Wee Ghosties. aka Anti-Valentine 2023. The annual Mush-Fest approaches if, just like last year, in a queerly listless manner and at a laggardly pace. Which is not surprising, given that antagonism, hostility and naked hatred are becoming the default positions all over the place. (Must be the abiding effects of all that “social” distancing bollocks that the We-The-People bought so blithely three years gone.) Anyways… That’s not stopping us from keeping faith with our own anti-shindig, except that this year, as we all feel very tired, a little lazy and kind of reticent, we have delegated the organizing and running of the blessed thing to an enigmatic entity that calls itself…The Entity, look you. It comes highly recommended by both the Shub-Niggurath and the GorgoMormo, who swear themselves blue that It is a true genius at creating and managing all sort of outrageous riots, parties, shows and other social events. Now, we know that the ineffable Shubby is many things but not exactly reliable in her assessments, but her rating of this particular creature is backed by the beautiful GorgoMormo, who is. So we are all half agog with anticipation and expectation and whatnots and well disposed to like anything said Entity throws at us as long as we don’t have to lift a finger, tentacle, pseudopod, encephalopod, forcipule, feeler, antenna, claw or whatever Nature (or Chaos) has been kind enough to endow us with. Kudos to Idleness! We will be carried to the secret venue by a specially licenced Byakhee procession. You’re all welcome, of course, if you can find the invites -soon to be deposited in the as yet undisclosed dead-drops- by yourselves. I’d suggest a few burnt offerings to Hypnos and a special postulation to Great Cthulhu. Love, vodka, cupcakes and grooviness to all!

Voynich4. And here’s the last of the series…for the time being. There’s another small half dozen in the vaults but they can wait. Stay spiffing.

Voynich5. More of that Voynichy stuff. Please note how Bubbles has dyed her bulk pink to accommodate the harmonies. She’s such an adaptable, obliging creature, she is.

Gone Voynich 2. And here’s the second.

Mixed Blessings. aka Por mucho pan nunca mal año. This 2023 is likely to be so crappy that this greetings double-bubble amounts to a sort of sympathetic, or rather, propitiatory magic. Keep it sweet, laud it even before it gets going (Like Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize…). Say what a wonderful, big year it’s going to be, how full of joy and prosperity for all, how peaceful and war-free…and so on; see if it sinks. Or in the words of the immortal Forges, “Si cuela , cuela…” Party on, dudes!

As it says on the tin. Have the best possible one. Dissent. Annoy. Irritate. Indict. Denounce. Be loud. Refuse. Etc. You know the drill by now. And have a sponditious 2023 in spite of It All and to spite Henry Kissinger, as ever. Love and shortbread (Scottish ilk).

Up Up Up!. Here’s a little something, a sort of political tapas to keep us entertained until the new year, which won’t be so new after all, more like a dreary continuation, the Chapter 3,273 of the same old shit we’ve been getting from our beloved leaders and attached retinue of leeches, social psychologists, tame scientists, Guardian analysts and so on.
Up the R-Evolution! Give ‘em hell! Kick Them where it hurts. Kill all the Dead Myths!
The tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living.
Karl Marx. The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte. Karl Marx 1852