Bonus story: Grendel’s Grief

The Blaran and the Bonshoon were dragged into the throne room and flung to the threadbare rug. The guards, brightly-dressed and highly-polished, stepped back with a clank and saluted with a different type of clank. Their festive olde-worlde attire smelled sharply of preservative mist and was tattered and bleached. The smooth white machinery underneath was still in excellent condition, though.

So,” the King leaned forward and fixed the pair with a piercing blue-eyed gaze that was no less bright and jolly for the fact that its source was a pair of sophisticated blue-tinted gel-crystal lenses. “These are the troublemakers who have been so upsetting my beloved subjects.”

The Bonshoon pushed himself up on his lower hands, dusted himself off with his uppers, and spat on the floor. “Fuck you, clown.”

It was a common misconception that Bonshooni were all big chubby friendly pacifists. It was mostly true, and that was what made the misconception so persistent. Some were absolute pricks, though. Huxley Bunderwold, despite his rotund physique, broad honest face and hysterically misplaced name, was far more than an absolute prick. Huxley Bunderwold was, in fact, a platinum-plated, metaflux-reinforced, Margan-pearl-studded bastard of the darkest and grimiest calibre.

The King sat back on his throne, his expression not changing. It was mostly painted on anyway, so its benign, slightly sleepy smile couldn’t change. His face, like those of the guards, was a strange, puffy amalgamation of humanoid and Molranoid features intended to appear sympathetic and non-threatening to human, Blaran, Bonshoon and Molran alike. It might have even worked, under normal circumstances. It was the work of master designers, after all.

The lacquer was bubbled and scorched on one side of his face. Courtesy of a high-powered energy weapon that had failed to get the job done, and never been repaired.

“We don’t like bad language here, young man,” the King said disapprovingly.

“I can switch to Karl if you don’t like Xidh,” Bunderwold growled. “Char’flet.”

“Goodness me,” the King said mildly. “Such a midden-mouth,” he turned his kindly half-smile on the Blaran. “I do hope you’re nicer.”

The Blaran made no effort to push himself upright, just remained crouching where the guards had flung him. “Nicer than Huxley Bunderwold, the Sleeper Pod Killer of Judge’s Gavel? That’s a very low bar to clear, Your Majesty.”

The King laughed. “That’s true, but don’t be so modest! You are Mora Fastel of Nebuchadnezzar, son of notorious swindler Morigon Bazander and Molran Fleet Captain ChoraMae Ghenea Fastel, and the criminal underworld of the Six Species knows you as Grendel’s Grief. Master thief, with a policy of … well, if not ‘no killing’, then at least ‘not as much killing as stealing, and never when killing is the point’,” the King leaned forward again, and tilted his head. There was a soft whirring sound from one eye and it rolled grotesquely in its socket – probably intended as a wink, except the eyelid had fused at some point in the past couple of hundred years. “That’s the official story and we’ll stick to it, eh?” the King continued in a warm, confidential murmur.

“You have an impressive information-gathering network at your disposal,” Grief said.

“Oh, I didn’t need my little fairy spies,” the King said cheerfully. “Why, part of the ongoing legal framework of the planet you stole – the planet! – makes use of old settlement writs ‑ ”

“Of course,” Grief said, “Bunzolabe Incorporated writs of ‑ ”

“You dare to interrupt His Majesty!” the guard behind Grief snapped, and drew back his spear to give the Blaran a good seeing-to with the butt. He froze at a gesture from the King, and then settled back in place with another clank.

His Majesty the King – at least so he was calling himself in this area of the park, His Majesty the King Horatio Bunzo I, monarch of the Sunny Hills, regent of Dragon Valley and Prince Consort of Fairyland – smiled benignly down at the two intruders. He clucked and shook his head. “Still, I have to say even without that tedious little paper trail, your thefts-on-commission are the stuff of legend. Many worlds and unions out there consider it a mark of having ‘made it’ as a culture if Grendel’s Grief has stolen some great treasure from them.”

“Your Majesty is too kind,” Grief demurred.

