My dear Blogistan,
So sorry to have neglected you. I have been quite impotent of late, plunging the depths during the horrible festive period when I could only write very boring stuff like ‘I got up and looked out of the window’ type [type] blog entries. And then
of late, I was transfixed by the murderous events of Paris. Naturally given this Armageddon type [type] scenario, I have noted the position of the family axe and baseball bat in the bathroom darling.
Also I was trying to make friends on the writers’ forum but everybody keeps on saying ‘what are you talking about?’ or the old ‘on drugs’ chestnut which I have received only twice before. The sign of a proper enemy, that one, in writer circles, it signals an imposter or pensioner on Navy pension CW writing course, who says:
‘I don’t want none of this flammery. I want good solid story, wham bamm, rum, rations, the end, don’t give me your fucking poetry you homosexual,’
‘Please calm yourself Mike,’ I say, ‘I was just saying if Andy Pandy lived down my gullet, that when the devil swooped he might find him there, okay?’
‘Okay, walk on.’
‘Thank you, Mike.’
Look, a very long time ago our ancestors gathered around a hearth in a hovel. There was a little chap called Stanley and he asked his daddy all about the harpies:
‘Tell me daddy, tell me about the harpies,’ said Stanley.
‘Deep in the woods, you see,’ said Daddy, ‘lives all three of them, the ladies, harpies, who are very ugly. Foul crows, filthy hook-nosed and grey claws; chests like pustules paired and wings smelly, matted like a flattened cat under a cartwheel, yes a totally flat cat, how about that?
Anyway these harpies they don’t talk RP like me, sonny. No, they grunt, squawk and spit vile lumps of mouse around all of their mouths.
Sometimes in the branches they get irritated with the view of trees, take off from the treetops, flap and find the village. They fetch a man. Two watch whilst one of these harpies she laughs, digs her hooks into a tradesman’s back flesh, flaps high into the sky above the sea cliff. He’s crying and wails of course, but she just drops him into the sea like a pebble when only a minute before he was thatching Rowde. Terrible.
So the harpies up in the sky, they watch the fellow, manfully he swims back to the shore, and when he gets very close to the beach, one of the other harpies
swoops plummets down upon him and drops him back out at sea again. This process is repeated, all day if necessary. I think one chap got back at midnight to his wife, but otherwise it is a watery demise. Also the harpies peck out the chap’s eyes whilst he is swimming, yes, yes, I forgot to mention that bit. Anyway, wasn’t it time you went to bed sonny?’
‘So tragical, daddy. I am terrified.’
‘Please don’t weep my boy, these are magical beasts, sonny, they live miles away up by the shops. Mother shall take you up the stairs.’
‘Quarrk, quarrk, kissy kissy.’