Sunday, 20 November 2011


I started this blog as a vehicle to get me to write every day. And it worked.....for about three days.

The trouble was and has been the layout and the content. I never really gave much thought about what subjects I would attempt to discuss or a particular theme for the blog, at least one that ties all the posts together no matter how loosely.

Then I kind of came up with the dull, ordinary office boy who becomes a minefield of opinions and frustration once he leaves that environment, which seems sensible as people always say 'write what you know'.

Except I don't really know or enjoy this type of thing. Sure, people who know me will say that I tend to enjoy a good rant and a moan. But in reality who doesn't? Most people have a gripe about what irritates them at some point during the day as the majority of them are exactly the same - powerless to really change the world and pissed off with the apparent stupidity of those that can.

Once you get through this clusterfuck of ranting there isn't really anything tangibly beneficial left. I can sit here and probably type through the night about everything that fucking irritates the crap out of me and spout philisophical ideology about why that may be. But I don't want to do that. And the reality is after about five or six paragraphs - nobody wants to read it.

When you consider that after getting home circa six o'clock of an evening I still have other items such as tidying, eating and entertaining on my to-do list, I don't really want to sit for between one and two hours knocking up a quasi-funny ranty blog post that starts off making fun of people and tails off towards the end when a point has to be made. It isn't sustainable because I don't care enough about the subject matter to consistently maintain the quality writing each and every day.

Free writing is the main objective of this exercise - but free writing about subjects, genres and ideas that people will want to read, laugh at and digest and most importantly come back for another dose the next day. And if I want people to do this, surely what I am saying is that what I write here reflects my voice as an author and by definition what my voice has to say about the things that are important to it.

And ranting about how much of an arse some untouchable political or religious moron is doesn't reflect what I care about. It doesn't showcase my talents as a writer primarily because after the bile has been digested it just doesn't matter.

I care about storytelling. About creating a world completely separate from the day to day almost monotonous grind, where people can sit even if it's for ten minutes with a brew and enjoy a good story.

And for me, taking people on a journey with you regardless of how absurd or how unfamiliar that journey may be is a challenge. To create a story that matters to the reader within a world that starts off as a stranger and over time becomes almost as important to them as the reality they exist in is one of the great joys of been able to write fiction.

So I am officially retiring The Quiller. He had a good run. Well, short - but good. The Quiller blog posts will be either archived or deleted as of midnight tonight.

The blog will be completely transformed for the Second Coming. The layout, design, style of writing and themes will hopefully be clear to you when you check back.

There will be a new Twitter account and the Facebook page will be edited to reflect the new style alongside the blog.

If you're wondering what direction the blog is going to take here's a little teaser (this will be edited and honed before being officially launched but the angle will remain the same);

The Inter-Stellar Gazette is the most succesful News Dispatching Agency in the Universe, delivered to your door/secret underground lair/moon base within 30 light-years or your money back!

Friday, 11 November 2011

Remember, Remember - the 11th of November

Blog's up early tonight as The Quiller swaps his cloak of infinite lexicon for one of infinite beer and possibly cider. But not before devouring two portions of fish and chips (or fips, as The Quiller so wittily names this staple English feast). And this is almost celebratory after the all clear from the doc regarding a mucky mole on his broad, perfectly shaped chest.

So he's beaten cancer, beating heart disease and dueling the evils of alcohol. Yet he still feels like a shaken bag of fish heads because of the common cold.

Bah, Science Schmience.

Rant of the Day

So the verdict on Michael Jackson's death has been delivered and it's not good news for OJ Simpson...shit, I mean Dr Conrad Murray.

What is it with people with railway-tunnel nostrils and greying, crew cut Jheri curls? Keep an eye on Samuel L Jackson, for God's sake.

So the good (or I guess the bad) doctor has been charged with Involuntary Manslaughter and faces a fairly hefty prison sentence. Wow, I guess the guy must feel pretty awful about these mistakes. But at least the Jackson family and the world can move on with dignity now.

