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 http://www.stuckincustoms.com

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…

S.

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

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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.

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.

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.

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.

 

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:

http://www.harlaxton.co.uk/wordpress/index.html

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)

 

Guest Writer in the Woods: Richard Coppin

Ahoy-hoy good readers,

Thank you joining me for a very special post.

I’d like to welcome a very good friend of mine, a multi-disciplined writer and artist, who graces my neck of the woods frequently.

It was absurdly difficult to narrow down which piece to present to you dear people. However, I finally went with a poem which I believe anyone can enjoy and makes me think: Awwwww, you old romantic!

You can take in his other pieces-shorts, novels, biographies, illustrations, scripts etc via this hither linkage: http://richardcoppin.co.uk/

Without further a dalliance I give ye, Mr Richard Coppin’s: The Bus.

Man waiting for a bus, considers fingers, numbing
As through a foggy morning he sees his bus is coming
Its breaks squeal and hiss as feet clamber out and in
And taking up his seat he too, recumbent, glad of warmth, despite the din
Of early riders, half asleep, as yet not energised for work
Compelled by need to carry on this life and rise above the winter murk.

Micro Fiction: We Brave Few

(For Mrs Wig.)

We belong on the edge.

We welcome risk.

The serrated edge of danger.

The contest of wills against overwhelming odds.

The cut and thrust of the close quarter clash.

And fortune always favours the brave.

The Hunters, the Stalkers, the Lurkers and Skulkers,

The Hit n’ Runs, the Malingerers.

We know you all and what you are capable of.

But you will not find us unprepared.

We are – the markdown team for the reduced section on Isle 13.

Original Concept WBF.

Further reading:

Mum and the Messy Monster

Gosh and criminey! I am finding with the summer comes extra uncle duties, there’s hardly been time to write what with all the childs running hither and tither. My modern retelling of war and peace will simply have to wait.

But fret ye not, as one particular Small hath inspired me to fashion and post something even better-er-est! This remarkably bright and well-mannered young man goes by many names-Boof, Loam, Emmett, Wig the Second of Goundringham on the Wolds. However, he’s a modest young chap and wishes to remain anonymous, so I shall simply refer to him as H.R.

The following is based on a true story and nothing has been exaggerated or embellished. It is a chronology of actual happenstances and you must believe them no matter how inconceivable and unlikely they seem.

So without further ado, this latest offering is for a particularly special Smallboy at bedtime. Ladles and Jelly Spoons and HR, I give you: Mummy and the Messy Monster (OR Where’s My Monster?)

I thank you.

 

Mummy and the Messy Monster/ Where’s My Monster?

‘Look at all this mess!’

Cried mum.

‘There must be a messy monster loose

Wild and on the run!’

There is jelly all over the kitchen

There’s mud all down the slide and swing.

There’s monster paws all over the living room,

Snacks and cake all over the bouncing-thing.

I’d better track down the monster,

Before he can make any more mess.

Perhaps it’s an ogre, or a grubby goblin,

Perhaps it’s the sea monster of loch-ness.

There’s got to be a messy monster somewhere

But where could he possibly be?

I bet he’s busy in the truck stop truck wash

Making all the trucks bright and shiny.

‘Nope, he’s not here at all’

Says mum.

‘The Messy Monster’s escaped again

Off to find even more messy fun’.

Is he working in the train station?

Ensuring all the trains run on time?

The fat controller says, ‘not here, Mum.

And the train track is all covered in slime.’

Id best check upstairs for the monster

Perhaps he’s hiding under the bed.

But Soggy Doggy says ‘He’s not here.

Why not try the bathroom instead.’

So is he in the bathroom?

All the bubbly duckies quack ‘he’s not here’

But there are lots of pencils and crayons about

So he has to have been quite near.

Mum said, ‘Well where can this monster

Possibly be?

I’ve looked almost everywhere

Even behind the big TV.’

But I think I can hear a tell-tale noise

It’s a Messy Monster’s snore I’m certain

We’ve been playing hide and seek so long

He’s fallen asleep behind the curtain!

Here’s my messy monster!

Micro Fiction: We the Hunted.

It was attracted by my food stocks. But now it’s preying on me.  The hunter has become the hunted.

Stealth is everything. My weapon of choice is honed and light weight. I need to be swift, precise. A mis-strike here could prove my undoing.

Horrible lurking thing, could be glaring at me right now and I wouldn’t even know. Revolting thing. Smiling away. Rubbing its sticky hairy limbs together with glee. Taunting. Waiting to make its next move.

It’s gone to ground for now. Just be patient. Alert. It could come from anywhere. From behind, from above… Steady your nerve old man. You’ll see this through.

