Monday, January 23, 2006

Where did December go?

Did it go to the toilet and never return?

Where, oh where have the last two months gone? It now appears to be January and I've not updated my blog even one tiny iota during that period. This is truly tragic. What possible excuses could I have for not placing myself at my desk and burping forth words for the past 8 weeks? Well, in true Howard Nebulator blogging style, I shall explain...

1) Christmas.

Like a noisy child that just won't shut up even though you've given him many, many things to play with including - in no specific order - pipes, insulating foam, car alarms, toxins and Play-Doh, Christmas turned up on my doorstep and demanded to be let in. Now, being a reasonable person, I had to oblige. And anyway, if I had refused, Christmas would have no doubt struck me down and stolen my hat, as it has done with countless other Christmas-deriding heathens in the past.

It's not so much the idea of Christmas that irks me - being nice to people for a change is quite a smashing plan - more the incessant commercialism that gets force fed into my face feet first, like a mewling puppy being launched forth from a catapult. And no, I don't see the similarities either. But anyway, shopping, more shopping and shopping seemed to be the order of the day, so I did none of that and just sat in a darkened room for roughly three weeks doing nothing but sneering at the wallpaper and occasionally venturing to the shop for teabags.

2) Skiing Holiday

This was a lot of fun. And even though it lasted but a week, it seemed to take up a lot more time. I spent the week before being hugely excited about going on a skiing holiday, and making skiing noises at every given opportunity (beep beep). I spent the week afterwards being hugely excited about having been on a skiing holiday and taking every opportunity to tell everyone about the wonderful, wonderful injuries that I sustained whilst on said holiday (I bruised my arm and sprained my thumb). I also tried snowboarding and hurt my arse a lot with the sitting and the falling over and the Oh-my-god-I-can't-slow-down.

3) New Year

This was also fun, but I was very drunk and can't remember a thing. Sorry. Although I did wake up, half naked up a tree with a bottle of gin to find most of the cast of Eastenders circled around the base chanting and screaming as an angry mob wielding pitchforks and torches and demanding "Vengeance".

It was a good night, I assume.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

The game of life or chips or milk. I don't know.

You awaken groggily from a long sleep. For a moment you are unsure where you are then your head clears. You are in a damp cellar. To the north you see iron bars set into a thick stone wall. To the east, you see a metal chamber pot filled with daisies. To the south, you see a crazy old bearded man holding a dead finch. Your hands smell of raspberries and you have the strange feeling you've been here before. What do you do?


The old man responds by jabbering away noisily in a confused and possibly ancient tongue. He hurls the dead finch at you which bounces ineffectually against your forehead


You pick up the dead finch and stuff it in your pocket.

> N

You walk north a bit. You smash into a wall and break your nose. It starts to bleed mightily. What do you do now?


You use the dead finch to mop up some of the blood. The bleeding continues. What do you do now?


You rip off a chunk of the man's beard and stuff it up your nose. This stems the flow of blood. The man is angry now, and looks violent.


You tell the old man tales of the sea. This seems to cause his anger to recede


You rip off another chunk of the man's beard for no reason this time. This makes the man even angrier.


You thrust the dead, bloodied finch at the man. It strikes him mightily upon the chin. Now he begins to fume and rage. You think he might now try and kill you


It doesn't work. He's heard it all before


For a moment, the man's anger recedes and you feel safer. But then the story veers to one involving a dead finch. The man remembers what you did to him and lashes out, striking you mightily and knocking you to the ground.


You rip another chunk of the man's beard off. This time, he just stands there weeping silently to himself, his chin bleeding softly.


There is no more beard to rip off the man's face. You swipe ineffectually at his wounded face.

> S

You walk south a bit. The chamber pot full of daisies kills you. Start Again?


Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Crumbly Adventures Outside Time And Space

It all started on a Saturday. Well, I say it "started". It didn't exactly start, so much as explode into existence in a shower of fiery sparks, shrapnel and indigo hued smoke which made my eyes bleed.

