With the Ryan Report's revelations continuing to dynamite the (already shaky) moral foundations of pious ould Catholic Ireland, local hawkers & mongers of nostalgia would seem to be faced with a quandary. How do you sell & package a past that now looks (even to the mistiest eyes) more inky black than sun-dappled?

Well if the current proliferation of "Weren't the 70s/80s gas?!" radio ads are anything to go by, then you simply ignore the negative while accentuating the whimsical. Barefoot trips across the fields to Hazelbrook Farm? Delightful! The Holy Trinity of Kimberley, Mikado & Coconut Cream? Yummy! John putting the cat out? He will be soon.

Times of recession and uncertainty tend, of course, to have adpeople and product peddlers rushing to press reset/reinvent buttons, and 2009 is no exception. Out goes Celtic Tiger ostentation and swagger. In comes the homemade, the hand-me-down, and the humble. All a load of disingenuous bollocks naturally, but someone's getting paid relatively handsomely to push the narrative.

There are, however, those who by never changing saved themselves the bother of changing back. Near the top of this imagined list would, undoubtedly, be Oatfield - purveyors of old-timee sweets boiled¹ to within an inch of their…er…lives.

When I was a short-trousered (figroll-loving) youth, Oatfield products epitomised all that was bland, glamour-free, regressive and suffocating about Irish life. They were sucked furiously by pinch-faced nuns and given as gifts by well-meaning (but hopelessly uncool) aged relatives. In their boiled, shiny surfaces you could almost see your reflection. And the reflection you could almost see was struggling not to look disappointed and underwhelmed ("Thanks, Aunty Margaret…").

The worst thing that a sweet can ever be is "sensible" - and sensibleness was a quality that Oatfield sweets had in abundance. I say "had" but really "have" might be more accurate. For Oatfield are still soldiering on - eschewing all that's faddy & new-fangled. Embracing all that's sucky and ancient (their website is actually analogue, not digital - with offline web pages printed on wafer-thin, Ireland's Own style paper).

But enough. Time to get to the sugary goodness at the heart of this post. After a 25 year gap - a gap in which I've eaten little but foreign, "Fancy Dan" confectionery - I'm doing what the adpeople tell me and getting back to basics. Five packs of Oatfield's finest sit on the desk before me. I shall now (in the interests of, y'know, science or something) suck, lick and eat them, recording my vital findings below. Let us begin.

Sweet shape = Tiny hockey puck meets toy UFO. Sweet taste/texture = Fairy Liquid & crushed up dishwasher tablets. The sherbety "tickle" feels like someone dragging tinsel dipped in "oil of orange" (yes, that's one of the yummy ingredients) across your tonsils. Or to quote Jess's summing up of the experience - "Lemsip…and someone jizzing acid into my mouth". Delicious.

Same shape, but a stark white mediciney hue. For "soothes sore throats" (as the blurb promises) read "violent mentho-lyptus attack that makes every intake of breath an agonising ordeal".

A classic "dissolve and release" sweet. A hard outer casing gradually gives way to the corrosive effects of sucking and saliva before spurting brown goo onto your waiting tongue. The packet promises "Cocoa Solids" (*snigger*), and though the oozing centre is anything but solid the scatological qualities are hard to deny.

Hmmm. Initially appears a slight variation on a theme (with a choccy outer and an orangey inner) but testing proves otherwise. It's the same damn sweet! Same hydrogenated vegetable oil. Same ammonium phosphatides. Same poo-like core. It's an outrage. Heads will roll.

Ah…the Emerald. Oatfield's flagship. Individually wrapped and proudly unboiled. Back in the early 80s there wasn't a house in Ireland that didn't have a half-finished packet of Emeralds in the press. Nobody bought them. They just appeared there. Teleporting in from Oatfield HQ in Donegal.

If a cheapo chocolate casing containing an interior of sand was your idea of fun, then Emerald's would leave you laughing delightedly. Or at least that's how I remembered the experience. The contemporary reality is (I'm disappointed to report) somewhat less disgusting. Perhaps Oatfield heeded customer demands and eased off on the dessicated coconut (the "sand" of which I speak), or perhaps my palate has been radically altered by age. Whatever the case may be, I'm staggered to find 21st century Emerald's very moreish.

Still look like turd/mini soda bread hybrids though.

1. Pronounced: buy-ild. [back]

Their movements were simultaneously furtive and frantic - erratic rowing strokes coupled with hurried anchor-dumping (said movements not done justice by the below image).

