Hiya all, if you have been following my twitter feed you will know two things, one I am still having issues with my alcohol and drug addictions related to my mental health, and two, I have been tweeting hard about Lucifer being cancelled.
This has to be one of the most dumb-assed decisions ever made by a network. I thought chopping Constantine was bad enough, but this is the giddy limit. Lucifer is arguably one of the best things to hit TV in years; it has a hard core fan base of Lucifans (myself included) who follow every second of the show and has so much potential to scale new heights. The acting is superb, the scripts excellent, the camera work and direction fantastic. There is nothing bad about the show in my opinion, it can be fresh, funny, sad, dramatic and thoughtful in the space of moments, and okay, some will argue it has moved well away from Gaiman’s original creation, but that is not a negative at all, in fact it has taken the idea, run far away with it and made it its own. So we have to fight to reverse this decision and keep up the pressure. If this one goes, who knows which show will be axed next, Westworld? The Walking Dead? So please take a moment and join the Twitter fight, #saveLucifer #PickupLucifer and let’s get our favourite naughty devil back on air!
Oscars. No invite for Dave again, mind you, you can’t really blame them. Would so up pissed out of my head, get lost on the way to the toilets and probably throw up over Gary Oldman. Not that I have anything against Gary.
Yeah am still about, just a lot going on at the minute, Jack Daniels also doesn't help me stay on top of things, but it sure is sweet. BTW we saved the doggie, so big yay from Dave!
Turned on the news today, three teenage lads in London mown down by a car as they were walking to a party, all that living that was to come, all gone just like that. I feel for them, and most of all, for their families and friends.
It made me think of the grief I carry myself, it can’t compare of course, because each one of us is different, but again it reminded me of all the horrors of the world, grief is perhaps the worst. There is no cure, no end, it comes like a heavy iron shroud to settle on your heart, your bones, absolutely crushing, and heartbeat by heartbeat you think you cannot endure another second of it as it chokes up your lungs, blurs your eyes, and physically hurts inside. Yeah, grief is the worst of things. They say so optimistically time heals all wounds but you and I both know that is bullshit from start to finish. All that happens is you get used to the moment, that’s all, that one moment when it comes and you know life will be this way from now own, darker, harder and somehow heavier on your soul.
My heart goes out to those boys, their families, and friends, to all of those who have endured, and go on enduring grief. There is nothing that so defines the real human heart than that fragility and depth, and how easily it is broken.
And I often think if more people really understood the true horror of grief, then they wouldn’t be so quick to kill and maybe the world would be better.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan of The Walking Dead; I remember when it started as the Crawling Dead, and each week I tune in to see if my favourite character is going to make it to the end of the latest episode (several times this has not been the case, I must be liking the wrong people). It’s always a bit of a lottery pinning your affection to anyone other than Rick or Carl, even Daryl seems at risk sometimes, especially after poor old Glenn was roughly shoved through the exit door with a head left like hot mince with an eyeball in it.
I do think though the show would be better if it was done on bicycles, just for a laugh, zombies wobbling everywhere, going through red lights and the wrong direction up one way streets, like normal cyclists do.
But apart from the usually post apocalypse inconsistencies, like who’s out mowing the lawns in a zombie holocaust and how come if those zombies are decaying how do their legs keep working etcetera , (see my humble Attack of the Fisting Zombies) what gets me is the amount of time it takes anyone to get anywhere. It’s like that woman with the dragons in Game Of Thrones, how fucking long has it now taken her to get back? Six?!! Seven Seasons?!! And in the Walking Dead, they have cars, but still only seem to have managed to move about eight feet since they left Atlanta. I swear you can see the prison from Negan’s gaff! At times, the zombies seem to be moving faster. Perhaps everyone is weighed down with Daryl’s road kill sandwiches, which let’s face it, probably taste as badly as they sound. Again, bicycles would be an answer.
