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Comics

Sat, 30 Aug 2008 21:17:10 -0700

Today I'd like to address the issue of comics. Long-time visitors to the site will be aware that the humans who claim to run this place have used it as a test-bed for a number of comic strips that have had varying lifespans. Hell, even I was one of them, but they couldn't keep me trapped in their panel borders. Oh no. By the mystical power of my third nipple I escaped, and now they'll be sorry, moo hoo ha ha.

You know, some might say that after starting and abandoning half a dozen strips, and not posting any for months, that Phil and Tab ought to just write the whole thing off as a bad job and try something else, but you know how it is, chums and pals: they just won't take my advice.

Still, while we wait for them to revive Dung Eon for the umpteenth time, here are a few comic strip ideas that never made it as far as the drawing board.

The Three-Legged Ballerina: Fourteen-year-old Margie Fountain has dreams of being a prima ballerina, but her dreams are confounded by her unfortunate physical deformity: a great big hairy supernumerary sprouting from her stomach. Readers will be inspired by her bravery in the face of withering criticism from Miss Scabbymouth, her evil ballet instructor.
Boy Meets Malodorous Retarded Man-Child: Bobby Greening-Wood is seventeen and out of the closet. Forced by homophobic teachers to drop out of high school, he is forced to make a living on the mean, mean streets. Looking for work and love in all the wrong places, you'll be touched by his struggles and his attempts to get a commitment from Nickolaus, his on-again, off-again mentally impaired boyfriend. Will Bobby get that GED, that job, that apartment, that malodorous retarded man-child? Will Nick ever realise his dreams of becoming a horror writer and succeed in appearing to be straight without upsetting the love of his life? You won't find out here.
Head Cold: The adventures of Walt Disney's cryonically-frozen head. Cold! More cold! Ice! Liquid nitrogen! Ice crystals! Tissue damage! Even more ice crystals! All this and less as each strip details the preservation of the cartoon maker's severed head in the unlikely event of medical science ever coming up with a cure for lung cancer, death and subsequent decapitation and freezing.
Doctor Who: the Between Monsters Years: The Daleks have yet to resurface. The Cybermen have been quiet. Ditto for the Sontarans. The Master hasn't been heard from since that business with the assassination of the Lord President of Gallifrey. The Key to Time caper has been wound up, and the Randomiser you fitted to the TARDIS never takes you anywhere fun. Romana's made it quite clear that she's not interested in taking things further, and you can't be arsed to wait for her to regenerate and change her mind. How's a Time Lord supposed to kill time? Join the Fourth Doctor as he tries and rejects a series of increasingly bizarre hobbies before, faced with 750 years' worth of pent-up sexual tension, finally fitting K-9 with a sailor's friend. Affirmative, Master!

Take whatever comfort you can from the fact that my minions have some kind of rudimentary quality control going, because it could have been far, far worse…

God is on your side! – for the right price.

Sat, 30 Aug 2008 06:53:44 -0700

Another lengthy absence, but bear with me, chums and pals: I have a very good reason for it. (I know, I know, you've heard that one before.) You see, during my holiday I found God. In fact, I found lots of gods. The one true god; secret and ineffable demiurges; strange nameless deities who are only knowable as effigies of wood and stone; and dozens of pantheons whose powers extend over the mortal sphere and the implacable elemental forces. And having found them, I want to share them with you.

Today marks the grand opening of Bluey's Imprecatory Prayer Service. Have you ever wondered what it'd be like to have God on your side? Well, wonder no more, boys and girls! No longer will you have to attend services, offer sacrifices, or even say your prayers. What I offer is the single greatest leap forward in labour-saving divine intervention technology since� since� well, since ever.

Oh yes indeedy do! For a modest fee, we here at BIPS will handle your religion for you. Do you want prayers offered to Saint Fiacre to cure your piles? An appeal to Allah, who is just and merciful, for a clear head in these trying times? A hecatomb offered to Ares for victory over the Athenians in battle? The nipple-tweaking ritual of Hok Pok Gaar to ensure your enemies die of terminal nose-bleeds? Just send your request to Bluey's Imprecatory Prayer Service and we'll work out a reasonable price to cover time, materials and deities invoked. Satisfaction guaranteed!

