Posts Tagged ‘Marjorie Misnomer’

This isn’t very interesting but it does have a photo of Tennant (not my idea) for the ladies,(but obviously not for Doctor Who fans because he has nothing to do with it) and lots of stats and stuff to show you how many wonderful peeploids worried my blog last year.

The stats helper monkeys at mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a high level summary of its overall blog health:

Healthy blog!

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads Wow.

Crunchy numbers

Featured image

The average container ship can carry about 4,500 containers. This blog was viewed about 19,000 times in 2010. If each view were a shipping container, your blog would have filled about 4 fully loaded ships.

In 2010, there were 28 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 110 posts. There were 53 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 4mb. That’s about 1 pictures per week.

The busiest day of the year was February 17th with 559 views. The most popular post that day was Has Anyone Seen Our David…?.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were,,,, and

Some visitors came searching, mostly for cheryl cole, underground map, london underground, lady gaga, and captain pugwash.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.


Has Anyone Seen Our David…? February 2010


GaGa Ooh La La! December 2009


Sci-Fi’s Unsung Heroes #53,627 – Ensign Ro Laren August 2009


Star Wars Episode VII-A New Blog September 2009


The One About Not Drinking August 2009
1 comment


MERRY MICKELMAS…or something…

Guten Afternoon-en,Reality Surfers and Splitters of the Infinitive!!

‘Tis I,ब्लॉग कुत्ता !!!

And in the words of Sir Noddy Holder…IT’S BLOGMAS !!!!!!!

A time to remember the important things in life,such as getting rammed out of your cabbage on Asti Spumante at the office party and waking up the next morning with Dawn,the fat girl who fills the photocopier.A time to think of those less fortunate than yourself,the poor souls who,believe it or not,aren’t intergalactic pug-dogs of mystery with a vast fortune amassed in a life of adventure,intrigue and leg-humping.For even though I am a fabulously wealthy adventurer in time and space and elsewhere,it doesn’t mean that I don’t think of those less fortunate than myself.

*By the way,the people from the gas board called..they’ll be round to switch off your supply on Tuesday,….*

Ha ha…umm…yes thank you for reminding me…I’m switching over to electric heating.I’ve heard wonderful things about Economy 7-

*…and I’ve taken the magnet off the electricity meter…the bloke from n-power said,and I quote “Low usage is one thing but we were just taking the pi-*

SShhh…ha ha yes you do that,I don’t know how it got there…bloody kids.Bring back National Service,that’s what I say….Anyway,shouldn’t you be packing ?
*I’ve nearly finished*

Yes indeed,Constant Reader…you read right…I am vacating my current Fortress of Blogitude and relocating to a swanky drum in the Docklands…West India Quay to be exact.Tube stations are so last year.And Mornington Crescent is rather too big for me and Rizla now that my former love,Miss Deidre Macbeth,has run off with that Tennant person.Where is he now,eh?
Eh ?
Answers to this,and other,questions shall be forthcoming during the next twelvemonth,for The Dog of Blog will be back in business very soon,banging one off the wrist,as it were,with more gusset-ripping installments of The Necronomnomicon and more tuber-troubling terrors with everyone’s favourite psycho-bitch,Marjorie Misnomer.
Christmas is a time for family..but seeing as I have no family,I’ve decided that Blogmas is a time for me,so if you’ll excuse me,I must away to my new pad to install the shark tank and gruff a box or ten of jelly fruits while watching Her Majesty (God Bless Her) on the tellybox,for was it not John The Baptist who said-

*Umm you may want to stop it there,actually…*

For why,pray,for why ?

*Well there appear to be two very large gentlemen with hurty-sticks  attempting to squeeze themselves through the barrier you put up to keep the council tax bloke out-*


*I think I already have*

Oh Buddha it’s the Theydon Bois !!!

*Big lads,aren’t they?*


*Oh Arsenal*

Down the secret tunnel!! Time to blog off,Dear Reader…until we meet again in futures uncertain,Happy Blogmas !!

Kismet & Ketamine share everything....

Kismet & Ketamine shared everything

House Misnomer stood,proud and erect,in rolling,boiling gardens of green….a craggy edifice swaddled in an emerald gown.Usually…

On this particular day,a dark blemish marred the lush lawns…a black tumour.It was Marjorie,doing something unmentionable with a courgette.Gesundheit the Marrow was sat nearby,reading the Financial Times.

“Gold’s up.” he murmured,topically.

Into this idyll shambled the syphilitic,quadruped form of the Misnomer “twins”,Kismet & Ketamine.They hoved nightmarishly into view,blocking the sun and causing Gesundheit to shuffle off,tutting,in search of sufficient light to study the performance of his stock portfolio,which,with the demise of the entire Misnomer family,was considerable.

“Kismet is bored.”

“Ketamine is bored.”

Marjorie put the psychotic veggie to one side and looked up at her sisters-they were truly a sight to behold,even by her own rather,shall we say,unique standards.Not,as has been previously documented,genuine twins;not even similar in looks,height,weight or perversion,or even of the same age,they were, however, eternally bonded,down the side, into one appalling whole.

Marjorie sighed.”Now girls,you know we’re having Tallulah Miggins for tea later on.I’ve prepared an extra-special feast..cake,cucumber sandwiches and lashings of ginger beer.And then we’re going to play croquet,hopscotch and dress up our dollies in pretty dresses.” She jigged up and down,grinning hugely at the thought.

Kismet and Ketamine stared at each other,a look of bewilderment and incomprehension on their faces,then looked back at Marjorie.

Marjorie met their double-gaze.She was still grinning,but now in some awful,wrong way.

“Then I’m going to drive the little bitch out of her mind.”


A short distance away from the lush yet fatal lawns of House Misnomer stood a small cottage,entirely pink inside and out,incidentally next door to the cottage that once belonged to the late Sheila Lemony-Marchbanks.

One could,if one were suitably inclined,assume that Marjorie was working through the village in a methodical way,cottage by cottage,street by street.

And you would be correct in that assumption,for within this cottage lived the unfortunate guest of honour of the aforementioned tea-party.