As quickly as they arrived, they were gone - leaving this monument to clandestine effort in their wake.

Now while Toiréasa Ferris' head & SF's logo may look impressively large and striking in the above photo, it should be noted that a) this is a close crop of a shot taken at maximum zoom, and, b) the Shannon is a broad and majestic river. From the banks, or a bridge, the naked human eye would struggle to gather much more than a vague impression. Of a giant-headed young woman. Trapped on a small boat.

On to the debaffling. Toiréasa is, we're told, part of "A New Generation". A generation that eschews the corned-beef-faced fugliness of traditional Irish politicking and replaces it with relative-attractiveness. A generation that, let's face it, we're being subtly encouraged to want to ride. If Adams & McGuinness are an “Old Generation” (original series) Kirk & Spock, then Toiréasa is a new/next generation…er…Deanna Troi? Or maybe not. I mean Kirk was pretty hot, and then there's the whole slash fiction thing so…um…

Anyway, location is an important factor here. For if unobtainableness is a significant element of seductive allure then you'd have to consider the above a beguiling success. After all, you'd struggle to make yourself more unobtainable than parking yourself in the middle of a river. Sinn Féin? Masters & mistresses of pop-sexual psychology.

Though unlikely to perform as impressively in the Limerick Leader's (controversial) “Candidates I'd Like to Bang” poll – Maurice Quinlivan (like other local SF hopefuls) still has explosive imagery in his arsenal.

First there's the shiny, eye-catching gold “1” - a traditional visual that manages to both rewrite the tricolour's (troublesome orange) symbolism and make the candidate seem that extra bit special. Plain ol' black and white “1s” are hardly likely to sway a bling-obsessed youth (or so the Irish Daily Mail would probably tell me).

Then there's the “cut out and keep” dotted line (Sinn Féin vouchers! Collect 100 for a Wolfe Tones lunch box!) and the slightly puzzling “fast forward” icon.

All at sea or, or rocketing (at a trillion miles an hour) toward a bright, golden future? You decide.

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet mother of incongruity and mishmashment. A veritable feast of signs, cues and elements. Where to start?

Is the integration of the tricolour and the EU flag supposed to reassure or alarm? Does it speak of harmony and unity, or the latter devouring the former? Might Ms. Simon's bisecting head indicate that she (and her party) can halt the blurring of boundaries and ensure the maintenance of heterogeneity? And what does the gold cláirseach (emblazoned on Ms. Simon's left breast) add to this heady potpourri? We might need to rope in Dan Brown to decrypt this one.

Then there's the slogan - “It's Your Future – Take it Back”. Are we to infer from this that Libertas no longer wants our future? What's wrong with it? And how did they get their hands on it in the first place?

Of course the pairing of the words “Back” & “Future” could simply be evidence of a cheap attempt to appeal to the nostalgia/retro crowd. I mean, who doesn't love Michael J. Fox? Or DeLorean cars? Or time travel and incest?

Ms. Simon's unearthly glow certainly seems to indicate that she's either a) Dead (see Cormac Hurley for details), or, b) straddling a crack in the space-time continuum, and phasing in & out of our reality (see Star Trek TNG for details).

Libertas? Kings & Queens of discombobulating bafflement.

Of all the many wild 'n' wacky notions entertained and promoted by orgainsed religions, few can be as amusingly bonkos as the idea that (human) earthly adherents of a deity have a responsibility to protect their God from "offensive" criticism, satire, or name-calling. God may be infinitely wise, loving, and compassionate but He¹ gets a right hump when the ingrates he created in his image start taking the piss out of him. If I were omnipotent and omniscient I'd like to think I'd be a bit more thick-skinned.²

Luckily for him, many of his earthbound flunkies dedicate their wretched lives (in this vale of tears) to stopping any of this nasty criticism from floating into his ethereal earholes. Sometimes, alas, portions of the slagging do make it across the void separating the earthly and the divine and God goes totally mental. He gives us AIDS. He causes hurricanes. He makes our lives miserable - opening giant cans of whupass until we learn our lessons and re-meek & un-deprave ourselves.

Lesson to be learned? Here's a guy you don't want to offend. He's like a drunken Godzilla with nappy rash and a mouth full of bombs. He's mad, bad and dangerous to upset (and there's no escaping his gaze). He makes Galactus look like a total pussy.

