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the Atomic

Today we bear witness to some truly spectacular carnage


ne mē swōr fela āða on unriht


Better bad news, half-true more-or-less, 100% of the time


breaking Newz


what the heck is going on?

by Little Johnny

every day we hear new newz, those ordinary rumours of war, plaguez, fires, thefts, beasts, murderz, massacres, meteors & comets, prodigies & dullards, ghoulz & phantasms, fleshly janglers, flatterers & blamerz, tellers of trifles, tattlers of tales, towns taken, cities besieged, worldwide quantitative easing, gain-of-function crimes against humanity, and such like… all manner of pincherz skulking in the cyber-bushes elseways any & all a smibbly bibbly, from paper 2 telly box; thisse blithe world vext w/ wastedreamz. endelēas ġedwimor‎.
thousands & thousands of generations of ppl who suffer’d birth, disease, starvation & lonely death so that u could sit there 2day.. the redeemer of the human enterprise, the prodigal species, descended in 2 the inferno of matter 2 recover the pearl of immortality, whose virtues wounded by our worthless wordz.
whomst’d’ve will speak & thy praises tell?

tortoise hour


Tortoises actually come out of their shell in the wild when they go for a nice swim or foraging up trees for tomatoes.
“EXPERTZ” say the tortosaurus can also do that thing where if they fall they spin in the air & always land on their feet, just like cows.
When did the tortoise evolve?
The same time as cigars, I think. After fish, definitely. Around 1932, thereabouts?
Legend says the tortongle’s favourite food is sausages.
My teacher at school was Mrs. Turtle. She had a strange name but she tortoise well. Rest in peace.


by Jingo Scribbins

You won’t believe this but back in the day you could fly to Nu-York, have lunch, a bottle of merlot, see that overpriced Broadway show all the ponces like, fly back same night, taxi from airport back home, and STILL have change from 1000 bob. It’s true. When was that you say? Last Wednesday. Yes, yes we all remember last Wednesday, don’t we? back when we could fill up the ol’ shanks-pony with petrol & still have a fiver in change from a 300 quid note.

See this? That’s a tenner that is. Collector’s item. What can you get for one nowadays? Precious little. One of these puppies used to get you a whole round of toast with gravel on it, (not buttered toast, obviously) a whole ration of breadystacks with some cheeky marmite or nuttygum & fruit spleggings! When was that you say? Wednesday, 1942.

Back in the heyday, right, for ten lizards you could build a cottage in the Cotswolds, settle down, have the pick of any woman, have 5 kids, and STILL have money left to start a business… When was that you say? Wednesday, 1832.
“Ten whoppers?! That’s outrageous!” Not long ago, for a tenner, right, those colonials would sail to America, steal some land, build a house, purchase some powerful Igbo folk, & STILL start a cotton farm. When was that you say? Wednesday, 1748.
“Bloody ripoff!” I remember a time when a tenner could buy you your own galleon, hire an entire crew of shipmates, sail to the west indies with as much rum as you need, as much tobacco as you want, provisions for an entire year, the pick of any woman, have 12 kids, bit of piracy, and STILL have several hundred guineas left in change… When was that you say? Wednesday, 1593.

just a typical ghetto Cinderella story

by Garth Twatbasher

There’s nowhere more vile & disturbing for a child to grow up than a modern, occidental city, and one of the worst in the world of these deeply brainsick hives of nonce-riddled decay & despair, is London. My borough alone was an absolute circus of creepy ne’er-do-wells, curtain twitchers, pompous middle class inbreds & claw-their-way-to-the-middle type ponces. It was the kind of place where you’d wave good morning to a neighbour & they would wave back with a well-moisturised foot growing out of their mutant moonface whilst reading the guardian. Imagine a community where everyone who lives there is the type of boring bugman that writes “foodie” in their social media bio. A right bunch of metropolitan fuckwits & wannabe-worldly pearl-clutching twats, waddling about like Dan Dare Mekon. A place solely populated by pudgy people that sit around proudly pontificating popular television (depth of their criticism limited to whether there’s appropriate numbers of non-natives) and wouldn’t know a real problem if it shat down their throat. But on top of all the braindead clowns dragging their flabby carcases around, there was a dark & haunting urban legend in our community, The Legend of the Dolly Diddler.