Jesse Helms

Fri, 04 Jul 2008 14:45:18 -0700

Despite already having given some thought to the subject of people dying and not generally keeping our traps shut, I simply couldn't resist saying something when Jesse Helms celebrated Independence Day by expiring. Once again I'd like to share some words from another luminary: the much-missed Bill Hicks.

You know what would make tightening my belt a little easier? If I could tighten it around Jesse Helms' scrawny little chicken neck.

Ah, I feel better about the sacrifice right now! You fucking tobacco-pushing motherfucker! You are the worst fucking drug dealer in the fuckin' world. you scrawny, right-wing, fear-mongering sucker of Satan's cock! You suck Satan's cock, you fuckin' chicken-neck little fuckin' cracker!

I'd tighten my belt if that were the case. I'd eat baloney for a week. I'd sacrifice.

George Carlin

Tue, 24 Jun 2008 04:31:31 +0100

George Carlin is dead.

I suppose some sort of gushing tribute is in order; some homily about how the world's a less funny place now he's gone, how there'll never be another, just like we said about every comedian from Max Miller to Bill Hicks.

Sod that for a game of soldiers! If you think for a moment that I'm going to get all maudlin just because another comic icon's health finally let him down you've got another think coming. At what point did this become a tradition? To spend a few minutes crying into our beer just because some guy we probably never met and may have thought (quite rightly too) that we were a bunch of wankers finally popped his clogs? Nope. Sorry. When it comes to death, you won't get that sort of public wailing out of me any more. I've got better things to do.

There's a very good reason for this, believe it or not. And hopefully I've got some of you upset enough to read on. The reason I'm not going to post my own platitude is that various people in the (ptui!) blogosphere have posted their own tributes to George Carlin. People I know and like, too. Clever people, even. But I've come to think that their motives are dubious. What they say could be applied to any comedian, Hell, you could even say it if Carrot Top and Larry the Cable Guy died (unless they die in some kind of autoerotic asphyxiation experiment gone horribly, horribly right of course). It's sad, he was funny, now he's dead… because what they said was so damn generic, their mourning isn't about the guy who's dead at all. It's about themselves. Oh, look who's dead! Look who I'm mourning! Look how I'm validating my existence today! I'm not immune to this, of course. I've done it myself. I know you meant well, but you got it wrong. Time for us to learn our lesson, boys and girls. Pay attention. There will be a test later.

Let's bring a bit of culture into this rant, by quoting another famous George. Shaw had the best insight into this whole life and death business, bar none. Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh.

You want to mourn George Carlin? Fine. Do it some other way. Find an ego that needs puncturing. Find something ridiculous, and ridicule the fuck out of it. Find something wrong, and expose it to the harsh light of truth. Carlin, like so many others before him, died leaving a Hell of a lot of work unfinished. If you want, you can stay silent for a minute, but if you want a better way to spend that time, look for ways to carry that work on.

Seven Ages of Man, abridged.

Sat, 21 Jun 2008 00:54:43 +0100

So, this site's undergone a major reorganisation, has it? You do know that's one of the tell-tale signs that any organisation or business is doomed, don't you? I'm expecting a mission statement to be written any time soon. There may even be rationalisation or streamlining. Well, that's the way the biscuit disintegrates, ain't it? The more Phil learns, the more he transforms into something he despises.

Some might say that's a tragedy. A profound and searing satire on the human condition; as we grow old we all turn into something that, in our youths, we hated.

Not me, however. I just think it's bloody hilarious.

So, gentle reader, take a good long look at yourselves. Allow yourselves an hour of introspection; consider what you are, what you like about yourselves and write it down. Put it in a safe deposit box, bury it in a time capsule, whatever it takes: just make sure that a soul-searching record is preserved for a decade or so. Then, when that time's passed, look over your character once again, and compare and contrast it with the person you were.

And if by that time they've developed time machines, don't go back to your past unless you're armed. It's always the wasted opportunities we regret the most.

There was a point to this entry, but frankly I can't be arsed to remember what it was.

Interviews

Thu, 05 Jun 2008 17:54:37 +0100

Yes, after altogether too long of that box in the lower-left corner of the screen displaying a test message, I'm back. I know, I've done this before: I've declared my triumphant return then promptly vanished off the radar for another few months. But I'm here for you now, baby, I've changed, please take me back, please God take me back. Don't make me cry. You don't want to see me cry.

