What’s so wrong with up and warm?


The new terrorism fought not over faith, nor oil, nor land, but the very thing that makes land live: TREES. The bricks and mortar of sap and oxygen was to become the most valuable commodity on the stock exchange, just in time. With this pricelessness came violence on a scale that mankind had never seen, heard or felt.

Factions of botanical fundamentalists formed, cholorcide accounted for millions of innocent plant lovers. But trees carried more worth than people. At night, they stole them, even the very tallest Redwood. Yes, even America’s greatest totems were at risk, despite the manic security mesaures taken up by the Greenocrats (a hybrid party born out of the ashes of the politically dismembered United States).

Yet, within this world, one thief strode for the good of the world. The Robin Hood of the Rainforest, they called him. By stealth, he robbed trees from the rich to give to the poor. Once transplanted they became listed and obtained a status of diplomatic immunity. The trees made roots and the roots gave power. The world’s wealth inverted – the 95% of its riches that once belonged to 5% suddenly became the property of the poorest 5%.

And so it was, abject poverty was wiped off the bottom line of the human race.


The Halzephron Inn is up for sale.

It’s a truly lovely pub in the village of Gunwalloe, Cornwall.

Should you view it, ask the agent about the alleged tunnel.

If he/she blushes, pursue with questioning and stamp heavily upon the floor until you hear an echo.

Open up the trap door and crawl as far as your torch or the light on your phone will allow.

When you reach a second door, knock three times and ask for Roger.


This afternoon I frisked every piece of online content to ascertain its veracity.

Hereby I publish the results:

For every piece of truth, there exists 17* lies.

* I lied. It’s only 16.

ABBREVIA (# 74,912)

is the inability to know when to chop a word down to its true shorthand form.

UNLUCKY DRAFT (# 74,913)

He only ever wrote one draft of one work. Ok, it was a masterwork. But as ever, the acclaim came after death. He came back as a ghost and tried to tell them it was awful, but no, they traded on death and deaths in literature sold books.  They sold his suicide as a war with words, ‘a paper cut to his own throat’, the papers wrote.

You want the truth?

He slipped on a blueberry and his skull bled to death on the mock marble kitchen floor.


It is not to write, it is to copy.

It is not to think, it is to transmit.

It is not to anguish, it is to placate.

Here I sit, trying to write about the process of process and I am stuck in a processor, writing a processed version of the original thought that flew through my head a while back. This canned version is all that remains. How long before our impulses and instincts, be they illuminating or incriminating, are caught and published automatically? Will we be able to opt out? Will it mean that we’re all equally interesting and equally clever, or conversely, just as dumb and dull as every other mug on this planet?

Yes, yes and triple yes twice over.

By the time I die, it’ll be here.  The reality of ‘No Lost Thought’. People won’t be able to say, ‘oh, it’s gone’ as they hit a brick wall or a cognitive desert in the middle of a sentence.  For the first year or two, we’ll be ashamed of our inner conscience being published as it reacts to the outside world. Taurette’s will be commonplace. Homocidal tendencies will be almost as frequent, but dismissed on grounds of unsustainability. Bipolar will be unilaterally dismissed as a condition.

If we accept this process, we shall lead long lives without highs or lows, just a ceaseless stream of mid-range emotions. Think Coldplay on repeat. No, don’t think it or it might stick. And you’ve got a few years yet before we’re all plugged into The National Headfill.


What is it with us humans?

Why can’t we catch water properly? It falls from the sky and we spill it. We spill it so severely that we pretty much drown ourselves. The trouble is we don’t drown, we flood. We specialise in flooding. We’re very good at it despite our attempt to give it up. We build barriers, soakaways, drains and pumps, but it’s as superficial as eating a polo mint after a cigarette.

6 months from now, we’ll bemoan a lack of water. It won’t be over-hot. We will just stand and stare at our extravagance and idiocy with the world’s most precious commodity. We do droughts astonishingly well considering our coordinates. We’ve developed a temperate climate with bipolar syndrome.

It’s time to dig a National Well. And stick a lid on it when the sun shines.

Childishness will get us everywhere.


They were old enough to remember but chose not to.

They chose to forget.

They looked forward because of something that happened that was never told to anyone, an experience so complex, so testing, that should it appear in film or literature, the life of the maker/writer would end.

This incident kept them going deep into their 90’s.

Once they’d gone, war, on the whole, faded. It took a while but new battles became rarer and century old disputes over land, faith and oil were lost and accepted. The odd one was even resolved. Victors felt empty. The defeated inherited the earth.

We are all historians of the future and have a choice to tell it as it will be or how it should be.

We know which our forefathers will thank us for.

OLAPIATION (# 74,915)

= Hula hooping with one leg.

From the mind of a daughter 6 years young.

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