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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




what the heck is going on?

by Little Johnny

every day we hear new newz, those ordinary rumours of war, plaguez, fires, thefts, beasts, murders, massacrez, 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. middangeard ealra dogra gehwam dreoseð & fealleþ. 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 speciez, 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 go 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 Juice Longshanks

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 district alone was an absolute circus of creepy ne’er-do-wells, curtain twitchers & pompous middle class inbreds. It was the kind of place where you’d wave good morning to a troll-doll lookin’ ass neighbour & they’d wave back with a well-moisturised foot growing out of their mutant moonface whilst reading the guardian. A right bunch of chimney bottlers & fuckwits, wannabe-worldly pearl-clutching buntymen, waddling about like Dan Dare Mekon. A place populated by pudgy privileged ponces proudly pontificating pop culture (depth of their criticism limited to whether there’s appropriate numbers of non-natives with the right dermatological profile) that wouldn’t know a real problem if it shat down their twig neck. But on top of all the braindead twats dragging their flabby carcases around, there was a dark urban legend haunting 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 bonce, 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 throughout the whole borough as it was widely believed that he secretly diddled 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 Sky Moo could escape such a fate, although I suspect Big Bird may have enjoyed it. Whispers also spread that the Dolly Diddler’s tiny copter-cap had supposedly been taken from his favourite play toy, which explained 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 terraced 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 Puffin (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. Puffin dared me to buy one of the dodgy dollies & promised to lend me a copy of 2000AD he found stashed in an allotment, so I agreed. Gingerly I approached & slowly picked up an innocuous doll from the pile, a sort of generic plastic-headed one with plush 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 some 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.
Puffin & 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 bull terrier as a chew toy, but being a discerning hand, he kept well away, so I threw it under the floorboards. After all that Puffin lent me his copy of 2000AD as promised, and we vowed never to speak a word of this tale, 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.

Final Chapter: 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 buzzword techno-bollocks, you gotta pay for a consultation/training programme/monthly subscription 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, penny fipple & turntables.
Jingo: The previous flautist Jethro kept streaking so we dropped him down a lift shaft in Kalifornia.
Johnny: o how the drudging puck swet, 2 earn her cream-bowle. ragged as the colt-pixie
Jam: Oi oi 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 about the secret tour in North Korea?

Juice: We’re still eagerly awaiting our invitation so I’ve been wallowing in Windemere like a pulchritudinous pig in the meantime.
Johnny: polonium triggers neutrons in a thermonuclear bomb fuse, you then have .15 seconds

—Okay, 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
Juice: Next time we’re going to the Province of Bumbunga instead.
Jam: Proper country.
Johnny: ah Bumbunga… that seat of Mars, that precious stone set in the amber sæ, the envy of less happier landz.
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 tik toks, or listening to some podcast 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? Baizuo brainwank? 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.
Jingo: A freakish little homunculus of a man.
Johnny: my kingdom 4 a cider
Juice: [redacted] ‘Don’t forget to like, comment & subscribe!’
Jam: Curbstomp that Like button, gommoz 👍

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” enters stage & the drummer, dressed like a pirate off for a round of golf, roars at the crowd of 9ish locals & proceeds to gravity-blast as the 7ft bassist saunters on stage bedizened in a cyber-goth Cure crossover, followed sheepishly by the 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
Juice: 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?

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
Juice: 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: CAN’T BLAME ‘IM.

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

Juice: Atomic Youth is a [the] real world
Johnny: the perception of Truth as ideology imposed upon reali-T
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?

Jam: (Recording equipment wasn’t quite up to scratch in the old studio behind the banana factory in Vicars’ Close.)
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

—What’s the best track that fans should check out?

Juice: What kinda question is that?
Jingo: HECK IS A “FAN”?
Jam: I wrote the track “While” about a dream where me & Melinda Messenger were being chased by the dwarf from Fort Boyard, then I showed her my fav yoyo trick in the treasure room where the coins drop down ya know? She makes my tummy feel funny.
Jam: It’s my eyes, isn’t it?
Juice: What happened to our hidden track “Tom Morello’s Sweatshop Accessories” that was a banger
Jam: ‘Bruh, what a banger’
Jingo: ‘SO DOPE’
Juice: ‘Killer, yo’
Johnny: ‘one hundred fire emoji x2’
Jam: ‘Sick’
Johnny: ‘pestilent’
Juice: I bought Evil Vampire or w/e back in the day, guess my peasant pocket money helped fund Whinge for the Machine’s weekly enemas.
Johnny: tilting @ windmillz
Jam: Elseways, the only track anyone should check out is the one we did about that COSMIC SQUID you know? the spiritual famine BRAIN SQUID song? that one.
Juice: The rest are rubbish.
Johnny: dung.

