Sunny Fluff Reds. Word to the wise: Remember what is the average fate of mince meat. Let us not be turned into sheep’s meatballs. Or, to paraphrase Mrs. Lovett, shepherd’s pie peppered with actual sheep on top. And even the odd shepherd, you know, since they are as expendable as the sheep when push comes to shove. Keep strong the ties wot bind, comrades. Life is short.

Sweet Yith. The Yithian Chief Librarian has been given a limited reprieve and he’s now allowed to receive occasional visitors in his bijou library. He’s rather chuffed, he is. Bully for him. (The Shoggies think I’m far too soft on that count but…what can I say, m’lud, I have a soft spot for bookish creatures, I do. Shoot me now…)

Sharp Dancers. Happy New Year…not. So, here we are again, dear friends. Once more into a breach that will be as new as a scruffy pair of old boots. If anything will be new about 2025, possibly, it’ll be the quasi-universal official confirmation and ceremonial proscription of outlandish notions and practices such as compassion, generosity, subtlety, moral courage, truth-seeking & telling, impious curiosity, non-Hollywood-sanctioned imagination, creativity other than AI-generated, and the slightest shape of dissent from the All-Parties=One-Party line.
It’ll be lovely, you’ll see. Nobody will disagree with anybody else, everybody will see, think, talk and do as they’re told. Everybody will ear the same jingle of the spheres (aka social media) and sing from the same authorized hymn sheet. True difference will be a thing of an all but forgotten past and will be replaced by the rule of snugly legislated identity politics. Every single soul will “elevate” his/her/its lifestyle according to the sacred diktats of the designated influencer of choice and thus become “iconic”, “vibrant” and “deserving” overnight. And so on…
Still, you know the drill. Resist, bite, bait, wound, be incredibly bothersome, give Them the finger, love your neighbour and Beckett on best you can. Have no truck with bondage, mental or otherwise, and if you can’t beat then, bite them until you teeth fall off.
Have a lovely life and un po’ di mu’. Love, petards and heaps of Shoggoths.
https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=isCh4kCeNYU

Solstice 24. Once more, an all-purpose doodle will have to do for both the Solstice knees-up and the 12th Ash memorial. I’m all over the place and gigantically pooped, thus it makes sense to do things when I can rather than when I’d like to do them or (less importantly, really) when it would be proper. Have a spiffing one, do.

Sulking. As it says on the label. The small fry would like us to come out to play but we say nay because…well, you name it, we got it. The young Moon says “It’s all your fault, you ghastly cunts…”. The GCs in question are The Usual Suspects. May they perish horribly and spend several eternities in repulsively bespoke Sheols.

Love Moon. And what’s wrong with a spot of soppy fluffiness? The Shubniggureths think that’s well groovy, especially if contrived and managed by the clever GMCA Fox. The Moon herself is rather pleased if a tad confused.

Back From Leng 2. Given half a chance we would have stayed in Leng for ever and a day but we had unfinished business back in the concrete jungle so we went back for a quick punitive sally. And, yes, we did send the tutelary jumbo Shoggoth the requested chicken soup (via Byakhee Express, naturally).

Ghost Bug. Here to remind us of what is what. The brevity and futility of life and also its ineffable beauty. The near-impossibility truly to know another soul. The equivocal, ever-changing nature of “reality” and the utter yummyness of iced coffee. Have a splendid life.

Pink Tadpole. Things impossible to forgive and hideously dangerous to forget.
The tradition of the oppressed teaches us that the “state of emergency” in which we live is no the exception but the rule.
Walter Benjamin
Have a spiffing week. Do.

Angry Ghost. Livid, actually. And with innumerable good reasons for being so.