Keith the Robin






Twilight of the Minor Gods

An improvised series of tweets about a minor deities conference in Luxembourg.

Ghal, the Sumerian god of irrigation, leaned back in seat 15E and sighed. That is, he adjusted his uprightness minutely. And sighed.

‘Hey, do you mind?’

The passenger immediately to Ghal’s rear, a large, pink man in a perplexing shirt, seemed irate.

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘You’re jiggling my iPad, man.’

‘I have no idea what you are saying,’ Ghal replied.

‘Hello, English?’

‘Hello, Sumerian. How do you do?’

Ghal was distracted by an insurgence of pain beneath his tray table. The small child to his right was decanting noodle soup over his lap.

‘This vehicle contains only suffering,’ Ghal observed. ‘I knew this was a mistake.’

He attempted to slump in his seat. His spine squeaked.

A tanned and immensely tall man leaned across the aisle.

‘Hey, buddy. MD13, right?’

‘Are you talking to me?’

‘MD13? The minor deities conference? You’re a delegate, right?’

‘Oh, yes. How did you–?’

‘You got quite a nimbus going on there, man.’

‘The nimbus. Of course.’

The man extended a thickly muscled hand slightly smaller than a cereal box.

‘Hveldar. Norse god of friction.’

Ghal introduced himself. ‘Friction?’

‘You’d be amazed at the stuff that needs friction to work.’

‘Like carpet burns?’

‘Not the example I would have picked. But for instance, yeah.’

‘You don’t,’ Ghal ventured, ‘sound very Norse. If you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘Nah, man. My family moved to Venice Beach when I was two.’

‘I see. And what does a young god of friction do in Venice Beach?’

‘Oh, you know. A little lifeguard work. I was a paralegal for a while.’

‘But no outlet for your talents?’

‘Not a whole bunch. People in Venice Beach moisturise a lot.’

‘Ah,’ said Ghal. ‘Rather limiting.’

‘How about you? How’s the irrigation thing working out?’

‘I help out at a hydrotherapy centre three days a week.’

‘Gotta keep busy, man.’

‘So, do you know any of the other delegates?’ Ghal asked.

‘Well. There’s Qzlotl, he’s the Aztec god of utensils.’

‘They had utensils?’

‘And Officinus, the Roman god of casual trading, he’s a keynote speaker again. Dude had, like, 102 slides last year.’

‘How very dull.’

‘Oh, and Anyssa, the Egyptian goddess of storage solutions, she–‘

‘I know who she is.’

‘Ooh. A little history, huh?’


They touched down at Luxembourg Findel, where they were greeted by glum outbuildings and a noncommittal drizzle. Hveldar was excited.

‘Luxembourg, huh? I’ve never been to this part of France.’

Ghal regarded him carefully, but said nothing. Hveldar unfolded himself hugely.

‘They’ve got us in a Novotel. Is that good?’

‘No. There will be pictures of muffins at breakfast. And a pianist with a criminal record.’

‘Hotels are awesome,’ Hveldar enthused. ‘Do they have beef here?’

‘I imagine so.’

‘I’m gonna get like eight steaks and a pedicure.’

An elderly lady tapped Hveldar’s hip.

‘I’m afraid I can’t reach my bag. You’re a fine, strapping young man. Would you mind awfully?’

‘Of course, ma’am.’

With calm gallantry, Hveldar picked the old woman up and slid her carefully into the overhead bin.

‘You reach it now?’

‘In the taxi, Ghal turned to Hveldar. ‘You like to ‘use your powers for good’, don’t you?’

‘Sure, I do what I can. You don’t practise?’

Ghal stared out at the traffic, and at the quietly baleful suburbs of Luxembourg.

‘There was a time,’ he said, ‘when I tried. I tried.’

‘But you’re the Sumerian god of irrigation, man. There’s gotta be tons of folks you could help.’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’

‘What, you couldn’t end a drought or two?’

‘You know what happens, Hveldar? When you irrigate a place that couldn’t grow crops before?’

‘They get to eat?’

‘They get invaded. A war starts. Oh, yes. Maybe not immediately, but give it a year. Roving bands. Raging hordes.’

‘Because they have some corn trees?’

‘Something like that. They never had food, so they didn’t have weapons. Now they’re a fucking buffet.’

‘Sounds harsh, man.’

‘It is, Hveldar. Everything is.’