Chapter 1: The Dolly Diddler was a strange little man. He appeared both old & young at the same time, androgynous, shrivelled & wizened, yet with a boyish gaze. Like every other local, the Dolly Diddler had a large, swollen head, upon which was always perched a tiny copter-cap that barely covered his brow, providing neither shade nor warmth. The Dolly Diddler was so named as among the whole borough it was widely believed that he would secretly pork-sword children’s dolls. Many a time he’d been spotted skulking around charity shops bulk purchasing all the second hand dolls. This rumour wasn’t just betwixt kids, though, many parents would warn us to behave lest “the Dolly Diddler get our favourite toys to play with” etc. Often I behaved as a child so my beetleborgs could escape such a fate, although I suspect Skeletor may have enjoyed it. Whispers also travelled around that the Dolly Diddler’s tiny copter-cap had been taken from his favourite play toy, which would explain its small size.
The problem with these rumours were that the Dolly Diddler was a real living human bean, and an uncle of the notoriously well-to-do Sackberg family. Every big town has one of these families. They had about 4 large terrace houses & illegally knocked them through to create a sort of poundshop mansion. They were all, to the man, utter psychopaths. Generation after generation of the county’s weirdest bastards were birthed from this rabbit warren. They were all cousins & brothers & sisters & there were about a thousand of them. My school year had 3 of them in, Ben – the biggest, Sean – the craziest, and Matthew – the dumbest, and the Dolly Diddler was their uncle, of which they were fiercely protective. Anyone who even mentioned the Dolly Diddler within earshot was soundly beaten in the most cowardly fashion, or dobbed in. You had to be careful to whom you made Dolly Diddler jokes at school, as an enemy may overhear & alert one of the many Sackbergs, invoking their ire.

Chapter 2: Then came the day of harvest festival. I was with my mate Eddie, a popular lad at school as he was the nephew of an England rugby player. As we perused the various bakesales, tombolas & splat-the-rat stalls, and people-watched the gathering of local twats, we spotted the Dolly Diddler had his own table of goodies… Pile upon pile of second hand dollies. We had to stifle our giggles as flanking the stall like a trio of rottweilers were the Sackbergs, eagerly eyeing any who tittered or stared. Eddie dared me to buy one of the dodgy dollies & promised to lend me a copy of Norks Weekly he found stashed in an allotment, so of course I agreed. Gingerly I approached & slowly picked up an innocuous doll from the pile, a sort of generic plastic-headed one but with soft stuffed body type affair. I couldn’t help but think its sad eyes looked like it had really seen some shit. I cleared my throat & mumbled “How muc-” when Matthew barked “QUID” like a diseased goat that trod on some lego. The Dolly Diddler said nothing but stared, like some kind of eldritch reptile. One hundred pennies was a vast sum of money to an 11 year old, “That’s a lot of jazzles & sherbet saucers” I thought to myself, but I could feel the Sackberg’s stare bore into my skull, so I plopped a quid on the table, avoiding the Dolly Diddler’s clammy little hand, and made a fast escape with my bounty.
Eddie & I made our way to the park to examine the doll away from prying eyes. Lo & behold, there it was… A small opening in the crotch, the width of a stick of seaside rock, or a drywipe board marker, or… a piteous little todger. We lost it, pissed ourselves laughing & after chasing one another around with the diddled doll, chucked it in the biffa. Walking back home lamenting the loss of my pocket money, I was struck by the sudden terror that the Sackbergs could find the doll in the bin, remember it was me who bought it & hunt me down, or even worse, the Dolly Diddler would telepathically know we abandoned one of his pozzed up play things & reap a terrible revenge, so we decided to retrieve the abused husk, take it home & dispose of it properly. Later that evening I offered it to my whippet as a chew toy, but being a discerning hand, she kept well away, so I threw it under the floorboards. After all that ol’ Edward, a bloke true to his word, lent me his copy of Norks Weekly & it was alright. Me & Eddie vowed never to talk about this, lest the Sackberg clan found out, and the Dolly Diddler would come for us. For 15 years we have been the sole custodians of this secret, the dark truth that the Dolly Diddler did in fact, diddle dollies.

Chapter 3: I’d forgotten all about that doll until the summer of 2014, when I found it untouched (post-Dolly Diddler) & exactly where I left it last. Turns out the doll I chose from the Dolly Diddler’s sordid stall was actually an original super rare collector’s edition Parsnip Patch Kid worth millions. I am now absolutely loaded & fly around in my private jet giving inspirational talks & quasi-sermons to the same kind of braindead clowns that populated my old borough. I’m currently typing this from my own private island in Tonga. Never give up! £1 can change your life. Just keep grinding & one day it’ll happen for you, too! Nah, I’ll spare you all the baizuo buzzwords & techno-bollocks, you gotta pay for a ticket to one of my talks for that. Toodle pip.


Atomic Tooth Finish ^Rock n’ Dole^ Tour

by Wayne Car

​Local band “Cosmic Strewth” are promoting their upcoming album for the vegan eco-fascist record label: Subterranean-Protoplasmic-y2k-Atomic-Intrusions Incorporated, and we invited them back due to public demand & complaints about the last interview.

—Ugh it’s you again, seems you have a new member?

Jingo: I was always here you mongo.. too blind to see Puckfolk ever since Robin Goodfellow, you lot.
Juice: Jingo’s on Anglo concertina, harpsichord, tin whistle & turntables.
Jingo: Our previous flautist Jethro had trouble remembering his name so we dropped him down a lift shaft in Kalifornia.
Johnny: o how the drudging Puck swet, 2 earn her cream-bowle. ever as ragged as a colt-pixie
Jam: ‘Ello Wayne mate

—Yeah hi. How did the California tour go?

