Tag Archives: rude stories

Revel in the Ribaldry 27

Once upon a time I knew which book was supposed to supply the next excerpt, but somewhere between R.i.t.R 1 and now I’ve managed to become completely flummoxed. My default position is to jump straight to this book…

…partly because it’s the best book in the world, and partly because it’s the best book that has ever been written by anyone, anywhere, at any time. So today I’m going eschew my fall-back position and go for this book…

…which isn’t any of those things I said about The Psychic Historian, but is entertaining, and without the prior existence of which the best book in the world would not have been written. And here is the random excerpt. Hope it’s good…

Although the elevator was slow, the anti-mould snail had kept it pristine. Consequently both hamsters felt not the slightest discomfort as it ascended at a moribund crawl. And when, eventually, the door slid open on reasonably well-oiled sliders, Tonks had managed to shed much of the muck and filth of the lower floors, and was able to lead Colin on to the ground floor with a certain amount of pride.

The first thing she did was prick up her furry ears, and listen intently. Satisfied by the silence she then took her sidearm in her good paw, and made off for the Sentinel Robot bay. As she did so she couldn’t help but notice that the CCTV camera panned around to follow her progress.

“I didn’t know that your security system worked.” She said to Colin.

“It works fine.” He replied. “It’s just that Boney can’t be arsed to use it. He prefers the Sentinel Robots.”

Tonks asked the obvious next question. “So why is he using it now?”

Colin had no idea, so he decided to be creative. “Perhaps he’s trying to look down the front of your uniform.” He suggested. Then as supportive evidence for this theory he added, “Your breasts do jiggle pleasantly. Not that I’m an expert or anything. I never was much of a letch. Or a letch of any kind, come to think about it.”

But Tonks wasn’t listening: Another shudder was in the process of passing through the building, and the lights dimmed momentarily.

Meanwhile, in the Security Office, the monitors were being shaken dramatically. Not because of the apparent earthquake that was in the process of giving Fanangy’s epiglottis a hernia due to excessive nervous gulping: But because the cameras that fed them had gone out of focus.

“Damnation from the Great Angler Herself.” Boney cursed as he thumped the ageing cathode ray tubes with frustration, “I could’a sworn I caught a glimpse of a nipple just then!”

“Probably a shadow.” Lionel attempted to quell his employer’s enthusiasm for the sergeant’s mammary glands, “Army regulation vests would never allow loose titties in a potential combat situation. They could block the view of a rifle sight. ”

Boney was forced to accede to Lionel’s almost-pure logic. “Yeah, I s’pose you’re right.” He grumbled.

Then the screens settled, and a clear view of the corridor returned. But of Tonks and Colin there was no sign.

“Try the Sentinel Robot bay.” Fanangy croaked, “It’s the next door along.”

Naturally Fanangy’s suggestion was the correct course of action. This was because of two quite disparate reasons – at least in Lionel’s eyes. The first was that she was utterly gorgeous, and therefore incapable of being in error upon any subject, whether corporeal or esoteric: And secondly because Tonks and Colin now found themselves staring with bewilderment at a Sentinel Robot bay completely bereft of Sentinel Robots. Instead, at the cavernous room’s centre, a device that simply defied description seemed to crouch like a defecating toad.

“It looks like an oddly mottled huge steel box with flashing lights all around it.” Tonks exclaimed breathlessly.

“And a vast array of cables reaching from it, and disappearing into all four walls, the ceiling, and the floor, in a manner most redolent of things most creepy and crawly.”  Colin added.

“What do you think it is?” Tonks inquired.

“Beats the shit out of me.” Colin replied helpfully.

Tonks asked another question. “Was it there when we departed for the Artefact Room?”

This time Colin’s response was a little more forthcoming with information. “No.” He said.

“And imagine the remarkable engineering skills required to have constructed this stupendous device in such a short time.” Tonks said admiringly.

Any further utterances were silenced before they could be properly composed. Once more the building shook, and a loud hum of harnessed energy filled the air.

“Yikes.” Tonks managed before a loud booming voice spoke…

“Who dares speak in the presence of The Overmind?”

Colin was quick to respond. “Oh, that’d be us. Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend or anything. The name’s Colin by the way. I’m an android.” He then indicated Tonks, who appeared to have entered the trance-like fugue that hamsters in general, and startled females in particular, enter at times of extreme stress. “Oh, and this, apparently inanimate, life-form is Sergeant Tonks. I don’t know if she has a first name; but she’s a hamster. I don’t know the Latin for her species: hamstery-hamsteritious, or something, I expect.”

“Cease this infernal noise!” The voice of the Overmind boomed.

Despite owning the best pair of electronic ears on the planet, Colin couldn’t be sure precisely where the sound was emanating from. He suspected that it might be the large device in the centre of the room. “Sorry.” He said quietly.

“Bring me your mobility.” The Overmind demanded.

Colin’s aim was to please at every opportunity: But this demand required too much of him. “You what?” He enquired eloquently.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2012

P.S I wonder if I’ll ever write another Hamster-Sapiens book. Do I still have the ability? Oh, I don’t know; there are so many books I’d like to write, but I simply can’t be arsed.