‘Dude, what the fuck? There’s a shop that sells pain?’

‘That’s a bakery.’


The sign, in the foyer of the hotel, had been carefully composed.


Ghal sighed.

A goddess with eight arms and a clipboard accosted them.

‘Gentlemen,’ she scanned them briefly. ‘Good trip? I’m Ajita, events management.’

‘Totally,’ Hveldar said. ‘We had pretzels on the plane. There were like four in each pack, it was insane. We’re jazzed, right, Ghal?’

‘There are mistakes on the sign.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Ajita said.

‘The welcome sign,’ Ghal pointed. ‘Minor ditties’? And that apostrophe?’

‘Ditties?’ said Hveldar. ‘Is that a word?’

‘Yes, but it’s the wrong one. Unless we’re double booked with the tiny songs people.’

‘Tiny songs people? You mean like pixies?’

‘I should remind you gentlemen that this is a drug-free event.’

‘I’m just going to check in.’

In the hotel bar, he ordered a dry martini. The irony, even now. Outside, there was Luxembourg, scoured of glamour by efficiency and rain.

The pianist, pockmarked and glossy-suited, leered at Ghal in greeting before plunging into a rashly-ornamented Billy Joel medley.

‘You know any Bach?’ Ghal interrupted him.

‘He is no working tonight, sir.’

‘I see. Tell him I said hello.’

‘You bet.’

Hveldar ambled massively into the bar and equipped himself with a jug of margarita.

‘Dude,’ he said, taking a seat. ‘You won’t believe it.’

‘Nice evening?’

‘So, I go for a walk around, right?’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Strasbourg, Brussels, around town.’

‘You walked to Brussels?’

‘I was stretching my legs. Never mind that.’

Hveldar glanced around, then hunched over the table. ‘I saw things.’

‘Service stops?’

‘Nah, man. It goes deeper than that. They’ve got this whole secret government thing here.’

‘Secret government? Hveldar, I think you–‘

‘Seriously, man. I passed this, like, ‘parliament’ building?’ Hveldar’s air quotes could have torn down a stadium. ‘And a ‘secretariat’?’

‘Hveldar, those aren’t hidden. The buildings are enormous. It’s the EU.’

‘Eeyoo? Like a secret owl thing?’

‘What? No, the European Union.’

‘The European Union? Right. So, who’s in this ‘union’?’

‘France, Germany, Finland–‘

‘Wait up, there are mermaids in this thing?’

‘Maybe we should talk about something else. Did you do any shopping?’

‘A little. And I got a tattoo.’

‘Really? Where?’

‘In Maastricht.’

‘I meant the other where.’

‘Oh, right!’ Hveldar laughed colossally and drained the margarita jug. ‘It’s on my left pec. Wanna see?’

‘I suppose so. What’s it of?’

‘An accordion.’

‘You got a tattoo of an accordion in Maastricht?’

‘I was trying to fit in. Check it out.’

Hveldar tugged up his pink Lacoste polo shirt, exposing a tectonic chest and a sub-prison tattoo.

‘Pretty outrageous, right?’

‘Hveldar, that’s an anaconda.’

‘Right. What did I say?’


‘Europe, man. I should have got a Rough Guide or something.’

They ordered more drinks. Hveldar picked up the fresh jug of margarita. ‘So what about you, man? What did you do?’

Ghal sipped his martini.

‘I thought of home, Hveldar. Of Uruk and Kish, heaving and rainless. The rust-bright bricks. The wailing.

‘I thought of the times when I was called for. A widow and an unweaned child, far from kin and comfort. The small things I could do.

‘We mattered then, Hveldar. We were mighty. We were regent over every delta, every locust.’

‘Far out.’ Hveldar crunched the ice cubes from the margarita jug. ‘Did you get the wi-fi password?’



Another improvised Twitter narrative from a while back. This one is about mascara and the porn business. Also spiders.

So, mascara is tested on spiders. Maybe you didn’t know that. I didn’t know myself before I took this job one time.

I was kind of but not really in the porn business in Oregon, which believe me–that gets pretty quiet in the winter.

So I’m in this bar pretending I just came off a shoot, which is kind of a sad habit you get in that business, and this guy comes up.

He says, right off, You know how they test mascara, right? I give him the benefit of the doubt that it’s not some bullshit hit.

‘I never thought about it.’

