long at all when Carl’s attention span is considered, he spotted something which cheered him up: the local swimming baths, nearing closing time. A group of young people with wet hair and the distinct smell of chlorine were walking through one of the open doors, but Carl went straight for the closed door next to them, bouncing off of it like a ghost bouncing off of a door, if you believe in ghosts. He dusted himself off, removing no dust as he was a ghost, and waded through the kids at the open door. Carl headed straight for the changing rooms, making sure to pick the right one, which was of course the wrong one as Carl could never be mistaken for a woman. The room was completely empty, so he decided to get some sleep inside an open locker.

Carl wasn’t sure if he was dozing off or not, as he was mostly wondering how he could close his eyes at all, considering his eyelids were now translucent. His wondering was interrupted by the closing of the locker by the caretaker, trapping him inside. Instead of panicking, which he decided is a bit useless when you are dead, Carl saw the brighter side of the situation – he could get some undisturbed sleep in here and would wake up to naked women getting ready for a swim.

Hours of thinking about eyelids passed by before Carl heard any signs of life, which caused him to wonder what signs of death sound like, concluding that they sounded like him. He had spent some time pondering the possibility that he was a ghost, and then went back to thinking about eyelids. The voices he heard were not women, which panicked Carl until he remembered his rule about ghosts not panicking. He pressed his ear up against the locker to listen to the conversation.

“What are we doing with these lockers?”

“Scrap yard I think, they’ve been here since I were a lad, who’d want them?”

Carl spent the rest of the day being tossed about, thrown into what felt like the back of a van for much of the time. He had a new goal in death. He would find whoever made up the rules for ghosts and give them a good telling off, maybe a slap if that was within the rules, for who in their right mind would allow cars and people to pass through a ghost, yet not allow ghosts to pass through doors and walls and lockers? And that rule about not panicking, that one annoyed him the most.


I used to draw cartoons about a sperm called Frank…

Sometimes images can tell stories better than words alone, especially if it is a bit silly. During lectures I used to occasionally draw these little cartoons about an orange sperm called Frank, based on a keyring I had been given. I’ll not share them all here, but there might end up being a fair few. The quality is not amazing, though it does improve as they go along. There is rarely any continuity amongst them and many actually contradict, though there are some themes which get repeated.

The first one I ever drew.

The first one I ever drew.


In some of the pictures Frank is a tadpole. That's when continuity went right out of the window.

In some of the pictures Frank is a tadpole. That’s when continuity went right out of the window.


Frank 10 Vocabulary



I inserted Frank into a few film scenes.

I inserted Frank into a few film scenes.


This one is now even more appropriate.

This one is now even more appropriate.


I loved drawing scenes from Frank's childhood.

I loved drawing scenes from Frank’s childhood.


Ooh look, I stopped doodling them in lectures. Frank's imagination is fun to illustrate.

Ooh look, I stopped doodling them in lectures. Frank’s imagination is fun to illustrate.


How cute!

How cute!



I often made reference to Frank being a keyring.

I often made reference to Frank being a keyring.


35 S&M



Some of them are educational.

Some of them are educational.


It is always good to end with Tremors.

It is always good to end with Tremors.

I’ve done 50 overall and have plans somewhere for loads more. I doubt I will ever draw them all, but it could be a nice distraction some day.



Mike’s Final Frontier

This is my favourite short story which I have written so far. It is from 2010 and apparently I had a test the next day, so naturally I wrote a story instead. It was originally simply called The Final Frontier, which of course is not very imaginative, so I have changed it to another title which is really no more imaginative, but at least it is probably original.


Mike’s Final Frontier

Mike was travelling at a speed he had never experienced before, yet he didn’t know it. He sped past thousands of planets and stars of every imaginable size and colour, well, imaginable if you happen to be an astronomer, yet he did not admire a single one and was distinctly not struck by awe. Mike had never seen or experienced anything like it and never would. It wasn’t until he crash landed on an unsuspecting planet that he started being able to experience things again. Mike’s first experience of the whole adventure was not unlike waking up with a hangover after one of those typical nights which leaves you waking up in a pill-shaped space craft on the face of a strange planet with shiny blue plant-like things. Mike’s first thought was to have a drink, get some fresh air and if possible, a fry-up.