"What exactly exploded into existence?", you may ask. Furthermore, you may also ask, where did this explosion occur? Well, for the purposes of futile suspense, I shall spend a couple of sentences telling you that this explosion occured in my living room, about three metres from my television, roughly two feet from the door and more-or-less one yard from my sofa. So yes, in all respects, this explosion was contained firmly within the boundaries of my living room, except that during the course of the explosion, some of these boundaries chose, mostly due to reasons outwith their control (such as an impending explosion) to suddenly be many tens of metres away in my neighbours gardens.

So anyway, now that I have explained the situation and the suspense (futile though it may be) has been built, like some shoddy outhouse which will most likely collapse upon the first unfortunate soul who ventures within, I can tell you that it was an entirely new Universe which exploded into existence on this fateful Saturday.

Now, for most people, this would be an important event. Momentous, even. Stupendous. But no. Not really. I was unphased.

The Universe, as is commonly believed, is a big thing, mostly incomprehensible and full of confusing elements like pastry, Satan worshippers and trumpets. So it's fair to say that it's not something that most people will have to deal with on a daily basis. They don't, it is reasonable to believe, wake up every morning and think to themselves "Oh my! I seem to find myself contained, once more, within a Universe. What are the chances!" before continuing downstairs to feast upon cornflakes and gaze longingly at whatever banal breakfast trite the television is birthing forth. No, the average person will most likely live their entire lives never even giving the fact the the Universe actually exists a single moment's thought. Although they will watch quite a lot of morning television and eat a lot of cornflakes. If a Univsere suddenly appeared right in front of them, more than just a gasp would issue forth from their mouths.

Well, I have a different outlook on life, I do enjoy marvelling at the Universe and cooing over its many intruiging features, such as time and space which I consider to be vastly underrated. So, to find a new one being birthed forth suddenly in my home wasn't quite as surprising as it should have been, myself being aware of the existence of Universes, at least in the singular sense. After the initial explosion, which destroyed most of my house, the Universe seemed to stabilise into a pulsating sphere roughly one meter across and hovered there, silently, like a mad bastard orb.

It seemed to me that the formation of a Universe must be a fairly rare occurence as I couldn't recall ever having seen something of this sort happen before. I scratched my head and thought a little. I figured I had time to spare, staring at this marvel of creation in my battered abode, as the few tasks I had planned for that day could well be thought of as cancelled, as the items that those taks would require (namely one sofa and one television set) had since been obliterated by the cosmic oddity that was, peering closer, actually starting to wobble and bob around the place. Almost inquisitively, it sniffed at a few pieces of charred plasterboard a few inches from my feet.

Well, I imagine it would have been sniffing if it had possessed a nose. Universes, you'd think, wouldn't have a need to smell anything, as anything worth smelling would be contained firmly inside them. It's like if I asked you what your spleen smelled like. You wouldn't know. In fact, you probably wouldn't care. "And why not?" I ask. What sort of gentleman in this day and age knows not what his spleen smells like?

Oddly, while these thoughts raced around my head, I noticed that this universe did have a nose. It had eyes too. And a mouth! Good lord, the thing was alive. Or at least as alive as anything with a face can be. It spoke:

"Hello. Who are you?"
"I'm Howard Nebulator. Who are you?". It was a silly question to ask a Universe. I felt quite foolish for having asked it. Nonetheless, I got a reply,
"I am The Universe", the Universe rumbled. "Where am I?"
"You're in my living room. Or at least what's left of it"
"Oh my, I'm terribly sorry", the Universe commented. "I appear to have made some sort of terrible mistake. Please forgive me. Please? I didn't mean it, I...". A slight tremble of the lower lip.

The Universe looked sad. I could see that it had a troubled expression now that I realised it posessed a face. A face quite possibly moulded from the creases, ripples, bends and twists in the fabric of whatever spatial dimensions were contained inside, textured with billions of galaxies, trillions of stars and with quite a prominent spot on its nose that could well have been the result of quadrillions of years of work by an advanced enterpreunistic space-faring species, keen to discover what lay at the reaches of their domain, spending aeons, generations building devices and machines to probe the limits of their existence only to find out, after the toils of eternity that the first thing peering back at them was an explosion-battered shabby beige couch.

