Sensibilities. As it says on the tin. You take your conjectural beef to xem, xe will work xir jiggery-pokery and, Bingo!, off you’ll go with your brand-new, fully-fledged Victim Status, neatly packaged and mantled in stacks of Manifest Virtue and Organism-Specific Sorrow. Just add opaque water and Bob’s your auncle! Ze also runs personal one-to-one courses on how to take offence using a technique formulated by zirself. Follow zir wizard instructions and you will be capable of finding malfeasance in the very periodic table!
PS 1. Xe is MoF. DoID* Certified. *(Ministry of Fear, Department of Intersectional Societal Disintegration.)
PS 2. Grants for impoverished plaintiffs procurable from the Open Society Foundations, the WHO and the Bill Und Melinda Gates Syndicate.
PS 3. The Shoggies, the Tadpoles and yours truly kindly offer free detox, deprogramming, rehabilitation and convalescence programs for those hapless peasants who fell for any or all of the above piffle and are now urgently trying to retrieve their misplaced brains. Home calls or free fortnight in the many corking spas in the beautiful Plateau of Leng. The programme includes an optional crash-course in abuse, vituperation and vitriol run by the Repulsive Moon Beasts of the aforementioned bonny uplands.

Love Bugs. Anti-Valentine 2024 Decided to break with tradition and upload this year’s Anti-Valentine card on Valentine’s Day, look you. It’s still an Anti-thingummybob, though. So, here they are, a couple of bitching Love Bugs, to remind us that luuuurve is not always the plain sailing the Fluffy Brigade would have us believe. Mr. LB is accusing Mrs. LB of a deficit in fondness just because she failed to appreciate his re-arrangement of their love nest along the latest diktats of fashionable Feng Shui. Mrs. LB has temporarily lost patience with her old mucker’s vagaries and she’s responding in kind. (Don’t worry, folks, they will make up soon enough. They are Love Bugs after all, innit?)

Stealth. Another wee bit of fluff before the next rant. (We all need a little sweetness sometimes.)
Escorted by her two familiars the tiny Bird of Riotous Confusion has popped out of her underground nest to ambush two itinerant foxes on their way to a fox convention in the Middle Grid and to baffle them with a gently inscrutable utterance. The foxes, old hands at all sorts of equivocal situations, are mildly puzzled but not one tiny bit fazed. They have seen worse. The birdie, whose name is Cacofonia, is also not too bothered by the vulpine pair’s lack of interest. She does what she does just for fun, not profit. Her familiars are called Crickety and Crabby, naturally.

Ascent. As the monkey said to Maggie Thatcher a few years ago, it was hardly worth the evolutionary effort, seeing how the human race has turned out. Look at us, will you. Puny, greedy, fearful going on for paranoid, cowardly and subservient to grovelling slavish levels, cruel to the point of sadism, complacently ignorant and wilfully blind to anything we don’t like to see and more often than not as ugly as sin (both inside and outside).
I know that amongst all these jungles of nightmare, deserts of gruesomeness and labyrinths of utter piffle flowers called Bach and Vermeer and Austen have blossomed, but for every Goya, a hundred thousand Elon Musks, for every Rosa a million Tony Blairs, for every Beethoven a billion Netanyahus, have scourged this poor beautiful planet and turned it into a diabolical stage for a Pantomime, become a Punch&Judy show, become a murderous Grand Guignol.
The wise Proto-fish tried to warn the Dinos, back when still there might have been time to take the right forking out of the many possible options, but did the Dinos listen? Did they bollocks! So, here we all are: the sheep and the goats, the slugs and the ferrets, the nearly-fully-human and the WeThePeoples. And the cattle and the butchers both, the lost lambs and the good shepherds, the victims and the torturers, the cannon fodder and the field marshals. The wholly innocent and the guilty-as-hell. All in this together, in this Last Waltz Macabre, before the music fades and the lights are put out and the great cosmic MC announces the end of the party, the end of the line. Crewe train stops here, ladies and gents. All change for the final void.
But, hey!, no need to pout. It is what it is and what will be will be. Stick to the Mehitabel Protocols and keep Becketting on best you can, be it only to annoy the rightful heirs of that recently-dead Kissinger cunt. The Time of the Bugs is nigh, me dears. Have some Madeira. And grin and bear and give Them the finger.
Oh! Mr Porter, what shall I do?
I want to go to Birmingham
And they’re taking me on to Crewe,
Have a totally spiffing week. And heaps of mutinous love, honey for breakfast and Beluga whales by the cartload. And un po’ di mu’, of course.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frAEmhqdLFs
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEJ9HrZq7Ro

(Late) Season Greetings. Of course, given the current trend of world management the chances of 2024 being a tolerably good year, let alone a happy one, are as thin as cat’s ear but hey! who cares? Stay with Mehitabel and keep on Becketting on best you can. Resit, bite, annoy, be “difficult” and so on. You know the drill. Love, fangs and muffins.

