Will you send a dinghy, please?

I lost my house, I lost my job and they say bad things come in threes, so this week I have had my third dose of bad juju. As I wound my way merrily down the Job Centre last Wodan's Day I got a text off Ali asking if I was free for the next few weeks to go out to the Isle of Man to help supervise Liverpool University's field school there. He was down with a bad leg and wouldn't be able to complete his duty. I was in desperate need for work and enjoy field schools anyway, so I said yes, I would.

Then, the enormity of this undertaking struck me. I have lain awake every night since, feverish and gibbering, thinking of the horror that will face me on Man. You see, I have visited this blight struck isle once before. It was back as an undergraduate in 1999 that the entire year was taken on a four day field trip. It was under the guise of a learning experience, visiting the island's archaeological features, such as St Kevin's Stump and listening in vain as someone's presentation was drowned out by the howling gales. In reality it was mostly thirty odd students on a booze sodden rampage across the island. In the hotel we were not allowed to eat the regular guest's salad and had to make do with student salad, which was the regular salad left over from the day before. At breakfast we were served by waitresses with weeping sores on their arms and in the evening were entertained by 'Rita Rocks Gently'.

The luxurious Hotels of the Isle of Man

The highlight of the trip was upsetting Denny Egan with Douglas Peel, the dead jellyfish I found on Peel harbour beach. I had bagged Douglas to take him back to the hotel. my plan was to bring him back to life in a Frankenstein style experiment involving a bath full of water and a plugged in radio alarm clock. Unfortunately, Douglas was ejected by one of my fellow bus passengers and now resides in a shallow roadside grave somewhere on the interior of Man.

Awww, weren't we all so young then?

YES OF COURSE WE FUCKING WERE, IT'S THIRTEEN FUCKING YEARS AGO!!!

So what do we know about Man? I did a bit of research on the internetz and found this documentary:



What else do I know? I know that the inhabitants, Manners, have three legs and short tails and they all think they're Vikings. Each year, the Pagan tradition of Tynwald Day is celebrated. Here is another documentary I found about it:



I am going to be camping for the entire six weeks I am there, so lets hope that the weather remains as good as it has done so far this summer or this will be the scene on the campsite:



So if I survive the weather and the Manners trying to offer me up to their Crop Gods on Tynwald Day it should be a good trip.

The sign o' the times

It has been a while since I posted any of the text messages between myself and He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named, so here I present a few from the last couple of days:

6 June:

Him: How many chips do you think you've eaten in your life so far? Something for you to calculate while you sit around on your arse.

Me: I think it's somewhere around nine.

Him: Craig says you're lying to yourself. He says he knows for a fact because he's seen you eat more than nine.

Me: I said ABOUT nine. It might be a couple more.

Him: OK, that makes sense.

7th June:

Him: In this enlightened day and age, why are people still allowed to play bongos in public?

Me: I know. They need to be flogged in public.

Him: They need to be anally violated with their own bongos.

Me: And strangled.

10th June:

Him: Which do you like best, black metal or being bum fucked like a little bitch? I'm asking because I'm assuming you're familiar with both.

Me: Both equally, but I would prefer to watch you being burnt at the stake.

11th June:

Me: Would you prefer to be persecuted as a 17th century witch or a 20th century Jew?

Him: Not sure, I'll have to think about that one and get back to you.

Me: Don't take too long, I've got a bunch of people here who are getting pretty agitated.

Him: I'd rather be the witch, because then at least then I could use my magic to defend myself.

Me: OK, we have to decide whether to burn you, drown you or crush you under an oak door. I'll get back to you.

Him: I told you, I'm using my magic to defend myself by turning myself into a cat.

Me: No, you see, your magic doesn't really exist and you're just some lonely middle aged eccentric woman that the rest of the village have taken a dislike to. It's mob law and I can't do much about it, even though I'm the local Squire.

Him: Why are you such a dick even in hypothetical scenarios?

Me: You can't talk to me like that! I'm a Squire! No wonder you've got yourself into this situation. You've only got yourself to blame old woman.

Him: I'm gonna turn you into a newt, mother fucka.

Me: Your magic doesn't exist no matter how many magic mushrooms you take. How many fucking times?

Him: Then why the fuck are you threatening to burn me at the stake?