Oh wait, the good people of channel 4 bring you The Man Who Killed Michael Jackson just three days later. Lovely.

Could the title be any more confrontational? Even though it turned out he was guilty of gross negligence, the guy was trying to act in the best interests of, let's be honest, a skeletal nut bag with the brain of a child. It's not as if he closed the doors, clubbed Jacko over the noggin' with his stethoscope, then put his cock in his mouth and took a picture is it?

When Jade Goody died of cancer, there wasn't a programme three days later entitled 'The racist piggy face who doesn't know where Norfolk is'. And I don't recall this book being published after Amy Winehouses' sudden demise.

What? They're both to the point and factually correct. I can't understand what the problem could be.

We're so quick to tiptoe around innumerable trivial issues in society on a day to day basis, from writing letters about a single swear word uttered before or just after the watershed (you can fuck after nine, you can't see a cunt until ten - that's the rules, kids) to banning a fifty year old cartoon showing a cat rolling a cigarette after ONE written complaint. But apparently cashing in on a legitimate mistake made at the eleventh hour of a fading man's life is somehow morally and ethically OK to be broadcast without a single notable complaint?

But then again, it is Channel 4. The people who are responsible for unleashing horrors such as Wife Swap and Big Brother into the world. Their mission statement probably has something like 'Look look! We're trying so hard to be different!' written all over it in purple crayon.

Quote of the Day

As I sat with a bowed head at eleven o'clock for the annual Armistice day Minutes Silence, a thought went through my head about what I could say on the subject when writing the blog today.

There are so many stories, tales and poems that have been written not just about the Great War, but about many other conflicts that have occured throughout the annals of time. Tales of great courage, of love and of sacrifice. And they have been written about so beautifully and gracefully that an average working class chap such as myself would probably fail to do anything more than blunder around their profound points, adding very little of merit other than than tried and tired metaphrases. So I will leave these yarns as they are - perfectly preserved.

All I can offer is an attempt to surmise what this day means to me.

There was word in the news that the Islamic Group Muslims Against Crusades was planning to disrupt the Remembrance day services. This is neither the time nor the place to discuss whether they are right or wrong, or whether they have the right to protest.

For me, it is a time to reflect on the thousands and probably millions of ordinary people - be they Black, White, Rich, Poor, Arab, Jew - who whether through fear, conviction or duty sacrificed the safe confines of the small bubble they called life and went out to stand with bayonet or cannon or sword to fight for their own existence and through their acts, they have shaped the world as we know it today.

For better or for worse is a matter of opinion, context and belief. But the dead of yesterday are all around us, every day. They exist in the language we speak, in the customs we participate in, the holidays we celebrate and in the technology we employ.

If you imagine time as a stroll down a long, straight road at night - as you stand still and look ahead, the immediate path seems vague and blurred. But if you look behind you, you'll realise it's blurrier still.

In just under a century, the world as we know it has changed immeasurably. Yet all around you - the path you tread, the lamps that light the street and the trees that provide the cool evening air were the very same they helped to build, to invent and to grow. They are with us - always and forever.

And I think that spending just one in thirty million minutes a year reflecting on their legacy and what they have done for us to be here now is not too great an ask for every man, woman and child in our (and their) world.

" They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning

See you tomorrow.

Thursday, 10 November 2011


And as The Quiller limps into his secret HQ (on the coffee table in the front room, just at the right angle for the TV to distract him whilst he types) fresh from the football field, he contemplates why the hell he just put himself through all that agony when he feels like the spaces in between Janet Street-Porter's toes - nasty.

He peeks into the kitchen and sighs, realising that the cowardly Pemberton Inkwell has neglected his pot-washing chores yet again. Shaking his noble fist, The Quiller plots his revenge against the snivelling weasel. At least he would if he wasn't his alter ego. He's not going to punch his own face to pieces like Jim Carrey in Me, Myself and Irene. God that movie was fucking terrible.