For the planet the experience was nothing new, in fact, it barely noticed. When you are a planet you don’t suspect much will happen except the odd meteor bombardment, which is the equivalent of a bout of chronic diarrhoea in us human types. Being hit by a space craft is like breaking wind unexpectedly but with no dog to blame it on. The planet did not know that the meteor-like object hitting it today contained a man; there isn’t a lot of knowing in this story. It is fortunate that the planet did not know that Mike was currently relieving himself on some of the shiny blue plants as planets don’t tend to develop perverse fetishes involving urine (if you happen to be into that then good for you, I will try to call other groups perverse in future instead).

After he had finished watering the strange plants, Mike decided to check the manual he had been given during his briefing in hope that it would help him locate his lunch-box.  The only thing he had remembered about the briefing was that he had to first figure out what sort of planet he was on. According to the manual the shiny blue plants meant that he was orbiting a type F star. This meant nothing to Mike, but then this whole escapade meant nothing to Mike. He had simply read an ad in the paper about sending explorers out into space to find things. Mike didn’t know what he was looking for really or even why; something about the Earth becoming hostile to human life and other planets being searched for, nonsense like that really.

The company had become increasingly desperate and started hiring any old person who stumbled in for an interview. Mike certainly had stumbled in as he was drunk at the time and decided he wanted to make some extra money, oblivious to the fact that they wanted unpaid volunteers. After he urinated in the office plant pot, perhaps a sign of things to come, he signed his papers and off he went, once he had sobered up of course.

Words like “cryostasis” meant nothing to Mike, who assumed that he was taking part in some sort of intergalactic drugs trial, except that words like “intergalactic” mean nothing to Mike who probably assumed very little, except for the pay-cheque he could never receive. Somehow Mike kept imagining his non-existent reward despite the distinct lack of shops in which to spend his money. There wasn’t even a simple market stall, though he could keep it in mind to invest in shares in shiny blue plants for there were a lot of those here, if only he were ever to return to Earth.

Back on Earth Mike was nothing special, certainly not the ideal candidate for being ambassador to the whole planet, yet by a twist of fate or for God’s entertainment he landed in that position. His landing on the planet was more of a skid than the graceful glide the craft was programmed for, but of course the previous use of the word landed was not literal. Mike’s daily life consisted of drinking large quantities of bitter, shouting at the television when he disagreed with things being said, eating food cooked by other people and occasionally seeking out jobs with little commitment. The only differences were that the order seemed to be due to complete random chance, or at least anyone unfamiliar with scientific definitions of random might call it that. His cat at least could not figure out his pattern, though cats never were very good at maths; politics are where cats are most at home.

Mike resembled a skinny man who had eaten an inflatable chair and allowed it to blow up in his stomach, perhaps through all the shouting he does at the television, which would allow the air to get in whenever he took a deep breath in preparation for another pointless diatribe. His hair was rarely washed and was going grey in places, his face unshaven, and his glasses were constantly steamed. Currently his glasses were pointing upwards at a flag he had just erected, though really it was just a towel he had tied to a metal pole that had broken off of the ship. Mike didn’t know what the pole did and in typical Mike fashion he did not care one jot. This planet was now his, though he didn’t bother giving it a name. He always planned on letting his wife name things like children and random planets, but never having married puts a stop to that plan. Mike was always perplexed about why nobody wanted to marry him, perhaps he could find a lovely alien wife here who could name the planet, he wondered. While she was at it she could even name his cat.

Mike’s day on this strange new world involved urinating on more shiny blue plants, shouting at the type F star, eating his food storage supplies which sadly contained no fry-up, and seeking shelter. His exploration did not take him far, nor did he observe much. He was not perturbed by the lack of animal life in his vicinity and eventually went back to sleep in the comfort of the spaceship.

As he slept, his snores carried for miles. The planet he was on was rather large and lacked mountains, so everything with eyes for miles around had seen his skid landing. It just so happened that something with eyes was watching him closely, though it may have been using other senses too. If they possessed noses they would probably have gotten as far away from Mike as possible; the food supplies appeared to have been disagreeing with his stomach. Instead, the as yet undescribed creatures dragged the space ship back to their living area and waited for Mike to wake up.

At one point in the middle of the night Mike leapt up sharply, ran over to a tree, relieved himself all over it, mumbled something inaudibly, and then returned to his snoring in the craft. The creatures observing never did find out what this strange behaviour was. When Mike awoke very early the next afternoon he was welcomed by some strange looking creatures with strange food. Ordinarily this would be a very unusual experience and one would feel a mixture of fear and excitement as well as harbouring a plethora of questions. Not for Mike. He tucked in to the strange grub and barely said a word until he had finished. Those first words were “do you do beer?” followed by a rather loud burp.