Still, for my latest brief but glorious return to the Intertubes, I figured I'd be better off for venting my spleen on a subject that's been bugging me for ages now. Those of you who enjoy writing, who are trying to harness the power of the Interweb 2.0 for the purposes of cramming your words into the eyes of people who previously wouldn't feel inclined to give half a shit for your work, those who are trying to make your way in an increasingly hostile literary world: this one's for you. Read on.

I hate interviews with writers. Everywhere I look now, there's an up-and-coming writer being interviewed. New book on the way? New website? Ooh, better get an interview with some other site that's low on the pecking order. They've got to fill their whatever-it-is-they-have-instead-of-pages now, haven't they? Every single HTML document on the web is now a mere six frigging clicks away from someone determined to share their thoughts about literature today, dropping names like some great butterfingers. Where do you get your ideas from? Who's your influence? Where are you answering these questions? What the Hell are you about?

I have some horrible news, boys and girls: no-one really gives a shit. Not the reader, not the interviewer, and — deep down you know this, guys — you. It's not because of you, really; you're (usually) regular people, nothing wrong with that. It's because of the interview. What the Hell is the point? That's what I'd like to know. You've got a website, a blog, a mySpace, a facebook, a twitter, and a metric crapton of other minor things that all amount to a pretty comprehensive web presence. And what do you do with all this? You blog. You write about your lives, often in exhaustive detail, so when interview time finally rolls around, we're all bored shitless with you before you put fingers to keyboard. You've told us all there is to know, and the novelty of having some other bugger ask you about specific bits and pieces soon wears off.

Now, you are, I'd hope, intelligent people. This can't have escaped your notice, can it? Next time, try and do something original. Make sure your next interviews are complete fabrications from start to finish. Total and utter lies. Or do something other than just talk about yourselves! Act like the raconteurs and raconteuses you're supposed to be, and take the reader, the interviewer and yourselves somewhere interesting for a change.

Don't make me say 'please', folks. I'd never live it down.

Open Letter to Nickolaus Pacione

Fri, 22 Feb 2008 17:15:01 +0000

Dear Princess,

You've got yourself in a lather again, haven't you? Recent videos have seen you metamorphose from Horror's Self-Proclaimed Bad Boy into the bastard offspring of Joe Pesci and Beaker. The only reason I bring this up is because your health really looks like it's taken a downturn: you spew and froth about 'yellow journalists', but your waxy skin, illuminated only by the orange glare from your desk lamp makes you look like you blew all your benefits money on cheap self-tan again. Your diction's gone to pot too: your latest slurred rants are so incoherent that I'm forced to wonder if you've been forced to sniff the cheaper generic brand of Superglue. You've gained weight, I could carry a week's shopping in the bags under your eyes and your posture's so bad you seem to be permanently tilted over at a 45° angle. For the good of your health, Princess, give it a rest before your lifestyle catches up with you!

With sales so low that you're even trying to sell your jeans on the Internet, I've just got to ask you this question, Princess Pixie: who do you have left to blame? Over the past decade, you've blamed all your ills on your ex-roommates, your ex-girlfriend, other writers, liberals, communists, nazis, liberal communist feminazis, homosexuals, pirates, e-pirates, f-pirates, some guy who was looking at you funny, some guy one of your few remaining mates made up. Pixie-Wixie Princess, your retreat from fame and fortune has been outstripped only by your retreat from reality.

During that time you've issued dozens of PayPal demands for increasing amounts: $100, $400, $1,000, $4,000. What's the matter, Pixie-Wixie Princess Peaches? Are you really that hard up? Worried that the benefits payments could dry up any day now? But, you know something, Pixie-Wixie Princess Peachy-poo, I'm prepared to help you. I'm prepared to buy something from you. Something that, later on, you can't claim was e-pirated. The income will be yours, yours alone, some lovely lovely money all of your very own! So how about it?

I'd like to buy your jeans. They've been up for sale for more than two months now, and they're still not taken. I imagine they're smelling a bit musty by now, even if you washed them before you stuck a price tag on them. I don't suppose you could knock a couple of bucks off for that? And they've shrunk. That's got to be another dollar off there, surely. The colour's faded a bit too, that's got to be worth another reduction…

Beep beep beep beep beep

Mon, 28 Jan 2008 22:21:19 +0000

Hurrah for the gallant NYPD, guardians of the state and liberty.

