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*product currently not in production
**pending approval
***not guaranteed. Do not use in personal computers, near humans or in distress/anger. Can cause extreme mutilation and a sudden development of bird features, such as a growing of a peculiar beak and the laying of eggs. Product currently banned in 46 countries.
****strictly not true. Figure based on average taken from sample population of 2.5. May lead to loss of life.
*****actual anagram not guaranteed. Product may contain faults leading to extreme bad vibes. Company currently not trading.

The Serialised Diaries of Attila Z. Spasm: 20 Nov 2007

Dearest diary,

Please forgive my lassitude. It is late and I am out of gin, but I feel compelled to report on the status of my latest research investigation.

To set the scene, I must first recount the startling revelation of 3 nights ago...

Addled by an evening supping cooking bleach and thrashing a discarded left slipper at imaginary top trumps, the Sand Man found me, in a rubber ring suspended from a lamp post outside Peckham library, at an hour approaching 3.

Spirits aroused by the caustic alkaline and giddied by the slipper's incessant screaming, my dreams took me back to my Nanna's house in Denmark Hill. She was there, absent-mindedly strumming a pubic harp, Grampapy was in his chair, barking quietly, peeling an elderly badger. Auntie Clive was there too. Not visible, but you could hear him enthusiastically violating the shrubbery outside, as Cousin Chip-Fat lashed a piglet roped to a barrel in the cellar with gusto. Amidst it all, there I sat. Hog-tied and fidgeting as the baby eels knawed at my piles, through the sobbing and the holes in the sack I could just make out the television next-door.

I remember it as if it were yesterday, as that, dear hearts, was my first introduction to the poetic pant-soiling masterpiece that is: Jayce and the Wheeled Warriors.

I awoke with a bump the next morning in the boot of a 1987 Datsun Cherry on the way to the bottom of the Thames. Struggling free, the gases in the rubber knickers rendering me bouyant, a hansom group of youths had the good grace to beat the ropes from me with crowbars. I thanked them at length.

And then, as the stars evaporated from my vision, it struck me. Surely the greatest achievement I could make would be to recreate Jayce and his mighty half-plant, half-vehicle companions in REAL LIFE. But not in a sordid way, grafting leaf on to metal or rubber on to bark (..that IS a thought though). But naturally. Lovingly. Slowly. Hence, my latest research project that has consumed my most recent 72 hours.

Today's Research: Bionics

Aim: To create a "wheeled warrior" half organic, half metal, all pant-throbbingly, bed-wettingly amazing. WOOF.

Step one: Locate a metal "partner" with which to mate.

Result: A slow start. After a gentle let down by a wheelbarrow, and a brusque refusal from the number 78 bus I finally located a yellow children's racing bike amenable to my approaches.


Step two: A bike by name, if not by nature.

Result: I am getting sick. I have spent over £13 on this sodding bike. I've taken her to dinner, a "clever" film with that Clooney man in it and the Dirty Dancing Musical, and the little pedally yellow fuck hasn't shown the first sign of putting out. I haven't even got to first base. I am starting to suspect she is a gold-digger. Or a gay.


Result - update: The sly little minx. 4 litres of White Ace and my own vocal rendition of the mating call of Jeremy Clarkson and she gave in.

Tragically though, the scale an vigour of our relations was such that Private Tinkle became firmly lodged in the saddle shaft. One of the more creative explanations I've had to give at A&E - but such is the nature of young love.

Step three: Procreate.

Result:... Heartbreak. OH WOE WOE AND THRICE WOE. As the nettle of love blossomed within my buttocks so did it sting me on the balls.

I caught... that... yellow two-tyred (YES 2 FATTY FAT BITCH) "Fraternising" with a bicycle pump in the garage. I am disconsolate.

Research abandoned.

Solace shall be sought in kettle descaler and mindless belching. Sleep well, sweet reader. The time is for crying... but not until I've sewn Uncle Z to the curtains.

Dormez bien...


Attila.