Tallulah Miggins,blissfully unaware of the programme of events that was being planned,and seemingly oblivious to the mass murder that had become the norm within the stately grounds of House Misnomer,but instead focused on her afternoon tea appointment at the big house,and the need to dress for the occasion,etiquette being one of her “things,” was at this very moment trying on various outfits in her boudoir and soliciting constructive comments from her two dolls,Hollyoaks and Madame Flange,who were sat to attention on their Special Chairs. She had been doing this for quite some time.

Tallulah,who was pretty “special” herself,twirled gaily in a pink taffeta frock in front of the dolls.

“Well,ladies,will I do ?” she asked them.

Hollyoaks and Madame Flange,being two particularly fine examples of Victorian porcelain dolls,blinked their eyes twice in the affirmative.They didn’t much care what dress Tallulah wore that afternoon,but had been promised tea and cake and were in haste to be gone,so they were relieved when she appeared to have made a final satorial decision.They also aware that Tallulah had an almost infinite collection of pink taffeta dresses,all exactly the same.They neither saw any difference between them,nor appreciated the need to try on one hundred different examples of the same dress.

But they were only dolls,and were loyal to Tallulah,although it should be said that neither Hollyoaks nor Madame Flange entirely trusted Marjorie Misnomer,having heard unusual sounds coming from the neighbouring cottage the other day.

Looking at the clock,Tallulah shrieked: “Ooh time we were elsewhere,ladies! The big house awaits!”

Scooping up the two dolls in her arms,Tallulah flounced out of her boudoir and down the stairs,grabbing a monstrous yellow sun hat as she went,which she placed firmly on her head.Hollyoaks and Madame Flange were similarly attired in their Sunday best.Skipping jauntily out the door of her cottage,she greeted the day (Tallulah was like that) and continued her skipping progress down the road towards House Misnomer and,indeed,her certain doom.

Hollyoaks and Madame Flange hung on for dear life….something they would be doing quite a lot of that afternoon.



Marjorie Misnomer sat,proffering a teapot in the general direction of her guest,at the head of a long table,festooned with multitudinous cakes and other baked goodness,on the lawn of House Misnomer.

Tallulah Miggins paused with a chocolate eclair a mere inch from her mouth and exclaimed “Ooh yes please!”,offering up her bone-chine teacup for the requisite filling of.

Marjorie did the pouring,Tallulah the sipping.”Mm lovely!” she cooed,her little finger pointing,unwittingly,to where Gesundheit the murderous marrow now lay in wait,hidden,snickering.

“I’m so glad you could come to my party,Tallulah…and your little dollies,of course.” She narrowed her eyes at the two miniature playthings,sat next to Tallulah at the table in two high-chairs,a cup of untouched tea in front of each of them.Their scones were similarly un-nibbled.”We get so few guests here at House Misnomer,and with Daddy….away on business,it’s just me and the twins.”

“Oh how are Kismet and Ketamine,haven’t seen them for years?” gushed Tallulah,ramming jam tarts in her mouth.

Marjorie raised an eyebrow and smiled.Hollyoaks wet herself…Madame Flange’s tummy turned over.

“They are well…they don’t get out much,prefer their own company.They’re very…close….joined at the hip as my father used to…as he always says. But they will be joining us for tea quite soon….in fact here they come now!” said Marjorie,rising slightly to look up the lawn towards the House.She waved.

Tallulah,with yet another eclair halfway in her mouth,turned to look….Kismet and Ketamine were indeed shambling table-wards.Hollyoaks and Madame Flange also studied the approaching abomination,a dark worry bubbling in their porcelain hearts.Tallulah,ever the optimist,thought nothing of the extreme closeness of the two girls as they reached the table and sat down,seemingly on one,extra-wide chair.Her mother always taught her not to stare at,or think less of,those who may have,as old Ma Miggins put it,something “a bit not right” about them.And anyway,Marjorie had made sure the “twins” had had a bath before the party.They had protested but it was,as Marjorie,pointed out,a special occasion,and they wouldn’t need another one for months.With cries of “Kismet wants Matey!” and “Ketamine wants Matey!” ringing in her ears,Marjorie had picked out,in much the same way that Tallulah Miggins had done so,the twins’ best dress…dresses…dress from their admittedly limited wardrobe.

So…the “twins” were acceptable,nearly,to the untrained eye…but even so,Tallulah averted her gaze as they attempted to pour themselves a cup of tea,with much smashing of crockery,but she couldn’t work out why they only used one of their hands and not both…and they were sitting very close. Eventually they worked out a system whereby one girl poured tea into the others cup,and vice versa.They sipped happily,and became entranced by the two dolls,who had been equally transfixed with the twins since they had materialised. Hollyoaks and Madame Flange shifted nervously in their high-chairs.

“Kismet want dolly!”

“Ketamine want dolly!”

The dolls’s eyes fluttered nervously.Tallulah,for the first time,looked uneasily at Marjorie,who sat,with her arms draped silkily over the arms of her chair,like a black velvet and lace spider at the heart of a web,smiling.

Then she made a gesture…a tiny gesture that the normal person would not catch..but there was little that was normal about Kismet and Ketamine.

They understood perfectly…they had been released.

For two young woman,surgically fused together down the side,their respective right and left arms now a distant memory,but still possessing four legs…for all their inelegance,they had a remarkable turn of speed,something that came in useful when they were out for the evening,hunting cats.

Kismet and Ketamine,the Binary Badness,lunged across the table at the dolls,who were frozen with fear.Hollyoaks was grabbed by Kismet and Madame Flange by Ketamine.Being dolls,they were used to being hugged almost to death by excitable young women,but this was something different…something wrong.…they could feel it in their joints.Kismet,being the worse of the two,decided she wanted both dolls and started trying to pull Madame Flange away from her sister.An unpleasantness ensued,with the twins ending up on the ground,the dolls forgotten,as they ripped and tore at each other’s hair and face.Hollyoaks and Madame Flange lay on the tablecloth,near the scones,gasping.

Tallulah,not wishing to make a scene,being very British,turned to Marjorie: “Are they…umm…all right ?”

