The Hutchback is not normally an angry man. Yes, he performs hideous acts of barbarism on a daily basis, but these are not done out of anger, merely boredom.
(off topic: yes that was a reference to the Golden Dawn on tonight's Eastenders, what next Aleister Crowley turns up and sacrifices Minty to the god Horus).
These Bankers (or as we should refer to them Banksters) are set fair for a good few billion in bonuses. This is surely the equivalent of giving a mugger a tip after he has kneed you in the testicles and stolen your watch, wallet, and mobile phone.
So my prediction is that by the end of the year the world community will have set up prison islands in the South Atlantic, and we will ship the whole festering lot of them off to these desolate windblown frozen hellholes.
They can then sub-prime eachother to their hearts content.
Showing posts with label A Hutchbacks Tale. Show all posts
Showing posts with label A Hutchbacks Tale. Show all posts
Monday, 9 February 2009
Friday, 6 February 2009
Love in the time of Diarrhoea
You may wonder where your loyal humpback has been these past weeks. Let’s put it this way, you know what an admirer of Joseph Fritzl’s work the Dr is, well he calls it a re-enactment, I call it unfair working conditions. But we are expecting our first child in 13 months time (the Hutchback biology is somewhat unique) so some good has come of it.
Now when we last spoke I mentioned the fact that I had met a French jolie dame and was in love. I feel now is the time to expand on this. As you know I spent a hectic few days in a rather odd French town, I believe the locals referred to it as Seule. And the dialect of French they spoke was incomprehensible to these cauliflower ears. My last night was rather incident packed and now I can recount the tale.
Having spent the day with a gurgling bowel from my strange breakfast of gristly soup (with added dog collar) – I was in need of some kind of assistance. I wandered the frantic streets and alleyways, the whole town seemed to be out and I had to dodge many a careening Frenchman. I at last found some peace in a side street that looked empty except for one small café.
I include the picture here for elucidation. It was a jolly enough place and I thought that a coffee would calm my intestinal torment. The French make a good coffee and as you can see from the photograph the two Frenchmen (or is one a ventriloquist and the other a dummy, can’t quite make out) appear to be enjoying a cup of their national drink.
So I entered and sat down. The café was empty except for a very old and frail lady who stooped at the counter with a damp cloth. Eventually she noticed me and came over. Now as you know my attempts to converse in French had so far been quite futile. I must have really forgotten so much as to be incomprehensible. Mr Wilson the erudite owner of the travelling freak show where I spent my formative years would have been so disappointed with my decline in linguistic skills he would have loudly tutted, then he would have lashed me to within an inch of my life and thrown me into a pit.
I tried to ask her for something calming for my poor gut, but she didn’t understand. So sign language would have to do. I mimed drinking a cup and grimacing and rubbing my stomach. She looked at me sadly through rheumy eyes and said nothing, I then stood up and mimed (convincingly) a man in desperate need of a shit. Something seemed to click and the ancient barrista uttered a few garbled words of English. “You wan spesho bowl coffee?”. Bowl coffee, Bowel coffee, hmm sounded just what I needed.
The kindly old lady moved away towards the back of the shop and then for some reason beckoned me over to the shabby curtain that barred entry to the back room. I assumed this was the room where the Bowel Coffee was served.
I followed her inside and saw a bed covered in a plastic sheet in the middle of the room. Most odd. Then the oddness increased by a factor. The wizened crone said something remarkable: “Drop your tlousa, prease” Incredible, what was this – a come on – how marvelous.
Now you may wonder about Mrs H, and where my heart lay. Well I refer to Mrs H as my wife but she is not really my wife, in fact she hardly knows me. You would more accurately describe her as being vaguely aware of me as an unspecified sense of dread that accompanies her when she walks home. We have never actually met, but this is purely circumstantial for she will at some point come within grabbing distance of the laurel bush where I lie in wait for her every evening.
Anyway though I love Mrs H the offer of a night of torrid (though rather dry) passion with the old coffee lady seemed a wonderful prospect. I dropped my pants and unwrapped the old newspapers that I use as underwear. The lady then made me lie face down on the plastic wrapped bed. What delights lay ahead. I close my eyes and waited for the hand of pleasure to be applied to by crumpled body.