“Why don’t you two just get it over with and fuck each other,” Bunderwold suggested – displaying, in Grief’s opinion, a regrettable inability to read a throne room.

“Your friend is very rude,” Bunzo said in hurt tones.

“This is about as nice as he gets,” Grief confided. “He’s a bit freaked out by the whole Sunny Hills aesthetic. I think he was victimised by a Twin Species recreationalist historian when he was a young fellow…”

“You ‑ ” Bunderwold snarled, but the menacing motion of the Bunzolabe robots in the gaudy castle guard’s attire behind them stopped him short. “We had a deal, Bunzo,” the Bonshoon went on in an almost moderate tone. “I deliver Grendel’s Grief, and you tell me the future.”

“In the future, the Six Species will be no more and a new union will emerge,” the King declared grandly. “Everyone will live in the centre of the galaxy and a human carrying the Sword of the King that Never Was will cut down the Bonshoon veil and open the gates of space. But you probably won’t be around to see any of that. You will almost certainly die in three years, eight months and … seven hours.”

“What ‑ ”

“Maybe five, if you have inherited your mother’s weak tertiary vessel walls to an unfortunate degree,” Bunzo added. “But plenty of time for us to figure that out, together.”

“You can’t ‑ ”

“Take him away,” Bunzo waved a lace-ringed hand, and Bunderwold was dragged kicking and screaming from the throne room. Grief settled back on his heels and took in the experience. He didn’t think he’d seen and heard someone actually getting dragged kicking and screaming out of anywhere before. “So,” the royal facet – the giela, really, of the dark and terrible whole – sat back in his throne and slung one gleaming white composite leg in tattered hose over the arm of the great golden chair. “It would seem that my bargain with Mister Bunderwold is complete. He has delivered you, and I have told him the future.”

“He was never very good at the whole fine-print thing,” Grief said.

“Can’t abide loopholes myself,” Bunzo replied.

“Me neither,” Grief shifted direction mid-thought, “but if I only need to do them better than Bunderwold … ”

“Well, indeed,” Bunzo laughed. “I must say, I will be sad to see you go,” he went on with a very realistic little sigh. “You are an interesting fellow. I don’t suppose I could impose upon you to … ?”

“On the contrary,” Grief inclined his head, “it is I who wouldn’t dream of imposing on you.”

“Very charming, very charming indeed,” Bunzo said pensively. “And I know of no fewer than four fallback measures you have in place to ensure your safe getaway, which means there must be at least two more I haven’t found, eh? So I have little choice, I suppose.”

Grief, who had to think about his various escape plans for a moment and could only remember setting up three, was very grateful for his augmented body-sheathing and its ability to hide his bio-signatures from the watchful sensors of the world-spanning electronic God. “Legend has it that you will answer three questions,” he started.

“My goodness, are there legends already?” Bunzo sounded pleased. “Alright, let’s go with that then. Three questions. No, check that, I already know your questions are going to be silly. You don’t know what you want. You’re bored. Fame and glory and immortality and all that. I will tell you three things, how about that? I’ll tell you three things, and you can pretend you asked me.”

“Your Majesty is too kind.”

“Hmm,” Bunzo smiled down at him, and there was another whirring noise and his eyes rolled. Probably, this time, he was attempting to narrow them in contemplation. “You must give yourself up to the authorities,” the King eventually said. “You must do so in a place that will see you imprisoned in the Storm’s Eye. One day, you will be recruited for a secret AstroCorps mission, its name will be Operation Spider or Project Spider, something to do with spiders … you will accept this mission,” the battered old machine paused, looking somehow uncertain despite his lack of expression. “Was that three?” he waved a hand again. “It was three. Let’s say it was three.”

Grendel’s Grief laughed. “You know,” he said, “growing up, I always loved the stories about Spider Merdokk.”

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Inkiwäärijuoma; or, May Day the Finnish Way

Vappu is coming! If you didn’t start making sima a week ago, you’re not ready.

Mrs. Hindle's Viands and Vittles

A week from now is May Day, and I just know you’ve all been dying to celebrate it the way we Finns do. I know, I know, we’re not known as particularly festive, exuberant or ebullient. But May Day is special. May Day is the beginning of spring (though traditionally the weather is usually awful), May Day is a day of balloons and streamers and picnics after a long, dark and dreary six-to-eight months.