And now the zombies aren’t even the major threat any more, it’s the other humans. The zombies are kind of an existential dilemma wandering about in the background, and could really be replaced by now with rabid hamsters or Triffids or killer bicycles, because they are no longer that important. Which is a bit of a shame really, there’s a lot of zombie talent going to waste out there. At times it is a bit The Walking Soap Opera. We want limb tearing, full on flesh chomping, not Carl’s angst about girls or discussions about is Daryl ever going to get laid with anyone. This is why Shane is so badly missed; he was first up for some zombie action and didn’t care who got in the way, I still chuckle over his magnificent treatment of Otis. Now of course if they had both been using bicycles, they could have both escaped, and it would have promoted a green, healthy message, The Cycling Dead, where Negan, intent on doing things his way, uses a unicycle instead…
Or perhaps that would be too silly. But at least they might move across America faster.
But there is a deeper tragedy going on here, one the show has fought desperately hard to suppress due to its devastating personal consequences and potential law suits. I am of course, talking about Mister Whiffles.
I know this story has been denied by the studio on many occasions, but the truth has to come out before more lives are lost. Glenn and Abraham both raised the issue on several times, and look what happened to them.
Mister Winkles Whiffles, the pivotal star of the show was suddenly axed after the first two seasons, despite having been signed up not just for the entire run of the show, and also, (as per the original script), to eventually be revealed as the entire cause of the outbreak. Fans immediately noticed his sinister presence had been removed, and a brief message was put out by Rick, that this was only temporary whilst Mister Whiffles was in rehab for his substance abuse, but this soon turned out to be false (not the substance abuse, but him being in rehab). Details are sketchy at best, but email evidence shows a brief hiatus was far from the truth. Having fallen out with the lighting crew in season two (thought to be over how his fur was backlit), a dispute quickly arose that saw Mister Whiffles suddenly sacked by the studio, (citing his unprofessional behaviour and damp bear smell) and worse still; he was not paid for the previous episodes.
Inevitably, this led Mister Whiffles into a serious decline, short of money, and unable to find work in the Fluffy Buntkin Television Ensemble (his once cuddly image tainted by the gory nature of TWD), he quickly relapsed back to the world of crack cocaine and Pot Noodles, leading to his accidental overdose just before shooting started for season three. Despite being admitted to Grand Central Bear’s Hospital, the damage done was too great and Mister Whiffles died a few hours later. (Mister Whiffles had overdosed on Pot Noodles, not the crack cocaine, and it was reported at the time, his system had enough noodles present for a large family stir fry).
But this was only the beginning of the tragedy for the Whiffles family.
His widow, Twinkles Whiffles was left behind to raise five children, and despite selling two of them to the unscrupulous Stuffed Toy Vivisection Company, was unable to cope and soon developed both alcohol and gambling issues. This eventually led to Twinkles resorting to prostitution to scrape enough money together for Binkles Whiffles medical bills (youngest son who had been a victim of a hit and run involving a wayward pedal car), but all in vain as he committed suicide ten months after the death of his younger sister, Hinkles Whiffles who was cruelly shot out of season by a drunken Looney Tunes character who shall remain nameless. Twinkles would soon join Binkles, Hinkles and Winkles in the grave when she was accidently suffocated under a heavy duvet at the back of a wardrobe, leaving the only surviving Whiffles child, Bernard, who has now become a spokesperson for the anti-moon society, known as The Anti-Moon Society. (If like me you too are opposed to the moon, it’s well worth checking out. Stupid moon.)
Despite all this, the studio has not paid a penny in compensation, and continues to refuse paying the original fees owed to Winkles for the use of his image in the show’s opening titles. This author has sent numerous emails regarding the affair and set up the Justice for Whiffles pressure group, only to be told by studio executives to “Piss off you lunatic, what the bloody Hell are you going on about?” And “there is not and never has been any character in the series called Mister Whiffles and we must insist you stop contacting us.” This is a flat denial of the incident, and if it wasn’t for Daryl blinking the story out across the network, it could be covered up for good. Bless you Daryl, keep up the good fight!
Anyway, personally I think the idea of The Cycling Dead could be a real breakthrough not just in the fight against obesity but would have the added benefit of several sponsorship deals, even a Tour de Zombie, which would be worth a few quid were it a pay per view event. I would have freely offer my services to write the show if they wanted, but unfortunately have now been blocked by the studio’s email service. I also hinted at a spinoff called the Walking Bread, where the world is suddenly invaded by undead loaves and baguettes, on bicycles of course. Didn’t get a reply.
