Pools, Paws and Plugs

I have come to realise that I do not have a huge pool of friends, but it is my opinion that the ones I have are of a particularly good quality.

My pool of friends wouldn't be obnoxiously huge, but it would be unexpectedly deep, in order to allow for indoor scuba. The water would be heated to an optimal temperature to allow relaxation, and it was also have a jacuzzi bit and a wave pool and a slide and a diving board and water polo net and coins by the side so you can throw them in and go diving for them, and inflatables to have a play with as well, and a pulpit or a pedestal in the middle so I could put a book or a laptop there without it getting wet or esploded.

I bought a new toothbrush today, so I felt that I needed to be childish to balance out the act of mature administrative tedium.

I realised that while I thought I must have the best friends in the world that can't possibly be true, because my friends have me in their circle of friends, which automatically elevates their pool of friends to the highest level as I am the best person ever. And Facebook Best Listener 2009.

When in work today, a small girl walked into the centre. She was around 8'10", sorry, she was around 8-10 years old. She was incredibly slight, and slightly old fashioned and shy, wearing a thin shirt and a long skirt, but finishing off this look with adult sized winter gloves. The contrast of the very thin girl and the overlarge handwear amused me. She looked like a scarecrow with bushes for hands. Also reminded me vaguely of Vivi from off've the Final Fantasy IX.

Not saying she was a black mage or anything, if she was I would have put her in the ducking stool what we've got in the kitchen.

I am not really able to end my week on a driving story, because I don't have one. Nothing of note happened to me on my siwrnai.

I have to write jokes for tomorrow now so leave me alone for a bit, okay?

You can hear them on the www.rhonddaradio.com tomorrow somewhere between 1200 and 1500 hours GMT, which is when I, along with my compacretriot Davyth will be broadcasting our gush.

We will hear you there. Or vice versa.

acrecomedy@gmail.com or @adamgilder if you have any requests or messages for us.

www.theacre.net

My Life in Car Journeys (Little Ones)

I got in my car, pulled out of my parking spot and I was instantly stuck behind a sheep.

Now, I am a firm believer that the road is not a suitable location for a sheep, I would argue that the mountain or, ideally, a field would be a nonpareil setting for them. But contrary to popular belief, they won't listen. Sheep are the go-to animal when attempting to characterise someone as a mindless follower through the specific use of animal comparison. This sheep was indeed an idiot, and was very slow in yielding right of way to me, daredevilishly slow when considering I had the whirring engine of my fierce Fiesta to assert my dominance with.

I think we should fit cars in rural areas with huge chomping maws with which to butcher wandering animals. I feel this will eventually breed a mistrust of cars in the beasts, and they'll stay out of my way. It would be useful to create a device which can convert lamb into power, as this will offer yet another cheaper and greener alternative to traditional fossil fuel.

More flashing light antics on the way home again, this time a police car had pulled over a large white transit van. This had helpfully played out in a stretch of road where two lanes merge into one, causing confusion and brouhaha. As I drove past my head was filled with the voices of The Trap, cacophonously shrieking "fooching ewwh, ichs thuh fooching filfth!" in grotesquely over-egged Liverpudlian accents. And I was amused.

I also came level with a learner driver at a roundabout, he/she was going straight on, whilst I was turning right. It was a short lived romance however, as I pulled assuredly and safely onto the roundabout, and he/she floundered nervously at the junction. I swelled with a bloated sense of my own road competence, but I have since come to rue the loss of a romance that could have been.

I also saw girls (ACTUAL ONES!) in long socks and short skirts on my drive home, and that really hammered home quiet how much of a lecherous oik I am/can be. I then came home and had a jam sandwich. Mmmm. On both counts.

*****

P.S. TextEdit repeatedly replaced 'oik' with 'irk', which is ironic as I was indeed irked by the end of it, and I feel that automatic correction is an oik, and incredibly detrimental to creative writing. Such as the bit where I phonetically attempted 'Fucking hell, it's the fucking filth!'.

Creative, odd and/or archaic language is hugely important to me. The ladies love archaic language as well. At least those were the particulars bequothed unto mineself.

Ambulation

More tales from the dashboard today. Once again, this comes from driving home from work.

It seems the most excitement, or at least out of the ordinary activity, in my day stems from unusual nighttime behaviour from the drivers of Wales.