Marjorie,who had been silent,enjoying the scene,whispered silkily: “Oh yes,they’re just fine.More tea…oh no,now look what they’ve done…they’ve ripped their dress.” She pointed at the struggling sisters,who were now quite bloody,and finally,fatally,Tallulah noticed what had been bugging her all this time…they were so close,they seemed to be wearing the same dress.Also,when Kismet rolled over,Ketamine followed,almost as if they were…stuck together.

Tallulah Miggins stared…Kismet and Ketamine’s “dress” was ripped beyond repair…they were almost in the altogether,and what this revealed to the world at large was not something that Tallulah Miggins had any real,tangible words for.

They were indeed stuck together down the middle…Tallulah saw the ragged scar that marked their eternal bondage.She stared…and stared again as Kismet and Ketamine suddenly ceased their battle and shambled to their feet.Marjorie had also stood,coming round to stand behind Tallulah,who was dumbstruck,placing her hands on her shoulders.

Tallulah shivered.

“Now then,Tallulah…it’s time for-”

But she got no further,as Hollyoaks leapt up from among the scones and sank her teeth into Marjorie’s neck.Marjorie staggered back,bleeding heavily and tugging and smacking at the deadly dolly.Madame Flange,meanwhile,clutching a wicked-looking cake knife,hopped off the table and sank the blade into one of Kismet’s,or possibly it was Ketamine’s,legs.The twins collapsed to the ground,one of them screaming in agony,the other trying to get back up and wandering what all the fuss was about.

Madame Flange ran towards the flailing Marjorie to help Hollyoaks,but Marjorie saw her coming.She kicked out,sending Flange flying;she landed some distance away,it having been a very good punt on Marjorie’s part,despite the pain in her neck,in the gooseberry bush.Madame Flange lay still.Marjorie took hold of Hollyoaks by the neck…and twisted. Hollyoaks’ head popped off,making a noise that no-one would want to hear twice in their life…it may have been a tiny scream.Throwing  Hollyoaks’ head and body aside,where they snatched up by the twins,she pounced on Tallulah,who had been watching the madness as if from a distance,unable to move or act,and held her face in her hands.

“That’s why I never had any dolls when I was little!” roared Marjorie,cryptically.Her eyes were wide,quite mad.

“Now…I’m going to do to you what I did to your smelly little dolly….but slower.”

Marjorie’s hands tightened.

Finally,Tallulah acted.Not understanding the madness,but wanting to escape it more than anything,Tallulah cried out to anyone who may hear.

There was no one.

The Blog Kitten—MISSING!!

‘Tis I-The Blog Dog!

I speak to you today,Constant Reader,in a state of some agitation,and not a little preturbation.

(Is that a word?)

This very morn,upon waking from a shit-hot dream involving Bettany Hughes,Eva Mendes and a tub of swarfega,I rolled over in my 5-poster bed to greet the dawn and my beloved,Deidre, with a snuggle and a kiss,and to possibly try a few things I’d worked out in my dream.


Imagine,then,my horror as I beheld my beloved,who was conspicuous by her absence.


Now this was not really that unusual,as it is part of our pre-nuptial agreement that Deidre should be up before I wake in order to get the tea on,so I was not unduly alarmed.I slipped on my yeti-skin dressing gown and griffin-hide slippers and sauntered into the kitchenette,to be greeted with a sight of abject,screaming horror,the like of which I had never before encountered,and no married man should have to endure….

…the teapot wasn’t even on the hob.

Searching around for Deidre in order to remonstrate with her and to extract a reason as to why my morning cup of  Earl Grey was,as yet,merely theoretical,I came swiftly to the conclusion that she was,as my Latin teacher used to say,non adest.

To whit,buggered off.

Not a soul in sight.

This was,as the Ameriyanks say,an “issue.”

Not only would I have to make my own tea AND breakfast,I’d have to most likely feed the piranhas AND go and whip the students in the dungeon.

This was not on.

The Blog Dog,as you know,has no time for the trivial matters of existence….for the Blog Dog is a roisterer,a rodgerer,a puker and a gorger-a shafter of time and space.

The Blog Dog cannot save the universe twice over whilst making his own cornflakes.Simple as that.

I trotted,stressed,onto the platform of my secret London Underground lair,cunningly disguised as Mornington Crescent,to see if maybe Deidre was polishing the third rail or something;it was possible that she had got her chore shcedule arse-backwards.

I was about to enter that state of mind known as the “hissy fit” when I spotted it…although how such an abomination came to be in my residence,I knew not,nor dared to wonder.

Plastered to the far wall was a poster of…..David Tennant.

You will know,Constant Reader,that normally I would not even debase myself to cleanse my lower extremities with such a tawdry piece of stationery,so how it came to be here was a mystery,wrapped up in an enigma,then sodomised by a “what the fuck?”

The third-rate actor who got lucky was gurning horrifically from the poster,but this was not the worst thing assaulting my retinas at this moment…there was more.

Someone had added a speech bubble which emanated from the vicintiy of his gruesome visage…these very words of horror chilled me to the bone:



(Rubbish Scottish accent)

I know…bless him he hasn’t worked in ages,it’s probably affected his mind.Anyway back to the action…





The horror…the horror.

Dumped for Doctor Who…and not even one of the good ones.


So this is how you now find The Blog Dog,my Constant Reader…Deidre-less,tea-less and very possibly custard-cream-less.And even worse than that…I’ve got a fucking David Tennant poster on my wall.

What will my guests think ??

I suppose I’ll have to take it down myself ,too.

(Aw bless)

I’ve still got you,dear Rizla, my faithful retainer…my wife has left me for a has-been,my reputation is in tatters….and I haven’t had a cuppa for hours,put the kettle on would you-

-OI! Come back you sod !!!


