Carry me back, baby, where I come from.

Well yes, as Messers Page & Plant might say, 'It's been a long time' (See what I did there?)

But what's been a long time?

It's been a long time (been a long time, been a long, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time) since we've had a 'State of the Dandy Nation' speech.

So, what's happened in the last... Erm... four months maybe?

I'll start with the top ten posts ever. There are a few changes, certainly, but the most noticable thing is that there's a joint number one - Two posts have had exactly the same number of views as each other - Which is so unlikely that it's prompted me to have a go on the lottery this weekend.  (I'm not going to be giving it the whole Smashie & Nicey 'And straight in at number 10' business because I haven't been keeping track of the movement - Yes, this is bad, and I feel bad.)

-oOo-

10 - Our least best post, if that makes sense, is: And then I killed Bobby Davro - The story of a trip I took to one of our great country's theme parks.  Where there was screaming, rending, and the enforced fighting (probably to the death) between two innocent wild animals.

9 - A NSFW Tweet about a time in my life when I used to see live bands on a regular basis, this particular live band were pretty much all naked, and performed repeated coitus with a member of the crowd - \m/ Rockbitch are so NSFW that it's not even funny \m/

8 - Now, this one's deeply personal to me, which I why I shared it with a thousand people who I don't know on The Internet.  It's the story of my Father's death from Cancer.  It doesn't contain many belly laughs, but I've received a few messages to say it's helped people in similar situations, which is nice - Today, my Dad died

7 - You leave me bent and broken by the roadside - The story of the final days of the MK I Dandymobile. And it's repeated, abortive, trips to the car spares shop.

6 - This post is my finest moment, it is because of this that I realised that I'd become one of the true Twitterati, a God amongst men, a harvestman scything my way through a field, reeling in the sheaves of my devoted followers (Oh, and it also got re-tweeted by Rufus Hound and favourited by Al Murray, so I win the Internet, Ner!) - Pogonophilia is for everyone, even the young

5 - Oh blimey, more Death... I guess I'm just of that age where people I know are shuffling off this mortal coil with increasing regularity. - Sabian, the Token Yank - Describes my relationship with one of the nicest colonials anyone could ever possibly hope to meet, except you can't... Because, you know, he's no longer with us.  Holds the record for the most comments from people I don't strictly know, including his family.

4 - Learn to govern yourself, be gentle and patient - Is a 'Steampunked' description, of the workings of the very real Brookwood Cemetery, and British Funerary custom in the 19th Century (The title is a lyric from the glorious The Men That Will Not Be Blamed For Nothing's song 'Etiquette' - Which you should all rush off and listen to immediately.)

3 - I still don't get this one, - No, it is not a 'Slow News Day' - This particular post is very similar to this particular post... No, hang on, I mean that it's just the same as the post you're reading now.  It's a 'State of the Dandy Nation post' from September 2013.  You guys are seriously weird.

=1- The first of out two top posts, with more than a hundred more views than any other (Except the one below, obvs) is - You get me closer to God - Which is a no-holds-barred, blow-by-blow account of the events leading up to, and including, then entry of my Son, The MicroDandy, into the Kingdom of God via the medium of Baptism - If you're hugely fundamentalist, you might not want to read this, it does poke a little bit of fun at Mother Church, and the people who only go there once a year.

=1- The second of our first place entries is about Facebook, especially the people who blindly share sob-stories without checking their facts.  You know, those people who send you things with pictures of fly-covered children who will get a life-saving operation if the post gets 100,000 likes - There's one born every minute - Got a comment on this one from an irate, but anonymous American, which is worth a read on its own - He was very angry, I think he needs to eat less protein.

So, if you want a quick introduction to the sort of piffle I write, you could do worse than taking a look at those (Bear in mind that those are the best as voted for by you, the public, and you're notoriously fickle.)

-oOo-

We now come to the ever-popular 'What have people Googled to find the blog?' section... Depressingly, not as much as usual - I'm putting this down to more of my adoring fans bookmarking me, but popular search terms in the last quarter have included:

Dzit Dit Gaii - Which managed to find my post about Denver International Airport

Tiswas David McKellar - This pointed the seacher towards my review of the 40th anniversary party for TISWAS in Birmingham which I was honoured enough to attend.

-oOo-

As far as hits on the blog goes, in the previous quarter, we had 6,066, bringing our total up to 40,331 at the last count.

Which, as I'm not pretty, don't get my boobs out, don't advertise, don't provide a cogent service of any kind and am just really a fat, bald, bloke who's only just on the right side of 50, isn't that bad.

Nope, not bad at all.

I feel that your hat-band may be slightly too tight.

It can't have escaped your notice, especially if you've read this blog on anything even approaching a semi-regular basis, that I write.

So far, I've written six books, four of those are finished and three are published, you can buy them on Amazon with real money and everything.  You should definitely buy some or all of them, they'll make you laugh heartily, at me, probably even out loud.  But enough of this ceaseless advertising - To the point in hand.