Revel in the Ribaldry 12

The excerpt on this occasion must come from this book…

It’s the rules. As per usual  the selection is made by random chance. Good old random: you can always rely on him. Oh, look, here it is…

As per instructions from Fabian Strangefellow, Roosevelt Teabiscuit duly intercepted Felicity Bugler as she exited The Institute Of Hugely Important Studies, and was not surprised to be invited to walk the young dormouse home. Only when he discovered that they were well on their way towards the wastelands that bordered the petrified forest and The Green Mucus Home For Old Bastards did he begin to have misgivings concerning his employer’s plan. It was most decidedly the ‘wrong’ end of town in which to be found at night. But not all was doom and despondency for the small male dormouse: En route they encountered several roadside rhubarb trees, and despite her obvious attraction to him, at no time did Roosevelt feel the need to fight off Felicity’s ardent sexual advances because, of course, there were none. The reason for this became clear as they skirted the industrial estate: Felicity paused to ignite a thistle cigarette, and by the light of the flaring match Roosevelt could see that she was very slightly younger than himself, and was yet to be influenced by the persuasive aromas of hot young bodies and the presence of strong, silent, rhubarb trees.

Roosevelt was about to introduce the subject of her mental exercises at The Institute for Psychic Rodent Research when Felicity cried out in gleeful surprise…

“Well fluff me: Would you look at that!” She said, pointing toward a row of lock-up garages, “That’s one of Joan’s crossover points into Prannick: I wonder if I can see through the wall?”

This was almost too much for Roosevelt. His plan was working so well that it came close to making his trousers flap with joy.                                                                “Indeed.” He said in a calm tone that perfectly disguised his excitement.

It never occurred to Felicity to try out her potential psychic skills by attempting to see inside the garage. Instead she simply broke the ageing lock with a single karate chop, and let herself inside.

Fortunately Roosevelt always carried his favourite Timmy the Twonk Engine wind-up torch. Most young people of Hamster Heath did so since it had become known that the town’s only Hero of All Hamsterdom – Horatio Horseblanket – was very keen on them, and owned several of each model in a multitude of hues. It took several twists of the large blue knob on the side to fully charge the capacitor. But when at last the meter read ‘full’, Roosevelt unleashed a beam of such incandescence that he thought it might actually burn its way through the wall, and advertise their illegal presence to all and sundry. He needn’t have worried. The sudden arrival of Tybrow Mooney through the same wall placed the tall hamster directly in the beam’s way, and instead of devastating the brickwork, it ravaged the mean rodent’s eyesight so badly that he screamed incoherently, and cast a huge bowl of gold coins in their direction.

Naturally neither dormouse waited to see what would happen next: Instead they fell to the floor, and began sweeping the fallen coins into large internal pockets that Dormice always have stitched into their coats, and sometimes their cardigans too. They didn’t see Mooney turn about in a eye-streaming panic, feel his way back to the wall, then disappear though it. But they did hear the almost inaudible ‘pop’ of displaced air as he receded into the alternative dimension. Suddenly heedless of the great wealth dragging at her, Felicity hauled herself and her bulging coat to the wall, whereupon she placed her forehead to the rough surface, spread her fingers as wide as her tiny paws would allow, and concentrated…

What she ‘saw’ upon the other side of reality could only have occurred because of the close proximity of the psychic catalyst – Roosevelt Teabiscuit. She saw Mooney race from his bedroom, then barrel down the stairs that led to the bar, screaming, “Law Master: Law Master: They’re back!”

Perfidity Gallowsmith, better known to the residents of Weasels Pit as The Law Master, was carousing in a most unladylike fashion in the Rancid Maggot Inn. She had already shown her knickers to various members of the clientele several times, and was in the middle of exposing one of her huge furry mammary glands to Quentin Blackheart, who was equally drunk (and secretly hamster-sexual) when Tybrow Mooney burst into the bar from the back room.

“Law Master – come to my room:” He bellowed as he pointed back along the way he had just come, “I have something to show you!”

Perfidity Gallowsmith spluttered with great mirth at this exhortation. “No,” she waved a drunken finger in her best admonishing manner; “it is I who has something to show you!”

With that the huge furry mammary gland appeared from inside her leather jerkin – slapping Blackheart about the cheek pouches as it did so. She then proceeded to jump up and down several times to increase the shock-effect.

The Law Master knew instinctively that in the morning she would regret this brazen act, and that her pectoral muscles would ache abominably. But she also knew that Quentin Blackheart would ‘lean’ upon any witnesses, so that no one beyond these four walls would ever learn of her disgusting weakness of the flesh.

Mooney paused to savour the moment. He licked his lips appreciatively. Then he then took a few discrete photographs with a digital camera that he kept hidden behind his Official Booze Purveyor badge.

‘Perhaps’ he thought quietly to himself, ‘I can use this as evidence against her. Maybe I’ll get that roll in a shallow ditch with her after all.’

Then it was back to business for him…

“You don’t understand,” He cried out plaintively, “They’ve found me again. The prisoners must have escaped. If we go now we can slay them like the curs they are!”

In her drunken state Perfidity didn’t realise that Mooney had misidentified his pursuers: She assumed, reasonably enough, that The Abbot had assumed his duties as a spy for her against the Stix. But she was too inebriated to think coherently beyond this point.

“Thank you very much, that won’t be necessary.” she slurred whilst popping her wayward tit into its cosy chain mail chest-hammock, “But you can lead me to the bog-hole? I think I’m about to puke vastly.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

This e-book remains on sale at many outlets – some of which are mentioned on the sidebar and on the Tooty’s Books Available Here page beneath the header. As you can easily see – it’s…ah…fab!


