You Might Be A Fascist Dictator if...

1. You wear peaked caps and aviator sunglasses with a regularity above that which is currently considered excessive.
2. Bono organises charity concerts for your population whilst never actually setting foot in your country.
3. You own at last one gold-plated firearm.
4. The official currency of your country is unknown.
5. Dirk Pitt has killed you at least once.
6. Your first name is also a military rank.
7. There exists a preponderance of statues of yourself in your country.
8. You have released a book which every single person in your country has bought.
9. You own some form of Citroen.
10. You look good in Khaki.

It's A Thanksgivin' Hootenanny!

Today is the American holiday of Thanksgiving, so if you're wondering why all of your favorite websites haven't been updated in the middle of the week, that'll be why.
But what, really, is thanksgiving? As a holiday, it can be hard for those portions of the world who aren't America* to comprehend a holiday that doesn't involve the birth/death of a deity or monarch/despot, or a horse race. This shouldn't be a stumbling block, as Thanksgiving is really quite easy to get your head around. All it requires is a little knowledge of American history, like what I have got.

Thanksgiving: In the Olden Days some people from Europe with funny hats discovered America. Though many people with funny hats had discovered it beforehand (Phoencians, Egyptians, Romans, Vikings, Basques and the Irish) they didn't count. The native Americans, or Injuns, did not appreciate the intrusion and tried to Sioux them, but their hats were only made of feathers so this didn't count. As the native Americans were displaced by the new native Americans they began to have reservations. Unfortunately the new native Americans had even bigger hats by then and they all got shot by John Wayne. Four-score and seven years ago everyone started driving Cadillacs and were pretty happy, so they decided to give thanks by walking on the moon. They asked George Washington to have a lie down and he chopped down a cherry tree with Abraham Lincoln. That is why every November they carve shit into pumpkins.

*Basically, the Communists and the British Empire.

On Pulp

I love pulp fiction. I recently read Raymond Chandler's "The Big Sleep", and my literary horizons have been astoundingly increased by the discovery of Robert E Howard's "Conan" stories (not to mention Solomon Kane and Sailor Steve Costigan). The only problem is of course that the Golden Age of Pulp is well behind us. I still pick up Asimovs' Magazine when I see it, and I've read my was through a few of the paperback westerns from the newsagents, but otherwise i've had to rely on comics to give me that good old short-story, punchy plot, hard-edged fiction that I crave.
However (and I guess you've been thinking since the start that there was always going to be a 'however' coming up somewhere) today I found in my local newsagents a small a5 chapbook (some a4 sheets stapled on the fold line) of about 60 pages or so. It was called "After The World: Killable Hours", and across the top of the cover was emblazoned the motto 'All-New Australian Pulp'.
I bought a copy. It turned out to be quite a well-written piece about the inevitable zombpocalypse* occurring in Melbourne, and a young lawyer who gets caught up in it all. I'm quite taken with it, and from the looks of things it's going to be the first in a series novellas all set in the same universe, but otherwise not linked. There's no word yet on when the next installments will be out, but if it follows the procedure set out by Black House's earlier release "The Dark Detective" comics it should appear monthly.
It only cost me $5, it's a good story and it's a change to help both Australian writers and a new Australian publishing company. I can't think of anything more worthwhile to get behind.

*yes, its a word.

Crikey O'Trousers

Bloody hell. It's been longer than simply ages since I updated this rotten thing. You'd think I were dead or something, judging from the smell. So, long story short, there is no story. I'm just here because i'm feeling guilty about not supplying my legions of fan with any new material, and thus am forced to do one of those tricky (and slightly nauseating) actual blog posts about life. My life, to be precise, because I can't think of anyone else's worth a damn at the moment.
So, to recap the events of the last few weeks:
Stories published: 3. Surprisingly good, if I say so myself. Harper-Collins may not be beating a path to my door, but other people are. Two stories being published in a South Australian crime anthology (despite one being set in rural Pomgolia and the other in Paris, Frograq); and one being published in an English humour anthology (despite being set in Straya). Go figure.
Competitions won: Sort-of, a bit. I ended up coming second in this year's Burnside Literary Awards for a story about Robin Hood. This marked my first attempt at writing something arty-farty in order to please judges and it worked a fair-to-middling treat. The fact that it was peer-judged by Malcolm Walker (of The Stone Crown fame and all-round jolly nice chap) was a pleasant bonus.
Novels published: 0. A dissapointment on this score. However, the relentlessly-commercial "Shannon Stone" vampire opus is currently being read by Curtis Brown, and hope springs eternal. I saw a pig flying the other day, so it all bodes well.

A Public Service Announcement

Due to poor planning Movember has been shifted into early 2010, where this time it will be known as Mobruary. Thank you.

Landaulet Country

Being the noble tale of Edward of King's Wood.