—Sure. Can we use that one on a giveaway CD to help our magazine sales?

Jingo: 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 Whinge About the Machine’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.

Juice: Hope that brainwank didn’t come out of my taxes.
Juice: Like that American child trafficking Epstein nonce island?
Johnny: MKNAOMI?
Jam: Millions of tonnes of radioactive water at Daiichi?
Juice: Oxfam prostitution?
Jam: Balance sheet of Deutsche Bank?
Juice: RBS money laundering?
Jam: Project Coast?
Johnny: ̆▅●▄█▅||█▄▅||█●~ ::~ :►?
Juice: Operation Darkroom?


Juice: Why is every billionaire buntyman obsessed with “sustainable development” btw?
Johnny: mindspace™
Jam: They’re the same as those time & money robot people. Some are freaks, some drive nice cars, have nice jobs..
Johnny: grist 4 the mill
Juice: Didn’t know you could read…


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.
Juice: I can eat a peach for hours

—Is a pineapple even a vegetable??

Juice: What the heck.
Johnny: base & illiterate scribbler
Jam: Come on, piccadilly

—Ok then, a pineapple is a vegetable.

Juice: Now you sound like the average journalist.
Jam: You thought about learning to code, lad?


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.


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. 

slava Unga Bunga

by Weasel Wordsworth

One day I was happily sipping my extra frothy macchiato & strolling down Shukhevych Avenue whilst chatting to my groomer bestie from the gas sector, Bunty McEpstein, when all of a sudden, an evil madman suddenly decided (for totally crazy reasons that we can’t tell you) to invade the country, simply because he’s an insane dictator (and stinky, too!). It was all so sudden and such a surprise!

This guy is definitely the most evil man in the whole galaxy, even more eviller than Skeletor… it’s that simple. This power hungry hinterland hippo totally wants to recreate the Velvet Onion or something, whatever that is, and according to patron saint Raytheon, this naughty war criminal will be goose-stepping all the way to your front door for a cheeky pogrom, like Stepan Bandera or something!!

All of this happened very suddenly, and definitely hasn’t been going on for years or anything. Coup shmoo, there’s no context needed whatsoever, this bloke is a lunatic straight out of bedlam, trust us! Tangy Tom is so yesterday, and before him was Ass-hat, then before that was Dadgaffi and his African Dinar, and before him was Sad-man with his invisible weapons, and so on… but THIS TIME we got some legit austrian painter levels of heinousness going on, he’s basically Darth Vader.. it’s that simple. The world is not nuanced, it’s like Hollywood.

Ceasefire? Yikes xD that’s something only a HERETIC could say. Let’s “cLoSe tHe sKiEz” and drive this train off a cliff! Pwease, donate your rapidly depreciating cash to Айдар/Азов incels! Join the cannon fodder legion & fight till the last drop of blood! They’re desperate! But also totally winning! Please send lethal weapons! Help fuel this decade long humanitarian crisis you’ve blissfully ignored since you were pouring buckets of ice on your braindead dome.

the holiest man in england

by Æsċlēah 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 wife.
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. ‘E kep’ askin’ folk if’n ‘e 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 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 his odd requests. Soon after 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.

protean technopriests at it again

by Graham Bingbong

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!
Angus McNugget: Inshallah
Toomgis Chimichanga: Inject vegetable oil, pinch of progesterone, SSRIs, pop an amphetamine or 12, and a good old vivisection or two..
Angus_I-S1954: xD
Toomgis_1776: …Magic dirt, freedom-slave, tax exempt “foundations”, HEK-293, xenobiotics, microplastics, cesium, neuroplastic ellipse, ADE epitopes, piss, nano-particulates of aloominum, incapacitating agents, HIV-1 gp120, methylmercury, polychorinated biphenyls, organophosphate pesticides, organochlorine pesticides, endocrine disruptors, phthalates, polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons, polybrominated diphenyl ethers, perfluorinated compounds, thimerosal.. 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.  And state-affiliated media.
Angus: Woaw, that’s just fascinating, thanks!
Toomgis: No probz, anything for a homie, you know?
Ang: Aye babe.😘
Toomg: 💋

rainbow thunder
   chained 2 the weoruld
popinjays revel
   in steel cathedrals
hollywood history
   & cardboard colour’d dreamz
the gyre widens, turning
   reality reserved 4 the privileg’d

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

Animators wanted!