"What mistake is this then?", I asked the gloomy looking Universe. I thought I saw a tear form at the corner of its star speckled eye.
"Well, what you saw just then - that explosion...". A moment's pause.
"Yes" I said, "Do continue"
"Well, that was my Big Bang"
"Was it? Well, it was quite something! It destroyed my house". I tried to sound enthusiastic but, due to the recent destruction of my property and the fact that, yes, all things considered, it wasn't really all that big of a bang, it came out with something of a sarcastic tone.
"It was NOTHING!", it screamed. I jumped back slightly, this was quite a shift in mood for the sprightly little chap.
"Hey, don't fret. I bet loads of Universes don't get their big break, and end up forming all sorts of places. A garage forecourt, maybe? A branch of Woolworths. Swindon"
"But all the other Universes, they get all the perks. Bloody bastards. They won't stop rubbing it in, you know. 'Look at Little Universe, shaped like a mint, or something'. What shape are mints? I don't know!". The Universe was rambling on a little bit, and sadness had faded only to be replaced with a look of mild insanity.
"I feel used and wasted", the Universe complained. "Can I stay with you for a while? I won't get in the way"
"Well, I don't really think... Y'see...", I couldn't think of a good reason why the Universe couldn't stay. It seemed nice enough, if not a little miserable and prone to mood swings.

Why not indeed? I no longer had a fully functional house (a fully functional house being defined as one which you can live in without wondering daily whether people are going to randomly wander through the 25 foot wide gaping hole that's been ripped into the front of it due to the sudden and unfortunate expansion of a clinically depressed Universe.) but I felt this was pig piffle compared to the potentially fun and slightly interesting situations I might find myself in now that I was friends (on first name terms) with a Universe.

"You can have the spare room upstairs. If it's still intact", I told the celestial blob. I wondered if Universes actually needed sleep and proceeded through to the kitchen to get a cup of tea, via the gaping void in the living room wall. Saturday continued, as Saturdays do. The Universe plodded along behind me, making sniffling noises and wiping its snotty nose on an arm composed from uncountable galaxies and ripped space-time fabric.

--- --- ---

Possibly coming soon - Part 2 of this disturbing saga. Stay tuned!

Saturday, September 03, 2005


A man walks into a doctors waiting room, he goes up to the receptionist and says "I would like to see the doctor". The receptionist says "I'm sorry, you can't see the doctor. He's an invisible man". "Okay", the man says "Tell him I can't see him". Then the doctor comes out of his office and starts doing crazy shit like moving pencils and chairs around and everyone thinks it's a ghost because he's invisible and no-one can see him. Everyone in the crowded waiting room tries to rush for the exit. In the ensuing panic, three people are killed.
A man walks into a laundrette and puts some clothes into a washing machine. Because of some faulty wiring, the machine explodes and takes half his face off.
A Scotsman, and Englishman and an Irishman are in a library. The Scotsman is really loud and keeps farting. The Englishman asks why he keeps doing this. The Scotsman replies, and screams "I don't know. I don't know why I keep screaming and farting. I can't help it. It terrifies me. I can't sleep at night." Meanwhile, the Irishman lives up to his stereotype and sits in the corner
getting pissed.
A nun and a rabbi are in a pub. For some reason the rabbi falls over. He eventually gets up again. The nun looks at him, confused. Then she falls over and is all like "What the hell's going on?". Then the rabbi falls over again. He exclaims "What's happening? Is there something wrong with the gravity in here?". Then for no apparent reason, the pub explodes.
Three birds are sitting in a tree. One of the birds explodes for no apparent reason. One of the other birds gets caught up in the flames and catches on fire. The third bird just sits and stares at this gory scene, dumbfounded. Years later, he'll have flashbacks. His life will never be the same again.
Q: What's the difference between a rugby team and the cast of Eastenders?
A: Lots and lots of things. I dont think the cast of Eastenders could play rugby, anyway.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Watchdog Fan Fiction

Based on the not-terribly-exciting BBC Consumer help programme thing, where Nicky Campbell shouts at people who make washing machines and kitchens and tells them it's really "Just not good enough". Enjoy... If you can.

