Mysterious Footprints Found In Snow.

An hunter in North America claims to have found mysterious footprints that suggest that alongside the infamous 'Bigfoot', or 'Sasquatch' there exists another, possibly related creature, which he has dubbed 'Sasquitch' or 'Smallfoot'.

Carey Managua, of the top left-hand corner of America said,

"Ah found these here footprints whall ah was huntin' gerbils

 in the woods. They're a helluva lot smaller than them Bigfoot tracks, some of 'em bein' barely bigger than mah pinky finguh!'

Mr. Managua then showed us some poorly executed photographs that he claims to have saw, seen, um, sawn? (looked at).

When we pointed out that it seemed to us that it could instead be the slightly melted tracks of a medium-sized bird of the avian variety, he responded to our polite remarks by pulling a really quite alarmingly large semi-automatic weapon that bore a striking resemblance to a gun, and threatened to,

"Blow your goddamn limey heads off!"

We beat a hasty retreat, but managed to purloin the said photograph in the confusion.

We think that the picture will vindicate our sceptical response to the mad, trigger-happy halfwit's spurious claim.

 

The alleged 'Smallfoot' prints.

Severed Foot Mystery Partially Resolved

Police forensic experts in British Columbia have made a breakthrough in the case of a tide of severed feet washed up on the shore recently. They have managed to reunite a complete set for the first time, using DNA technology, even though the feet were discovered on two separate beaches almost nearly more than seven miles apart.

The three feet in question are the only remains of an apparently three-legged man who is believed to have had three legs. Thanks to the wonders of modern supposition, the unfortunate man is rumoured to have been named Jake, and to have been of Australian nationality.

Amazing Feets Of Strength

Clement Weidenfleischer of Schweinfurt, Germany, has entered the Guinness Book of World Records as being officially the man with the smelliest feet on the planet.

After a rigourous testing regime during which the world's most highly respected aromatologists assessed many hundreds of ripe pedestrians, Weidenfleischer stole the show.

Seven officials keeled over before even entering the test room, three vomited, and one tester who actually smelled his feet was overcome by fumes and is now permanently paralysed from the top of the head downwards.

And finally...

Bored scientists with too much money and time on their hands have come to the aid of the insect house at the Cotswold Wildlife Park at Burford, in Oxfordshire, England, just up the road there.

Keepers at the park were becoming increasingly worried about their Giant Centipede, Rodriguez.

Head-Keeper Harry Melons spoke to otherwise unoccupied local news reporters,

"He's an amazing fellow, and one of our star attractions. He's incredibly active and what with all his running about antics, his feet were getting all sore and blistered, but he just wouldn't slow down!", laughed Melons.

So what did the scientists come up with by way of solution to this podiatric problem?

"They used their extensive knowledge of new fangled technology to make him some rather fetching miniature running shoes. He's really taken to them, there's no stopping him these days! His feet are fine now. Better still, they fitted them with velcro straps, so there are no annoying laces for him to do up!"

It's amazing what they can do these days, isn't it?

Many thanks to our roving reporters: Cecil Vessel, Hermione Cabbage, Terry Bendable and Borax Sideboard-Tortoise III Jnr.

A team of scientists in Tokyo have created the world's most expensive robot, according to our source at The Dog & Gun saloon bar in the High Street.

The scientists, working at the Tokyo Institute of Technology have spent the last five years perfecting the machine, said Steve 'Winky' Isham, local plasterer and son of his parents.

"They reckon it's cost in the region of six and a half billion Yen, or roughly forty million of your British Earth Pounds Sterling."

We spoke to Tetsuo Iwakura , the leader of the project to beg the question,

"So what have you been up to lately, and how's it going?"

He didn't actually speak English, so through a translator we managed to garner these barely interesting facts:-

-It are robot, very clever.

-Speak, also chess play good.

-Electric man use plenty home, walk and sit down.

-Make, eat and serve in kitchen time saved.

After we had fired our translator, we found another, English speaking scientist. He told us,

"We have invented this robot."

And what can it do? we asked,

"It is a robot."

Yes, we know that, we agreed, but asked if the robot has any practical applications, such as helping puppies across the road or walking old ladies.

Could it, for instance be used to do things that an human person may find too dangerous, or indeed that they are too indolent to do for themselves?

"It can walk up stairs.", they replied.

Yes, very interesting. Can it also walk downstairs?

"........................Yes."

Can it though?

".............It.......can fall down stairs..."

Surely that's not much use?

"It..looks cool!?", they retorted.

So, are we to assume that the Institute has spent £40,000,000 on a robot that can walk up stairs, fall down them, talk, serve drinks and nibbles, then play a frankly pointless board game? After all, we're sure that most people have at least one notoriously flaky relative who can fulfill a similar role at a fraction of the cost.

Isn't it just a waste of money?