Jam: Had a lovely time in the Great Satan. Lived in a walmart carpark for a while, chatted with the local homeless lads about UFOs.
Jingo: Yeah, real proud of ourselves, in 3 nights we did over 7 million quid worth in damage, apparently.

—How many people came to the concerts?

Johnny: 5
Jam: short circuit.

—5…Hundred? 5000?

Juice: nah, 5.
Jingo: 12 if you count the roadies. 3 better than Nu-York, and on the Cotswolds tour we got sweet Fanny Adams.

—What’s the group doing now?

Jam: Jingo’s doing house arrest for throwing a flautist down a lift shaft. Longshanks has this niggling brain injury since 1322BC, if it wasn’t obvious already. Our Johnny joined AA he drinks far too much scrumpy. Æppelwīn glēow gylden on his glæse, he’d be playing bottleneck guitar & drinking out the bottle at the same time.. Our ex-manager Shyloque wanted to fire the lad so we fired that peabrain instead.
         Jingo: And gave him a right & proper wedgy/chinese burn combo.

—As a band you’re very prone to violence, is it true that in Australia you burnt down your audience?

Johnny: t’was  mishuderstad ning.
Juice: Lasers on lil Johnny’s lute lit up a lilo… laugh emoji 100
Jingo: Combine that with hell-on-earth, fire emoji x2
Jam: Anyone remember when a billion animals died down under? Clownworld forgot all about that proper quick. Bloody sick.
Juice: Hype dies & birks bimble back to cat videos, or listening to some ponce with the same worldview criticise people with another worldview.
Johnny: wither’d brainz, torn & twisted by telepresence
Jam: Hypernormal lobotomy
Jingo: This is why violence is great. It’s only when we’re being REALLY violent that we’re truly at peace! That’s one of Bungle’s sayings, that is.
Bungle: Howdy y’all.
Juice: He’s our new tour guru.

—Guru? from LA?

Juice: No he’s from London.
         Jingo: Same thing.
Jam: Bungle worked in Wetherspoons before we hired him as our full time guru.

—Why do you have a guru?

Juice: Well we were searching for the lizard people under Loose Angles, so after wading through “the village people” we finally found an entrance to the cosmic ovum & in the tunnels below there was this bloke knocking about dressed up like one of those clowns with a poncho spouting word-salad about “mother gaia” you know? we like a good word-salad, so we invited him along.
Jam: Bloody love a bit of gobbledygook!
Jingo: Eastern cozeners? Yuppie uptalk? Philosophical hodgepodge? Corporate marketing gibberish? Communitarian techno-babble? Yes please!
Johnny: lingual spellz, canticlez of the social engineer
         Jam: Absolutely rat-arsed he is look

—Did you find any lizard people?

Jingo: No, but they find you eventually.
Bungle: Mrs Flimflam sez – To undurstend errythang, we muzt know nothang.. ayynd to know nothaaang, is to druly undurstend errythaaang, y’all!
Jam: Ooo yeah, nice & vague

—Who is Mrs Flimflam?

Juice: That’s Bungle’s landlady. She gets these terrific insights in to “man’s true nature” and he sells them to a West End shop.

—Are they good?

Jam: They’re expensive. 


Juice: Bungle got the heinous idea to stick little word salads throughout our new album

—When’s it out?

Jam: Saint Tibb’s day, we’re releasing it in 72-part segments with big gaps in so when it’s bottled off to Hollywoodland they can stuff it with adverts because they love those.
Johnny: wherefore doth bruising misfortune tease not thisse knave a scrumpy ?

—Well I’m sure all 5 of your listeners are very excited!

Jam: Cheers, piccadilly.
Juice: You haven’t changed one bit wibbly wobbly wayne.
Jingo: passive aggressive poofter

—I don’t like you. I don’t like your band, your terrible music, and most of all I don’t like my P’PAH who called me an oik throughout my childhood.

Jam: It’ll be alright mate, chin up.
Juice: You are an oik, Wayne.
Jingo: A freakish little homunculus of a man.
Johnny:murderous ruin, my kingdom 4 a cider
         Jam: Wassail, lad

There we have it, netizens, another superb interview by Me, I’m firing on all cylinders if I do say so Myself. See you next week for another journalistic masterpiece by Moi, Wayne Car.

local nutter found in gutter

by Wimpey Roadstone

His subculture appropriated, a flash in the pan hollowed out to produce aesthetic signifiers leveraged to sell tacky rainbow merch & bouncy ball shoes across the pond.


oswald’s Bimble

by Tudor Tippins

oswald, the local wizard, left his tower on the edge of Somerset for the city earlier this morning, to visit the dark satanic mills where Fishfingers are made.
I seek not applause; ’tis the common doom of all. My business is my own.” He told us, before scuttling back in to the wilderness with armfuls of Fishfinger boxes.