Revel in the Ribaldry 7

For the seventh extract from the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books, I take you back to yesteryear – namely 2013 – to the second book. This one…

Yes it’s the tale of a modern-day hamster – Joan Bugler (pictured with quite large breasts) – whose psychic talent allows her to pass her body through walls into an alternate reality that is ruled by a medieval church. A nasty place – full of nasty people – and some very nice people too, of course. And what an adventure she has there – even if she doesn’t want to.

Upon the main street of Weasels Pit, beside the Stoat and Wanger Public House, the village hag – Chaffinch Comelightly – was deep in conversation with the broad-buttocked resident Gravy-Stirrer.

“That’s right,” the ladle-wielding female nodded vehemently, “a bloody good fart at the dinner table’s worth half a dozen or more in the bed chamber.”

Chaffinch Comelightly tittered through a portcullis of blackened teeth: As usual the idiot Gravy-Stirrer had misconstrued her meaning. But before her titter could escalate into a hearty guffaw, something happened that made the ageing crone wet herself…

“Wheee!” Felicity cried as the race-prepped foldaway motocross scooter magically leapt from the side of the Stoat and Wanger, with her at the controls, and her gerbil mother standing upon the pillion foot plate.

“Fluff….” Brenda Bugler added her voice to that of her smallest adopted daughter, “…me, this is scary!”

Then the machine landed heavily as it hit the dusty track – its long-travel suspension soaking up the impact like a boxer’s face – and then bounding away in a series of pogo-hops that would have put the local gay community to shame.

Punting like delirious wood lice, Felicity and Brenda made excellent speed through the village – casting aside local inhabitants as though they were worthless immigrants.

“Hey, my baby girl, where’d you go getting’ the skills what’s necessary for this kind’a thing, huh?” Brenda inquired breathlessly. “You sure is some action-girl. You ever think of joinin’ a circus? Or maybe a troupe of travellin’ stunt-motorbikists?”

But Felicity wasn’t listening: All her attention was required to keep the front wheel pointing in the direction of Far Kinell.

Meanwhile Algy had returned to the Hamster Heath Sports Stadium. He’d reasoned, well enough, that before they embarked upon a course of action that could result in calamity if things went wrong, it would be a good idea to see if the recipient of their love and care was still actually drawing breath.

“Is Primrose improving, Matti?” He asked the attentive lemming.

“Well, you know…” Matti replied in the slightly uppy and downy way that Norwegian lemmings speak, which can really endear them to some, or make them local pariahs, “…she has her good moments…”

Any further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of  the team captain of the Heathens and several of his Offensive Linemen.

Algy gulped: He felt terribly intimidated by their sheer size, and, he had to confess to himself, a little intoxicated too.

“How’s she doing, Doc?” The captain inquired, “Coz me and the boys are feeling real cut up about her being hurt like that. We know it wasn’t our fault – or that big Spanish guy too: It was those bastards who shot her in the first place who make us real mad.”

All the Heathens growled menacingly in an almost pleasant counter-melody to their Captain’s rhythmic speech-pattern.

Algy felt his sphincter loosen, and a frightened ‘perp’ escaped. But fortunately the menacing growl had ascended into a piercing shriek – so no one noticed.

“Calm yourselves, lads,” Matti instructed them. “There’s no point in over-stressing your cardiovascular system with ill-considered, and ultimately wasteful hatred for someone who you will never encounter. It’s not like you could ever get your paws upon them or anything…”

This was to be a significant statement: But, of course, no one was aware of it at that moment. Nevertheless the words went in one of Algy’s ears – and didn’t reappear out of the other.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

P.S I usually select these extracts at pure random; but on this occasion I had to pass on three before I found this one – because they were just so darned rude!


Revel in the Ribaldry 1

When I published my early Hamster-Sapiens stories, they were always sub-titled Ribald Tales From a World Ruled by Hamsters. I don’t know why I dropped that description later, because it was (and remains) most apt. Interestingly (when I look back with the wisdom of hindsight) sales dipped from the moment I ceased to use it. So, here I am partially ressurrecting it in a number of extracts titled Revel in the Ribaldry. If they prove popular I may turn it into a glut. Afterall, the Hamster-Sapiens tales may be a few years old now; but that doesn’t make them any less…how shall I put it?…wonderful. How about fantastic? Okay, I’ll go with ‘entertaining’.

Since the original Horatio Horseblanket Chronicles books have been unavailable for several years, I’ll start proceedings with the book that is now considered Book One in the series, but which was written in the wake of the well-received aforementioned. It is this remarkable tome…

And here is the random extract…

If (just a few short weeks earlier) someone had suggested to Lionel that he would be leading the fight against an insane device that combined the organic remains of a squad of combat veteran hamsters, alien DNA, and several large (but essentially thick) robots, anyone who knew him would have scoffed: None more than Lionel himself: Lionel, after all, enjoyed making model armadillos, playing repetitive computer games, and watching inane daytime television. Indeed, until that rain-soaked day when his parents finally cried “enough”, and tossed him out of the family home, his idea of a good time was lying in bed with a sausage sandwich and a glass of aphid milk.

As things transpired, Lionel still hadn’t actually fashioned his ultimate plan to thwart the advancing menace that was The Overmind: But he’d formed the beginnings of an idea inside his fluffy little head that should, he hoped, free The Where House of its bio-electronic tyranny.

“So what shall we call this thing?” Lionel inquired as he held the artefact aloft for all to see. “It’s a bit dull to look at, isn’t it!” He added as he turned it over in his paws beneath a stuttering light in the lower latrine.