"But it is a robot.", they reiterated.

"It looks cool."

Quite.

An eminent geneticist has discovered that the average modern westerner shares at least 100% of their DNA with a vegetable!, or to be more precise, the humble Aubergine.

We were shocked by this revelation, and we decided to investigate.

We spent literally five whole minutes Googling, and came up with the interesting facts that the Aubergine (Latin name Solanum Melogena ) which is also known in America as the Eggplant (Tsk! I don't know, they always have to be different, don't they? Just look away, they're only after attention!), is closely related to the Tomato and the Potato.

We also discovered that they are those big purple things that they put in Moussaka.

This posed yet more puzzling questions. How can a vegetable be almost genetically identical to an human being?

As our brains started to virtually bleed from the effort of grappling with this conundrum, we decided that it was time to get the real story straight from the horse's mouth, as it were. 

We didn't actually get it from a horse's mouth you understand, that's just a figure of speech.

No, instead we turned to the geneticist who himself had made these bold claims himself............himself.  

None other than Dr. Werner Humboldt. BBFC. Aa. P45.

We asked Dr. Humboldt to reveal the 'science' behind his seemingly outlandish theory.

"Vot's to explain? Eet's a simple fact! After all, Aubergines are humans too, vy should zey not haff ze full compliment off human genes?!"

Did Dr. Humboldt seriously expect us to believe that human beings have evolved from plants, and not apes as we had previously have come to have been told?

"Vot are you talking about?!!"

At this point we sighed heavily and tried to put it another, more simple way.

Was it true to say that he, Dr. Werner Humboldt had indeed claimed that he, the rest of us and HRH Elizabeth II  aka 'The Queen', were in actual and very real fact related to Aubergines in a genetic manner?

"Vot?!! I don't?.............ABORIGINES!! Dummkopf!! Aborigines!! Now get out und stop vasting my time!!!"

It now seems that a small error was made in this report due to a typographical error made, not by me I hasten to add, but by Mr. Kevin Legbente, our alleged editor.

Named & shamed Kevin, named & shamed!! Yes, you know who you are. Did you hear that, Kevin Legbente? Shame on you!!!

Normal service will now be assumed............

News has just come in to the Fortean Tim office that NASA scientists examining data from the Phoenix Mars lander have made some startling new discovery, or something.

I spoke personally to NASA scientist Chuck Stayke, to find out about what they found out about what it's all about.

Chuck, what's it all about?

"What?..........Oh, the lander?!"

Mmm.

"You see Tim, it's like

 this. When we were analysing some images taken by the lander while it was collecting soil samples, we discovered incontrovertible evidence that there is no intelligent life on Mars."

So you claim that you have absolute proof that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, there is no life on Mars -That's official?

"Whoa! Hold your horses there, Tim! I didn't say there wasn't any life! Just no intelligent life."

?

"There may well be life on Mars, we don't know that yet. But if there is, it's definitely not intelligent."

But how can you be so sure?

"Take a look at the picture, Tim."

Oh, ah............................I see. Well thankyou. There we have it, conclusive proof that there is no intelligent life on Mars, and precious little on Earth.

This has been me, Fortean Tim, doing words.

A recent study published by the Faculty of Blindingly Obvious Research at Mandelbrot University in Didcot, England, has revealed that a seemingly harmless pastime engaged in by millions of animal lovers across the globe could have previously unforeseen fatal consequences.

Ever since a nearly publicised incident in 2002, the 3  person team of top scientists, led by Prof. Barry Harrington have been toiling away until almost lunchtime  every single Wednesday to discover the cause of the calamity.

Harrington attempted to explain to us what happened in layman's terms, so that some of our more mentally challenged readers may stand some small chance of understanding,

"Old lady die." He said, making rudimentary mimes and gestures with his surprisingly smooth and well manicured hands.

"Look at picture, head go boom. No more lady." He added.

We explained that mayhaps this explanation could possibly be misconstrued as an example of dumbing down taken a tad too far.

"Terribly sorry," Prof. Harrington continued,

"Please let me rephrase that. In 2002, Miss Lettie Mavvit, a spinster from Byfleet, was found deaded in her home. When police entered her semi-attached  nine up, one down house, they discovered a scene of carnage that would have made even the sternest of heartless sociopaths feel mildly queasy."

So what, approximately, did they find?

"I've got some photos in my wallet, if you want a look?"

We politely declined Harrington's offer, and turned instead to Inspector Victor Vector, of 'The Police'.

Inspector Vector was the officer in charge of the investigation into the untimely death of Miss Mavvit at the time after which it was when was it were she were dead...Ahem.......sorry, I'll try that again.

Inspector Vector was the officer in charge of the death of Miss Mavvit. Oh God! That sounds even worse!!!!  Look, can we just cut that bit and try again?

We asked Inspector Vector what happened on that fateful day. There, that's better!