Chapter the First, in which Edward returns home;

Yoo-hoo, i'm home - How was your day - bloody shambles of course - oh dear, what has happened now - where's me paper - in the loungeroom - oh.

Chapter the Second, in which visitors arrive;

Heydy-hody everybody, here comes the party - it's Bob - shutup Bob - and Merle.

Chapter the Third; in which a man of Continental descent is addressed;

Buonjiorno wog - yeah yeah sure Ted - did you park your Valiant in the driveway - can I have a beer - money on the fridge wog.

Chapter the Forth; in which miscellaneous catchphrases are utilised;

Pickle me grandmother - ha ha Miss Smarty-emu-drawers - here we go again (too right we go again) - The Kingswood - You're not taking the Kingswood - grubby little Datsun dealer.

Ruddy Heck, That's Torn It

Well, its been a while between drinks, but today I got the news that another of my short stories is being published. In recent months i've been a contributor to the Short Humour site (www.short-humour.org.uk) and they've just emailed me to say that they're publishing a second compilation of articles from the website (following on from their rather successful 'People Of Few Words' compilation) and they want one of my pieces in it! Naturally I jumped at the chance. I don't know when it will be released yet, but i'm sure i'll find out more details soon.

Things I Think About When I Should Be Working #45

Oka, so i'm in line to shake hands with the Queen right, only when she gets to me I get the great idea to high-five her instead so I shout, "Hey little Queenie, make with the slappy!" and she's all into it and does, but it's only then that I suddenly realise i'm an amputee and my arm's gone at the elbow and the Queen's got nothing to slap so her momentum carries her over the edge of this big abyss that I totally forgot I was standing in front of and she just falls and falls and then explodes like Emperor Palpatine, all blue and shit.

Thoughts On The Earth Sciences

Because i've been a collector of gemstones and a keen amateur lapidary for several years now, i've found myself drawn in the last few months to the meetings of the Field Geology Club of SA. In order to keep up I recently purchased an excellent book, "The Amateur Geologist" by Peter Cattermole. As illuminating as this book is it is the rear of the dust cover which has caused this enblogulation. On the back of the book it lists other books in the series, such as 'Amateur Astronomy', 'Naked-Eye Astronomy' and perhaps most intriguing of all 'The Practical Amateur Astronomer'.

This last book by its very existence posits the existence of the Impractical Amateur Astronomer. But what are the hallmarks of the impractical astronomer? Are they:
1. Blind
2. Allergic to telescopes
3. More than two connecting buses away from the nearest observatory
4. On fire
5. Werewolves

I include this last observation because the thing with werewolves has always been that they 'turn' when the moon is full, i.e. when the most light is being reflected from the lunar surface. It seems to me that if they were looking through a telescope at the moons of Saturn (for the purposes of example) they'd be getting a great deal of moonlight beamed straight into their eye. And that can't be good, really. Everyone else would get eaten, and that's not terribly practical at all.

I Failed To Buy A Book Today

Lest the above title appear extraneous, let me explain. Not only did I set out to buy a book today and not do so, but the circumstances in which this occurred caused me acute discomfort and embarrassment.

This evening I went late-night shopping, as is my wont of a Thursday. In particular I was looking for a new pair of shoes, but that's by-the-by. When I reached the shopping centre I decided to pop over to the secondhand bookshop and pick up a cheap, fun paperback to read whilst eating my planned yiros.
It was not to be. In the bookshop the minutes lengthened to quarter-hours as I, spoilt for choice, agonised over my decision. After half an hour I had an epiphany of sorts, and I looked at my behaviour through the cold, sterile eye of reason. Here I was, a man of not inconsiderable means, agonising between Harry Harrison's "Montezuma's Revenge" and a box set of 4 of Richard Gordon's "Doctor" books. Both of these items were retailing for the princely sum of 50 cents.
I felt disgusted at my own inanity. I put both books down and left the shop, returning instead to the car where I retrieved my copy of Clive Cussler's "Black Wind", which I read over dinner instead. My chagrin pervaded the rest of the evening and may have influenced my subsequent decision to buy a pair of purple/white gingham Dunlop Volleys.

Magnum!!!!

That's Leslie Goddam Phillips To You.

For those of you who have no idea who this is in this picture here, it's none other than Leslie Phillips, star of Doctor In The House, Doctor At Sea, Not Now Darling and many other fine British comedies no-one under sixty has ever heard of.

Bunch of philistines.

Enough With The Goddam Literary Crapola Already

This afternoon whilst out shopping for cravats I espied the latest release in what appears to be a series now by Quirk Classics. Yes, "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies" now has a stablemate: "Sense and Sensibility and Sea Creatures".
Which will tank. And i'm going to sit back and watch. For I well remember the heady days of this last autumn gone by when breath was held by all (yours truly included) in anticipation of the release of PPZ, and I remember even more the realisation ten minutes after buying it that i'd just wasted twenty-five smackers on a slightly-polished turd.