Aargh, my poor piles. She had shoved some kind of pipe right up my arsehole. She liked it rough clearly. I opened my eyes to see what was happening back there just in time to see her pour the entire contents of the coffee urn into a funnel which was attached to the tube which had been mainlined straight into my rectum. Now I’ve heard of this type of things before, but I believe it is more normal to use cold coffee in this process. As I passed out from the pain I caught a glimpse of my new love as she went back in the front room no doubt to fetch a freshly boiled refill.
Now when we last spoke I mentioned the fact that I had met a French jolie dame and was in love. I feel now is the time to expand on this. As you know I spent a hectic few days in a rather odd French town, I believe the locals referred to it as Seule. And the dialect of French they spoke was incomprehensible to these cauliflower ears. My last night was rather incident packed and now I can recount the tale.
Having spent the day with a gurgling bowel from my strange breakfast of gristly soup (with added dog collar) – I was in need of some kind of assistance. I wandered the frantic streets and alleyways, the whole town seemed to be out and I had to dodge many a careening Frenchman. I at last found some peace in a side street that looked empty except for one small café.
I include the picture here for elucidation. It was a jolly enough place and I thought that a coffee would calm my intestinal torment. The French make a good coffee and as you can see from the photograph the two Frenchmen (or is one a ventriloquist and the other a dummy, can’t quite make out) appear to be enjoying a cup of their national drink.
So I entered and sat down. The café was empty except for a very old and frail lady who stooped at the counter with a damp cloth. Eventually she noticed me and came over. Now as you know my attempts to converse in French had so far been quite futile. I must have really forgotten so much as to be incomprehensible. Mr Wilson the erudite owner of the travelling freak show where I spent my formative years would have been so disappointed with my decline in linguistic skills he would have loudly tutted, then he would have lashed me to within an inch of my life and thrown me into a pit.
I tried to ask her for something calming for my poor gut, but she didn’t understand. So sign language would have to do. I mimed drinking a cup and grimacing and rubbing my stomach. She looked at me sadly through rheumy eyes and said nothing, I then stood up and mimed (convincingly) a man in desperate need of a shit. Something seemed to click and the ancient barrista uttered a few garbled words of English. “You wan spesho bowl coffee?”. Bowl coffee, Bowel coffee, hmm sounded just what I needed.
The kindly old lady moved away towards the back of the shop and then for some reason beckoned me over to the shabby curtain that barred entry to the back room. I assumed this was the room where the Bowel Coffee was served.
I followed her inside and saw a bed covered in a plastic sheet in the middle of the room. Most odd. Then the oddness increased by a factor. The wizened crone said something remarkable: “Drop your tlousa, prease” Incredible, what was this – a come on – how marvelous.
Now you may wonder about Mrs H, and where my heart lay. Well I refer to Mrs H as my wife but she is not really my wife, in fact she hardly knows me. You would more accurately describe her as being vaguely aware of me as an unspecified sense of dread that accompanies her when she walks home. We have never actually met, but this is purely circumstantial for she will at some point come within grabbing distance of the laurel bush where I lie in wait for her every evening.
Anyway though I love Mrs H the offer of a night of torrid (though rather dry) passion with the old coffee lady seemed a wonderful prospect. I dropped my pants and unwrapped the old newspapers that I use as underwear. The lady then made me lie face down on the plastic wrapped bed. What delights lay ahead. I close my eyes and waited for the hand of pleasure to be applied to by crumpled body.
Aargh, my poor piles. She had shoved some kind of pipe right up my arsehole. She liked it rough clearly. I opened my eyes to see what was happening back there just in time to see her pour the entire contents of the coffee urn into a funnel which was attached to the tube which had been mainlined straight into my rectum. Now I’ve heard of this type of things before, but I believe it is more normal to use cold coffee in this process. As I passed out from the pain I caught a glimpse of my new love as she went back in the front room no doubt to fetch a freshly boiled refill.
Sunday, 18 January 2009
The deported
So it is with sad heart that the Hutchback reports his departure from the Western shores of la belle France. Last night was a whirligig of the senses - a loop-a-planes of the heart - a cha-cha-cha of the bowels. The Hutchback is in love.
Mrs Hutchback having recently left your favourite malform for a new partner on death row is no longer a drop weight around my shoulders. I am free to lope awkwardly through daisy fields and pick ripe loganberries with a blushing damsel. But how comes this about? You may ask - go on ask - for I shall burst if I don't tell.