‘That’s okay. Most people don’t. But it’s interesting. That’s why I bring it up. I’m Dieter.’

I tell him my name. He says, ‘What line of work are you in?’ Just like that. Like this bar isn’t a green room for adult content folks.

I tell him I’m resting. Dieter says I look morning fresh. Not in a sleazy way, just with that sunny nothing behind it, like a commercial.

So, anyway. It gets around to Dieter’s business, which I had a feeling that was going to come out. He’s in beauty.

‘You’re in beauty?’

‘Well, yes. But not in the state or condition of beauty. The grubby business I’m afraid.’

This was how he talked.

Dieter looks at me through these teeny glasses that probably cost two thousand bucks. He has on this perfect graph paper kind of shirt.

He looks like he just flew in business class on Lufthansa and maybe needs help buying a gift for his little girl. Or something else.

I guess I’m explaining why, ten minutes later, I’m in Dieter’s rented Taurus, all but signed up and in beauty myself. Who does that?

We’re heading for his ‘new facility’, which turns out to be near the airport. Some chainlink lot by the Dollar rental return place.

‘It’s temporary,’ Dieter says, unlocking the place.

I shrug. ‘My last place didn’t exactly have orchids in the lobby. Anyway, it’s clean.’

‘This isn’t even the clean room,’ Dieter says. ‘Where we do the testing. Would you like to see that?’

‘Sure. Is it gross?’

‘We have to de-garb,’ Dieter says. Turns out this means getting sprayed with stuff that smells like frost and dressing up like we’re on ER.

‘You look immaculate,’ Dieter says. It’s a word I’ve heard out loud maybe twice. His goggles gleam over his glasses. ‘Immaculate.’

We go into the lab. The suit makes me feel cushioned and untouchable, as clean and remote as a cloud. I walk delicately.

Dieter approaches a bank of glass tanks with arm holes. ‘This is a fun thing to do first,’ he says. ‘The spiders. You have no phobia?’

‘I have phobias. Not spiders, though. What do you do with them?’

‘Put mascara on them.’

‘Get the fuck out of here.’

‘Dieter looks around, like I’ve actually asked him to leave. He’s really kind of sweet.

‘No, I mean like what? On their eyes?’

‘Spiders don’t have eyelashes. The mascara goes on their legs.’

‘Fuck off. On their legs? You guys volumize spiders?’

‘These are Phase I trials. We test safety. Toxicological profiles. Pharmacokinetic effects. And so on.’

‘Can you die of lush fullness?’

‘Would you like to try? It’s a fascinating process.’

He gestures towards a tank. Inside there are maybe eight or nine spiders.’

Dieter motions. I plunge my arms into the openings, where they slip into long close-fitting gloves. The spiders skitter silently.

‘This gas–‘ Dieter presses down a plunger. ‘A short-acting neuroinhibitor. They will not move. You can pick up the mascara wand.’

The mascara is big name, by the way, and not even in stores, obviously. I pick up the wand. I have that spacewalk clumsiness.

‘Go on,’ Dieter says. ‘Coat the legs as you would your lashes. From the body outwards.’

My fingers move thickly. The air is a puzzle.

I manage to apply mascara to one leg, leaving uneven clumps. Then the next. The spider jerks.

‘Involuntary movement,’ says Dieter.’

I drag the wand down each of the spider’s remaining legs. My fingers are aching for the tiny drag and brush of friction, for where they are.

‘Proprioception,’ Dieter says. ‘The sense of where your body parts are positioned in space. It can be difficult to recalibrate.’

I nod, and that does make sense. But it’s not what’s bothering me. What’s bothering me is the talking. The spider is talking to me.

‘Honey,’ the spider is saying. ‘I’m not judging. Believe me, in this business–‘

‘In the spider business?’ I am talking. To the spider.

‘There’s no call to take that tone, sweetheart. Those nails don’t exactly say entertainment lawyer to me.’

I look around to see if Dieter is registering that the spider I have just coated in prototype mascara is basically calling me a skank.

Dieter has wandered off to check on some other experiments. He peers into another tank and taps on a valve or something.

‘No, the thing of it is, honey–I’m Wanda, by the way–I got to make a living. I got to spin webs, twitch for prey, generally get by.’

‘Uh huh.’ I look around for Dieter again, but he has now disappeared. Wanda continues.