Me: It's the rule of the mob. As Squire I have to keep the village happy and they want to burn you. Or drown you or crush you under an oak door. I don't make the rules, I just abide by them.

Him: This is fucking bullshit, I want a lawyer.

Me: We burnt him last week. Someone said he was using magic to increase his cow herd's milk yield. I think it was just jealousy, but it's mob rule. 

Him: Soon the mob will turn on you. You realise that, don't you?

Me: No they won't. They love and obey their social betters. You do own a cat, don't you?

Him: No I don't own a cat.

Me: Hmm, that's a bit of a shame. It would have strengthened our case against you if you had a familiar. Never mind, there's probably loads of other stuff we can pin on you. I'm sure you'll have a wart somewhere.

Him: Is this how you spend your time now that you're on the dole? Persecuting innocent people?

Me: You're not innocent. You are a lonely middle aged eccentric woman who probably has a cat and a wart. You're banged to rights.

Him: I'm going to put a hex on your ass. I'm going to tell everyone that you made me use my powers on numerous occasions to deal with your chronic impotence.

Me: Your 'powers' don't exist and you won't be heard above the braying of the crowd. They can get pretty rowdy when they're mad!

Him: They're all a bunch of cunts and I hope they die of AIDS.

Me: At least they won't be burnt, drowned or crushed under an oak door while a braying crowd kill your cat. Anyway, I'm at the cinema now, so I've lost interest in you and your idiocy. OK BYE!

The Supermarket Out of Space Pt.3

Read part one HERE and part two HERE

Unencumbered by the present mental scars that now hang around my neck like millstones I was able to press on deeper into the shapeless maw of that nameless place. Eschewing a basket as I was unwilling to revisit the horror that had previously occurred, I scrambled as silently as I could deeper into the abyss over the broken and uneven floor. Passing through a waist high gate the merciless darkness enveloped me. Presently I felt formless protuberances pawing at me and I hurried along my rock strewn path. A strong smell of decay filled my senses as I groped along empty shelves hewn into the rock walls. I kept as noiseless as I could, not wishing to disturb whatever eldritch horrors lurked in these vile dank depths. My searching hand alighted on a pile of rotting vegetable matter and I retracted it quickly in disgust, gritting my teeth lest I allow another scream to emit from my mouth. With some mental strength I forced myself to return my hand to the loathsome pile and I groped about in that half-light until I grasped an object that I could not crush in my grip. The shape was a rough bulb with a tapered end, I knew this to be a familiar article and the normality seemingly out of place in this alien and incongruous landscape. Holding on to the bulb-shaped object tightly, as though dropping it would lose an aspect of normality and bring me to the darkest edge of insanity, I continued the task of searching for further vitals in the putrescent dark.

Presently my hand alighted upon a square shaped box. Again, the firm lines and symmetry of this new artefact seemed so out of place and incongruous in this multi-dimensional chasm that I presently occupied. A hunchbacked parody of humanity lurched from an unseen corner, the shapeless form stumbled over my leg and squirmed on the floor like a fish deprived of its usual habitat. My face was contorted in fear and disgust as I turned about in blind panic and retreated back the way I had come. In my unthinking rout I fell against a mountain of dented and rusty cans which came crashing to the grimy floor on contact with my fleeing body. The shattered silence was deafening and I fear it woke the very hounds of Hell themselves. In my fright I had dropped what little I had managed to gather and desperately groped on the unbalanced floor vainly trying to gather my belongings. As my search continued in desperation and frenetic crescendo I could hear the mindless flute music becoming louder. The growing noise unhinged me such that my rummaging became frantic as I failed to locate my produce amongst the dented cans. Whatever unnameable shambolic creature was playing the grim notes had been disturbed and was attracted to my position by the cacophony of the falling cans.