But later, later - it is time for me to sneak back dockward and repack myself in my splintery coffin. A short sea hop back to blightly awaits along with a few hundred weight of Korean electronics. Although why they are being exported across the channel is a mystery to me and I suppose you as well.
Mrs Hutchback having recently left your favourite malform for a new partner on death row is no longer a drop weight around my shoulders. I am free to lope awkwardly through daisy fields and pick ripe loganberries with a blushing damsel. But how comes this about? You may ask - go on ask - for I shall burst if I don't tell.
But later, later - it is time for me to sneak back dockward and repack myself in my splintery coffin. A short sea hop back to blightly awaits along with a few hundred weight of Korean electronics. Although why they are being exported across the channel is a mystery to me and I suppose you as well.
Morning delivery
I awoke early this morning with the sound of strange birds calling to each other outside the small street level grill high up in the basement wall. Imagine my surprise when I reached up from my bedding and found that I wasn't in my pied-a-dungeon but inside a packing crate.
Using my cranium for what God intended (no not thinking, but as a battering ram) I broke out of my wooden prison and was greeting by an even more surprising sight. I appear to be in a foreign country. I can only deduce this because as I wandered around the dockyard where my crate had been deposited, I saw numerous small pale dark haired fellows who all looked very similar to each other and were speaking in a peculiar tongue. Many a slip betwixt cup and lip but I could swear I was in France.
The French written language appears to consist of meaningless little drawings of houses, heaven knows how they can make any sense with these strange scribbles but I will trust that there is some kind of system at work here. I shall investigate further and keep you informed as to my discoveries.
Now as to how I wound up in Calais or Dieppe or whither, there is clearly only one answer. The good Doctor decided I needed a holiday and kindly sent me 3rd class shipwise to this rather cold and windblown dock. His kindness knows few bounds, for I discovered after breaking free from my timber cage that he had had the great heart and foresight to pack the rest of the crate out with a number of decomposing rat corpses, no doubt gathered from the myriad traps and poison plates that Herr Doktor Nostrum scatters about his living quarters. I shall not go hungry!
Now I must sign off for a group of wiry little stevedores approach holding numerous wrenches and suchlike and are shouting loudly in their peculiar French dialect. Some of them appear to know Kung-Fu, I trust we shall get on famously.
Using my cranium for what God intended (no not thinking, but as a battering ram) I broke out of my wooden prison and was greeting by an even more surprising sight. I appear to be in a foreign country. I can only deduce this because as I wandered around the dockyard where my crate had been deposited, I saw numerous small pale dark haired fellows who all looked very similar to each other and were speaking in a peculiar tongue. Many a slip betwixt cup and lip but I could swear I was in France.
The French written language appears to consist of meaningless little drawings of houses, heaven knows how they can make any sense with these strange scribbles but I will trust that there is some kind of system at work here. I shall investigate further and keep you informed as to my discoveries.
Now as to how I wound up in Calais or Dieppe or whither, there is clearly only one answer. The good Doctor decided I needed a holiday and kindly sent me 3rd class shipwise to this rather cold and windblown dock. His kindness knows few bounds, for I discovered after breaking free from my timber cage that he had had the great heart and foresight to pack the rest of the crate out with a number of decomposing rat corpses, no doubt gathered from the myriad traps and poison plates that Herr Doktor Nostrum scatters about his living quarters. I shall not go hungry!
Now I must sign off for a group of wiry little stevedores approach holding numerous wrenches and suchlike and are shouting loudly in their peculiar French dialect. Some of them appear to know Kung-Fu, I trust we shall get on famously.
These Frenchies sure know how to land a blow
Blimey these French police are rough.
When we last spoke I was about to have a nice conversation with a group of armed dockers. The tete-a-tete didn't quite go as planned. I was just uttering my best 'bonjour' when one of the little fellows drop-kicked me off the end of the loading bay and into the icy harbour waters below. As greetings go this was unusual, to say the least, but it had a certain panache.
When the French police turned up they fished me out of the bay rather roughly with a boat hook and then proceeded to stuff me in the back of their van and administer an almighty shoeing. I don't know what it is with the Gendarmerie but they seem to all have intimate knowledge of numerous and successively more brutal martial arts. At one point they had me pinned against the roof with their batons whilst doing the fabled '1-inch punch' to my testicles.