"Well, when we entered the aforementioned lady's residence, we found that she previously imploded."

Imploded?

"Yas. The body of the deceased was surrounded by scrapbooks full of pictures and newspaper clippin's of cute and often fluffy animules. All the doors and windows was locked from the h'inside, so we was slightly mystified."

We returned once more to Mandelbrot University, to see if the team could shed some light on this macabre story. We spoke this time to Miss Terri Cauler, one of Prof. Harrington's research assistants. Could she tell us what on earth happened to make Miss Mavvit implode in such an inexplicable yet quite interesting way?

"Did Barry show you his photos?", she enquired.

We explained that he had indeed offered, however we had declined as we had recently eaten.

Miss Cauler replied, whilst rummaging through a draw,

"I'm sure I've got copies in here somewhere, they're great! We all got reprints done."

We informed Miss Cauler that we would prefer to hear about the research the team had done into the case, and the cause of this terrible phenomenon.

"Well, after mooching about on the internet for a bit, we realised that there were literally quite a lot of news stories from all over the world, hidden away on the front pages of major daily newspapers. We gathered them all together and began to see a pattern."

She then continued,

"When we cross-referenced all of the data, we found that every single victim was inordinately interested in nature, and particularly cute fluffy little baby animals. They all were in possession of numerous images in their homes of diverse species, but with a preponderance of kittens, often playing with balls of wool, puppies lolloping in an old boot in an enchantingly innocent manner. Lambs, piglets, meerkats and ducklings also featured heavily in their collections."

Just then, another member of the team piped up. It was Christopher P. Ducke, who told us,

"We actually discovered that all of the victims suffered from a disorder that we call 'Obsessively Gushing Sentimentality Disorder', or OGSD. Nobody had ever heard of it before, let alone described it's symptoms."

Is that because you made it up?

"Erm,..yes."

So what are the so-called 'symptoms' of this purported 'disorder'?

"In controlled experiments we showed a number of test subjects a series of images of animals generally considered to be cute, ranging from a tiny dormouse right up to a tottering baby elephant. We then recorded their responses to these pictures."

And?

"They mostly went all dewy-eyed, clasped their hands together and said 'Awww, bless!' "

And did any of the test subjects implode?

"No. But they were all quite young. It is apparent, well to us anyway, that in those with OGSD the symptoms worsen with age, and may not reach danger levels until at least the mid-fifties. This would explain the vast amounts of sickeningly trite ephemera hoarded by victims."

Is there anything that can be done to protect the general public from falling prey to this serious, yet slightly pathetic condition? We tried to ask someone or other from the Government, but they were unavailable to actually do the job that they get paid for, so we asked a complete stranger instead. He said,

"You see, what with the internet, calendars, greetings cards and 'now finally' local television news items, it wouldn't really be feasible to impose a blanket ban on all images of cute animals.

I suppose we could put health warnings on them, but personally I would be in favour of a worldwide cull on cute wildlife, and if my idea were to be taken up by the relevant authorities I should like to volunteer to help out. Honestly, I've got my own baseball bat and everything! I'd be only too happy to oblige!!"

Mad words indeed from a man who cares.

Another Back-of-the-newspaper Doodle...

Fortean Tim is taking a bit long this week, so here is a pic while I keep you waiting!

During recent storms off the Cornish coast, a scarcely remembered legend has once again reared it's vaguely predictable spooky head. This rugged seashore has always borne a reputation for smuggling and rum behaviour of varying descriptions.  The tale in question concerns one Captain Anton Neele, Master of the ship, 'The Strolling Belgian'. A ten gun sloop, 'The Strolling Belgian' plagued the shipping routes off Falmouth for almost four years. (I know, it doesn't sound very much, but I assure you they were long, long years full of hardship and toil and depravity and all that, so let's just leave it at that, shall we?) 

Captain Neele was born to a Mother, and very possibly a Father in 1681, in Helston.  Not much else is known about his early life, which is actually quite convenient as it means we can leave that bit out.

He was a harsh and cruel pirate with scant regard for Health & Safety regulations.

Never one to suffer fools, or indeed anyone, he was often found flogging an errant crew-member morning, noon and night, and often at weekends too.  Not even Bank Holidays could quench his fearsome desire for discipline and loyalty.

Neele's reign of terror lasted but a short time between 1714 and 1718, when he was finally brought to book, not by the authorities, but by another pirate, William Quelch-known as 'Plaidbeard The Pirate'.

Quelch had grown weary of the continual boasting of Neele.

Neele had variously claimed to have 'The Key to Davey Jones' Locker', fought 'The Mighty Kraken.', and 'a small holiday cottage on The Isle of Barra, overlooking the sea, and within easy walking distance of many convenient local amenities and tourist attractions.'