Oh yeah and somewhere in there is a celebration of the proletariat, and equality, and education, but we tend to forget about most of it. Although May Day is the one day a year we pull out our white hats that prove we’ve completed secondary academic education. No longer the feat it was 150 years ago. Mrs. Hindle’s hat is a tad small and tends to result in a headache.

An integral part of May Day…

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Oræl Rides to War: My Phase Two Series

Right. So.

The Last Days of Earth is complete, which means with Bad Cow and Greyblade we have a complete trilogy! I haven’t got very good metrics on these books, certainly not compared to The Final Fall of Man which just had metrics up the wazoo, but I’d estimate that this three-parter is only a bit smaller than the eight-parter; each book was close to double the size, after all.

What that means is, these were big ol’ books and my appreciation and admiration to those who read them knows no bounds. And the folks who edited them? Heroes. Heroes, I tell you.

They were also a long time coming. And a long time in the workshopping, as at least a few Hatstanders – editors and others – will attest.

While Bad Cow started its existence as a strange serial story about a Vampire-slayin’ Angel named Barry (and sometimes Gary), back on one of the first websites I ever created (I’d like to thank FrontPage Express while I have this opportunity…), The Last Days of Earth was older still.

I was out of high school, but not by much. I had a substance-and-fever-fuelled dream about a strange group of friends, one of whom was an ape-man, another of whom was a crusty old prospector-type – Oræl and George were their names. They were searching for relics of some kind (that weren’t what they seemed), and were being hunted by the authorities. George found two of the relics in one place.

(P)ushy (P)ete, the little-bit-Rastafarian spare parts dealer, was there. It was a weird dream.

I wasn’t ready to write the story, and as I studied at university and got better at writing, I kept this dream in a spare folder (first literal, then electronic), waiting for it to fit somewhere. I knew it would eventually, so I put some hints in there.

We were a long way from handcrafted Noro Metak custom miniatures back then. I’m just including this picture because I love it.

In the meantime, of course, I wrote a bunch of other stuff, and most of it fitted into the urverse I’ve been building for a while. Phase One was a simple space opera introduction to the whole thing, opening out to offer a glimpse of the larger reality at the end. Phase Two built on that, providing some stories still mostly centred around Earth and Cursèd’s Playground, but in some cases extending … well, let’s just say a little further afield.

It doesn’t cost me any extra storage space to drop it here again so why not.

There are still a couple of stories (actually collections) to tell in Phase Two, and I’m working on them. I hope they’ll open up, if not another order of magnitude to the story’s scope, then at least drop a few hints about the shape of things to come.

To be honest I could talk about this stuff for days and it is currently extremely frustrating that I’m having to chip away these last pieces before I can show you what’s next – particularly because I am so thoroughly and perpetually distracted at home and at work. It’s not fun. But I’ll get there! Thanks for listening. And reading, as ever.

What is fun, though, is getting two of my oldest story ideas down on the page, in Bad Cow and The Last Days of Earth, and my first public-released full-on urverse tale in Greyblade. I had a lot of fun writing these stories and I can’t wait to get the next ones done!

Any comments or questions or theories or complaints are more than welcome. I, like America’s Ass, can do this all day.

Happy tears, this time.
Posted in Astro Tramp 400, IACM, Oræl Rides To War, The Book of Pinian | Tagged , , , | 30 Comments

Seven Minutes of Joy

We are yet to get to the end of Supernatural, since reaching about season 9 and just running out of steam (we’ve done this twice now). However, there is just something wonderfully enjoyable about the show and the characters and the way it taps into the electronic spirit of the Noughties.

Here is seven minutes of absolute exuberant fun, featuring a few familiar faces. It’s an old video, but it’s new to me.

Maybe I’ll give those latter seasons another try.

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The Glyph

The heavy metal door clanged open and the breach officer’s armoured boots added to the general crashing and hollow ringing that never quite went away on board. It was deafening at first, and then you got used to it. And then it actually got a bit creepy to be somewhere quiet.