Indeed the artefact was a bit dull. In fact it was exceedingly dull. On a scale of visual languor it would have scored ten out of ten with consummate ease. So, as a consequence, not one single hamster present could summon up an idea for a suitable moniker.

All, that is, except Boney. “How about we call it ‘Arse Wipe’?” he half-suggested  – not thinking for one second that anyone would take him seriously.

Ten eyes – eight of them real: Two totally artificial, all swivelled to regard him. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw pity reflected in at least five of them.

“Well I mean,” He quickly realised that an explanation for his outrageous suggestion was required, “it’s gonna be about as useful as a bog roll in a hail storm when we confront The Overmind with it – aint it!”

Lionel continued to stare: ‘Could the ageing rodent be right?’ He thought to himself in that frozen moment, ‘Should this potential battle-winner be named ‘Arse Wipe’? If nothing else, it was original’.

“Oh, Boney,” Fanangy scolded, “How can you be so untrusting of Lionel’s abilities? Of course the Arse Wipe will be of more use than a bog roll in a hailstorm. Obviously Lionel’s plan is going to be ingenious: Success is certain. But Arse Wipe does have nice ring to it: I once had an Uncle named Arse Wipe – though of course he pronounced it Arssay Wippay. His wife was named Ringpiece. She had cruel parents. They were put to death for their crime – or so the legend goes.”

“So,” Colin felt duty-bound to step in and halt the pointless banter, “now that we’ve sorted that out – what are we going to do with it?”

Up until now Sergeant Tonks had remained quiet; and Major Hardcourt-Gymp appeared to be almost comatose with silence. But suddenly the Major’s aid spoke. She said, “Yeah – what are we going to do – like now? Emphasis on the now.”

This seemed to galvanise Gymp. “Indeed: Well put, Sergeant. We must cease this prevarication, and act. Hand me the Arse Wipe: I shall activate it once more; and we shall be about our business, which of course is my reinstatement as a sentient hamster that is fit to once again lead the Tadgerstone Rifles.”

“But you don’t know what to do with it.” Lionel whined as he realised that the situation was slipping from his tenuous control. Then a steeliness came over him, and he pulled the artefact to his puny chest, adding, “No – leave it alone: It’s mine.”

“Yes, that’s right, you big bully.” Fanangy instantly sided with her beloved Lionel, and snarled at the military officer in such a way that he blanched beneath his military-regulation facial fur, and began to wonder if being sentient was all it was cracked up to be.

“Will you lot stop all this yakking!” Boney roared as best he could with his age-clogged lungs, “All the time we’re stood about doin’ nothin’ – that thing upstairs is takin’ over more an’ more of my business.”

And of course he was right – and Lionel knew it. “Right then.” He said in his most authoritative voice, “To the elevator!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2012

Naturally the e-book version remains available at most e-book retailers. See the sidebar or ‘Pages’ beneath the header for the most popular ones.

P.S The sub-title of the original copy had a sub-title of it’s own. It was ‘Where All the Parts Are Private’. Why on Earth did I drop that? Because I’m creative; and creative people are allowed to be morons.

Back – After Six Years Absence

Thought you might enjoy a reblog of something I wrote way-back-when…

How many times has your rip-roaring tale of gung-ho-ness stuttered to a halt because you’ve written your characters into a desperate corner, and you can’t find a logical way out? Loads of times, I’m sure – especially if (like me) you’re the sort of writer who can’t stand planning the whole story out before hitting the first key of the story proper. There’s nothing worse for a writer (other than writer’s block) than thinking up a fabulous new direction in which to take the story – only to be forced to ignore it because you can’t fit it into the pre-existing plot.

So my tip for today is this…

Insert needless asides and details that move the story along not one jot, and which might appear at first to be totally spurious, but will later be called upon to get you right out of the literary shit. As an example I bring you this extract from my book ‘Danglydong Dell Diaries’. You will find that it appears needlessly rude – but boy did it come to my rescue when I needed to save my characters from oblivion later in the book…

Blubbersday, the Forty-sixth of Plinth. Like the other two parties before them, the group that was psychically protected by Primrose Pickles entered Far Kinell through one of the four main gates. In their case it was the rickety old Historic gate, where market stalls had been set up that sold ‘old fashioned’ or ‘retro’ stuff – like woollen bloomers, clogs, wooden false teeth, earthenware bed-warmers, beetroot wine, and a plethora of multifarious strap-on dildos.

For a brief moment Colin was quite taken by the latter, and even went so far as to study one or two of them minutely.

“Ere,” Boney called down to him from the broad back of Gargantua the giant cavy, “leave them fake dicks alone. Nothing good can come of tinkerin’ with the unnatural.”

“But I’m unnatural.” Colin reminded his current owner. “There isn’t a natural product in my body. And I was just wondering if I could utilise one of these as an addendum to my ‘special tool’. It could be fun. I could frighten sailors with it.”

Boney had to think about this for a few seconds. “Yeah that sounds alright.” He replied finally, “Maybe we can mass produce ‘em too, and sell ‘em as advanced alien trinkets. They don’t have no patent laws in this world, do they?”

It was a brilliant idea, and Colin duly flicked a few coins in the vendor’s direction, and snatched up the largest, most impressive specimen on his stall. It wobbled alarmingly in his paw as he walked away, and appeared almost too real for comfort. “Indeed they don’t.” He said quietly.

Primrose, meanwhile, was reconnoitring the immediate area with all six senses. She cocked her head upon one side – as if listening to something that no one else could hear.