I've just posted something on Facebook, in reply to something that someone else, who I don't really know, posted. It was about a situation that this chap had found himself in that had caused him some confusion and discomfort.  It seems that someone had told him what could and couldn't be described as 'Steampunk'

I'm guessing that you've encountered Steampunk, especially if you've been on the Internet some time in the past few years.  As far as I'm concerned, it's a genre that's based on a Victorian style world where technology has moved on, but the facial hair hasn't.  That didn't realy describe it very well, did it? It's stuff like this:

This is G.D. Falksen, the stern God of Steampunks

And this:

This is Kato, she's the beautiful Goddess (and Welsh, which is lovely, Bach)

Everyone travels by Jules Verne style airship:

Random airship via Google

And there are an awful lot of top hats, goggles, brown leather and cogs all over everything.  I dabble in steampunkery to an extent, there are a lot of airships in my next novel. The Heroine of The Windspider Chronicles wears a brown leather jacket, but she's a sky-pirate, so she's allowed to.  I know people who daily dress the part as a matter of course, and whilst I don't have the financial liquidity, technical skill or wardrobe capacity to be as splendid as they are, I wouldn't mind giving it a go.

So, going off topic slightly there, back to the subject... This fellow was told, by a couple of people who are supposedly 'in the know', that for a story to be 'Steampunk' it MUST contain some anti-establishment social commentary.

MUST?

I MUST include a chinless toff called Rupert who carries his Father's sword but has no idea how to swing it because the upper classes are all useless, spineless weaklings who are only fit to act as a transport system for excess moustache wax?

I MUST include a salt-of-the-earth engineering type whose parents only met that one time; but saves the day when the main gas-bag is holed by a lucky shot from a genetically-engineered hedgehog with a steam-powered rocket launcher?

I MUST include a simpering female of some sort who rails against the gender role that her father gave her but still couldn't pass the Bechdel test with a following wind and a team of Sherpas?

I'll be buggered sideways by a rabid Dutchman before I'll sit there and be told what MUST be included in a story to make it true to the genre.

I'll write what I want, thank you very much.  It'll be written with a sense of humour and it'll be original (Well, all the bits that I've not unthinkingly plagiurised will be at least).  More importantly, the stuff you write should be attacked in exactly the same way.  Write something you'd like to read; if you think it needs more cogs, sprinkle a few liberally about the place.  If you can see brown leather as far as the eye can see, then clad everything in your imagination with coffee-coloured-cowskin.

You want erotica? Write some erotica.  You want procedural piracy? Then put on your descriptive tricorn hat and have at it.

But most of all have fun, if you enjoy writing it, then there's a damn good chance someone else out there is going to enjoy reading it.

And who knows, they might even pay you for the privilege - Which is always a good thing.

You like it when I do what?

Well, it's that time again.

When I tell you what's going on in the the world of The Chimping Dandy, where reality is flexible and the Pangolins are all orange, with strangely attractive eyelashes.

Before we get to the current top-ten, which is where you all knew that this was going, I thought I'd throw a few ideas out there.

Hopefully, you will have read yesterday's post about fish... This was sparked from a real request, from a real reader of the Blog.  This is something I wholeheartedly condone, I'll admit that there are some very infrequent times when I find it difficult to think of new stuff to bore you with.  Your suggestions would be most welcome - I'll chatter on for hours about any old stuff most of the time, I don't see why I shouldn't occasionally make it something that someone actually finds interesting.  I can't guarantee how accurate any information that I present will be, but I will try to make it entertaining and possibly blasphemous.  You never know, we might all learn something.

My other idea was that maybe you'd like to contribute in other ways... I mean, obviously money and cake would be my personal favourites, but I don't see why I should have all the fun, perhaps instead of suggesting a theme, you could supply a whole entry yourselves.  We're currently on the cusp of 20,000 pageviews... Why not make it one of your ideas that tips us all collectively over the edge?

-oOo-

I couldn't really do any kind of State of the Dandy Nation entry without mentioning (and by mentioning I mean ruthlessly pimping, obviously) the new book.

If you have a Kindle, or the Kindle app for your smartphone or tablet or PC then you can, for £2.07, $3.15, 2.60 Euros, 311 Yen or, for some bizarre reason, $40.93 Mexican Dollars, depending where you are in this sad old world of ours, buy a copy of the book.

Buy me from Amazon you buggers!

You can go straight to the Amazon entry by clicking on the link just below the picture, should you wish to.  It's 407 pages long, and would keep you company on even the longest journey, unless you're driving of course, then it will keep you company straight to the grave.

I'm still deciding whether to actually make it into a real book, with paper and ink that goes all over your fingers - Let me know if you have an opinion one way or the other - Obviously, the price would be higher, but if you buy a copy and send it to me, I'll sign it and write something personally prurient or pejorative in it for you as a special treat.