The Commander looked up from his interface pool.

“Well, if it’s not the luckiest idiot in the Maj,” he said.

“Commander,” the officer looked decidedly queasy behind her visor. Queasy was good, but absolutely ashen with nausea would be better. “The breach was a success-”

“It was a success because you got in and out alive, and you took a sample,” the Commander snapped. “That’s a pretty fucking low bar to clear, junior breach officer Mørkht,” he shook his head in disgust. “And take that stupid thing off, you’re out now.”

Junior breach officer Mørkht looked like she was about to protest, then clanged and clattered with gauntlets and helmet, fumbling them all off and half-dropping, half-setting them on the deck. “Regulations stipulate a seventy-minute repressurisation-”

“Oh, now you care about regulations, that makes sense,” the Commander interrupted. “Relax, soldier. You’re not going to turn to salt. And if you do, I’ll use you to season my dinner. Your breach was unapproved, understaffed, poorly equipped and hit the wrong fucking Sanctuary. You’re lucky any of your team got out. I suspect you only got out because They let you, and that makes me very fucking nervous, and that makes me very fucking angry.”

“Commander,” Mørkht stammered, “I take full responsibility and will accept any charges of-”

No shit you will, you imbecile,” the Commander delivered his best parade-hall roar. The officer flinched. The Glyph in full fury was not something that happened every day, or even every year. And what the handbook called ‘discipline’, the Maj‘s crew called ‘competing to not be the one who made the Glyph mad the next time’. The handbook was actually punchier, the Commander conceded. “But in the meantime,” he went on, “since you are the luckiest idiot in the Maj, let’s see what you got.”

Junior breach officer Mørkht nodded, and hastily tapped on her arm to summon the float-crate. It hummed into the room, a glossy black case of petrified barrow wood etched with military-grade runes and reinforced with tarnished silver. Mørkht hesitated, cutting a swift and longing glance at her discarded gauntlets.

“Come on, soldier,” the Commander said. “Pick it up. It’s not going to hurt you now,” he waited until the young twit had reached into the box before judiciously adding, “unless you fucked up the transference the way you fucked up almost everything else, of course,” and was rewarded by a clatter and a terrified squeak as Mørkht fumbled the prisoner. Finally, though, she lifted it free.

It wasn’t much to look at, but he’d already seen from the report that the Goddess they’d captured hadn’t been much of a Goddess.

The expression was visible as a thread, like a single strand of hair, blazing white in the dirty amber core of the diabolised Bharriom prism. It was, he had to admit, a clean transference. Funny, how small and harmless They looked when rendered into a real-space function of null-energy. But then, it was fair to say most things did. At least this one could light up a small room.

There was no point letting Mørkht know that she’d done one thing right, of course. “I’ll take it down to the Bilge,” he said, “and think about how many different reports I feel like putting your name on,” he looked up from the crystal-bound expression. “You can make a start on minimising the number of reports I feel like putting your name on by going up to the Glassblower and unloading everything you saw and heard and thought about while you were inside that Sanctuary. Clear?” Still the officer hesitated. “Was there something else?”

“Only…” Mørkht reached into the box and pulled out a small carbon-lattice cage with a silver handle. Inside, something rattled angrily.

The Commander had heard about the additional … sample … the team had brought back, but hadn’t seen any images yet. He peered in through the lattice. “Ugly little critter, isn’t it?” he noted. “And it didn’t react to the transfer?”

“Just … kind of … jabbered and scratched the cage, Commander,” Mørkht hesitated. “She said its name was Chittle, Commander,” she added. The Commander raised his eyebrows, and she gestured at the gleaming prism on the desk. “The Goddess.”

“Chittle, huh?” the Commander looked at the little hunched creature in the cage. It was round, with a knobbly shell and a cluster of little feelers and claws surrounding a single angrily glaring eyeball. It was a hodgepodge, but it was viable. “So. They’re creating in there,” he tapped the cage with a fingernail, then snatched his hand back as the little creature screeched and jabbed at the mesh with several unpleasantly pointy … bits. “Well, for some definition of ‘creating’, anyway.”