Louder and louder the whiny notes grew and as the lurking fear drew closer I realised the music was accompanied by chanting in some inhuman guttural tongue: 'IA SHOGGOTH! IA NYARLATHOTEP! IA YOG-SOTHOTH! IA FTAGN!' It seemed many mouth-less voices echoed the phrases, all the while growing louder and closer to my location. I was suddenly aware my face was wet from weeping with fear and my entire body was shaking in spasms that I was finding difficult to control, I could feel the rising bile of a deep and arcane horror advancing upon my position and knew I was unable to stop its extraterrestrial progress. Dizzy and half maddened I drew enough strength to stand and took faltering and stumbling steps towards a small crack of light which I perceived to be the exit of this damnable charnel pit. The chanting was by now unbearable and I could feel the presence of several unearthly beings reaching out and grasping for my frail human frame, but somehow, God be praised, I managed to keep running towards that vestige of safety offered by the light. Frenzied madness overcame me as my mind blurred and of the rest of my flight I have no memory.

This is how I was found, I have no recollection of any passing until I awoke three days later secured to a bed in this degenerate asylum. My doctor most sincerely assured me that I was later found wandering in the low afternoon sunlight, dressed in rags, filthy and bloody, babbling in an esoteric tongue not of this world. In my hands I gripped two objects which I would not be coaxed to release even with the strength of the strongest of the asylum's guards. Although there is no proof, I am convinced that it is these two objects which allowed me strength of mind to keep stumbling towards the exit, even with the creeping foetid breath of imminent infernal oblivion on my neck. These human touched articles gave me enough presence of mind to conjure a deep strength to see me blunder out of that yawning mystical tomb and back into our three dimensional human plane.

I held in my right hand an onion and in my left a quiche Lorraine.

The Supermarket Out of Space Pt.2

Read part one HERE

The festering bank of shops loomed ahead of me out of the mist like a row of ghoulish grinning faces beckoning me to my doom. This vista accompanied me as I began my search for a grocery in order to restock my now slender larder. The initial search concluded that this town appeared to consist only of money lenders and second hand stores. A sure indication that times were hard for the population, if indeed, they had ever been good. This conclusion was also easily reachable by examining the state of the crumbling and fading façades of the residencies here abouts. Once proud had this town been, but now left to ruination by some untold and ancient occurrence. Presently my searching carried me to the forecourt of a large and brooding building with what appeared to be heady, heathenish activity therein. Above the rusticated and putrefying frontage it bore a faded and peeling sign. Once bright green letters spelt out the word MORRISONS over a putrid and foetid yellow background. I fear that I have seen that particular rank shade of effervescent green before, although at the time I failed to make the connection. Yes, my now clear recollection is of the Satanic paintings of the mad Erich Zahn and the viscous green he used in his depictions of that accursed ancient Demon-God Cthulhu! Had I made that cerebral connection as I stood before that ingress I would never have stepped over that hexed threshold and I would not be in my present miserable state of mind.

But, step over it I did and it took no small amount of time to navigate unto the interior of that rotten edifice, that unscrupulous temple of depravity. The doorway, if indeed it may be called a doorway, was such that every angle looked wrong, as though a fourth, fifth and even sixth dimension were at play there. It was as though I was trying to step foot over a gate out of space, a portal beyond time. How I wish now that I had the wherewithal to stop myself from entering, before the malodorous events that took place inside had over come my weak and frail human mind. Man is always wise after the event and in this situation I am no different, but I know now what I didn't then and fate bore me away to my present state in this cold and dark asylum. Oh! You accursed Elder Beings! You Star-Spawn of Yuggoth! How I loathe Thee!

Inside the sepulchral edifice the light was low but I could make out shapes which I took to be human despite their appearance to the contrary, to have supposed otherwise would have only served to invite madness. Feeling along the edge of the graven wall I came upon a stack of metal baskets, the top one of which I grasped firmly with the aim of using it to load with groceries. Pulling it away from the tangle of similar objects I realised I was not the only one intending this basket for my own use. A second 'hand' pulled the basket stiffly away from me and I reached my other hand out to double my strength in this test of will-power and brute force. It is with retrospect that I wish I never had now, for my hand landed squarely upon the thing already gripping the handle of the basket. This episode replays in my mind during my sleep and I awake with screaming fits that are only calmed with a heavy dose of Laudanum. It was not a human hand that I felt but a slimy and glutinous tentacle like protuberance, dripping and oozing as only a cyclopean monstrosity could. I am ashamed to say I screamed and loosened my grip on the handle for which I had fought, this abhorrence had made me temporarily forget my normally placid state. In abject horror I shrank back against the wall and felt it better to let the repugnant nameless creature take its reward for whichever grim and festering end.