There were three phases associated with reading PPZ:
1. Real, actual laughter. This soon morphed into;
2. An appreciation of the cleverness of the concept, which in turn became;
3. "This is just one joke repeated over and over. I'm only ten pages in and I want to bin it. It's not funny any more and i'm so bored I could eat my own earwax."*

I don't often give up on books but I did on this. I've already read Pride and Prejudice, and I don't need to self-flaggelate by reading a dismal half-parody. I suppose a sequel was inevitable given PPZ's runaway (and quite unexpected) success but I can't help but think that the publishers have got their market research all wrong. A lot of people bought PPZ but not many finished it, and most people got pretty cheezed off with the whole concept. So my hopes aren't high for the success of SSSC. I might eventually buy it for the novelty of having it on my shelf, but only in a few months when it's out for $5.

*And we all know how horrid that tastes, right kids?

They were all there, gathered around the table. Madam Blavatsky, Pierre Medellin, Guru Shwami, all had come in response to the summons they had recieved.
Davenport Rockefeller, last scion of the Long Island Rockefellers, gazed cooly at each of them in turn while he chewed on his ever-present cigar. "Thank y'all for comin', " he drawled around the cheroot, "y'all know why your here, don'cha?"
Medellin was the first to talk. "You believe the house to be haunted," he replied in his exquisite Parisian accent.
"Darn tootin'!" Rockefeller replied, "and y'all is gonna help me. The feller that owned this house died right here, an' you folks are gonna help me talk to him, kapish?"
Medellin fingered his natty moustache. "That should be no problem," he replied.
Madame Blavatsky nodded, her fat jowls cascading with the rythym. "Mere child's play," she said in a lofty tone, "hardly worth our time."
"Bullpucky!" Rockefeller cried, "Listen lady, I didn't haul your fat Ruskie fanny halfway around the world to listen to you yap." He sized the three mystics up with an appraising eye. "I ain't got time for this shit," he declared, "damn well git on with it."
On with it they got. All three sat around the small occasional table, hands linked. They began to chant, softly at first and then louder, with greater intensity, until with a roar that sounded like thunder their heads snapped back with mouths open, an eerie blue light cascaring from their open mouths. From their mouths also poured steam, a heavy mist redolent of sulphur and decay. As Rockefeller watched the mist coalesced into the cruel, thin visage of a man cruelly pulled back from the very abyss of death itself.
"What do you want, Davenport?" the apparition sneered, "I had little enough time for you in life, what makes you think I have any more for you in death?"
"I moved into your old house in Boston."
The ghostly face seemed surprised. "Lake Street?"
"Fifth and Main."
"Oh, the Lloyd-Wright."
"Yeah, and I got a question."
The face nodded. "Ask what you will. You have summoned me, and I will answer."
Rockefeller smiled. "Good," he said, "What the hell is up with the hot tap in the upstairs latrine?"
"Turn it on and off quickly, then slowly turn it on again. It always was a bugger for banging."
"Thanks, buddy, i'll try that. Say, while you're here, what are those trees out back? I asked the gardener but he says he can't recall when they went in."
"Dutch elms," replied the face, "They'll need pruning in autumn and a good mulching in the early spring."
"Hot dog, thanks a bunch. You're a pal."
"Anytime," the face said, "was there anything else?"
Rockefeller thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "Boy, i'll say, I plum forgot. When's bin day?"
"Thursday," the head intoned gravely, "Friday if there was a holiday Monday."

Day Without Cats

The creative team behind The Impertinence Of It All would like to state for the record that although this blog has never shown any cat-related content, they would like the organisers of the infamous 'Day Without Cats' to take that fucker of an idea and ram it where the sun don't shine.

Repeatedly.

We now return you to your scheduled programming.

List No. 459

People I have Heard Of Who Have Freaky Doubled-up Names.

1. Boutros-Boutros Ghali, Former Secretary-General of the United Nations.
2. Robby Robby Roenfeldt, former host, "C'mon Kids" (Formerly former host of "The Channel Niners").
3. Dee Dee Bridgewater, Jazz Musician.
4. Kris Kristofferson, legend*.

*The legend of Kris Kristofferson has yet to be verified. Despite a personal eyewitness sighting by the author in Melbourne, the Government of the United States of America still will neither confirm nor deny the existence of Kris Kristofferson to the public at large.

I Can Haz Nyalarhotep?