After being held overnight in a cell and given hourly beatings they decided that I was to be released without charge, justice had been done I felt.
Emerging into what I can only assume is downtown Calais, I was bemused to see not the quaint market place populated by baguette wielding flaneurs and country vicars astride bicycles (which I had been reliably informed by the good Doctor was the form for the modern French city). No it appeared that Calais had changed remarkably since the great Nostrum had visited the place in his halcyon childhood in the 1870's. The place was awash with glittering tower blocks, all spangled with neon explosions, glyphs and sigils declaring unknown pleasures in the peculiar French pictographic script which i had previously mentioned.
The swarms of small dark haired Frenchmen and Frenchwomen flowed around your bemused and bruised narrator, and took little notice of my humble self, unusual though it must have been to see a linear decendant of Burke and Hare (the famous Victorian music Hall couple who nightly would perform gruesome murders at the Royalty Theatre for the D'Oyly Carte Opera Company) dressed in rags, sporting any number of vivid injuries to person, lurching about in the Financial district. Ignore me they did however as they chattered into their miniscule telephones.
I decided that a hearty breakfast was in order, Croissants, Coffee, Compote and fresh Beure. Delicious. I wandered into the nearest hostelry and sat down at the counter. The cops must have knocked something loose in the night because I was most perturbed to discover that my senses had led me not to a resturant but rather to some kind of pet parlour. The place was littered with cages containing numerous dogs, cats, snakes and other companions from the animal kingdom. The pet shop owner approached and I tried asking for the nearest breakfasting place with little success. I pointed to my mouth and made the international sign for hunger. He then rather rudely disappeared, so I thought I would wait for his return by examining the wide range of pets on sale.
A while later he appeared and he must have understood my plea for he had been kind enough to pop out and buy me a big bowl of soup. What a gent. It was not a Continental breakfast but my growling stomach did not care. As I supped it down and chewed vigorously on the gristly pieces of meat the swam inside it I felt immensley cheered. It was not the best soup I had ever tasted, having a kind of gamey aroma, but it was hot and greasy and the stringy strips of meat filled me up. Only once did it veer away from excellent as I nearly broke my tooth champing down on something hard and metallic, someone had carelessly left what appeared to be a dog chain in the broth.
As I wandered out of the parlour having paid the pet shop owner for his kindness in locating me a bowl of soup I was assailed by a giant L.E.D billboard showing an animation of a Squid wearing a Fedora trying to sell a spacegirl on a rocket powered surfboard some kind of noodle dish or maybe an insurance policy it was hard to tell. I am beginning to wonder whether I am in France after all.
When we last spoke I was about to have a nice conversation with a group of armed dockers. The tete-a-tete didn't quite go as planned. I was just uttering my best 'bonjour' when one of the little fellows drop-kicked me off the end of the loading bay and into the icy harbour waters below. As greetings go this was unusual, to say the least, but it had a certain panache.
When the French police turned up they fished me out of the bay rather roughly with a boat hook and then proceeded to stuff me in the back of their van and administer an almighty shoeing. I don't know what it is with the Gendarmerie but they seem to all have intimate knowledge of numerous and successively more brutal martial arts. At one point they had me pinned against the roof with their batons whilst doing the fabled '1-inch punch' to my testicles.
After being held overnight in a cell and given hourly beatings they decided that I was to be released without charge, justice had been done I felt.
Emerging into what I can only assume is downtown Calais, I was bemused to see not the quaint market place populated by baguette wielding flaneurs and country vicars astride bicycles (which I had been reliably informed by the good Doctor was the form for the modern French city). No it appeared that Calais had changed remarkably since the great Nostrum had visited the place in his halcyon childhood in the 1870's. The place was awash with glittering tower blocks, all spangled with neon explosions, glyphs and sigils declaring unknown pleasures in the peculiar French pictographic script which i had previously mentioned.
The swarms of small dark haired Frenchmen and Frenchwomen flowed around your bemused and bruised narrator, and took little notice of my humble self, unusual though it must have been to see a linear decendant of Burke and Hare (the famous Victorian music Hall couple who nightly would perform gruesome murders at the Royalty Theatre for the D'Oyly Carte Opera Company) dressed in rags, sporting any number of vivid injuries to person, lurching about in the Financial district. Ignore me they did however as they chattered into their miniscule telephones.