By one of those often unexplained science fiction coincidences Mike had landed on the only other planet where English is spoken, not only that, but it is also spoken with English accents. Mike figured that these alien creatures must have come from somewhere near Manchester. He met with the tribe leaders and explained how he got there, a story which should not have taken long, but Mike had to embellish it a bit.

“After I was elected president of Earth” Mike declared, “I decided that I wanted to spread peace and knowledge through the universe.” He went on to state unequivocally that these alien civilians were obviously inferior in the peace department and that they could do with a splash of his wisdom, if not a whole bath in it. In perfect Mancunian tones the tribe head approved of this statement and put Mike in a position of power. Mouldy Mike, as the pub landlord used to call him, had practically become a god amongst the undescribed alien species on the unnamed planet. If only his future wife could see him now, she would probably cook him a steak. Gods deserve steak on their first day at work.

Over the coming months Mike went about reorganising the primitive society. Mike knew that he hated communism, but as he did not know what communism was he decided not to mention it in case it gave anyone ideas. He promptly declared all aliens equal and wondered what to call this system, eventually deciding to leave it up to his future wife. He increased the manufacture of beer, which to Mike was a boom in the economy. Previously everyone had been farmers but now they had brewers, doubling job opportunities. He also sent out explorers in search of wild beasts to house in a zoo; Mike had always loved zoos as a child. Most of the explorers brought back more shiny blue plants, which Mike was tempted to use as currency in order to get rich quick.

Mike’s evenings were spent surrounded by avid listeners, an audience full of open minds eagerly waiting to be filled with Mike’s unique wisdom. Mike boomed, “A wise man once said, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.”

“Was that wise man you sir?” piped up a young Mancunian voice.

“Of course,” Mike responded unashamedly, “I also declare that we should turn the other cheek.”

“But don’t they contradict?” another Mancunian voice chimed in.

With a response that would make his cat proud, Mike said, “Such questions demonstrate that you are only young and cannot comprehend true wisdom.” Mike immediately felt justified by all his time shouting at politicians on the television and changed the subject with haste. “Never trust the French!” he continued.

“What’s a French?” asked one plucky young alien with an odd quiff.

“A person who does not know how to queue properly!” barked Mike, quite taken aback but still in relatively high spirits, an unsurprising fact considering the amount of whiskey he had consumed.

“What’s a queue?” asked yet another oddly quiffed and undescribed Mancunian-sounding alien.

“Something the English do particularly well.” said Mike in a very proud manner.

“What’s an English?” said another, though it was possibly the same one as Mike could never tell the difference, even between the blue and yellow ones.

Exasperated, Mike responded, “Someone from England, the most glorious, wonderful and modest nation ever!” Not a bad response considering he had used almost all the adjectives he knew.

“Where is England?” said one alien, but Mike did not see which one. This response infuriated him so much that he left them and stormed off into the night, cursing about how ignorant they were and ranting about the French.

Nobody ever saw Mike again. By the time he had reached the planet he was the last of the human race. The strange Mancunian aliens awaited his return until they got fed up of waiting and turned to another source of wisdom in the form of a strange little beetle called Fred. Fred had somehow gotten inside Mike’s spacecraft and flown across the galaxy with him. Coincidentally, also in an inexplicable manner, the aliens spoke fluent beetle too, though this time in an Indian accent. The beetle did away with all of Mike’s changes to alien society and set about trying to find a way to return to Earth to sell shiny blue plants.

Mike has not been forgotten amongst these alien peoples. Thanks to Fred he will always be remembered as the bringer of beer, and no planet is complete without its share of drunkards.

Tim the Elephant

Tim the Elephant


I drew and wrote this in 2008. It is my shortest short story. You may need to click the image to see the text, but failing that, this is what it says:

Tim the elephant is an unusual elephant, very unusual indeed. He is not unusually small or large, in fact he happens to be two inches taller than average; a fact he is very proud of. He isn’t an odd colour, and he doesn’t have any unusual talents, he simply floats along on a flying rock. As you would probably agree, for an elephant this is rather unique.

Pretentious Poetry

In September 2009 I was apparently inspired, whilst gardening, to write some pretentious poetry (supposedly nonsense, but I may have put meaning into them, and it seems that part of me thought that they were ironically pretentious, but I don’t even remember writing them). By the looks of it I liked the letter A.