-oOo-

So, to the charts, and it's all topsy-turvey today, there've been 'developments'

The number 10 spot is now inhabited by: Barnaby Wilde (Pt. 1) - The first of my motorcycling memoirs. It contains the story of the first time I rode a trike, the first time I got painfully electrocuted by a trike and the first time I did a Jayne Torville impression... On a trike.

At number 9 is a serious post: One more rusty nail - My thoughts on the brutal murder of Drummer Lee Rigby and how the words 'Muslim' or 'Organised Terrorism' don't mean the same as the word 'Mental'

Number 8 sees perennial favourite: Thermodynamics, it's the law! - Slowly slipping out of the charts and falling into obscurity.  It's a shame really, this is one of my personal favourites.  It's about a pigeon, and my Father, and a tortured soul that stalks the netherworld like a wilted stick of celery at the bottom of a forgotten refridgerator.

Another one of my family is laid open to the world at number 7: It was a bright, cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen - This time it's my Brother's turn, this was a story from the time before he lived in a hollowed out volcano in the Mediterranean, before he had even left our family seat in fact.

Number 6 is a new entry: If you don't like, what you're seeing, get the funk out... -  This is sort of a review I suppose, of the BSH Extreme Motorcycle Show.  There are many pictures of customised motorcycles, and woeful cries about the ungratefulness of youth. 

Moving down a few places to number 5 is: Priorities - Another serious post, about a serious subject.  It describes the feelings that I experienced when my Father finally told me that he had inoperable cancer.

Now we're into what I like to call the MegaPosts, I consider anything that's had more than 400 views a success, although that's small-fry for a lot of bloggers, I'm still quite impressed that more than 400 people in the world would want to listen to me.

Number 4 is another new entry: Learn to govern yourself, be gentle and patient - Is about a huge number of things.  It's about BBC Radio 4, a virtual museum, a transvestite comedian, Neil Gaiman's wife, The London Necropolis Railway and the Steampunk band The Men That Will Not Be Blamed For Nothing - It's a good read, there are pictures, including one of a Dalek - And if you try hard enough, you might just learn some history.

Another old favourite sits like a brass Buddah at number 3: Pogonophillia is for everyone, even the young - This post explains my deeply held belief (And it's not just me, huge numbers of people have agreed, even some famous ones) that men who wear beards are the Zenith of human evolution.

Probably one of the saddest posts that I've ever written at number 2, certainly if you take into account the number of readers that it personally effected: Sabian, The Token Yank - Is a celebration of the life of an old friend of mine, taken from the world too soon, and the friends and family that he left behind.  It was an honour to be able to write it.

And finally, I still have absolutely no idea why this particular post still sits proudly at number 1 like a chrome-plated gorilla on a pile of champagne barrels: No, it is not a 'Slow News Day' is a post exactly like this one, it's a Top-Ten from the beginning of September and I cannot for the life of me think why it's so popular, especially with my Russian readers - Please let me know, it can't just be that it has a metatag that reads 'Penis-pump' surely? - Or is it that I accuse Tim Berners-Lee of being a pathological masturbator?

-oOo-

Well, that's the top-ten for another month.

Think about what I said, buy the book then review it, pimp it to your friends, send me a question, a suggestion for a subject or a fully fledged Blog post or whatever.

Let me know your thoughts on where you want The Chimping Dandy to go.  I can't promise anything other than I'll consider it - the odder the better.

Take care gentle readers.

See you soon (especially if you go to bed and leave your back door unlocked)

The sins of the Father

Well, my 99th Blog post (for The Chimping Dandy at least, regular readers will know of my repeated forays into flash fiction, sponsored, fumigated, canned and sold by the very worth James Josiah) and it's yet another trip into the Steampunkery fuelled world of the LadyDorleith Ahralia, countess of Minidandia and her band of ramshackle corsairs aboard the airship Edward Teach, scourge of the skies, killer of spiders and lover of shoes.

If you'd like a little background, or just want to read the previous five episodes, you can read them here, here, here, here and here - That's hopefully the right order. They feature at least three terribly real people and a selection of ugly puns, thinly veiled references and shamelessly stolen ideas and tropes from popular fiction.

-oOo-

'Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert!' Yelled Frobisher, the lights in his face flashing from an angry red to a vile supporating yellow, 'Unexpected lifesign detected in engineering! Intruder Alert!'

The captain jumped from her bunk, still groggy from the celebration after the successful rescue of Dorys, and her own return from an implied watery grave, 'Shut that damn alarm off you bag of rusty cogs! Security team to engineering deck, immobilize the intruder, whatever it is I want it alive!'

She pulled on her jodhpurs and kneeboots, rescued the crumpled linen shirt from the floor, buttoned it up and suddenly noticed the touselled hair of Torville poking out from under the covers. The sound of his gentle snoring now obvious as the alarm had been silenced.