I decided that a hearty breakfast was in order, Croissants, Coffee, Compote and fresh Beure. Delicious. I wandered into the nearest hostelry and sat down at the counter. The cops must have knocked something loose in the night because I was most perturbed to discover that my senses had led me not to a resturant but rather to some kind of pet parlour. The place was littered with cages containing numerous dogs, cats, snakes and other companions from the animal kingdom. The pet shop owner approached and I tried asking for the nearest breakfasting place with little success. I pointed to my mouth and made the international sign for hunger. He then rather rudely disappeared, so I thought I would wait for his return by examining the wide range of pets on sale.
A while later he appeared and he must have understood my plea for he had been kind enough to pop out and buy me a big bowl of soup. What a gent. It was not a Continental breakfast but my growling stomach did not care. As I supped it down and chewed vigorously on the gristly pieces of meat the swam inside it I felt immensley cheered. It was not the best soup I had ever tasted, having a kind of gamey aroma, but it was hot and greasy and the stringy strips of meat filled me up. Only once did it veer away from excellent as I nearly broke my tooth champing down on something hard and metallic, someone had carelessly left what appeared to be a dog chain in the broth.
As I wandered out of the parlour having paid the pet shop owner for his kindness in locating me a bowl of soup I was assailed by a giant L.E.D billboard showing an animation of a Squid wearing a Fedora trying to sell a spacegirl on a rocket powered surfboard some kind of noodle dish or maybe an insurance policy it was hard to tell. I am beginning to wonder whether I am in France after all.
A crisis of identity
Whilst cuddling up against the decaying corpse of a Dachshund that the Noble Physician allows me to use as a pillow, I dreamed a hunchbacked dream, a vision of a half-man.
My quarters are spartan, what would pass in polite society as a charnel house I prefer to describe as my snug little parlour. Most people would not decorate a front room with an assortment of small animal bones and scraps of toothmarked fur, but to me they give a jaunty personal touch to what would otherwise be nothing more than a damp hole.
Speaking of damp holes it has been an eternity since I was let out of the basement to prowl the streets of Kings Cross and my imagination is not what it was. I find as I get older the lissom phantoms that accompanied my teenage rubbings have faded from three dimensioned animated tableaus to barely discernible scratchings on a toliet wall.
Any road up, the lack of conscious imagination seems to have been replaced with an increase in my involuntary dreamings. Just last night I had a vision that I was stepping out into the world (or at least the part of East London that I think of as the world) a fully stretched man, so to speak. I was spinally intact, a corpus delicti.
For those amongst you who have never been a hunchbank (or do not have that to look forward to at some future point) - I must tell you that there are many benefits of being a full head height lower than most. It is very natural to casually stare at a ladies bosom, from even quite close distances. Standing and eating from a trough is easier as there is less far to stoop, and most importantly the natural curvature provides instant refuge from the good doctor's lash.
On balance I would not care to be a full-man. Rather a happy half-man than a miserable full man. It is better to live on your knees than die on your feet, as I believe the saying goes.
My quarters are spartan, what would pass in polite society as a charnel house I prefer to describe as my snug little parlour. Most people would not decorate a front room with an assortment of small animal bones and scraps of toothmarked fur, but to me they give a jaunty personal touch to what would otherwise be nothing more than a damp hole.
Speaking of damp holes it has been an eternity since I was let out of the basement to prowl the streets of Kings Cross and my imagination is not what it was. I find as I get older the lissom phantoms that accompanied my teenage rubbings have faded from three dimensioned animated tableaus to barely discernible scratchings on a toliet wall.
Any road up, the lack of conscious imagination seems to have been replaced with an increase in my involuntary dreamings. Just last night I had a vision that I was stepping out into the world (or at least the part of East London that I think of as the world) a fully stretched man, so to speak. I was spinally intact, a corpus delicti.
For those amongst you who have never been a hunchbank (or do not have that to look forward to at some future point) - I must tell you that there are many benefits of being a full head height lower than most. It is very natural to casually stare at a ladies bosom, from even quite close distances. Standing and eating from a trough is easier as there is less far to stoop, and most importantly the natural curvature provides instant refuge from the good doctor's lash.
On balance I would not care to be a full-man. Rather a happy half-man than a miserable full man. It is better to live on your knees than die on your feet, as I believe the saying goes.