Antithalian Apocatastasis

A panoply of crescendos sound the alarms,
Magniloquence interred.
Scholars and saints malevolently disarmed,
Perpetuation incipient.
Virulent perversion deified,
Apotheosis complete.
Putrefaction of souls fortified,
Sheol for the masses.
Apocalyptic signs in breakfast cereals,
Conflagration praised.
Elected supremacists gain life ethereal,
Abacinate the convoluted.
The end is nigh, all sinners die!
The end is nigh!

Misanthropy Veiled in Amorous Rhetoric

Deserved denigration, denied
Noetic rumination, denied
Veracious tergiversation, denied
Je t’aime, ik hou van jouw, nakupenda!
It’s good to be alive?

Aroynt Apocalyptic Ariolaters!

Apotropaic intentions auspicated,
Amanuenses venerated,
Arcifinious ignorance propagated,
Acidulous dissent eradicated,

Story for Frankie 2

This appears to have been written in 2010 or earlier. It is another story written for my friend Frankie, though I don’t remember writing it. I tried to be clever this time by the looks of it.

For Frankie

Five hundred years ago, or possibly just last week, though it may even be in the future, Frankie, Steve, Jason and a frog called Fred, set off on a frightfully fun adventure which resulted in them getting lost; stuck in a place nobody could identify (which is usually what happens when one is lost). Fruit trees grew there, fruitfully, as they are wont to do. Fortuitously there was a cheery atmosphere about the place, so Steve spent his time reciting Shakespeare.

“Full fathom five thy father lies:

Of his bones are coral made;

Those are pearls that were his eyes:

Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:

Hark! now I hear them, –

Ding, dong, bell.”

Flies flew around their heads, which makes one wonder if flies would be flies with any other name. Frantically, Jason tried to figure out where they were by climbing a funny looking fig tree. Frankie did not have time to warn him that this funny looking fig tree was not a fig tree at all, in fact, it looked nothing like one. Fred the frog had never seen such a big lion, which is not surprising considering he has never seen a normal sized lion either. Forty feet above their heads stood the shoulder of the great beast, with a fine mane of fabulous fur.

Running, running, running, ran the trio, with Fred the frog hidden in a random pocket. Right into a cave they ran, leaving the ridiculously large lion behind. Rustling sounds echoed around the cave, when, suddenly, light rapidly filled it, revealing that the rustling was Steve searching for matches in his pockets, only to find a torch instead. Royal riches filled the cave, always conveniently tucked just out of torchlight, so nobody actually spotted them. Ribbiting away, the frog relaxed in the splendour of safety, whilst the others rambled and ranted on about their narrow escape, rationalising the day’s events. Really the lion was a fake; fakely it was a fake too.

After a while our ambitious heroes got restless and decided to venture out of the cave, Steve was anxious, Jason apathetic, Frankie austere, and the frog amphibious. Austerity was not the actual trait Frankie was displaying, it just sounded good. As they travelled onwards, through dense forests with apples and aubergines, through swamps filled with adders and the occasional subtractor, they grew weary and tired. A lot of people in this situation would have simply realised it was a dream and woken up, but that is such a poor way to end a story.

Nearly nine days into their adventure supplies had ran out. Nappies had been used up, but nobody knows who used them. Naturally they ate the frog, grilled over a simple fire. Normally hints of cannibalism arise in the narrative, but not here. North of their position, only about two miles away, there was a Nandos, but they were not to know, so they soldiered on with only frog in their bellies and thankfully not in their throats. Not much happened in the next three days, except a random tribe which practically deified them and fed them heartily, even offered them virgin brides; Jason took three but lost them later on down the back of the settee.

Kings and a queen they became, but royalty did not suit them. Kakistocracy is the correct term for the government they formed. Kangaroo-like steeds were given to them as a gift in order to get rid of them, though we call these things horses normally and they look nothing like kangaroos. Kiwis don’t either, but you should know that already.

It might be obvious, but the letter K is not an easy one to play around with. Irrelevant as it may have been to point that out, it does distract from the fact that not much is going on in the story except a lot of horse riding. Imagine riding horses through dense forest for days on end and that is what our protagonists were going through. If you don’t find that boring then you don’t need to know what came next. In one of the fastest manoeuvres in history, the travelling troupe were flanked by an army of frogs, intent on revenge. Ignominiously they surrendered, but as the frogs were French they were beaten to it. Ideally only one side surrenders, but in this interesting situation both sides did and instead went back to their opposition’s base.

