In related news, my 1,400 page magnum-humpus, The Insatiable Necrophilic Blood Lusts of Saint Teresa of Ávila,¹ should be in the shops in time for Christmas. Perfect stocking filler…if you've got a stocking the size of a bin bag and some extremely broad-minded relatives. Slurp!

In not-so-related news, the event of the season – the 4th annual Manky Toy Show – is almost upon us. Every year I ask for donations to the cause. And every year you let me down – like the disorganised horde of doe-eyed bastards that you are. So this year, please shovel your X-Factor addicted arses off the couch, go to your nearest emporium of 2 Euro tat, pop said tat in an envelope, and address said envelope to me.² Your offerings will be discussed – in wild, unscripted, and thrillingly live fashion – on the night itself. It's a kind of immortality.

1. It's got a bit of everything. Mysticism, boobs, zombies, charming period detail. [back]
2. Address available on request [back]

"Rose Petals and Horse Dumps"

Part 1

The woods were particularly lovely that day. That summer’s day. As Eileen Battersby strolled, contemplatively, through them. She was (today, as everyday) a messy-looking, plaid-shirt-clad woman. The kind of messy-looking, plaid-shirt-clad woman who could service an automobile single-handed in a few hours. Before rewiring an entire house in an evening.

Though the woods were (as previously mentioned) lovely, her mood, on this summer’s day (as she walked through the woods), was sombre. “You know”, she mused, “I can’t imagine that my skills – in the areas of house rewiring and single-evening automobile servicing – will ever compensate, in the relationship stakes, for a lack of physical allure. Libraries of scientific data exist confirming exactly that. How unfair life sometimes is – how rotten!”.

A squirrel dashed past on the path (through the woods) before her, dragging an inflamed penis along the twiggy ground. Nearby, a pigeon rutted the carcass of a dead tree. Overhead a dragonfly masturbated on a bee. Male creatures all, whose chemical response to sexual stimuli (unseen by Eileen, but surely present) was at the core of their various beings.

She shivered (though the woods were lovely that day), pulled her plaid shirt tighter about her, closed her eyes, and focused on the voice penetrating her ears (through the miracle of a portable audio tape player). It was that wonderful (obviously hugely intellectual) voice of all the Harry Potter audio tapes – pouring mellifluously into her cochlea and coating her auditory nerves like a lovely melted Werther’s Original. Yum.

Her eyes fluttered open…and she saw him. Up ahead on the path, shadowed by the o‘erhanging trees. A man? Yes. A dishevelled eccentric man? Yes. A man incapable of changing a plug and given to wearing odd socks? Quite possibly. A man, she estimated, of between five and six foot in height. To her left a hedgehog grunted in sexual ecstasy. And she pressed on.

1. Via Facebook: "LEGAL TENDER CHALLENGE: maybe won't trade joyless boom boom for floral arrangements and chick-flick DVDs but will trade one real dollar for some Eileen Battersby slash. C'mon, you know you want to". [back]

I shall treasure it always.

A quick explanatory note on “slash fiction” (in case anyone’s rigid sense of moral propriety makes them unfamiliar with the term). “Slash fiction” – which first appeared in its contemporary form in the 1970s – was (and is) amateur, not for profit, fan-made-fiction (often written by women incidentally): focusing on romantic/erotic relationships between same-sex fictional characters. The original (and most important) of these pairings being Star Trek’s Jim Kirk & Mr. Spock.

And to set the mood I’ve got a tasteful fan-produced slide of them to show you…

There they are – relaxing and luxuriating in a nice bubble bath, in front of a gorgeous backdrop of airbrushed gas clouds, stars and swirling nebulae. By the way, if you’re thinking that this represents a twisted, perverted and wholly re-imagined version of the Kirk/Spock dynamic then you’ve obviously never seen the show or subsequent films. Slash fiction writers (and artists) weren’t inventing subtexts, they were accurately representing the text.

Here’s another…

…where they’re both manacled and topless in a prison cell – having just been brutally tortured and whipped. By Nazis. Amazingly enough, that one’s actually real.

Now, Trek creator Gene Rodenberry, may have intended the relationship to epitomise some kind of 23rd century Platonic ideal of male love (and it’s certainly moving on that level): but in giving Spock so much Vulcan restraint and stiff-upper-lippiness, he (perhaps accidentally) created a pulsating Costume Drama style vibe. As in most costume dramas, unarticulated passions heave and seethe just below the surface – held (just about) in check by Spock’s Vulcan cool and their mutual professional obligations (this is, after all, a workplace romance).

Unlike most costume dramas, one half of the couple (namely, Spock) suffers from the Vulcan affliction of Pon Farr, which means he has to mate once every seven years or else he’ll actually die. Talk about pressure. So even if they never actually shared a sensual cosmic bath together (onscreen at least): every loaded look, and potent touch, and awkward (pregnant with meaning) silence suggests that they definitely both considered it.

Anyway, where once such tales were distributed through hand-stapled and crudely photocopied fanzines – they’ve now, unsurprisingly, found a perfect and sympathetic home on the internet. Expanding and exploding online to include not just slash tales of same-sex encounters – but heterosexual, bisexual, pansexual and (somewhat alarmingly) interspecies ones as well.

Not all fictional universes, however, are evenly or equally represented. Over on the indispensable adultfanfiction.net, for example, the clear market leaders (with thousands of tales devoted to each of them) are Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Lord of the Rings, and (slightly upsettingly) Harry Potter.

The convention is for each story to synopsise itself through a use of codes indicating the relevant genders involved and themes explored. Here’s one perplexing – and mildly terrifying – example of said codes taken from a Buffy story called “My Own Demons”.

Obviously, there’ll be a few even the most chaste of you will recognise there: Anal, Oral, Trans, Bond and…um…Other¹ – but unless you’re a particularly open-minded crowd, I’d wager that the bulk are unknown, and possibly unknowable. I’m not sure man (or woman…or other) was ever meant to know the meaning of HJ. Or AU/AR. Or UST, WAFF, WIP and Yuri. It’s like trying to fathom a mind-bogglingly complex equation, cataloguing the inner workings of outré human passions and sexual depravities. Stare at it long enough and you might just go mad.