He shook his head, and waved her to attention. He had a reputation to maintain, and Mørkht had fucked up phenomenally. The Glyph could not be lenient. One breakdown was all it would take. They’d been very lucky with this explosive abortion of a breach. “Dismissed, junior breach officer Mørkht.”

“Commander,” she said crisply, and hurried out. She stumbled in the doorway, turned and scurried back, and retrieved her helmet and gauntlets. “Sorry, Commander,” she muttered, and hurried out. She paused in the doorway, and looked back hesitantly. “Commander?”

What, junior breach officer Mørkht?”

Mørkht’s eyes were wide and frightened. “They were … beautiful, Commander.”

The Commander clenched his jaw. The Glyph could not be lenient. “That They were,” he said quietly. “Dismissed.”


He watched her go, then turned his attention back to the crystal-bound expression and the … Chittle … on his desk. The grotesque little creature had huddled up on one side of the cage, its eye gazing at the glowing white filament inside the Bharriom. It made a harsh yet somehow disconsolate little grinding noise with its mandibles.

The Glyph sighed heavily.

“That They were,” he murmured.

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Life on Mars

There will be other blog posts. There will be other events. There will be many, many days when I despair for the human race and wait for our inevitable demise.

But on Monday, there was this.

And that’s just plain cool.

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The Sad Case of Lauren Hough

I don’t want to make this comment into a whole post but this has turned into another really fascinating facet of online and modern human communication culture. Also, I got blocked on Twitter!

I get it, blocking is damage control for a person who is clearly still dealing with trauma and has found herself being (in my opinion unfairly) slammed in the court of public opinion. I didn’t stand up in support enough, and agreed with her critics, so by all means, block me.

What am I talking about?

An author, Lauren Hough, just had her first book published. By all (fair and unbiased) reports it is excellent, although maybe a little harrowing for my tastes. Her life has been extraordinary and challenging, from a cultist beginning through a lot of other ups and downs. The essays are a testament to her experience.

So then she stoned-tweeted a bunch of complaints about people giving her 4-star reviews because they’re shitty nerds. And to prove her wrong and put her in her place, a massive online dogpile of shitty nerds bombed her Goodreads page with 1-star and Do Not Read blacklist reviews, putting her Goodreads score in the toilet.

Full disclosure, I think 4 stars is good. And I told her so. This is probably what got me blocked.

Fun side-fact, there is a really interesting conversation going on about whether reviews are for other readers or for authors. Now naturally I think they can be both, but of course when I look at reviews of my own books I see them as a message to me. And when I write reviews, I often pitch them in the same way, as though I am sending a fan letter to the author. But obviously other readers should be an implied audience too.

Also full disclosure, the way she was treated was bullshit. But she was not tagged in this conversation so I get that it didn’t reach her. Which is a shame.

Not mad, just disappointed. I think everyone lost in this case.

Now, though, Hough has quintupled down and linked her treatment to rape culture by saying the victim-blaming tone of her critics is similar to those cases where people say “she wouldn’t have been raped if she’d worn different clothes.” Which, okay, I get the comparison. Women are still disproportionately bullied and mistreated online, as offline. It’s a fact. I’ve seen male authors who do dumb things get dogpiled too (Goodkind anyone?), but not on their first publication and their first day as an author. And not this cruelly.

I also get the anger and frustration she must be feeling, although I can’t know it first hand. Her railing against trigger- and content-warning tags, her objectively amusing response to a millennial telling her to “touch grass”[1], all of it is coming from a place of reflexive rage – but the online mob is not easily pointed in the direction of the Old Mill to go get some cider, if I may create a rather dated metaphor.

[1] This is another amazing one, by the way. It means “get offline, go outside, get some fresh air and a bit of perspective.” I was vaguely aware of it but I hadn’t really appreciated it before. This is human interaction in the digital age, exemplified.

Hough, from what I have read about her, has been controlled and mistreated a lot in her life, that’s what the essays are about. She will recognise more of the same when she sees it. She may recognise more of the same when it isn’t there, either, but I think in this case it was there.