'Bugger!' She said, slowly lifting the covers and confirming that he was, in fact, naked, 'And double bugger!' She looked for slightly longer at the taut muscles on his back than was strictly necessary, then sighed and exited to the bridge.

The crew of the morning watch turned and saluted, 'Captain on the Bridge!' a crewman whose name she couldn't remember at the best of times yelled. The noise made her wince more than the alarm had, but she resisted the temptation to raise her finger to her lips and shush him.

'Why is there an intruder on my boat?' She asked the assembled throng as she sank into the command chair, 'Anyone?' A sea of blank faces was her only reply. She thumbed the Intercomm, 'Security team, have you found it - whatever it is?'

'Baju-merah here Ma'am, engineering's clear, no-one here who shouldn't be here. We've checked everywhere!'

Frobisher chose that moment to voice yet another alarm, 'Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert! Unexpected lifesign detected in the Forward avionics cabin!'

'What?' exclaimed the Captain, 'That's at the other end of the... How? Frobisher, check the logs, was the intruder detected anywhere between Engineering and Avionics?'

'No Ma'am, the signal disappeared from Engineering and simply re-appeared in Avionics.' The emotionless brass face still managed to radiate an air of abject confusion.

'Mr Baju-merah, report to Avionics, bring our unexpected guest to me now! Frobisher, perform a diagnostic on the internal scanners, if you've woke me up because you've gone defective I'll have When reprogram you, overarm, with his chainsword.'

The pattern of lights on Frobisher's face skittered as he performed the self diagnostic, 'All sensors performing within prescribed parameters, zero defects found, my assumption is that my log entries are correct.'

'Then how the hell is something jumping from one end of this boat to the other without passing though all the points inbetween?'

'I have no...'

'Rhetorical!' Shouted the Captain, 'Look it up.'

'I am fully aware of...'

'Ma'am, this is Baju-Merah. Avionics is clear, in fact, I don't think there's actually enough space in here for anything larger than a chicken.'

'Frobisher, is our intruder larger than a chicken?'

'Yes Ma'am, scans indicate that it is of standard dimensions for a humanoid male. And he is also no longer in Avionics.'

'Has he re-appeared somewhere else? The galley? Up on deck? In one of the Gasbags perhaps?'

'No Ma'am.'

'No, he hasn't re-appeared or No, he's not in the Gasbags?'

He has re-appeared, but it is in none of the areas that you suggested.'

'So, where is he pray tell?'

'In your quarters.'

She turned, along with the entire bridge crew, to face the door to her quarters. Activating the Intercomm she whispered, 'Mr Baju-Merah, to the Bridge, as quick as you like.'

It only took the security team minutes to get to the Bridge, but in that time the Captain had armed herself with a compression pistol and a longknife. and was stood by the door.

'I'll go in first, you take up covering positions, stand close so the door doesn't close.'

'Ma'am, may I suggest that I...'

'Mr Baju-Merah, I appreciate your concern, but the interloper hasn't shown any degree of hostility as yet. If anything, his antics seem to be designed to confuse us - He could have simply appeared behind any member of the crew and shot them in the back of the head if he'd wanted to.'

She took a deep breath and stepped through the door as it opened. The second her heel cleared the frame, it slammed shut at ten times its normal speed and locked. She spun and banged futilely on the door, then turned back to scan the room, her eyes slowly getting used to the gloom. The automatic lights had failed to turn on and even Frobisher's head was dark and silent.

'Torville!' She called, looking towards her bunk, 'Frobisher!' There was no reply from either of them. She felt her way forward, holding the pistol out in front of her. 'Where are you? Damn your Argh!' She rubbed her shin where it had rapped off one of the ornate castings on her iron bunk.

'Allow me,' Said a mellow voice from the far corner of the room, 'Lights!'

Instantly, the wall lights came back on. The Captain blinked, and turned towards the voice.

'You!' She raised the pistol and pointed it the wiry man sat in her easy chair, 'What are you doing on my ship?'

'At your service Captain,' Criven Preen raised himself from the chair, removed his hat and bowed deeply, 'I apologise for the dramatic means of my entrance, old habits die hard.'

'I'll say it again, only more forcefully... WHAT are YOU doing on MY ship!'

'There's no need for unpleasantness my Lady, nor should we have to worry about unfortunate accidents,' He waved his long fingers and the compression pistol slowly faded out of existence.

'Whu?' She looked down, the dull tingle in her fingers the only evidence that the gun had ever existed at all, 'How did you..?'

'A simple parlour trick, the weapon is back in its rightful place, in the arms locker, on the bridge... Your, ah, friend is also back in his rightful place, asleep, in his cabin. I took the liberty of removing the last twelve hours from his memory, saves any later discontent in the ranks.'

'What do you want?'