Go down through the code-heavy lists on adultfanfiction.net and you’ll soon find yourself venturing into fringe and niche waters. Who’d have thought, for example, that Black Books could produce 10 texts? Or that Greatest American Hero would warrant 7? Or that Jurassic Park might spawn 11? – one of which (by noted author “bighardwang”) tells the alarming tale of how the…

“Professor dude who gets eaten in a bathroom finds a really pretty dinosaur before he gets eaten”.

Then there’s Dawn of the Dead’s six pieces (with one featuring the immortal line: “The zombie squeezed his balls between its gripping fingers”), Captain Scarlet’s one (wherein Captain Scarlet touchingly admits to his beloved Captain Blue: “I may be indestructible…but my heart isn't”), a lone Goonies story (I didn’t dare look) and two on…um…Schindler’s List.

Keep probing and exploring, and still weirder treats make themselves known.

Serving the deranged Mechanophile, or obsessive Top Gear follower (who foams at the mouth at the thought of polished chrome and thrusting pistons) is the surprisingly popular Transformers category. Which contains, to my human eyes at least, some of the least erotically-charged prose ever dreamt up by the human imagination. A few choice examples:

“The port was still dry, indicating that he wasn’t aroused. This made it a difficult situation since inserting his transfer into an unaroused mech would not be pleasurable for either one of them.”

“Slowly, Prime began to move his hip servos. Arching up against Soundwave…His aft port became slicker…”

Further down the rabbit hole of bonkers-ness are two understandably neglected categories – serving and servicing the proclivities of, I’m not sure who or what exactly. Exploring, in unflinching furry detail, the “erotic” adventures of Care Bears and My Little Ponies.

First up is the delightful “Belle of the Ball Until Dawn Comes…” the lone tale in the My Little Pony archives. Although…one My Little Pony story is still one more My Little Pony story than one might expect to find.

Here we’re invited to experience, with slack-jawed and agog faces, an account of a night of passion between Star Catcher and Twinkle Twirl.

That’s Twinkle Twirl there on the left, and the rearing and magnificent Star Catcher on the right. After an enchanting ball in magical Ponyland they tenderly get down to business.

"Star Catcher?" Twinkle Twirl whispered, shaking a little from the newness of things. She was aware that he had taken off her skirt and she was a little shy.

Now, I freely admit, I’m no My Little Pony expert, but I wasn’t aware they wore skirts. I guess without something to remove there’s less of an erotic frisson. As my father always says: If you want to eroticise animals, put clothes on them. Naked animals are, simply, animals. You wouldn’t want to bang a duck unless it had a pair of pants you could whip off.

Back to the story…

"Close your eyes… It'll be more pleasant that way. Relax and breath deeply of the cool night air", Star Cathcher instructed Twinkle Twirl as she complied. He began to massage her neck muscles softly… allowing her to loosen up as he went along. "How does it feel?" he queried.

"Heavenly…" Twinkle almost purred, except that ponies don't purr.

You have to give the author props for self-correction there. Instead of anticipating objections about the outrageousness of the material, he/she imagines incredulous readers saying: “Look, we can suspend our disbelief and buy all that stuff about magical equine fucking in a colourful fairyland, but purring ponies! Come on! That’s ludicrous!”.

Moving to the climax…

"Star Catcher!" She breathed. "HARDER!" She panted in a breathy equine sort of way, shivering.

He thrust into her harder still, gasping as he did.. IN and OUT…. in and out… back and forth… faster and faster… "Oh! TWINKLE!" He called out heavily. "Twinkle Twirl… you're wonderful…!!!!!"

I should point out that “you’re wonderful” is followed by no fewer than five exclamation marks² – so I fear my drab delivery isn’t really doing justice to Star Catcher’s punctuated enthusiasm.

We'll finish with “Morning Reflections” – a surprisingly affecting and sensitive Care Bear tale from the sex-mind of “Mana Angel”. Here are the relevant couple…

Proud Heart Cat there on the left, and the angst-ridden/sexually-repressed Brave Heart Lion on the right.

Brave Heart Lion knew about sex, of course…but he hadn't heard about it from his cubhood guardians, True Heart and Noble Heart. He supposed they figured it was a non-issue with them being what they were. But when he was younger, he had discovered by accident that when he touched a certain part of his body a certain way, good feelings resulted from it. Because of the private nature of that body part and those feelings, he had kept it to himself, but he had always wondered why. Then, one day, he had caught himself staring at Proud Heart Cat, and he’d almost had a serious social disaster when his penis began to swell. He had excused himself from tummy symbol practice,³ saying he didn't feel well, and walked towards his home with his hands folded in front of him to hide his condition. How embarrassing!

We meet him again, a little later, after a moment of painful intimacy…

Proud Heart had touched his most secret place, where her paw encountered nothing but silky fur. Their genitals were always masked by their fur, and for the males, their penises were hidden in a sheath; you'd never know they were anatomically correct…but they were.

Audience members of a certain vintage will undoubtedly remember the scandal and outrage caused by Kenner Toy’s 1982 range of anatomically correct Care Bears. If you cuddled them but a little they’d chuckle and lecture you on the merits of sharing. If you cuddled them a lot a fur-lined phallus would unsheathe itself, creep out, and poke you in the belly.

Moving on and wrapping up…it’s later still and Brave Heart Lion is shampooing his mane in the shower.

His balls drew up close to his body, and he emitted a roar as he ejaculated. He had the sense to aim for the drain as his penis spasmed and his testicles emptied themselves of his seed…

He felt awful. It was a dull, hollow pain in his chest, as if he had committed some grievous sin. His member had shrunken and retreated to the safety and obscurity of its sheath. He sighed, shut off the water, and dried himself off. It was late enough as it is, and he still had to eat before he left the house. He pushed his guilt away, and went down to raid his fridge. It was his secret. No one would ever know.

Now, Brave Heart may only be a Care Bear, or a Care Lion (or whatever), with a jolly red heart adorning his chest – but that’s one of the most eloquent and heart-rending articulations of pubescent masturbatory guilt I’ve ever read.

Though I can’t quite relate to the mane, and the silky fur, and the sheathed cock – I can readily identity with the shame and the emptiness of covert, feverish wanking in the shower. Not only that, but when I was 13 I regularly brought myself to orgasm by humping a Masters of the Universe bean-bag (while dreaming of the Cadbury’s Caramel Bunny), so I retain a certain warm and fuzzy nostalgia for eroticised cartoon universes.