I do however still love the show. How can you not love the jolly antics of decaying corpses ripping up the world, slowly of course, but there has been some great action scenes, heart-breaking drama and a few chuckles along the way. Mind you, that bit where Rick decided the entire population of Alexandria had to marry one of Daryl’s shoes was a bit weird, but then I was watching it with the sound turned down and was drunk at the time, so might have misinterpreted what was going on. And of course, there was that scene in the first episode where Rick rode into town on a horse and the poor old thing was immediately ripped to bits and was passed around like a pile of Tesco’s burgers. Yeah it made a very artistic series of shots, but having an edible form of transport in the middle of a zombie apocalypse isn’t the smartest of things to do. And did he consider the horse in any of this? No, he just wanted to be sheriff of Zombietown regardless of his equine companion’s yay or neigh.
Now if he had been on a bicycle, this wouldn’t have been an issue…
“The thing I don’t get about zombies,” Private Gibson said loudly, “is that their digestive systems have packed up, right? So surely all that flesh they’ve eaten would just be backed up in their throats, right up to their mouths. So how come you don’t see zombies full of backed up flesh?” There were a few quizzical looks up and down the line. “And another thing, if their blood has stopped has stopped pumping, how come it doesn’t just fill up their feet? Surely you would see loads of zombies with really huge feet? I mean, it would be like walking around in wellies full of cold water. They would have massive feet. I mean, huge, zombies full of backed up-“
“Gibson!” Hess snapped.
Hess shook her head, suddenly seeing a nightmarish end for Gibson in an entrail- chewing, tendon-slithering, down-the-gullet frenzy, because Gibson talked too much and asked too many difficult questions. Looking down the line of troops, there was a general nervousness as they waited for the next attack, which was due by the end of the first page. Though why zombies would actually hang around and wait before attacking was beyond her; it’s not like they were busy doing anything else or were hanging about for greater numbers because they were a bit scared or something. It wasn’t even as if they had a quota of shuffling about to do first or…
Stop it! Hess told herself. She was starting to sound like Gibson, and seeing this was only the very start of the story, it would be easy to get confused as to who was who or what was what.
Hess was a beautiful, battle-hardened thirty-something, who was only vaguely described, but the general impression was one of cool, calm poise and beauty, with a devastating intellect and wicked smile. And a large chest, obviously, squeezed into a tight uniform which strained to hold in her round, heavy, pliant, pendulous breasts that heaved up and down like two soft flesh mountains as she gasped for breath through her moist wet lips. Oh, and she had a PhD or something. She watched the street as the shambling, rotting corpses moped and skulked about, as if awaiting some unknown signal to attack. One or two of them looked a bit bored actually, but that was quickly glossed over as the supposed tension was slowly increased with a scene-setting scene that was quickly interjected to set the scene. Hess bit her lip softly and thought back over the chaos of the last twelve months…
Space Probe 76 had crashed in Central Africa, or Central America, after its long journey back from the Van Halen belt, with a cargo full of heavy metal samples from the ice—bound, floating Goliath asteroids. It then soon became clear that a terrible virus had hitched a ride aboard. No one noticed at first as the insidious virus silently spread like a weak premise, infecting hundreds, perhaps thousands, and a bloke from Margate who had been on holiday at the time. There were no notable effect to begin with; however it was soon noted by some scientific types called Balun and Bals, thus quickly becoming the Balunbals virus, which was very apt really, if not contrived. The entire world at the time had been distracted by the latest celebrity gossip or some such crap, so a quarter of the planet had been infected before its true fury was unleashed. But then came the big twist: it had no effect on women except for a small head cold. For men, however, it caused the brain to melt internally, which, for some unknown reason, leaked into the testicles, causing them to bloat enormously. Soon the world was full of brain-dead, oversized testicle-bearing zombies, and though there was no real reason for it, they began to eat the living, spreading the virus among even more men, and devouring any unfortunate female within grabbing distance…
Hess thought it over carefully, hoping the flimsy plot line had been explained in a way that wasn’t too boring. She walked up the line and saw Corporal Assburger up ahead, marshalling the line of women who were gripping their guns tightly, ready for action. Hess cast an eye over Assburger’s voluptuous figure, at the deliciously large breasts, the firm but slightly heavy buttocks and the plume of long blonde hair. Although Hess didn’t really roll that way, she felt a warm twitch in her love kipper as she passed behind the corporal, setting up the possibility of a lesbian love scene later on, which might include some spanking and light bondage. (It all depended if that kind of thing would help shift more copies of the story, or whether the flesh-ripping carnage hinted at would prove more popular.)