'Want? I want to deliver my message and go home, these things worry me,' He indicated the ship around him, 'If the Gods had meant us to fly, they would have given us gasbags.'

'Message? What message? Who is it from?'

'My Lady Dorleith Ahralia, Countess of Minidandia, In Nominate Ruler of the Open Lands, High Voort of the Shattered Spire and Keykeeper of the Pewter Army - I bring greetings from your Illustrious Father, Massimo Lohlephel, Baron of...'

'My Father? My Father fell at the Battle of Tromega, I saw his ship explode! He's dead!'

'Not... anymore...'

Les Invalides (Pt1)

Today's (and Tomorrow's) Blog are a request from a lady who isn't feeling very well - And has chemically induced dreams about me.  It's a welcome return for the crew of the Edward Teach

-oOo-

The flight back from Chandra Isle to Long-Pig station had been suprisingly quiet, they'd had to avoid some company interceptors that had been sent to investigate the explosion, but it seemed that the base had either not had time to get off an alarm, or had not wanted to for some reason.

The Intercomm buzzed,

'Captain, this is Torville, Dorys' bed hasn't been slept in.'

Dorys was one of her finest marauders, she hadn't had time to do a headcount in the drop-pod when they had bounced back to the ship as the base was exploding.

'Are you sure she's not just gone landside?'

'No, no-one can remember seeing her since we made way.'

'Right, get the crew back aboard, we're going after her!'

'But Ma'am?'

'Now, Mr Torville!'

'Ma'am...'

'What!'

'It's Dr When's birthday, he'll be celebrating.'

The Captain disconnected the Intercomm and performed a sliding face-palm, her first officer was known for his somewhat salacious personal life, finding him on Long-Pig was bad enough normally, but the chances were - he wouldn't want to be found.

'Frobisher?' She called, addressing the brass head in the corner of the room,

'Aye Ma'am?'

'Is When's locator functioning?'

'No Ma'am, it appears to be disconnected.'

'You mean turned off?'

Frobisher's immovable features still managed to look slightly embarrased.

'I don't suppose we can use the station's security cameras to locate the good Doctor can we?'

'I will try to connect.' The lights on his face cycled through the colours of the rainbow and settled on red, 'I'm afraid the security systems are significantly tighter than the last time.'

'Remind me why you're still connected Frobisher?'

'Ma'am, it's because the output from the old fusion engines that you insist on using fluctuates so rapidly that without me to correct the baffles, you would all die in a massive thermonuclear event.'

He was right, the engines were rated for a much smaller boat, that's why they had twice as many, but they were the only brass ones she could find, and they were beautifully engraved.

'I'm going landside,' She announced to the bridge-crew, 'If When comes aboard whilst I'm away, contact me immediately.'

The cries of 'Aye Ma'am!' were still ringing through the walkway as she reached the external door. Pressing the opening stud caused an alarm to sound and a recorded warning message to be played in Frobisher's voice,

'Danger, docking arm is currently located on the port side of the ship, attempting to open this door could cause personal injury or painful death. To reach the port docking area, please follow corridor A-24 to...'

'Over-ride.'

'Warning, over-riding thi....'

'OVER! RIDE!'

'Acknowledged, opening starboard doors.'

The cargo doors opened with a squeal of protesting metal, she would skin the maintenance team alive when she got back aboard. She took a step back, breathed in deeply, and jumped through the still opening doors.

'Geronimo!'

The ground was around two hundred feet below her, giving her about six seconds before she became an unpleasant greasy stain on the floor. She continued to fall in a graceful swandive until there was less than fifty feet between her and a sudden stop, she grabbed hold of the steel hawser that connected the Edward Teach to the ground and engaged the grip function of her power-gloves. As he slowed, she could see the upturned faces of the roustabouts below her. At ten feet, she disengaged the gloves, backflipped off the rope and landed, like a cat, on the deck.

She turned to the assembled men, gently blew the smoke from her palms and said,

'What? Have none of you swabs ever seen a lady get off a boat before?'

'Y... Y... You jumped!', said one of the dockworkers, a solid lump of off-green muscle. He pointed upwards, 'From up there!'

'Yes, yes I sort of did, didn't I? Anyway, have you seen my 1st Officer? Solid looking fellow, hair in a ponytail? Centauri accent?'

The assembled throng slowly shook their heads, or whetever they chose to keep their primary sensory organs in.

'He's in the Queen and Scorpion,' Said a tired voice from above, 'Behind the Governors building, follow the stream of tuppenny doxys, you can't miss it.'

'Thank you, Mr....?'

The wiry man perched on top of the tall pile of packing cases regarded her closely from under the brim of his hat , and replied,

'Preen, Criven Preen.'

'Thank you Mr Preen, a credit for your trouble.' She tossed a ten credit piece up towards him, he raised his hand, the coin stopped dead in the air and fell to the ground.