In a final, bloody battle, the 'Strolling Belgian' was sunk with all hands, and possibly some legs and feet too by Plaidbeard's vastly superior 26 gun, 3 lavatory schooner 'The Saucy Nigel'.

As Neele's ship slowly succumbed to the wet, icy metaphor of the cruel, heartless and frankly not very nice sea, he cursed Quelch and vowed to seek him out from beyond his watery grave and exact a quite unprintable revenge upon him.

It is said that every time since that day that there is a particularly convenient storm a'brewin', that the ghostly image of Neele's ship do rise from the waters with a terrible creakin' and a groanin' and a howlin' that would curdle the clotted cream on the bravest of scones!

We asked local fisherman Tom Laudable if he had heard the legend of 'The Strolling Belgian'?

"Yer." He said.

And had Mr. Laudable ever actually seen the ghostly ship?

"Nope."

So what did he think fuelled this enduring legend amongst the Cornish people?

"If you ask me, theym's all a bit soft in the head." He divulged.

"Either that, or theym's bin at the rum rather too much."

Wise words, from an old man who catches fish.

A retired cinematographer has finally put to rest a widely held, and misguided belief about the migrational behaviour of a well- known creature. For years it has been received wisdom that during periodical population explosions, mass herds of migrating Lemons would commit suicide by hurling themselves from Norwegian cliffs, thus committing themselves to a watery grave.

However, the recently published memoirs of renowned nature film maker Clement Weissacher have debunked this erroneous concept.

In this written account of his nearly interesting life, Weissacher claims that a 1958 'film' with which it was what he was involved in, was not - as producer Wilt Dasney maintained - "An absolutely true and accurate depiction of the life-cycle of the Lemon, that isn't faked in any way whatsoever, honest. Really, really."

Instead, Weissacher reveals that the filming of this famous natural history feature, 'What Wilderness?', actually took place in Alberta, Canada, and not in fact in Norway as it seemed in the film.

"It was completely made up!" says Clement.

"We didn't even have access to masses of Lemons," he said,

"We were only given about seven.  We had to use some pretty creative camera angles to make that one work, I can tell you!"

So, how did they manage to make it look like there were vast herds/flocks/droves, or whatever it is a large amount of Lemons are called, launching themselves off the Fjords?

"We had about nine cameramen filming in extreme close-up, and had to just sort of splice it all together. I must admit, although it was hard work, it did look kind of cool in the end."

So how did Weissacher achieve the notoriously climactic cliff-jumping sequence?

"Well, we knew we'd only have one chance to make the footage once they went over the edge, so we set up about forty or so cameras all at different angles-remember we only had seven Lemons- so it was critical that we made that shot in one take."

How did they get the Lemons to perform on cue, after all they are wild animals with little discipline or common courtesy?

"Well, there was a lot of waiting around.  At first they just milled about a bit, grazing and mating and stuff.  Then, after about six hours or so we were getting kind of fed up with it, so we sort of pushed them off with a broom."

So how did they get away with it?  When any half-intelligent person looks in any depth at this story it seems preposterous and falls apart like a cheap shirt made from damp tissues, in it's falsehood.

For a start, Lemons are not even a native species to Norway, let alone Alberta!  They don't herd, and aren't even mammals! And.....erm...............................oh.

This is an editorial announcement:

We are sorry to tell you that our correspondent for this item has obviously made a critical error in his report that was supposed to be about 'LEMMINGS!', Nigel. 'LEMMINGS!!'

Therefore we would be grateful if you would kindly disregard all of the above.  We would also like to assure you that the offending reporter has been taken out and humanely destroyed.

We attempted to contact Wilt Dasney for his thoughts, but sadly he was unavailable for comment, due to prior death.

For years we have all accepted that cardboard boxes are an essential feature of modern life.

Mainly used for storing or transporting various items, they have become intertwined into virtually some of our everyday activities.

Until now, it was widely believed that cardboard boxes were merely a commercial commodity constructed from processed wood pulp.  However, documents recently made public under the Freedom of Information Act reveal an altogether more sinister story.

The top secret government papers reveal that the state-controlled box industry is based on the wholesale slaughter of an innocent, and to most, unknown species of animal.

It is a fact that will be shocking to some, that cardboard boxes are in fact made from cured animal hides.

The strange cuboid creatures were first described by the eminent explorer Hermann Mermann in 1863, during his never remembered expedition to the Yearyte Islands, in the sea.

Bringing home several specimens, it was immediately apparent  to Mermann that he could make himself a fortune by tapping into this abundant natural resource.  Mermann proceeded to set up a vast captive breeding programme in Britain.  Once he had amply swelled the number of his stock, he set about the slaughter of the peaceful creatures, using their left-over innards to manufacture cheap sausages.  He then dried and cured their hides to produce handy containers.

But why was this kept such a secret?

We asked Timberley Farmer, curator of the Clarkson Collection of Archives That No-one Else Has Any Interest In Whatsoever.