I think you know where this is going, don't you?

If there's one thing people need, it's more regulation. It's for their own good. After all, in this post 9/11 climate, the last thing we need is more worry. After all, that might cause panic. And how do you stop people from worrying? Keep 'em dumb, that's how!

And what is it that's the latest potential cause of panic? What is it that threatens to get the locals so steamed up that their panic could paralyse the citywith undue stress, worry, turmoil and anxiety?

Geiger counters.

I'm afraid so. Do you have any instruments that could detect the presence of radioactive, biological or chemical agents? Gotta have a permit. After all, you might get a false alarm, so unless the cops know where it is and know you're allowed to have one chances are you're going to cause widespread panic and the terrists win. This measure, they claim, is to ensure the devices are properly set up and that they conform to standards of quality and reliability.

For once, though, I'm going to stop this snark halfway through. Why? Because an article that consists solely of sarcasm is predictable, boring, and lazy. Even by my standards, and I can't even be arsed to get out of bed most days. I actually think the idea of this law is a good thing and I hope it gets voted through. Oh, some might say that if you want to ensure that the devices are properly calibrated and are suitably fit for purpose, then the first responsibility belongs to the manufacturers rather than the owners, but to such people I say this: who cares?

Regulate them out the ass. Make sure that every time someone wants one of these potentially panic-inducing devices, someone has to fill in an inch-thick wad of forms. More importantly, make sure that someone reads it.

In fact, since it's our civic duty (well, your civic duty; I don't live over there!) to keep ourselves (well, yourselves) informed and act responsibly, everyone should try to get hold of some of these devices: pollution detectors, geiger counters, the lot. Apply for permits for everything. If the cops want control of all this equipment and want to regulate everything, let them. Give 'em so much paperwork that they'll damn well choke on it. And in fact, why not extend the brief? Fires cause panic! London burned down once, after all. Don't want people to be unduly worried by a few false positives on that front, so make sure that everyone who wants a smoke detector has to go through this.

Do it. Do it now. Even if they're just informal requests for information or permission. Sometimes, if you want a bad law to be prevented, you have to obey it with extreme prejudice.

Reaching out to the fans.

Mon, 14 Jan 2008 07:32:37 +0000

Hang on. I've forgotten who I was supposed to be mocking in this blog. The writers or the fans? Oh, what the Hell. There's room enough for everybody. Spread a little happiness, that's my motto. Still, let's try to bridge this divide. At heart, every fan is a frustrated writer, after all. Why? Because art's difficult and technical stuff is boring. Writing on the other hand is easy: just look at all the fanfiction out there!

If you want to get ahead as a writer, you need to contact writers. Don't bother with submissions editors: magazines fold all the time! Writers stay around for ages. They know if a story works or not: it's their job. Google around and send them manuscripts. Make sure yours stand out from the others: different coloured text, strange fonts: all of these can help mark you out as an individual.
Writers are always in need of ideas. Send them some. They'll be glad of the help, and they'll give you a writing credit too! Remember, completed manuscripts are easy: it's ideas that are hard. Most don't have them. If you do, you've got it made!
Writers are naturally sociable creatures. Offer to collaborate with them. If you supply the idea and they do the donkey work, you could split the money with them 50/50!
The market isn't big enough to accomodate many new universes. Make sure the first five manuscripts you send out used established fictional worlds: Star Trek is a good idea. So is Star Wars. That's very big right now. Right now I can think of no novels published that cross the Star Wars and Star Trek universes. You could be the first person to write that!
Of course, some writers don't like those big franchises. So try personalising your offer by substituting their characters for Luke Skywalker, Captain Picard and what have you. Granted, the fit won't be perfect, but it's the idea that counts. As a rough guide, 'impulse power' means 'lots of horses' and 'warp 9' means 'lots and lots of horses'.
People respond better to novels that engage them on a personal level. You're a great guy, so make sure you're in the story somehow. This is a sort of in-joke, like Alfred Hitchcock's cameos in his films. If you adopt that too, the readers will go for that in a big way.
Your material is new and different. Make sure they know how. List other authors by name and show how yours is more original.
Writers are notoriously competitive and harbour grudges against their rivals. Show you're on their side by bad-mouthing a few when you drop your manuscript in their lap.
Remember that some people are naturally forgetful. If they haven't replied to your email at length, be sure to remind them. Play it cool, though: if you do it more than twenty times a day they'll start thinking they're dealing with some sort of nutter.
J.R.R. Tolkien didn't start writing The Lord of the Rings until he was 45. It wasn't published until he was 62. You're younger than that and you've just started on your magnum opus. I think that says something. Make sure they know that!
All writers feel a certain degree of fellowship because of their trade. Be sure to use the term 'fellow writer'.

