Product Placement – Again?

Well, obviously, no one took the slightest notice of my suggestion that they advertise on this blog. Well, I mean, why should they? It was only a joke, after all. But, more seriously, my readership has been steadily falling for yonks and yonks. I thought that, maybe, things would improve when Covid 19 placed everyone indoors and bored them stupid; but sadly I was wrong. My stats continue to disappoint. And now that WordPress seem to have it in their heads that I want the Premium Plan and are asking for real money from me, I’m considering walking away from good old HamsterBritain dot com. But before I do, I thought I might have some more fun with product placement. In this case it is a product that I actually use. And here it is…

When Magnuss Earplug and Hair-Trigger Provost find their energy reserves sapped by endless heroic acts – made in the preservation of the sanctity and liberty of The Museum of Future Technology…

…they whip out a tube of Berocca from inside their novelty sporrans; tear off the…er…tear-off bit , and up-end the contents upon their tongues. A short while later…

…they’re feeling perky as heck and ready to go kick some ass.

Berocca: makes you go-go-go when you feel totally shit! 

A Free E-Book Gets Free-er.

By that, I mean that this e-book…

…which was free-of-charge previously, remains free-of-charge, but has been enhanced, improved, and contains more photos and lines of script. In short, there is more that is free; therefore it is free-er. Currently available at – or you can wait a few days from this posting date for other suppliers to get their arses into gear – and then get it at Amazon, B&N, Kobo, iBooks, etc – also gratis.

It’s quite a tale: you really should give it a look.

Any Writer Who Can Think Up the Name ‘Chunder Bellows’ Is Alright With Me

That was a reader’s quote, after his happy reading of this book…

And here’s an extract from the tale that he so enjoyed…

The first few days at Chunder Bellows School for Blistering Idiots were a total blur for Lancelot. Quite literally: The college nurse had filled his eyes with a solution that almost blinded him. It was a deliberate act: The college authorities didn’t want him identifying the persons responsible for trying to free his brain of the millstones of stupidity by beating some sense into him. But it was to no avail. All subsequent Intelligence Quotient tests came up woefully short.

Lancelot himself ached all over, and had there been a train back to Hamster Heath he would have gladly boarded it – even if he’d been forced to pedal solo for the entire journey. But as the days passed from his life – so did the bruises pass from his skin, and in next to no time at all he was well again. He even introduced the sport of Poo-Jumping to the college fitness administrator, and had a huge ramp built on the playing fields so that he could practice running down hills very fast indeed. But eventually he fell afoul of the college founder – Chunder Bellows himself.  Lancelot sat nervously in the corridor as he waited to be invited into Chunder Bellows’ private suite high in the belfry. He wracked his brains as to how he’d managed to offend the legendary hamster. Was it possible that he’d accidentally failed to notice his eminence whilst shopping in the town? He didn’t think so: Chunder Bellows came from European hamster stock, and was almost twice the size of his fellows. He also wore his head fur in a turquoise Mohican cut, and swaggered so vainly that smaller creatures were often forced to dash into heavy traffic to avoid being bowled over by him. So that seemed unlikely.

Over the next hour Lancelot ran scenario after scenario through his head until he could think no more. Only when he was utterly spent mentally did the red light above Bellows’ door finally illuminate. Lancelot had been warned about this. It could mean one of three things. One: I’m free now, please enter. Two: An aerial attack is underway: Run for the shelters. Or Three: The lock on the lavatory door is broken again, and I can’t get out. It was dependent upon the number of flashes per second as to how someone should react to this visual stimulus.

The beat of the flashing light was slow and steady. To Lancelot’s mind this indicated a certain calmness of spirit. It fitted scenario One perfectly. So Lancelot knocked smartly upon the huge wooden door, and entered.

The interior of Chunder Bellows’ suite was hugely impressive – especially to a young hamster who had lived his entire life in a two-room apartment above the town cheese shop with his mother, her aunt, and someone who referred to herself as the Fairy Lesbian. It was huge, panelled throughout with dark wood, and enjoyed a view out over the grounds of the college. Lancelot couldn’t help but notice that it also enjoyed views directly into the girls changing room, showers, and unsightly nipple fur removal facility. But he said nothing.