"Shit! Get it out, get it out!", he squealed. "They're about to switch live to us."
Nicky Campbell's day had not been going well. His coffee had been too hot in the morning, his bagel had burst all over his new gay pink shirt in the afternoon and now this. Some fucker had set him on fire seconds before the cameras were due to go live.

"I'll fucking murder whoever did this. I swear", he screamed as the red light blinked on. Nicky was live on the BBC. Presenter of "Watchdog" and being of Scotness, he was used to this kind of shit. He'd grown up on the streets of Glasgow, or at least he thought he had - he hadn't checked recently - where being set on fire was something you just had to get used to. The corridors of the BBC were no safer. Acts of random arson were commonplace. You brought three changes of clothes to work every day. At least one set would be burnt to fuck come home-time.

"Nicholas! You little shit! Are you traipsing fire int'a the living room again?", his father would have bellowed. "Yes pa. Sorry pa, won't happen again, pa."

Water sprayed into his face, his chest, two of his shoulders and his crotch, extinguishing the blaze. He spoke his lines, presented with years of practice through the fine mist that had now formed around him. "Welcome to Watchdog. The show where you, the consumer, have...", he stopped mid sentence. He raised his eyebrows, listening. The crew were staring at something behind him. He turned slowly to see what the rustling, moving noise was behind him. "Oh Christ, no..."

Julia Bradbury was standing on the desk, naked, swinging her pendulous breasts in full view of Camera 2 while laughing softly to herself. Nicky hung his head and begun to cry.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

It's been a while, but... I've been writing Fan Fiction. Yes!

Star Wars

"I'm having a big fucking party at my place" Screamed Obi-Wan through the letterbox. "What are all you fuckers doing just sitting around? I can see you through the shitting bleeding window!"
Luke got up from the sofa and shuffled towards the front door where he could see Obi-Wan's fingers holding the letterbox open.
"Jesus christ, man",said Luke "It's just me, Dad and Chewie here, we're having a quiet night in with a couple of pizzas and some beers."
"What, with fucking Darth?", asked Obi-Wan, quite loudly
"Yeah, Darth's here"
fucking Vader?"
"Yes, Obi, Darth Vader"
The fucking Darth Vader?"
"Jesus, Obi, yeah, Darth Vader's here. He's family, you know?"
"Darth fucking shitting bleeding
"Oh for fuck's sake Obi, piss off"
Obi-wan muttered something under his breath and shuffled around outside for a few minutes in the light of the darkening evening sky. Presently, he returned to the letterbox.
"What are you fuckers doing then? Are you watching a DVD? Without me? Is that fucking 'Die Hard I can hear?' Why wasn't I invited? I love Die Hard", obfusticaded Obi-Wan, now appearing rather angry and a bit pissed.
"Yeah Obi", countered Luke, "We're watching Die Hard and we didn't invite you because you shout constantly all the way through any movie"
"I do not", objected Obi-Wan
"Of course you do, you great fucking bastard", screamed Darth from the living room in his deep breathey voice, "When we went to watch 'Love Actually', you kept calling colin Firth a 'Crazy Fucking Fuck' and made thrusting hip movements whenever a pair of tits were on screen"
"Alright, you complete bastards. But you're missing my party, which is going to be fucking sweet, you know. It's going to be shitting bleeding crazy ass fun. And now you're not invited"
"Goodnight Obi", Luke said, snapping the letterbox shut on Obi-Wan's fingers causing him to fall backwards suddenly. The swearing began again and didn't stop for another fifteen minutes.