Gargantua noticed this, and immediately he began mimicking her.

“What are you doing?” Primrose inquired.

“Hoping that whatever you’ve got rubs off on me.” Gargantua replied. “Maybe I can be the first recorded psychic cavy in history.”

“Do they keep such records in Prannick?” Primrose was instantly fascinated.

Gargantua shrugged his shoulders, which almost flipped Boney from his elevated perch. “Somewhere in some secretive cubby hole of The Wheel they do, no doubt.” He said.

Primrose’s fascination dissipated. “I’m trying to sense Tybrow Mooney’s presence, or at least his spore.” She spoke sternly, “Don’t interrupt with mindless trivialities.”

Colin arrived. He waved his wobbly dildo in Primrose’s direction. “What do you think of this, Primrose?” He asked politely.

Primrose wasn’t really paying much attention. “Lovely.” She said absentmindedly.

“Would you like me to go back and buy one for you?” Colin offered generously, “There was a sign that said ‘One size fits all’. Obviously I wouldn’t know what that means, but I’m sure it must be a positive attribute.”

Primrose then noticed the dildo as it wobbled like an elongated jellybean. “No!” she screamed. “It’s disgusting. Put it away.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan

To discover how this was put to good use later in the tale, check out Danglydong Dell Diaries at any e-book retailer. It’s also available from the stockists mentioned on the sidebar and under the header – those being Lulu, Apple, Amazon, and Barnes & Noble.

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 22

As usual with this occasional and wondrous series, I bring you an excerpt from one of the following Hamster-Sapiens tales…

On this occasion I bring you an excerpt from ‘The Psychic Historian‘. Everybody shout: “Yeah!”

In the time-honoured fashion of hamsters, several members of the audience were caught napping when Sorbresto returned to the stage to continue the evening’s entertainment. Those who weren’t still in the toilets had actually fallen asleep. But not before gorging themselves upon Boney’s culinary efforts. The result of this was a mad rush to their seats as the Audience Recall Klaxon sounded. Sorbresto himself looked rested. In fact he appeared to have shed several grams, and even more years. He looked – Molly Horseblanket concluded – reinvigorated.

“I must have a word or two with that Yu Wah Wah-Wah. See if I can pick up a few tips” She said – leaning close to her son so that no one could over hear her lewdness.

Horatio was of the same opinion – and for a very similar reason. He could feel the steam building up pressure inside his underpants, and it was having an adverse effect upon his sentience. “Yuh.” He responded.

“Ladies and gentlehamsters. Dear, dear friends,” Sorbresto said as he bowed – before gazing about the returning audience, adding, “Do I have another volunteer?”

Several hamsters prodded their friends and neighbours – trying to cajole them into volunteering. But none were having it. Some even sat upon their paws in an effort to stop themselves from succumbing to peer-pressure. Then Lionel Flugelhorn, who also searched the crowd for a likely candidate, noticed the hurried entrance of a tiny dormouse. He recognized him as the seldom-seen Roosevelt Teabiscuit, of whom it was said, “He’s a funny little chap. Have you heard – some say he’s a psychic catalyst.” – which interested Lionel. So following the diminutive rodent’s trajectory, Lionel calculated that his seat must be somewhere in the region of Row G, Section Gertrude. Scanning the aforementioned area his eyes alighted upon the only empty seat – and there in the very next one sat the person he’d hoped to find there: Hamster Heath’s leading private detective – the floppy-hatted, huge-snouted, highly-preposterous, vaguely-effeminate, rampant female-rogering, flouncy blouse and devilish cravat-wearing,  Fabian Strangefellow. He turned to Colin, who appeared to have placed his higher brain functions in ‘idle’.

“Colin.” he whispered, “Turn your volume up to ‘max’, and call Fabian Strangefellow to the stage.”

Colin reanimated. “Oh do you think I should? He looks so poncey. Is he really ideal material?”

Receiving a vigorous nod of approval from Fanangy, who stood in the opposite wing, and was in the process of surreptitiously checking that she’d pulled her knickers up, Colin cleared his cybernetic throat, and boomed, “Oh look – we have ourselves a volunteer: It’s none other than Hamster Heath’s foremost private detective – Fabian Strangefellow!”

Well with an introduction like that, Fabian Strangefellow’s ego couldn’t possibly resist, and before long he found himself reclining upon Sorbresto’s sofa.

“Touch me where you will.” He instructed the sexually-sated alien hamster as he prodded and probed for a good contact point, “Nothing will disappoint you.”

And indeed nothing did disappoint. Within moments both hamsters had fallen into a psychic trance, and everyone’s attention was turned upon the TV monitor.

At first nothing was entirely clear to the watching audience. Everything appeared to be coloured green, and cloaked in shadow. Then, as a shaft of sunlight intruded, the picture became clearer, and it was evident that whosever eyes they were witnessing events through was either in an extremely large botanical garden, or was unfortunate enough to live in Deepest Jungle Land. Then the sound track activated, and everyone was certain that they were in for a treat: It was Deepest Jungle Land – where anything was possible – and was usually lethal too! 

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

If you’d like to discover how this fabulous story develops, the e-book is available at most e-book suppliers, which include all those mentioned on the sidebar to the right →

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 11

Long before those anthropomorphized earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.