I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. It’s forced me to take extreme countermeasures. I have yet to demonstrate my most lethal and cunning secret weapon yet: Foul language…

God $@%#”£% damn it, I hate flies!

 

Top photo credit: em-si Early in the morning via photopin (license)

Cheese, Bears and Bumble.

Or– A fine mix to fix writers block. Or-An unlikely combination of inspiration.

A post a week? I can’t make that, it usually takes me a month to write one! It takes even longer to read one!

Stuck for inspiration. Stuck for any kind of thoughts what so ever. Blank screen syndrome. The more I stare at the screen the blanker, whiter and emptier it seems to become. Numbness sets in. A mild tick develops in my caffeine induced left eye (the right eye is strictly a spirits-only sort of chap). Fingers tips become heavy, laden with self-crafted doubt and obstinate lethargy… ‘This is impossible, I’m not smart enough’, ‘there’s not enough time’, e.t.c.

I’m not even motivated enough to get distracted by social media and such like. Or play a time wasting game-app. Or fiddle with a time-saving app. Or try and make sense of a time keeping app.

Nothing else for it, I shall have to go on a wander to clear the rafter and eves. However, I can’t seem to drag my hooves out from under my posterior.

Meanwhile the keyboard is closing in as the right eye shuts of its own accord. Down, down, down into darkness. It feels kind of secure here. I don’t need to be anybody or anything. As far as I’m concerned, the day is finished and in epic failure. A redundant writing day wasted…and it is not even elevenses yet.

…Then a knock at the hut door stirs me from my loathsome languishing. A familiar face is at the door with his childling. Tis’ cousin Didder, Chief Artificer of the Realm and his small-ling consort, Kobi the Barbarian (A.K.A. Kobi One Kanobi). “Come on” beams the smaller of the pair. “We’re going on a bear hunt!”

Well alright! All of a once I am motivated and energized. Small folk have a very calming and reassuring influence on me. They don’t care when I look or feel glum. They don’t even care when I have a keyboard imprinted on my forehead. They only care that I come out to play and chase bears with them.

So off to one of my favourite woods for an adventure. I brought along a keg of coffee and a foraging book. The kiddling equipped us all with sturdy bear-poking sticks. The Artificer brought his welly boots and his Lucky Cap of Tinkering.

There was many a mud lake to cross, but brave Kobi took point and led us all safely through. There were also many snare and pit traps to avoid, possibly set by goblin hunters. However, our Artificer new well their tricks and disarmed them all without issue.

We hunted for huge grizzly bears and we tracked ferocious wolves. Didder the Artificer and I were most concerned about our possible encounter with an omnivorous leviathan, despite our robust bear poking sticks. Kobi however, was unperturbed and gleefully charged into the undergrowth unfazed. He truly is a great hero and leader of men.

There was even a goblin camp or two to be explored; as it was day time all inhabitants scattered as we approached then they kept to the shadows out of sight. Although they had little in the way of plunder it was still an interesting intrusion. Kobi even came into possession of a Goblins’ Luck-Stone!

Later on we spotted a couple of wayward hares and there was even a tiger flying an aeroplane overhead!

We were subject to a curiously brief hail storm, much to the giggling delight of young Kobi the Barbarian and the party had to take refuge in one of my halfway-shelters until it passed us over. Clearly this was some sort of fell sorcery at work by an evil witch nearby. But not to fear, as everybody well knows witches are terrified of the ferocious battle cry of a small boy whirling a stick around his head. So then all was bright and sunny again so we continued on.

We had to skim round the Wishing Well of Eternal Jubilation and Scummy Bits as there was a ghastly troll slumbering nearby, snoring his head off (I believe it must be Conrad the Destroyer of Worlds’ week off otherwise he would have moved the beast along by now).

Sleepily we made our way back to the Didder-Mobile and, after a parting shot or two at the skulking goblins, we set off back home again for tea, biscuits and a big old hunk of cheese (curtesy of the Artificer and his wife).

Now then, this adventure has moved me to post up a sneak preview of an on-going project, a tale regarding the above little chap who rested me from my gloom and withering writers block. So here’s a peek at something I started around about Christmas time-ish. Just about all the pictures are complete, I just need to find a savvy and cunning way to ink and colour them. But more to come. So here you have in all its glory, your first glimpse at a story concerning young Kobrias and his Landover: Bumbles sore Bumper!

If you like what you read please like, comment and share. It would be most appreciated.

Kind regards.

S.

Bringing in the Spring-My Office for the Day

It appears I have risen early from my ritual winter slumber and so hath my muse and colleague, Mother Nature. More of this please my dear. Eternally grateful. 

All the necessary writing requirements are here, pens, pads, new fangled technology aquatic wildlife and of course a vat of tea.

So without further ado, I’d best be cracking on.

Peace.

S.