Harry Potter

"Look out Harry!" shouted Hermione, pointing towards the darkness of the hallway. Suddenly, and without warning, and with a big farting windy noise, Ron burst into the scene, stumbling and shouting "Uuurms! Ruuurms! I'll fight you! I'll fight you all"
"Oh Ron!", sprouted Harry, "Have you been drinking again?"
"No. Non no noon!", milked Ron, "I've been pouring vinegar into my eyes, because I wanted to see what happens when someone pours vinegar into their eyes"
"Oh Ron, you are a stupid fucker", rinsed Hermione "we can't leave you alone for even a few minutes without you doing something stupid, like filling your ears with acid or hammering rusty
spoons through your arm".
"I CAN'T FUCKING HELP IT", attacked Ron, now delerious from the stinging pain in his eyes, "I'm crazy. I'm wrong in the head. I was born into a rusty pan."
"Oh, Ron! You are a card!" screamed Harry. Hermione interrupted, "Here, push this into your face, it'll make you feel better"
"What the fuck is it? What the fuck?" purpled Ron, "I can't fucking see, you crazy bitch. I just poured vinegar in my eyes"
"It's something to ease the pain. Go on, try it"
Ron grabbed at the thing in Hermiones hand. It was cool and damp, like a bear that's been sitting in a bath of cold vodka for about 20 minutes. Ron smashed it into his face. "Aaaargh! Jesus! What the fuck?". He screamed in pain.
"What the hell, Ron? It's just a damp flannel", spouted Hermione.
"Shit! It's a bear soaked in vodka!" screamed Ron intermittently, now passing in and out of
conciousness due to the huge amount of pain his face was soaking up.
"No it's not, it's just water"
"Aaaauugghwww! Aaaughg!" continued Ron, before passing out in a heap on the floor.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

How to have fun.

I woke up the other day, woke up all new like, fresh and invigorated. It was a new day. New moments and minutes and seconds presented themselves like so many angry Irishmen, adept at producing sweary nonsense and odd outbursts of paraphrasing. I felt at peace with the world, I felt like all was right and all was as it was meant to be.

I spent a couple of hours pottering around, cleaning up after myself and making small things out of paper and old rag. The morning passed, as mornings are wont to do, and soon it was afternoon. The sun streamed in through the window, leaving golden shapes on my face and the floor and whatever it is that lives in the corner of my kitchen. I dare not ask its name. I count myself lucky that it hasn't tried to kill me yet.

A few more hours passed. I realised I had been staring into space. Or, at least, I would have been staring into space if it wasn't for the fact I was looking downwards and Space, if you take "Space" to be that infinite and seemingly empty void that stretches on and on as far as the eye can see in any direction you choose from our lovely little planet, was located roughly 50,000 kilometres along my line of sight through solid rock.

I was bored. Really bored. Things weren't happening. Everything was too good. Everything was just hunky-dory. Everything was, well, apple shaped. As opposed to pear shaped. Which still, in the grand scheme of things isn't a bad shape to be, really. My life had become something to be content about, something to wallow in, something to be at peace with. But it was oh so terribly dull.

It was at that moment that I had a revelation. I knew how to make things interesting again. I knew how I should proceed with my existence on this small and round-shaped chunk of rock in the outer arm of the galaxy known to some as "Jim" but to others as "That Milky Waaaaay"

I was going to have a midlife crisis. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea. Fair enough, I was only 24, I had many years to go before the time, date or location that would be known as a "Midlife crisis" arrived on my doorstep. And yes, even when that day came, I would only regard it as a minor nuisance and waste my valuable "Crisis" by doing things such as "Having fun" and "Really not caring" but still, I was bored, there was nothing to do so I sat down and started having a midlife crisis.

But then it dawned on me. I had no idea how to have a midlife crisis. It was all terribly new to me. I'd heard tales, of course. I'd seen the sitcoms and the hilariously inventive ways in which middle-aged men took out their rage and frustrations upon an increasingly confusing and oddly-shaped world.

I tried to emulate a few of the things I'd seen. Then I remembered that I couldn't remember any of the things which, if they were written in a book would have been collectively known as "How to Have a Mid Life Crisis"

I made up a list, which if I ever got round to it, I would publish in a book :

How to Have a MidLife crisis (Oddly capitalised For Added impact)
by Howard Nebulator

Basically, go a little crazy. But not too crazy. Otherwise people will think you're insane, rather than simply "Having a crisis"

Ways in which this can be achieved are as follows...
- Spread some jam on a duck
- Go walking round and round your garden at night singing Simply Red songs. Don't do this naked. That would be odd.
- Start watching "A Question of Sport". Whilst wrapped in cling film.
- Become either a being of pure energy, a Bhuddist monk or Peter Mandelson. But not all three. That would also be odd.
- Start a fight with yourself.

