Satyr Tales

Twisted stories to amuse and confuse.

Satyr Strips: Strident Sparrows

A week or three ago I mentioned in passing the colony of barbaric sparrows ruling the roost from the eves of my cottage. Now as spring is marching its way back through the desolation of winter the tiny, seemingly diminutive creatures have gone into overdrive. Their activities and most noticeably their noise has increased elevenfold.

What are they doing up there?

To demonstrate their demonic ways I have stripped them in cartoon form thus:

snow satyr


Rat Drawn Chariot



The Satyr


Satyr Rant: TV Licence?

Satyr Rant: TV Licence?

The following has been heavily edited for cuss words. However, given the nature of the post the odd one may very well have slipped through.


Since moving to a fresher glade within the wide expanse of my forest I have been inundated with impertinent letters from the British Broadcasting Cooperation. My forest has a PO Box don’t you know. These rather uncivilised communiques are frightfully dreary, rather pointless to read and have become increasingly and unnecessarily threatening.

Now call me a crusty, old, naive goat-gentleman, but what? A TV what? Licence? Are you mad? For what exactly? I watched a television once and fell immediately into a deep stupor. The quality of the broadcast was unnervingly idiotic. And not in the entertainingly humorous way either.

So let me get this straight Mr so-called Colin Bright from the Nottingham Enforcement Division of the BBC. You want me to pay you and Her Majesties government, for the privilege of watching plastic, orange people jibber, dribble and froth amongst themselves, whilst awaiting the oscillating 5% of quality broadcasting to come on?

Erm, no. Surely you should be paying me?

In The Beginning

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away I used to own an televisual set. This is back when I resided further south along the River Camb. Although I almost never watched the damn thing then, my hovel-mate did. I was aware of the appliance in my domain and procured the requisite legal bum-wad to accompany such an hallowed item.

It was terrible viewing then.

Fast forward and a few years hence I was staying at sister-goats place. I tried to understand TV once more, but quickly realised that not a lot had changed and it had even less to offer. The teeth were whiter, the faces more orange and the topics even more pointless, trivial and patronizing:

I’d switch on the bloody thing and just catch the end of a hilarious anecdote on QI, or some such, only to be then rattled at and forcefully induced by a fog horn and kaleidoscope of commercialist, materialistic, superficial claptrap. So I go off and make a nice cup of pine needle and hedgehog tea to pass the time. But when I return, I find the only program worth watching had just finished and cut to a commercial break again.

Personal Taste

Now sports is not really my thing, but I understand the need to entertain the masses avec l’action. Each to his or her own. It is important to some people. It brings them together for a common purpose. Like the winter Olympics for instance. I understand some folk actually enjoy a run for no reason other than to be ambulating at speed.

My exercise and hobby of choice is both one and the same: writing words and drinking good wholesome beer. Oh and hiking. All of which require no unnecessary running about, sweating, casual racism or shouting at all. Or falling over on ice.

The news is all doom and gloom, warped and sensationalised – If no rich white people exploded or got naked on film then it’s just not news apparently. No, don’t wag your PC finger at me, I’m not a media mogul! I’m just a truth-sayer! I tell it how it is – Chiefly jaded, slanted, scaremongering propaganda merely to keep the tax dollars rolling in to a government with its collective heads up its collective self-serving arses. And that’s not going to change in our life time.

Watching a soap opera is like enduring a long slow, painful suicide interspersed with commercials and…

…Oh yes, the commercials. The Ads…(sigh) Come, come now; please don’t insult our intelligence…

And Who Wants to be Strictly Come Get Me Out of Here? All I can holler with bile and disdain is ‘dance monkeys, dance!’ If that really is all that real people wish to chat about in real public then I’ll just stick to the hermit life thank you.

The Law and the Order

Now then, I like to think of myself as a fine, upstanding, balanced, morally decent goat-man. I do not wish to hurt, steal from or anger any persons – living, dead, northern or otherwise. Least of all Her Queennesss – A well rounded sort of chap one might say.

My bovid-esque horns do not pick up digital or satellite or even intergalactic TV. And nor do I have a cable of any sort for any subscription plugged into my bottom. Therefore, I had been ignoring these letters for some time. I knew these documents were from the powers that be because for some unfathomable reason they are always addressed to, ‘The Legal Occupier’.

Withinst, the letter says it is very British and very official. Then surely that makes it Her Majesties Broadcasting Corporation? The body of the letter of demand itself – a long list of ‘do not’s’ and at select intervals ‘you are liable to a £1000 fine’ for not watching tele…I mean, for not having our nonsensical fearmongering twaddle beamed directly into your habitat daily.

Ye verily, Casa Satyr has a PO Box. My habitat is part of the British Isles. Therefore, I have to pay council tax for the rock that I live under. To-it I subscribe to a little internet site whose URL ends .GOV.UK where I pay for governmental services applicable to my address. Come now Mr Bollocking Blokey Cad, pull your finger out and use your intelligence, it’s the year 2000 and something. You can work it out. Show a bit of imagination. And while you’re about it, try and be a tad more personable.

If you are so concerned about the TV set I don’t own, with which to observe the pointless shows I don’t care for which you provide, how come you don’t know what my name is?