Every single one of the frogs never returned, they just wandered aimlessly looking for a non-existent base. Each of our heroes had everything in the frog camp to eat, enough to feed eight armies, including some of the frog guards to eat too. Ecstasy in belly form was experienced by all, after which they fell asleep. Except that it didn’t happen like that, this was exaggerated, there were no guards to be eaten and the food could only feed six-and-a-half armies at a push. Even so, they slumbered on and entered a dream world where crazy things happen constantly.


End. The.

Story for Frankie

Here is another story from 2007. I wrote it for my friend Frankie, she must have been in need of cheering up, or was bored, or maybe I was bored, who knows? Either way, I wrote some nonsense for her.


Story for Frankie

One day Frankie and I were out walking, the sky smelt of marshmallow and there was the sound of indigo all around. We had no specific place to be so we thought we should go in search of an eatery which would sell our favourite meal. This happened to be honey coated magpie, which is a rare delicacy found on an obscure island off the coast of West Africa.

As we were nowhere near Africa we just wandered aimlessly, talking about the sound a baby’s eyes make and what numbers feel like. We passed many a flying toaster, but as they are so common we ignored them, singing songs about that mermaid I met last week in Tesco (she was rather obese so the songs were quite cruel) and skipping along. Skipping was rather tricky as the ground appeared to be made of chocolate and the Sun was out, though we skipped on, albeit slowly.

That was when we were picked up and put in a cupboard in between the Weetabix and the flour. Inside the flour, buried deep, were a few cabbages, 10 tins of beans and more Weetabix (but no milk). It is rather fortunate that I carry a spade in my pocket on every third Thursday of the month.

We got rather comfortable in that cupboard but sadly had to leave due to Frankie’s donkey allergies. Apparently the DNA link between donkeys and Weetabix is very close and when the wind is blowing in a green direction it can affect those with allergies. Frankie didn’t even know this, the man with the beard told us in 3 days time, I can’t wait!

As we now could no longer stay in the cupboard we carried on wandering, through the forest full of houses, through the meadow full of trees, through the orchard of sand and the valley of mountains. It was a grand adventure which finally ended when we reached the lake.

The lake was packed full of ridiculous looking creatures such as ducks and swans. The water reflected the light from my shoes and lit up our armpits. Deep inside our armpits a portal was opened to another dimension. (This can happen once a month if you face south with a fish named Joe in your pocket, which I carry next to my spade.)

Eagerly, we both jumped through each other’s portals, which was a tricky, well choreographed manoeuvre which shouldn’t have worked but did. At first we had no idea where we were, there was a putrid smell emanating from the smooth, soft ground, with strange trees growing around. The ground appeared to be leaking what appeared to be water but which carried the aforementioned stench.

It was then that we realised that this dimension was in fact my own armpit inside our own dimension. We had no idea how to get back, so we simply sat on a rug and counted to ruby but both fell asleep before we got that high.

We were woken abruptly by the sound of hair and found that we were in our own beds at the foot of the castle. It was even snowing purple, or maybe green, I always muddle those two up.

From then on we have gone about our lives as though our adventure never happened.

Easter 2007

This is the oldest piece of writing I can find on my computer. I didn’t really write much back then and have corrected a couple of errors but have tried to leave it as is (like many, I hate reading old writing). It is just a silly piece about what I did during Easter, written as a blog post.

Easter 2007

Thought I’d add yet another blog and fill you in on my pretty average Easter.

My Easter started quite dull, I had some work to do on Saturday the 31st and was not pleased. I woke up late with some small creature jumping up and down on my head, after it had laid its furry eggs in my throat. One of the eggs cracked and filled up my stomach. This persisted throughout the day and made everything that bit more difficult. After the usual morning routine I decided it was time to work and went off to the mines as per usual, only to find that the network was closed and my tunnel could not be accessed.

This was quite distressing as I hadn’t met my quota for the year so far and meant that I would have to return to the mine quite soon to finish it off. But for the time being I focused on the journey ahead. I was heading back to Conan’s Burgh in the Shire of York, approximately 88,000 miles away, which believe me, when you have a small creature on your head banging his drums (I forgot to mention the drums, how could I ever forget?) it can be quite unbearable.