This excerpt originated in the least successful book in the series – The Abduction of Wetpatch Wilson

It quickly transpired that what Droop could see caused mass exclamations of surprise and puzzlement. At first sight they looked like precise co-ordinates. They did at second sight too. And when Desmond punched the figures into the ship’s computer, the resulting location made everyone snort in consternation. And the reason for this was because it was deep inside an underwater mountain.

“How fluff they get there?” Ho inquired eloquently.

“Aint that some obvious stuff?” Kevin called from the open doorway into the corridor, “They perhapped.”

“You said that they perhapped onto an ethereal plane of quasi-existence.” Amy argued with bitterness in her tone. “Now you’re saying that they perhapped into a solid mountain? If Professor Squealch hadn’t made you, I’d suspect that you’d been left behind just to confuse us.”

Although Kevin was a mere machine, Desmond had programmed it to comprehend emotion and feelings. Consequently it felt rather hurt at the semi-accusation.

“Hey,” it cried out plaintively, “I been given all that emotion, and feelings, and biological crap ya know. I’s hurt something like buggery by your semi-accusation. And who’s saying that the mountain’s solid anyway. Maybe it’s like a big hard balloon thing.”

And although everyone put aside a brief moment to contemplate Kevin’s appreciation of emotions, feelings, and biological crap – what really gained their attention was the theoretical scenario in which a mountain could be hollow.

“Is it possible, Desmond?” Sally asked hopefully of the wild-furred hamster.

“It would take an army of workers yonks and yonks and yonks to hollow out a mountain.” Desmond shook his head and smiled condescendingly, “I really feel that this time my creation’s idea is somewhat fanciful. Gag-makingly in fact.”

“Fanciful is good.” Wetpatch felt duty bound to remind the professor. “Hasn’t your whole career as a brilliant inventor been based upon fanciful ideas? I don’t remember any of them being gag-making – even that machine that turned people upside down and shook them around lots and lots in an effort to simulate birthing to those right-wing Argumentalists who doubted that vaginal tissue could really stretch that much; and that natural birth was just a government conspiracy to cover up the truth that we’re all products of spontaneous existence, or that we were brought here in flying saucers from the planet Gargh. Just because Kevin’s a machine – that doesn’t make his fanciful ideas any more unlikely than your own.”

“That’s right, Professor.” Roman unexpectedly railed against his hero. Or rather he didn’t. “Kevin is your brilliant invention: You obviously built in sub-routines especially designed to think up fanciful situations and scenarios. Ergo – Kevin’s intelligence is an extension of your own.”

Well this statement placed an entirely different complexion upon the argument. Fortunately Desmond didn’t actually say those words. Instead he made do with, “Oh yeah; you’re right. Brilliant idea, Kevin. I don’t suppose you have any idea how they ‘perhapped’?”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Taken out of the context of the main story, that might (possibly) have made little sense. But if you’d read the preceding text first, quickly followed by the words that appeared after this excerpt, it might have hung together rather well. Of course, the only way to discover the truth is to purchase the (surprisingly inexpensive) e-book – at almost any e-book stockist, which includes all the majors. Check out the book covers – to the right – for direct access to Lulu, Apple, B&N, and Amazon.

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 4

Long before those literary masterpiece earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books. 

Here’s a random excerpt from the third of the aforementioned – The Psychic Historian...,

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.”

Lancelot didn’t know how to take this: Was it some sort of test? He thought that he’d play it safe. “Yes.” He said.

“Address?” The wood mouse asked, then stepped back to await Lancelot’s response.

Again Lancelot decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and so replied with, “Yours or mine?”

The ageing wood mouse sighed. “Oh, I don’t know – let’s try yours: we can come back to mine later.”

Lancelot liked the thought of that, and wondered if they would be having crumpets with their cup of tea. But he kept his counsel and said only, “Number Twenty-twelve, Rincon Del Anus, Hamster Heath.”

“Does it have a postal code?” The wood mouse inquired in a most professional manner.

Lancelot replied in the affirmative.

The wood mouse gave him a long appraising look, but said only; “Good. Perhaps we should come back to that later as well.” Then he added; “Age?”

Lancelot’s eyes darted this way and that. He wondered if this too was a test. What possible age could the wood mouse refer too? Then it came to him; “Ice.” He said loudly.

At this the wood mouse sighed so deeply that Lancelot thought that he might be in danger of inverting himself. “Perhaps you should see a doctor?” he suggested helpfully. “Your lungs don’t appear to have developed properly. Or have you been gassed?”

“Perhaps I should see a shrink.” The other responded. “But then I guess I’d have to be at least half-way crazy to want to run a college for morons in the first place. So your name is Lancelot Ballesteroid, you come from Hamster Heath, and you were born during an ice-age. Do I have all the facts correct?”

Lancelot considered this. “Two out of three aren’t bad.” He said uncertainly.

“If you’re happy with that – I’m happy with that. We’re done.” The wood mouse then extended a paw. “Welcome to Chunder Bellows.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

The five e-books that feature here are all available at many e-book retailers, including those mentioned in the sidebar to your right. You should take a look – if only out of curiosity.

P.S Did you see that? It wasn’t rude. No one farted or dropped their trousers! What is the world coming to?

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 3

Long before those adorable earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books. 

So, on this occasion, I’m gonna treat you to an excerpt from the fantabulous Danglydong Dell Diaries…

Tumblesday, the Twenty-two’eth of Twat. Horatio could well remember when the ultra-realistic Patti Poo-pants doll had been unleashed upon the young female population of Hamster Heath. His testicles had still been tucked up safely inside his torso at the time, and there were times when he’d almost been tempted to ask his mother for one himself. But he hadn’t bothered for two principal reasons. One: His mother would have thrown up her arms in panic at the thought that her only son was hamster-sexual. Two: He would have received a vicious back-hander from her for daring to suggest that she spend her ill-gotten gains on something so essentially Hamster-French.