There lies an 40 em pee aitch zone just out of the gates from whither I work, this is a different zone from the last entry, just so people don't think I am obsessed with zones where the speed limit is 40 miles an hour. This isn't the case. Anyone spreading such untruth about me is fabricating it and furthermore, is clearly a buffoon.

Temporary traffic lights had been set up in this zone, as They are tearing up one lane of the road for their nefarious ends, They know who They are. I'm talking to you, Local Council. I assume that's who is in charge of repairing the roads. I could be wildly naive in my understanding of road-repairing. In fact, I most certainly am wildly naive in my understanding of Government at every level. I watch The Thick of It for the dynamic camerawork.

Back to the traffic lights; temporary.

I drove towards them in my car, and they were on green, so I deduced, thanks to my knowledge and experience of UK driving rules, that it was okay for me go straight through. Moreover, it would not only be 'OK', but any other action apart from driving through would provoke aggravation from other road-users. I was most definitely in the right, is my point.

A rather sharp turn follows the traffic lights; temporary, and I crested the corner gracefully, with a steady hand, and true steering. Imagine the vibrant disquiet that took hold of me as my eyes were filled with a vision of a wayward ambulance, converging upon my bonnet like a meteor towards a Victorian gentlewoman. So reckless was the decision of the ambulanceteers to plough down a one lane road against a red light, I would describe their motion with the verb; 'to careen'. Ambulances shouldn't careen. If they were, they would be called Careenbulances. You're right, they wouldn't. Careenmobile?

So how did I avert catastrophe and make base safely enough in condition to write this missive to the world.

Well, some would say that I was driving sensibly enough that I was able to reverse at a brisk yet safe and steady pace and avoid the mass of the rampaging ambulance. Rampagebulance.

However, here is the truth of the matter.

I reacted instantly to the dreadful vision, activating the Incorporeal Mode on my Boeing SevenFordFiesta, rendering my vehicle, and myself, ethereal, passing through the charging health-unit without suffering any physical contact. As the cockpits of our two vehicles came level, I dislodged myself from the intangibility process, and once again became Incarnate. I used the momentum I had built up, and sailed just over the driver's head, performing a nimble and concise flip as I did so, allowing me to grab hold of the driver's ears and send him in a gargantuan piledriver down the length of the ambulance.

The driver landed sickeningly in a heap at the far end of the vehicle, limbs splintering out from her torso like a deformed pine cone.

Ironically she had landed on one of the medical pallets set up in the back, although the irony was lost on all as the now-driverless ambulance sped over the lip of a sheer drop, sending the helpless crew into a fatal nosedive.

I once again became impalpable, rising gently through the roof and hovering calmly in the still evening air, high above the vehicular pogrom below, which was quickly setting the surrounding greenery into a vivid blazing torment.

Women drivers, eh?

Hazardous

On the way home from work today in my car I was much perturbed by an happenstance which took place before me.

There was a car in front of me, and another in front of that, but the crux of this tale focuses not on these, but on the vehicle just in front of them.

I could not see the colour nor the variety of this car, as it was dark already by this point, nor am I able to discern the details merely from its shape, as cars really are not my area of expertise nor interest.

The car in question was driving in an aggravating manner, and the specific area of driving in which it was aggravating was in the area of its speed. It was going at the wrong speed. We (the drivers and the cars) were in a zone which had been decreed by the government as a 40 miles per hour zone. This means that you are able to drive at that agreed speed in this area, and no higher. Of course, it is completely legally acceptable to drive at a slower pace, although it is generally frowned upon by red-blooded drivers. And also horned upon.

The car in question was driving at around 10 miles per hour lower than the highest point of allowed speed, clocking in at around 30 miles per hour. I felt that this was slightly too fast to be genuinely annoying, and yet not fast enough for me to feel the benefit of the 40 zone, which I was using in order to minimise the time it would take me to get home.

It was too fast to briskly and comfortably overtake the car, especially with the bulk of traffic coming the other way, it would have been too dangerous a manoeuvre to attempt, especially bearing in mind that my car is not the Batmobile, nor the car used by Inspector Gadget. The Gadgetmobile?