Let's be grateful then that the previously dormant & slumbering prohibition on blasphemy in our constitution is currently being reignited and made "operable" by Minister for Justice, Dermot Ahern. As it stands, blasphemy (as an offence) is impossible to define. This lack of definition has rendered it fuzzy and amorphous - extending an open invitation to demented God-haters to "blaspheme" with impunity. You think the recent May downpours are evidence of climate change and global warming? Think again, unbelievers! The showers are actually Our Lord simultaneously weeping wounded tears and slashing enraged jets of holy piss down on our constantly blaspheming heads.

Once the legal fuzziness has been removed (by the giant Fuzz-Buster of state) we'll see the shape and outline of blasphemy clearly once more. Even more impressively, we should soon (DPP willing) be able to fling cough-softening fines around and licence the Guards to boot in doors and seize inflammatory material - hopefully before God has a chance to flick through it and go ballistic.

The benefits of a less tetchy and irritable God are obvious. The weather would improve (we might finally get a summer). "Natural" disasters would all but disappear. Outbreaks of frog & locust plagues would be significantly reduced. Anti-social teens loitering on street corners would be replaced by caroling angels and chortling nekkid cherubs. It would be a fine world. A better world.

Why would anyone, other than creepy avant-gardey weirdo artists, want to scupper such a future?

1. Surely a "He" in this case. [back]
2. I speak throughout of Christian things, as that's what I know (and all I know well). [back]

If so, then consider me hipped up to the nines, as I spent the better part of last Friday afternoon scrolling through reams of eye-destroying microfilm at Limerick City Library (all in the name of “researching” a potential article). Sharing the microfilmy room with me were an elderly lady who offered me a mint (and seemed incredulous and furious when I politely refused) and the ubiquitous smelly, obsessive, local history buff (male, of course) in a Christmas geansai. A less “hip” environment you'd search forlornly to find.

He (Mr. Local History Fella) also produced a supply of mints, which he duly offered to share. I (defensively and warily) declined again, though by this time my mint-refusing resolve was beginning to waver. Such is the coercive power of peer pressure.

The upshot of this mint-offering/refusing to and fro was that I spent more time on matters of confectionery etiquette than I'd have anticipated and ended up coming away empty-handed. Well, not quite. I did find the below gem. One of 1974's stand-out moments…if you lived in Limerick.

The man who would, many years later, become a treasured, knighted, national UK institution (and monument to cuddly, ever so slightly naughty, twee wit) was, even 35 years ago, somewhat defensive about his Irish bona fides.

“I WAS born in Limerick. I WAS!!”¹

In fairness to Sir. Terrence, I think it's unlikely (unless he imposed paranoid levels of control over his own career) that he dictated the content of his speech bubble to HyperSales' ad-men. Has anyone, I wonder, ever sued creators of a speech bubbled photo for grossly misrepresenting their thoughts and feelings? Private Eye and Phoenix do it all the time in the name of cheap satire. And the front cover of Match! routinely heaves with excited (mildly inflammatory and “dissing”) bubbles issuing from footballer's mouth's.

Ronaldo: “I'm better than you, Torres!!”
Torres: “Tu madre! I am totally the best, no?”
Fat Frank Lampard: “You're both wrong, lads, I'm more very good at football than you two!!”²

Not that Wogan would, I don't think, have necessarily been that upset about his Limerickian origins being restated in bubble form. His issue might, instead, have been with the implication that his place of birth was the only reason why anyone would turn out to see him cut the ribbon on (the now long gone) HyperSales. Speaking of which, a bit more microfilmic scrolling revealed the following.

Girls' pipe bands. Miss Limerick. Gold scissors. A throng turning out to bask both in Wogan's celebrity glow and HyperSales' exotic “American” consumer promise. Ah, Limerick of the 70s! How I miss you – kinda.

1. Alright Terry, Chill the fuck out. [back]
2. Seriously, this is only a mild exaggeration of the reality. Check it out. It's hilarious. [back]

First impressions suggest a zero-tolerance approach to nonsense. A plain white background free of fireworks, fluffy clouds, chortling babies, or massed ranks of smug "Pope's Children". "Take me for what I am", Cllr. Cronin seems to be saying, "and let's all get on with the work of rebuilding this ravaged land - through gumption, rolled-up sleeves, and plain white background-y common sense". Frivolity and manipulative eye-catching design have no place on Cllr. Cronin's posters.