Anyway, long story short, if you filter out the “she was obnoxious on twitter so I bombed this review” crap, you end up with … well, you end up with her Amazon rating, which is holding nicely at 4.5 stars. Which she would probably not be happy with, but should be. Goodreads is kind of bullshit for a few reasons, as much as I like the place for other reasons. Goodreads plus twitter is … not ideal.

Still, it’s been an interesting journey. I wish Hough well, it doesn’t look like she needs my support but that’s fine. A little more goodwill and a little less hate is healthy, I think. Like touching grass.

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Ulkomaansplaining: Sima

Sima, or mead, is a classic sweet drink brewed for the 1st of May around these parts. In Finland they call the day Vappu, and it’s a day of general merriment and drunkenness (I may have talked about it beforeseveral times). Sima, however, is not really alcoholic. It’s just very lightly fermented sugar water and it’s delicious.

Having just decided that it will be funny to explain Finnish stuff from the perspective of a know-it-all foreigner, and having come up with a perfect bilingual title for it, I figured where better to start than with sima? This way, you can all get your batch started in the next week or so, and we can share Vappu pictures on May 1st!

Of course, in the spirit of true mansplaining, ulkomaansplaining hinges on me not really being an expert, and getting all the information from a source from whom I steal the credit. Since this is meant to be funny instead of gittish, though, it will come as no surprise that this information comes from Mrs. Hatboy, who has adapted a classic recipe. While I generally make the sima each year, I do so with her express instructions.

I hear it’s also traditional to preface a recipe with a lot of pointless self-serving jabber like this.

You will need:

  • 4 liters water
  • 300 grams plain sugar
  • 300 grams brown sugar
  • A bit more plain sugar for luck
  • 1/4 packet of raisins
  • 2 lemons
  • 1/2 teaspoon of fresh yeast
  • A root of fresh ginger
  • A bunch of empty plastic bottles, screw-top coke bottles will do

Day 1

Step the first: Rinse the lemons and slice them thinly. Peel and slice the ginger even thinlier.

Step the second: Put the lemons, ginger and sugar into a big container (we make a double batch in a 10-litre bucket).

Step the third: Boil a bit of water and stir it into the bucket so the sugar all melts.

Step the fourth: Add the rest of the water, keeping an eye on the temperature. It should be 36°C. Either let it cool or add a bit of boiling water until you reach the right temperature. We use a baby bath thermometer.

Step the fifth: Take a bit of the warm water in a glass and mix in the yeast, then pour it in with the rest.

Step the sixth: Cover with cling wrap and leave in room temperature for a day.

Day 2

24 hours later, your brew should be a tad frothy and smell of … well, of yeast.

Step the seventh: Take your bottles and pour a spoonful of plain sugar (that’s additional sugar, yes) and a few raisins into each bottle.

Step the eighth: Strain the lemons and ginger from your liquid and ladle it into the bottles. Funnels are your friend.

Caution: Don’t fill the bottles all the way up, and use plastic bottles for safety. There have been stickysplosions.

Step the ninth: Put caps on the bottles and store them in the fridge.

4 or 5 days later, your sima is ready to drink. If it feels like the bottles are collecting too much pressure you can unscrew the caps a little now and then. When the sima goes psst and the raisins float to the surface like drowned students in a city fountain, you’re there.


Posted in Hatboy's Nuggets of Crispy-Fried Wisdom, The Chucky Report | Tagged , , , , | 3 Comments

Saying Things On The Internet

I don’t think I ever talked about this directly, or made a blog post about this specific case. I know I’ve talked with a few of you about it to varying degrees of depth. But anyway, there’s this YouTuber who makes enjoyable videos about movies, TV shows, and assorted pop culture phenomena. Her name is Lindsay Ellis.

Oh yeah, this is happening.

Okay, so fair to say, while I was slow to become a fan of Ellis’s work, I inevitably did. Because she makes extremely long videos about things that interest me. I am all about human communication, the stories we tell each other, and the way advancing societies and cultures and technology change those things. The internet and social media are the change happening to this century’s crop of human beings. And at their best (in my opinion), Ellis’s videos exemplify the phenomenon of communication, culture and (yeah I’m gonna say it) discourse for which I am specifically educated and professionally trained.