More distressing than this, however, was the insistence of the car to drive with its hazard lights flashing. This confused me, as the car was still moving steadily, and yet it was proudly broadcasting the fact that it was a hazard. I wondered whether the car was towing the one behind it, and indicating this with its hazards. No, it was not. It was merely, in a subtle, undetectable way, being hazardous. We approached a junction, and I turned off the road and went over a bridge (always lovely) rather than trailing behind the hazardous car on the new road. This detour surely added precious seconds to my journey, and unquestionably resulted in the death of at least two seals. Which I now must wipe off my bumper.

The feeling I experienced in reaction to this hazard-car was not annoyance, or anger. It was far from road rage. It was more an illogical, deeply rooted unease, a feeling that something is intrinsically but indefinably wrong, such as when the volume on my radio is on an odd number rather than an even number.

This was mean't to be an examination of how little events can affect you in strange ways, but nothing of note happened on the alternative route home. Perhaps if I'd followed the car with its hazards on, or the Duke of Hazards which I am not calling it, I would have been killed in a huge towering blaze started when their hazard lights got really hot and did an explosion, transforming the reasonably paced car into a coasting fireball.

Probably all that would have happened is I would have gotten home and written a slightly different blog.

Sometimes, a butterfly in flaps its wings on the other side of the world, and all that happens is it gets caught in a butterfly hunter's net. That's right, hunter.

Although sometimes a butterfly flaps its wings on the other side of the world and is struck by a nuclear blast, and we all know what happens in that instance.

Journal of Cannonby: Tiiru Mosura

Here at Provoking the Idea Dragon we like to bring you last week's Cannonby, today!

And so I do.

The script was read/played by:

Bevan: Me

Boris: Dafydd Evans

Narrator: Me

Cannonby: Ultra V

Spider: Ultra V

*****

Journal: The Remarkable Doings of Cannonby

Tiiru~ Mosura! Tiiru~ Mosura-yo!

BEVAN: Well that was an impractical palaver and no mistake.

BORIS: I hope I never have to go through such a fatal folderol again.

BEVAN: It was a phenomenal spectacle though, the likes of which this lagoon won't see again.

BORIS: Well, after the state the spider and the godzillapilla were left in after the thrashing they had from Teal, it'd be a miracle if they ever work in this town again.

BEVAN: Yes, it was quite the drubbing.

BORIS: So harsh was the ass-kicking, it would have made Kefka wince.

BEVAN: The sort of massacre that would make Sephiroth blush.

BORIS: It would've made Ultimecia pout.

BEVAN: It would've made Kuja and Garland break down and weep.

BORIS: The sort of bum-tanning that would shame Sin.

BEVAN: It was carnage that would have made Gabranth spit up his dinner.

BORIS: Of course, we can't continue with this string of comparisons that express how horrified various baddies from Final Fantasy games would be, because we've run out of Final Fantasies...

BEVAN: Well, unless it's pushed back again, Final Fantasy 13 will be out in the near future, so we're sure to return to FF based references, as the person who writes this story…

BORIS: Captain Cannonby…

BEVAN: Yes, because our dear Captain Cannonby absolutely loves his J-RPGs, he is a glutton for their shiny evil.

BORIS: Well as much as I look forward to that, I am still filled with a deep regret that the listeners couldn't be there for the battle, it would have been such a wonderful scene to have done.

Narrator

Boris and Bevan lie exhausted on the shoreline, the sanguinary carnage of what remains of the battle splintered around them. Now that his hit points have been reduced to zero, the godzillapilla has reverted to his basic katanapillar form, indicating that his evolution process is more like digimon than pokemon. During the battle, Teal managed to hit the big 'S' emblem on the spider's belt, like with the putty patrol off the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, do you remember that?, and all his legs came off and he died. Teal remains suspended gracefully in the evening sky, cradling Bludonna in his strong manly arms and doing figures of eight just to show off…

BORIS: (interrupting) Hay! What are you doing interrupting mid-flow, where the huff have you been? You have started every single Cannonby since it was founded way back in 2009, and now you have broke the sequence by being late!

Narrator

Well I was busy with other commitments Boris. Good gush! I narrate other things swell.

BORIS: Like what?

Narrator

Documentaries and stuff.

BORIS: What about Attenborough?