'No thanks required... Ma'am,' He pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes and his posture made it clear that that was the end of the conversation. She gave him one last look, sighed, and set off for the bar.

Preen was right, it was easy to find, there was an almost constant stream of 'ladies of negotiable virtue' flowing in both directions, both towards and away from the establishment. The latter looking significantly more flushed than the former, although they also looked to have fuller purses.

Arriving at the main doors, a quick glance towards the sign above her confirmed the building's identity. It portrayed a buxom female wearing a tiara, presumably the titular queen, her armoured suit mostly torn away apart from a few choice pieces that protected her modesty. She was standing on top of a construct in the shape of a scorpion, whilst tearing one of its legs off with her teeth - A nod to some half remembered skirmish with the Spiders perhaps?

'Where you go?' A grey reptilian paw grabbed her shoulder.

She slowly looked up, and then looked up some more, and saw a face that could only be described as belonging to a lightly furred T-Rex with rotten teeth and a single, long eyebrow.

She pointed around him, as well as she could, 'In there?'

'Nope, men only, no little girl allow in there, you be in big trouble.'

The Captain, shuddering, plunged her hand into the Doorman's cloaca and squeezed. The reptile dropped to his knees and he started to cry, 'You go... go inside... no charge... please... let go... Try the... Veal... come... back soon...' She left the giant reptile rolling around on the floor and walked into the gloom.

'When!'

'I got your When right here Bayb*urgh*' The stool caught the pruriant patron under the chin.

'When! Where are you, you stinking pile of kraken guts?'

'In there...' replied a familiar voice, 'Through the door marked Whore-Pits.'

'It seems that I owe you thanks again Mr Preen.'

With a deep bow, he disappeared back into the shadows. She turned towards the door, took another deep breath and turned the handle.

Even though she'd known When for many years, the sight of him naked, apart from some welding goggles and an odd pair of suspender socks, surrounded by over twenty women, in various states of undress, whilst what looked like a cross between a marmoset and a bagel played the harmonica in the corner was too much.

She unholstered her Sutter and Aitchinson Compression pistol and shot out the lights one by one.

The dischordant music stopped instantly and When turned towards the source of his interrupted reverie.

'Who the... Ah, Captain, I...' He tried to cover his shame with a sadly undersized one hundred credit note.

'Find your drawers, pay anyone who needs paying and get back to the ship, we've got a rescue to organise!'

Title *redacted* for security reasons

So, a quick one today on a subject dear to my heart, and one I find myself infinately qualified to talk about...

Yes, you've got it...

Fashion.

What? stop laughing at the back... I'll have you know that I'm very fashionable, perhaps not in the sense of 'current' or 'accepted' fashion, but I'm a dapper Dandy when you get me down to my nitty-gritties, (as more than a few people have).

My specific gripe (today) is the bastardisation of things that are inherently cool by big business, purely to make money out of the ill-educated herd. You've all seen the Christian Audigier clothes branded with the 'Ed Hardy' and 'Von Dutch' logos right? Generally worn by the sort of people you would actively cross the road to avoid, I think I might have labelled them as  Gits in a previous post a description I wholeheartedly stand by.

If there wasn't the danger of the person turing out to be a confirmed multiple stabbist, I would go up to people wearing an Ed Hardy T-shirt and ask probing questions like:

Who is Ed Hardy? (He's a retired tattoo artist from California, Taught by Sailor Jerry)

What was his first name? (Don)

Why are you wearing a shirt with a person's name on that you don't know? (Because I'm a member of the herd and a guy on Jersey Shore told me to)

If they could answer any of those questions I would give them a shiny five pound note. The likelyhood is of course that they will look at me askance and drool slightly out of the corner of their mouths.

Thinking about it, Von Dutch is even worse, the guy was a genius, Kenny Howard (Von Dutch's real name) was a Bike-Builder and painter from the '50's, he's acknowledged as one of the fathers of Kustom Kulture, along with people like Big Daddy Roth and he finally joined that hallowed rank of people who have drank themselves to death - And a more typical Rock-and-Roll exit would be difficult to orchestrate (Unless it involved a Hot-Rod, painted like a flaming devil's phallus, being driven off the rim of a volcano, into the lava, playing Little Richard songs, but exploding before it hit in a quiff shaped explosion that smelled of brylcreme)

There are people out there of course, who wear Von Dutch gear completely non-ironically, but they are the people who drive restored Chevy Stepsides and attend Rock 'n' Roll weekenders all over the country. These people are great, you should buy these people beer and/or ice-cream whenever you see them. (I am not one of these people before you ask, my involvement in this scene is restricted to respecting the work done by Betty Page, but most of them are pretty Gorram cool)

The reason this particular subject came to mind is that Steampunk has been identified as the next mainstream style 'trend' - OK, it's going to be watered down, as these things tend to be. I don't think we're going to see people wandering around in brown leather top hats with goggles permanently attached to them, or Dorothy Perkins selling Victorian style ray-guns in their accessories department. But I do sense a definate increase in things with cogs on them (because when you get down to it, that's what people who've heard about Steampunk, but don't know about Steampunk, think Steampunk is).