‘Yeah, so no offence, sweetie. I’m sure you the make-up lady to the stars of the Hallmark channel, but this here is inhumane.’

I nod again. Wanda has now completely overcome the neuroinhibitor, and is moving freely about the tank, gesticulating clumsily.

‘I mean, look at this. I’m a beautiful, proud arachnid. You got me looking like a shuttlecock made of licorice over here.’

‘I pull my hands from the tank. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t…I’m not–‘

‘Everybody in here about to wake up, and what do I look like?’

‘I don’t–‘

‘I look like some fucking Michelin wind chimes. I look like Kate Beckinsale exploded up in here. What’s wrong with you?’

I back away from the tank. I move towards the door. I can still hear Wanda.

‘I look like Marilyn Manson’s goddam man bag. It ain’t right.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t–I’m so sorry.’

‘You sorry? You ain’t the one looks a UFO swallowed a bunch of motherfucking seaweed.’

I never went to that bar again. The adult business kind of got killed by the web anyhow, so everybody had to move on.

I have this Kinko’s franchise now, way up in Alaska. The oil guys do everything in triplicate, believe me. It’s mostly quiet and beautiful.

I still use mascara. I’m not Tilda Swinton or German or whatever.

But I think of Wanda sometimes. And it’s like there are threads between regular life and suffering. You touch them and they keep humming.

The Lives of the Mitfords

The collected lives of the lesser Mitfords. An occasional Twitter series.

Acuity Mitford. Almost entirely blind, defected to the Isle of Wight in a commandeered tug boat, believing it to be Vichy France.

Scarcity Mitford. Though her existence was predicted by standard models, she was never observed experimentally and is now disputed.

Hilarity Mitford. Committed after slaughtering a pony with a croquet mallet aged 14. Choked on a bun in Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum, 1968.

Polarity Mitford. Walked on her hands due to a rare congenital disorder. Drowned while paddling with SS officers in Biarritz in 1943.

Dexterity Mitford. Showed early promise as a concert pianist, but lost her right arm to a cheetah while on safari in Kenya.

Temerity Mitford. Claimed to have discovered a new transuranic element while mushrooming. Was briefly engaged to marry a performing stoat.

Enormity Mitford. Never publicly acknowledged. Described by nursing staff engaged at Exbury. May have had superfluous limbs or organs.

Disparity Mitford. Embittered by her foreshortened leg, joined a strict order and was secluded at Nantes. Had a lifelong fear of teaspoons.

Asperity Mitford. Was sent down from Newnham following an incident in which a promising classicist was strangled with an inner tube.

Entity Mitford. Appears in few contemporaneous records. May have suffered from debilitating visions or been a Shetland pony.

Brevity Mitford. Died aged four, following a verb conjugation accident. Her dismissed governess shot herself in a tea room.

Alacrity Mitford. Stole a prototype racing car from an Italian suitor. Fled to Monte Carlo, killing a postmistress and several goats.

Superfluity Mitford. Lived for eleven years on an island on the family estate, having been left behind after a moonlight picnic.

Calamity Mitford. Said to have been devoted to the 81 Ceylonese orphans she immolated in a marshmallow-toasting accident.

Conformity Mitford. Expelled from a cult of Isis following an accounting dispute, she joined a farming commune. Died of rhubarb poisoning.

Domesticity Mitford. A notoriously inept hostess whose grand dinners, said Auden, “were like digging one’s own grave with a sorbet spoon”.

Animosity Mitford. Though never charged, was suspected of bludgeoning to death with a lacrosse stick the mistress of Girton College.

Futility Mitford. Devoted her life, and those of several domestic servants, to the development of a chocolate steam engine.

Fatality Mitford. Mistaken for a stag due to her customary Valkyrie helmet, she was shot dead by a hunting party in the Highlands.

Charity Mitford. Founded a highly exclusive orphanage, whose handful of residents perished under an avalanche while skiing at St Moritz.

Trinity Mitford. Born with a vestigial third arm, she lived in seclusion at Exbury. Composed several sonatas for piano and harmonica.

Chastity Mitford. A socialite and noted beauty. Her “appetites”, it was rumoured, left Aldous Huxley “a near invalid” in a sanatorium.

Modernity Mitford. Obsessed with the “horrors of mechanisation”. Arrested in 1937 after opening fire on an omnibus in Piccadilly.