‘Tis I,The Blog Dog…the dog’s dog,the Hocus bloke,the lad himself,the cosmic dick,the mutt’s nuts,here to celebrate my blog reaching the ton! Deidre and I would like to thank all of my fear-fans for their faultless following of my adventures over the past 99 blogs.The little woman and I are currently on holiday in a flashback in Devon,so the blog has been left in the hairy palms of my slave, Rizla…but fear not!! I am,at this very moment,while Deidre puts the dinner on,banging out another existential episode of the orgasmically exciting Marjorie Misnomer series.I do enjoy banging one out of an afternoon..anyway…I’ve also commissioned that fine piece of brainy crackling,Bettany Hughes,to write my life story which will be appearing in the pages of this very blog in the not too distant future,if she can pull her finger out.AND as if that wasn’t enough to make you wet yourself unselfconsciously,I’m also working on the next cranium-cracking chapter of The Necronomnomicon…get in!!!

The future is here,the future is me…a peristaltic smack in the mush,a bunch of fives,madder than a cartload of arseholes,the pan-dimensional scream of terror,the piece of blue cheese you found under the cooker,the standing-in-the-middle-of-Tesco-with an-itchy-arse feeling of helplessness…I am the Hound of the Baskervilles,humping your leg…quite simply,The Blog Dog!

Kismet and Ketamine were indeed conjoined,but could not in any natural way be called “twins.”

In fact they had been born almost 5 years apart,but from an early age both had displayed certain…tendencies.

So disturbed was their father,the erstwhile Nemesis Misnomer,and their mother Godsmack Misnomer (of which nothing has been hitherto recorded) by their unnatural behaviour,that he had them sealed together at the hip.

All the better to keep an eye on them,he reasoned.

He had Kismet and Ketamine locked away in the Tall Tower at House Misnomer,and they were only allowed out under strict supervision.

From this day on,all weird shenanigans stopped,the sheep could sleep easily,and dogs and cats lived together in perfect harmony….and the Misnomers’ life went back to something approaching normal.

Then Marjorie was born…and Nemesis soon realised he needn’t have bothered.

None of this was of utmost importance to Martin Limp,even if he had been aware of the facts of the Misnomer family tree,strapped as he now was to the operating table in the cellar of House Misnomer.From his supine position he could see only the ceiling,and occasionally an evil face or three when the Misnomer girls swam into view.

Martin knew he was going to die.

If he was lucky,he thought,he’d stay dead…but he knew Marjorie was in possession of some unnatural gifts.

Just as he was making peace with his God,Marjorie Misnomer loomed to his left.The “twins” hovered to his right.

“Martin dear…what are we going to do with you?” cooed Marjorie.

He gulped.

Marjorie disappeared momentarily,then emerged once again into Martin’s personal Hell-space pushing a metal trolley.

On it,young Limp could just perceive out of the corner of his eye,were several….implements.

Marjorie looked down on Martin,her ebony black eyes impaling the rather pathetic,soon to be ex-art student.

She was holding a small spray bottle,the kind gardeners use to…well..spray things in gardens.Marjorie took to liberally spraying Martin with the liquid in the bottle,all over his face and body.

It smelled faintly of lavender…there seemd to be no adverse effects from it,as far as Martin could ascertain.

“Kismet likes.”

“Ketamine likes.”

Martin’s head swung around in the direction of the “twins”,who were getting very agitated and quite visibly drooling.

Oh dear….I don’t think they just want me to smell nice,thought Martin.

“Now now,girls,all good things to those who wait” cooed Marjorie,smiling.She turned to the table and picked up three runcible  spoons,handing two of them to Kismet and Ketamine.They grabbed them eagerly.

Marjorie pulled a small moleskin book out of her pocket,flipped a few pages and read from it-

“They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon”

She closed the book and returned it to her pocket.

Martin’s legs turned to jelly.

So did the rest of him,as Marjorie’s concoction of the digestive juices of various venomous spiders and snakes did it’s work and melted Martin’s flesh and bones into mush.

He started to scream as he liquefied.

“Well,Martin” said Marjorie,”we don’t have any quince but we do have quite a lot of lovely Limp.Off you go,girls…bon appetit!”

“Kismet likes.”

“Ketamine likes.”

What was left of Martin’s eyes registered their final,sanity-blasting image—the Misnomer girls,runcible spoons plunging into the remains of Martin’s inner portions and raising them to their mouths.

Sometime later that day,Martin Limp died.

Eat your heart out,Torchwood!

Eat your heart out,Torchwood!

Salutations and felicitations,oh seekers of the truth and collectors of the pure!

I am…

…..The Blog Dog!

But of course,you already knew that,otherwise you would not be here,seeking my wisdom….and dripping on my welcome mat.

Anyhoo,come yourself in and I’ll spin you a wee tale of adventure & derring-do.

That’s it,park your sit-upon down there,mind the cannibal,they’re everywhere,harmless really…just keep an eye on your extremities.

What’s that? Oh yes,I’ve moved my centre of operations into Mornington Crescent tube station…nobody ever gets on or off here,so I can do what I like…..welcome to the Fortress Of Blogitude,2.0!! It’s spacious,secret and has tea & coffee making facilities.It was closed for “repairs” during much of the 1990s,which was when I took the opportunity to make a few “structural alterations”.

Cuppa? Help yourself,there’s some in the pot.Will you pour one for me too…milk and four lumps,please…no sugar.

Now…let me tell you about the “little problem” I had when I moved in to Mornington Crescent.I had only that day returned from the 1960s,where I had been “filling in” in the gynaecology department at St.Bartholomew’s Hospital…they were short staffed you see,the other doctors had disappeared but they found them later,bound and gagged and stuffed in a broom cupboard.

I reckon it was medical students,or something,sniffing ether.

This station does not exist....

This station does not exist....

Anyway,I landed the Invisible Plane in the concourse of the station,and alighted.I had no trouble from the ticket collector on duty as I jumped the barrier,because Raffles is “on the staff” as it were,and helps keep real people out who may have wandered in thinking Mornington Crescent is a genuine tube station and want to go to Cockfosters.Eh? Yes it is,isn’t it? Most amusing.

I trotted down the escalator which doesn’t work,for appearances sake,and went to inspect the work that was being carried out.Several art students were hard at it,a-hammering and a-nailing and a-trying desperately to break their chains–no chance,those chains were made of case-hardened Dynastrene,the hardest substance known to man.