"I think that the government of the day, for whatever reason, just thought that the general public at the time, being a bit thick, simply weren't ready to know where their sausages and boxes came from."

She added,  "Even now, some people don't readily like to admit that the boxes that they quite happily used until a few weeks ago are in fact the hollow dried corpses of blameless creatures cruelly exploited by a cynical civilisation .  Some people are switching to alternatives such as plastic, but I can see a looming storage crisis in the near future, as people's ethics collide with expediency solutions for stopping stuff laying about."

The question that worried us, meantime was, "Are sausages still made from cardboard guts?"

Tom Aplomb, of  'The Government' was unavailable for comment, but his Aunt Edith said,

"Only budget sausages, not the good ones."

One man though, is determined to turn the tide on this tale of exploitation.

Tenniel Lambast quit the big time in the city to devote his time and energy to the preservation of these gentle creatures on his 400 acre box sanctuary somewhere in the Outer Hebrides.

The exact location is a closely guarded secret, but Tenniel invited us to take a look around.

"They're such gentle creatures." He explained.

"I can't see why anyone would ever want to hurt them."

They certainly are impressive beasts.  We observed a huge herd grazing, and were forced to ask an obvious question.  "How do they get about?"

After all, they are cubes with no legs or obvious appendages.

"They just roll over." Laughed Tenniel.

"It's quite good, as they can go in any direction. Forwards, backwards, sideways.  They're really very adaptable!" Gushed Mr. Lambast.

It has to be said that the herds of rolling boxes make an attractive and postcard worthy sight, with their pleasant green colouring which is cruelly leached from their cold, dead skin during the curing process, leaving them a pale buff imitation of their former selves.  Yet will this shocking revelation force a re-think of the world's storage solutions?  Will we see an end to cardboard boxes and cheap sausages?

The final word goes to Roger Flebbing, an innocent passer-by and serial shop-user,

"I doubt it!" He claimed.

Not Guilty!

Never one to be outdone by his older brother, my youngest son asked me to post his sketch of Mr.T!

Perhaps I should give them their own blogs, then they can stop pestering me to put stuff on mine!

(Though I just realised that means I'll be maintaining 3 blogs! Aaaargh!! Just hope the Missus doesn't want one as well!) : o

Since November 3rd 1938, when the Jemlyn family fled their ancestral pile in Warwickshire amid mysterious circumstances, Marsell Castle had lain empty and derelict.

Until 2003, when multi-billionaire Osmek Karbalukimanibalinskirinskaminsk bought the freehold to this dilapidated ruin, intent on transforming it into a luxury residence for himself, his wives, extended family and numerous well-to-do hangers-on and renowned toadies.

All well and good, you may posit.

Yet the new residents hadn't reckoned on an ancient curse placed upon the estate following an hideous event in 1489.

Had the Karbalukimanibalinskirinskaminks bothered to integrate themselves into local village life, then they would almost certainly have known of the legend of ' The Manless Horse Head.'

In 1487, Emlyn Jemlyn, a wealthy landowner, found favour with King Henry VII after holding his coat at The Battle Of Bosworth Field, which earned him the noble title of  'Ye Goode Blowke

That Didst Looke Aftere Mine Coate.'

Never one to pass up an opportunity, Emlyn Jemlyn proceeded to take advantage of this Royal endorsement in order to increase his wealth, and his standing in courtly society.

However, time would see Jemlyn abuse his noble position and upset one of the King's favourite knights, Sir Feit of Onyunze, who challenged Jemlyn in mortal combat. The two men faced each other at dawn, mounted on their finest steeds.  Sir Feit stood proud on his horse, 'Pansy', ready to defend his honour, and that of his King and country.  Jemlyn faced him on his own fine mount, 'Malcolm'.  As the charge started in the cold October air, steam blew from the nostrils of the mighty horses as they thundered towards eachother, their riders bent on who knows what?, revenge, honour, sadism, fame, chocolate?  As they closed on one another, Sir Feit swung his huge sword at Jemlyn who, craven scoundrel that he was, ducked at the last second.  The blow instead took Malcolm's head clean off.  Appalled at his terrible mistake, as he was rather fond of horses, Sir Feit dismounted to attend to the poor creature.  As the cowardly Jemlyn slunk away, Sir Feit cursed him for the lily-livered milquetoast that he undoubtedly was. It was said thereafter that the unearthly spectre of Malcolm's head could be seen roaming the Jemlyn estate in search of his former master to exact it's horrible revenge.  Emlyn Jemlyn  himself died an ignominious death when he was thrashed within an inch of his life after relieving himself on a Bishop after a week long drinking spree. He would have survived, but unfortunately the inch was on the wrong side. Almost nothing is known of the Jemlyn family in the intervening period, until 1938, when police found the housekeeper of Marsell Castle, Miss Barbara Marber wandering in the road babbling inanely.  When they investigated  the castle, it was completely deserted, yet nothing had been disturbed and the breakfast was still on the dining table half-eaten.  No trace of the Jemlyns was ever found, and Miss Marber never recovered, dying in an institution in 1957. Marsell Castle spent the next 65 years a boarded up shell until it's 5 year multi-million pound restoration was completed earlier this year.  However, no sooner had the Karbalukimanibalinskirinskaminsks moved in, than they began to witness strange phenomena.