“Remember, troopers – head shots only,” Hess said loudly, blanching at the cliché. “No shooting in the balls.” There was a chorus of disappointed “aws” from the troops. “It’s the balls that are slowing them down.” She watched the zombies shuffling towards them, heaving their giant testicles and walking in a strange, bow-legged fashion; some were as big as footballs, others like beach balls, scraping on the concrete like hairy, swollen carrier bags. It was in no way linked to another story about bloated killer testicles; this was all distended scrotum-dragging undead. Yes, she thought, dragging those things around made the zombies slow and awkward, not to mention the fact that they all had comically oversized feet too, filled with cold, un-pumped blood...
Dear Mr Lewis,
Many thanks for your interest in the Strain Free Teflon Trousers Corporation, and the purchase you made from our Hard Wearing range.
I have to admit I was rather surprised to read your account of your late night cemetery liaison with a six month old corpse and its subsequent disintegration, leading to you raising a complaint about our clothing products.
I would like to point out that Stain Free Teflon Trousers products are meant to cope with every day spillages and stains such as coffee, milkshakes and light food materials, not the rancid fluid leakage from six month old corpses. Indeed, the Hard Wearing range which you have purchased is only guaranteed to a maximum level of gravy, not the ichorous pus, bile, desiccated flesh and carnal scrapings you describe.
I am therefore sorry to inform you that your request for a refund has not been successful, as I believe the usage of our Trouser products does not include necrophiliac encounters, graveyard kneetremblers or oral sex with the deceased. Might I recommend the use of plastic sheeting and kitchen wipes for your next romantic encounter and that you either hand yourself in to the nearest local police station in the first instance or seek immediate psychiatric help at your earliest convenience.
I hope you can understand our position, and should you have any future issues with stains comprising of coffee, milkshakes and light food materials and/or gravy, please don’t hesitate to contact us. Rest assured we treat all complaints seriously, even if they do come from some sick, tormented Fuckwit such as yourself.
The three of us stood on the doorstep of Woody’s house, each with a clove of garlic stuck up our respective anuses. Having never stuck anything up there before, I have to say it felt very odd and uncomfortable. Why anybody would spend their time doing such things is beyond me, but I suppose some might view an attraction to corpses as a bit weird. At first I thought she was joking about the garlic, but as I sat there in total confusion, both DQ and Lucretia slipped a hand into their underwear and disposed of their portion.
“Do I leave the skin on?” I’d said, thinking this was insane, or a gag.
In the end I did it, and it was definitely not to my taste. Getting out the car made it worse and by the time I was at the front door I was really starting to sting. They however seemed used to it as if it were any everyday occurrence. I tried to get everything into perspective: got a job, drive to Nottingham, meet a vampire and have a garlic clove up my arse. What could be more everyday than that?
“Come on, Woody,” Lucretia shouted through the letterbox, and finally the door clicked open. Here, I was expecting a dark, cobwebbed abode of the damned, all coffins and skeletons, so was slightly surprised to see a magnolia-painted hallway with Habitat prints on the walls.
“I’m in the study,” a scratchy, thin voice shouted, and with a nod from DQ, we stomped inside, my heart thudding hard, and my arse stinging like a fresh bullet wound. The door slammed shut behind me and the three of us squeezed down the narrow hallway, off to meet a vampire. We took the door on the left and into a bright white room with black bean bags, uplighters and shelves full of books, and there was Woody, waiting to greet us.