Bellows stood, and almost filled the room with his bulk. He didn’t offer a paw of welcome. Instead he merely towered over Lancelot until the youngster began trembling. Only then did he re-seat himself, and offer Lancelot a cigar.

“Well, well – you’ve caused quite a stir.” He boomed – not angrily, but not in a friendly fashion either. But it wasn’t neutral either, and Lancelot was at a loss to describe his benefactor’s mood.

“Is it the Poo-Jumping, Sir?” Lancelot inquired nervously, “I know that several students have miss-timed their take-off, and have consequently soiled their uniforms. But I’m sure that with sufficient practice…”

Bellows cut him off with a wave of his meaty paw. “No – it’s not the Poo-Jumping.” He growled. “I only wish that it were. At least I could do something about it. No my problem is far worse. Tell me – how did you get here?”

Lancelot wondered how literal Bellows was being. Did he mean to inquire after the route that Lancelot had taken from where he’d been clandestinely urinating in the mosquito-breeding pool – to Bellow’s office? Or did he mean the college itself? Then in a moment that the young hamster would have considered an epiphany – had he been aware of the word – he realized that during his brief time at Chunder Bellows he’d learned to think in a slightly less linear mode, and could now see alternatives to his first, and usually only, thought. It had been a general question: Not specific to time and place. The grand master of the college was asking after Lancelot’s reasons for approaching the college in order to gain entry to its hallowed halls of learning.

“It was either this – or extermination.” He blurted. Then in a more calm manner explained that he’d actually failed the Right To Adult Existence examination during his last year at school, but was given a reprieve when the mysterious Fairy Lesbian put a spell upon the examination board members, and demanded that they allow him one more chance. If he could prove them all desperately wrong by maturing into a hamster of average intellect, he would be allowed to live beyond his tender years, and not consequently waste millions of Rodentos being housed, fed, and entertained courtesy of the public purse because he was too stupid or bone-idle to get a job.

Bellows nodded sagely at this. Then he leaned forward in his chair, and peered at Lancelot in a most disturbing fashion. “That’s all very interesting – but it’s not the answer I was looking for.”

He then explained that he’d meant ‘how did Lancelot get from Hamster Heath to Poxford’?

“The last train to Poxford.” Lancelot chirped gleefully – fully aware that such a journey would never again be made, and as a result his momentous journey would go down in history.

Bellows peered some more. “Do you recall any of the passengers?” He asked.

Lancelot thought back over the intervening months. Only one person stood out from the crowd. “There was a pretty girl with powerful thighs pedalling on the seat opposite.” He recalled. “She stood out a bit.”

Bellows had a weakness for pretty girls. “Really – in what way?”

“She wore crotch-less knickers. From where I was seated it looked like two sand eels wrestling in a thicket.”

For a moment Lancelot thought that Bellows was going to have a heart attack. And it was this simple act of Bellows clutching at his chest and fighting for breath that brought forth a second recollection of the journey for the young hamster. “Oh yes that reminds me – there was that lovely middle-aged female who might have been having a myocardial infarction!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013


A Tastier Taster and a Promising Promise

Do you remember these guys?

No? They appeared in an Earplug Wallpaper. Hair vs Hat, I think it was called. Well, they weren’t a one-off. They – Flaxwell Maltings and Dr Gideon Snoot – are going to (finally, at last) appear in an Earplug Adventure. And in a very important role too. In fact they are going to tell the tale of A Tale of Three Museums – using a very nice little scout ship that enjoys the moniker of the Scroton Five…

…to search for The Porthole of Everywhere…

…which will display The Museum of Future Technology…

…in two timelines and two distant spacial locations – making three museums in total. Gosh! Imagine! How will I ever manage to keep all of these disparate threads coherent within my aging (and not always rational) brain? With difficulty, that’s how.