Neither, apparently, does a party name or slogan. From a modest distance (or even up close) it's by no means an easy task to work out who Cllr. Cronin is representing. A fair amount of persistent squinting and staring is required to find the relevant info - buried away in the bottom right corner, in tiny (almost apologetic) letters.¹

If you ever needed evidence of a party battered, humbled and self-conscious then here it assuredly is. Writ small. Very small. Ridiculously small - like print at the end of a contract. A contract you sign without realising the terrible implications your agreement and endorsement implies.

Debaffling this one looks pretty straightforward. Our omnipresent overlords, Fianna Fáil - spat on, shat on & abused - are now so concerned about their brand's lack of potency & appeal that they've all but excised the brand name from their "product". The only tactic left them, it would seem, is to hope that myopic passers-by don't study the details of their promotional material too closely. Let them note the reassuring smiles and the subtle patriotic sweep of tricolour and let them move on - with favourable impressions of FF (sssh!) candidates impressed subliminally in their minds.

As a strategy it's either a stroke of diabolic genius or a tacit admission of inevitable defeat. New party slogan?

Fianna Fáil - Ye'll go mental when ye realise ye've accidentally voted for us!

In closing, I'm reluctant to hop on board the celebratory band-wagon that anticipates a long overdue slaughter (and cough-softening) of our eternal rulers. Great evil has a way of enduring. I mean, look at Sauron. The boys were all high-fiving each other on the plain of Dagorlad after Isildur lopped off his fingers. They thought him vanquished, but back he bounced. Or remember the smug and self-congratulatory handing out of medals at the end of Star Wars. Before they'd time to pat themselves on the backs Luke had lost a hand, Han had been encased in carbonite, and a new (bigger 'n' better) Death Star was under construction.

The Empire strikes back. Evil will out. Don't get your hopes up.

1. Fianna Fáil - The Republican Party. [back]

Fitting somewhere between a cheap-shot and a spot of po-faced analysis lies this blog's "Campaign Poster Debaffler" - a (very) half-baked, critical attempt to expose the layers of meaning buried in the propagandic images that currently surround us.

First up, Fine Gael - and the bould Cllr. Cormac Hurley.

Ok, so what this (and other identical FG posters) seems to be driving at is that the party will lead the country out of its present (penurious) muck, mire and misery and on into a brave prosperous dawn. Just look at that deep blue sky with its dash of white fluffy clouds if you don't believe me. Nothing could be lovelier.

Not only that, but the good people of Ireland stand square behind both Cllr. Hurley and the party he nobly represents. They're young(ish). They're confident. They're smug (albeit with smugness somewhat chastened by global financial collapse). They're ready to put their shoulders to the wheel. They shelter beneath Cllr. Hurley's giant ears waiting for a chance to turn this country around. They look like this (or at least the ones under his left ear do).

So much for the intended effect. An alternative reading was offered by Jess as we strolled past it at the weekend. The heavenly sky of optimism in the background might be just that: heavenly. Cllr. Hurley may, in fact, be dead. He's lived a rich, full life but his time (as it must with all men) has come. There to meet him at the pearly gates are an eclectic bunch of loved ones who've gone before him. Forms are mutable in the afterlife, so Cllr. Hurley may soon (if he so chooses) "look" like that confident successful guy with the blonde hair and blue shirt. Anything's possible. He could even have boobs.

Now there's a campaign slogan for ya. Forget "A Fairer Ireland" (snore, boring). This is the kind of radical alternative the gloomy, cynical public wants:

Fine Gael - You Could have Boobs.

They'd have my vote.

A NEW crime of blasphemous libel is to be proposed by the Minister for Justice in an amendment to the Defamation Bill.

After heaving your jaw off the floor, restoring your popped-out eyes to their parent sockets, and unscrambling your brain matrix, you proceed (with growing horror and dread) to read more.

Sound familiar? I hope so. "Picturegate" now appears to have been merely a censorious aperitif for the four-course, slap up meal of governmental cuntitude to come. The throbbing in my temples either indicates the early stages of swine flu, or I'm choking on my own rage. I'm sure I'm not the only one.

Here's more:

Minister for Justice Dermot Ahern proposes to insert a new section into the Defamation Bill, stating: “A person who publishes or utters blasphemous matter shall be guilty of an offence and shall be liable upon conviction on indictment to a fine not exceeding €100,000.”

“Blasphemous matter” is defined as matter “that is grossly abusive or insulting in relation to matters held sacred by any religion, thereby causing outrage among a substantial number of the adherents of that religion; and he or she intends, by the publication of the matter concerned, to cause such outrage.”