CLASSIFIED by Jomo Gbomo
(💯% Korean Scotsman from Nigeria)

we want to make videos for our next album so we’ve crowdfunded a few thousand lizards to travel to an american ghetto and pay 2 petite bourgeois women from 2 culturally transgressive poses (doc marten marxist-leninist VS twinset cottagecore ex-floozy, etc) and record them absolutely beating the piss out of one another, dragon ball style, amidst a quantum soup of urban decay.
we need a professional viddy nerd who can animate catfights, martial arts, COOL SFX & GIANT ROBOTS mAGIC POWERS TIME BOMB EXPLOSIONe &LASER BEEAMS SPsACE ANGEL SLIME TIGER DARK MATTER DRAGONS., slowmo, multiple angles, 666Hz 5K ULTRA HD OLED smile & all the trimmings, then slap a poopy cassette tape filter on top of it.
if you are creative & not a glow in the dark clown, contact:

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 hitch

Sheila d’Pee-Qinq, Part-time Equestrian

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 & GHOSTS!!🧚‍♀️👻
I RLY ENJOY connecting w/ Nature🏞🌻🏖🐎🍌💁‍♀️🍆🚂🛸🐐🔥Spiritz🌹Energy♏️
🖤DM me –🖤

fun-loving, 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 Jamjar, Bludger

Banera-03Smart, sexy, independent & very unique princess, 30 years young but comparatively old in sin, who has life all figured out; desires to meet a ho-hum gelding. I’m very “intense” but ready to settle down now & crawl into a box.
I’m worldly beyond my years & educated well beyond my means. I have a masters degree in shamanism & I’ve worked as a foxtrotter, barista & vlogger. 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 my cat & I. Working class men need not apply.

- Posted from Appleberg Mc'iPhone 22¾ MaxPro+

scruples shaken, growler’s ghost
fibs & iniquities transpire
when it matters most

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

Ads by Grendel

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. Yeeah. I totally support the current thing. I’m 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

real bikini babe in your local area

Emmie Norks, Catfish

the mind is no longer unreachable. physical control of the mind by direct manipulation of the brain is a novel event in man’s history. by electrical stimulation of specific cerebral structures, movements can be induced by radio command, hostility may appear or disappear, social hierarchy can be modified, sexual behaviour may be changed, and memory, emotions, and the thinking process can be influenced remotely.
direct nonsensory communication betwixt brains & computers has already been accomplished; with the aid of miniaturised subcutaneous instruments, messages can be sent to neuronal structures through the intact skin.
mass, electromagnetic mind control is currently a reality, having the ability to read thoughts, insert & block thoughts, manipulate emotions, block & falsify memory, control speech, control dreams (which subliminally affects waking consciousness), and hack into the five senses.
now imagine viruses as the gain of function to neurons…

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

Verruca Wælisc-cynn, Indigenist Princess

I am the leader of a Neo-Dobunni community that re-conquered Glēawceaster 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 ClusterBabe@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. We’ll 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

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, little Billy calls Maoam Chomsky “a goofy old honky“, a prole from Gorsty Knoll has called Deleuze & Guattari “silly little commie poofters“, Miss Pribble of Chipping Campden claims Rousseau was “a foppish, froggy fatty“, Willy of Winsbury says that Empedocles of Akragas “was a proper ponce just like that brothel boy, Nietzsche”, Pippin Pecker has called Foucault a “fucko“, & Mrs Brackets Pamela Betterment (of the tenements) Billston confirms that Marx “had a room temp IQ“.

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 a priori 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 just 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.
Freud Is My Daddy [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! Here’s Johnny with his first ever poem:
Phantom Future [by Lȳthwōn Johnny]

o dreadspawn! thou that mediateth thru cloudz of subtlety @ the watchdoorz of hades… blinded all 2 the course of single raindrops.. ladiez & jentlemen, 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 poles 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!