So, in conclusion, while there’s not much in the way of sexy pleasure to be had from the boggle-eyed reading of these tales – they do serve a purpose: namely, to remind us (in brain-scalding terms) of the rich, mad, endlessly perplexing tapestry of human sexualities. On adultfanfiction.net and its sister sites, nobody’s really a weirdo…because (of course) everybody is.

1. Catch all term there [back]
2. Bit of a redundant point in print, but there you go. [back]
3. I don’t know what that is, but it sounds hilarious. [back]

Blogging is, as we all know, dead. Deeeaaaddddddd! Face-down dead in a pool of digital sick. Chunks of spewed code coating the virtual bathroom floor. A trail of "1s" and "0s" dribbling out its nose. Yuck.

Shocked & surprised? I thought you might be. So I'll repeat it.

Blogging isn't dead. Hang on…that came out a bit wrong. Well, it's one or the other. Or both. Or neither. Hmmm.

Anyway, if you fancy a spot of doomed and frenzied partying aboard a (possibly) sinking ship, then head to Connacht on the 27th of March. There you will find the last ever Irish Blog Awards (rust-covered, barnacle-encrusted, and leaking its final drops of oil) chugging sadly into Galway docks.

Go here to nominate your faves – from the mouldering ranks of the undead.

Virtual awards time! The inaugural Clanging Gongs of Doom show starts here and starts now. Or, actually, in a little while. Have to go change a nappy. Back in a bit.

Ok. Nuclear bum waste disposed of. And I didn't get no shit on me tux neither. Let's get to it.

1) The "Ah crap…I'm genuinely upset that this relatively famous person has died" Clanging Gong of Doom for 2009 goes to…

Dan O'Bannon

2009 – that rabid devourer of life and livelihood – has (in its final days) claimed another victim. Into its gaping (frost-bitten) maw has tumbled a "genre" hero. A titan of B-Culture. *sniff*

While most obits (such as there are) have focused on the John Carpenter connection (Dark Star) or the begetting role he played in Alien, comparatively few have made much mention of what is (for me) his magnum opus.

Baby-watching detail doesn't allow time for much fresh elaboration, so I'll dip into my archival sack and recycle some previously aired thoughts:

Few things are as enjoyable (when successfully realised) as good horror comedies – the only problem being that there are so few of them around. List-compiling film buffs routinely cite the same three or four features as high points of the sub-genre: An American Werewolf in London, Evil Dead 2, Abbott and Costello meet Frankenstein etc. Rarely (outside of 'fanboy' circles) however, does one hear mention of Dan O'Bannon’s delightful and delirious Return of the Living Dead. Best known perhaps for being the film that introduced the classic zombie "Brrrraaaaaiiinnnsssss!!" refrain to cinema audiences, its ingredients – general daftness, a cast of fairly irritating teens etc – do not appear overly promising on paper.

What makes it memorable (and highly rewatchable…especially after a few pints) though, are three perfectly pitched performances from the senior male leads: James Karen (as the folksy and avuncular 'Frank'), Clu Gulager (as his put-upon, pragmatic boss 'Burt'), and Don Calfa (as the Nazi-loving mortician 'Ernie').

Add in a kicking soundtrack (from The Cramps et al), a 90 minute runtime that ensures the joke doesn't become too strained, a winning affection for its (unabashed) 'B-Movie' aesthetic etc, and the result is a gooey, gory, hilarious treat. There may be one or two more important zombie films (Dawn of the Dead, for example) but none are anything like this much fun.

Dan – your award is now beaming its way o'er the astral networks to the happy lands of the dead. RIP.

Now for a long-ish commercial break – a day or so most likely (this ceremony is to be a very leisurely affair, allowing ample time for Yuletide reflection on mortality).

Later.

26/12/09
And…we're back. Stuffed to overflowing with day old turkey and sprouts (and stuffing). Giddy from the effects of one too many hot ports. Delighting in the gifts we have received (most notably a sumptuous book on the work of Ray Harryhausen, signed by Ray Harryhausen). Ready to dish out more gongs.

2) The "Tireless Promoter of Crude Gender Stereotypes" Gong of Doom goes to…

Radio Advertising

If you discount, a) the buffoonish entrepreneurial comedy stylings of Ben Dunne, and, b) twee Ould Mr. Brennan chuckle-fests, then 100% of all remaining Irish radio ads are puke-inducing, "War of the Sexes"-style shitathons.

The message is ever the same. All fellas are slovenly, disorganised eejits – but (Ho! Ho!) loveably rougish for all that. You can't actually see them winking cheekily to camera (what with it being radio and all) but the wink (and elbow nudge) is automatically implied.

All "girls", on the other hand, are nag-o-maniacal bitch-monsters who alternate between joyless tut-tutting (at their fella's many failings) and coquettish arm-twisting to get what they want. And what they all want, of course, are a) shoes, b) vouchers for the Kildare Village Outlet Centre, c) chocolate-coated Sex & the City box-sets, and, d) huge fuck-off engagement rings.

Having established the above facts, radio has (for the last 12 months) beamed out non-stop messages like these:

"Staggering home from the pub? Langered drunk? Forgotten to do that thing you were asked to do (like, forty times)? Don't sweat it! Pop in to your nearest Londis and pick up a Mega-Bar of Galaxy Indulgence for only €1.50. We guarantee it'll shut that bitch up!

Way hey! Go on the lads…

Not all advertising is this evil of course. Some of it is life-affirmingly wonderful. Behold (even if you've already beheld it):

Along with its magnificent "making of" companion, this was the YouTube find of the year. Snow-speeders in space (traveling with an Imperial fleet)? Decidedly non-canon "Beam Transfer" technology? A Darth Vader/Maurice Pratt buddy movie dynamic? This ad had it all. It's a worthy winner of…

3) The 2009 "Priceless Pop-Cultural Treasure Dragged Back from the Edge of Oblivion" Clanging Gong of Doom.

More to follow (probably).

28/12/09

Right. Last couple of gongs going mouldy in the bottom of me bag here. Beginning to reek. Time for some quick-fire awarding.

4) The Clanging Gong for "Bestest and Fabulousest (Irish) Blog Post of the Year" goes to…

The Notional Conversation (Fergal Crehan, Tuppenceworth)

At a time when public figures were lining up to sing (with misty-eyes) the praise of Questions & Answers (and John Bowman) – Fergal's cracking post exposed the inner-workings of the (smooth & pointless) "public discourse" machine.