I'm not afraid to admit that like things a bit Steampunked-up, I'm a dyed in the wool anachronist when it comes down to it. But the first time I see someone on TOWIE wearing a brown leatherette corset, adorned with an ammunition bandolier and a scattering of diamante cogs, I will go to my hand-made, Ugandan Teak carcased, purple velvet lined, gun cupboard, take out my brass trimmed Fortune & Sanderson Discomnervulator 5000 and go on the rampage.

I truly will - And no-one without a handlebar moustache, impressive decolletage or pith-helmet, worn unironically, will survive.

Piracy on the High Winds

'Frobisher!'

'Ma'am?'

'Which hat? The flying helmet?' She tugged on a shiny leather and brass B6 of uncertain vintage, squinted into the mirror , and removed it, 'or.. The riding hat?' she picked up a miniature top hat, decorated with lace and black roses from the table, and perched it on her head at a jaunty angle.

'I'm... Sorry... I...'

She sighed, sometimes being the corsair captain of your own fighting airship didn't leave time for the finer things in life.

'Access weather control and see what they have planned for all points between our current position and the Straits of Madripoor.'

'Working...' The lights on Frobisher's brass face dimmed slightly as he rerouted power to establish a secure, untraceable, link with The Great Cloud, 'Winds light to moderate from the South West, point seven percent chance of tropical rain, dependant on local humidity, light cloud cover beginning at nine thousand feet, temperature ranging fr....'

'Enough! Riding hat it is! Have the detailed report for the area around Chandra Island fed to my screen on the bridge, after that, put in a request to maintenance and get your contacts cleaned, you're starting to clack.'

'Ma'am.' The construct replied.

The captain fixed the hat to her elegantly coiffed hair with a selection of ornate pins, and strode from her quarters directly onto the bridge. The crew stiffened as she entered, suddenly taking a much deeper professional interest in their respective screens and readouts.

'Dr. When?' she called.

'Aye Ma'am?' He replied, the creaking of her first officer's aged leather overcoat not quite managing to mask the twang of his strange, half Cornish, half Centauri accent.

'Set a course for Chandra Island, Eastern Madripoor, best speed but keep us below detection altitude,' She sank into the command chair and started to digest the information displayed on her screen, 'Notify me at fifty miles.'

'Aye... Alright you dogs, you heard the captain, rig the gasbag for best stealth speed, ramp up the fusion engines, seal all external hatches and report when ready!'

The deck shook as the engineers stoked the huge nuclear engines into life, and the captain could feel the vibration in her bones. She closed her eyes and listened to the creak of the connecting chains tightening around the bags of gas above her. One by one the tell-tales on her panel turned from red to green. As the last one lit, she looked towards Dr. When.

'Stations reporting ready Ma'am, we move on your word.'

'Take us out nice and easy Dr. no showboating this time, Another punctured bag and I'll take it out of your share.'

'All jets ahead one quarter, when we see clear sky take her up to two thousand feet and engage fusion drive.' When turned to the captain, grinned and bowed, 'All hands - prepare for acceleration in ten! Hold on to anything you don't want to be looking for in the stern later!'

The shock of the nuclear reaction always caught her by suprise, its limitless acceleration took them from twenty-five to four hundred miles per hour in an instant. There was a cacophonous noise that rang through the ship, followed by gurgling screams.

'100 credits says cook forgot to secure his pans again?' When commented, hanging on to the guardrail behind the helm.

'200 says it was the kniferack,' The Captain replied, thumbing the switch for the shipboard intercomm, 'Medical team to The Galley on the double, patch up the cook and check the Galley for damage - He does a day in irons for every smashed pot.'

The ship settled into its cruising configuration as the gasbags finally caught up with the main hull, she was a beautiful ship, her hull built to resemble an early 18th Century Barque, the sails replaced by the voluminous gas-bag and the bowsprit replaced by a bronze and copper Ion Cannon, nicknamed 'Daisy' by the crew. She was, rather confusingly, named the Edward Teach, for reasons best known to her Captain.

'Captain!' Barked the Sensor Chief, 'We have a contact, bearing 076 degrees, speed 300, distance 20 miles, closing fast.'

'Identify!'

'Looks to be mechanised, showing no lifesigns, minimal biological mass, but plenty of movement. Wait! We're being scanned!'

'Dr When, secure us from best speed, bring Daisy to bear and fire as she rolls.'

'Aye Ma'am!' The Doctor pushed the Helmsman from his seat and took the controls himself, he locked off the engines and threw the ship into a tight turn. The hull slewed viciously under the gas-bag as the chains tried to compensate for the rapid change of vector. The Captain peered through the viewscreen as their foe came into view.