Battle-o’-the-Bards Interview with Losers – Atomic Shoes

by Wayne Car

a 300 head marquee bash, wassailing &laser light show turn’d metal festival, and this dungheap of a band were top of the bill.

Locals described the event as “kinda like one flew over the cuckoo’s nest” & “A lousy piece of lousy crappy crap” but besides a slight streaking incident, all went smoothly. “Chronic Poof” began & the drummer, dressed like a pirate on a round of golf, roars at the crowd & gravity-blasts as the 7ft bassist sauntered on stage bedizened like a cyber-goth Cure member, followed gingerly by a small guitarist looking like a Shakespearean hobo.
“It confuses the punters you see, keeps them on their toes.” the bassist later told us, “they’re thinking ‘Are we getting an hour of introspective dreampop or a resident’s association meeting about overgrown hedges?‘”

This three (& a quarter) piece neo-prog-folk-metal combo have been gigging extensively in pubs up & down England under the moniker – “Cosmic Doom” so we d-

Juice: Not our name

—What was it again? Sonic Tooth?

Jam: Atomic Gerbil Orchestra
Jingo: Spice Xueens
Johnny: our name is sung both near & far on the lips of ghoulz & the tongues of bardz

—How do you feel about coming 4th in this years Battle o’ the Bards?

Jingo: Don’t care
Juice: Our ex-flautist lost his marbles mid-set. Pulled his todger out in front of the mayor, no wonder we came 4th.
Jam: Imagine that. 4th! Who even comes 4th in anything?
Juice: There was another band called ‘Aids & Sodomy’ who came 2nd…
Jam: All they did was a psytrance cover of ‘I Love You So Much I Can’t Poo’ by Turbo Dave
Jingo: Johnny went to every guitarist in the village to borrow their Marshall stacks, he had 6 on stage it was bloody deafening, sounded like a plane taking off.
Johnny: the groanz of buried ghosts the heofons do pierce

—Why are you blue/green? Aliens? Are you ill? What’s with all the arms?

Jam: Glandular condition; their cross to bear
Juice: Cradle to grave radiation, baby.
Johnny: @ the hue men gaped aghast, in her face & form that show’d; as a fay-man fell she pass’d, & green all over glow’d
Juice: Billions of becquerels of strontium-90, cesium-137 & tritium floating about.
Jam: Cyning Herla took a dip in the Wye & never came back.
         Jingo: Don’t blame him.

—What’s this about being a virtual band? Not real?

Jingo: I know right? Cheeky little sausages.
Juice: Atomic Youth is a [the] real world
Johnny: the perception of Truth as ideology imposed upon reali-T
Jingo: De-ontologised!
Johnny: re-juiced 2 mere stuff on which the wylle acts in termz of deed
Jam: Savvy?

—Right. Can you just say when your ‘record’ is out or what plectrums you use or something?

Jingo: The recording equipment wasn’t quite up to scratch in the old studio behind the banana factory in Hereford, mind.
Juice: Only thing worse than the music biz are ‘journalists’ most of whom wipe from back to front & eat dry wall.
Johnny: the mitred peacock’s lofty cry shall 2 his master be a guide
Jam: Wibbly wobbly Wayne
Johnny: a creature of growth & capable of sweetness

—Can we just use your “music” on a giveaway CD to help our magazine sales?

Jingo: Ooo who is “we”?
Johnny: u lard ur lean books w/ the fat of others works
Juice: Told you, the music business is still a dumpster fire of sleaze & perks..
Jam: Jiggery pokery days of mass bribes & cocaine weekends are done-zo, tho
Juice: When Luly Allon’s first album came out every journalist & radio DJ was provided with poppers & a groupie who never learnt to speak
Johnny: caesar doth bestride the narrow world

—This has gone off-piste, we didn’t cover this in baizuo class.

Jingo: Hope that bourgeois stuff didn’t come out of my taxes!
Juice: You lot ever report on any actual important stuff?
Jingo: Like that American child trafficking Epstein nonce island?
Jam: Balance sheet of Deutsche Bank?
Jam: Fukushima’s millions of tonnes of radioactive water?
Johnny: ̆▅●▄█▅||█▄▅||█●~ ::~ :►?
Juice: Operation Darkroom?


Jingo: …it’s a modern phenotype, Kafka wrote about it.
Juice: Like an endling.
Jam: Anyone remember that wicked riff from Achilles Last Stand in Final Fantasy 7?
Johnny: albion remainz, sleeping now 2 rise again
Jam: Wibbly mate, what’s your fav vegetable? Mine’s the humble pineapple ’tis.
Johnny: what ticklez the wobbler’s fancy?
Jingo: A sphincter sezwot?

—Is a pineapple even a vegetable??

Juice: What th hecK..
Jingo: Take that back
Johnny: base & illiterate scribbler
Jam: Come on, piccadilly

—Ok then, a pineapple is a vegetable.

Juice: Now you really do sound like the average journalist!
Jingo: Have you thought about learning to code?

