Millions Can’t Be Wrong

Every day millions of readers write in to say: “We want more Psychic Historian”. Well, actually, it was one – and she was far too polite to demand. But numbers don’t count. It’s not quantity, but quality that matters. So, in order to keep the several million (and one) happy – here is another extract from this wondrous e-tome…

A young male hamster – perhaps only a short while out of his adolescence – sat upon the seat of a busy train. Like the passengers around him he was peddling furiously, and hating every second of it.

“I think that it’s disgusting.” A middle-aged female of huge dimensions spoke haughtily beside him, “It’s not enough that we have to pay for our seat: Now we have to power the train as well!”

The young hamster nodded sadly. “Indeed madam,” he replied, “but you know what this socialist government’s like: Any popular bandwagon – and they’re aboard – with bells ringing and whistles blowing. The Eco-Green Liberals said that steam, electric, and diesel trains were abominations: The government thought that everyone agreed: And here we are – peddling for all we’re worth.”

“Yes,” the middle-aged female gasped, “and when people stopped using the trains as often – the same idiot government decided that since fewer trains were running, they could cut the services, tear up all the tracks, and melt them down to make bombs and suchlike. It’s lunacy: Sheer lunacy!”

“Are you going all the way?” The young hamster inquired.

“To Poxford?” The middle-aged female responded after taking a few puffs upon an inhaler. “Yes – if I don’t suffer a myocardial infarction before we get there. My litter lives there you see. I’m visiting – possibly for the last time.”

“The last time?” The young hamster was suddenly alarmed, “Do you expect to perish soon?”

The middle-aged hamster tried to laugh, but she couldn’t spare the oxygen, “I don’t plan to.” She managed, “It’s just that this is the last train to Poxford. The line closes tonight. And I can’t drive a go-kart because I don’t know my left steering string from my right steering string. And the principle of breaking into corners confounds me mightily. Until some brain-box starts up a bus service, or I evolve into a non-corporeal being with the ability to teleport, I’ll have to stay at home and pine for my offspring.”

This information came as quite a surprise to the young hamster. “If this is the last train to Poxford – how will I get home again after completing my business there?”

By now the middle-aged female was close to collapse. “Fluffed if I know.” She gurgled before slumping unconscious in her seat.

Moments later the conductor entered the carriage. Spotting the comatose female he barked, “This simply isn’t good enough. We can’t have slackers slowing down the

train: We have a time-table to keep to.”

He then stopped the train, and had the poor unfortunate female lowered to the side of the track, where she was rolled down an embankment by several members of the galley staff, and left sitting upon a roadside bench with a sign around her neck that read ‘Useless Slacker’.

“She can find her own way to Poxford.” He spat.

Soon the train was underway once more. Several disgusted passengers had chosen to disembark with the comatose female, and gesticulated rudely as the train pulled away. As a result of this there were far fewer legs to power the train along, and so it was an age before it finally drew into the station at the beautiful university town of Poxford.

Soon the young male hamster found himself walking along a colonnade of (what appeared at first sight to be) market stalls. But rather than being the purveyors of fruit, vegetables, unpleasantly sweating meat products, and sunglasses of dubious origin, the stalls were actually the point of contact between any would-be students, and the representatives of the town’s universities.

“Come and scrutinize our literature. Study our informative prospectus.” Those who manned the stalls would cry out. “Look how nicely we’ve laid out our campus.”

The young hamster was impressed by their entrepreneurial skills. He stopped and chatted with several before finally settling upon a college that enjoyed the moniker, ‘The Chunder Bellows School for Blistering Idiots’.

“Hello.” He smiled as he introduced himself to the ageing wood mouse behind the counter, “I’ve checked-out all the other colleges here today, and I’ve decided that your college is the one best suited to my needs.”

The ageing wood mouse took up a quill made from the tail feather of a wren, and dipped into a pot of ink. He then prepared himself to write upon a large sheet of headed notepaper.

“Name?” The wood mouse inquired in a disinterested tone.

For a moment this seemed to stump the young hamster. Then realization struck, and he smiled: Obviously the old mouse was almost blind. “It’s there – at the top of the page.” He informed the wood mouse.

“Ugh?” The wood mouse responded in puzzlement.

“Chunder Bellows School for Blistering Idiots.” The young hamster nodded pleasantly – pleased to have been able to help.

“You what?” the wood mouse was now even more perplexed. “Your name is the same as the college you wish to join? That seems more than coincidental.”

Now it was the turn of the young hamster to be confused. “But my name is Lancelot Ballesteroid!” He cried out in surprise.