5) The Clanging Gong for "Weirdest & Most Brain-Searingly Wonderful Book of the Year" is hereby awarded to…

You Shall Die by Your Own Evil Creation! (Fletcher Hanks; edited by Paul Karasik, Fantagraphics).

Question: How would you punish a criminal master-mind who tried, using his "oxygen-destroying ray", to take over the world by suffocating "every big shot in America"? If you answered, "By using my transforming ray to turn him into a giant head before hurling him into a 'space pocket of living death where the headless headhunter dwells'", then Fletcher Hanks (a demented 1930s/40s comic auteur and visionary) may be something of a kindred spirit.

Long neglected and largely forgotten, Hanks' work has undergone something of a revival in the last 2 years or so, thanks to Paul Karasik's (Eisner award-winning) reprint collection I Shall Destroy All the Civilized Planets (Fantagraphics, 2007). Hanks (as that astonishing volume delightfully illustrated) was churning out his violent tales of bizarre crime and savage (grotesque!) retribution at a time when "Superhero Comic" conventions had not yet been established. Without a prescribed path – and cursed/blessed with a stiff and crude artistic technique – Hanks was free to indulge in "righteous" morality tales of power, potency and gleefully excessive brutality. His villains were decidedly un-super: bumbling gangsters or fifth columnists. Ape-like hoods as drawn by Hieronymus Bosch. His heroes, like the "Super Wizard" Stardust, were omnipotent dolers-out of the roughest justice.

Hanks (an alcoholic, violently abusive father) died destitute & frozen on a park bench. The work in (volume 2) You Shall Die by Your Own Evil Creation! (produced entirely by Hanks, at breakneck speed) might be testament to rage-filled, borderline psychosis – but it's thrillingly vital and magnificently (uniquely) strange for all that.

Hmmm…I smell yet another atomic nappy. Time to don the Hazmat suit and begin Operation Destinkify. That's yer lot for the 2009 Awards. Semi-regular service will resume in the New Year. 2010! We're living in the future!

Christmas is coming! It cannot be stopped! It will kill us all! Aaaaaarrrgggh!!!

It's been one of those years. Economy? Dead. Hope? Dead. Michael Jackson? Dead. Karl Malden? Dead. Patrick Swayze? Dead. Konstantin Feoktistov; Danny La Rue; Jeremy Clarkson? Dead, dead, and still fucking alive. 2009. A year destined to end in tears. A year that'll have your eye out.

But wait. Set aside the vodka and barbiturates for a moment. Pop the "End is Nigh" sandwich-board back under the stairs. In the midst of this thick fog of despair and tooth-gnashing there are still oases of joy and wonder. Well…an oasis at least. Singular (but, y'know, it's better than nothing).

On Friday, 11th of December - two weeks after its tedious, official twin bores the knickerbockers off the nation – the 3rd annual Manky Toy Show will be broadcast live from fústar HQ. The format will, in the great tradition of…great traditions, be almost exactly the same as the previous two years. Booze, shit toys, spontaneous analysis, exhaustion. You're all invited. Every last sad & stinking one of you.

The vibe is (as always) – interactive. So here's what I need you to do. a) Go forth and purchase a manky toy for less than 5 Euro (budget stretched for special occasion); b) Take some pictures of said toy and write some words about its shitness (or its charm); c) Send said pictures and words to me. I will do the rest.

Oh and don't forget to actually turn up at 9 PM on the evening in question. Otherwise I'll be here pitching my A-material to an empty hall. Like a sad and deluded fantasist. Unwrapping Transformer knock-offs as the world falls apart. *sniff*

Related Posts:
None for Anyone in the Audience: The 2008 Manky Toy Show – Live!
To Whom it Concerns…It’s The Manky Toy Show (Live)! [2007]

Given this 25 year gap between prizes I'd resigned myself to not seeing anything free coming my way until (at least) 2033 – when I'd be too middle-aged, conservative & miserable to appreciate anything but a year's subscription to Ireland's Own or a case of Imperial Leather.

Happily for me (and my grumpy future self) fate seems to now have adopted a more generous approach. Less than 12 months after my last stroke of fortune came news that the fabulous Ruth Crean, of the equally fabulous Nice Day Designs, had pulled my name from a custom-made hat and would bestow on me a garment of my choosing.

Here's what I chose (that's not me modeling by the way, it's Ruth's fella, the lovely John Elliot):

I will never, ever, ever take it off. Never. I plan to be buried in it.

Anyway, pop over (this instant) to Ruth's web-home and buy some customised beautifulness. Or, if you're in the 'hood, stroll down Bedford Row of a Sunday and see her, and her gorgeous clothes, in 3-D.

Now spring has spronged, however, and new life has burst forth mewling and rubbing its eyes, she's been moved to get her crayons and Tipp-ex out and give fustar.info a serious re-beautifying. The results, I think, are very pleasing and cheery.

Anyway, hope you all enjoy peeping 'n' gazing at Fústar 3.0, and (switching to "serious mode" for a moment) a million thanks to my beloved.¹ I think it rocks.

1. Who is emphatically not lazy. [back]

Penury? Ruin? Weeping and gnashing of rotten teeth? Corpses putrefying in the streets – their strewn entrails being slurped up like spaghetti by ravenous curs? Demented pedestrians cracking open each other's heads to feast on the goo inside? All now everyday sights and experiences. The miasma of recession is choking us and changing life utterly.

There is, however, a tonic for (and antidote to) this all-consuming darkness – namely: horror. Horror by the gore-filled bucketful. Generous slices of horror served in dread-stuffed baps. Horror dripping from the walls & ceilings. Horror in the wardrobe. Horror under the bed. Horror, lovely horror.

Surrounding ourselves with (and immersing ourselves in) horror will, I guarantee,¹ free us from the crippling embrace of the recession succubus. Horror – it's the only sane choice.

And so, I find myself compelled (by forces mysterious) to channel lightning bolts of renewed enthusiasm into the comatose Dreadful Thoughts Story Club. We'll shock it from its deep slumbers and set it loose, once more, on a…er…fairly indifferent blogosphere. Hoorah!

Mewling babes, and other "adult" commitments, put paid to the club late last year, and pointed to the difficulty of gathering participants together online at a set/appointed time. Given that the dynamic created by "live" discussion was (for me) one of the best things about the "club", I recently toyed with the idea of using Twitter (or some such) to jazz things up and push the "live" side of things even more to the fore.