This interview is redacted & the band were escorted out the building. Next week we ask the question: Are people difficult bastards or not? To help us find out we will interview a really difficult bastard, and the bishop of Somerset.


the holiest man in england

by Matilda Treowyrm

This story comes from a little village called Bimblebury deep in the English countryside, where weird things happen. The only reason strangers would know about Bimblebury is if they were lost, or they’ve gone too far past the garden centre. There are more squirrels than humans in Bimblebury, and one of the few people in this mysterious village, Pippin Pecker, has made national news over the past week for his peculiar fetish.
According to the locals, Pippin was ‘absolutely obsessed’ with getting baptised. “He would go around all the local parishes claiming to be ‘seeking the Lord’, attend a couple Sunday services & get Christened ASAP, then off he’d pop to the next church.” said the butcher’s son.
The local milkman, a mate of Pippin Pecker, told us: “I met the bloke in a pub donkey’s years ago. He told me after his 7th pint: ‘I’ve been baptised over 50 bloody times, I’m the holiest man in England!’ nice lad tbh.”
“Always stunk o’ petrol did ol’ Pip, kep’ askin’ folk if’n he could ‘borrow a quid’ for a go on the fruity… loved a bit o’ kumbaya, though.
” farmer Basil told us.
But what began as a seemingly esoteric hobby, started to get very out of hand… According to police reports, Pippin started asking the vicars & priests if they’d “hold him under the water for a tad longer” to “mix things up a bit” as the thrill of the first few times wasn’t really there anymore. Vicars obviously refused, and Pippin started getting increasingly pissy with clergy who wouldn’t submit to these odd requests, so he took to tying himself to the baptismal font & holding his head under the water until he passed out, leaving them to drag his soggy body off the premises.
Local parish churches started to catch on to Pippin’s antics, and realising he was a serial offender, circulated a newsletter around all churches in the county with a photo of his face saying “DO NOT BAPTISE THIS MAN”.
The local baptism industry took a big hit ever since, and Pippin suffered a spell of depression after his story was covered in newspoopers across the country. Recently we found out Pippin Pecker was officially banished from Bimblebury, after being caught self-baptising in a local pond, and giving the plod a wedgie. He’s since been spotted buying a pasty in a town 11 miles down the road, seemingly in good health, and said to be doing talks in primary school assemblies about healthcare, education & quality of life under national-socialist polity.


Trumpton slave trade

by Huxley Babkins

Windy Miller, a native of the anarcho-authoritarian caste-based Anglo ethno-state of Camberwick Green, was caught smuggling euro-slaves into the village last Tīƿesdæȝ. Four score & seven gopniki were found toiling at Colly’s Mill for the dictator, under poor workplace conditions & paid a pittance in Parma Violets. Merlot swilling ponces are now protesting in favour of foreign slave labour, waddling through city streets waving laminated placards adorned with platitudes such as: “♥CONTINENTALS YOKED TO GEAR & WHEEL!♥” & “bUT wHo WiLl GRiNd thE bArLeY?”. Miller has been reported as being an alcoholic who “gets rat-arsed [sic] on ‘bathtub wine’ regularly” by his now estranged wife, Mizz Miller. 

protean technopriests at it again

by Sheila d’Pee-Qinq

In the dark & cursed realm of the Bay Area, utopian-plutocrats of babylon valley are developing revolutionary marketing innovations that will terraform the hearts & minds of the youth, and the very landscape of corporate rainbow advertising as we know it.
Soon your DNA will be stored & your genome used to target advertisements based on your genetic disposition!” says Toomgis Jaffarson, a core developer on the Cyborg-Grey-Soup-Kinda-Thing™ project. One of our stateside correspondents reached out for further comment:

Angus Belleville Rendezvous: Hello, think you could sum up this quantum bio-algorithm thing for a semi-educated, know-it-all moron like me?
Toomgis Jaffarson: Sure thang y’all! Well, you start with the firstborns, you see? Cook ’em up all roasty toasty, extra crispy. *gestures with decrepit coder claw*
Angus Budokai Tenkaichi: You like ‘em crispy, too, eh? Haha. Ha. Hehe
Toomgis Precious-Eagle-Cactus-Fruit: Crispy critters! Inject vegetable oil, pinch of progesterone, SSRIs, pop an amphetamine or 12, and a good old vivisection or two..
Angu B: xD
Toomgu J: …Magic dirt, neuroplastic ellipse, freedom-slave, piss, nano-particulates of aloominum, cesium, HIV.. and that’s about it. Oh & the chants! Of course… can’t forget the chants! The chants of power. They’re essential to our everyday work. The chants. Chanting.
Angu: Woaw, that’s just fascinating, thanks!
Toomg: No probz, anything for a homie, you know?
Ang: Aye babe.😘
T: 💋

rainbow thunder
   chained 2 the woruld
popinjays revel
   in steel cathedrals
hollywood history
   cardboard coloured dreamz

sandwich squabbles

by Peggy Pribble

A national state of emergency has been declared across the Falkland Islands yesterday after an argument spread from a local pub. The disagreement, which started as a difference of opinion on sandwiches, now involves over 1000 people across the islands. Professional negotiators were sent in but could not resist becoming embroiled in the mess. Television stations have gone off air as otherwise polite presenters have erupted into swearing & twatting one another across the bonce. A statement from the home secretary says that unless the quarrel is broke up by morning, they may have to resort to a “thermonuclear solution”.