Horse Noises

Viking Rock

Today my iPod lists a new genre of music: Viking Rock. I was previously unaware of this genre, having only made it up this afternoon. However, once I had made it up I discovered that there were several examples of it which had been extant since the early 1970s.
Viking Rock is just as it sounds: rock music by, for, or mainly concerning Vikings: those Scandinavian sea-pillagers of yore. Actually when I think about it they weren't really sea pillagers as they only pillaged land. Perhaps I should say via-sea pillagers just to take the curse off it.
Anyway, rather than bore you with etymology, as fascinating as it is to me and the International Society of Pedants, here are some sterling examples of Viking Rock:

'Immigrant Song', Led Zeppelin
'Cold Wind To Valhalla', Jethro Tull
'Lady In Black', Uriah Heep
Everything ever written, performed or recorded by 'Saxon'.

Doctor What and the Pot Noodles, by Terrance’s Dick.

“Sir! Sir!” The young UNIT soldier came crashing through the door.
Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart looked up from some random paperwork on his big important desk and ruffled his otherwise-impeccable moustache. “What is it man?”
“Brigadier, sir, you asked to be told instantly the moment that anything strange happened,” the young soldier answered.
“Yes, I remember,” mused Lethbridge-Stewart, “Well, what of it?”
“Sir,” continued the soldier, “there’s…there’s…there’s Pot Noodles™ in the vending machine.”
The Brigadier had seen many things in his time but at this his blood ran cold. “Great Scott!” he cried, “Has anyone told The Doctor?”
“No sir,” said the soldier, “I thought it best to come straight to you.”
“Good man,” agreed the Brigadier, “but I expect he’ll want to know immediately. Come on.” Pausing only to grab his special Brigadier’s hat he swept out of the office and into Unit HQ.

Looking for all the world like an old police box, the familiar shape of the TARDIS stood in the corner of UNIT’s main Hangar One, where it had stood more or less ever since the Doctor’s enforced sojourn on Earth had begun. Stepping forward the Brigadier rapped smartly on the door.
It was answered by a complete stranger who for all the world appeared to be Peter Cushing. “Can I help you?” he asked the Brigadier.
“Who the heck are you, and where is the Doctor?” demanded Lethbridge-Stewart.
“He’s on holiday,” replied the Peter Cushing lookalike in a pleasant tone, “I’m a locum. My name is Doctor What.”
“What?”
“Yes,” beamed the Doctor, “That’s right.”
Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart hadn’t risen through the ranks to command the finest UN-based anti-alien brigade in the BBC by being slow on the uptake. “Holiday, eh?”
“Yes. Skegness, I think. Or Weng Chiang’s house. One of the two. Now, did you want anything in particular? Lethbridge-Stewart, isn’t it?”
The Brigadier would have been pleased that his reputation preceeded him had he not caught this new Doctor peeking at a “Jane’s All The World’s Moustaches” behind the TARDIS door.
“That’s right,” he replied, “and I’m here on official business. Something strange has cropped up and we thought you should know about it. Something in this very base.”
“Hmm.” The Doctor frowned, “You’d better show me.” As he stepped out of the TARDIS the Brigadier could not help but notice that he was followed by what appeared to be a robotic duck.
“What is that?” he asked coldly.
“That is Quark,” replied the Doctor, “Is there a problem?”
The Brigadier frowned. “The other one usually has a dog.”
“I know. I wanted that but he was ahead of me in the line. I got old Quark here, and a jolly fine robotic duck he’s turned out to be I must say.”
The Brigadier mulled this over. “Quite,” he said, “Maybe I could borrow him someday?”
“I don’t know that I could spare all of him,” the Doctor frowned, “but I could always send you the bill.”
On this note it was decided that time was a-wasting and that the world in general would be better served if they went and had a look at the vending machine.

“Hmm,” said the Doctor in a tone that didn’t really inspire confidence, “yes, I see what you mean. Very mysterious.”
“It certainly is,” agreed the Brigadier, “Pot Noodles don’t belong in a vending machine! Good god, this isn’t Japan for heaven’s sake!”
There was a longish pause.
“Well?” asked the Brigadier.
“Well what?”
“What do you think it is?”
The Doctor looked a bit blank. “Oh,” he said, “Um, well, could be anything really.”
Behind his back the Brigadier felt his hands clench. “Would you care to take a guess anyway?” he said through gritted teeth.
The Doctor appeared to pick up on the way the wind was blowing. “Right,” he told the Brigadier, “Well, let’s see. It could be…I don’t know…the Zarbi?”
The Brigadiergot the distinct impression that this had just been pulled straight out of the Doctor’s arse.
“The Zarbi,” he said flatly.
“Yes,” replied the Doctor, beaming absently, “classic Zarbi behaviour, that.”
“The Zarbi,” repeated the Brigadier, “a peaceful insectoid race who live in the caves of their homeplanet Vortis, who are largely non-technological and have never developed space and/or time travel.”
“Yes.” The Doctor looked a bit uncomfortable, “they’re the ones.”
The Brigadier sighed. “Look, why don’t you pop back to the TARDIS and catch up on some reading,” he told the Doctor, “I think we’ll handle this one from here.”