You’re so concerned that Her Majesties BBC programs are being eyeballed illicitly from a British post code by a British national who pays his British council tax and British utilities and is registered to vote Britishly but you still don’t know my name? I find this hard to believe.

Furthermore, I’m sorry Mr TV Inspectorman, I don’t open the stack of letters you send to this address because I’m British. And her Maj doesn’t look too kindly on those of her subjects that open mail not directly addressed to them. But then, you should know this.

Merely addressing it to ‘The Legal Occupier’ is portentous and smacks of circular mail and spam and the like. Every time I pick up one of your vile letters I assume it’s from some down trodden Zimbabwean prince in need of a financial bailout with promises of mind boggling rewards if I act immediately.

Why would I waste my time and effort on opening it? Straight on to the fire with you. What a waste of good trees, eh? Then again it does make for a nice warm goat boy come winter.

Tut, tut, tut and impersonating a member of Her Majesties governing authorities? I get electronically mailed spam like that at least once a week! Complete with a .GOV.UK URL. ‘You have been awarded tax compensation rebates. Send us your account number and pin within 24hrs to receive it straight to your bank’.

And if it is the legal occupiers you wish to call to order then may I suggest you approach both families of sparrows living in the eaves of my roof. Generations of them have been in residence much longer than I, and therefore have a greater claim to it. After all, possession is 9/10s of Her Maj’s law.

And do you know what would happen if I try to relegate the aforementioned ornithological squatters into my HRM’s County Council appointed wheelie bin? I shall receive a court order from her Maj’s bird fanciers club wont I. The RSPCA or B or what have you. And I bet you a penguin’s liver they will be able to work out my name and address. Before I know it I’ll have Chris Packham and Billiam Oddie hammering on the door swinging cricket bats and nine irons around their heads ready to knock seven shades of guano out of yours truly.

Shenanigans I say! Fear tactics! Bureaucratic terrorism. Monkeyshines! ‘Pay damn you or we’ll send round da boyz!’ it’s all a very Dickensian approach don’t you think?

Her Queeness herself knows my name and where I live. I know this for fact as she routinely sends me fan mail. I mean, hate mail. But then that’s what one should expect after one is caught poaching ones favourite pet swans. I’m sorry but corgis just don’t taste as nice with neeps.

When I lived on the Camb/ Granta I frequently had irritating and forceful notes stuck under the wiper blades of my ox cart for parking ‘illegally’. And on the odd occasions I may have been cajoling the ox to go a little too fast along a Big Road and tripped a nasty little camera trap thingy. Guess who wrote to me demanding money for committing such an heinous crime? And guess who I had to make the postal order or cheque out to, to ensure no further proceedings were actioned against me or my poor oxen? They knew who I was. They knew where I lived too. They knew exactly where to send their strongly worded letter in bold red type. And what was the address of the site I had to pay the fine to? Something along the lines of I think you’ll find.

So to Put It Bluntly

I understand the ‘civilized’ masses need to be appeased, sedated and subdued in order to protect public order. Usually with a common feel involved, something everyone can relate to. And television is a most powerful tool for that. A national sport for instance, an election, a riot, or a stretch of major road workings for no apparent reason. Black Friday Sales. That sort of thing. Pacify the people = peace. Give the people something to moan or gloat about collectively. Give them what they want. Guts and glamour.

The Romans got this down to a T. they needed something to sate the overthrown populaces of their new world order and cement the restoration of public order in the form of the colosseum. In fact, fine example – I hear bare fisted, gladiatorial style combat is back in fashion now in the form of MMA. But not a lot of folk can access, afford or understand that type of barbarity. But for the majority of the angry, sexually frustrated alpha males of the species it is a most welcome venting exercise.

So in order to appear civilised we must become slaves to the shiny frame in the corner of our living rooms which depicts imagery demonstrating what it means to be uncivilized? Either that or lording it over us teaching us how we could and should become better civilized?

Bugger that, I’d rather remain uncouth, uncivilised and warm by my fire fuelled by HRM’s idiots of the lowest order. Mind you, it could be quite entertaining to scrawl along the top of any further indignant letters, ‘Mr. L. Occupier, Not At This Address. Return To Sender’.

I thank you.

The Satyr

Mind Murmur: Ale Survivalist/ Beery Bushcraft

Here’s some twaddle I just hashed up. A hypothetical quandary based on my own non-existent science. Just a theory.


Dedicated to my favourite YouTubers: AlfieAesthetics, Emelie’s Out Door Adventure, Joe Robinet, Haze Outdoors, Hiker in Estonia, My Self Reliance, Stephanie Margeth, Survival Lilly, TA Outdoors, Victoria Lune and Zed Outdoors.

If the great outdoors, hiking, bush craft or survival is your thing, check these wonderful people out. Say I sent you!

Marooned Satyr-inked ST

Mind Murmur:  Ale Survivalist/ Beery Bushcraft

If you were marooned  on a desert island or a piece of an artic pole and you had to choose between a huge stockpile of good ale or a huge stockpile of clean water, and that was all that was washed up with you, which would it be?