Of course Horatio had known nothing of Amstair Fronce at that time. He was yet to meet the famous three-wheeled go-kart racing champion, Norbert Disentangle. He was yet to paddle a dug-out canoe across the Bay of Biscuit, and be saved by a Hamster-French air-sea rescue helicopter. He was yet to have rampant non-reproductive sexual intercourse with the beautiful (if vain) Candice Rancide. Or smear Brie upon the raging volcano that was his sore anus during the most recent outbreak of Hamsters Arse. In fact he was yet to do anything that was in any way connected with that fair land across the sea. But he knew instinctively that anything produced in Hamster-France was, in some way, more stylish, and therefore more desirable, than anything made locally. He also knew that it was intrinsically wrong for a boy to want a girl’s doll – even if it did defecate most realistically.

These remembrances were flashing through the young male hamster’s mind now – as he sat upon the night bus from Poxford (where he’d been studying at Saint Dunces) to Hamster Heath – and, most significantly, the elderly male hamster on the seat opposite him looked decidedly like one of Britain’s most celebrated failures of recent times – Sir Goosewing Gray.

“Excuse me.” Horatio raised a paw and stamped three times on the bare metal floor to gain the older hamster’s attention, “Aren’t you Sir Goosewing Gray?”

The look that Horatio received was one of pure malice, and the following silence (that could only be described as ‘vicious’) should have set alarm bells ringing in Horatio’s head. But Horatio being Horatio, he ignored the warnings, and pressed on regardless.

“Yeah, didn’t you used to work for Twang Toys?” He continued.

Gray’s eyes snapped around to peer at Horatio. “Shush.” He hissed as silently as possible.

This gave Horatio reason to pause. He craned his neck around to see if Gray had any earplugs or headphones rammed into his ears. He even checked to see if the young female that sat beside him was a prostitute. But when she refused to lift her skirt and reveal her split crotch panties he quickly realised his error.

“Pardon me.” He said politely, and raised his hat to the young female, “Mistaken identity. I thought you might be a right slapper ‘on the game’.”

Then he turned his attention to Goosewing Gray once more. “If I’d been a girl when I was a kid, I’d have been a very annoyed youngster if I’d bought a Shitty-Arsed Sheila doll.”

Gray’s expression altered again. This time it pleaded – ‘Go away, and don’t mention the Shitty-Arsed Sheila doll again.’ But Horatio was immune to subtle nuances. Unless Gray told him to fluff off, he’d pursue this line of conversation until the bitter end.

“Yeah.” He started yet again, “Wasn’t Twang Toys utterly ruined by the Shitty-Arsed Sheila doll fiasco?”

Now it was most fortuitous that the bus carried very few passengers that blustery mid-Twat day, and with the exception of Goosewing Gray and Horatio, all of them were first year students in Poxford, and were either too young to recall the industrial melt-down to which Horatio referred, or had their heads buried in an electronic game device. It was fortuitous in two ways. One: No one looked up and pointed derisively. Two: Gray didn’t feel sufficiently rattled to bite upon a poisonous ‘tooth’ that he kept hidden at the back of his mouth on the off-chance that he might be accosted in the street by a film crew – and the tragic error that was his life become uncovered upon live TV.

“What was wrong with the Shitty-Arsed Sheila doll exactly?” Horatio decided to press on despite the young female standing up and walking to another seat, and inadvertently showing that she didn’t wear split crotch panties at all: Instead they were pink, with blue spots and a smiley face embroidered upon each buttock.

“You’re the fluffin’ expert.” Gray hissed through the side of his mouth, “You tell me!”

Well Horatio was always up for a challenge, and despite the fact that the sovereign of Hamster-Britain – Horatio’s blood father, Prince Rupert of Bandigal – had knighted Gray for Services to Industry and Other Follies, Horatio felt that he probably knew more about the whole affair than anyone aboard the bus – save, obviously, for Goosewing Gray himself.

“I imagine that it had something to do with the excrement.” Horatio half-stated – half-inquired.

Gray nodded, but remained mute.

“Whereas the Patti Poo-pants doll featured fake excrement that smelt of either jasmine, cinnamon, rose petals, or Amstair Fronce’s most famous perfume – Canal Boat Number Five,” Horatio continued, “sadly yours smelt like….”

“Crap?” Gray suggested.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

If you fancy purchasing this charming e-book, it is available from several sources, including those mentioned on the side bar, to your right.


Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 2

Long before those bewildering earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books. 

As you can clearly see, there are five of them available currently.  And very nice they are too – if you don’t mind stories that are not really suitable for pre-teens and can be a bit…ah…RUDE sometimes. In this brief series of  Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That, I aim to bring you little snippets from all five books. This time I’ve chosen a random snippet from Fanfare for the Common Hamster.

Deep within the bowels of the National Institute for Psychic Rodent Research, Felicity Bugler was coming desperately close to complete physical and mental exhaustion. Yet still Freddy Ringworm continued mercilessly to produce back-to-front playing cards for Felicity to ‘read’ with her mind.

So, once more, the young dormouse summoned up the strength to use her latent psychic ‘powers’ that Doctor Rambling Bramble felt certain that she possessed – at least in theory – possibly – if they were lucky.