So many questions.

a) What's the difference (legally speaking) between regular (common or garden) abuse and gross abuse? Does the latter involve mickies? Or poo?

b) Aren't the people most likely to be outraged by such "matter" of a type that wander about in an almost perpetual state of outrage anyway? In other words, is a small bit more outrage likely to make any appreciable difference in their lives? And, doesn't semi-permanent outrage actually shore up their sense of self-righteousness (in the face of a world of godless scum)? Blasphemy might actually be doing them good.

c) Isn't one of the (important & legitimate) functions of art & satire to poke "matters held sacred" with a barbed stick? Precisely because such matters are sacred?

d) Isn't it a typically Irish "out" that you're invited to try and duck the charge by saying any offence caused was unintentional? "Eh…sorry 'bout that lads. I didn't mean to upset anyone with my Blu-Tak sculpture of the Virgin Mary puking into a urinal. I'd meant to depict her saving some lovely babies from a fire. I'd drink on me when I made it and…eh…it went a bit wrong".

In the UK you can (as far as I know) argue that yes, the offence caused was intentional, but that the existence/creation of the "matter" constitutes a "public good" (it serves some interest of science, art, learning etc). No such option here - where many of our influential dullards can't even begin to imagine what possible benefit "aberrant", subversive, fringe, obscene, or absurd thoughts could have for a society where a middle-of-the-road (“Ah now!”) consensus on almost everything is assumed (or yearned for).

The rage (or swine flu) is growing stronger by the minute, but so is my tiredness (I wrote this “last night” if you see what I mean). Off to bed with me. Send Suzy some of your most blasphemous, durtiest poems (the secret ones you hide in that box under the bed). I smell another postcard project in all this.

Related Post: Pissing on Bishops: 21st Century Obscenity & the State of the Nation.

After an enjoyable week spent discussing terrible slimy yokes in bunks and grimly determined brutes with small heads, we now turn our petrified gazes to Dreadful Thoughts 12 (we've reached the dirty dozen).

The singular thing about our next choice is that it's plural.¹ For the first time since DT 3 we're giving hungry punters not one but two slices of tasty horror. A double-bill of prime spooky badness.

Both tales come from a poisoned pen better known for producing not-so-nasty perennial favourites like The Railway Children & Five Children and It. I "speak", of course, of E. (or Edith) Nesbit: a writer whose (memorably savage & cruel) weird tales have, alas, become almost totally over-shadowed by her output for chiddlers. A real shame, but let's save further talk of that (and other things) for the actual discussion.

Here, then, is your homework.

Stories:
a) "The Shadow"² (pdf) [The pdf is "locked" to prevent printing, but that obstacle can easily be overcome by using this simple and natty program].

b) "Man-Size in Marble" (html), (pdf).

Discussion Opens: Monday, 27th April @ 9 p.m. (and runs for seven full days).

1. Sorry about that. I know it was awful. [back]
2. Suggested by Aishwarya. [back]

Though he was (in his day) prolific,¹ popular, and commercially successful - F. Marion Crawford's posthumous "literary star" appears to have faded quite quickly.² For the next seven days, however, Dreadful Thoughts will be waving a ragged Crawford-ian flag and trying to give his largely-forgotten name a very modest boost (either by praising him or slagging him off). An apt moment for such an exercise given that the one hundredth anniversary of his death has just passed.³

Though "weird tales" were but a small part of his overall output, it is to one such weird tale that we now turn - the damp, dark, seawater-drenched "The Upper Berth" (1886). So come ye salty dogs. Come ye land lubbers. Come ye Easter bunnies. Put down the washing. Pull closed the curtains. Tell us what ye think and thought.

1. Writing over forty books. [back]
2. David Stuart Davies, in his introduction to The Witch of Prague & Other Stories (Wordsworth Editions, 2008) ISBN: 9781840220902. [back]
3. April 9th, 1909. [back]

Update 09/04/09: By an odd, but happy, coincidence today is the 100th anniversary of F. Marion Crawford's death. Uncanny stuff.

Update 06/04/09: Oops. Sorry folks. It seems I mistakenly said that discussion of "The Upper Berth" would be kicking off on the 6th of April @ 9 p.m. - i.e. tonight. What I meant to say was that it would be starting on the 13th of April @ 9 p.m. - i.e. next Monday. Balls. Apologies. Corrected the error now. Hope to see y'all back here next Monday (ye've a whole 6 days to read the thing). Seriously - Brian Cowen's genitalia have my head in a spin…

Apologies, horror fans, for slacking off unforgivably in my role as ringmaster/chair of Dreadful Thoughts 10. The picturegate/Cowengate affair sprang up unexpectedly (like a nekkid reanimated corpse) and seized my attention & imagination. I promise to refocus my gaze and have my game face back on for meeting 11.