See believe it or not, it has recently been proven by…er…scientists* that it is infinitely better for you and almost assuredly improves you chances of survival if you choose the ale.

*(I believe the same pocket of folk usually responsible for developing new lines in ladies hair products and gentlemen’s multi-bladed shaving apparatus.)

And I concur. Time for the science bit:

photo credit: almostsummersky left to drown via photopin (license)

You see real Ale is more fortifying than water, it has more sugar and calories in it, it won’t perish/ dehydrate/ stale/ stagnate or whatever it is that water does. And furthermore, once it’s been left lying about for a bit it won’t give you typhoid or dysentery. Ale will hydrate you to a point but more importantly and beneficially of all it increases moral 10 fold!

Whether you are aware that rescue is on its way or that it is merely a hopeless pipe dream, which would you rather do? Just sit about and bake or freeze to death whilst staring at the horizon praying for a reprieve? Or get drunk as a skunk and have a wander about? Do you dare venture away from that vantage point and miss a potential fleeting reprieve knowing that each moment that passes a ship could be drifiting by on the other side of the island or iceberg? Do you dare wander away from that vantage point and possibly stumble across something that will help you the most in your time of need? Like a kebab.

The extra fortification and everything provided by the Ale will give you this power, strength and assertion to go forth! You can go on reconnaissance, forage, collect firewood and shelter building materials. You could even give hunting a go if you manage to lash together a rudimentary elephant gun and telescopic sight. You would also capable of creating a half decent signalling beacon without having to resort to desperately waving your underpants above your head. Furthermore, the mystical powers of the ale will embolden you to source fresh, clean water. Win, win!

The list goes on, without the reassurance and emboldenment of ale you may not have the courage to seek higher ground, attempt to build a boat with little to no knowledge of seamen ship, or hunt inland beasties with only compacted balls of your own dung. Even attempting to create a flying machine out of nothing more than bamboo twigs and eczema flakes is not beyond you if you are constantly topping yourself up with good, wholesome, reliable ale.

Whilst merrily carving out a basic existence in hostile environments you may need to fend off the odd marauding polar bear, tiger or merekat; but as any David Attenborough will tell you, pinch the nose of the offending beasty and it will simply lay down and play dead rather than risk coming to blows with an inebriated goat-man.

It’s probably also worth noting that water freezes. Warm water is foul and not hydratative (if that’s a word). But we’re British and damn it, we can drink good ale at any temperature and find it revitalizing and rejuvenating (to those observant types I realise those last two verbs mean the same thing but I love them both equally. What are you going to do?).

Ale is like liquid bread. A meal in its self- wheat (possibly) hops, malts, yeast, butter, jam, cheese and onion crisps and alcohol-all the main food groups any growing goat-boy needs to survive adverse heat or cold conditions.

Beer is thicker than water and is so dense and so frothy that its foamy head can be used as a crude sun cream. Beer and water freeze before alcohol does. Try leaving your foamy beverage outside your igloo for an hour or two with a stick in it. Before you know it you will have a clean, tasty, semi hydrating beer-cicle and an easily separable source of raw alcohol.


photo credit: Leo Reynolds CAMRA via photopin (license)

But of course, woe betide anyone who imbibes alcohol whilst freezing to death. Apparently it restricts the blood flow around body…And your blood flow isn’t already restricted due the onset of hypothermia? All this means is that your heart has less extremities to pump blood to. And what ho? Alcohol thins the blood? Well blow me down with a penguin in pita bread, all of a sudden I’ve got twice as much claret to go around a smaller area. Happy daze.

Drinking water alone gets very, very boring…Good ale will never become boring. Fact! That I base on very little evidence. And it’s not like you’ll be operating any heavy machinery whilst marooned or going out for a nice drive any time soon. And it’s not like you will be able to inadvertently make a drunken phone call to your ex-partner.

So, I put it to you: If it were you, what would you do? Good Ale or clean water?

Suggestions and actual fact based opinions in the comments section below.

Incidentally if there are any real ale companies out there who fancy a spot of sponsorship, hit me up…


The Satyr.

  1. Always drink responsibly. No matter how far you are away from civilisation.

photo credit: Leo Reynolds CAMRA via photopin (license)

photo credit: almostsummersky left to drown via photopin (license)


MICRO FICTION: Snatch and Run

Dedicated to Sallyann, Brian and their favoured getaway destination.



Photo by Steve Halama on Unsplash

Like all good thieves, no-one saw this one coming. Not even me-the erstwhile protector and keeper of the ‘precious’. That which is most sacred.

Like with all good thieves, it took its target right from under my very nose. Just a slash of monochrome and my charge, my reason, my insurance for the near future, was gone.

Like all good thieves, he made his livelihood in the tourist destinations. That’s where the bounty’s at. It’s where victims are at their most vulnerable, relaxed; carefree enough to demonstrate their wealth- flaunting it openly. Not a care in the world.


photo credit: TommyClicks Treasure Chest via photopin (license)

The ‘Precious’ in question was typically traditional. A national treasure. The epitome of the British Isles. Sought by countless thousands, from abroad and at home. Coveted by those in the know, those ‘in the business’; Indeed, independents and corporations alike have pursued its secrets for at least a century. Tried to duplicate its simplistic but perfect quality. Dreaming alchemists aren’t we all.

