Tuesday, 25 October 2011

UNTIMELY #24 – A cat, for once in your life...

I’m not saying it was a nightmare, but I was definitely asleep. There was a cat, and it was sitting next to me, and I was sitting down, too. We were looking at each other, the cat and I, me and the cat. I mean, I was looking at the cat the way maybe you look at a mailbox. It’s there, you see that it’s there, but at the same time you don’t see it; you don’t really care; it wouldn’t change your life one way or another if it were suddenly to disappear, cease to exist. But the cat was looking hard. I mean hard. And it was giving off a strange energy; it suddenly seemed to awaken from this stupor of indifference and all at once it really, really minded that I was sitting right next to it. Like it found my presence actively offensive. I wasn’t doing anything. Just sitting there. Next to it. But the cat was getting madder and madder. It wasn’t moving yet either, but I could see it in its eyes, could see the anger building and building. And I could see that there was going to be some shit. The cat was kicking off. And so I sat there, watching it.

I was wearing a t-shirt and a black armband about halfway up my forearm. Maybe someone had died, maybe I’d been playing tennis. Maybe I was in a rock band. I have no idea why I was wearing such a thing in such a place.

The cat looked at me and it looked at my arm, bare save for the mysterious armband. Then it straightarmed me, with claws slightly extended, which I think is the cat equivalent of slapping someone around a little bit, just trying to get the feel of the situation and everything. Letting them know you’re upset, but sort of buying some time while you figure out what you’re gonna do. It sort of patted my arm and its claws stuck in the terrycloth of the armband and I thought this was funny but this made the cat really mad. Like even madder. It started swatting me harder and harder but it kept hitting the armband and its claws kept sticking and I just sat there, not moving, keeping my arm frozen immobile stiff. The cat got madder and madder and then it started scratching my arm above the band, and still I didn’t move. Then it started clawing my hands and biting my fingers. I could feel that something was happening to me, but I wouldn’t quite say that it hurt. It was more like a strange sensation, and I just sat there while it went crazy.

When the cat finished and ran off, I stood up, and it was only then that I realized that the warm, wet stickiness between my fingers was my blood. I was dripping bright red hot everywhere and the cuts and scratches and wounds on my hands were really pumping out all over the place. A woman walked past and when she saw my hands and the red all over the ground she started screaming, but I didn’t know what to do. It still didn’t hurt much, but the blood was pooling in my cupped hands and I was making such an awful mess.

I don’t know how it ended, but next thing I remember I was in a basement with low ceilings jousting on a papier-mâché horse.

Sunday, 9 October 2011

Untimely #24 - Spider-Man and The Giant Lynx Aerosol Man

I’m wearing my Spider-Man outfit and I have to fight this giant squid, except my suit’s too small and rides up around my waist so my paunch pokes out and I get a bit of a builder’s bum if I bend down too quickly, but Helena says it’s fine and I’ll defeat the giant squid easily. How? I say. You punch it. She says. Hard. She says. Punch it? I ask. Yeah. She says. In the face. I punch the giant squid hard in the face (it has a face) and it is easily defeated. We celebrate by going and doing a dance in the forest. I hope that we see a bear and then loads of really, really real cartoon bears come from behind the trees and they are limping and they are really annoyed, not because we woke them up but because they can’t dance because of their sore paws. And cause they’re hungry. I give them each a hot dog and this just makes them more cross cause they wanted ice-cream. We run away back to where the giant squid was but now Giant Lynx Aerosol Man is there. Where is his face? I ask. There, underneath his nozzle. Helena says. It’s the Pringles Man’s face. She says. Has he stolen it? I ask. I don’t know. She says. Maybe they share it or maybe they are non-identical twins. I punch him really hard in the face and he starts crying but this is not the same as easily defeating him, so we run away again. It turns out that if we want to escape this bloody honeymoon I’m going to have to make some new wings for the London Olympic Stadium. I am really, really worried about this because I’ve never made new wings before and, although I know the basic physics, I’m not confident that I’ve not just remembered it all back to front and we’ll end up burrowing into the ground rather than taking off into the sky, in which case Giant Aerosol Man will definitely get us. Luckily, the wing problem turns out to be really easily solved cause we find some brand new wings just hanging around the back of our tent and they’re really friendly and even agree to fix themselves onto the stadium for free. We board the stadium and it turns out that inside is our wedding reception, but it is being re-enacted by all the cartoon bears from earlier and it’s like they’re doing it just to take the piss. I start punching them really, really hard in the face but this just makes them turn really, really cross and really, really real and not at all cartoon and then one bites me and then the dream ends.