Early release for the multiple rape-murder connoisseur
29/11/08
The good Doctor has decreed that a week on the Wheel is equivalent to two without food water or light. Whilst my multitudinous fractures settle down into some semblance of a human physiology I am at liberty to type a missive one broken-fingered character at a time. Has our practitioner of the Hyppocratic Oath ever shown such lenience, I doubt it, he is truly a God amongst amoeba, single-celled creatures being what he would define as his 'Society'. So whilst the strains of his favourite music (8-bit computer game soundtracks - particularly Sinclair Spectrum's Jet Pac) seep tinnily into my gloaming dungeon I have painfully penned the following screed.
It has come to my attention that the world of business is populated by a growing menace - the career incompetent. These individuals move from position to position spreading their ordure of disorganisation and misdirection. They often rise to unheard (and heretofore non-existant) ranks within a company, garnering titles like war medals scuttled from pawn shops. Such appellations as Head of Fun, Director of Strategic Explosions, Grand Master of Winnovation, Chief Lunch Officer have become commonplace among dynamic, passionate, thought leading, global facing, client focused organisations.
Thank God for the oncoming nuclear winter of the economy, we may see a return to the simple days of honest labour, where a man could lurk in the shadows outside an East End pub waiting for the staggering click clacking of a lonely whore. The lesser missed members of our congregation are ideal customers of the service delivered by this honest son of the soil. Nostrum's need for fresh corpses is unremitting. I rub my hands in glee at the thought of the forthcoming festive season when the blind drunk outnumber the sober by 10 to 1. This is real toil, not the shuffling of papers and the pinging electronic mail, but the short slash of a cut-throat and the hefting of a now lifeless body onto bowed shoulders.
My job title has always been a subject of some vagueness, however in response to our all-encompassing industrial dumbocracy I shall take on a new moniker. I shall be Head of Vitality Redistribution. Now go and enjoy your weekend and keep off the backstreets in Whitechapel if you value your vitality.
The good Doctor has decreed that a week on the Wheel is equivalent to two without food water or light. Whilst my multitudinous fractures settle down into some semblance of a human physiology I am at liberty to type a missive one broken-fingered character at a time. Has our practitioner of the Hyppocratic Oath ever shown such lenience, I doubt it, he is truly a God amongst amoeba, single-celled creatures being what he would define as his 'Society'. So whilst the strains of his favourite music (8-bit computer game soundtracks - particularly Sinclair Spectrum's Jet Pac) seep tinnily into my gloaming dungeon I have painfully penned the following screed.
It has come to my attention that the world of business is populated by a growing menace - the career incompetent. These individuals move from position to position spreading their ordure of disorganisation and misdirection. They often rise to unheard (and heretofore non-existant) ranks within a company, garnering titles like war medals scuttled from pawn shops. Such appellations as Head of Fun, Director of Strategic Explosions, Grand Master of Winnovation, Chief Lunch Officer have become commonplace among dynamic, passionate, thought leading, global facing, client focused organisations.
Thank God for the oncoming nuclear winter of the economy, we may see a return to the simple days of honest labour, where a man could lurk in the shadows outside an East End pub waiting for the staggering click clacking of a lonely whore. The lesser missed members of our congregation are ideal customers of the service delivered by this honest son of the soil. Nostrum's need for fresh corpses is unremitting. I rub my hands in glee at the thought of the forthcoming festive season when the blind drunk outnumber the sober by 10 to 1. This is real toil, not the shuffling of papers and the pinging electronic mail, but the short slash of a cut-throat and the hefting of a now lifeless body onto bowed shoulders.
My job title has always been a subject of some vagueness, however in response to our all-encompassing industrial dumbocracy I shall take on a new moniker. I shall be Head of Vitality Redistribution. Now go and enjoy your weekend and keep off the backstreets in Whitechapel if you value your vitality.
The Hutchback, Hunchback dilemma
24/11/08
Better to be a correctly spellt malform or an incorrectly spellt mid-sized Japanese car. The great doctor has given me much time to ponder this enigma whilst I am confined in total darkness for the next two weeks.
Better to be a correctly spellt malform or an incorrectly spellt mid-sized Japanese car. The great doctor has given me much time to ponder this enigma whilst I am confined in total darkness for the next two weeks.