He also wonders why he's had to type this out twice now!!!!

If you ever find your self in the position to purchase a Netbook, inject herpes into your eyeballs. The experience will turn out to be a more enjoyable one. And the symptoms will heal a great deal quicker than it takes the Netbook to open a pdf file.

Rant of the Day

Two mini rants make up for one giant rant today. Think of it as two mini KFC Fillet Burgers to replace one Fillet Burger meal. Only you won't be required to have your ventricles unblocked afterwards.

The first comes because I don't want to alienate my non-football audience. And because it's fun to pick on trivial stuff like politics and the economy every once in a while, instead of the important stuff like transfer deadline day and Joey Barton's tweets (bless him, he's discovered how to look up quotes on the internet and that he has opposable thumbs).

Due to the absence of Lord Daffodil and his paper-buying duties YET AGAIN, The Quiller was restricted in his search to right wrongs Or at the very least, have a jolly good moan about events he has absolutely no control over.

So we're going for the obscure today. There was a report doing the rounds about whether dwarves should accept stereotypical roles in todays modern society.

Yes, they should. They totally should.

I can't see George Clooney Squeezing himself into R2D2's shell or the cast of Glee poncing about in Ewok costumes (though they do have the same talent threshhold as a cuddly teddy bear). Surely it isn''t degrading to a person who happens to be 3ft tall to take advantage of a natural strength? I don't see anyone asking Kobe Bryant whether he feels he's being typecast as a basketball legend just because he's 6ft 6 in. Or David Cameron whingeing that he was forced to behave like a rich prick because he was born that way.

Poking fun at people who happen to be in the minor percentile of society is of course a dumb and cheap way to assert your own feeble ego. I shouldn't even need to write that sentence. But it does strike me that there really never seems to be any sensible middle ground.

We have huge debates about fat people being mocked and laughed at, but what about the severely thin? We have issues around the ethnic community (I hate that word - it's such a middle class way of avoiding being racist) that spiral so quickly questions are asked in parliament, but what about the white lower classes who are suffering just as much at the hands of a widening social gap? And yes, we have issues around even what we refer to short people as - midget, dwarf etc, but what about the excessively tall?

But we can't really see why any of these groups could possibly have similar issues at all. And if they do - they're thin, white and tall! Bollocks to them!

Equality, eh?

Rant of the Day II/Quote of the Day

Like a Royal Wedding, this will be brief.

Early reports were raining down all over the telebox and radio this morning that Fabio Capello, Englands International Manager and Postman Pat look-a-likee, has written off Englands chances of beating World and European champions Spain at the weekend.

One has great experience in dealing with pussies. The other one is a Postman. Ba-dum-dum - tsssshh.

Ok, number one. How is this newsworthy? To reiterate, Spain are the WORLD and EUROPEAN champions, they have gone two qualifying campaigns with 100% records, their first XI contains the majority of what critics are calling the greatest team of all time in Barcelona, and England have a whole host of players missing. Oh, and they're shit to boot.

Secondly, this is why nobody can really be arsed about the national side anymore. There is so much media attention foised on them each and every game that it's become common to have seven pages of analysis after a single friendly International. When England won the World Cup in 1966, the headline read 'England win World Cup - see back page for details'. And that was it.

Now we have to listen to analyse and verdicts from every Tom, Dick and Hard-on about every word of dialogue from every press conference ever hosted. I'll be honest, Martin Luther King, Gandhi, JFK, even Hitler - these guys could give a speech worthy of some elucidation. However, John Terry mumbling in cockney that the boys will have to give '110%' and whichever idiot has been caught hanging out of the back of his Wife's Sister isn't a problem as 'his heads in the right place' and he's a 'true professional' doesn't really strike me as particularly earth-shattering.