Now, being a complete coward, I have to say that my first contact with a vampire began with a lot of screaming and ended with me throwing up in the hallway. Forget all the stuff about bloodsucking elegant counts, or the drippy pale romantic images of tortured souls: the real thing is far more disgusting. I shrieked in terror as this thing floated towards me, its face stretched out into a long anteater snout, the eyes burning red in long ovals. Woody did not exist below the waist. Internal organs and entrails hung glistening at the ragged cut-off point and all manner of worms and maggots chewed and slithered through him. It came closer, three or four feet from the floor, and with it came a stench of shit and rotting flesh, enough to make me choke and then vomit all over the white wooden floor. Backing up with the stairs behind me this stinking abomination hovered closer, and to my disgust a long tongue like a pink wet rope slithered from the snout and began licking at the sick.
“Yuck,” the scratchy voice said. “Vegetarian chilli if I’m not mistaken.”
DQ and Lucretia appeared amused, but me, I wanted to heave again, especially when I noticed in Woody's straggly whiskers there were flakes of dry excrement that it kept licking at. Far from the stereotype, vampires are revenants that exist on human faeces, sucking them out of people’s lower colons as they sleep. I doubt all those gothic types who long to be a creature of the night would bother if they knew, unless they want to spend eternity with their face up someone else’s arse. Pinned against the banister, I was helpless with sickened horror as its worming nose crept between my legs and began sniffing at me. Immediately it gave a mucus-heavy sneeze and backed off.
“Spoilsport!” it hissed at Lucretia. DQ came to my aid and helped me stand upright, muttering that it was okay and everyone was like this first time. He set me down on a black bean bag and fetched me a glass of water.
“13, this is Woody. Woody – 13,” Lucretia said as she lit a cigarette.
“13? You were only up to 8 last time I saw you.”
“The youngsters can’t hack it these days.”
DQ stood at my side as I sat down, shaking and coughing on the stench. Were it not for the fact my legs were bandy, I would have been out and gone.
“This... is a vampire?” I stammered. “A real vampire?”
“At your service,” Woody squeaked. “Not what you were expecting?”
It waved its long, taloned hands and maggots showered the floor.
“Jesus...” I felt faint again, just prayed it would stay away with its crusty-shit whiskers and swinging giblets.
“Come and help me get the stuff from the car,” DQ said, hauling me up, and on wobbly legs I followed him into the fresh, sweet air, diesel smoke and all.
“Just a minute.” I leant against the Cortina, guts in spasms, head swirling. “Is that thing even real?”
“Oh yes, afraid so. But don’t mind Woody. He looks disgusting but he’s basically harmless. There’s a lot worse out there.”
He smiled. “Now you see why we keep running out of assistants.”
Just a quick thought before we start/finish/run away. Apart from several other causes, I’m always keen to speak up about mental health issues. So with that in mind I saw an article today that said 60% of adults in the UK are now relying on alcohol to cope with the stress of modern life. Another 60% are on one form of medication or another to cope with mental illness. I don’t know if that’s the same 60%. It is in my case, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Unless you enjoy feeling like a half warmed through McDonalds with a belly full of corpse worms.
Oh it was back in the day, ’81 as I recall or maybe ‘82, being only eleven or twelve at the time, I remember it vividly. I took a bus into town, browsing round the stores and trying to look grown up among the Mohawks and Mods who populated the street, desperate to look cool among the throng of sweaty Motorhead fans, buying a book and sitting in the coffee shop trying to look all sophisticated. “Can I have a coffee please,” in a high squeaky voice. (I don’t have a high squeaky voice you understand, this was pre balls drop.
Now on this occasion, the book I purchased for a modest 75p was Alan Dean Foster’s novelisation of John Carpenter’s The Thing. Having heard about this movie from my older brother I was desperate to see it, but this was as close as I could get for now, sat there, immediately drawn into the snowy wastelands of Antarctica, a dozen men trapped with what has to be the greatest monster of all time. I drifted further and further from the café, into this living nightmare, and shuddered and gasped as my little hands turned page after blood-soaked page. (I’d cut my finger on a Coke can earlier in the day).
Anyway, a couple of days later, I got to see the movie (so it must have been ’82 after all), and it became a huge part of my life. Said older brother had managed to get a pirate copy of the film (this was on Betamax, long since departed), and I sat and watched it. Never had I been so terrified and thrilled, so captivated and so desperate for it to end so I could watch it again. It was, without doubt, the most amazing film I had ever seen. By this time I had seen loads of horror movies, but this was something unique, breath taking and disgustingly wonderful. When that bloke’s head came off and grew legs, it was like a revelation! I was absolutely, totally horrified, and didn’t like to be left alone with anyone or anything for days, certain that glistening clawing tentacles were about to erupt out of one of the cats. Well you never know do you, as Tommy Cooper used to say.