Narrator

He's really old now. If other people don't take over some of the work he's be inundated and drown in the flood of wildlife footage. I'm going to move the story on now if that's okay with you. (composes himself) Cannonby and ZX Ilfracombe…

BORIS: (interrupting) No it's not okay, I want to know what else you do…

Narrator

(insistent) Cannonby and ZX Ilfracombe

BORIS: What else do you?

Narrator

Cannonby and Ilfracombe

BORIS: What do?

Narrator

CANNONBY AND ILFRACOMBE! (breathing heavily)

(LEAVE AWKWARD GAP WHERE NARRATOR IS JUST BREATHING HEAVILY AND FUMING)

BORIS: What about them?

Narrator

*sigh* They have been freed from the lagoon using Teal Mothra's laser-face abilities and they are now making their way back to Boris and Bevan.

CNBY: What in the name of gush happened there? I was knocked out on a sticky web, surrounded by electronic eels!

BORIS: Well you've answered your own question there Captain.

CNBY: Don't chat back Boris, while I may be suffering from a serious concussion, I'm not concussed you know.

BEVAN: What?

CNBY: Well I am glad we're all back together again at long last! Even though it would have been but a moment for me since I was unconscious.

BORIS: Very astute of you Captain.

BEVAN: Why hasn't ZX said anything?

CNBY: He is clearly concussed!

BEVAN: You have become concussion obsessed.

CNBY: Concussobsessed!? There is no such word. Stop being such a stupid superstitious supercilious sausage!

BEVAN: Okey doke, sorry Captain.

CNBY: Hahaha! Fresh horses! Wait a minute, what's that in the sky? Is it a bird? Am I insane? NO!

BORIS: It's Teal Mothra.

CNBY: Teal. Mothra. Both of these words, separately I understand. Put them together and what do you got? Bippety bobbety boo!

BEVAN: Teal evolved into Teal Mothra, Captain.

CNBY: Like on Pokemon?

BEVAN: We are hoping it'll be more like Digimon really, where his wings'll disappear when he calms down. It'll just be more practical for the story.

CNBY: (sighing) Teal Mothra, eh? I am asleep for a few minutes...

BEVAN: (interrupting) It's more like a month when read out on the radio...

BORIS: And even longer if they are podcast listeners…

CNBY: And this is what's become of my story. A mass of niche gaming references, ridiculous morphing and evolution, and constant, weak self-reference. The Tales of Cannonby are better than this!

BEVAN: That is basically how it was before you were knocked out, Captain.

CNBY: Oh yes, I remember now. I must have been slightly concussed.

BORIS: Erm, I don't mean to interrupt but I think Teal's lost his wings. He's plummeting rapidly towards the tree-line.

CNBY: What a tool, I always told him, glide before you can fly Teal, but he wouldn't listen. He has a strong independent streak does that man. Pity he has to share it with an octnarwhal pup and a moth.

BEVAN: He seems to have landed far off, otherwise we'd have heard the crashing of trees and the snapping of branches etcetera.

BORIS: Yep, we'll have to go look for him, there are many dangers in this forest.

CNBY: Nonsense! I'm sure the forest is harmless. Let's go, ADVENTURE!

Narrator

Cannonby, with his Wolverine-like healing ability, is already back on his tootsies and ploughing onward into danger. The troupe turn and instantly resume their journey, as they head back into the forest to search for the crater which will contain Teal and Bludonna. What possible dangers…

BORIS: (interrupting) Oho! So you've got the time to do the conclusion link then have you?

Narrator

Look will please stop interrupting, Boris? It is very unprofessional of you.

BORIS: Well I think you should be fired. They like the Agian Spider more than they like you. I think he should do the intro and outro from now on!

Narrator

Don't be so ridiculous. He is dead.

SPID: Oho! But we don't want to give you that! Can you beat the eggheads? Come and see next week! If you were a type of Tales, what kind of Tales would you Cannonbwy?

*****

There you go. Hope you like it.

Here's a question for you, is 'fausty' a real word?

Get in touch: acrecomedy@gmail.com or @adamgilder.

Cheers.

Journal of Cannonby: TEAL MOTHRA!

A shorter Cannonby this week because I was drunk when I wrote it. I was attempting to make a retro Japanese ani-song style theme for Teal Mothra using an Apple-based loop-using audio program, but I failed magnificently. You can hear what I did instead on the podcast (http://www.theacre.net/The_ACRE/Podcast/Podcast.html) eventually.