Another Hunchbacked Theory
23/11/08
Hunchback Here
Having somehow managed to extricate myself from the manacles in the basement (Nostrum is a hard but fair employer) I have scurried up to the good doctors sanctum and correctly guessed his encryption (the password was of course 'cunt'). I will no doubt in the fullness of time pay for this transgression but for now I am free with the wind rushing through my three remaining hairs. Today I am a venerable 60 years old, a full and rewarding career of corpse theft behind me, free now to pursue my other interests.
Turning 60 is a remarkable moment in the life of any human(oid) I thought it would be festive and gay, with poppers and jelly (or is that the men only sauna that I frequent) a riotous whirligig, but instead Dr Nostrum merely added a spoonful of black molasses to my gruel. Are my best years behind me I thought as I dribbled the thin oats down my chin onto my favourite sacking shirt.
My theory then is in relation to the good doctors wild grasping at an answer for who it is that is reading this web log. The doctor has hit upon hard times in recent years and had to shelve his idea for a national advertising campaign to promote his 'art'. His meagre supply of 'cold hard' ended up only being able to fund a single billboard on the Isle of Mull. Now we may speculate that the entire population of Mull have been avidly reading his obscene rants having finally figured out what all this www. nonsense means after walkeing past the poster every day for the last 6 months, and this may have been the case were it not for the fact that the poster was inadvertently placed in a cow field. Believer though I am in bovine intelligence I find it a leap of imagination too great to think that a herd of Highland Longhorns are Nostrums key demographic.
No, it has come to the Hunchback's attention that there is a new phenomenon spreading throughout the blogoverse. We are now seeing the rise of robot readers. Yes, I say, robots or to put it more precisely mechanical machines designed to merely read and ponder the inane witterings of such self made men of genius as our beloved physician. The reason being of course that there are no human readers left, all now distracted by writing their own diarised thoughts in blog form and adding to the growing landfill of human irrelevance. So on our own little patch of heaven the onlookers have swelled by 40,000% in the matter of one week. We feel engorged by success and thus will keep tapping away like epileptic simians. It's as they say on Wall Street a win-win as they plummet past the smoked glass windows.
But I must go now as I can hear Nostrums hand on the door knob and no doubt his other hand will be grasping his favourite cudgel.
Hunchback Here
Having somehow managed to extricate myself from the manacles in the basement (Nostrum is a hard but fair employer) I have scurried up to the good doctors sanctum and correctly guessed his encryption (the password was of course 'cunt'). I will no doubt in the fullness of time pay for this transgression but for now I am free with the wind rushing through my three remaining hairs. Today I am a venerable 60 years old, a full and rewarding career of corpse theft behind me, free now to pursue my other interests.
Turning 60 is a remarkable moment in the life of any human(oid) I thought it would be festive and gay, with poppers and jelly (or is that the men only sauna that I frequent) a riotous whirligig, but instead Dr Nostrum merely added a spoonful of black molasses to my gruel. Are my best years behind me I thought as I dribbled the thin oats down my chin onto my favourite sacking shirt.
My theory then is in relation to the good doctors wild grasping at an answer for who it is that is reading this web log. The doctor has hit upon hard times in recent years and had to shelve his idea for a national advertising campaign to promote his 'art'. His meagre supply of 'cold hard' ended up only being able to fund a single billboard on the Isle of Mull. Now we may speculate that the entire population of Mull have been avidly reading his obscene rants having finally figured out what all this www. nonsense means after walkeing past the poster every day for the last 6 months, and this may have been the case were it not for the fact that the poster was inadvertently placed in a cow field. Believer though I am in bovine intelligence I find it a leap of imagination too great to think that a herd of Highland Longhorns are Nostrums key demographic.
No, it has come to the Hunchback's attention that there is a new phenomenon spreading throughout the blogoverse. We are now seeing the rise of robot readers. Yes, I say, robots or to put it more precisely mechanical machines designed to merely read and ponder the inane witterings of such self made men of genius as our beloved physician. The reason being of course that there are no human readers left, all now distracted by writing their own diarised thoughts in blog form and adding to the growing landfill of human irrelevance. So on our own little patch of heaven the onlookers have swelled by 40,000% in the matter of one week. We feel engorged by success and thus will keep tapping away like epileptic simians. It's as they say on Wall Street a win-win as they plummet past the smoked glass windows.
But I must go now as I can hear Nostrums hand on the door knob and no doubt his other hand will be grasping his favourite cudgel.
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