Okay, there was a little disappointment that some of the characters didn’t match Foster’s version, and the ice chase with the dogs wasn’t in there or Naul’s epic suicide in the toilet,, but that was more than made up for by Norris’s head crab thing and the terrifying rendition of Blair by Wilford Brimley. All in all it completely blew me away. And still does.
John Carpenter’s The Thing is without doubt my favourite film of all time, towering over all others with an awesome legendary power that makes all other movie monsters tremble and quake. I have been in love with it ever since, can’t count the hundreds of times I’ve seen it, and always finding a new detail in there that suddenly becomes apparent despite the familiarity. And I have spent the rest of my life looking for a film that recreates the pure wonderful terror of that old Betamax tape, but so far, never again. Nothing comes close; a few though, are on the right lines. But it blew me well and truly away.
I know a lot of people complain about the movie for its gore, its bleakness and ambiguity, but for me, these are the things that make it so special. Still today, I marvel at Rob Bottin’s creations, Bill Lancaster’s script, and the masterful direction of Carpenter himself. It is the doubt and uncertainty that always drags you back to Outpost 31. Just who got infected first, who is that with Macready and Norris in the helicopter, when did Blair get infected, what really happened to Fuchs, and will Macready survive? Lots of theories pervade online, but somehow I think the questions are best left unanswered. I know Carpenter himself has spoken about it many times, but I don’t always want to know, but to be left guessing, thinking it over and relishing the sheer madness and beauty of the greatest movie monster. If I could, I’d be The Thing, imagine how handy that would be, sprouting limbs and teeth to scare the crap out of people, sending off an arm to the kitchen to make a cup of tea so you don’t have to get up and do it yourself. Oh what a lovely thought. Here it is, thirty five(or thirty six) years later and I still get a chill of excitement just thinking about. I don’t care if people say it’s dated or lacks character development, they are just jealous that they didn’t do it themselves. The Thing has been in my life all this time, and I don’t regret a moment of its company, except maybe for that time we went out and got hammered on liquid shoe polish and subsequently arrested for being a shape shifting pair of monsters in a public place. But that’s another story. Or another delusion, it’s hard to tell which half the time. That’s what happens when you get Thinged.
Many thanks for dropping by and just wanted to welcome you to my updated site.
For those who don’t know me, I am D G Jones, (just call me Dave), the writer known as the Flayed Prince. For years I have been haunting the underground scene, having started off in alternative comics (writing for them, not as a cartoon character), and graduating to short stories and novels which have now slowly spread all over the world. Amazon has given me the chance to contaminate so many more minds, so you will find most of my stuff there if you fancy something strange.
Anyway, how come I’ve started blogging? Well watching the world through my usual drunken haze, I’ve seen things go pretty crazy of late, and there now seems to be a wealth of unqualified bozos giving their opinion on just about every topic under the sun, so, I thought, I could do that. Not only am I unqualified to talk about anything, I also have an addiction to alcohol, meds and several other dubious pursuits, so why the Hell not?
My stuff strands several different genres, because I’ve never been able to settle on just one thing (however horror and comedy are my two great loves and usually end up hanging around in those categories, sometimes both at the same time), though for the most part, it is usually gory with a touch of S&M, and some radical politics thrown in, the latter usually all hidden away in subtexts, though sometimes a very blatant “What the fuck are we doing?” surfaces, depending on how I feel.
I am a keen animal rights activist, a Moravian (with a touch of Ethiopian Orthodox and Coptic), a gambling, chain smoking, sado-masochist, heavy drinking pill popper, but I do have some negative qualities too.
Anyway, if this hasn’t put you off, hopefully you will enjoy a stroll through the worlds of Dave, and feel free any time to contact me with suggestions, ideas and comments, but no more death threats please, I get enough of those already.
Best wishes and much love, D.
PS. Although I am an old school thrasher, I am Juggalo to the bone and down with the clown for life. But don’t let that put you off either…