November 22, 2004

Some Drawins What I Done…

Sleep patterns are fucked. Stayed up practically every night last week writing essays. Justifiying (or not justifying) the existence of a Feudal society in Western Europe between 800 and 1200 at six o' clock on Thursday morning hurt my head. But the good news is that I'm now manually tiring myself out by staying up all night so I sleep properly tomorrow. This will also mean denying myself my mandatory afternoon power nap, (which generally lasts for around three hours), but unfortunately it also means I'm subjecting you to this picture I did on paint to keep myself awake. Enjoy!

Inspired by the propoganda posters we made for our kitchen. This was intended to make 'the kids' think washing up was cool, or even 'hip'. It didn't work.


November 18, 2004

Ruminations on Siberian Death Combat: An Epic Poem

The following is dedicated to Peter, and is my Iliad, or Hyperion. In fact it beats both into submission with a great big shiny wooden stick.

Observe.

oh, and visit link. For a terrifying account of a truly ghastly house. I was there. I scratched my plums and looked bored. Oh yes. Go see.

..And once there was a king
one so great that the nation sang
'Whitaker!'
And the proclaimation was great

And it was good.

And they came to see him from kingdoms afar
To lay at his feet
And give great presents of mail and sword
To Whitaker, the warrior king.

And he recieved them thusly with Kingly grace.

This continued for some time, with great reverence
And the pile of gifts grew, with gold and diamonds bright

How it grew.

It grew until the King could see no more
And could not survey his kingdom with eagle eye.

The King began to fear
For his safety.

And thence the insurrection began
led by the mysterious wanderer of the Siberian wastes
Who came on horse as black as death
To depose and ruin.

And the Palace of wax began to crumble
Around the monarch's feet
And it was less than good,
And the myserious stranger spoke.

'I do not wish to steal or conquer,'
He said.
'I merely wish, to sully the great name that is…
Whitaker!' (Who may keep his concubine.)

And he did.
And it was less than good.

Condemned to wander in solitude (except for my concubine) for many years,
I slept in deserts barren
And the mountainous craggy lands of the north
Before happening upon the Siberian wasteland home

Of the stranger.

'Halt!'
was the proclaimation of the pigeon sentry at the gates to the city
Of Mumpador, the city of unecessary evil.
'Thou shalt not pass!'

'But you're fat.' I replied.
'And I shall pass, for my murderous crows have valour and spirit that you may not comprehend!
I continued.

And the crows attacked.
And there was a vicious flurry of feathers
And then it was good.

Questing forward, I advanced.
Searching for the mysterious wanderer of the Siberian wastes.

And thusly he was discovered. And his proclamation was thus:

'Though shalt not take this land!' And I replied;

'I SHALT!'

And we engaged in mortal combat
Through the medium of daytime television personalities
And it was entertaining.
And we were egged on by murderous crows, fat pigeons (who are working on that weight problem, and the concubine. (Lest we forget.)

And Trisha shalt check up you, to check that you are running to the lampost daily, and that you forthwith put down thy fork.

The combat ensued.
And it was unpleasant.
The sinister wanderer revealed a fiery Trishia as his leige
And I trumped thou with Kilroy-Silk

And there was violence, hair pulling, interrorgation and crisis.
And this was a great problem. And it was resolved.

When the Paxman was unleashed.
'The Siberian wanderer has trumped thou, and thou shalt be trumped!'
The Siberian wanderer stated.
'The Paxman is insurmountable!'
He continued.

And he was correct.
Quite correct.

And thusly he gave his ultimatium.
'Thou shalt never pass these gates again, and thou are condemmned to wander the desolate salt plains, in purgatory, until I take mercy.
And this will never happen.'

'Although you may keep the concubine.'

Thou ist grateful for small mercies.

And it was thus,
The King still wanders
In desolalation and purgatory.
Harking for the call of the Kingdom

He can barely remember.

THE END.


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