Thursday, 11 August 2011

UNTIMELY holiday!

So this is a totally belated notice. But better late than. Sam’s on honeymoon, the punkass, and has been for a while. And won’t be back until the end of the month, so the blog’s on a bit of a hiatus...

In the meantime, why not check out our archive?! Remember UNTIMELY #7? Me neither! But I bet it was awesome. Why not check it out? And what about 13? A scorcher! 16? Go on, go crazy...

Wednesday, 6 July 2011

Untimely #24 - Castrol GTX

I have just returned home from my place of work, which looks darker than usual. I walked away from a customer while I agreed with them about how they could get better value anywhere but here, went into the toilet, looked at my spare pair of shoes, and entered my front door. The dog had gone out, but my wife was at home. She was relaxing on our sofa, arm draped around a man so much more handsome than me that I felt happy for her.
'Hello. You met someone then?'
'Hello. Yes. This is --. You should move out.'
'That seems fair. How long have you two known each other anyway.'
'We met yesterday. Have you got all your things?'
'You seem nice, sir. It's good to meet you. I'll go stay at work.'
'Ok. You should know I'm pregnant.'
'Since yesterday. Wow.'
'Yes. I can tell. He's so much more exciting than you were, isn't he?'
'Yep... Bye'
I leave the house. The dog is coming home but he crosses the street so he doesn't have to talk to me. The new guy's probably got in with him already. I blame no-one. I'm just lucky to be here.
Yesterday nearly saw the end of me. I'd managed to get home after escaping the FBI in a shootout where I was actually very much the wronged party, and was eager to tell my wife the story of my exciting day, but at the first mention of this she practically exploded. She demanded to know things which I did not understand, then sent me out on my gear-less bicycle to pick up the very specific supplies she needed to complete the piece she was writing. This took several hours, though the sun did not set.
When I returned home, which was now a demountable atop a hillside retreat near a ski lodge/education centre, my legs were buckling under the weight of my wife's shopping. Placing it all on the table, she did not even glance at the haul before going red in the face. I cowered and hid under the table.
'CASTROL GTX!!' she bellowed.
'pardon?'
She grabbed me by the sleeves of my wooly jumper and hauled me upward.
'WHERE THE FUCK IS MY FUCKING CASTROL GTX?'
'But you asked for none.'
'FUCK YOU! GO BACK OUT THERE - no. Wait. Wait outside. Wait outside until it rains, and once it's raining enough, get back on your bike and go to the petrol station on the farthest side of town and get me my fUCKNG CASTROL GTX! AND DON'T YOU DARE USE YOUR FUCKING STUPID ARMS!'
'Ok', said I, and went outside and waited.
It took three days before it rained, but fortunately a real monsoon came eventually. I lost count of the number of cars which actively tried to kill me. I assumed they were all driven by men who my wife knew. Not using my arms was tough, but I only cheated a little. I carried the green plastic bottle with my elbows. I did not tell my wife this.
When I arrived home, I apologised for taking so long, then went to work. I guess it was while I was out cycling around that she met the new guy. I don't blame her. I should've known she'd need lots of engine oil to complete her next piece. I am an idiot. Good for you, the new guy.
She deserves the best. I hope to disappear.

