17th March 2018
So theology had never been a particular interest of mine, but when I learned today that apparently every version of the Bible was originally printed on bunches of taped-together almonds, I have to admit my curiosity was piqued.
    But then I forgot all about that when a gesticulating funeral director teleported into my living room and threw a human femur at me with deathly fury, an attack I only managed to avoid thanks to my eleven years spent training with some monks on a mountain in Japan. You know those monks who can punch a hole through your groin and you don’t even realise it until, like, eight years later? Yeah, those monks.
    Before I could apprehend the mysteriously malevolent funeral director and beat the truth of his bastardly intentions out of him, he teleported once again, this time out of sight and to Mr. T knows where. And so my search for truth – and vengeance – began…
    Turns out he was behind the clothes horse.

6th February 2018
So there I was singing to my sweetbreads when Jean-Luc Picard and his constant companion Chewbacca from the hit documentary Babylon 5 come waltzing in banging on about banjos and bombs and boots, so I says to them, I says, “Listen, lads, I’ve got nothing but respect for your skills with a colouring book but as you know if I don’t sing the sweet song of the sweetbreads at this time of day then Cthulhu will wake from his slumber beneath the print shop on Clarence Street and we’re all in the shit then, so take that novelty bottle-opener over there and go amuse yourself in the cellar for a few hours until I’m done, alright?”
    Suitably chastened, my spacefaring visitors left my sight.
    After my hypnotic crooning was complete, I dressed to impress in my sequined oak shirt then lay in my George Foreman Grill and thought about how maybe I was immortal after all.

1st February 2018
“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” the old philosopher asked me from across my kitchen table.
    I leapt up onto the table’s freshly greased surface and played a 45-minute drum solo while I gave the question some thought.
    Eventually I returned to my chair, gave the philosopher a knowing smile and said, “Francis Bacon’s bacon-arranger.”
    The philosopher nodded, very slightly, then rose to his feet and climbed back down the plughole in the sink.
    Having taken another step on my journey to enlightenment, I startled a passing executioner in celebration.

19th January 2018
I woke up in the trunk of a car being driven by a couple of swarthy sailors who had taken to agreeing to all manner of nefarious work to secure their moist passage back to that fair old emerald isle of Luxembourg.
    “Lo, you inflated swine!” I cried, like a man trapped in a cage of his own imagined marzipan.
    And yet, there came no reply. I wondered if that was because I didn’t actually know what “Lo” meant.
    Then, to my thrusting amazement, the trunk was opened and who was standing there, greeting me with a Cornish pastie and a look both wounded and forthcoming? That’s right: the man standing behind you right now!
    Only joking.
    Or am I?!
    Yes.

1st January 2018
Boom.
    This is the future. And by the future, I mean now. The present. 2018. It’s rubbish.
    Why, then? I’ve been asking myself this for too long in my haberdashery of nonsense, casting off hat after hat of ignorance and hope and determination just for a futile glimpse of a woodpecker of hope or a chaffinch of reassurance but here – THE FUCK – we are.
    Why?
    Fuck you, chaffinch.

11th December 2017
“Vultures, vultures everywhere.”
    That’s what that asshole in Casablanca said. Or something like that, anyway. And he was right: I visited Homebase this morning to buy a bronze bucket and a new, gleaming pair of twattybangles for the garden and who had just swooped in and bought the entirety of the remaining stock? That’s right: a flump (to use the collective noun) of vultures.
    For supper, I ate an engine to perk myself up.
    Brrm-brrm, it went.
    Brrrm-brrm.

24th November 2017
Lopsided crocodile versus thoughtful astronaut. Who wins? That’s right: the fans.

12th November 2017
Life is a funny thing. Not, like, “ha ha” funny, more like “what the fuck was that all about?” funny. Because frankly I was left shaking my head after I went to buy a new hamster-skin bathmat this morning only to learn that apparently hamsters have been imaginary all this time.
    It made me ask myself, what kind of god would allow such a furry betrayal? And I didn’t even believe in the twat, even with the buy-one-get-one-free flyers he kept posting through my letterbox.
    Disappointed and weighed down by bad knowledge, I trudged home across the fields (of gold) through a moist battering of rainy rainy rain, splish-splash.
    Then ex-president Jimmy Carter struck!

29th October 2017
Time-travel is a fickle mistress, I reflected as I enjoyed my morning bowl of Honey Nut Bran Fruit Nonsense Crunch cereal, the milk turning a melancholy shade of purple as the fruity obscenities of my breakfast dissolved like an ombudsman’s shame.
    Of course, the universe being the twattish trickster it is, it was at that moment the clock fell off my wall and into my mind, sending me hurtling eight-hundred years into the past, back to a simpler time, before modern comforts such as moustaches and trees.
    “Eeee, what be this sorcery then?” a filthy peasant said as he gazed in awe at my futuristic neck and other treats.
    He told me his name was Wedge Buckle and we became friends, he and I, and solved medieval crimes through a combination of my advanced mind-meats and his muck-smeared barbarism. I like to think we made a difference.
    Forty years later, Wedge and I were reminiscing about our youthful adventures over a couple of glasses of liquified butter when a miniature sundial fell from the beak of a passing ostrich and struck me on my mind, hurling me into a fresh chrono-vortex that returned me to my own time, not a minute older than when I had left.
    After an entire half-hour’s worth of research, I learned that after my disappearance, Wedge Buckle had remained active and an inspiration until his death, going on to invent pigs, become the mayor of Funkytown, and more.
    As for me, one of the best men I had ever known and had the honour to call my friend was centuries in his grave. It was a sobering thought, and I blame this distracted and thoughtful mood for my only winning the runner-up trophy at the dance contest that afternoon. The past catches up to all of us sooner or later.