After consulting with a few of the club's regular "heads", however, I decided that a snappy, fast-paced commenting system just doesn't lend itself to involved and considered discussion of literature. People need time and space (if they need/want it) to think about their responses. In that spirit I've opted to slow things down instead of speeding (and funking) things up.

So what I propose is this. We pick a story. Go read it. I put up a post relating to it on a Monday and the discussion kicks off. We leave the discussion run till the following Monday, at which time I announce the story we'll be tackling for the next meeting. And on it goes.

Nothing spectacular or wildly exciting there I know! The reason this "open thread" approach didn't work the last time, I reckon, is because someone attempting to join in the morning after the "live" discussion would find 50-100 comments to wade through. Faced with that it was hard not to feel like the party was over and that you'd missed it. The week-long discussion approach should, in contrast, hopefully mean that the comments come slowly and steadily – making it easy to pop in and out as time permits.

So…I hereby announce what we'll be tackling for "Dreadful Thoughts Story Club 10".

Story: Arthur Machen's "The Inmost Light", (pdf), (HTML).

Discussion Opens: Monday, 23rd March @ 9 p.m. (and runs for seven full days).

Let me know what you think. And to anyone who missed out on the club's original run, I say this – "Please join us". I'll even give you a badge.

1. Note: Not a guarantee. [back]

After culls and purges vicious enough to shame Uncle Joe Stalin, 5 battered & wobbly survivors are left (just about) standing in the "Best Popculture Blog" corner of d'Irish Blog Awards. Happily, mine is one of them. Two black eyes and a haunted look it may have, but it's still there – snuggled up to its fellows for comfort.

Hope all attending the ceremony enjoy copious high-jinks on Saturday night. I'll be joining in remotely – using my (admittedly crude) powers of bilocation. I may appear as gas, or a faint odour of Chipsticks, or a humanoid plant entity, but I'll be there (in the sense of not-being-there-at-all).

Over from London, to see their (first) first cousin, have arrived the lovely niece and lovely nephew. After a successful root around his grandparents' attic, the nephew (like a tiny, plastic-seeking, Indiana Jones) uncovered a box of vintage treasures. In said box were action figures of the Masters of the Universe and TMNT varieties.

While I could comfortably name He-Man, Man at Arms¹ and Buzz Off for the little man – most of the remaining identities could only be guessed at.

"Er…thats 'Fight Man', and that's 'Neck Head', and that one's 'Lizard Bad Fellow'".

And so on.

Though Masters of the Universe was (as I tried explaining to the nephew) a crudely animated, jumped up shit-toon of a toy advert, the associated toys weren't without a certain ludicrous charm. Like most kiddie action cartoons of the time the villains were particularly lame. Heroes had but to slice their belts with an accurate sword-swing and they'd instantly abandon their plans for world domination: hobbling off-stage with flushed cheeks and crossed hands over heart-patterned boxer shorts. Darth Vaders (or Uncle Joe Stalins) they definitely weren't.

For an example of said lameness (and said simultaneous ludicrous charm) see the below. God knows what his name is/was. EyePops? StalkLooker? MishMasher?

That's him in his "before" position.

Here's his "after" (action) pose.

Wow. Skeletor² must have rubbed his bony hands together with glee – thinking of the very specific situation(s) in which our pal's "powers" would come in useful.

Har, Har, He-Man! You think you can hide forever behind that modestly-sized brick wall? You think the fact that you are just out of eye-shot will save you? No longer! EyePops can extend the range/height of his vision by a very small amount! Assuming you aren't crouching down then you will surely be doomed! Har, Har!

Back I go to baby-attending (and radio silence). Peace out.

1. The spitting, squashy-headed image of Eugene Hughes by the way, snooker fans. [back]
2. A Kanu look-a-like according to my brother. [back]

All's been quiet (and windswept and desolate) on the bloggy front of late as I've had neither the time nor the inclination to say much worth saying. Even if said time (and said inclination) had been available to me then it's unlikely I'd have managed to string two sentences together without mentioning Willow (several hundred times).

Yes, I've now wholeheartedly signed up to the parents' club – becoming, in the process, another of those obsessed and tedious bores that the childless wisely avoid at parties. Next stop? Golf club membership, deck shoes, and Robert Ludlum novels.

While time is a luxury I've always treasured and jealously (selfishly?) protected, it's also one I'm now willingly and cheerily surrendering. The little divil will (I realise this) keep us busy: devouring minutes, hours, days and nights – but I embrace this time-eating monster with an open heart and welcoming arms.

Without all this spare, loose and free time, however, the blog must inevitably lie (like a peaceful interstellar traveller) in a state of suspended animation. I've never been a speedy producer of posts – preferring instead to chew and mull things over (chopping, changing and re-phrasing as I go). This leisurely (chin-strokey) pace has, I hope, led to some semi-decent writing. The only downside (if it is a downside) is that I can't (and don't want to) work any other way. Slow-going makes me happy. It's as simple as that.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I'm closing (but not locking) the doors and shutting up shop for a while. Time, that precious commodity, must now be invested in the beautiful, magical little person who has, this very evening, finally escaped her neo-natal prison. Willow's home. Everything's changed. All is good.

So keep warm, be happy, and stay groovy.

I'll catch up with you soon…a little further on down the road.

This year (for the first time since the event's inception) I've decided not to attend the Irish Blog Awards. The reasons for my non-attendance are as follows.

1) I'm having a baby (or, more accurately, I'm watching Jess have a baby).¹

2) Actually…there is no other reason (see reason 1 for details).

I will, however, be there (Cork Airport International Hotel) in spirit. I mean that quite literally.² My soul (grubby and stained as it is) shall hop on an intercity (Bus Éireann) transporter module and make the trip down in my stead. I'll be the blobby, vaporous one floating in the corner – composed of ectoplasm, light, and sin.

If you feel moved to vote/nominate then you can do so here (until the 14th of January).

1. I did provide the sperm though…in fairness. [back]
2. Or do I mean metaphysically? [back]

9.00 – A pair of cheap, stained curtains open. A thin figure bounds jovially through them and onto the stage. A glamorous, heavily pregnant, assistant follows (her movements cautious & wary). The scene reeks of tawdry & thrown-together charm – like a school nativity play performed by enthusiastic but bumbling & incompetent children.