And like all good thieves this one left its calling card: Something simple. An unmistakable black and white slash…

And like all good fortune-it can disappear in the blink of an eye…





Kindest regards,

The Satyr

Further enjoyment:


The Night Before Christmas-Revisited

Merry Christmas one and all!  A modern retelling of a classic seasonal verse, with additional silliness. Originally posted a year ago…funnily enough. 

And of course, once again, the biggest things at Christmas time are the littlest people. So this for Jack, Martha, Ethan, Conrad, Kobe, Harrison, Albert and Grace.

The Night Before Christmas-Revisited

T’was the night before Christmas and all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…

Well, except for two villains, a’ prowling the night

Creeping round Old Mrs Palins’ house, led by torchlight.


Gary and Jordan, were a veritable pair

United in crime, clad in counterfeit sportswear

T’was that time of year again, when they must provide for their kin

All the luxuries expected, to welcome the New Year in.


Neither had had, a real job up to date

Preferring to sponge, off of the welfare state.

So over to the rich side, of their town every year

To pilfer some presents and other assorted gear.


But what the pair didn’t know, was that Grandma Palin was a witch

A peaceable respectable one, homely but not kitsch.

Indeed the seasonal bunting, was all but for show.

Being a pagan she cared little, for reindeer’s and snow.


But she played along every Christmas, for it was both happy and wry;

And she baked breads and cakes, for the elderly nearby.

But the men bound her to a chair, then set her aside

And carried on pillaging, without breaking stride.


photo credit: JLS Photography – Alaska 24 days to Christmas . . . via photopin (license)


Quite rightly Grandma Palin, became quite hotly vexed

To teach these thieves a lesson, she would have them both hexed

So the old dear did mumble and an incantation she did weave

Jinxing the villains and all they touched and perceived.


Lo all of the plunder did significantly alter,

Into big lumps of coal causing both rogues to falter.

The burglars were enraged and turned on the old crow,

‘Turn it all back, we need gifts to bestow!’


Said Mrs Palin, ‘Well Mr Burglars, I would if I could.

But first I need you both, to do something good.

To atone for your crimes and lift off your curse:

Make an honest festive gesture: Open your hearts not your purse.’


‘To dispel my magic’s, all you need do

Is give something back, to the community you eschew.

It need not be pennies or Frankincense or gold

Merely show a little love for all to behold.’


But the chums would have none of it and both curtly said

‘To hell with you woman, we’d rather be dead.’

To this the witch rounded, ‘So be it, it is done!

Not a gift you will enjoy ‘til the spells’ course is run’.


‘Now be off with you both, for I’m a busy gel

And you and your new coal, can go burn in hell!’

The two thugs did huff, then threw down the fuel

Ridiculing the old woman and humbugging the yule.


So off into the night, they went in search of more stock

But alas every gift unwrapped, turned out nothing more than black rock.

The duo began to quaver, as they considered their plight

A change in plan was required, at least for this night.


Gary knew a charlatan who liked to prey on the Ebayer,

And Jordan went to his local, to pick up a hot DVD player.

But the pub had just closed and the hacker was asleep,

So both men moaned wretchedly and into their palms did weep.


Whined Jordan, ‘There’s nothing else for it, we’ll just have to submit;

Do the witches bidding, or our families will fit!’

Cried Gary, ‘Let’s do some good, for the people we’ve done wrong.

And hope to god it works or we’ll have no household to belong’.


So the thieves turned to thinking, a somewhat dubious notion

How to repay the town, and prove to their kin their devotion.

Hence they made a plan, both brilliant and bright

Then ran back to old Grandma Palins to set everything right.


Sang the Witch, ‘that’s the way lads, I knew you’d come through;

Now up and dashing both, you’ve got lots to do.’

So the pair spent the dawn, diligent on their plan

And soon it was finished with a little help from the old gran.


A carefully worded contract, up the witches enchanted chimney flew,

Promising their hard labour once the night’s dilemma was through;

They solemnly promised Santa, they would help him this year and the next

If he could possibly help them, what with them being both destitute and hexed.


High above the land, a familiar sleigh did soar,

Carrying a rosy cheeked fat man and presents galore;

Pulled by eight little reindeer, galloping on through the black,

When an unopened letter arrived, top the bearded man’s sack.


‘Ho, ho, ho, what be this?’ said the jolly old man.

‘A late letter to Santa? Well, I always do what do what I can.’

But then he read more closely and immediately understood

Then hastily changed course for Gary and Jordan’s neighbourhood.


The pair were most shocked, when Santa’s sleigh came to land

Their mouths did drop open as he proffered his hand

Their plan had worked! Who could have wondered?

Santa shook both their palms and smiled as he thundered:


‘Come on then lads you’d best climb aboard,

And let’s get to delivering this yule tide hoard.

There’s something for everyone, ho, ho, even your kin;

Now let’s all hustle, before they realise the trouble you’re in.’


So in jumped the pair and the sleigh took off at speed

So high and so fast that Gary almost wee’ed.