Deidre was busy polishing the third rail….her hair was somewhat “on end.”

“That’s it,babes” I said as I scuttled past,”I want to be able to see my face in those rails.And sort your hair out,you look a right state…and watch those arcs of electricity emanating from your extremities,you could hurt someone.”

Professor Bernardo Whiplash-Prebendary was installing the secret door to my lair,cunningly disguised as the Mornington Crescent tube roundel on the wall of the platform.She turned to greet me.

“Ah Bloggers,you complete and utter waster in time and space,there you are! Not bad this,eh…you just touch the second “O” in “Mornington” and the wall slides back to allow access to the Fortress.” She demonstrated,the wall slid back silently to reveal a dark,velvet-lined corridor; a distant light indicated the door to the inner sanctum,secured with a 21-tumbler lock.

“Good work,Prof.Fancy a cuppa and a bourbon?”

“Yes please,after you.” We crossed the threshold into the Fortress of Blogitude,and walked down the corridor towards the door.I produced my key to open the Triponic Lock.

“By the way,Bloggers,can you smell burning?”

“Oh that’s just Deidre.”

“Oh,that’s all right then.”




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Unlock the potential value of your valuables today!!!

(Terms and conditions apply,cheques will not be honoured.)


Look,that's my TARDIS !!! The brown,cupboardy thing...

Look,that's my TARDIS !!! The brown,cupboardy thing...


I was just drifting off to sleep in my King-sized bed,Deidre quietly simmering and still sparking a bit next to me,when I was startled by a curious sound issuing from the general vicinity of the platform.Slipping on my slippers,I crept out of the boudoir,through the study,across the piranha pool,around the aerodrome,crossed the kitchen,stopping only for a cuppa and a garibaldi,took the monorail to the main living quarters,and tiptoed to the front entrance.I opened the door,just a crack,and had a look.

I did some lookings,and thanked the Gods above or wherever they hang out,that I had taken the shortcut from the boudoir,for there,acting as if he owned the ruddy place,was a Suit!

The Suits had found my secret headquarters!!!

I was immobile with shock and fear….and worse than that,I couldn’t move either.I thought I had seen it all in my long,exciting life….I had battled the Flesh-eating Fish of Fantabulus 5 in the Wombat galaxy,arm-wrestled with Genghis Khan in the snug of the Dog & Duck…even skinny-dipped with Osama bin Laden….

But there are corners of the universe that have bred the most evil unspeakable things,and l was looking at one of them now.

It was beyond description…the words needed to do justice to its appalling appallingness have yet to be invented by some mad,deranged dictionary compiler who has recently looked up the arsehole of Hell whilst wearing a thong.

 My very soul shat its pants.

The Suit was wearing a tweed suit.

The tweed suit wasn’t too happy about that,and was desperately trying to escape the thing’s vile slimy blobbiness.

The Suit was studying what looked like a map.

Summoning every last inch of my iron will (and I have a very big iron will…just ask the missus) I opened the door wider and strode out to meet my doom.The oily pen-pusher turned to “face” me,an unctuous smile birthing,suffering a short but painful life,then dying on his noisome visage.

“Ah good evening,sir.” he smarmed “are you the owner of this umm…hee hee….secret underground lair?”

His voice chilled my very being.

“Yes I am,you hideous horror from Harrogate.How did you get in here?” I feared he may have done Raffles a damage.

“The ticket collector was in his little hut watching Doctor Who..hee hee..a David Tennant episode I think.”

He smiled a soul-fisting smile…he was enjoying himself….how did he know of my utter hatred of….”The Tennant?”

“I stopped for a cuppa and a French Fancy and had a chat while we watched the programme.Tennant is much better than that awful Tom Baker person,I think.”


“He said I could go down and,as it were,”knock the mad bugger up”,so here I am…ha ha….and quite frankly,it’s a good job I came,because this whole place is just downright dangerous.Did you know there are piranha fish in your swimming pool?”

“Yes,it’s a piranha pool.”

“But someone could fall in and get eaten!”

“That’s the whole bloody point,you knob!”

“Fair enough….oh and by the way,I’ve err…ha ha…come here to twat you.Twattage should take no longer than 30 of your Earth seconds.Twattage is completely painless and lovely.Your experience of Twattage may vary.”

“Begone from my Fortress,you muppetry salesman! Don’t you know who I am ?”


I waited.

I waited some more.


He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket,unscrewed it and consulted its contents.There was a Werther’s Original stuck to it.

“You are the Blog Dog.” he announced,and returned the paper to his pocket.


“Ah indeed,you canine clod.” said a velvety voice from the void.

I turned towards the sound-a small girl was erupting from the blackness of the tunnel which led to Edgware on the Northern Line,calling at Camden Town,Chalk Farm and Belsize Park,among others.

I recognised “her” instantly,even though it had been some time since we had spent any time together.

“Marjorie Misnomer….we meet again.”

“Indeed we do.” She sidled towards me…she gave good sidle.” seems to have been neglecting one’s children recently,hasn’t one?”

She kebabbed me with her gory gaze.

“Well…umm..I’ve been busy.”


“Yes…moving house,saving the world,you know how it is,all kinds of things cropping up.Ummm how have you been,Marjorie?”

Marjorie Misnomer stared at me.Hard.

“Well you see,that’s the funny thing-I don’t know how I’ve been because you haven’t written me for bloody ages !!!!” She grabbed me by my tartan collar and hoisted me up level with with her eyes.

” I want more life….father.”

(You nicked that from Blade Runner.)

Oh hello,you’ve been quiet tonight…Deidre keeping you busy…good…that coal won’t clean itself…..


I felt something give in my nether regions,but I kept a stiff upper.”But…but…Deidre doesn’t like your stories,she prefers it when I blog about real life stuff….but I do have one of your stories in the archive,I just need to finish it…it’s a good ‘un too.” I lied.

“How is Deidre by the way?” asked Marjorie.


“Really? How interesting.Where was I…oh yes,Tarquin was going to Twat you.” She motioned to The Suit,who had taken to picking his nose.”Tarquin,please be so kind as to bring the Twattage.”