Extremity Mitford. Born without hands or feet, her inventions included a prosthetic croquet mallet. Died of carpet burn complications.

Publicity Mitford. Lived in seclusion in the Orkneys, where she devoted herself to the excision of gypsies from the operatic repertoire.

Unanimity Mitford. Suffered from multiple personality disorder, on several occasions harshly reviewing her own novels in Books and Bookmen.

Sword of Mist of Honour

A series of tweets in the style of a fantasy novel manuscript.

SWORD OF MIST OF HONOUR – BOOK I: The Bone of Truthship

For humble farm boy Anderthon Van Halla, the day begun as normally. The triple suns of Prometheonymus rose and the space cock crowed.

Anderthon groaned with a sigh. It was only 0600 parsecs and he had a whole days choors ahead of him on the humble farm. Damn it!

But Anderthon leaped from his humble cot all the same, his sinwey young frame glistering in the triple sunlight. There was work to do!

Anderthon dressed in his rough farm boy jerkin that barely covered the hard muscules of his albumen and headed for the cow pastures.

As he strode along in the bright triple morning sunlight, Anderthon wandered about the future. Would he always be stuck here he wandered.

Anderthon loved his step-parents but they were simple folks and he found him self dreaming of great deeds of honour and velour.

And he coul’dnt help feeling even as he milked the enormous sable tooth cows that he was some how fated for destiny.

He shook his head, drops of milk spraying over his rough leather farm pants. “Don’t be so damn stupid Anderthon. Your a dreamer is all!”

“Just remember XuChenna” he told himself. “If you work hard and stay true you WILL win her hand!” Anderthon was lost in thoughts.

XuChenna was his childhood sweet meat from the next farm colony over. She was kind and thought full with flowing klaxon hair.

And yet Anderthon found his thoughts straying away from XuChenna, especially when he was astride his trusty mount Firmflanks.

Why can’t I just be happy he thought gazing down at Firmflankses rippling muscules. He was finished the milking now and was riding.

Suddenly Anderthon spotted something in the grass of the cow pasture. What a weird shape sticking up. Evocative and all most talismanic!

Anderthon hurriedly dis mounted and decided to investigate the strangely unchanting object. “What the heck could it be? He amused”.

With his strong, rough, task-hardened, farm boy, humble hands, Anderthon grasped the object. It felt hard and dry to the touch.

He tried to rest it free of the soil. Damn! It wouldn’t budge. He braced his power full thighs and tugged again with all his mite.

This time, it came free. Anderthon found himself flying backwards with his hands wrapped around a giant, mysterious bone!

Anderthon gasped and ran his powerful hands up and down the strange, weird bone. Pearing more closely, he noticed some explicable runes.

The runes were in the ancient script of the indigent Prometheonyman peoples, but luckily Anderthon had studied hard at farm school.

“He who rests the bone of truth from the earth” said the runes “he shall be the true air of Aramis and shall come all over evil”.

“Heir of Aramis”? “Come over all evil?!” Anderthon’s mind reeled with dizziness. How could this be? Had he been choosen some how?

It was all to much for Anderthon to take in. He thrust the enormous, mystical bone into his humble nap sack and headed for home.

“Hello dear said” his Stepmom XoNanna kissing his fourhead as he strode wearily in for super. “Have you finnished all your choors”?

“Ca’nt you damn well leave me be XoNanna” shouted Anderthon, storming to his humble bunk and shoving his secret bone under the blankets!

XoNanna looked at Anderthon perplexed and tears welled in her plane, humble eye (following an accident with space farm machinery).

Anderthon regretted his harsh words to his beloved step mother XoNanna. It was just that his mind was a whorl of new possibilities.

As he settled into his humble farm boy’s cot, the words the runes would make if they were read out loud echoed in his minds’ ears.

“Air of Aramis-is-is…come over all evil-il-il” Anderthon tossed and turned. He grasped the mysterious bone. It felt comforting some how.

Could it be that fate really did have some destiny in store for him? Somewhere beyond the stars? He hardly dared to hop.