'Spiders!' She called, 'Blow them out of my Sky When!'

The Captain had tangled with the Spiders before, they were a completely mechanical life-form, developed by the military for jungle and urban warfare. Of course, as is the way of such things, they had become too good at their job, finally turning against their controllers and setting off on their own journey, attacking cargo ships and corporate supply ballons, stripping them of their power sources and taking scalps as trophies.

Daisy barked, a glittering beam of blue energy shot from the prow of the ship and hit the Spiders' vehicle amidships, deactivated spiders fell to the ground like metal snow, but the main body was still aloft.

'Hit them again!'

'Recharging!'

'They're closing!'

'Nearly there!'

'Doctor, now would be a good time!'

'Firing!'

The Spiders' were almost within boarding range as the next blast hit them. The remaining Spiders bounced of the side of the hull and fell the two thousand feet to the ground. There was a moment of furious action as everyone checked that there was no damage to the ship.

'Resume course and speed,' Ordered the Captain, finally breathing out.

The rest of the voyage went without incident, and the crew was just settling back into their normal routine when the fifty mile alarm sounded.

'All stop!' Called When.

'Take us up to fifteen thousand feet and continue on jets only.'

The sudden silence as the fusion drive was taken offline was almost deafening, the ship slowly began to rise as air from the still hot exhausts was fed into the bags to supplement the already buoyant Tritium gas. They broke through the cloud layer and started towards the island. The Captain beckoned When towards her.

'Once we are directly over the island we will be storming the base using two drop-pods, pick a team of seven and take one, I'll do the same with the other.'

'Base? What're we after?'

'Whatever we can get our hands on, as usual.'

When grinned, grabbed his chainsword and hit the intercomm,

'Khan, Russ, Guilliman, Jonson, Curze, Corax and Vulkan - Report to the podroom, we drop in 60.'

As her pod fell, the Captain looked at her assembled team, she saw in the eyes of her crewmen the glint of impending action, the lust for new booty...

'Landfall in five... Four... Three...'

The landing rockets fired, almost doubling everyone's apparent weight and the Captain instantly regretted putting on her corset and kneeboots before boarding the pod. The doors fell open as soon as they touched down and the crew jumped out of both pods, screaming like banshees. A wave of constructguards poured from the main door of the building and ran into When's whining chainsword, cogs, gears and oil sprayed in all directions, covering the ground like glistening brass snow. Their cries of 'Invaders must die!' silenced by the churning teeth.

'We bounce in ten minutes, take what you can!' Yelled the Captain, 'Split up, we'll cover more ground!'

As the flow of guards died down, her crew entered the base and scattered in all directions. She made her way through strangely quiet corridors towards the base commander's office. The trip took minutes longer than she expected and when she arrived at the door, she was faced with an ornate lock of an unknown type.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the small glowing sphere that had cost her a month's share from the Dentrassi trader at Long-Pig station. He'd said that it was guaranteed to undo any lock that could be undone, although he did look like the sort from whom it might be difficult to extract a refund.

The Captain did not care, after a few seconds of melodius humming, the door clicked open. As she entered the office, she noticed how tidy it was - She realised she was in the right place and searched the walls for an entrance into the commander's private quarters.

'Where are you? Where are you?'

'Where is who?' Commented a voice from the doorway.

The Captain froze, turning away from the slowly opening cupboard that she had found. She was confronted by perhaps the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, long, red hair, delicately chiseled features, a classically proportioned body and a flowing, black, spidersilk dress. She stood, brushed herself down, cleared her throat and asked,

'And you are?'

'I am Belinda Von Messier, I command this base, who are you and why are you in my office?'

'Well, I am Dorleith Ahralia, countess of Minidandia, Corsair, Pirate and occasional rabble-rouser, I have come to relieve you of your wardrobe.'

'My?...'

Her sentence was cut short by the timely arrival of the Doctor, his repeating siege bolt gun and two explosive shells to the head.

'We need to leave now Captain!'

'But...'

'No, now, one of the men thinks that he might have accidentally triggered some sort of self destruct mechanism, it said 120 when I left, but it was counting down. Grab what you came for, we have to leave.'

The Captain looked across to the now, fully open, open cupboard and saw:

'Shoes!'

'We're leaving!'

'But... Shoes!'

When picked her up by the waist, threw her over his shoulder and ran. The sound of huge explosions getting closer and closer. By the time they reached the exit, the wall of flame was right behind them and he could feel his ponytail starting to shrivel. He thew himself into the pod and hit the launch button. He was deafened by the roar, but not before he heard the Captain say.

'Shoes... Lovely Shoes... All gone!'


OK, much like the story about my son knocking the head off the snowman - My daughter went into Town yesterday and saw some nice boots, which she couldn't afford, only I, like, sexed it up a bit.