Sol Solet (Solstice 2023). This will have to do as both the customary Solstice greetings and the 11th Ash Memorial. I’m too cold and pooped and dispirited for discrete productions. Have a good one. Ash, I still miss you but no longer mourn you. Perhaps you’re lucky that you’re missing the colossal amount of crap we’ve been getting in these past 11 years. More power to your emancipated particles, me old china! XXX

Organized Chaos. Unhappy Anniversaries. (A little bit late but as the saying goes…)
There’s chaos and then there’s chaos. There’s one kind of chaos that brings release and joy and renewal. The chaos They bring, unfailingly brings mindless, gratuitous destruction, all-round misery and moronic decay. And dreadfully predictable (perchance prearranged?) consequences. What’s worse, it’s hailed by some as progress. Oh, well. Let’s Beckett on best we can, shall we…

Merry Obituary. aka. Speaking Ill of the Dead
Sometimes life is sweet. And sometimes it’s extra sweet. This past few days for example. Not only we’ve had a couple of high-end politicians giving a diplomatic finger of sorts to that asshole Netanyahu -and in these days of craven subservience a modest, suave finger counts for a hell of a lot- but my Über Bête Noire, that deranged mass exterminator, demented politicians-whisperer, granddaddy of RealCrapPolitik, Henry Kissinger has finally kicked the bucket. And as the two Non-Euclidean dancing damsels say, not a fucking minute too soon. Of course don Pedrito and the Belgian guy’s gestures will have no great consequences other than irritate the living shits out of the ghastly N-Creature, but as the Spaniards say, Menos da una piedra. And of course, Horrid Henry leaves behind not only a long string of acolytes, apprentices, chelas, worshippers and sundry cloned whatnots, but a “Kissinger Institute on China and the Unites States”… Bumba have mercy… (Not to mention a galactic sized lorry-load of curses from every corner of the planet and the beyond-deplorable memory of numberless dead Chileans, East Timorese, Laotians, Cambodians…you name it.) So, well done don Pedrito and meeir De Croo, and mauvais voyage to you, Dirty Harry. May you rot in a specially tailored Hell. And don’t give me any of that “don’t speak ill of the dead” putrid pieties, please. 🙂

Flora. Between rants, a bit of fluff. Here, have a bit of mystical boogie-woogy, courtesy of Ms. Floribunda Spiccata (Blooming Sharp in English), a close relative of the Roman goddess of spring and flowers and all things green and bright and beautiful. Join her in a jig and a jaunt for to exorcise the round-the-clock crap that we get on daily basis from…well, practically everywhere, really. Knees up, folks! Life may be like a chicken coop’s ladder, short and full of shit, but “that’s no reason to pout … smile and sweat it out.”* *Stephen Sondheim. Do I Hear a Waltz

The Pit and the Pendulum. Some time ago I said that I was waiting for the tide to turn. I was lying.
As a matter of fact I’m sick up to the gills with tides, returns and other pendular shenanigans.
A lifetime of left or right, black or white, us or them, good guys or …….. (enter here your designated enemy-du-jour’s name)……., with us or against us, either or moronic Manicheism, has left me with an actual, fierce, physical allergy to these kind of imbecile dynamics which are not dynamic at all. Dialectics that never reach a synthesis, not even a working compromise, let alone an expedient accommodation.
To tell the truth I dream of … I’m not sure what I dream of. Almost anything far, far, far removed from these crappy motions that go nowhere fast except to the bottomless pit of despair and annihilation. But I can tell you one of the things that pisses me right off about these hyper-fragmentary Inquisitions: that they are producing piles and piles and piles of fatuous, narrow, insular little worlds infinitely small and petty and, well, criminally tedious, really.
Yog-Sothoth, come ye amongst us and crunch all this shite in thy mighty maws and let the bugs and the rats and the tardigrades start a new something-or-other. They couldn’t possibly do worse that we have done. (Except for Bach, Goya and Geraldine Chaplin.) Have a sponditious week.