It's akin to Party Political Conference's and the ridiculous suits who are wheeled out on News 24 to shed some light on body language, stance and how what they thought would be in the speech was in the speech, but it was the emphasis on these bits of the speech that were crucial to the reaction of the speech...

Oh, fuck offffffffffff.

Does anyone remember where they were when Ed Milliband droned on about how they are a 'party of change' or when Wayne Rooney confirmed he would go out and try to 'do a goal'?

Bet you remember where you were when the Berlin wall came down and have fond memories of when Giggs went through the entire Arsenal team to clinch the semi final in 1999, effectively setting United up for the treble (as a Liverpool fan, I certainly do. With murderous rage).

See, words are wonderful tools. They can be used as comfort blankets as well as destructive weapons, and I wouldn't be sat tapping away if I didn't enjoy what they can do. But actions really do speak louder than words ever can. And there is a large part of my soul that feels tainted by the constant hype and critique of words, when it would have been much purer to just wait for the act itself and react to that instead.

As David Mitchell said of David Cameron's reaction to stating that he was not a smug person;

" Oh I'm not smug, and I'm not horrible, and I'm not dishonest. SHUT UP! DO THINGS! "

Wow! That was actually longer than I thought. Turns out I'm not quite getting the hang of this blog lark and honing my posts to not ramble on like a twelve year old trying to impress a girl. Apologies. The Quiller will try harder.

I saw a clown today! Fully dressed and walking down the street and everything. Though it was near the local secondary school at lunch time, so I think I'll be off now and see if I can spot his shoes near the vicinity, as that'll be all that's left of the naive balloon-botherer by now.

To the next page, parchment miters!

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

A carefree chuckle

The Quiller gazes out of the shimmering window and up toward the smokey clouds blanketing the sky, as they glide across the cheshire cats smile. He looks poignantly upward, his awesome brain conjuring another meaningful gambit to empart on his citizens - then he unexpectedly cough's, his trousers fall down and he trips back onto the couch, exclaiming furiously at the barometer which has fallen ever-downward that there really is no kind bearded deity in the sky.

Yes, your great orator is still struggling like a deaf mute in a debating society with the (man) flu. But he will SOLDIER ON, with some abusive texts and a slap round the napper from the missus to spur his endeavours onward.

Rant of the Day

So apparantly the pesky blighters at FIFA (which is the Football Federation that governs the entire structure of the globes most popular sport, for any of our dear pigskin-loving neighbours across the mucky pond) seemed determined to prevent the British national team's from afixing poppies, the symbol worn annually during early November in memory of fallen service men and women through time, to their respectful black armbands during the round of games this coming weekend.

And boy are we all mad about this! Ooh, how dare they! The swines!

Quickly, lets all discuss at the water cooler just how gosh darn unfair this is - those brutish foreign types dictating to us noble men and women of God's country. Get that twirp who runs the country on the case. Bell up the future throne-sitting baldy and lets sort these bastards out. You jolly well won't push us around!


Except not really.

Come on, do you honestly think that these people give two shades of shit what any of us think? More to the point, I don't believe that a single one of them has a better side to appeal to. No, as far as FIFA is concerned it's job well done. Another day at the office.

The only thing that anyone who sits one ANY board of ANY company/committee/summer church fate wants is acknowledgement that it doesn't matter how passionately you make your case, they are holding all the metaphorical cards.

And the bigger the organisation, the bigger the decisions are, and the bigger the ego's grow to. FIFA are certainly not going to be an exception are they? I mean honestly, this is the same group of multicultural nonces that won't allow England to host the World Cup until we give the Falklands back to Argentina, that believe Jews are lazy (that's why they wandered about 'lost' in the desert for 40 years, presumably) and have seen more bungs than a communal glass bottle of lube at the Roman baths. I think they have demonstrated better than most they honestly don't hold the integrity of their rules and ethics in high regard.