[Virtual applause]

Ok. Alright. Thank you. Settle Down. Take your seats.

[More virtual applause]

Yes. Lovely. Hup! Hup! Thank you. Yes.

[Even more virtual applause. Louder and more ferocious this time. Almost deafening - with an edge of hysteria]

Yes! Lovely! LOVELY! Please stop… Please God stop… I'm scared… You're all MARVELLOUS! HELP ME! Oh Christ above in heaven…MY NERVES ARE SHATTERED!

[Instant, virtual silence]

[Slowly recovering composure] Ah? Yes. OK.

Welcome, welcome and thrice welcome dearest friends to the 2nd annual Manky Toy Show. I can't see you, and I can't feel you, but I know you're there. I can hear you breathing – heavily. It sounds like millions of tiny 1s and 0s smacking into my ear-hole. A not entirely unpleasant sensation.

Anyway, tonight's spectacular promises (in the spirit of one-upmanship) to be bigger, better, looser & more improvised than last year's. A Super Persil Ultra Plus to 2007′s boring old Persil Ultra. Like last Christmas, I'm being ably assisted by the fabulous (and admirably diligent) Jess. Unlike last year, Jess's movements and behaviour are being controlled by a tiny, internal puppeteer – our (currently) unborn daughter. If Jess starts flipping out and acting weird(er) then blame the wee passenger. If I start flipping out and acting weird(er) then blame the booze.

Away we go.

9.05 – I say "admirably diligent" but when I went downstairs to get her a minute ago she was passed out fast asleep on the couch. You can't get the help…

9.08 – First up, one for the lovely ladies. No prizes for guessing the inspiration.

9.10 – No, it's not a My Little Pony your honour. Not by a long chalk. My client's product is clearly marked "Fascination of Pegasus".

9.12 – The chief (only?) attraction of this one is the name. Fascination of Pegasus – a fascination I'm sure we've all felt at one time or another. Jess is tearing open the packaging now and looking confused. "What's up?", I ask. "It's a bit skinny for a horse", says she.

A "horse"? Pchah! Nil pois for Jess in the mythology quiz. This is no horse – but the magnificent winged steed of the gods.

Actually…it is a little skinny…

9.17 – A curious feature of "Fascination of Pegasus" and all other My Little Pony knock-offs is that they imitate a product that is surely well past its sell by date. While I don't (honest!) loiter round the girl sections of local toy shops I was under the impression that the Pony phenomenon died out sometime back in the 90s. So why then do the Manky Manufacturers persist in, yes, flogging a dead horse?

9.23 – Jess also notes that one of the wings comes off rather easily. A crucial and critical design failure for a horse that soars through heaven's lofty firmament. Wouldn't fancy it landing on my head (or the bonnet of my car – if I had one), but I have to admit that (design issues aside) it has a strangely attractive face. For a winged horse.

9.27 – The sponsors are roaring commands in my ear-piece so we must now pause for a scheduled ad-break. From the wonder & magic of mystical (and plastical) Pegasus to the good ol' pastoral charms of a lactating cow. Moo!

9.33 – Ah, lovely Milky – with her preee-tend milk and her luscious lady lips. If you thought Pegasus was hot, this one's a ride altogether! The glee with which "young fella A" pumps her tail is perfectly understandable. If all cows were this attractive the days of lonely stalkers would, surely, be over.

9.36 – Commenter "Chimp" has this to say about the science of Milky:

What unknown substance converts water into “pretend milk�?? Anthrax would be my guess…

Not entirely unfeasible. Back in the 70s Anthrax was available from even the most basic corner shop. They used to advertise it as a tonic against rickets.

9.40 – Jays, look at the time! My lovely assistant is fit for the bed already. Let's crack on. Toy number 2 please.

9.42 – Nothing like the glamour and sophistication of 007. And this is certainly nothing like the glamour and sophistication of 007. In fact, several of the objects list the agent as No. 707 – licence to look like a cross between Sean Penn & Nicholas Cage.

9.45 – Jess's verdict = A shamelessly wretched piece of mankiness. So bad they've lowered the price from the standard 2 Euro to a sub-standard 1.70. It's not wholly without its charms though. I mean, who could fail to be seduced and intrigued by "Passport of Universal"? I'm intrigued to see what's inside. What kind of magical diplomatic contents could allow the bearer to pass unhindered throughout the entire universe?

Answer: Blank grey cardboard…

Boo!

9.50 – A stern, but (as it turns out) wholly unnecessary warning, can be found at the foot of the box.

Do not use any bullets/darts/arrows or any other projectiles except those supplied with this toy.

Fine so, says I. Let's have a crack with the ammo supplied.

Oh wait. There isn't any. Bastards!

9.57 – The girls may be growing restless with all this man-nerd Bond talk, so let's turn to something pink, plastic and oozing class.

9.59 – I love the disconnect between the promise of Sweet Rita as seen on the box (smiling, magical, tiara-wearing princess) and the reality of what's inside. In Jess's words – "A sullen, trashy, balding whore with a missing thumb on her right hand".

10.05 – Commenter "Simon McGarr" offers this on Rita:

Sweet Rita may have Mentalist powers, betrayed by her distended forehead.

There could be a clue here alright. What if she once looked like the Sweet Rita the box promises? The Rita of smiles, regal waves, elegant balls etc. Through some unimaginably cruel and traumatic ordeal she has somehow been reduced to this lumpy-headed trash-queen we see before us. Trauma, stay with me, can often bring deeply buried powers to the fore(head). Are we now seeing a Rita who stalks the night like a mentalist vigilante wreaking havoc on all of mankind? Using the awesome powers of her extended (and demented) mind to…er…make leering men's cocks fall off…or something…

23.13 – Time for a) Another word from our sponsors, and, b) A quick slash (this Montepulciano D'Abruzzo is going through me like preee-tend milk).

10.18 – Sweet mother of suffering bestiality! That's not eating a Flake, that's inhaling it. One half expects a hot jet of molten Fry's Chocolate Cream to come squirting from the tip.

10.21 – Subtext? "Flake – The next best thing to sucking off a horse".

10.26 – An hour and a half (and the bone's of a bottle) in and it's time for our first super-duper-heroes.