Conceptual flat possibly in W1 possibly available

A lovely, possibly detached conceptual flat available in W1. Offer no longer applies! Situated near the amenities of Ilford or the West End, this flat is possibly the perfect pied-a-terre for a young couple or perhaps a single, elderly lady possibly with a couple of deaf cats.
Note: not suitable for deer rearing or disillusioned submariners from Minsk – different rates apply.
Conceptually split over two floors, this one or six bedroom studio flat spread over the third and possibly fourth floor of a genuine period building oozes character or possibly the smell of rotten eggs.
Different rates apply depending on the precise position of Jupiter and the existence of unicorns – please consult with someone using electric appliances.
Fully furnished (although that all depends on the philosophical stance of the occupant, possibly), the flat possibly features some of the most modern and cutting edge appliances, and has in the past been a Georgian maisonette, Kansas Fried Chicken restaurant and possibly a wonky but endearing billiard table.
Different rates apply depending on the Renaissance, psychosomatic discourse and the availability (perceived or not) of ripe Haas avocado.
The iron-wrought staircase connecting the office to the earlier works of Hegel offers ample opportunity for downwards motion and possibly sporadic nihilism.
Note: nihilism optional; an extra charge may apply for Kierkegaard or title case quotations and possibly things of a sporadic nature – please check with your local health service.
Must be perceived in order to be believed, the mock-stucco ceiling possibly doubles up as kitsch wood burner and/or American life coach.
Different rates apply to idioms, abandoned PhDs and qualitative market research.
Despite being no longer available, we frequently expect this home to go quickly so please conceive of it early to avoid possible disappointment.
Different rates apply depending on the age of the sun, the suppression of isosceles triangles and the current whereabouts of Lord Lucan (or derivatives thereof – please consult your local Citizen's Advice Bureau or God).
This conceptual offer is possibly an ideal investment opportunity for anyone wishing to get on the conceptual or possibly perceived property ladder.
Different rates apply pending patent (conceptual or otherwise) and Rhododendron rearing in Skegness – please confer with your local trading standards branch or experts present at the nearest conceptual horticulturist expo.
Despite its possible location, this flat is reasonably priced at a possibly affordable fee not totalling more than £1.334 million per conceptual calendar month.
Different rates apply depending on season, multiverse and progressive Zen Buddhism.
The bathroom needs a makeover.
Don't miss out – flat presumably (but not definitely) not available until late 1873!

The Serialised Diaries of Attila Z. Spasm: 12 Nov 2007

Woke with a start to find Zebediah gorging himself on the "sharp matter" in my "bits and pieces". It would seem that one of them had hatched. Having run out of rubber knickers, Uncle Z (I can't be bothered to write all of his name out again because I HATE HIM) saw something wriggling and declared open season on the flora, and more specifically the fauna, of my nether regions. Came over all queasy for a moment.

Was forced to put an abrupt end to Uncle Zebediah's midnight lice feast with a cricket bat, a good deal of pinching, some scratching and one of my finest ever Chinese burns. Took it upon myself to chastise him thoroughly by reading aloud from the the book of Numbers in a high-pitched Hungarian accent with one half of my scrotum visible through a strategically torn gap in my leotard (baby blue, naturally).

Such an onslaught threw him into disarray and he spent the subsequent 7 hours sobbing disconsolately into a bucket and copiously soiling himself every 15 minutes. This left me free to undertake Today's Research Investigation.

(Aside: If you thought I got it wrong by saying I wasn't going to write Uncle Zebediah out again, and then typing it out again then you are a LOSER because I copied and pasted. Yeah. So fuck off.)


Today's Research: Anatomy/Aerodynamics

Last evening, whilst hunting for change in the gutter to purchase Razzle (which, in hindsight, I STRONGLY advise against. It is RUBBISH), I had the good fortune to happen upon a recently deceased octogenarian outside Halal Fried Chicken in Dalston. The body was slumped under a pathetic collection of ADSA bags, and no small amount of canine faecal matter.

I did briefly entertain the possibility that the lady may simply have been sleeping, but by the time she had finished screaming I'd burnt off most of the plastic bags and I'd used up practically all of my kerosene - rendering the matter largely academic. The young chap operating the chicken fryers seemed to take some exception to this, and fled shouting something incomprehensible in Arabic or some such. Poor fellow. Clearly unhinged. Shot him.

Contemplating the cadaver, later on, I was disappointed to discover that any area of the body that had not been savaged by the flames had been abraded right off by the cobbles as I dragged her back to my lab. A pity, indeed, but I had a lot of chicken to get through with my other hand.

Essentially, was left with nothing more than a pair of elderly and none-too-sightly buttocks with which to experiment.

Still, Necessity is the Mother of Invention, Great Uncle of Thursdays and former Room-mate of Anne Widdecombe (Oh, sexy little Anne... how I long to plumb the depths of your earwax-treacle mine...) Sorry. Point is I made frisbees out of her arse cheeks.