FIFA were never going to ban the poppy. This was all just a show where a group of suits flexed their collective clout in the face of visceral public opinion and then tried to appear magnanimous in their capacity to change.

But The Quiller sees through you. As does basically everybody if they stopped and thought about it for three seconds. And we're always hearing clamour for everything to be given 'back to the people' - the common market, the 'power' (though it's hardly power when Paul the Pikey's front garden is littered with Asda bags full of shit because he now has the 'power' to collect and dispose of his own waste) and most certainly the football.

So why can't the FA's of Spain, England, Italy et al take FIFA out of the equation and form a trust network free from the grasp of one unifying shower of shite.

I mean honestly, what is HE going to do about it?

Just look at him. It's as if someone lopped off their left testicle, hollowed it out and stretched it inside out over a clay bust of Squidward off of Spongebob.


Quote of the Day

On the short run up to christmas now and suddenly everybody's obsessed with their weight aren't they? Well personally, I have a figure that resembles a capital B saluting the sun. So I don't think a few extra biccies hoovered up between afternoon tea and pre-dinner snacks is going lead to an existential crisis.

But honestly, the amount of 'Ooh I shouldn't's' and 'I can't be naughties') going around the laughter factory (hyperbolic antonym for the office, in case you were wondering) is getting palpable.

We really do seem to have nurtured a wonderful culture of the extreme around the best of the holiday seasons, don't we? It's all fasting - craving - endulging - guilting - resolution making - return to A little calm in the storm wouldn't go a miss.

I may sound like a pedantic hypocrite, but perhaps we don't actually HAVE to raid the end of aisle displays at the local supermarket everytime we do a big shop and bring them into the office/reception/toilet. Perhaps we can just rationally go about our lives and ignore the spasm-inducing twinkle lights around the latest buy two get three free heart-attack snacks? Maybe we all collectively can make a pact to pool our efforts and say NO to the commercial pressure to gorge and guilt. If we all stick to our principles and with a hand on each of our collective shoulders, we may just....

Oh fuck it, those chocolate-coated seasonal shortbreads will go soft if someone doesn't devour right just now.

" I know this obsession with thinness is unhealthy and anti-feminist, but that's what a fat girl would say! "

Lisa Simpson - Season 16 of The Simpsons

And so chicks and cocks, we have arrived at the end of the show for another day/post/ramble. Once I get a touch more time over the weekend I will be adding a third item to the daily agenda, which will be different depending on the day of the week. Should be good.

As ever, feedback and ideas always welcome.

Catch you on the next page, parchment miters.

Tuesday, 8 November 2011

Not long and sour

...but short and sweet. Today my lovelies, The Quiller's usual venomous volume of vengeful verbal volleys have been vetoed by a viral vagabond (today's blog sponsored by the letter v and, as always, the number 69).

Yes, although his will is of iron and his tongue is of acid, The Quiller is regrettably only human and as such he is susceptible to the changing temperatures sweeping across the nation like any other, leaving a trail of moderate sniffles, occasional throaty coughs and headaches that, like a courteous prostitute, come and go.

So, lets not wait for the grass to grow on our journey through this wretched day. Let us blaze a trail through the necessaries before The Quiller's foot spa grows tepid.

Rant of the Day

After spending most of the day having to rebuild his computer from scratch thanks mainly to a pesky profile that got out of hand and roamed across the network chomping megabytes like they were skittles, The Quiller was rather isolated from the moronity the commonly engulfs his day.

That is, whilst consuming his sandwich-o'clocks he discovered the letters page of the filthy rag Lord Daffodil of Wales had purchased on his return to his normal luncheon duties.

So apparently we now know the cause of the horrific M5 crash on Monday that left seven dead and over fifty injured.


Ah yes, that was it! Speed done it! With the candlestick on the Motorway. You're fucking nicked, me beauty!

Seriously, what? Speed? Not the individuals involved but speed, you say. Yes, while I admit it's a very convincing argument blaming a magnitude of velocity that can't readily defend itself, perhaps a better case would be to actually step back and think about the location of this accident.