blood & swash!

by Helen Smellyparrot

Cornish fishermen have been attacked by a Spanish trawler in a new fishing war. One vessel escaped back to port, three sheets to the wind, after Spaniards off the coast of Land’s End cut nets & other equipment worth thousands. Word around the scuttlebutt is ‘Neo-Queen-Anne’s-Revenge’, ‘HMS Turbo Ark-Royal’ & ‘Peter Pomegranate: Reborn’ will set sail on the morrow, over ganotes bæþ, to “Let them have it, right on the chin.”

look at this big frog


why is he so big?

 / .. )___
 -___ '-_
 '- _ _ '.
 //// `.'.
 =' //'--__).
 =' ='

lonely hearts

cecil pendragon, gnome seeking friendship

Cecil Pendragon, Cabbage Farmer

helo, my name cecil
just a lonely gnome looking for frend
i like shire horses they go clip clop.,
when i play monopol;y i put a little worm in each hotel make em feeel special for a bit
u can msg me on myspace if u liek. tyvm

wholesome wicce seeking penpal

Emmie Jamjar, Goofy Bombshell

I’M A LOVER OF TAROT🃏 ORACLE cards & Crystalz!🔮💀 My Interests lie heavily in the Spirit Realm, all things paranormal, Astrology, DÆMONOLOGY, Cartomancy, Lenormand, FAIRIES, GNOMES & MYSTICISM!!🧚‍♀️👻
I RLY ENJOY connecting with Nature🍄💁‍♀️🍆🏞💦🌻🌛🌕🌜🌠🔭🛸🐐🔥🌿💚🐍Spiritz🌹Energy🌹😇😈 I Love being a Capricorn🤘👑

Virile, pickwickian Lawyer

Jeremy Sphincter, Lawyer/Gardener

I would have really liked to plant my geraniums today but I became embroiled in some kind of senseless stoush with my neighbour. He has trees classified as “noxious weeds” around these parts, and these things are HUGE. They are getting into my plumbing via their behemoth root systems! Anyway, it’s going to cost me thousands to replace all the plumbing under the ground & my neighbour just says “wEll yOu ShoULd hAve THoUgHt aBoUT tHaT bEfoRe YoU bOugHt tHe hOUsE” so I said, “Sir, it’s worse than that; your tree branches are as thick as three bowling balls & they’re hanging in my roof guttering as we speak! The ants are using the branches as a bridge to my new air con & the whole system is infested!”. Again he says “wEll yOu ShoULd hAve THoUgHt aBoUT tHaT bEfoRe YoU bOugHt tHe hOUsE!”
So anyway, I have no mood for gardening today please come back Carol.

vapid tapeworm swipes right

Tinderella Psyche, Catfish

Banera-03Smart, sexy, independent & very unique princess, 29 years young, who has life all figured out; desires to meet a ho-hum gelding. I’m very “intense” but ready to settle down & crawl into a box.
I’m worldly beyond my years & educated well beyond my means. I have a masters degree in microdosing & I’ve worked as a foxtrotter, shaman, barista & bludger. I’ve made no life decisions from childhood till this magical point where I finally escaped the clutches of my narcissistic partners. Now I’m tired almost to nausea of this artificially-elevated bourgeois-semi-poverty & its restrictions. I seek not merely a human bank account, but a caretaker to me & my cat. Working class men need not apply.

- Posted from McAppleberg iPhone 22¾ MaxPro+

scruples shake u
as shadows of ur iniquity
when it matters most

Has Science Gone Too Far? IS THIS IMAGE REAL OR FAKE?

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tall, handsome yoga instructor

Patrick Peccadillo, Pastor of Muppets

Howdy, tappa de marnin’ to y’all, i’m an Irish buddhist & yoga instructor. Didja ever consider being with a reincarnaliated, sagacious, MANLY yoga instructor (aka me)?
I am 100% straight as a fiddle; definitely not a bush dodger. I love the fee-males. I’m a good guy, i teach yoga. I’m a real catch, FLEXIBLE as heck. Really into peace & love n all that shite. Yeeeah. Just a cooool guy all around (and yoga instructor btw).
Babe, you are an ASCENDED MISTRESS…lay me out & treat me like I deserve! Whip, paddle, slap & tickle, you name it; i’m down babez. It’s a fecking CERTAINTY that the best way to get people to do what you want is to tell them EXACTLY what they WANT to hear. They don’t care that you’re a 5ft6 dweeb when you’re a yoga instructor (like me).
Fax me your shoe size, bra size, height, + your address & i’ll get back to ya quick as a fiddle. Namaste