Stapling Zebediah firmly to the doorframe to make him sorrier, I hastened to the park to perform today's test.

Test: Which of the two buttocks reclaimed from an old lady's botty will achieve greater distance when flung?

Location: The Park around the Corner.
Time: Day-time. Don't know. Pawned watch for three ounces of chip-fat and Betamax video of "Dutty Goggins: Postman Pat goes Porno". For the record, Jess is a dirty dirty pussy cat.

Result 1 - The Left Buttock-Frisbee: A good chuck. 15 yards, 3 inches. Landed in a tree. Dislodged a football. Will flog it on E-Bay.
Result 2 - The Right Buttock-Frisbee: I'm afraid things all went rather sour at this point. An over-excited Yorkshire Terrier clamped its hateful little yapper about the arse-piece mid-flight and scampered off with it... to the playground. I'll have you know that an irate single mother packs a mighty punch. Bloody sovereign rings. Fortunately I was able to distract her with half a melon Bacardi Breezer and a Lambert and Butler. By this point her fearful sprog had attempted to eat the buttock and was vomiting freely into its Burberry pushchair. I made good my escape, but not before I'd nicked her Giro. Children, it transpires, do have some uses.

So, in summary, it is the RIGHT ARSE CHEEK that flies the furthest - dependent rather on the attendant ASBO wielders.

Evening spent passing short bursts of mains electricity through a sparrow in a glass bell jar and popping the Johnnies in Bootswith a pin.

Tomorrow I shall write to Mother and sniff glue. I close with a Christmassy poem:

Christmas is coming,
The geese are getting fat.
Which is good, it makes them easier to catch and infinitely more combustible.

The Serialised Diaries of Attila Z. Spasm: 07 Nov 2007

I begin to grow weary of the ever-present slurry pool in which I find myself bathed each morning. As you may have gathered, the "sharp matter" has once again perforated the rubber knickers. It seems that regardless of the number of pairs I wear, or the amount of ill-fated earthworms I use to pad them, the confounded things perforate and I wake up tit deep in my own goo. A new approach is clearly required.

This is not a task for today though, I shall simply have to double the count of sandbags at the foot of the bed, for this morning I await the arrival of the "Bulldog Engineer" to sort out my connection to the dutty web.

As such, I intend to skip breakfast and while away the minutes (for surely there can be but few remaining before HIS arrival) in quiet meditation...

9:20 am. Meditiation is rubbish. Opted for a cheeky five-knuckle shuffle instead.
9:20:30 am. Still no sign of this magic internet man. I grow weary.
10:07 am. Shit. Nodded off. No sign of the Engineer though. Phew. Check the jelly in the fridge. Not set. I pass a few delicious minutes confusing a passing starling with my incisive comments on 14th Century cardigan appreciation.
10:42 am. Caught a whiff of my bed sheets and damn near asphyxiated myself. Note: Bed sheets taking on new role. Could save money on sedatives.
11:01 am. Uncle Zebediah is sat in the corner licking the back of a wooden chair and laughing like a little tosser when he gets splinters in his tongue. He's getting blood everywhere. I HATE him. Note to self: Drown Uncle Zebediah if at all possible. You hate him.
12:00:01 PM. Yes. PEE FUCKING EM. No "engineer" and it is now officially the afternoon. Even the bloke on telly says so. Call "Bulldog" to complain. I am told to check the web for updates. Consider me unamused.

Today's research: Ballistics

You see, this is the thing. I've been collecting shrapnel to fire from the blunderbuss. I was going to shoot it at stray dogs at a range of 200 yards and then challenge them to a race at solving a Rubix cube. I just tried it in the flat. Blew a hole in a drugged Jack Russel the size of a bowling ball, and now I've got to put filler in the sodding plaster. You see, Bulldog? Uncle Zebediah has just shat in my shoe. I hate him. Oh don't eat it you sick sick thing.

He ate it. Grim.

14:41 pm. Doorbell...
15:09 pm. That was the Bulldog guy. He was over 2 hours late, offered no apology and then told me he had the wrong part...

I'm disappointed to admit that I got rather cross. I was mean to him. Except that for "was mean to him" read "sedated him with the stench of my bed, tore out his kneecaps with a rusty trowel and then bricked him into a wall".