Well hopefully I’ve whetted the appetites of any Earpluggers reading this. Also hopefully, I’ll get the time and opportunity to shoot the pictures and write the script required to produce the story. At the time of writing this, the vagaries of life are creating barriers to the completion of my literary and photographic plans: but, fear not, I shall persevere. You will see another Earplug Adventure. I just don’t know when.



Okay, Time For Some Rude Hamster Fiction!

As per usual, when I’m struggling to think of anything new to bring you, I step back in time – to an era when I wrote books. Books with words alone, that is. No pictures. No earplugs. But, hopefully, books that include a giggle or two. Step up Hamster-Fiction. Welcome to a random extract of this wondrous e-book…

Joan and Lucas crouched in the shadows of the forest immediately opposite the great wooden gate that barred entrance to the abbey. Joan now wore Lucas’ trousers, whilst Lucas himself stooped self-consciously in his underpants, and prayed that he wouldn’t snag his scrotum upon one of the many thistles that grew thereabouts.

“You want my jacket too?” He complained.

“If I am to crush my generous mammalian mounds flat enough to convince the door-hamster that I am male, I am going to need something tight and sturdy.” Joan replied matter-of-factly.

“And what about your face?” Lucas took a moment to scrutinize his captive, “You may not be the fairest of face, but you don’t look like the arse end of a hay cart either. Where do you propose to hide your head:  inside my underpants?”

It was a facetious remark, but Joan couldn’t ignore it. “Faeces of the forest.” She replied. “We spread it about my facial fur, and in moments I’ll appear to be a slightly well-rounded urchin in need of a bath and a bed.”

“Cunning.” Lucas clearly approved. “Then once you are inside the wall you can wait until mid-morning prayer, and then open the gate to let us in. They won’t even begin to suspect until I sink my blade between their ribs. But by then it will be too late.”

Joan gulped. “Hmmm.” She managed.

Five minutes later found Joan tip-toeing towards the main gate of the abbey. She was being true to her word: She’d promised that she would finagle her way inside: and finagle her way inside she most certainly would. But any subsequent actions remained a mystery to her.

Joan raised her fist with which she planned to pound noisily upon the gate, but before the opportunity presented itself a small hatch opened upon the gate’s mighty flank. A huge dark-furred face filled it.

“Hola, buenas noches.” It said in a distinctly Spanish accent. “Como estais?”

Joan merely stood there with her arm raised – as if about to ask the teacher if she could go to the toilet.

The face then seemed to stiffen, and a look of questioning wonderment crossed it.

“Is that Joan Bugler hiding beneath a disguise of faeces of the forest that I see before me?” The face continued in an equally distinctly Spanish accent.

It was all that Joan could do to stop herself whooping with joy. “Alfonso Dos Fresas,” she whispered gleefully, “What are you doing here? I thought you’d given up the church, and were planning to return to your homeland and start a family.”

“Sí, that was my plan, Joan.” The huge shaggy head dropped so that the eyes disappeared momentarily. Then they reappeared. “But my heart was not in it. I could not leave this land whilst two situations remained unresolved. The Wheel still rules much of Prannick: And you were gone.”

For the second time in just a few minutes Joan gulped, and was lost for words. But before she could begin to search her memory banks for some profound response, Joan heard a key rattling in the lock.

“To be here at night, and dressed thus, your immediate situation must be dire.” Alfonso whispered, “Enter, Joan, but let no one see or hear you: Your disguise is weak at best: Even woodland shit can not disguise your maturing feminine beauty.”

Then the gate was opened, and a huge paw grabbed Joan by the ears; yanked her off of her hind paws; and dragged her inside.

She was still recovering as the gate swung closed once more, and the key rattled for a second time.

“Would you care to take a bath?” Alfonso inquired. “I have a spare habit that might possibly hide your physical charms. It is only slightly soiled from potato peeling.”

Joan was still feeling rather shell-shocked – both from the speed at which she’d been brought into the sanctuary of the abbey, and the revelation of Alfonso’s feelings towards her. She’d always assumed that if Alfonso Dos Fresas had any leanings at all it was towards big hunky sod-ball players. A split second later her thoughts were placed further into a whirl as Alfonso swept her into his arms, and ran upon sandaled feet – into the main building and up the wide flight of stairs; along a corridor; and finally into the self-same, stone-cold, bathroom that she’d first visited all those many yonks ago.

