Don’t get me wrong. Knowledge is a beautiful thing, no question. It’s just that sometimes, the more I know, the more I loose the will to live. Still, one must carry on, do or die, in any kind of weather. It so annoys “them”… So, this one is: 1) for myself, to remind me of certain things, 2) for Norman “Stormy Normy” Finklestein, who keeps me sane and entertained, and whose new book is called, coincidentally, Knowing Too Much. Isn’t synchronicity wonderful? Useless, as far as I can tell, but groovy all the same. Go get ’em, Norman! PS. The second line of the wee po’m Terry (the Chav Penguin) is declaiming is a tribute to Kenneth Williams and Round the Horne. Cheers! Update 04/08/12 ‘ere, ‘ave a sneak “privada” (as the divine Kenneth would say) of the forthcoming Shogglympiad. Sumo rules! Update 08/08/12  The rubbery darlings, always ready to offer an alternative to most human schemes, arrangements and structures, came out with a brilliant plan of their own to combat those old Olympic blues: Have a Shogglympiad instead, they said. And so we did.       Spikky and The Rats sponsored the nicking of the Smarties, ice cream and the best cabernet sauvignon we could get hold of. Wee Duncan was allowed to strut around, club in hand, looking totally non-dangerous (but he doesn’t know that and you mustn’t tell him). Spot of the Antarctic, “Flash. Harry the Decadent Worm and Jake the Lapsed Golem were given the artistic direction and a very job they’ve done, too. I don’t know how they managed, but they sweet-talked the Shub-Niggurath into lending a few of her unruly offspring to produce the Fashionable Pop Group de rigueur, which is why she’s been invited to the gaudeamus. Not that she needed much persuading, as she’s always anxious to offload any amount of her all too numerous Young to anyone who’ll have them. Besides, as we well know, she likes nothing better than being invited to parties and then squatting there in some corner looking morose and despondent.          In fact most creatures have been made welcome. In the true Riotous-Party spirit of the original Greek Games, old grudges have been put aside (some only temporarily, granted) and lo and behold, even the Yithian Chief Librarian has been given compassionate leave from his detention in the Galactic Security Unit in Betelgeuse and allowed to attend.       And look, see! The Deep Ones are slowly coming out of their solipsistic shell. They will regale the audience with a most wondrous display of like totally unsynchronized swimming. And the Mi-Go will scorch the earholes of any politico unwise enough to eavesdrop. And Gorecho will do the same with his ultra-rude songs, intended to cause maximum offense. And if you think that the Snails are not quite the ticket for the job of usherettes, I’ll say that nobody’s in a hurry. This shindig is likely to run for months and there’ll be endless encores, repeats and reiterations, I’ll wager.        But enough PR! Sit down and enjoy the show. Entry is free and you also get a goody bag, courtesy of the Saintly Farting Nuns of Bilbao, full of esoteric stuff, like digital copies of the Necronomicon, Mi-Go Especial Beauty Lotion and bits of the thigh bone of St. Claw’d of Cappadocia (a very holy saint worshipped by The Lobsters and said to cure most social diseases, like paranoia, intransigence and an specious belief in the Third Way). Cheers! Updates 17/08/12 I. Of all the brain-fried, lily-liver, cowardly weapons loved by macho-posturing sissies, drones rank pretty high with me and the rubbery darlings. Here’s what we’d like to do to/with them. II. And here’s what Ol’ One-In-All-And-All-In-One whispers to me on moonless nights, when the caffard hits the roof. Sometimes it almost makes sense, I swear. Update 21/08/12 I only heard the news yesterday. Pulmonary complications, they say. No surprise there; he was probably chocking on disgust and contemp for what the world has become and is becoming, poor chappie. Well, at least he’ll be spared further horrors to come, but today I feel like a serial orphan. First Howard Zinn, then, a few weeks before Gore, Alexander Cockburn, and now him, the goldenest of my golden boys. Ah, me! Who’s next, I dread to think? I will not think. I shall sit and sulk and mourn his passing, that last scion of the rarest of species; the only aristo I never resented; my brother in rants. One of the main pillars of my sanity. Fare thee well, possum. I’ll miss you horribly but…me quedan tus palabras. PS. The Shoggoths are pretty pissed off, too. They don’t see any need for dying. They think it’s a mug’s game. It’s all very well for them to think so, though. They don’t die, do they? They just subsume into each other, or change into something else, innit?