Calming myself somewhat, if one can truly be calm in such an alien and oppressive atmosphere, I regained a modicum of composure and recommenced my exploration of the cavernous edifice. The lack of light and dank conditions ensured that it was difficult to assess correctly but I thought it reasonable to suggest that this ancient carven structure extended several fathoms beyond the edge of my sight and I silently cursed myself for not having the forethought to bring a torch. With the fullness of time I am able to see that it would have been folly to have brought a flash-light to that encounter and I would have readily sunk into madness far quicker and deeper than I actually did had I the ability to see what awaited me in those pitiful depths.

A nauseating breeze blew through the place which carried with it the smell of a dank and dead sea and the faint sound of the lapping of waves from some unnameable and abominable ocean was to be heard. From deep within the bowels of the building I could hear faint and sinister music. Reedy and otherworldly it was similar to that same dread music which I had heard played on the Polynesian Island upon which I had been stationed back in '23. It was the same music in those foreboding months preceding the sea borne catastrophe when that elegant island sunk beneath the waves never to be seen again. Unknown star-borne forces were to be blamed for that engulfing and this ominous familiarity with such a heinous music made my entire body tremble uncontrollably from a nameless and dread fear.

To be continued...

The Supermarket Out of Space Pt.1

It is with great dismay that I I find myself encased within this foetid and dank cell deep within the foul corridors of York asylum. I have little recollection of the exact circumstances which led me to my current incarceration and even less knowledge of the foul language I was speaking when I was brought here. I have been told I was babbling some un-Godly discourse in the manner of a barbarian or tribal jungle dweller. During the course of my treatment my doctor happened to play me a recording of this loathsome patois, but even this did not jog my memory of me doing such a thing, nor unfurl from the darkest recesses of my mind an identification of this treacherous prose. Four months have I languished here in this harsh womb of concrete and slowly have I pieced together the final fatal moments before my complete mental break down in that nauseating chamber of untold horror.

I remember the lead up to the event clearly. Having recently given up my lodgings in the leafy and magisterial surrounds of Nicholas Gardens due to the sale of the rented accommodation in which I languished, I was forced by fiscal matters to move further out into the suburbs. My new abode was in the dead centre of the ancient hinterland of Acomb. As Innsmouth is to Newburyport, Acomb is to that fine city of Kings, York. The people of this place carry the 'Acomb' look. A distant view is held by their eyes, as though not looking directly at a person, but through them. A slouching manner is their countenance and a shuffled gait is not uncommon in a population so queer. One would be wise to avoid contact with these 'folk', their manner is gruff and sharp and their fists quick. The dwellings in the town themselves speak of evil, with permanently shuttered windows overlooking dank streets and gloomy alleys. Every other building is either in derelict condition or boarded up, a home only for rodentia and Irish vagrants. Amongst this scene of degradation feral children with wild eyes and slavering maws scream obscenities at passing gentle folk. Yes, Acomb can be called the pit of human despair as recalled by the Mad Arab in his hateful book, The Necronomicon.

So it was my fate to subsist in this accursed precinct. I spent the first two days unpacking my wretched belongings, mostly in an effort to ignore that malodorous community outside my mouldy windows. Busy and engrossed as I was with this task I failed to notice that my supplies had grown short and it was upon the morning of the third day that the slow aching realisation dawned on me that I would have to set foot outside to find further sustenance. Slowly opening the front door I saw that the sky above hung low and dark, like a filthy and greying blanket. No break in the clouds would allow for the sun to penetrate and it was with this framing that I took my first tentative steps towards the centre of the village and the boutiques that stood therein.

As I strode along the street to which my new abode belonged I could feel the filthy curtains in the windows on either side of me twitch as unseen shapeless faces peered and then disappeared behind their drapery shields. A cat-like creature mewled from some unseen location, I say cat-like for I have never heard such a noise come from a feline before. I looked in vain for the creature but saw nothing except what I can only describe as a fungus like mass disappearing behind an outhouse attached to one of the rickety slums which made up my neighbourhood. Shaken, but sure I was mistaken, I quickened my pace in order to put as much distance between myself and that formless horror I thought I had espied. It must have been lack of sleep playing tricks on my mind, I reasoned, but still I could not stop my brain from slowing my step.

To be continued...