Thursday, 29 September 2011


Someone is sweating over money inside a cathedral.
As one perspires, purse spires inspire the supernatural manifestation of a pun made literal.
A moneybag with bags of room for a steeple to protrude;
Vast, phallic and symbolically rude,
In the past, one’s imagination had been quite crude.
So how did this surreal monstrosity suddenly intrude with the fused elements of reality with which it was imbued?

One counts the days, for there are only seven,
But then again—now, there are eleven!
In a place of God, you appeal to heaven.
Only to find perfume in a monstrous bottle before you—truly heaven scent.
If you repent, you think, the strange happenings might relent.
You regret your wasteful ways, the money squandered and time misspent.
As Daliesque melting clocks ooze from every single vent.
‘Only time will tell,’ says a clock face, as human as it is horological.

Your heart is racing on a track formed out of pews,
With various other human organs, this is too much!
You vent your spleen; literally, smothering melting clocks that make you turn green.
As a colour and quite a pleasant hue,
You feel like a shady character and wonder what to do.
Abruptly, a corrupt umbrella salesman pushes his rain-protective wares on you.
Fair weather friends assemble in an insincerely sympathetic horde.

Despite your rising terror, you try hard to look bored,
Drills give thrills to spectating sadists as they penetrate your pores,
Bleeding and screaming, painfully aware of your flaws,
You empathise with victims and casualties of wars.
At this stage, in agony and rage, you visualise theatres of war,
Operating theatres where surgeons butcher Shakespeare.
It occurs to you that King Lear might appear,
Well more Fool you.

Scenarios unfold, plays play out with tales untold,
That transform themselves into silk that, once, you spun, now hold.
You follow the thread with fascination and dread,
The taste of cotton in your mouth is seen by material witnesses—
Crumpled individuals publicly washing their dirty linen,
Coming clean, expressing outrage over the obscene,
An odd scene develops involving money laundering,
As gangsters compete with hypocrites in the immorality stakes.

Tuesday, 27 September 2011


The phenomenal new album

I. D. Mur, music critic for Narolc’s World, writes:

‘Sea Shanties Vol. 19’ is the new album from old salt, Scabies Hurst. It contains twelve new songs including ‘A Mermaid Was My Muse’, ‘Chasing The Horizon’ and ‘Shipwrecked in Hull.’

Scabies lifelong experience of sailing the seven seas stands him in good stead, providing the material for his latest collection of songs. His distinctive style of warbling (Scabies pioneered the ‘gargling’ technique with which he became synonymous) coupled with a lyrical inventiveness associated more with his hardcore musical contemporaries, ensures this selection of modern-day sea shanties satisfies the listener with a pleasant experience.

Scabies, who was born off the Norwegian coast in the 1950s, was descended from a maritime background. He claims his great-great-grandfather was Lord Nelson’s glove maker (once). His profound fondness for the ocean, as reflected in his music, has, he says, kept him afloat throughout difficult times. In 1998, Scabies lost his fourth wife, Agnetha, on a shopping trip in Croydon. Scabies’ reaction to the tragedy was to vow never to set foot on dry land again. True to his word, he walks on rain-soaked pavements only and carries a bucket of water everywhere he goes to wet the surfaces he uses as paths.

This album is Scabies’ nineteenth recording on the ‘Sound Waves’ label. But according to Scabies he has no thoughts of retiring, recently he announced his forthcoming tour of the Hebrides.

Since the death of his seventh wife, Tulisa, in 2009, Scabies has been romantically linked with a number of women, but denies he plans taking a further walk down the aisle with anyone in the immediate future.

‘Sea Shanties Vol. 19’ is available to download now, so if you’ve half a mind to buy it—that’s all you need.

Sunday, 4 September 2011


THE MAN DREAMING IN BED, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
A recent drawing.

To read a 'disturbed' fan's account of their experiences with the celebrities they idolise, please follow the link below to my blog, Narolc's World:

Friday, 2 September 2011


I sent Geoff Capes grapes, but did he say, ‘Thanks a bunch’?
He did not.
Perhaps he forgot or perhaps he’d already eaten his lunch.
I created a hoax to coax a reply from Robbie Williams,
Sending mocked-up photographs of him with Liza Minelli in a restaurant to the tabloid press,
But instead of the ‘MINELLI-YUM’ headlines I expected,
My press release was ignored and I felt quite dejected.
I told Madonna I was mad on ’er, which I hoped would make her smile,
I’m still awaiting her response and I’ve been waiting for a while.
I wrote to Donald Trump and pointed out that his surname, in US English, is slang for a fart,
But if he got wind of my joke, he ignored it the rude bloke.
I tried to enhance John Travolta’s style of dance with some moves of my own,
Getting his reaction to my You Tube film was like getting blood from a stone.
Macaulay Culkin must be sulking,
Despite my praise for all of his films, he too leaves me alone.
As for Lulu and the guy in Star Trek who played Lieutenant Sulu,
I might as well have written to them in Ancient Greek or Zulu.
I like the stars, why can’t they see it really hurts that they don’t like me?
It’s fans like me, who make them the people they are,
While they swan about in limos, I can’t afford a car.
I don’t know why I’m bothering, but I’m going to send Pamela Anderson my hand-knitted, scented bra.


Via Flickr:
This piece glows in the dark. A giant slug is attached to a toy hovercraft.
For my latest blog posting, which attempts to answer the age old question what's in a name, please follow the link below.