I would postulate that by it's very definition, a motorway is designed specifically for speed. And as such, one might suggest that perhaps we can look at what precautions have been taken to allow this to function.

For instance, what about if we measure the time it takes the average driver to react and break (lets call it stopping distance, shall we) without bonnet-kissing the car in front at the maximum speed of 70 mph and then publish our findings in a statutory document (lets call it the Highway Code)?

Perhaps if we then monitor some everyday motorway traffic to see whether this is being observed:


Oh, wait...

Wait, no...

My goodness, perhaps then that SPEED is not the cause of such a heinous and tragic event. Perhaps it is actually the fact that since the world has gone and sped itself up in the latter part of the previous century, even activities that still require constant due care and diligence are now treated with the same impatience as the most frivolous of every day activities.

Consequently, each and every journey up and down these smooth grey arteries of our nation has become hazard strewn with indicator-shirkers, middle lane enthusiasts and short sighted number-plate readers.

And I'd like to think that the decision on the recent revision to increase the maximum speed limit on our finest of roads to 80 mph will not be swayed heavily to one side by an unfortunate incident caused not by speed itself, but by our own collective ignorance of it's perils.

Quote of the Day

Spending some time flicking through an old camera that has laid at the bottom of a messy junk-draw for the best part of six months can be a fun way to spend a ten minute brew. Not least when you stumble upon a genuine gem of a moment that had escaped your memory.

It is one of these moments that brought me to our quote for the day. I give you not-so-curious George. He is, as the wife so eloquently put it, both the softest idiot and the biggest tit you can possibly wish to pay £60 for the privilege of owning.

" As anyone who has ever been around a cat for any length of time well knows cats have enormous patience with the limitations of the human kind "

Cleveland Amory - author and animal activist

And so with a nod of my head and a swoosh of my cape, and a blow of my runny nose, The Quiller shall leave you for another day.

More varied content and writing coming soon, I promise!

On the next page, my little parchment mites.

Monday, 7 November 2011

A pandemic of pretention

Essentially then, this is Genesis. The first daily update of what will hopefully be many.

Cast off the shackles of the daily grind, rest those weary bones and follow The Quillers nib as he takes you through the journey that was Monday, 7th November 2011. Unless you're a colonial sort, in which case the journey that was Monday, November 7th 2011 (I am rather wonderful in catering for those that sin against the natural British order of things).

I wanted to kick off the blog with an amusing image of sorts. Something visual that we can all appreciate. And rather delightfully the chaps using the blocks toilet came up with a pearler, addressing the paper towel pandemic spreading across the floor tiles:

Lovely. Didn't realise there was such wit amongst us number crunchers.

Right then, to business.

Rant of the Day

Now that the cowardly caterpillar known as Pemberton Inkwell has scurried back into his chrysalis to feed off mouldy fruit and Cadburys produce, like the proverbial butterfly The Quiller soars majestically free. Armed with the tools to strike down those that annoy, bite back at that which is frustratingly stupid and mock those that don't get inside jokes and movie references.

So basically hypocritically become that which he set out to destroy. Ah, but from behind the safety of a cloaked identity!

Maybe I should wear a mask when I post this? You know, really get into the character and spirit of the thing. Oh well, I guess i'll just make do with posting naked from the waist down for now.


How does that make you feel? It's ok i'm only joking. OR AM I? Could you live with yourself if I was? Do you feel dirty? Are you going to take a shower? Can I watch?



Lets get to the news of the day. Well, as my esteemed and noble lunching colleague (he will become an integral part of this daily broadside, but for now lets just call him The Lord Daffodil of Wales) was absent today and I am as poor as a church mouse hooked on Edam, I had to forage around the empty lunching tables for a discarded rag to browse. And alas, The Quiller had to make do with a copy of The Sun (the Gaddafi of newspapers - brash, unpleasant and full of holes).