The abomination in tweed slobbered towards me…I was going to be Marmite.My mind raced…..actually it raced quite quickly,so quickly in fact that it left my body and made a run for it-I couldn’t in all honesty blame it….it was the end of The Blog Dog.

If Tarquin didn’t get me,then Marjorie would–why had I written her so evil? She was only ever meant to be a bit of fun because I couldn’t think of anything good to blog about one evening.

Curse my boundless talent!!

“Wait!” I yelled,as Tarquin loomed over me,poised to Twat me with his Twatter.”I promise I’ll finish the third chapter of Marjorie Misnomer & The Impossible Fish!”

Marjorie halted Tarquin’s arm.”Promise on your signed photograph of Katie Price.”

The bitch!

“Alright I promise on my signed photo of Katie Price.”

“Very well,dog.I shall give you until this time next week to finish and publish it.Make sure I get all the best lines.Come along,Tarquin.”

They ambled off in the general direction of Golders Green,holding hands.



(Bit of a crap ending,that.)

It’s one of them “To be continued” jobbies.

(I simply cannot wait for the next part.)

Of course you can’t…now,it’s time to feed the piranhas…I think one art student will be enough,don’t want them to get too fat.

Until next time,thrill-junkies!!!










Chilling on a street San Francisco...the other day.

Chilling on a street corner…in San Francisco…the other day.

Greetings readers!

Please allow me to introduce myself,I am a dog of wealth and taste.

I am…The Blog Dog!

Now, it has come to my attention that the dashingly handsome,young,virile and totally exceptional chap who types out my blogs for me has been treating Tropical Moments like it’s his own blog.

This kind of behaviour is a clear breach of his contract.His job is to type out whatever I say,not bang on about Cup-A-Soup and Darlicks.

(It’s Daleks,actually —Rizla)

See what I mean?

Give him a keyboard and he thinks he’s Dan Brown.

Now there’s a writer of integrity and style….almost as good as Katie Price.

NOT the Library Doors...

NOT the Library Doors…

Speaking of which,I was relaxing in my Fortress of Blogitude the other evening,pondering the universe and everything in it,when I heard a strange noise coming from the Lower Library.Setting down my copy of “Being Jordan”,which I was re-reading for the 13th time,I hot-pawed it down the marble staircase to investigate.

Upon reaching the 100ft tall solid ebony Library doors,(which I…ahem…”borrowed” from the Tower of Babel,back in the day) I was rather alarmed to discover that one of the doors was a jar.

And by this I don’t mean that it was half open…it actually had turned into a jar.Quite a nice one too….sort of orangey-black with a little stopper on the top,and a pleasant sort of zig-zaggy pattern around the middle.

Bit of a bummer about the door,though.It was irreplacable.And I absolutely hate MDF…

Peeking through the door-less doorway into the gloom,I could see what the French refer to as “sod-tout.” Steeling myself against whatever needed steeling against,I crept into the Library.

Passing my Katie Price first editions,I thought I heard the sound of laughter and running feet,just over there by my Thomas The Tank Engine collection.Pausing only to light a candle,which I placed in a holder and gripped with my teeth (just in case anyone wonders how a dog can carry a candle…accept it,I’ve got the skills),I set off to hunt down the intruder and bite their legs.

I turned the corner past Thomas The Tank,and headed into the Sherlock Holmes aisle.Some of the Strand Magazines,specifically the ones personally signed by the great detective himself,had been disturbed and were strewn across the rather dusty floor.Making a mental note to send one of the plebs down here to sweep up,I gave chase.Fortuitously,the dusty floor had retained the prints of the interloper’s feet…they were headed towards…surely not!!

The Holiest of Holies!!!

Their target was The Vault…it had to be!!

With a clenching,gnawing terror fisting my soul,I realised who the intruder was…it was her.

She had come to a halt outside the Vault (ooh that rhymes!),but I feared nowt.She was clever but would never be able to open the door.It was locked in time as well as space.

(pretentious woof-woof-Rizla)

Shush!! I’m coming to an exciting bit….go and have a Cup-A-Soup or something.

Now where was I? Oh yes…I tip-toed,terrified,down the last aisle to confront her,eebie jeebies playing a symphony of terror in my nether-regions.She was stood with her back to me,playing a stethoscope over the lock.Ha! She had no idea what she was getting herself into.I stepped into her personal space.She whirled around,startled,dropping the stethoscope.Hee hee…I so own her.

Marjorie Misnomer breaks the Fourth Wall...

Marjorie Misnomer breaks the Fourth Wall…

“So,you’ve come at last,Marjorie Misnomer.” I proclaimed.

Marjorie Misnomer (for it was she) quickly recovered her composure and fixed me with her sanity-blasting gaze.She smiled,and my back legs wobbled a bit,but I stood firm.I had battled the most heinous evils throughout history.I’d even watched a whole episode of Doctor Who starring that Tennant person,so I was no stranger to horrific sights.

“Give me the combination,dog.” she rasped “or it’s the rhubarb for you.”

I chuckled.Her eyes narrowed.

“You do realise that nobody thinks the running joke about the rhubarb is very funny,don’t you?”

“Well you certainly won’t be laughing when I stick it up your doggy arse!”

“Language,Marjorie,language!” I chided.I didn’t want to wind her up too much…she may be imaginary but she was still dangerous here in the Library,where reality and unreality copulate in an orgy of metaphysics.

(What the hell does that mean?)

Bugger off you wombat.


(And I assume that,with all this talking you’ve been doing,that the candle has disappeared?)

Ah…yes..I put it on a shelf,next to the Delia Smith Cookbook.Happy now?

(Fair enough)

Marjorie Misnomer penetrated me with her grave-robbing stare.I held fast.

“There’s no use trying that old trick…I created you and everything about you…I am immune to your power.Besides,you won’t find what you’re looking for in there.Sherlock Holmes certainly didn’t,and you are most definitely no Sherlock Holmes.”

“I am Marjorie Misnomer,The Ghoulish Goth,and I WILL find out what happens to me!” she roared,blowing the dust off my Twilight hardbacks.