The script was read/played by:

Narrator: Me

Boris: Dafydd Evans

Bevan: Me

American Narrator: Me

Teal: Dafydd Evans.

*****

Journal: The Remarkable Doings of Cannonby

TEAL MOTHRA!

Narrator

Caught in a titanic struggle, not the film, the Agian Spider grapples with the newly evolved Godzillapilla, who is, true to his representation in the films, crushing the surrounding woodland. This would be all fine and dandy, had the feckless Bludonna Snow not decided to climb up to the highest tree in the area in a cockamamie attempt to unleash her deadly sky-based attack, The Club from Abub. The gargantuan battle has toppled the tree, sending Bludonna hurtling through the darkening sky...

BORIS: (in slow motion until it says to stop) Nooooo, Bludonna!

BEVAN: Oh poop hoops! She's going to be crushed on impact if someone doesn't intervene!

BORIS: It seems like everything is in slow motion, and yet I still cannot do anything.

BEVAN: It is in slow motion to up the drama, and also to push the climactic events further back into the episode so that we don't climax too soon dramatically.

BORIS: I would highlight the crude double entendre in that sentence, specifically referring to how you must be familiar with climaxing too soon dramatically, but in the current Bludonna-based crisis I feel that would be highly inappropriate.

BEVAN: Well judged Boris, there's nothing like crude innuendo and double entendre to really undermine the tragedy of a person's last moments on earth.

BORIS: Wait, something's missing, wasn't Stephen Teal's cocoon glowing with an inner phosphorescence at the end of last week?

BEVAN: (returning to normal speed) Your right. (cheesily) Wooooow! It has started again… The cocoon, it is glowing with an inner phosphorescence!

BORIS: I am blinded by it's phosphorocity!

BEVAN: Well while that isn't a word it's hardly the time to pick up on that. Is the cocoon, hatching!?

BORIS: IT CERTAINLY IS!

BEVAN: OH DEAR HEAVENS, THAT IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING I HAVE EVER SEEN.

BORIS: I can't find the words to describe the scene of utter beautification that has exploded in my face.

BEVAN: I equally am unable to convey the unique and beatific beauty that has blasted the balls of my eyes.

BORIS: If only there was a dramatic technique we could use, as a radio play, in order to better describe the situation.

BEVAN: Yes, if only.

Narrator

*cough* Um, sorry, are you referring to me, the narrator?

BORIS: Yes that is exactly what we were referring to!

Narrator

Oh, sorry about that boys. Well, erm, how to describe it? It's like a giant oh, (muttering/stumbling) sorry, I can't do it. It's sort of like a cross between a rainbow and a sunburst in your soul. Is that good enough?

BORIS: (frustrated) I don't know why we bother. A rainbow and a sunburst in your soul, you ponce.

BEVAN: Wait, what's that!? In the sky!

BORIS: Is it a man?

BEVAN: It is an octnarwhal pup for a headed man?

BORIS: Is it a… moth?

American Narrator

Zoom, whoosh, bang! Kapow! Arcing across the sky like a fluttering bullet wobbling toward an open flame, the newborn heroic monster for justice, TEAL MOTHRA! Half Stephen Teal, half Octnarwhal pup for a head, half giant fictional moth monster, no one can stop his mighty power! The body of a man, an octnarwhal pup for a head, a moths wings on his back, and the inexplicable power to shoot lasers from his face. Zap. The arc of his flight takes him whizzing like a whizzing thing to the falling body of Bludonna Snow, catching her like someone who is good at catching would catch something, and lowering her gently to the ground like someone who could lower things really gently would lower her. He then kicks off the floor and rises into the twilight, not the book, skies, and turns to face the monsters, who stand bewildered. His eyes narrow like in a cowboy movie, and he says:

TEAL:

Narrator

Some monsters are guaranteed to get whooped, in the next instalment of Cannonby!

*****

Have to go and write tomorrow's now. Oh dear.

Listen in: www.rhonddaradio.com - 12-3 tomorrow.

Or if you can't be there, it'll all get podcasted eventually. So get involved all up in that.

Cheers.

Gilder

acrecomedy@gmail.com

@adamgilder