Back on with Santa’s rounds and the duo worked as hard as they might

Depositing gifts in stockings, throughout the rest of the night.


No one was left out, and some households were even repaid

To make up for the previous year’s seasonal raid.

Santa made quite sure, the pair’s homes were both filled

With everything their kin wished for, just as the contract had billed.


Returning to Grandma Palin, the sleigh finally empty of toys

Jolly St. Nick boomed, ‘well done, same again next year boys?’

‘Of course Mr Claus’ they replied full of cheer;

‘We can’t thank you enough, we’ll start work in the New Year.’


Grandma Palin was gleeful and said with a grin,

‘Glad to see you’ve learnt your lesson, now get home to you kin.’

‘We thank you too Grandma Palin, for teaching us right.’

Now Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!’

photo credit: JLS Photography – Alaska 24 days to Christmas . . . via photopin (license)

photo credit: Jutta M. Jenning Frohe Weihnachten und ein gutes Neues Jahr – Merry Christmas and a happy new Year via photopin (license)


Satyr Snippet: Fantasy Farce

A snippet from a much larger work that will probably never see the light of day. Perhaps other than in little titbits like this. An ongoing project started at least one life time ago.

For Jonbob.

Fantasy Farce – Burr and the Undead.

For Burr, our accidental hero, Bumscrook Castle was a less than welcome sight. Set in the centre of a vast crater full of jagged spikes of black rock in turn surrounded by the twisted mist haunted Forest of Buggerthatforagameofpoachers; it exuded an aura of creeping death, dark madness and horrors unimaginable.

For the surly Dwarf adventurer it was a playground full of hazards, traps, treacherous terrain and rampant monsters to play with.

If the sun had dared to show its face round that disturbing place it almost certainly would have hunkered down on the horizon as low as possible and hoped no one noticed it. As such the clouds were dabbed with pinks, oranges but predominantly blood red. Foreboding is too slight an expression here.

‘Why am I getting the impression that this is the worst possible idea in the history of shitty ideas?’ sighed Burr. His feet ached in the ill-fitting leather boots and his battered patchy armour chaffed in strange places he always assumed were a mythical foreign land.

He was bored of carrying the huge Enchanted Shield and was beginning to suspect it was little more than a disk of tin with coloured glass set in the rim. Furthermore and more pressingly, he was starting to think that his heroic companions were mere lunatics trying to get themselves and he killed in the most idiotic and elaborate fashion imaginable. Their delusions of heroism compounded by the vast quantities of alcohol and their own pedigree of personal madness.

He stared upwards, guppy mouthed at the imposing hand carved mountain. Only an army of lunatic and rather morbid architects could have built it, each with a different macabre masterpiece in mind.

It was dark, even though it was only a quarter past second lunch. The sky was over cast with plump angry clouds and it was terribly cold. Even though it was the height of summer on the outside of this gnarly, twisted and bitter forest.

‘What’s wrong with you Plumpling,’ rumbled Bottkrak in his gravelly voice. “It’s perfectly straight forward. Go in there, find the vampire and kill it. Go back to the pub. Drink. A lot. Sleep. Then do it all over again the next day.

‘Hmmm, interesting idea. But I have a better one: why don’t we ring the bell and very politely ask for lodgings. It’s either that or we kip out here with the wolves.’

‘Bah!’ Snorted the dwarf. ‘Mere pups at play.’

Burr tried to gauge the enormity of the structure, but every time he managed to focus on one dull, crooked spire, more seemed to appear behind it or the roiling sky would spew another where seconds before there was merely blood soaked cloud.

How he wished he could be back in his own world, sat in his dark dingy room playing Sword of Might on Gaymbox, warm, beer-ed and fed. He even missed evil little Kraken his sadistic black and white kitten. Either that or at a push back in the warm tavern with the rest of the Company of the Phoenix. He sighed.

‘Everything’s always straight down the line with you isn’t it?’ Huffed Burr exasperated. ‘Look at this place. If we go in there we are clearly going to die.’

‘It’s just some fancy old house, nothing to get het up about.’

‘It’s the occupants lurking about within I’m worried about.’

‘Well clearly they’re trespassing too and should be taught a lesson. Stop moaning and let’s get on with it I’m starting to get my hang over.’

Bottkrak shoulder his mighty rune-axe, in which crimson inscriptions had suspiciously started to glow. They set off up the crumbling stone steps, out on to the bridge that led out over the chasm up to the front door. The wind threatened to knock them off the bridge, and the horizontal rain made footing treacherous. It was a long journey.

Burr thought back to the evening hence. The whole company of inebriated veteran adventurers had drawn lots to see who had to get up early and continue with Burr’s training in the ways of the hero. Through much slurred and mispronounced scheming they had tried to work out a likely spot to send the luckless pair on a heroic quest. Blast the yokel for mentioning this hell hole. Local rumour had it was the lair of a vampire.

Even as Burr let out his heaviest sigh and made to move off, the stone steps beneath his pudgy feet gave way and tumbled out of site down the jagged cliff side below. Bottkrak manhandled him out of harms way by the scruff of his neck and set him down safely on a more stable spot.