The internet, to me, is the proverbial river that provides. I sit here, I live my life, every now and then I go and check my nets and … the internet provides.

Anyway, my point is, she does good stuff. Is she a perfect being with timeless and universally celebrated opinions? Uh, no. No, she’s a human.

It doesn’t even matter what she said to make the infinite monkeys of Twitter angry. She compared a TV series and a movie. Nobody had ever done that before so it made perfect sense for this reaction to happen.

Now, I am not a tolerant hippie, nor am I a woke-scold. The whole line of attack and criticism seemed disingenuous to me. But I have been Saying Things On The Internet for a long time, and I’m always interested in seeing things like this go down. Because sooner or later, everyone says something that’s going to upset someone. And the more people listen to you, the more likely it becomes – and the more likely it becomes that “someone” is actually going to be hundreds, maybe thousands of people.

Ellis deleted her Twitter and vanished for a little while. I was worried she was going to stop making YouTube videos, but she was just taking a break and preparing this response. Which was just … excellent in every way.

So I’m not expecting you to sit and watch an hour and forty minutes of painstaking right-of-internet-reply. I listened to it, and half-watched, while doing a long copy-paste job on my work computer. But here it is, anyway.

Quite a few Hatstanders can, I think, have a laugh at her comment about how (statistically speaking) she’s been on the internet longer than her viewers. Prepare to have your statistics skewed by a bunch of greying internet dinosaurs, young lady! But anyway, fair to say she’s paid her dues. And then some.

In this video response, she covers so much ground. So many subjects I find interesting. And a lot of what defines us as a communicating species of aggressive, conditionally reasoning non-sentient primates.

And she drinks a significant fraction of a bottle of Writer’s Tears, in my opinion the best whiskey ever made. Yeah I said it, cancel me.

The internet loses its mind on a regular basis. It’s one of the most amusing and fascinating things about the internet. People get criticised, and dog-piled, and someone tuts about cancel culture gone mad, and then nothing happens really. It happens all the time and sometimes I even make posts about it. I’ve pulled up shit like this in my nets before, and I will again. Maybe one day I’ll have a following so huge, I’ll have to start watching what I say!

I will never apologise for this Bechdel joke, though.

I’m going to be proven right about the lava drinkers, too. Maybe not in 2025, but one day.

Ultimately, this isn’t about the left eating itself. It isn’t about woke mobs becoming worse than the oppressors and hatemongers. It’s about normal everyday dumb people wanting to be able to say “I’m one of the good ones, and I can prove it because this is happening to her, not me.” And if we’re going to have robust and informed (I’m saying it again!) discourse, we need to be able to stand up and say “this is where I draw the line.”

That’s it for now. It somehow got to be 14:00 and I don’t understand it. Weekend fast approaching. Have a good one.

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The Final Fall of Man: The 499-Minute Configuration Edition

In the 39th Century, great men and women of the human race strode among the stars. And the crew of the Astro Tramp 400 were also there.

Six untrained civilians. Two seasoned officers and two radically unspaceworthy scientists.

One mad alien inventor.

And six hundred and twenty-eight clone crewmen with severe intelligence-formatting errors.

Eejit is the first tale of The Final Fall of Man, a science-fiction story about – among other things – the human race and how we either won or lost it, depending on your point of view.

This special 499-Minute Configuration Edition of the book is a re-release of the original story, with some minor text errors fixed and a smooth silky new hardcover, for collectors who definitely exist and are real.

Eejit does not have any of the stuff I was talking about in my last post, since this whole thing was a beta trial by Amazon and I was not allowed to talk about it, and I just went with a simple setup. There is no reason the rest of the books in the series can’t have any or even all of the special edition extras discussed previously. Or something else entirely!

Drop a comment, let me know.

I’m very excited to finally see hardcovers available that really work. Okay, sure, they might not be quite as schmancy as the dust-jacketed cloth-bound fuckers I nearly made with whatever site it was, but those were way too complex. And these, I have to say, look great.

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