So what have those pesky Greeks been up to today then? Has the global world as we know it been irreparably damaged once more? Well, lets see. Page One - Celebrity Gossip. Page Two & Three - some nonsense about unclaimed tax and a bint with her tits out. Page Four & Five - X Factor. Apparently, Timmy Mallett has lost to some fop haired little shit who got right pissed up and we are not happy. And I thought on a show where it's the great, sober British public who vote anonymously and N-Dumbz judge talent, it was all about the music.

Ah, here we are on PAGE SODDING FIVE, along with the shocking news that our Government have unscrupulously purchased £750k of Olympic tickets (£745k on the beach volleyball final for Berlusconi and £5k on the rest). Seriously, what the fuck? On the verge of global oblivion, but lets pretend we're ostriches and discuss which disaffected, fame hungry, future priory breakdown, Reveal story-selling arse we'll be voting for this week, eh? Jesus, if it's come to this we may as well start printing this every day:

And yes, it is us that causes this. Because whatever you want to say about the daily rags, the most important item on them is the little price tag on the front page. They are selling us their product. And what the most popular papers report on reflects the subject matter closest to Britain's heart. 

If we, the common people, continue to ignore that which is most pertinent to us, choosing to lay back on our laurel beds (all paid for on the plastic, of course darling) and like Nero choose the distracting twangs of the X Factor violin over the swelling flames of social and economic turmoil engulfing all that we hold dear, we may find that heart will suddenly cease to beat and there will be no NHS or kings horses left to patch it back together again.

Quote of the Day

Following on from our first Rant of the Day, here comes a lesser but still irritating gripe.

I was having a relaxing meal out with the wife earlier. A table in a small enclave of the restaurant all to ourselves, a glass of something fruity and a few moments of peace and quiet. Lovely. 

Then a couple with two small tots rock up and sit opposite us. Not a problem in itself, although as the disclaimer on the front end of this blog eludes to, The Quiller is strictly 18's and over.

So these...troglodytes (and I use this word in its most purest of forms) descend into mindless natter and bouts of texting tennis. All the while leaving tot one to yell randomly in the high hair - 'Mine! Want! No! Benefits!' and such - whilst tot two runs around in and out of said enclave with a toothy (or less) grin.

What? Seriously, what THE FUCK is going down here then? Exactly how is a restaurant with waitresses carting hot food about and patrons with full jugs of age restricted liquid an appropriate place to dump your gassy, shout-machines? I didn't realise we had chosen to dine at the local play pen. Does this rule apply across the board? Can I bring the cats along then? They can be a bit of a pain as well you see,  always wanting food and attention. This way they can run riot for an hour while we unbuckle our belts - and hey, if they shit in the sugar bowl it's the restaurants problem. We'll just make a vaguely apologetic face and if that doesn't work we'll ask them whether they have any cats, and therefore they can't know just how much effort it is raising them in today's world.


And this is what brought to mind our first quote of the day. Quipped by a professional ranter in his own right, Russell Howard, who was remarking on the clamour by mothers to ban fast food adverts 'before the watershed' if 9pm.

Ban the adverts? No, ban your fanny until you can look after what falls out of it.

And so dear reader, we have reached the end of our tour around the rage that was today. I hope I have tickled your laughter slippers just slightly.

I appreciate that today's post has been a little long winded in getting to the various points. I am still working on a regular format that will hopefully take effect as we start carving out a familar path as the weeks roll by, and this should hopefully add the necessary reins to our blogging horse.

