Coming soon!

image loadingI’m a bit chuffed to have just finished the penultimate draft of the current story.

It’s been a long time coming (without good excuse in either my use of time or the quality of the story).

Next tasks: another thorough edit, and on with the cover art.

Presumably, the story will be in the shops this spring.

Can you contain yourself? Can I contain myself?

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Happy New Trump!

I should have put this up two weeks ago, but perhaps we can say it’s in time for the assumption.

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I wish now I’d made the drool blob piss yellow instead.

All the best for the new year everyone!

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In praise of the universal banana

How many uses for a banana are there? I can think of a few.

  • mimikaki for people with large ears
  • if tied to the bottom of feet they are a cheap alternative to roller blades by virtue of the slippy quality of banana skins
  • a crutch for a small person
  • a device for cleaning around the U-bend in toilets
  • a neck support for passengers on long haul flights
  • a stirrer for your tea
  • a friend to talk to
  • using advanced laser technology, a banana could be a device for storing huge amounts of information such as a novel like War and Peace: using clever mathematical formula you can encode War and Peace as a single long number: using clever laser technology you measure the exact mid point of the banana, then convert your number code for W&P to a fraction of one, and burn a line exactly that fraction of a centimetre from the mid point of a banana, and voila, you have the entire contents of W&P stored on a banana
  • a non-returning boomerang
  • a dug-out canoe for mice
  • an artificial chonmage
  • a lump in your pocket
  • prosthetic fingers for amputees
  • a snorkel for people who don’t do their snorkelling under water
  • vegetarian sausages
A chicken

A chicken

These bananas feature in Chris Page’s collection of short fiction, Un-Tall Tales, which you can find on Amazon, or explore further on it’s very own site.

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Bollocks to 2016

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Don’t look to me for answers, I want to know as much as you do.

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Page’s election analysis

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Sweet dreams are made like this

DreamcatchersLook! My super-cool daughter has been making super-cool dreamcatchers.

They are made with ivy from our garden, twine from the twine shop, stones mined from the more exotic moons of Jupiter or plucked from the rings of Saturn, and garnished with feathers harvested from the tails of griffins by our cat. Or some such.

Sweet dreams are made like this.

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Nothing more horrible than a nice cup of tea, don’t you think?

Of all the stupid things people say, one of the most stupid is ‘Would you like a nice cup of tea?’ I mean, what is the word nice doing in that sentence? It’s the sort of thing daft old grannies like to say. ‘Ooh! Let’s have a nice cup of tea.’

So I went round to my Gran’s the other day and I said, ‘How’re you doing Gran?’ and she said, ‘All right, you know, considering.’

She’s dead, my Gran, but she takes great care of herself, you know what I mean?

So she says ‘Come in, sit down. Would you like a nice cup of tea?’

I thought to myself, God, if I hear that one more time … But I said, ‘No thanks, Gran I’m all right.’

Then she said, ‘Would you like a horrible cup of tea?’

I thought for a moment. ‘How horrible? Without sugar?’

‘Without sugar. And I’ll spit in it.’

‘Nah, I’m not too bothered, thanks, Gran.’

‘I’ll put some spiders in. No sugar, spit, and spiders. And I’ll make it with toilet water.’

image loading‘Aye, all right then. Cheers.’

‘And how about some nuclear radiation?

‘Nuclear radiation?’

‘Nuclear radiation. I’m got some yellow cake.’

‘Now you’re talking, Gran. Champion!’

This nice cup of tea was brought to you by Chris Page’s collection of short fiction Un-Tall Tales. George Orwell was keen on a nice cup of tea, and you’ll find his brew here.

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Low art?

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A picture I did this week that may or may not say something about my current state of mind.

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Miniwocky

Here’s a doodle I did the other day. I call it Miniwocky.

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Winning gold in Olympic yawning

 

The Olympic Games is one of the most boring and futile spectacles yet invented by humans, so the approach of the last day will bring no dismay.

Every four years the best athletes in the world join together to compete in running, jumping, and falling over while their non-running, non-jumping, non-falling over compatriots ecstatically cheer them on.

My, what a fuss those compatriots kick up, painted and draped in the national colours, cheering, waving flags as if it were an Olympic sport of its own. The fans don’t seem to be celebrating that their athletes are the technical best at running, jumping, and falling over, but that they and their nation are innately, inherently the best in the most absolute and fundamental way possible; that they are racially, culturally, morally, naturally, spiritually, genetically superior to everyone because of their abilities at running, jumping, and falling over.

Each victory, near victory, or humiliating loss being greeted with such emotions, such screaming, cheering, crying, and raised arm salutes as to suggest that all this running, jumping, and falling over actually matters to the universe and everyone in it on a very fundamental level.

Never mind that the victors and losers are separated by microseconds, by millimetres, by quantities of time and distance that cannot be measured by humans alone, that require the most sophisticated of machines to calculate, the kinds of machines that normally would be employed measuring the amount of gravitational shift caused by a butterfly flapping its wings on a small planet orbiting a star the other side of the galaxy. In other words, amounts that normal people shouldn’t give a fuck about.

And never mind that the winners in four year’s time will be from totally different countries which makes the nationalistic hoopla look as silly as it is.

The Olympics are thought to have been first held in 776 (when, sensibly and mercifully, there was only one event) so you would have thought that in 2,792 years people would have noticed that the outcomes are a wee bit arbitrary.

Bill Murray tweeted that every event should include an ordinary person as a measure,

and that’s a very good idea because Michael Phelps just swam the equivalent of the distance from my house to the end of the street in the same time I could walk it; well, I just pulled a bogey the size of a rat out of my nose: where’s my medal?

And the Olympics are a very, very expensive exercise in futility indeed. The stadiums in this year’s games cost millions that could have been better spent on drugs in Rio’s favelas — which is entirely the Russian team’s approach to the games.

And what’s more, once the games are finished, the sites will go back to the jungle like Angkor Wat or Chernobyl.

For all the energetic running, jumping and falling over, let’s not forget that the games are celebration of obesity because each run, jump and fall is branded with the Coca Cola and McDonald’s logos, purveyors of fine sugar, fat, and heart attacks. Eat enough of this stuff and you too can run, jump and fall over — or at least fall over, and at this top-flight level, one out of three is pretty good.

Then what about the International Olympic Committee itself? Committed to building a better world through sport, or as the rest of us would call it, rampant bribery and corruption. Given the amount of money that’s being sloshed around on Rolexes and little girls, cheering the Olympic athletes is a lot like cheering the gunmen during the St Valentine’s Day massacre.

However, there is one mitigation of the games, and to be honest it’s a pretty big mitigation, one reason to actually feel a bit grateful, and that’s a prompt to go to YouTube and remind ourselves of Eddie Izzard’s vision of the stoned Olympics.

Now, do I get any kind of medal for this rant?

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