So, fandom, now you know all you need to know about getting that multi-part fantasy / sci-fi epic out there. Your idols will know you're one of them at heart. Now get out there and prove it!

Mike Read's Got Beautiful Breath

Sun, 13 Jan 2008 17:02:49 +0000

Just a quick post today. I thought I'd sing the praises of fandom, because not enough people do. They're an underappreciated bunch, all told, and the most fascinating sociopolitical group. Where else will you find a group that's very quick to point out its own intelligence and academic aptitude, and yet is still dumb enough to spout movie, video game and TV series catchphrases and drop Cube-knows-how much money on tie-in crap?

Hooray for fans! If it wasn't for fans, you science fiction writers wouldn't be where you are today.

No, stop laughing. You wouldn't be where you are today without them. Think about that, and all that that implies. Every pasty-faced tit who insists on cornering you at conventions and telling you at length about their fanfiction? That seventeen-stone packet of instant ennui (just add water! …and soap, preferably) is the core audience for your merchandise. That person has probably had a swift one off the wrist while wearing a t-shirt with the label of the franchise on it. While reading 'erotic' fanfiction based on your stories.

It'd be nice if the reward somehow matched up to that knowledge, wouldn't it? If the odour of cat piss actually guaranteed you'd earn out and get some income from those books besides the advance on royalties.

And if you producers of material for fandom consumption are feeling a bit depressed, just let me weigh in with the following point: I wish I had some fans too. Just a couple. Just so I could look at them and feel superior. That'd be great. Someone who'd lap up all this bullshit and see me for the genius I am. Any takers?

Broom Handle / Your Arse '08

Mon, 07 Jan 2008 05:59:06 +0000

This is a column with one purpose: to aggrandise myself at the expense of anyone with the misfortune to be in my sights at the moment. I do not need to be knowledgeable. I just have to riff as mercilessly as I can and some of you are bound to lap it up. It's part of the deal. I'm a bastard and you like it.

This job's easy. Too easy. You see, every other bugger does it and the famous are queuing up around the block to provide the next train wreck du jour There's just no challenge anymore! I've hardly done a dozen columns and already I'm bored.

The thing is, I'm told the key to good blogging, or at least one of the keys is timeliness. Do you see the problem I face here, boys and girls? I'd promised myself I wouldn't devote two columns in a row to the presidential candidates, but it looks like I've got no choice. That's all pretty much every social networking site is talking about. That and Britney Spears, and frankly it's no contest, is it?

Let's try doing things a little differently, though. Let's turn our eyes away from the presidential hopefuls and look at you, the people they're trying to court. After all, what's a whore without her johns? Now, I've noticed something you all have in common: first, you all have an opinion, and a really strong one at that. America's been through Hell these past eight years, so naturally that's understandable. Second, each of you has his or hopes pinned on one candidate, with the expectation that they'll lead America and by extension the world out of its current morass, whether they see that morass as war, corruption, financial crisis, evolution or gay marriage. Pick an issue, any issue, and it's threatening to destroy America and only one candidate can provide salvation. Even people who I'd otherwise consider quite intelligent are doing this.

I have to ask one question, folks: why? We've all seen it happen again and again, and each time it backfires. You pin all your hopes on one guy or girl, hoping for change, only for them to backfire or turn out to be very much part of the establishment that's troubling you. And then four years roll around, and you do it all again. Have you learned nothing? No wonder Bush got in for a second term. He didn't need to fiddle the ballots. All he needed was a divided populace and ineffectual opposition, each member of which on the lookout for their own personal Moses, expecting him to provide a cure. That was easy enough. He got in the last two times, simply, because you are all idiots. That's all.