10.28 – Manky Toy manufacturers have a genius for surfing the wave of the Zeitgeist. There's not a single cultural kiddie phenomenon that they fail to respond to with a flood of shit products. Within minutes of the recent Robert Downey Jr film hitting the screens you can bet a year's supply of preee-tend milk that the designers of Iron Storm were hard at work. I'm guessing (from experience) that the factories in question have thousands of generic, superhero/Power Rangers-esque body parts waiting for a crude paint job and a spot of opportune repackaging. A quick head change, a quick splash of the appropriate colour and "Bingo!" – you've got Iron Man, Spidey or whoever else the kiddies are currently going mental for.

10.32 – Like other mank before it, Iron Storm sets toy enthusiasts a very modest and manageable task.

Collect Them All? It seems like I just have! Hooray for me. Everyone's a winner.

One wonders if Golden Storm and Iron Storm have a relationship based on partnership and universe-saving, or if (instead) they're locked in an endless war of gouging, slicing and dicing antagonism. Who's the baddie? Is there a baddie?!

This ambiguity is messing with my head…

10.44 – At this point I though a musical interlude might have been in order. Something to soothe, relax and unwind you. Something to unfrazzle your nerve-ends and loosen your rigid neck muscles. Unfortunately the Digiboard 5000 has tones so maddeningly shrill and flat that exposure to them would make your ears leak torrents of pus and blood. I'll show you a pic though, and Jess will test it out (taking one for the team).

22.48 – Yes, the "Digital Display" is, in fact, a sticker. Yes, the abundant text promises a multitude of settings and a plethora of pre-set songs. No, the product doesn't live up to any of its promises…

The pre-set songs are all instantly recognisable classics.

Embrace.

In Metal.

Fluestr.

How Long Jordan.

Miss You.

Sensitive.

Medicine.

Miss you Rcality.

Hard to pick a favourite there.

22.55 – Fans of "How Long Jordan" may be surprised (and aggrieved) to discover that their beloved tune sounds suspiciously like "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" when given the Digiboard treatment. Likewise, the seminal "Miss you Rcality" has more than a touch of "There's No Place Like Home" about it. I think these anomalies may owe something to the fact that the instrument seems to be stuck on its "Rercussion" setting.

23.03 Sweet Rita's life may be one of skanky, big-headed misery but at least she doesn't have to suffer alone. She has a pal. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you (and please take her) the beautiful Candie.

23.09 – Jess's initial assessment of Candie's "style"? "Rural, shell-shocked, milkmaid slapper from the 80s". Meeow!

23.11 – With her special no-flatten tits (see comments), her come-hither lips, and her retro-chic sense of style you'd imagine that Candie would have the fake Action Men (i.e. Action Dans) lining up in their droves. If, however, even these abundant charms aren't enough she has a Ace up her sleeve (i.e. on her neck).

Her "Musical Blinking Necklace".

It has powers to soothe (or deafen) even the wildest beast.

23.19 – The pause between the tinny theme song from Love Story and the tinny whatever the fuck it was (Be not Afraid? Love me Tender?) is obviously the pause in which the potential suitor is saying, "Er, is that the time? I really must be going. I've got a big meeting tommor…"

Bleep, Bleep, Bleep! Bleep, Bleep, Bleep!
Bleep, Bleep, Bleep, Bleeeeeep, Bleep!

There's no escaping Candie once she's locked that blinking tractor beam onto you.

23.26 – Commenter "Embarr" helpfully tells us that we can learn how to play "Candie's Song" on the Digiboard here. The only mistake she makes is in assuming that the Digiboard functions in a manner that closely resembles a conventional keyboard. It really, really doesn't…

The black keys are purely ornamental. Actually, so are most of the white keys.

In a new and unexpected development, however, our cat has stamped all over the object and mashed the correct sequence to ensure "Happy Birthday to You" (or "In Metal" as it's better known) has come screeching out. Make it stop!

23.36 – A few final pieces of Candie goodness before we shove on. First – a warning. Despite her best attempts to convince us otherwise, it turns out that she's simply "not suitanble".

23.40 – Subject to technical change or change of [sic] color? What…after purchase?!

What we appear to have on our hands here is an adapting, evolving and mutating doll. I'm also intrigued as to what "possible correspondence" I could have with the relevant manufacturer. Dear China…

23.47 – Hang on a mo. One of our cats (the Digiboard smashing one) has puked and pissed on the floor. A combination of stress, cystitis and pure dementedness. I'll get me marigolds & a mop & be back.

00.01 – And we're back. I bet Pat Kenny's never had to break off mid-flow to mop up urine and vomit. Spoilt rotten that bastard is.

When I say, we're back, I mean – I'm back. Preggers McGeggers has had to call it a night and is now wrapped up in bed with an improving book.

No rest for the wicked. Let's carry on with our dis-improving mank. Where we? Ah yes, still on Candie! Jesus, she's dominating the night. Her power is matchless. One last pic before we (finally and mercifully) put her to sleep.

00.07 – There's something about the sweep of her hair and that teasingly exposed back (and I mean exposed – look at those batteries. Drool!) that gives the image an undeniable erotic charge. Countering this arousal are the grim words, "If her voice sounds weak…" – suggestive, as they are, of the slow fade-out into eternal silence that happens to us all. A moving moment. And a sobering one…needed after 3/4 of a bottle of plonk.

00.15 – Bye bye Candie, hello tonight's first piece of donated mank. As the donor (the absent Fergal Crehan. Where is he, the divil?) put it – "A toy so manky that it even has words like 'Terrible' and 'Horrible' plastered all over it". A rare display of honesty in an otherwise mendacious world. As it turns out, however, it's not 'arf bad.

00.22 – Before we even think of delving into the contents, just look at the box's exterior.

"Who's Played These Terrible Jokes On Me?"

That's not a young chap who's merely been the "victim" of a few harmless pranks that he can laugh off later. That's a broken young fella who's just had his self-esteem, his faith in mankind, and all hopes & dreams for the future utterly shattered.

He looks like he's been lured into believing (and the illusion must have been carefully built up over time) that the pranksters were his dearest friends. They loved him. They respected him.

It was all a lie! All a set-up for these cruel and brutal jokes. He's irreparably smashed…

00.31 – On to the contents (and I had to cheat a bit and open this earlier). Cue wide-eyed surprise and wild delight when these were the first things that fell out of the box.

The "must have" (but "never had"), lusted after and fetishised object of a childhood spent reading imported American comics. Mine at last!