What i'm thinking of adding so far is as follows:

Daily - Quote of the Day and Rant of the Day, probably Joke of the Day, though I might just go with a picture of Ed Milliband trying to look fierce whilst making an attempt at a point

Monday - Weekend Sports round up

Wednesday - An attempt at a webcomic satirising the main news of the week

Friday - A kind of 21st century 'Wanker of the Week' where we pick out the tossiest tosser of the week-that-was and throw stones at them because we could do their job standing on our heads (holla, my brothers from other mothers)

Saturday - movie review and discussion night due to the GLOBAL MELTDOWN and lack of cinema funds or friends with cinema funds, movie review night will probably be whatever tat Film 4 is peddling or whatever I can dig out of the DVD cupboard.

Obviously, the main aim is to write everyday and share some of the writing. So that'll take priority once I get a decent hosting site to link it in.

And more besides. I don't want to restrict the flow at this stage but i'm also very conscious of this becoming a chore for both sides of the computer screen.

Please feedback and comment, it will be appreciated. Failing that, Facebook (Pemberton Inkwell) and Twitter (@ The_Quiller - I spoke with Ricky Gervais last night!!) pages are up and running, and I will start to check them regularly once I get into a regular swing, so catch me there.

And so on the morrow, young parchment mites.

Sunday, 6 November 2011

The Quilling Begins

And from the mist he appears...

Well, not really the mist per se. Perhaps the toilet or underneath a bush in the park with a pair of binoculars.

I mean, hello!

Not that anyone is reading this at the moment. Which is cool. I can get up to all sorts of outrageous shit until anyone bothers to trawl over this.

Gary Barlow is a sissy!
The Beatles are not as good as The Wombles!
The Queen is made of Lego!

Ah, random nonsense. There'll be a lot of that, you know. Actually I guess I should really stick down what this is all about.

So allow me to introduce myself. I am The Quiller - scourge of the blank page, voice of the common man, bronze medal swimming certificate holder. And I am here to tell it like it is, leave no stone unturned and put those that need to be put in their their place.

It's got nothing to do with some bloke at work telling me that good practice for completing a novel is to write everyday and this is a decent way to go about it. And it totally isn't a good way to have a jolly good rant about everything and anything.

So to that end, what sort of things are we looking at then? Well, you can't cherry pick what you decide to scourge and scourge-not. But i'll stick to what I know, which is basically this:

Shamelessly plugging my writing and various updates
Stand up comedy
Films & Television
Ripping into politics, religion, class and the media (as well as other cuntish shit I don't like)
Random lists of facts that I think is all cool and interesting
Probably lots more besides once I get into the swing of things

So basically like every other blog then? Well, probably. But if you read it and give me feedback, particularly on the writing front, I will give you a shiny penny and a jar of back sweat (the penny is optional, the back sweat is not).

I would also welcome feedback about the layout of the blog and the lovely gadgets I have crammed on at the moment, because I haven't got a fucking clue what i'm doing. It'll get better quicker if you do this. But it should improve sooner rather than later as i'll post links, images and the like.

I've set up Facebook, Twitter and Bebo accounts with the sole purpose to plug this turd of a blog, but if you want to catch me while i'm there feel free. I may throw things though (digitally of course. Unless I know where you live, in which case duck you bastard).

The whole purpose really is to get into the habit of writing each day, so there will be regular updates every 24 hours, so please check back when you can.

Well, thats about it I reckons. Pretty brief, eh? Well i'm betting that the first people to be steered in this general direction will be friends, family and colleagues (you're all going to get it between the eyes at some stage, have no fear), so not really much of a background check. I have completed a fairly detailed bio, so anyone who doesn't know me (i.e. people who may think i'm actually called Pemberton Inkwell and dance about in my lounge with the lights off wearing a fucking cape with an ink bottle on it) can get a decent update or just post a comment.

And just one final morsel. You may wonder about the age restriction? Well, considering i'm having a bash at promoting this through social media and there are some of you who let your children use these devices (you called them Britney or Tyler, I assume?). And given the content and amount of swear-boxing, I've slammed the filter on to cover my arse, balls and wallet.

So there we are. Rambling, pointless but hopefully not too dull. I shall see you on the next page, my little parchment mites.