"It was the children who noticed it first." they agreed. 

"At first we are thinking they are just having the strange dreams as a result of settling in to new surroundings, but then we are starting to hear the noises."

The family went on to explain that at first they were aware of the sound of distant hooves and the odd bit of neighing, but thought it was from a nearby stables.

It was only when their staff started to resign in droves that they realised that something was very amiss.  It was only on the 3rd of May, after sleeping fitfully that Mrs. Karbalukimanibalinskirinskaminsk decided to get herself a glass of water.  As she returned to her bedroom, she was confronted on the landing by an hideous apparition.  She still cannot bring herself to describe it, but her husband told us,  "She scream and is dropping the glass of water, so I am rushing out onto the landing to see what is up."

So, did he see it too?

"For sure! I see it as clear as what it is that I am being here now talking with you." He said. 

And what was this supernatural vision?

"It was being the horse head, not the horse, just his head. I am telling you he is not looking like the happy horse.  He is having the glowing red eyes, steamy nostril and the blood dripping from the neck. I see his teeth and they gnash. He also is having the frothies from his mouth."

So, what happened next?

"I am so scary, I am, how you say, rooting on the spot? But the horse is not move.  He is just look me up and down, then making the whinny and go away through the window."

Did anyone else in the castle see the ghoul again?

"No way! We are out of there like the shootings, still in the night clothes. We are not going back since."

So what will the family do now?

"We are stay in the hotel until we can sell the castle. My wife, she don't got any of the nerves left."

Surely it's going to be difficult to sell such a property in the current economic climate, even without the gruesome heritage that Marsell Castle bears?

We spoke to Dave Payving from Tyrde & DeMochanelle estate agents,

"Obviously things are a bit slow at the moment, but I'm confident that we can close a deal on this property."

Even with it's gruesome history?

"Oh yeah! Obviously we won't tell the client it's haunted."

You won't?

"No, it might put them off.  Obviously we'll tell them if they ask."

You really think someone will buy it?

"Oh yeah, some idiot will stump up the readies!...erm, you're not going to print that bit, are you?"

A Monday Bonus Picture, Just For You.

This is a picture I did last week as a piece of seasonal 'fan art', to impress my good friend Sherief Hassan over at puffinclubarchive.blogspot.com , who is doing sterling work restoring old Puffin Club ephemera. Go and check it out, whether an old Puffineer or not, it's a treat to see the work of Jill McDonald. There's also some cracking Quentin Blake work on there too!  I should point out that the Puffin Club and associated characters are the copyright of Penguin Books, just to be on the safe side! : )

And Finally For Today-A Little Doodle.

Wind Of The Week.

sirocco n, pl siroccos. a hot, oppressive and often dusty wind usually occurring in spring, beginning in N Africa and reaching S Europe. ORIG C17: from It., from Ar. sharq east wind.

I was going to do flatulence, but I thought that was too much of a cheap laugh!

Work-shy Alan Bendicote was the latest addition to the unemployment figures yesterday after his exasperated employers were forced to dismiss him from his post as a Flange Technician in a cracker factory. It is believed that Bendicote, or “Bendy” as his colleagues unaffectionately knew him, may hold the record for the greatest number of spurious excuses for absence since records began in 

1947. His latest excuse for being six weeks late back from a family holiday in Scotland, was that he got his head stuck.

"When he  phoned to tell us he had got his head stuck,” said Bendicote's line-manager Roger Lamprey, “We assumed that he meant in some railings, or a small gap or something.  But when he finally came back, he claimed that he had actually got his head stuck in Scotland itself!”

Lamprey added, “I know it's a small country, and I've never actually been there myself, but I would imagine that it would be pretty hard to get your head stuck in it.  All the photos I've ever seen seem to portray wild open countryside

and mountains, which is what made me suspicious of his explanation.  So I referred him to the Manager.”

And what did the Manager of Cranborne's Comestible Co. Mr. Duncan Biscuits make of this strange claim?

"At first I wasn't sure, as I also have never visited Scotland myself, but there was something about his story that didn't quite ring true.  We've had problems with this chap before, so I decided to err on the side of caution and bring him into the office to have it out with him.”

And what did he say?

"He claimed that he was crossing the border back into England and his head simply got stuck.”

"In Scotland?”