‘This is no time for messing about with the architecture man, I need ale. And you really need to lose weight.’

Burr crawled (Bottkrak practically skipped) up the ancient, crumbling steps to the great door, gargoyled and bedecked liked the entrance to hell. Red splotches of horrible streaked the door; it read, ‘kin within’

Burrs’ many chinned jaw quivered in dumbfounded terror and he turned to the hairy, stunted warrior next to him.

‘What?” rounded the metal clad stunty. “It’s just kids messing with the locals.’

Burr gingerly stroked the surface of the rotting oak door and examined his stubby finger tips. He was unsurprised to note that his last meal of rank, mutated fish and year old biscuit did in fact taste exactly the same on the way out as it had on the way in.

The dwarf’s brow furrowed in disgust. ‘That’s wasting is that, Manling. And this fellow’s going to think we’re right rude now.’

Burr tried to straighten himself out and not look so wan.

‘Look, s’everywhere now’, continued the dwarf almost embarrassed. “Why didn’t you do it over the side of the canyon? That’s what it’s for.’

Wretching again with the back of his hand to his sticky mouth Burr managed, ‘S’blood’

‘Probably just from a rat. Or perhaps the last poor soul that puked on his door step’. Bottkrak beamed wickedly.

A stone skull embellishment, perfectly cued, decide to kamikaze its way down on to the floor in front of them splintering into fragments. Burr danced backwards as only a fat man in armour can.

‘Oh my god, I’m in hell!’ Wailed Burr. He weakly banged the demon-faced door knocker as quietly as he could.

The dwarf huffed him out of the way and practically broke the door down with the butt of his axe.

C’mon open up.’ He roared, as a colony of Bats erupted out of the tress, eves and shadows about them. ‘You know we’re down ‘ere.’

Quick to try and quell any hostility in their potential host Burr added shrilly, “erm, I say do you possibly have lodgings for the night?” whilst flapping wildly at the scraps of black horror flitting all around him.

‘And ale’ added the dwarf.

‘Yes, and possibly some food. But no fish’

‘And ale.

‘Or biscuits’


‘We can pay’



The swirl of bats suddenly disintegrated until there was just one really lucky and oblivious moth trying desperately to ram raid Burrs guttering lantern. They waited in silence listening for foot falls.

The obese man set his shield on the floor and rest it against a fold where his knee might have been and tapped a nervous rhythm on his belt buckle; all the while glancing around expecting an ambush at any second. Bottkrak leant on his axe and rolled on the balls of his feet humming a pleasant tune. Burr was the first to break the silence:

‘Y’know I’m sure I just saw a bloody, great bat flying around up there with a badger in its mouth.’

‘Don’t be idiot Man-thing. That was just a bear.’

‘Er, hate to break this to you Bottkrak but bears don’t fly’

‘No, I mean the thing in its mouth was a bear’

When Burr realised the dwarf wasn’t attempting humour his eyes widened like saucers and he beat pathetically and most urgently upon the door. ‘Oh my god, please, please-open up, open up, open up! Please!

‘Wait Fatling, look up there’.

‘Nope, not sure I can; because if I see a moth with a dragon in its mouth I will be very upset’.

‘No look, there’s a candle in that window’

‘Yes, well clearly that candle doesn’t want to be disturbed or it would have come down and opened the door to us earlier. Let’s go before the sun’s completely down.’

Oi, we know you’re up there. Come and open this bloody door or ill knock it down, your choice’

‘Please try to be a little less rude, we are counting on this person to…’

‘Good idea Bloke-ling; I’m going to count to three and if this door isn’t open by the time I’m done I’m going to come in any way!’

‘God no, if you bash down the door to our only shelter we may as well sleep outside with all the other monsters’


‘Please listen to me, carrying on like this is going to get us killed either way’


‘Oh Christ. Right, hello, er, Sir? Madam? Please come down. My friend is a tad hot tempered; he doesn’t mean to be its just he was dropped on his head as babe…pup…piglet, what ever…

Two and a half’

‘My god you actually know fractions and basic numeracy…no, there’s no time for that. Sir, I beg your pardon but…’

Three!’ Bottkrak made a long, heavy, grunt-fuelled swing at the massive door, however he paused mid way through his stroke as the door seemed to just open of its own volition (obviously with an obligatory drawn out creak).

The gruff warrior huffed, ‘works every time’ and stomped on through.

Burr stared after the warrior like a fat, gormless, balding buffoon. A not so distant wolf howled and he immediately snapped round expecting to be pounced on, his shield clattering on the stone floor. After a short fumble for his shield straps a short but burly arm emerged from the darkness of the doorway and dragged him within.



photo credit: wolf4max Meersburg Castle via photopin (license)

Within the dark interior of the main hall webs parted, dust formed clouds and sort shelter deeper in the castle. Spiders swore at the intruders and fled, a rather clumsy one the size of a dustbin crashed into the hall way then rammed its way out through a rotted wall.

Rotting tapestries and banners shrugged off a skin of dust and grime to replace the cloud that just left. Another shift of hyperactive bats dived down from the rafters to blot out the scene of decay and ruin. Just as quickly they disappeared through a shadow into another part of the cavernous building. An elated moth landed on Burrs helmet and caught its breath.