“I will leave you alone now, Joan.” Alfonso said as he lowered the shaken female hamster onto her wobbly legs, and set fire to some kindling beneath a huge cauldron of water. “I do not imagine that you would care to have me witness your stark nakedness by lamplight. A towel is on the back of the door. There is wood for the fire in the cupboard. I will leave my spare habit outside the door.”

Then, like a sudden summer thunderstorm, he was gone.

“Blimey.” Joan said to the empty room. “Events certainly move apace in Prannick these days. I hope Alfonso doesn’t think that I’m still a virgin: I’d hate to disappoint him.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

As you’ve probably gathered, these hamster books aren’t suitable for children. Only big ones. Ones who have left school. If you fit this category, this book is available for you at most e-book outlets. Check out the Tooty’s Books Available Here! page for a few of the obvious ones.

A Second Prodigal Earplug Returns

Yes, although my work-rate has diminished of late, I have been toiling casually upon the tart-up of this e-book…

And now it’s done and finished. It’s also re-published. So, if you’d care to visit the publishers – those being Lulu – you can see for yourself. And if you hang around long enough, before too many days have passed it’ll appear on Amazon and B&N and all those other outlets too. Naturally it is more wonderful than the original – possibly bordering upon divine. I don’t like to overstate things, but sometimes feel that if Angels  were to read e-books, they might well choose Junior Earplug Adventures. They are, after all, literary miracles. Yes, it’s a bloody miracle they get published at all. And just to prove it, here’s a montage…

And in the time honoured way of things earplug, here’s a photographic snippet of the photo-novel…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2016

Getting Back to My Roots 2

Prior to those pesky Earplug Adventures, I spent my free time writing my somewhat-less-than-epic (but nonetheless fabulous) Hamster-Sapiens stories. They involved proper writing. That is, writing without photos inbetween the paragraphs. Here’s a sample from one of them…

In this extract, an unpopular local hostorian has accidentally fallen through a trans-dimensional portal, into an alternative, more primitive reality…

It took a few moments for Adjusterming Boficals to make the mental adjustment required to comprehend that he was no longer in Hamster-Britain. He stared in wonderment at the shattered remains of the abbey gate. He then stared with revulsion at all the thawed custard that lay slopped all over the tops of a number of wooden trestle tables. And he goggled with disbelief when he noticed a monk nailing a hurriedly-made plaque to the gatehouse roof gutter.

“Lucas Cleats caught his knackers here?” He exclaimed to himself. “What sort of memorial is that?”

“Oh, they like to celebrate even the most insignificant victories here.” Roosevelt Teabiscuit informed him as he stepped into view from beneath the remains of the gate.

“Do I know you?” Boficals inquired – his mind still not entirely in sync with the new reality in which he found himself.

Roosevelt introduced himself. He concluded with, “I work for Fabian Strangefellow.”

Boficals shook the dormouse’s paw. “Pleased to meet you.” He responded. “Have I travelled in time? Is this the town of Bristly Bottom?”

Roosevelt put him right as regards his location in both time and space.

“Such a shame.” Boficals looked disappointed, “I’d so wanted to steal a march over Horatio Horseblanket. Now I suppose he’ll find the lost village instead of me.”

“I didn’t know he was looking for it.” Roosevelt told him.

“He isn’t – but you know how lucky that jammy bastard is.” Boficals complained. “He’ll probably trip over it whilst out exercising his pet caterpillar one day, and all the glory will be his again.”

Roosevelt quickly changed the subject. “So what brings you to Prannick?” He inquired.

“An accident, I assure you.” Boficals looked down his considerable snout at Roosevelt. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to go back to Hamster-Britain thank you. No one in their right mind would willingly visit a semi-medieval alternate reality: And I am most certainly compos mentis!”