In an instant the ageing wood mouse understood. “Ah,” he began to write the words Lancelot Ballesteroid in the box marked ‘name’, “it appears that you have indeed selected your college well: For certainly you are a blistering idiot.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2019

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Let’s Have Some Hamster Fiction Again!

Ribald and rude. Hopefully funny too. It’s the Hamster-Sapiens e-book series. And here’s an extract from one of the little buggers…

Lionel was still smarting from Colin’s wicked over-ruling of his suggestion that Boney select a male hamster as the next subject, and felt rightly aggrieved at it. So to quickly circumvent a potential repetition of the android’s predilection to insensitivity the young hamster leaned close to Boney’s ear, and bellowed above the din of clamouring rodentia, “Pick a male this time, Boney: Maybe there’ll be a little less sex involved, and we can all enjoy an un-edited history lesson. ”

But before Boney could reply, Lionel noticed that Horatio Horseblanket was making strange eye movements at him. At first he thought that it may have been some sort of affliction that his hero had never bothered to mention in his autobiography – but he quickly dismissed the thought: Horatio was far too ‘warts and all’ honest to exclude something so potentially serious from his magnum opus. Then a thought emerged that momentarily struck fear into his youthful hamster heart: Could it be that Horatio had contracted penile thrush, and was trying to distract his attention from the unbearable itching sensation by making himself go all ‘boss-eyed’?  Again Lionel dismissed the thought: Horatio was almost certainly immune from such sufferings: Didn’t his mother keep a permanent incense-burner smouldering in the hearth of their delightful cottage atop Realsteep Hill? And, further, wasn’t the aforementioned incense-burner well-known as a successful counter-agent for everything from evil-spirits – through dormant membranes, flaccid tongue, Bolshevik revolutions – to penile thrush? Yes it was. So there must be some meaning to the orange-faced hero’s optical manipulations.

“’Ere,” Boney interrupted his thoughts, “looks like young ‘Orseblanket’s indicating his would-be nemesis at college – Freddy Ringworm.”

‘Of course’, Lionel felt like slapping himself across the forehead, ‘Horatio intended that they select Freddy Ringworm as their next subject’. Lionel smiled to himself because it was an excellent idea – not so much because it had been suggested by his hero – but because Ringworm clearly didn’t want to be chosen, and was skulking off towards the girl’s lavatory, with a cardboard periscope only partially hidden by his huge mauve blouse.

“Freddy Ringworm!” Sorbresto yelled above the din. “I select Freddy Ringworm!”

He then winked at Lionel, and whispered in the resulting silence, “Psychic – see?”

Well naturally the spotlight caught Freddy in its baleful glare, and soon the laboratory technician found himself reclining awkwardly upon Sorbresto Titt’s sofa.

“Is there anything that you don’t want fondled?” the hamster from an alternative dimension inquired of the loathsome former student.

This question startled Freddy. He hadn’t expected it, and nothing in his former experience had prepared him for it. “Whadda ya mean?” he shrieked in a most female hamsterly manner.

“I have to caress your epidermis.” Sorbresto explained – both for Freddy’s benefit, and anyone else who was to follow later. “I have to make physical connection with you in order to access your genetic memory. Strictly speaking a sample of your blood, or perhaps other bodily fluids would suffice – but that could get nasty – and I don’t do nasty.”

“My personal protuberance.” Freddy shrieked so loudly that it set off a burglar alarm in a neighbouring gentlehamster’s outfitters. “Don’t touch my willy. No one has ever touched my willy – and no one ever will!”

At this Doctor Growbag looked up from charming Flotti Pañuelo in one of the double seats at the rear of the auditorium. “I’ll vouch for that.” He shouted, “He wouldn’t let me anywhere near it during a physical examination for the college poo-jumping team at Saint Dunces. When I said ‘cough’ I had to measure the physical response by the displacement of nearby air. His dad was the same. No one ever went near his personal protuberance either. Well that’s what they say: But it’s not like I have incontrovertible evidence or anything…”

Growbag, realizing that he had inadvertently breached doctor/patient confidentiality, then closed his mouth, skipped silently to another location in the shadows, and exclaimed in a very loud voice indeed, “I say – who was that impersonating me? Is someone trying to get me into trouble with the Medical Board?”

But by then everyone had lost interest because the psychic historian had found just the right spot on Freddy’s body, and now images were forming upon the huge monitor…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Naturally, if you happen to be conversant with my hamster tales, you will have recognised that extract from…

Available as an e-book all over the place. Check out the links to some of the major suppliers beneath the header and on the sidebar. You won’t be (terribly) disappointed.