The fat man hastily bolted the door after him and tried to move a wooden bench to blockade it. However he found he just wasn’t strong enough so merely sat down and sweated on it instead. He stared about the haunting, decrepit hall way wheezing rhythmically, ‘Huh, well now we’re safe’.

‘Oh, d-do you really think so?’ The beardy warrior actually sounded deflated. ‘Well, let’s go and see who’s at home then.’

‘Erm, you go ahead. Ill just rest a while and catch my…’

‘Spine? No time for being a fanny now, Porker. We got some explorin’ to do’

‘Oh I’m sure who ever was up there will be down to greet us shortly’

‘Oh I get it, you keep the vampire busy down here while I scour the place for treasure to plunder and monsters to beat up. Good call. See you in a bit manling’.

A torch sconce beside the door suddenly ignited of its own accord throwing dancing shadows about the hall.

‘Hmmm, actually on second thoughts it would be very rude as a guest not to greet our host together. I’ll be right behind you. Literally.’

‘That’s the spirit Sapling. Very well, let’s go. Chaaaarge!’

‘No no, remember we’re guests’

‘Ok, er…slight jog in the direction of a possible enemy then!

‘That’s better.’


Kindest regards,

The Satyr.


photo credit: wolf4max Meersburg Castle via photopin (license)

photo credit: DaveParryphotography Dolbadarn Castle by night via photopin (license)


Satyr Rant: British Weatherpersons

Ah, the English October, where the weather is fairer and more consistent now than in June and July put together! I wrote the following during those particular preceding months:

(N.B. Censored language within.)

God damn and other formidable sweary words! I put it to you, what is the point in British weatherpersons?

I don’t need to know what the weather is like now, I need merely to look up, or at worst to go to the edge of my woods and do similar. What I really need and what I’m actually asking you for is the weather in the near future- usually say, later today. But tomorrow, the rest of the week and indeed every night during that week would be helpful too. However, what I really, really, really need: is for it to be right!

Do weather men not have £^#king windows in their offices?

I ask this because surely the south westerly wind that blew that dirty great sky-turd of a rain cloud my way this morning must have passed by at least one weatherman in that part of the country.

There I was, safe in the knowledge that, whilst jubilantly stuffing essentials into my Adventuring Rucksack (of Doom, Power and Glory) earlier today, I had ‘hours’. ‘Hours!’ I said to myself in a proud and happy voice. ‘Hours have I, until even a hint of a globule of moisture occurs in the air. It may well rain later, as the report insisted. However, once I have my shelter up and my fire roaring, I’ll be as happy as a Euro Billions-winning weatherman in a real brothel full of real ladies.’

I donned my adventuring hat/ titfer/bonnet/ chapeau of Power and Prestige and made to bound cheerfully into the deeper wilds and indeed the exposition of a brand new adventure…

from the blog
from the blog

I’d just finished locking and treble checking the hut door (and indeed the forecast) when the heavens opened and my brand new sun hat and my rather absorbent light-weight summer ensemble ruined. Hmmm, perhaps Id misread the report?’ Said I, moistly. ‘Perhaps a rethink of the day’s activities is in order.’

But no, the precipitation proceeded petulantly for the rest of the day. Eventually the App/ weather-show/ radio-noise did update itself. But what use is that? The damage was already done.

So what is the point in these persons? What, do they think they are doing us a favour? A nicety? Their thoughts and premonitions are a little bonus to our little lives? ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got your backs. We know what’s going on in the grand scheme of things’. Or perhaps to make us feel secure that there’s no behemoth meteor in earth’s orbit and we only have a few moments left afore we are rendered in 2D by the impact or resultant earthquakes and tidal waves?

‘Oh Mr Fish, with these vague and ambiguous weather reports you really are spoiling us.’

Never mind your dull computer machines and bionic weather veins. I don’t care what you believe you divine from them; just look out your clucking window and tell me what’s coming for me and from where.

‘Oh my god, a colossal four hundred foot twister is eating up the post office next door! What on earth are we going to do?’

‘Don’t worry Gerald, the bleepy-blinky-machine says it’s just a light dusting of frost.’

Perhaps all British weatherpersons are pathological liars? Maybe they are all constantly trying achieve some sort of perverse hit out of fooling the country, luring it into a false sense of serenity. Or perhaps they’re trying to do the nation a light-hearted favour? Perhaps to promote optimism and wellbeing? ‘Don’t worry, it won’t rain tomorrow. Rest easy. You’ll get everything done you need to and just forget about your brolley.’

So what, do you think it doesn’t matter? That to us little people (and little goat people) the actual weather is not really that important? It may not be relevant to you in your dingy, airless, lightless box but it is to us sir, and verily so!

Shirkers I cry! But who is going to correct them? The Queen? She’s too busy organising a ‘Save Our Doilies’ rally in Birmingham. Other weather reporters? No way, less the press get wind that they’re all in fact a bunch of half-arsed, jobsworths in a cushy number with free parking and access to fresh coffee a plenty.