Roosevelt sucked air in through his teeth, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well there we have a little problem: The only two people capable of opening a transfer point willy-nilly are away sorting out a serious problem. Felicity and I have remained behind purely because we’re short-legged dormice, and the consensus is that we might slow them down.”

Adjusterming clearly didn’t believe a word that Roosevelt said. Just to prove this point he said, “I don’t believe a word you’ve said.” Then to add clarity to the reasoning behind such a bold and inflammatory statement he added, “Someone opened that transfer point through which I just tumbled: I don’t see anyone else around: Ergo it must have been you.”

Roosevelt sighed, but he was most impressed: The local historian’s logic was irrefutable. So Roosevelt made the decision to confess all…

“We couldn’t sleep – Felicity and I – after such a wonderful victory over the Stix bandits. We wanted to dance and celebrate, but Primrose Pickles forbade us: She said that we would need all of our energy for the next day. In any case we couldn’t find any alcohol or musical instruments, and they haven’t invented the record player yet. So we did the next best thing.”

“You decided to have rampant non-reproductive sexual intercourse.”

Roosevelt looked at Adjusterming with new respect. “Yes we did.” He replied slowly. “We did it all over the place. And it was just as dawn was breaking that we decided to be extra daring, and do it in the open.”

“You decided to have rampant non-reproductive sexual intercourse upon the trestle tables.”

Roosevelt’s respect for Adjusterming grew exponentially. “Wow.” He said, “How did you know?”

“The buttock-prints in the spilt custard.” Adjusterming replied as his paw swept around to encompass the trestle tables. “They are clearly extremely feminine.”

“Incredible.” Roosevelt said breathlessly. “Why I do believe that your powers of deductive reasoning exceed those of my employer, Fabian Strangefellow. Tell me – what do you anticipate my next piece of information to be?”

Adjusterming stroked his chin intelligently, and withdrew a clay pipe from his back pocket, which he proceeded to light with a match that he kept in his ear for just this sort of occasion. “I am Hamster Heath’s foremost historian: It’s my duty to know all about the people of the town – just in case one or two of them do something noteworthy. For example I know that a certain dormouse by the name of Roosevelt Teabiscuit is well known as a psychic catalyst. I must confess that up until this moment I had decided to withhold judgement upon that claim, and refrain from labelling you a charlatan. But now that I have learned that you have been experiencing Felicity Bugler’s rude portions, I am now forming the opinion that the ‘word on the street’ is correct. Further I would now wager that at the height of her ecstasy, whilst slithering about upon the top of that trestle table over there, she opened a part of her brain that had previously been closed, and involuntarily opened the trans-dimensional portal through which I arrived.”

Adjusterming hadn’t noticed, but Roosevelt’s mouth had fallen open with astonishment. “Cor.” The dormouse whispered, “You aught to be a private detective. Everything you’ve said has been accurate to at least three decimal places.”

As was his wont, Adjusterming came over all snooty. “Naturally. Now can you make the intuitive leap necessary to estimate my next request?”

Now had Adjusterming been talking so rudely to…say…Horatio Horseblanket (or his mother, Molly, or even the town’s retired police constable – Bootsie) then perhaps he could have expected a blank expression and a gaping maw: But he wasn’t: he was talking rudely to Roosevelt Teabiscuit – and if there was one thing that Roosevelt had learned throughout his adventures with his girlfriend, Felicity, it was to make intuitive leaps. “Sorry, no-can-do.” He replied firmly.

“Sorry, no-can-do?” Adjusterming queried.

“You want me to give her one.” Roosevelt stated it simply enough. “Slip her a length, as it were.” He added for clarity’s sake.

“If, by that, you mean that I require you to engage Felicity Bugler in some sordid sex-act – yes you are entirely correct. I want you to give her ‘one’ just like the ‘one’ that you gave her earlier. I want her orgasmic crescendo to recreate that portal again. I want to go home!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Gosh, that was ruder than I remembered it. Naturally the e-book remains available at most e-book stockists. Check out the sidebar book covers on the sidebar, or the Tooty’s Books page beneath the header, for easy access to the better known ones.