Untimely Stimulus #24

It's sort of a wedding theme this time around. Last weekend I went to a lovely wedding and had a super time. Next weekend is a stag do that fills me with both trepidation and excitement. the following week my wife has a hen party to attend. Two weeks later, and it's the second wedding for the month of July. And someone I work with has just got engaged! So it's everywhere. Deal with it.
I myself am fortunate to be married already, no longer a part of the games of love. Nonetheless, I constantly have anxiety dreams where my wife is incredibly mean to me in a variety of ways. She is not really mean to me, not like this. She's awesome. I just pretend she's horrible in my dreams. It's sweet really, if you think about it...
Anyway. Yes. This Untimely is dedicated to weddings. And love. And nightmares.

Saturday, 11 June 2011

Untimely #23 - Sin City

Dim Tim 'n' Phil Pills sit in 'Slick Rick's Skin Gym - Strip Clip 'n' Titty Bin'.
Dim Tim chin-chins, swigs his pink fizz.
Phil Pills grins, sinks his gin.
Minty Tits slinks by.
"Fitty McFitty! Wibbly Bits! Giz licks!" shrills Phil.
"Niffy fish whiff." Tim gips.
His chick is Miss Sixty-Six.
Tim sits, his bitch tits slick with prick milk, his itchy dick dripping with piggy jiz.
Tim slips his thin inch in.
Miss Sixty-Six sighs, “Fill it! Fill it! Is it in?”
“It’s in! It’s in!” Tim lisps.
“My clit – flick it.” Miss Sixty-Six hints.
“Frisky, frisky! Kissy-Kissy!” Tim wimps.
Tim is limp.
“Tiny. Brisk.” Miss Sixty-Six hissing grimly.


Chinky Kingpin, Slitty Ming, pimps skinny nymphs.
His vid biz ‘XXX Bint Films’ slings Big Billy’s filth flicks.
“Which vids is in?” Big Billy clicks.
“Kiddy Fiddling in Rhyll? Flid Rimming Six? Thick Lips ‘n’ Big Dicks? Fisting in Windmills? Which is it?” winks Ming.
Big Billy brims, his chin shiny with spit. Flinging his limbs in stinking swirls, tickling his sticky tip with vim, Billy thrills, “I is sick, innit!”

Untimely #23 - Left Field

The various parts of my head and face which contain hair, are currently at war with each other. The top section, which currently holds the most ground, has been lording it up over the rest for some time now, and it appears they have had enough. Now, they say, they are going to fight back. However, there is no camaraderie to be witnessed here; each faction is out for themselves, looking to stall, trim, or steal from their opponents at every turn. It has started to get ugly.
At three twenty-seven yesterday morning I was awoken by the tiny cries of battle. As I lifted my head, I saw by the light of my thankfully hairless alarm clock that my pillow was littered with the fur of the fallen. Putting my hand to my face, I was horrified to learn that the right side of my beard had been almost completely removed, brutally torn out in great hunks. I turned on the lamp and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I swear to god that the lashes beneath my left eye were smirking. How could this happen? Surely, I thought, it can’t get any worse. And yet it has.
When I awoke later that morning, I realised that the remains of my massacred beard were no longer on my pillow. I had been too drained, both emotionally and physically, to clear it up in the night, so where in the hell had it got to? I had my dreadful answer but a moment later when I looked in the mirror, only to discover that my vision had become murky and lopsided. Squinting with my one good eye, it became evident that the hair from my beard had somehow been grafted onto the lashes beneath my left eye, creating a rugged perm effect, covering the eye itself, and the best part of the face. This is the worst thing to have happened since the great chest hair riots of ’99.
I fear how this will end. The permed left eye has begun talking in street slang, changing the rules of engagement from a gentlemanly battle into those of a turf war. The top section still claims to be the king pin, but the sideburns have begun to whisper of a secret alliance with the mustache. The left side of my face looks like a nightclub carpet, the right resembles a dried up teabag.
I tried to comb some of the hair out of my eye but it kept moving out of the way. I don’t know that I’ll ever leave the house again.