18th October 2017
I climbed out of the shattered husk of my night-cocoon, ready to strut my way through another day like a funky tractor in a sex factory.
    Suddenly all that had to wait, however, when I received a call on my space-phone from the Space League of Space Planets in the Space, the intergalactic federation I’d joined for some reason. Captain Porkloops told me there was no time to waste, a fleet of alien death-ships was heading for Earth and I was the planet’s only hope.
    “You can rely on me, Porkloops, you weird bastard!” I exclaimed like a trembling greenhouse.
    Then I remembered I needed a new spirit level after a demon ate my previous one, so I went to the shop instead.
    It was hours later when I remembered Porkloops’ urgent warning, at which point I called him back from my space-phone and asked him if he needed my spirit level pressed against something, assuming that would solve the alien death-fleet problem. Porkloops’ ugly, pulsing son answered and revealed his father had raced to Earth and sacrificed his own life to destroy the alien threat while I was at the shop.
    I cursed my new spirit level and knew that from that day on, like my soul, that green bubble would never be truly central.
    PORKLOOOOOOOOPS!

13^th October 2017 

I had a very long adventure that lasted the blink of an eye and it ended in a very sad way but I didn’t die even though I should have, because that’s the way adventures end sometimes.

8th September 2017 

So I’ve been working on a new catchphrase and have narrowed it down to the following:
    1. “Gentlemen, start your peanuts!”
    2. “Tuppence or ha’penny, it’s all the same to a saucy duke!”
    3. “That Mildred and her hats!”
    4. “A chupacabra, sir? Not at my age!”
    Hopefully I’ll have settled on one in time for my speech at the Scrumping Society’s Annual Charity Gala.

2^nd September 2017 

Roy Orbison may have driven all night to get to me… but I was ready for him.

24th August 2017
“Tish and fippsy!” I exclaimed, cursing like a sailor who had just taken a kraken to the sweetbreads.
    I usually reserved such coarse language for supermarket openings but something was rotten in the state of Denmark. And by Denmark, I mean the guttering that lined the roof of my house, because dangling from there I spied some very unwanted guests in the form of Mort, the travelling spine salesman, and his winged children, who I assumed had carried their vagabond father unto his squatter’s perch ‘pon the peak of my dwelling.
    “Get down from there, Mort, you damn squatter!” I cried, my socks pulsing with rage.
    Grinning, Mort hurled obscenities down at me like naughty rain in between gulps from the drum of cooking oil affixed to his back, his trademark method of keeping his own spine so supple and shiny. At the same time, his freakish spawn frolicked amidst the rainwater and leaves which the guttering had collected.
    I’d see them all in Hell before this was over.
    I went to bed about ten.

18th August 2017
Now if I have one regret about moving into my current house, it’s my assumption that the screaming skulls lining the walls of the cellar would eventually get tired or bored and move on, but alas, like my drill sergeant told me when I fought in that war, “Assuming something is like painting a cloud with regret: you need a long ladder.” He was a fucking idiot, my drill sergeant.
        So today, as I was trying to practice my harp-playing on the harp given to me by the woman who holds the world record for shooting the smallest skirting board off a tramp’s eyebrows, I’d finally had enough of the skulls’ subterranean caterwauling and went down there to give them a piece of my mind.
        The skulls blamed their twattish noise on swamp gas and lunar shifts but I wasn’t having any of it so I put an end to their bony (M) nonsense with violent movements. Satisfied that justice had been served, I ate my harp in triumph then settled in for the evening with my Hunter season 1 boxset.

 11^th August 2017

This morning I drove my car into the river as an offering to Neptune. But guess what? He wasn’t even at home but out playing crazy golf with M.O.D.O.K. That’s three grand down the toilet, plus the peacocks I was keeping in the boot.

          Still, things perked up in the afternoon when I stole a car and drove that into a bridge as an offering to Jeff Bridges and he descended from the sky and told me I was alright in his book. The months of physiotherapy it’s gonna take to repair my shattered legs are gonna fly by.

30th July 2017
Another haiku:

    I am a pink boy
    Insidious betrayal
    By that yellow orb

29th July 2017
I write haiku now:

    Oh lovely sunshine
    The sunshine is quite lovely
    Lovely lovely sun

20^th July 2017

The small stegosaurus perched on top of my television won’t stop staring at me and I’m not gonna lie, after a few months it’s starting to freak me out. Still, I’ll be damned if I’m gonna lend him my spirit level.