Glad to see that "Wing Shing" are carrying on a fine tradition and brazenly over-selling their product.

Scientific Marvel of the Century

Controversial. I'd be tempted to bet against if we could gather the world's foremost scientists in my bedroom ("Watch out for that cat puke, Mr. Hawking") and put it to a vote.

00.47 – A "Snappy Gum" fandom seems to be forming itself in the comments section. Time to give the punters what they want.

2 points.

1) If you're going to try and trick an unsuspecting pal with "Snappy Gum" (and why wouldn't you? It's gas!) then try and avoid versions that actually have the word "Snappy" printed in big fat letters on the packaging. Tends to lessen the surprise.

2) Isn't "Wow, Wow" a rather curious reaction to finding one's finger trapped in a novelty gum packet?

00.55 "Embarr" is off I see. Darragh soon to depart? We're down to the die hards, and it's time to get hardcore. I'm going to offer myself a lovely piece of Winnie's Pure Mint Snappy Gum. Bring on the pain!

00.59 – The tension is unbearable. I'm teasing it out as slowly as I possibly can and remembering why I hated these yokes as a child. That horrible sense of something sudden, jolting, painful and unpleasant about to happen. I'm downing a goodly swig of vino to steel my nerves.

As I do so I can't help but be amused by the instructions on the box's rear.

Serve your friend the item & ask him to take the gum himself.

This is obviously designed to help slow-witted pranksters avoid inflicting the intended damage on themselves.

"Fancy a chewing gum?"

"Sure, here you are. AAAHHHHH!!!"

01.05 – Kabang! As with all such things (well, apart from getting shot etc) the expectation was far worse than the eventuality. No pain at all. The spring mechanism is well-cushioned and child-proofed. I'm mildly impressed, and half-tempted to cry "Wow" (once only).

01.11 – Next, the never-popular "Fly & Spider".

No instructions on this one. What's the story? Are you supposed to sprinkle the little fellas on your Dad's steak (and sit back to watch the hilarity, or savage beating, unfold)? It's unclear…especially because the elderly gent pictured seems to be rather enjoying the fact that his meat is teeming with insect/arachnid life.

01.17 – Well into overtime now so we'd best leave the fake (pretzel-shaped) poos for another day. Just looking again at the packaging for the "X-Ray Gogs". Imagine they did actually work? The kid who's so thrillingly looking at the bones of his own hand would soon find himself riddled with cancer.

"I jus' wanted ta see the bones in my own hand, Doc. Just once. And then I couldn't stop!"

"You're a very sick boy now, Jimmy, and you're almost certainly going to die…"

[tearfully] "It was worth it, Doc! I saw my pal Joey's sister's undies through her dress! I'm ready to die now, Doc!"

1.33 – Perfect timing. The last sup of vino tinto has been gulped down (*hic*), the last of the stragglers are winding their weary ways toward their comfy beds, and the last of my energy has disappeared into the December ether. Time to pack up, put things back in boxes (tomorrow…) and say goodnight (blowing farewell kisses of joy and love as I do so).

The "Winter Wonderland Girls" will take us away to the black 'n' white (and endlessly chipper) land of nod.

[Curtains Close]

Friday, 5th December, 2008 @ 9.00 p.m.

Pencil that date and that time into your diaries. If you don't have a diary then sprint madly out the door this instant and buy one. If you don't have a pencil…then, God help us, the recession must be shafting you most brutally.

So what's so special about Friday, 5th December, 2008 @ 9.00 p.m? Well, that's when the 2nd annual (Live) Manky Toy Show kicks off. The date chosen is not entirely random or arbitrary – being exactly one week after RTÉ bores us all to slow and painful death with its own Lame Lame Show version.

So if, tomorrow night, you find yourself compelled to put your boot through the TV (in a vain & desperate attempt to utterly destroy Pat Kenny's fat, monstrous face) then join us here on the 5th for a jolly antidote to the Late Late's festering poison. There's nothing like 2 Euro mank to put a seasonal spring in your step. It beats succumbing to impotent rage and gnawing your fists into bloody stumps at any rate.

Don't forget that I'm also encouraging active audience participation. If you happen to stumble across a Manky Toy that you feel warrants inclusion then please don't hesitate to send it to Fústar HQ (address available on request). It'll help foster the right collaborative spirit…and save me money.

Friday, 5th December, 2008 @ 9.00 p.m.

Cancel all other plans.

Related Posts:
The Toy Show: An Alternative
To Whom it Concerns…It's The Manky Toy Show (Live)!
The Manky Toy Show 2008: The Countdown Begins…

Ask square and un-hip members of society what the highlight of their 2007 Christmas season was and they'll most likely answer: the dinner; time spent with loved ones; browsing through the bumper issue of the RTÉ Guide etc. Cool cats, in contrast, will instantly acknowledge that one yuletide event left all other seasonal experiences paling in comparison.

I speak, of course, of The Manky Toy Show – this blog's (award-nominated, oooh!) attempt to spit blood in the eye of P. Kenny & his bloated, consumerist love-in (a.k.a The Late Late Toy Show).

As the perceptive among you may have guessed, that intro was my way of saying – "We (my lovely assistant Jess and I) are doing it again this year".¹ Yay!

Like last time, it'll be "Live" – with yours truly opening boxes and offering unscripted (and incredulous) reactions on the fly. As I do that, you (dear reader) will hopefully be banging out witty comments between mouthfuls of turkey & sips of red wine.² In between there'll be bits of music & pieces of video to get (and keep) you in seasonal mood.

Commenting ain't the only way to participate though. You can (and please do) send me physical/actual Manky Toys by post for review and inclusion. Though the "rules" of Manky Toy Monday usually restrict outlay to 2 Euro per item I think we can make exceptions on this splendid & special occasion.

Spend up to 5 quid if you like. Go nuts!

No date set yet (or "yet set"?) for the "show" but it night be cool to hold it on the same night as RTÉ's official cack-fest, no?

Watch this space, make some suggestions, and (if you feel so inclined) send me some stuff.³

Related Posts:
The Toy Show: An Alternative
To Whom it Concerns…It's The Manky Toy Show (Live)!

1. Well, "We are doing it again this year" is also my way of saying we're doing it again this year. But you see what I mean. [back]
2. Pre-Christmas turkey and red wine to be provided by yourselves. I'm not made of money. [back]
3. Fústar HQ postal address provided on request. [back]