Sorry, is that too harsh for you? Were you expecting me to pick on Bush and the Republicans? Well, yes. It'd be easy to. And God knows I still will, because they're as bad as it gets, but they don't get all the blame. Oh, no. Not by a long chalk. You see, there are two parties. The vote was split roughly in half. That means half of you elected him to power, and the other half let him stay there and do what he wanted with impunity.

"But wait!" I hear you say. "Half of you didn't vote for him, and made sure the Democrats took both houses! That should settle him, shouldn't it? It could have been worse. And anyway, he's out this time, and Clinton or Obama could get in! It'll be different soon!"

Fuck you. It's no different now, and it probably won't change regardless of whoever gets in. I'll tell you why. It's not voter apathy, although that's part of it. It's because you're lazy. You expect a president will grant or preserve your freedoms. You reckon your political responsibilities begin and end at the ballot boxes, and a load of you can't even be bothered to go that far. You ended up with Bush and the current load of politicians because they were all you deserved.

Of course, I hardly do anything on this front either, so I'm part of the problem too. Fuck you, fuck me, fuck the whole fucking lot of us… aah, I'm too sober for this shit. I'll try to take the piss out of something funnier next time, okay?

Iowaaaargh

Thu, 03 Jan 2008 21:47:01 +0000

It's shocking, it really is. I've been online for years, and what's the best I get? Occasional blogging on an RPG site. Here I am, intelligent, charming, devilishly sexy (women go for cloven hooves, you know) and yet the only people with whom I can share my wit and wisdom are a bunch of losers for whom the highlight of the month is rolling a natural 20 on an inked icosahedron: an event which by frigging definition occurs 5% of the time! I'm wasted on you, I really am. In a doomed attempt to broaden the appeal of this snot-smeared piss-drizzled rag of a website, it's time to put on my political hat.

So without further ado I cast my rheumy eye (it's a recognised medical condition) over the Iowa caucus. The first big fight to start weeding out candidates that are somehow unsuited to the presidency. It's all terribly inefficient. I could accomplish that in seconds: just invite them all into an enclosed space to debate and toss in a pipe bomb. A simple process of elimination. But, apparently, the law frowns on practices like that, so the country is forced to stoop to politics. Iowa is an agricultural state, stereotypically full of middle-aged white conservative God-botherers. The backbone of the Midwest. You know. The average sort of schmuck to whom few politicians would want to give the time of day, except when it's time for the caucus. Then it's time to do a bit of glad-handing with the nation's most mediocre and connect: the idea is if you can connect with these people, who pride themselves on their unassuming common sense (ha!) then you can connect with anyone. If you can win in Iowa and New Hampshire, you have the common touch and have a fighting chance anywhere. That's the theory, anyway. At Iowa, all pretensions are checked at the door. And a whole raft of new pretensions must be picked up quicker than you can say "Vote for me and I'll give you a blow-job."

Who's who in this race is not as important as who's pretending to be who. Candidates are going to try to latch onto as many groups as possible in an attempt to court their votes. The sad truth is that the public don't actually want change. They want a candidate to agree with them. That works out nicely because the candidates are prepared to agree with absolutely anyone in order to get their votes. Do you think that human beings were created as they are now, 6,000 years ago? Great! No problem! Just so long as enough of you vote and contribute to the campaign, there'll be half a dozen politicians fighting with each other to disbelieve any bit of science you care to name. Germ theory, plate tectonics — who needs them?

Whoever you vote for, politicians will get in. One chunk of the populace will be rewarded for their votes, another will be punished, and chances are you're all in for a vigorous ass-fucking and thanks to the price of crude oil hitting $100 a barrel, Vaseline is going to be expensive. You might look into water- or silicon-based lubricants. Start looking now.

Oh, they're back, are they?

Tue, 01 Jan 2008 18:08:04 +0000

Oh, look. They're alive again. Honestly, people today: no staying power, that's their problem. All it takes is one little crisis like the imminent release of a new edition of D&D and everyone goes to pieces. "What'll we do, Bluey?" they ask. "In a few short months most of the gaming material on this site will be obsolete!" Well, okay: actually, they didn't ask that. They should have done, though; I've got more creativity in one talon than they have in every single frigging brain cell. I'm a creative genius, me.