And there you go. By now, it was nearly dinner time, so I got up and proceeded to fight the thing that lives in the corner of my kitchen for the right to get into my pantry. This was always a lot of fun and never failed to brighten up a dull day.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

A snippet from the local news...

Local Man Attacked by Small, Stupid Aliens.
by Andrea G. Eisenhower "Bacon For Breakfast" Smith (Snr.)

A local man (Who is also a farmer. Man) is recovering in hospital last night after alledgedly being attacked by aliens, he says. Small and stupid ones at that! Jacob Nazi-Failure, 43, of Lower Upshot, Kent (Also is a farmer) has reportedly uttered words that when written on paper, or other word-recording medium, look something like this:

"They came down, you see. Came right down. Middle of the night. Lights as large as your fist. (?) No, not your fist. Maybe his (Man points at man). They arrived in my garden in a shiny saucer, as large as your fist (points again) and proceeded to pour Hydrochloric acid all over my barn. I could tell it was Hydrochloric acid because I was in three wars, you see. Do you see? I don't think you do.

Then they came into my house and proceeded to beat me up and hit me with shards of metal and pieces of wool wrapped around shards of metal and shards of plastic which had been painted with silver paint to make it seem like they were shards of metal. They also hit me with their fists, which were as large as your fist (man points again, this time with enthusiasm). Then they left, without even saying goodbye. I wonder if I'll ever see them again".

Jacob is recovering well and some doctors say he should make a full recovery, although he'll probably just end up dying fairly soon.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

New Shoooooes?

I was in a shoe shop today. This is not a rare occurence as I can often be found in shoe shops, but I do not grace the shoe shop with my presence to achieve what many would consider the ultimate goal of entering a shoe shop, and that is to buy shoes.

No, I go into shoe shops to try and buy shoes. You see, no matter how hard I try, however many attempts I make and however often I hold a particular brand of footwear up to my face to peer eagerly at it's fine stitching and emblazoned logo to at least try and fool others into thinking that I know what I'm looking for, I fail to make a purchase. Every time.

My attention wanders, you see. I think about anything - everything in fact, that has nothing to do with shoes. I can be happily staring into the space roughly half a metre past the Doc Martins I hold in my grasp while I think about popcorn, or cats, or cats with popcorn glued to their ears, or microwave ovens that are friendly and talk to you in the morning. Nothing can distract me from this. Not even the shoe shop assistant, so eager to help, can wrench my gaze from whatever it is I'm not looking at to inform me that the shop is closing and I've been standing there for roughly forty-five minutes.

Today, for example, I went into the shop, I sat down and was offered a pair of size 10 shoes to try on (for that is the size of feet that I possess - you learn something new every day!) and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't think of anything but this -

In the Super Mario series of games, Mario somehow has the ability to pick things up without the use of his hands. Not even that, but he seems to offer no obvious method by which items are procured. Coins, power-up mushrooms, invincibility stars. All that these things require to be taken from their lofty perch atop an almost equally imporbable floaty block is to be walked into.

What if this happened all the time in real life? Objects would randomly disappear upon collision with a human body, only to reappear as nothing more than a number in the corner of your vision, or a curious after effect - possibly causing the unfortunate victim to grow to the size of a large oak tree.

As I held the shoe in my hand, I found myself perplexed by this. I tried touching the shoe a few times to see if I could "pick it up", but alas, nothing happened. I placed the shoe on the ground, stood up and walked out. I'd forgotten what I'd come in for.

Thursday, February 03, 2005

The Neighbour

Robert Kilroy-Silk has moved in next door. He's an extraordinarily disagreeable fellow.

Only a day after he had moved in, he painted his front door Dyno-Rod orange. A week later and he had covered his entire house in the stuff. He sneaks round to my doorstep early in the morning and pisses on my newspaper. He is insiting that I change the name of my pet cat to "Veritas". The fact that I do not own a pet cat seems to have passed him by.

I don't think we'll be friends.