Don’t get me wrong I’m not blaming Mother Nature’s arbitrariness, nor merely grumbling about British weather for something traditional and polite to say to strangers. And of course I realise that we are just a wee speck of land amidst an otherwise grey and wobbly condom infested wide space just off of Europe proper.

What I am grumbling about is the lack of quality in our weather reporting.

If it’s going to be $*#t, just say so. Or at least put up an OR alternative for good measure: ‘It very well may rain like hell later today…or it may not rain at all.’ Or perhaps a disclaimer preceding the report, a blackout screen with BBC approved white font: ‘we cannot be held responsible for the accuracy of these reports. We’re doing our best. Just please don’t attack us in public’…But don’t just make it up and expect us to swallow it…or be drowned, burnt to a crisp or pneumonia-ed to death by it.

I don’t really care what the weather’s going to be like, as long as I have an idea and I can prepare accordingly. I am an all-weather goat-I don’t mind surviving under my Sponge Bob Square Pants umbrella for half the day. As long as I’m fully aware I need to pack it. What I do resent is researching well in advance for a lengthy adventure only to find out I shouldn’t have bothered with all that stuff and I only needed to bring my snow shoes…but possible a bikini too. And some sun spray. And chilblain cream too just in case.

Sigh, rant over. Discuss…


photo credit: Stuck in Customs Deep in the South of New Zealand via photopin (license)


My Office for the Day-Meandering for a Muse

Gadzooks, behold my office for the day!

The day in question was a yesterday.  Stumped. Mind fug. Inspiration much needed. To unclog the writer’s cinder-block in my head-space I opted to go out a-wandering.

I didn’t pay too much attention to my surroundings as I soliloquised trying to work out highly problematic, intellectual and complicated writer’s things: should the little goblin character be nice or nasty. Should Badger prefer worms for dinner or Battenberg cake? That sort of thing.

But before I knew it I’d hiked long and far and left my familiar wooded parts behind.  I tumbled out of the tree line and was greeted with this most glorious sight.

2017-10-03 12.52.46.jpg
Harlaxton Manor, Lincolnshire.

After some preliminary reconnaissance and general exploration of the area I sat down to do some actual writing and a bit of reading too. OK so I didn’t actually write anything I was supposed to be writing, or read or research about anything I was supposed to. But I was still productive none the less. And it felt grand.

2017-10-03 14.42.21
My Office for the Day

I have always maintained that as long as you are writing something then you are indeed a writer. And a productive one. Or at worst, as long as you are reading something relevant to some part of your writing, the same goes (as long as it isn’t the TV times or what have you).

Lummy! Observe what else I discovered. Just look at this handsome fellow! Cousin Pan in all his autumnal magnificence.

Cousin Pan tootling a dainty tune.
2017-10-03 10.06.10.jpg
A most handsome chap.

I was even given the opportunity to have a quick shufty around the grand interior, thanks to a very friendly and sage horticulturist who easily realised my presence was innocuous.


2017-10-03 11.55.32

So anyway, to all writers out there struggling with mind fug I say, get out! And walk it off. The fresh air and fresh views may not give you any better ideas but they will certainly clear the noise and reactivate the juices in your creative parts. As long as you are doing something productive with writing in mind then you are doing well.

I did, and look-I got a post out of it!

For further intel on the beautiful place i visited, please proceed hither:

Have a beautiful day.

The Satyr.


Micro Fiction: Naughty Fox

Fresh Local Lunacy Direct From the Funny Farm. Personally I blame the great Dr. Seuss.


Naughty Fox in white mits and socks,

Trotted among the ragged rocks.

Naughty fox in socks spies a plump chicken,

Pickin’ at some grittin’.

He licks his chops,

And spits on his mits

Rubs them together

And dreams of devouring tasty chicken bits.

Plucky chucky pecking at some grittin’s,

Spies slinking naughty fox in mittens

So Plucky Chucky preps the coop

And opens the emergency escape chute.

She readies the leccy’ fence

And shoos away all her flocks.

Crawling ‘neath the wire

Naughty fox in socks gets nasty shocks!

Naughty fox lay sprawled out on the grass

Waiting for the electrical current to pass.

Eventually he came too with a nasty joltage

His fur all fuzzy on account of the voltage.

But before he could gather his wits

And flee from this accursed farm

Heavy boot falls stomp closer

And he is snatched up by his mittened arm.

Naughty fox in mits and socks gets got,

Furious farmer locks him in the farm yard stocks.

Given no breads, no waters, no meats

His head hung low staring down at his feets.

Shamed in front of the community

He is pelted profusely with mouldy old crops.

Until a government official happened by

And declared he’s pulling out all of the stops.

He argued that Fox be treated more humanely:

Given his own private cell and three square meals daily.

Access to a Gamepalm console and a huge plasma screen TV.

A job peeling spuds and doing the other inmates laundry.

Poor farmer was aghast and said to plucky chuck with a curse

I’ve been charged with cruelty to animals, I’m to be evicted or worse

I’ve nothing in the larder and there’s no more grittin’ for thee

So tonight’s dinner will have to consist of plucked Plucky Chickadee.

photo credit: daveumich Fox Kit via photopin (license)



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