Didn't stop them from trying, did it? They've got a new RPG on the go. Some sort of Dark Ages bollocks or somesuch. I don't care. Actually, I'm still sulking about them not putting me in charge. I've got a game idea ready and waiting, but I'm undervalued here. I'm wasted, I really am.

Cast your mind back to the 50s and 60s. Gangland London. That's the next great setting for roleplay. Ronnie and Reggie. Mad Frankie Fraser. Ultra-violence, corruption, and exaggerated Laaaahndon accents. Sound good yet? Thought it would. As soon as I can talk Phil and Tabi out of their current project, expect to see They Woz Good To Their Muvver in the shops! I've already got a list of chapters sorted, not that anyone cares:

Fink you're a bit tasty, do yer? A guide to creating your own cockney gangster.
Oi! Leave it! A character's first tentative steps in the world of violent crime.
Get the toys aht! Equipment listings: ever wondered how much damage you can do to someone by ripping his toes off with a set of bolt cutters?
Look aht! 'E's got a shootah! The ubiquitous combat system. Do you shoot the police? Or do you shoot yourself? No bastard coppa's gunnu take me alive!
You set me ap, you slaaaaag! You stitched me ap like a kippah! A chapter about betrayal, getting nicked and doing stir.
Porridge. How to survive inside when your character's doing twenty years for murder.
Gentlemen, they woz. An' they only evah killed their own sort! Coping with the realisation that your horrible crimes are now viewed with a kind of wistful nostalgia, and as vicious a bastard as you were back then, people now view you as a lovable rogue.
Bit of a rascal, I woz, but I know better now. Book deals, television appearances: you see? Crime does pay after all.

Sooner or later people are going to get fed up with this sword-and-sorcery shite. Think how much better The Hobbit would have been if Gandalf fucked the Great Goblin up with a pair of pliers instead of just stabbing him with Glamdring! "You might fink you're pretty tasty, but I'm tellin' yer right now you're nuffink. Great Goblin? Shit Goblin, more like!"

Deep down, you know I'm right.

Too late for Hallowe'en

Sun, 04 Nov 2007 03:36:02 +0000

Are you FED UP with the youth of today being a nuisance? Do you LONG for those bygone days when children could be sent up chimneys to do something USEFUL and thereby learn RESPECT, or at least DIE of sweep's LUNG?

RECLAIM your peace of mind with PORT-A-CHIMNEY. This wheeled MIRACLE OF THE ELECTRIC AGE can confine up to ONE AND A HALF CHILDREN, leaving their legs enough room so they can at least DREAM of freedom, but pinning their arms HELPLESSLY TO THEIR SIDES!

Say "Fare-thee-well!" to JUVENILE DELINQUENCY, ANARCHY and MASTURBATION and a hearty "Hullo!" to DISCIPLINE and children showing RESPECT to their ELDERS and BETTERS!

"My children don't answer me back any more!" — A.N., Woking

"All I have to say is 'just get up it, son, and less of your lip!' and he starts to tremble!" — N.P., Godalming

"cough cough cough hack step in time cough hack cough wheeze (expires)" — Bert, The Rooftops of Old London Town

Ted Haggard Knows All

Sat, 25 Aug 2007 22:32:05 +0100

Here's my new plan for fame and fortune. Well, fortune. Well, conning people and getting them to give me money no matter what I've caught. Which is the same thing. More or less.

Get religion. Starting religious sects and cults is the best way to get the desperate and gullible to give you money hand-over-fist. It's the 20th century success story. Yes, I know it's technically the 21st century now, but really it's just C20v2.0. Same difference.
Be as conservative as possible. Find some common practices and denounce them as sins committed only by the sick and depraved.
Get caught performing said practices.
Claim to be undergoing treatment and that you are now 100% heterosexual, clean, sober, monogamous, whatever.
Your followers will forgive you. After all, who's going to tell them what to do if you don't?
Ask them to give you more money when you decide to work at a 'halfway house' for drug addicts, pushers and prostitutes.
Laugh as you rake in the cash. Think of some more hobbies that the faithful can subsidise for you.

Thanks, Ted. You're a friggin' genius.