meathead on quest for true love

Johnny Pickering, Madlad

ANYWAYS, I LIKE A BIRD THAT CAN YODEL, KNEW THIS HOTTIE ONCE; PROPER TOTTY, LIPS HOTTER THAN HIROSHIMA, SVELTE, GREY EYes austere, yet retaining that natural beauty & God-given fragrance of persephone. her flaxen tresses flickered playfully in the august breeze which carried her coy, goselyng yet sultry giggles like the sweetest forest stream, chattering over pebbles. peradventure an inductive feeling experienced as abduction, structural accordance twixt the rhythm of her bodily composition, feminine biomechanics, the texture & pulse of the human being as an integrated mix of cultural cognitive transformations. our souls intertwined, spiritual fire. then the train arrived…
blast of warning horn it comes, woman body jump, little lady bump & splatter all over hot metal, massive iron smash & pulp, icky sticky splat. little brainy piece of jelly meat flying across the sky & landing on a squirrel’s face…
my heart torn asunder. her soul turned to rot. sO ANYWAY HMU LADYBABES

Strong woman seeks spontaneous Neanderthal

Gretchen Ogreburg, Tribal Queen

I am the leader of a Neo-Dobunni community that re-conquered Wiltshire in the Dark Ages according to a strange website run by someone with a superiority complex.
I enjoy fighting for ever-increasing concessions & benefits from local government, and the inalienable right to commit human sacrifice in tax payer subsidised henges.
I’m looking for a big Neanderthal to hold hands on a bi-weekly basis; please send a pic of your ‘IGF-1 2D:4D ratio’ to my email xXGretchy-babeXx@coolmail(dot)com. Puny men need not apply.

schizophrenia corner

by Cyril Bazbaz

hello & welcome to schizophrenia corner, and a very big welcome from both of me, isn’t that right? Yes it certainly is.
We’d like to start off right away, wouldn’t we? Yes we certainly would; by introduci- uhh should i go on? Nono after you, you sure? yes please. Positive? Certainly… introducing our very special guests Simon Scuff-Jones, the psycho analyst taking the pseudoscience world by storm. Two psychoanals? No just the one he’s schizophrenic, too. Ah so sorry, not at all, i love you, love you too, sure? *sniffs* mmm.

—Scuff-Jones, welcome to the intervie-




—Professor you’re here about the condition of schiz-




Well that was Simon Scuff-Jones, best selling psycho analyst, wasn’t it? Yes it certainly was.
Goodbye from me at Schizophenia Corner, and cheerio from me. See you next week with the ghost of famous chomo nonce, John Money. Tata for now, and a big kiss on the nose. Little forward.. Jealous? Not at all, you’re so controlling sometimes you know. Oh shutup.

Conspiracy Corner aka Spoiler Alerts

by Juice Longshanks

eudravigilance for tozinameran mrna

philosophy centre

by Splig Pipkin

Watch out, there’s an aggressive new philosopher on the streets calling himself “Kung Fucius” that’s been causing a ruckus, and even assaulting multiple philosophy softies during debates. Philosofties.

On page 72 we analyse a brand new theory by Zlavoj Sizek that “Plato loved critical race theory & was actually a sissyboy that didn’t wear any panties!

In local news, a prole from Gorsty Knoll has called Deleuze & Guattari “silly little commie poofters“, Miss Pribble of Chipping Campden has said that Rousseau was “a foppish, froggy fatty“, Willy of Winsbury says that Empedocles of Akragas “had a room temp IQ” & Mrs Brackets Pamela Betterment of the tenements Billston has referred to Marx as “a half-baked bubble git with the brains of a birk“.

In this weeks philosophy corner we examine a report that leading West End shops are selling their own philosophy, and we ask the question:
Is the viability of empirical knowledge simply the denial of apriori concepts of essence? Or, is the existential state (in the teleological sense of Cock Pooper’s falsifiability criterion) another form of Occam’s razor? or is it all a load of bollocks?
Mr Usury, chief philosophy salesman at a leading West End shop is here to respond:

This is simply not true, our philosophy department provides the best, the most exclusive & certainly the most expensive philosophy in the world. What is more, our philosophy is sold by proper salesmen in suits, and not flogged by scruffy little dweebs! Fortnum & Mason philosophy starts at around 18k per annum, but our shop starts at a whopping 20k per year. It’s based on what Kant called ‘pure wealth’ you see, we pander to the rich. Marshall & Snelgrove philosophy states that: ‘If thee hath no moneys, ye are as a tiny piece of auteur in the eyeholes of extremely ryche folk.’ It is as easy for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heofon as it is to stick a needle into a camel. Don’t believe me? Over yonder you’ll find the pet department where Maudlin the camel awaits the Doubter’s Needle. Conclusive proof.

—B-b-but Mista Usury sire, what if we be poor & such?