Celebrity Cluedo

In the bathroom at Harvey Nick’s, with a little surprise in her mimosa. #celebritycluedo

In the white garden, with the Jasper Conran pizza stone. #celebritycluedo

In the Maserati, with this totally untraceable shit the FSB uses. #celebritycluedo

In the Priory, with the enema hose. #celebritycluedo

In the lap pool, with the marlin harpoon. #celebritycluedo

In the Piedmont vineyard, with the black market taser. #celebritycluedo

In the Pilates studio, with the pedometer. #celebritycluedo

In a poorly-maintained Georgian farmhouse in West Cork, with leftover aviation fuel and a deified straw-bale colossus. #celebritycluedo

In the en suite of a Novotel outside Strasbourg, with a shiv improvised from plastic Burger King cutlery. #celebritycluedo

In the VIP lounge at Terminal 4 in JFK, with these weird tongs from the sushi bar. #celebritycluedo

In the Cracker Barrel in Columbia, Missouri, with a side of fries that could sustain an Antarctic expedition for a month. #celebritycluedo

In the Bulgari on Rodeo, with the canine defibrillator. #celebritycluedo

In the editing suite, with “some scenes we might need to tighten up”. #celebritycluedo

In your dreams, with a molten, screaming amalgam of that friend from craft camp and Ally Sheedy. #CelebrityCluedo

In a convoy just east of Tripoli, with Bernard-Henri Levy’s satellite phone and his fucking stylist’s iPad. #CelebrityCluedo

In Sofia Coppola’s suite at Cannes, with a child-skin bag of Haribo by Damien Hirst. #CelebrityCluedo

In the pit lane at the Nürburgring, with three shivering swimwear models and a TV crew from the Phillipines. #CelebrityCluedo

In a first class pod on an Emirates A380, with Queen Rania’s riding crop. #CelebrityCluedo

In that asshole editor’s office, with an “involving detail”. #CelebrityCluedo

RT @LauraSlattery: In Portland, with the frisbee attack of limited-edition vinyl. #celebritycluedo

In a Kinko’s in Santa Monica, with a fucked-up, twenty-pound Tori Spelling screenplay no-one on Earth needs a copy of. #CelebrityCluedo

In Venice, with cholera and skeezy longing. #CelebrityCluedo

In a dusty annex at the Louvre, with some preposterous McGuffin to do with the Rosicrucians. #CelebrityCluedo

In the Chelsea training grounds, with little gift from President himself. It’s okay, you just sleep now. No pain. #CelebrityCluedo

*Applause* RT @TrishByrne: In the Blue Peter studio, with one I made earlier. #CelebrityCluedo

RT @LauraSlattery: On Necker Island, with a sabotaged Satnav. #celebritycluedo

In Marine One or possibly Camp David, with [redacted]. #celebritycluedo

In Joan River’s penthouse on Fifth, with this heavy-ass Louis XV something-eau. #celebritycluedo

RT @TrishByrne: In the Loft Bar with a single heave and a well-timed one-liner about plummeting popularity. #CelebrityCluedo

RT @LauraSlattery: At Cedars Sinai, with a terrible sense of timing as far as newspaper deadlines are concerned. #celebritycluedo

In the media suite at Davos, with Paul Krugman’s complimentary Mont Blanc gift set. #celebritycluedo

RT @LauraSlattery: In Oxfordshire, with a contaminated IV drip. #celebritycluedo

RT @lindasgrant: In Richmond, with Jagger’s Viagra #celebritycluedo

In the Condé Nast guest house in East Hampton, with David Remnick’s actual Kindle, I’m not kidding. #celebritycluedo

In my rooms at St Andrew’s, but it was, like, this total accident? #celebritycluedo

RT @seventydys: In the Baron’s box at the Opera with the Bulgari garrotte. #celebritycluedo

RT @conorjh: #celebritycluedo Tampa, with an empty chair.

In the Gulfstream, with a pouch of Keith Richard’s treatment by-products. #celebritycluedo

RT @thisgreyspirit: Backstage at Bregenz, with a Lanvin pashmina #celebritycluedo

RT @whitesubway: @paraicodonnell In the First Class cabin, with the Captain’s log. #celebritycluedo

RT @fatboyfat: @paraicodonnell In Tiger Tiger, with the heel from a Laboutin. #celebritycluedo

RT @seventydys: In the Klosters Platz with a ’93 Cristal #celebritycluedo

In the pool house, with that fucked up little Scientology lie detector he wouldn’t shut up about. #celebritycluedo

In the Groucho Club, with the onyx desk tidy that was supposed to make me feel better after he shitcanned the series. #celebritycluedo

RT @miche: #celebritycluedo On Clapham Common, with the BAFTA.