"Yes, so he couldn't get back in time for work.  I asked why it had taken six weeks to get him out, and he blamed the language barrier.  He said the Scottish firemen couldn't understand what he was saying.”

So did Mr. Biscuits believe this story.?

"Well, no.  That's why I sacked him.”

Mr. Bendicote has had a long history of such behaviour.  In 1989 he was fired from a job at The Ministry of Carpet Relations, after claiming 6 months of sick pay for an accident suffered while on a Beef-Tasting holiday in Argentina.  When he finally returned to his post 3 years later, his legs had miraculously grown back. On another occasion, Bendicote failed to return from a weekend in Clacton without informing his employer.  When he finally turned up after several weeks, he informed his boss that his mother had died and he had been arranging the funeral.  It was only when his boss asked, “What, again?”, 

that he realised he had used this excuse three times before.  He was dismissed on the spot.

We asked for an interview with the inveterate slacker, but he hasn't turned up yet.

Mr.Teacup.

Don't even ask!

My son made me promise to post this. We had a lovely time yesterday, playing exquisite corpses, and also I would do a partial sketch, and the boys would finish them. This is one of the results!

Wold Of The Week.

Countryside n a rural area or its population.

Well that's what it says in my dictionary, though I've never heard the population of a rural area referred to as 'The countryside'?!

Residents of Romford, Essex were surprised last Tuesday evening to see a fleet of U.F.O.s hovering over the town. Strange shimmering lights were seen floating above South Street at about 10:30pm.  Several local residents were interviewed at the scene.  One of them, local Roof-Worrier Kevin Bevin said,"It was about 11 O'clock, and we'd just come aht of The Old Oak when Vinnie looks up and says, 'Ere wass 'at?' and sorta points at the sky. When I looks up, there's hundreds of 'em sorta just floatin' abaht 'n' stuff.” And what did Mr. Bevin make of this strange sight? "Dunno mate, I was too pissed to care, so I went for a kebab.”Another passer-by, Hayley Bailey (24) was slightly more concerned, "Like, I'd just come out the club, right? and my mate there, Minga, said, right? 'What the **** is that?' and I said like, whatchoo talking abaht? Then I looked up an saw all these fings floatin' around and I fort it wos aliens or summink.  It wos, like, really scary and that.” A barely more coherent account was provided by 72 year old Mrs. Phylis Willis. "Well, I was just about to get onto the bus after finishing my Tae Kwon Do lesson, when I saw a group of people looking up. I asked a young lady what was going on, and she said something about strange lights glittering in the sky, but if you ask me, she was probably a bit worse for wear.”

So did Mrs. Willis not see the mysterious lights? "No dear, I didn't 'ave me specs on.” was her telling reply. 

"I believe this to be a further example of covert M.O.D. test flights of secret military aircraft.”, said Charles Farles, local conspiracy theorist and probable loony. "The authorities are clearly using reverse engineering to build up a fleet of flying saucers.” He said. Unfortunately, the excitement was short-lived, as the mystery was solved shortly later after it had already earlier have began. In actual fact, the strange craft the witnesses saw, were nothing more than some stray ladies undergarments! A nearby ladies hosiery manufacturers, Tolley & Fumbler, had been loading a lorry with spangly, sparkly, and even glittery party-style panty-hose onto a delivery truck at their nearby depot, when gale-force winds plucked the ladies requisites from the hands of the staff, and proceeded to whisk them up into the air. Ken Blenn, the delivery driver, remembers it all too clearly." One minute they was in me 'ands, and the next, wooof! They was gorn!”

An inquiry has been launched into how this was allowed to happen, and the results will be frankly pointless.

Word Of The Whelk.

Mollusc or US Mollusk n any of various invertebrates having a soft unsegmented body and often a shell, secreted by a fold of skin (the mantle). The group includes gastropods (slugs, snails, etc.), bivalves (clams, mussels, etc.) , and cephalopods (squid, octopuses, etc. )  ORIG via NL from L molluscus, from mollis soft.

Ding Dang Doodle.

Another brief sketch from the back of my newspaper, only for YOU.

A 20 year old from Groningen has entered the Guinness Book of World Records as the feeblest man on earth, after failing to fight his way out of a paper bag, Dutch newspaper, de Volkskrant reported yesterday. The attempt was prompted when a drunken bet was made between Martin Van Driever and his friend Theo Koeken at a cheese festival.  Koeken, 23, claimed that his friend was so physically deficient that he “Couldn't even fight his way out of a paper bag.”  Spurred on by this rash challenge, Van Driever proceeded to climb into a large brown paper bag to prove his friend wrong. However, after 3 hours, Van Driever had still not managed to extricate himself from his papery bondage.

“Even I didn't think it would take him that long, so I phoned the guys from The Guinness Book of Records to see if we could get him in there.” said Koeken.