Speaking of which, your next assignment is "The Upper Berth" by F. Marion Crawford. Crawford (though relatively obscure now) was "one of the most popular and commercially successful authors of his day"¹ - and "The Upper Berth" remains his most often-anthologised tale.

Read it, ponder on it, enjoy it, and come back to talk about it. Discussion kicks off next Monday (the sixth) at 9 p.m. and runs for 7 days. Pop in and out when you can.

While I'm at it, I'd also like to remind readers that they should feel very free to nominate stories that they'd like to see covered. 'Tis a "club" after all and suggestions are most welcome (particularly as it relieves me of the job of having to choose).

In the spirit of restating things I might mention a few general points regarding the stories I (pretty randomly) select (and why they're selected).

The intention is not necessarily to hold up any of the stories chosen as lofty pinnacles of the horror form. In other words, I'm not making selections based primarily on their "excellence" (however you want to interpret that). Rather, I'm (pretty randomly) picking tales that seem (to me) interesting, unusual, weird, fun and so on - even when said tales have pretty clear narrative/structural deficiencies. Picking and poking at the bones, themes, preoccupations and images of "genre" stories is (for me at least) where the enjoyment really lies. The extent to which they're "good", "bad", or "mediocre" (in any conventional literary sense) doesn't particularly interest me (though it may, of course, be of interest to others).

Hope that's relatively clear. Just didn't want the club to seem (in any way) like my platform for promoting (and defending) my favourite things. I'm currently, for example, gobbling up the delicious no-frills/cheapo "Tales of Mystery & the Supernatural" series from Wordsworth Editions.² Quite a few of the authors Wordsworth have reprinted were practically unknown to me, and many of the tales they produced were/are decidedly half-baked and crude (churned out quickly perhaps, often primarily to earn a few bob). In lots of cases though, said tales do, at the very least, have a certain something about them. Something worth having a squint at and a chat about.

But enough of all that. Off you go and download the below straight into your brain matrix (or, if you're totally old school, print it out and read it with your eyes).

Story: "The Upper Berth" (html), (html).³

Discussion Opens: Monday, 6th April 13th April @ 9 p.m. (and runs for seven full days).

[Twitter Hashtag: #dtsc]

1. David Stuart Davies, in his introduction to The Witch of Prague & Other Stories (Wordsworth Editions, 2008) ISBN: 9781840220902 . [back]
2. Crawford's The Witch of Prague available at a recession-busting €3.30 (approx). [back]
3. The "Horror Masters" pdf excludes the introduction altogether. Avoid. [back]

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

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

1. Who is emphatically not lazy. [back]

Allow me to clarify, again, exactly what's "planned".

1) We want you to buy (borrow or steal) a blank postcard.

2) We want you to then adorn this postcard with your own nude drawing, doodle, collage (etc) of Brian Cowen. These creations can be as "amateur", crude or (indeed) lavish as you see fit. There are no rules. The only restriction being the postcard format. Total freedom is yours. Go nuts.

3) Pop your masterwork in the post to me (address available on request).

4) If/When we collect enough postcards together we'll find a sympathetic gallery space where your creations can be exhibited formally. Hell, there may even be (if it grows into a behemoth) catalogues, guest speakers, wine and cheese freebies etc. We'll see.

All of this is (for me at least) in the spirit of subversive play, satirical mischief-making and artistic absurdity. All joyous things worth preserving and promoting.

The serried rows of cards, each depicting (in their own unique ways) a bollock-naked Taoiseach, will (I hope) both make for an impressive visual, and state emphatically (& amusingly) that the outrageous shit of the last few days will not be tolerated.

Email me (or drop a comment below) for postal address.

Let's get moving and cracking.

Update 01/04/09: I'd appreciate it if people who've already posted cards could tell me a) when they posted them, and, b) If the images were full nudes, partial nudes etc! Reason being, most of the cards that have arrived thus far have either been non-nudey or hidden inside envelopes. This could just be coincidental…but I'd still like to know. Drop a comment or email me (address on sidebar).

Update 02/04/09: I've already sent emails (or Twitter messages) with my address to everyone who's shown interest. If you haven't got yours then tell me & I'll resend. There seems to be an issue with some emails disappearing into the ether…