It's getting pretty crowded in that wall. Still at least the Jehovah's Witness has stopped that fucking infernal sobbing now. He's kicking up one hell of a stench - the engineer man is going to get a shock when he wakes up... Question is, what to do with these two patellae (Latin plural. God I fancy me.) now I've cut them from that chap.
I know...

Today's research: Ballistics Dentistry

Having dried the kneecaps in the oven I have ground them up into dust.

Test One

I shall endeavour to remove some small amount of staining from my tooth to gently abrading it with a mixture of bone matter and butter.

Result

Bone dust mixed with butter is no match for Arm and Hammer. Although Uncle Zebediah has taken to it. He's spreading it under his arms. Liberally. I feel nauseous.

The engineer in the wall seems to have roused himself and it attempting to summon help. I stand another puppy in front of him and fire into it. That shut him up.

17:49 pm. Dinner. 2 puppy dogs tails in a bun. Today has been rubbish.

Will try again tomorrow.

Tales from Shacklewelle and musings thereof 7/11/07

On Winter and the absence of monies



And thus it came to pass, that as true as the autumn is nigh, and that it follows such that winter shall arrive, bringing both cold and darkness, monies went astray and debtors were engaged. And given such status quo, and indeed the present circumstances thereof, movements were thus initiated so as to alleviate such absence of monies, and the presence of debtors hence.
But alas!
No respite was to be had, for no monies were there, nor indeed anywhere, and henceforth no relief could be sought, for it is the plight of the financially emaciated, and logically their dears, few or many as they may be, that once indebted, the mire is steep, and oft bottomlesse.
Great debate, great pontification, great panicke! – they all led to nowt. And behold, as the winter does cometh, the joy shall be scarce, for no food shall fill the tables with their culinary perfume, nor the children with sustenance, and presents of a Christmas nature shall be forgone for there is no cashe.
Want to lend us £1,000?
Thought not. Oh well.

Shit (again).

The Serialised Diaries of Attila Z. Spasm: 05 Nov 2007

Woke early in a tepid pool of my own filth. The build-up of sharp matter around my "bits and pieces" seems to have led to a group of minor perforations in the rubber knickers. They still need work, evidently. Note to self: purchase another cycle repair kit. Also soap.

Broke the fast frugally on a suspicious white substance lurking in the beard. It provided little resistance, hence I can suspect that it may have died in the night. Out of booze... Bleach it transpires is no real alternative to gin. Will write a letter to Mother warning her of as much. Uncle Zebediah can bloody well find out for himself.

Today's research: Ballistics.

Located one dead tramp. Stripped and dressed in the classic blue leotard and nappy (disposable, I refuse to be responsible for another fracas in the launderette). Bandaged face and hands, his, not mine.

Test one: The effects of using a cadaver as a ballistic missile.

Dropped cadaver off top story of multi-story car park on to passing old lady. Missed. She was quicker than she looked - also probably deaf as the God-awful squelch and minor spattering seemed to pass her by somewhat. Noise definitely made: Traffic warden vomiting freely. Had to be sedated.

Test two: The effects of using a cadaver as a ballistic missile - revisited.

Candidate targets scarce, tramp starting to give off potent whiff (Note: The aroma of rotting tramp brings about unforseen bouts of diarro dhiarrh .. the shits.) Decamped to bridge. SUCCESS!!

Result: A decaying tramp, when dressed in a leotard and nappy and flung from a bridge generates enough downward force upon impact to dislodge a child of schooling age from a canoe.

Corollary: Retrieving the nappy and leotard is tricky - particularly given increased police presence. There goes another flaming leotard.

Lunched on the packed sandwiches of a small child being resuscitated on the bank of river by over-reacting teacher/social worker. Spam. No wonder the nation's youth can't see their collective feet without the "mirror on a stick" approach.

Passed a most pleasant afternoon haranguing single mothers from a bush outside ASDA, before heading home to fashion a replica human thigh from lime flavoured jelly. Intention to fling a clutch of nestling sparrows into it tomorrow, and then interview them post-event. Still musing on flinging device, proposals include a sling fashioned from cat gut (cat will not be impressed, however), or the blunderbuss, if I can get it working without spending yet another fortnight in intensive care. Maybe I could ask them about the "Sharp Matter" (see first paragraph) while I'm there.

Custard for dinner this evening, I think, provided the eel I have been drowning in it has finally given up the ghost.


Attila out.