Ha you foolish girl…if in fact you are a girl…even I don’t know what happens next…I haven’t written the next chapter yet.But I can tell you that your “twin” sisters feature prominently….I think they’re a very promising character…characters…whatever.”

A look of fear crossed her face.Ha!

“So I suggest you be a little more polite to me or I may introduce some sibling rivalry.”

“I could destroy you,dog!”

“But who would write you then?”

“Pshaw! Anybody could,the story isn’t that good anyway…I’m only a made-up person after all,I—-Oh shit!…”

Marjorie Misnomer vanished in a puff of alphabet.

(Oh very clever…getting her to admit she’s not real…the oldest trick in the book.)

Works every time, Rizla me old china.Did it when Sherlock came snooping…he wasn’t too keen on going into the fight with Moriarty at the Falls without knowing the outcome,and he knew I owned every single issue of The Strand,even the ones that hadn’t been printed yet.


Never mind…just go and get my nom-noms ready.And don’t just pour a few Cup-A-Soups in my bowl like last time…I don’t know,you just can’t get the staff…

Until next time,Meta Fans…farewell!

Gesundheit the Marrow

Gesundheit the Marrow

The day after she had massacred (almost) her entire Family with a psychopathic onion soup,not to mention their party guests,Marjorie Misnomer was entertaining a visitor of her own in her attic room.She was sat cross-legged on the black velvet chaise longue with bone handrests…Gesundheit The Marrow was sitting next to her,telling their guest all about the previous day’s events.

“You should have seen ’em,old boy…12 heads dissolved into nothing…it even ate the skulls…” Here he broke off,glancing at Marjorie who looked suddenly downcast “…which was a shame really,you know how much Marjorie likes to add to her collection.It took both of us and the rhubarb to wrestle it back into it’s bucket.”

“Umm…er….y-yes.” stammered the guest,who’s name was Martin Limp.

Martin Limp was Marjorie’s friend…in the same sense that a fly is a spider’s “friend”.They had known each other for almost two months,which is in itself remarkable,given the nature of Marjorie’s “hobbies.” It is also remakable that he was still in possession of his vital organs,if not his complete sanity.Marjorie liked to play with Martin,just as a cat likes to play with a mouse before it eats it.He was dressed in his best yellow suit and puce bow-tie,because,even though he knew that Marjorie was madder than a teapot full of Thursdays,his mother always told him to dress smartly when visiting people.

He was currently sitting on The Seat Of Pain,which Marjorie kept for her “special” guests,and was,quite frankly,in a state of extreme terror,his bowels on the verge of jumping ship.He also had a very sore bottom.He looked furtively up from his cup of Hate Tea,searching for an exit,only to meet the eldritch eyes of Marjorie-deep as Hell,black as never.She shushed Gesundheit who was describing the fun he and Marjorie had had cleaning up and disposing of the bodies.The word “mop” had been mentioned more than once,and a plunger had been employed.

She kebabed Martin with her unwavering gaze.

“So Martin…”she asked happily,stroking Gesundheit’s green skin.He purred,knowing that the fun was about to start again.

Martin’s lower lip quivered. His bowels threw in the towel and relaxed noisily.

“…what shall we do today?”

She smiled that smile of hers and looked down at Gesundheit,who,it is said,was also smiling.


It was a sunny day in St.Mary’s-Of-The-Cream-Bun-Up-The-Jam as Sheila Lemony-Marchbanks,post-mistress,cake-maker and avid cross-stitcher heard a knock upon her frontally-positioned door.Looking up from the cake she was making,her thirteenth of the day,she made her way to the aforementioned port of egress and,upon opening it,was,as one would have every right to expect,rather surprised to discover the trembling Martin Limp holding a basket of various fruit and vegetables in front of him as if it might go off.

“Well if it isn’t young Master Limp,” she gushed “and what’s this you’ve brought me ?”

“It’s a g-g-gift….f-f-f-from the B-B-B-Big House…” he babbled,quivering and setting the apples and oranges and other produce jostling against each other.Luckily,Sheila,being a little hard of hearing ever since that accident with last year’s Christmas Radio Times,didn’t hear one of the apples whisper to a satsuma-

“Look fatty if you don’t move over I am so going to bloody own you-” only to get the rather terse reply…”oh yeah,come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough,you green bas-”

“The Family is giving one to all the houses in the v-v-village.” Martin continued,ignoring the light chuckle which seemed to emanate from somewhere in the bushy vicinity of Ms.Marchbanks’ privet hedge.”To celebrate the election of Nem-Nem-Nemesis Misnomer as MP for the village.” Martin almost choked the words out as he remembered Marjorie proudly showing him the remains of her father,all dissolved and headless and icky,which she had planted in the vegetable patch for the cabbages to nibble on.

Martin suspected that a by-election may soon be called.

“Oh that’s lovely” exclaimed Sheila,who was,by nature,a trusting sort,”come in,come in I’ll make you a lovely cup of tea and we can have a slice of carrot cake.”

She turned to re-enter her house,and Martin followed,holding his breath as he heard one of the carrots in the basket snap “Murderous old bat…that could be me old mum in that cake.” He pretended not to hear the rustle of leaves and the running of swift feet behind him.

“Be sure to close the door after you,Martin” Sheila called from the depths of her kitchen.”We don’t want just anybody walking in do we? You never know who’s about.”

Martin Limp…Limp by name,Limp by nature…had no need to close the front door,as he heard it softly close behind him,under what he knew in the pit of his stomach to be the dreadful impulse of the black-fingernailed hand of Marjorie Misnomer.

“This is going to rule.” said Gesundheit The Marrow.


“Look,” huffed Marjorie as she kissed a grape and stuffed it up Sheila Lemony-Marchbanks’ nose.The grape whistled a jaunty tune which may or may not have been “‘Bohemian Rhapsody.” “If you struggle you’ll just make it worse.”

Ms.Marchbanks,sadly,was in no position to offer an opinion as to the veracity of this statement,as she had a banana wedged in her mouth.It’s rear end was wiggling suggestively…slowly,almost imperceptibly,it was sliding in deeper.