By the time they had arrived, witnesses had already sprayed the paper bag with water to try and give Van Driever an advantage, but in the end he was forced to admit defeat.  One observer noted, “That guy put up quite a fight.  He was thrashing about in there for about 16 hours in the end like a landed fish, but he still couldn't get out.”

Eventually the unfortunate man had to be torn from the bag, bedraggled and exhausted.

“I guess Theo was right after all, so now I owe him a beer, as a bet is a bet!”

Koeken finally added, with his arm around his pal, “He's a real good sport, and although I won the bet, he's won a place in the record books!”

Les Foulkes (32), a fence-leaner from Carlisle, Cumbria, was alarmed when after collecting his photos from the developers, he noticed something a bit rum in one of the pictures.  According to Les, “I had kept the photos on my camera for quite a while, as I only get them printed when it's full up. But when I looked at them I saw something that struck me as being a bit odd.”

Les showed the photos to other family members and work colleagues, and they all agreed that they could see a strange shadowy figure lurking in the bushes.

"There was definitely no-one there at the time. We had just gone for a stroll in the garden, and I thought I'd take a photo. When you look at it, and possibly turn it round a bit, and squint, it looks a bit like there's a big hairy man lurking in the bushes. Some people say that it's an optical illusion, but it's as plain as day to me.”

So what, or who does Les think this dark entity is?

"I couldn't say for sure. Perhaps it's the Devil, or a ghost, I just don't know. We're considering moving house, because my wife is irrational with imagined fear.”

Does Les not think he may have just fallen prey to the propensity of the human mind to seek anthropomorphic patterns in inanimate objects in order to find some sense of control over a world that is at best uncontrollable, and at worst really quite scary?

His telling reply gives us food for thought.

"What?” said Les.

Word of the Weak...

feeble  adj  1 lacking in physical or mental strength. 2 unconvincing: feeble excuses.  3 easily influenced.  ORIG- From OF feble, fleible, from L flebilis to be lamented, from flere to weep. (Yes, I know I haven't had time to work out all the accenty doo-dah guff out yet!!!)

Shrewsbury Police were baffled yesterday, when local resident Trevor Clements literally exploded with rage.  After a difficult day in which he spilt his tea down his trousers, got a parking ticket, and was also cut up by an inconsiderate motorist, Clements, 34, decided to have a walk in the park to calm himself down.  Unfortunately a passing bird, probably a pigeon, made it's mess down his suit. This was the final straw for Clements. Witnesses say that he stood up from the bench where he had been sitting and proceeded to shake his fists at the sky, while screaming obscenities at some unseen entity, possibly God.  After his tirade, witnesses, including old folks and young mothers claim that “He went bright red, and then his head literally exploded”.

"It was very messy.”, said Eileen Watts, 73.

He started shouting, and then his head just sort of popped.  Poor thing.  Of course, it's the children I feel sorry for.  They shouldn't have to see that.”

Mary Carey, a 27 year old mother of children added,

"It was horrible. I had just bought the kids ice creams when it happened. There was so much blood in the end, that I couldn't tell what was blood and what was strawberry syrup. I had to throw the ice creams in the bin.  The kids were so disappointed.”

So why was this allowed to happen? Why didn't anyone do anything to stop this man exploding his head all over pensioners and children's ice creams?

Eileen Watts has an idea.

"They ought to be locked up.”, she was heard to wibble.

Spook!

Just a sketch I did yesterday.

A New York man, infamous for his madcap stunts is planning to break a world record next week when he hurls himself about in a giant purpose built drum.  Using the huge device-reminiscent of a massive washing machine- Lemuel Spandex will attempt to break every single bone in his body. At a press conference the crazy fall guy said, “Countless stuntmen have, over the years, claimed to have broken every single bone in their body.  The thing is, they only break one or two at a time.  What I'm planning to do with the help of this device here, is to break all my bones at once.” 

The drum, once started will gradually increase in speed until it reaches a maximum of 3000 rpm.  Spandex's body will be hurled about like a child's limp sock, or an old man's pants being buffeted and slammed into the metal walls of his gargantuan 'Scary-Go-Round'.  There were many questions from concerned journalists.  One asked, “Isn't it a bit dangerous?”, to which Spandex nonchalantly replied, “Hell yes.” He went on to explain, “People just don't realise how hard it is to achieve. The biggest problem is how to break the bones of my inner ear. Those fellers are pretty hard to get at!”  So how will he get around that?  “My technicians have designed a special mp3 player to play death metal at 30,000 decibels, so that should help.”

One final questioner inquired, “Do you not think this is really quite an insanely hazardous thing to do?”  Spandex's reply was a simple, “Yes Ma'am.” 

But you're not worried?”

"Hell, no.”

"But you might die.”

To a hushed room, the simple reply of the frankly bonkers Lemuel Spandex was, “I hadn't thought of that.”