If you are poor then you should sell what little you have & give it to the extremely rich. It makes them much much much much richer. Harrod’s philosophy teaches us that ‘All wealth belongeth to the ryche. If thou were to steal from the ryche then thou must be kill’d, for better it is- to be dead than poor’, a maxim from the gift department.

poetry corner

by The Art Collective: UNHAPPY, DISGUSTING, WOW!

Allo und velcom to ze poetry cornah! Yas yas it is me, Cyril Bazbaz again but I just love to writing in ze superior Übermensch accent, ya? Tonight we has a very fantastisch selekschun off poems for you! oo ya.
i wrote a poem once, and me, yes how did it go? that’s right, AHEM..
A Cultural Mess of Pottage [by Cyril & Cyril]

some lads try to pick up birds & get called an arsehole.
but this never happened to Fabio Gestapo.
he’d walk down their street & ladies couldn’t resist his bravado,
so Fabio Gestapo never got called an arsehole.

women would turn the colour of an avocado
when he drove down their street in his Eldorado.

so Fabio Gestapo never got called an arsehole.
oh well, be not bitter machismo, el goblino, this is the story of Fabio Gestapo.
he’d slither down their street & birds couldn’t resist his bravado,
so Fabio Gestapo never got called an arsehole.

not like you. grow some bollocks.

Zank you zank you, now onto our local submissions. Our first piece is by Tina Bourshan who’s an 11th year sociology student at Chicken-Soup University.
I Am an Insect, Behold my Growler [by Tina Bourshan]

gravid, damp
rubbing, longing, crying
worship, cave, fantasy, slave
weeping, riding, birthing
arid, pink
(this is a critique of terminal kapital)
(subscribe to my onlyfriends btw)

Woawee, supah stuff! A big zank you to Tina, don’t you just love modern artistes? who even needs discipline, ya? Poetry Corner truly is a catch-all vegetable drawer for any & all mouldy neuroses! 
Now our next piece is a real banger called:
Highschool Hermit (Metaphorically Speaking) [by Neil Vivian-Twang]

He’s cheesed off with Chaucer, thinks James Bond is cool
Can’t wait until he grows up & leaves school
Harvey the hermit lives in his cave
Too old for train sets, too young to shave
Highschool hermit, metaphorically speaking
Do you wanna be cooool? Is that what you’re seeking?
Metaphorically speaking.

Oo ya, herrlichen! Now onto our next poet who is completely illiterate! & a recovering alcoholic & looks a bit weird & did i mention illiterate? a modern day Cynewulf! Heeere’s Johnny with his first ever poem:
Phantom Future (by Lȳthwōn Johnny)

o dreadspawn! thou that mediateth thru cloudz of subtlety @ the watch doors of hades… blinded all 2 the course of single raindrops.. ladies & gentlemen, every moment a tremendous celebration.. but we tear up & trample the invite. each chain’d 2 a pinhead of light, brizzle drizzle webs the horizon while the realm spins immaculate thru silver strands. shell holes pocking roof tiles; this landscape of nouns. hwicce, ēðel.
now a clown frowns & opposites fall ounce by ounce making innocents of criminals & turncoats of all. in fickle frenzy the poet’s eye & pencil’s point shades no more, & as imagination fades, the form of things known turn 2 babylon’s whore. a body w/out organs 2 airy nothing giveth shame, a distant whimper shown in cinders of extinguished flame.
harken 2 the beat of swaying feet that creak beneath bare treez; the breath of yesterday playing in leaves. a rhapsody of rags & moth-eaten flags & worm eaten polez unstirring our soulz. the rebel sons of mirth, þēow & serf, whom toil’d
in fog & field the eorð. thousands of years of people’s blood wails through soil & mud & wassail while the incel ponce squeaks ‘chud’ @ prole & bloke, on angelcynn neck a norman yoke..
a tale older than magna carta. the caves groan w/ the shackl’d & martyr’d. rivers of gore that in streets of yore & stone were paved & bartered away, orphaned, betrayed & hid, robbed of history, bowdlerised & rebranded. the woruldcandel blinds & the realm shines benign as amorphous blobs waddle thru smart cities in search of foreign dine. mutants w/ every week a spectacle to keep them in line, clapping & tapping they’ll cheer the decline. viddy w/ dumbstruck wonder crystal domes of plunder, a giddy & feckless fable; gobbling crumbs from under the merchant’s table.. syncretised, colonised, appropriated.
what happens when historicity is forbidden? rewritten? revised & castrated?

whoooo caaaares.
however much these jabot twiddling nonces try to murder & rewrite history with their dribbling fantasies for narrow political purposes, the remains of the corpses lie everywhere to be seen, and even heard. 
the arcane simplicity of verisimilitude. their fictive reality, a phantom future.

Woaw he said it, he said the thing! Wunderbar! Just unglaublich. Not really, very amateur trash today but we will see you next week for even more poetry by local weirdos, only available at The Art Collective: UNHAPPY, DISGUSTING, WOW!