The banana was making “mmm” noises.Marjorie made an “ooh” sound at this.She was enjoying herself,so was Gesundheit from his perch on top of the fridge.He was thumbing through Ms.Marchbanks’ weekly copy of  The People’s Friend…insofar as a large green vegetable can be said to “thumb.” She readied another grape,gently squeezing it in her black-lace gloved hand.The grape grinned at her…she grinned back then showed it to Martin,who had taken to gibbering in the corner of the kitchen,muttering to himself and rocking forthly and back.She tutted,and slipped the grape into place up Sheila’s left nostril.


He twitched in fear at the sound of his name,verbalised as it was through the Hell-touched vocal-cords of Marjorie Misnomer.

“Martin dear,do try to get the merest semblance of a grip and help the cucumbers out of the basket…I’ve got just the place for them.” she cackled,patting Ms.Marchbanks on the shoulder,who was rapidly losing consciousness,and indeed life,which was probably for the best,since Marjorie Misnomer’s madness knew no boundaries.

Martin Limp shambled to the basket,looking in with dread….there were things going on in there that had no place on God’s Earth.The rhubarb was looking very excited.He lifted out the cucumbers…they thanked him and slid towards the end of the table where the hapless Ms.Marchbanks sat chained to her chair,fruit & veg protruding from (almost) every orifice.

He’d had enough…he took advantage of Marjorie’s distracted attention and bolted for the door.Martin could see the front door literally a few feet away…he heard no voice of protest behind him…in the name of all that’s holy,he’d made it…he made to grab the knob…only to find it turning of its own accord.

The portal swung open….

….to reveal the most horrific sight of Martin’s soon-to-be-short life.

“Martin…I hope you’re not-” said one half of a set of badly-conjoined “twins.”

“-leaving us so soon.” said the other half.

And so it was that Martin Limp came face-to-faces with the only other other surviving members of Marjorie’s Family–her conjoined “twin” sisters,Kismet and Ketamine Misnomer.

And he knew that his nightmare was only just beginning….

Next part-We Are Family

The weird and unusual Marjorie

The weird and unusual Marjorie

There wouldn’t have been so many deaths if that Impossible Fish hadn’t appeared.

It was Marjorie who set the ball rolling…always Marjorie.

The Family had seen it coming for years…the strange way she buttered toast…and the unnatural things she could do with cheese.

Great Aunt Conclusion blamed it on the Cure album Marjorie had made her father,Nemesis Misnomer,buy her from that weird little record shop in an imaginary London side-street in the 19th century.

The garden party started innocently enough…Grandmamma did her baboon-juggling act whilst Matron handed out paranoia sandwiches.

Marjorie had been worrying the crops since early morning…none of the house staff would own up to leaving her room unlocked.

Several psychotic cucumbers had been sighted wandering the garden…one guest even spoke of a cauliflower with an inferiority complex.And it is probably best to gloss over the things that the rhubarb was seen doing.

Marjorie was known to have that effect on root vegetables.


It was Nemesis Misnomer who eventually found Marjorie,spread-eagled among the butternut squashes,talking to a lettuce.She was trying her very best to get the lettuce to open up about its mother…..the vegetable was having none of it.

“Been up to your old tricks again,eh Marjorie Misnomer ?” said her father,looming ominously over her as she tore a leaf off the lettuce and popped it in her mouth.A small squeak issued forth from it….though it was best not to think about that too closely.

“Yes Daddy.” replied Marjorie,munching happily.

“Marjorie..” Nemesis asked,exasperated “has it ever occurred to you that root vegetables are not actually in dire need of psychiatric counselling?”

“Oh but Daddy-” began Marjorie

“But me no buts,please Marjorie.There is to be no more veg-based head-shrinking until after the Garden Party is over.It’s scaring the guests…there are some things that rhubarb should never be forced to do.”

At this,Marjorie smiled mischieviously,but kept on munching.Her father caught his daughter’s smirk.

“I thought as much.There’ll be no more of that either.” said Nemesis sternly. “The things they were doing were just….wrong.Now,our guests want to see you,though God knows why,and Grandmamma will be starting the buffet soon.I trust you haven’t been in the kitchen this morning and messed with the heads of the nibbles?”

His troubled daughter stopped dismembering the lettuce and looked up at him.

“No Daddy…I’ve only been in the garden…the food in the kitchen should be emotionally balanced enough to serve to your guests…”

“Good.” With that he left his wayward offspring to her unmentionable activities.Marjorie threw the lettuce aside,which gave out a palpable sigh of relief.Sighing,she looked around for her next therapy victim,eventually settling on a terrified-looking runner bean.She set to work mentally torturing it.

“…although I’d probably give the onion soup a miss.” she said,smiling.


Things got increasingly esoteric just after midday,as Great Uncle Conjunction prepared to do his funny trick with the hosepipe.As he stood up to unbutton his waistcoat and unscrew the jar of vaseline,Marjorie’s dire warning about the onion soup bore impossible but lethal fruit.

Marjorie had not been entirely honest with her father about entering the kitchen.She hadn’t been in this morning,that much was true…but she had been in there most of the night.As it transpired,Marjorie had long ago learned how to pick the lock of the 2 foot thick solid oak door to her attic room,despite being sealed by one of her Grandmamma’s magical spells.

The object of her nocturnal jaunts had been the onions.

What she actually said to them is not known…nor would anybody want to know the exact details.Suffice it to say,as Marjorie Misnomer’s father,the former MP for St.Mary’s-Of-The-Cream-Bun-Up-The-Jam,Nemesis Misnomer,went to taste his onion soup,on which he had unwisely chosen to dine,he was rather alarmed to find the snack tasting him.

Unable to call for help as the soup ate his face,and dimly aware of a similar fate befalling the other guests,judging by the muffled screams,Nemesis looked wildly about for assistance.

His eyes found only Marjorie…his beautiful,loving,madder-than-a-cartload-of-arseholes daughter,sitting in the apple tree at the bottom of the garden,stroking a marrow and smiling.

The marrow,it was said,was also smiling….

Next part–Sheila Takes A Bow…