The quickest way to get there would be in the bowels of a giant grey worm, I thought. Little did I know that the worms often get too full and rather ‘sluggish’ so to speak, and so take a little longer than expected. To make it more bearable I put a tiny band in each of my ears and allowed them to serenade me whilst the giant worm ploughed onwards.

Eventually I got home to Conan’s Burgh and was promptly taken to the Tick Hill (home of the famous Cock fair) to feast in honour of the 79th anniversary of the birth of my mother’s mother. The feast was amazing, with creamy mash, I had half a cow and a full roast pig to myself too. I was offered the chance to party in old Danum that night, though I turned it down, having just gotten rid of the creature on my head (and his incessant drum banging).

The following day I remember little, except that I once more stepped inside the giant grey worm and headed back to get ready to work the next morning. It was rather similar to the previous day, though with no little creature.

Upon waking the next day, I returned to the mine and found that my tunnel was accessible and got to work as fast as I could. I believe I met my quota, so I returned back on the worms again to Conan’s Burgh, this time for a slightly longer stay.

The next two days were spent with my children, playing with them, teaching them and just having a good time. I wish I could have had more time with them, but sadly they had to go.

The Thursday was spent with my twin sister Naomi and our cousin Siobhan, heading back to my place of work. Naomi is fortunate to have a nice metal chariot, which we rode back to the mine, just so I could hand in my paperwork on time. Thanks to her generosity (though I fed the horses) I treated them both to a hearty meal. I myself had the side of cow, before we headed back on what turned out to be a long, tedious journey.

Good Friday came around and I did not venture to the place of worship, nor did I visit the Tick Hill Cock Fair. Instead I met an old friend of mine, a farmer. We stood in a field and right before my eyes he created a whole landscape, with sky, trees, buildings, everything, right before my very eyes. In honour of his skills I toasted him with a drink and played my music to him with the skills which my hands possess.

The next day I ventured into Danum with my mother and proceeded to pick out a lady for me to play with. I set my eyes on one sooner than I had imagined. She had beautiful curves, a brunette who felt good in my hands. I felt comfortable holding her, and as I got used to handling and caressing her she made the most beautiful sounds. I knew that no other could match her, so we paid her owner and she will live with me from my 21st birthday onwards.

That evening I joined the farmer again along with another friend in the vicarage. We drank merrily as I serenaded them, talking into the night. The farmer once again demonstrated his skill at creating life with just his hands and then I gave it a go too. John, the other friend, showed us his ability to create relationships between tiny people he created, it was all very fascinating.

The next day started rather early, and I ventured out to the castle with my friends to help erect a large marquis and some barriers. Then we relaxed in the magnificent weather, playing songs and chatting away. More friends joined us and we even jumped on a small castle which had been erected in front of the castle proper.

I then returned to my place of living and had another feast prepared by my mother whilst watching tiny people in a box perform a play to us. I then ventured out with my friend and our trusty hounds on a quest of no particular purpose except to have been somewhere.

The next 2 days were spent in the acre of Bess, creating music with my cousin and a dear friend. We ended said creative session by going out around Danum consuming fine alcohol in many establishments. The night ended for me when I decided to trek 50 miles home through many dangerous territories, due to my honed skills I managed it unscathed.

I awoke the next morning and ventured out on more giant worms, out to a valley to live with one of my future wives. There I consumed large amounts of cheese, watched tiny men duel in a box and attempted to drink alcohol, though some dwarves managed to steal it from me. I was then introduced to a strange creature who vomited far too much and took it upon myself to clean up his mess, by then the dwarves had taken all of my precious alcohol.

The next morning I decided to be a bit lazy and ventured out with my dear friend Lord Duncan and found a huge cliff face where we sat and watched battle commence below us.

We returned and played games until Kate (the future wife) made us a delectable feast and we drank merrily into the night. The next day was spent sadly leaving the house of Kate, though a long and arduous journey lay ahead for my friend and I. We first took the liberty of drinking more beer, before leaving for a place where I believe old ham is kept. This place flew the flag of the red rose, which is not one which we like to associate with, though we were hungry and needed feeding. We took our time choosing the place to eat, and although the food was good, we were heavily overcharged.

We promptly left this place and ventured on the worms all the way to our separate homes, which took a very long time. Upon returning I decided to have a few beverages in some fine establishments in the land of Conan’s Burgh and ended up staying out all night. The night ended with me playing with the serpent of an old friend, before returning home, I was not fit for the trip to Jorvik the next day so I had a nice relaxing day to round off my Easter.

The End