In the walk-in humidor, with this actual genuine moon rock, seriously. #celebritycluedo

In his Bentley, with that bitch Courtney’s own hair straightener. #celebritycluedo

RT @john_self: In Nigella’s replica pantry, with the Starck lemon juicer. #celebritycluedo

RT @john_self: In the green room, with Dec. #celebritycluedo

Driving While Asparagus

I tweeted this about random asparagus testing. I have no idea why.

I got pulled over by the police on the way home. One of those random asparagus tests they do now.

‘Good evening, sir.’

‘Good evening, Sergeant–‘


‘Sergeant Moreso?’


‘Like a sergeant, only–‘

‘Moreso. Yes, sir.’

‘You get that a lot?’

‘That and Kleen-Eze catalogues, sir.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Had any vegetables at all tonight, sir?’



‘Vegetables? What are you–‘

‘Out for a few florets of broccoli after work, were we? Maybe a little Julienne of something on the side?’

‘Julienne? Oh, you mean like a cinq-à-sept? What are you writing?’

‘Five to seven vegetables’. I need you to step out of the car, sir.’

‘What? Why? What did I–?’

‘Step out of the car please, sir.’

‘But, Sergeant Moreso. This is absurd. I was talking about French sex.’

‘Subject has consumed five to seven portions of vegetables and is propositioning the arresting officer.’

‘What? Who are you talking to?’

‘Sir, I’m going to ask you to perform some simple motor skills tests.’

‘But you asked me to get out of the car.’

‘Five star jumps.’


‘Five star jumps.’

‘I don’t know what you *want*, Sergeant Moreso. “Five star jumps”? It’s just nouns. What’s modifying what?’

‘Sir, your uncooperative attitude will not help your case.’

‘What? Just tell me what ‘five star jumps’ means. Really exclusive jumps?’

‘Sir, I really must warn you–‘

‘For Christ’s sake, Moreso! I can’t parse your gruff commands. Would it kill you to use a verb?’

‘Star jumps.’

‘Does they?’


‘Does–do stars jump? I don’t know what you’re saying to me. And I’m scared.’


‘MORESO, NOOO–oh. I see.’

‘That was a star jump.’

‘I thought you’d stepped on a mine. Or busted a Village People move.’

‘Star jump.’

‘Yes. Well, thank God you’re safe, Moreso.’

‘Five star jumps, sir.’

‘Really? But I’m not very–oh, all right, then.’

‘There. Happy now?’

‘Get to the gym much, do we, sir?’

‘Not excessively, no.’

‘Any family history of Huntington’s disease?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Your star jumps, sir.’

‘What about them?’

‘You looked like a hunger striker catching a bouquet.’

‘Jesus. That’s a bit strong, Moreso.’

‘Give me five more.’

‘Look, do you even have statutory powers to–‘


‘There…let me just…catch my…what are you *laughing* at?’

‘It’s like one of the Golden Girls trying to catch a ski lift.’

‘Look, I’m not in great shape. I get it. We still have rule of law, last time I checked.’

‘Like Planet of the Brittle-Boned Apes.’

‘Right, that’s it, I’m calling my–‘

‘Urine test.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Urine test.’

‘Oh, *come on*. On what grounds.’

‘Asparagus use.’

‘Asparagus isn’t illegal!’

‘I have probable cause.’

‘For what? Brunch? I’ve done nothing wrong!’

‘I videoed your star jumps.’

‘You videoed my–oh, God. You’re not a real cop, are you?’

‘Check it. 738 views already. You a little star, Dorothy.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘My friend Arkadiusz, he says can you do yoga stuff?’

‘No, I can’t do–look, I’ve got a taser, you know. It charges off the lighter.’

‘Can you do it again in Daisy Dukes? From xxxNiceLadyReichxxx.’

‘Taser charging. Lawyer notified. Real police too.’

‘Ha! Top video!’

‘And Lukasz says, Open big mayonnaise jars. With bum to camera. Here, you can use this flask.’

‘I’m getting in the car.’

‘Lot of pantsuit moves coming in. You have an apricot pantsuit?’

‘I have a slowly charging taser.’

‘Let me know how that works out.’

‘Why, Sergeant Moreso–if that is your real name? I just need to know why.’

*Traces pattern on ground with shoe*

*Slumps against side of Mondeo, sobbing*