“Queen,” she sighed – then added hopefully, “The Queen of Sods?”

Freddy flipped the card to reveal the Thirteen of Caks. Yet again Felicity’s shoulders slumped, and she yawned uncontrollably.

Upon an instruction from Bramble, who stood behind plate glass in a control booth, Freddy began to extract another card from down the front of his trousers where he kept them warm. But his paw was stayed by the arrival of a large group of Kool Kustard employees.

Primrose Pickles was just releasing herself from the kitchenette as they passed, and so was the first person to greet them – with a platter of inexpensive pancakes. She was overjoyed at the appearance of Joan. She couldn’t help herself from jumping up and down and squealing her name enthusiastically several times before having a paw clamped over her snout by Bramble as he appeared from the booth door, and pushed her back into the kitchenette – but not before relieving her of the pancakes, which he offered to Joan, Darkwood, Rootley, Brother Alfonso, and Reg Daftwaddle – for a small fee.

“My, Joan – you’ve certainly led us a merry dance: Where have you been?” He said – after pocketing four gold coins and a two Rodento note, “I don’t recognise these strange hamsters: Are they your friends?”

Joan didn’t respond immediately: She was still too shocked by Primrose’s welcome, and wondered if the young beauty practised lesbianism. If that was the case then she was doubly shocked: She’d never met a lesbian before. Then she caught sight of her sister through the brain-testing room window, and all thoughts of lesbianism were cast aside upon a tidal wave of emotion. It was patently clear to her what her sister was trying to do: She was risking her own sanity in an attempt to save her stupid, fat, hamster, sister from herself!


Freddy Ringworm had neither the opportunity nor wits to mount a defence: Joan was in the door, across the room, and shoving him aside before he could say ‘Horatio Indigo Transvestite Horseblanket’ – and all so that she could hug the tiny dormouse that was Felicity.

After recovering their composure, the sisters talked in excited squeaks for several seconds before their breath ran out, and they both dropped into the testing-chair in order to gasp mightily, and inwardly digest the information that had passed between them. This gave Algy Timber, who had only just returned from the toilet, the opportunity to vent his emotions. He did this in two ways: Outwardly he skipped upon the spot for several seconds, in a show of relief that at any other time would have left him mortified; then scuttled across the floor to greet her in the most un-boss-like hug imaginable. Inwardly he was finally able to cast off the constant desire to punish himself by chewing upon his private parts. The resulting sudden rush of endorphins in his brain made him go all numb, and he subsequently slumped in a heap at Joan’s feet.

“Sorry, Joan,” he said, slightly embarrassed, “but I have an intolerance to endorphins: That’s why Mildred prepares me so much porridge: It’s the perfect counter-agent. Nice to see you safe and well. You don’t happen to have any pancakes left I suppose?”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 1

Long before those dumb-ass earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books. 

As you can clearly see, there are five of them available currently.  And very nice they are too – if you don’t mind stories that are not really suitable for pre-teens and can be a bit…ah…RUDE sometimes. In this brief series of  Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That, I aim to bring you little snippets from all five books – and that includes the fourth book, which (would you believe it) has not sold a single copy in the half-decade since publication. So, since I mentioned The Abduction of Wetpatch Wilson, let’s kick-off with a sample from that wondrous submarine tale…

Meanwhile Wetpatch and his schoolmates had concluded their competition, and were now kicking an old cola can into the shallows, and then throwing pebbles at it.

To his surprise Wetpatch was proving a crack shot, and several times his pebbles would ricochet onto the promenade and scare the shit out of old ladies taking the air.

Amy noticed this, and called Wetpatch over.

“Wetpatch,” she smiled sweetly – a ploy that had always worked well with her nephew – “how would you like to take a trip around the harbour in a dugout canoe?”

Wetpatch considered the question. Then he asked, “Will I have to dig out the canoe first?”

“No.” Amy’s smile faded slightly, “It will have been pre-dug out by an army of wood-gnawing rodents from over-seas. You won’t even have to paddle: They have a water vole that clambers off the back and pushes. I expect Mister Ho, Sally Blunderbuss, and that tart Gloria will join us.”

Wetpatch considered some more. The young trainee teacher was certainly hot stuff. He wouldn’t mind ogling her for half an hour. He agreed, but added a caveat. “Just as long as I can take some pebbles along.”

Both Amy and Roman were surprised at this. “Why?” They asked in unison.

“I want to impress Miss Bewtocks.” Wetpatch pulled himself up from his usual insolent slouch, “If the sailors that we pass en route leer horrendously I shall hurl pebbles at their groins with telling accuracy.”

Well this was possibly the most male hamsterly statement that Amy had ever heard Wetpatch utter; and despite the vague illegality of his intended behaviour, she agreed to his terms.

“Will your friends want to come?” She added.

Wetpatch looked casually over his shoulder in the direction of the beach where the schoolboys were currently hiding behind towels whilst they dressed themselves in their swim suits, “Nah,” he replied, “They’re all going into the sea.”

“A little bracing for a swim this early in the summer, I would have thought.” Roman opined with open admiration of the youngsters.

“Nah.” Wetpatch corrected his assumption, “They’re not going to swim: They’re just going to wade in up to their waists.”  He could see that neither adult showed the slightest comprehension. “It’s a shrunken gonad competition.” He explained, “They’ve taken measurements before they got here: When they come back out of the water again after five minutes, they have a re-measure. The owner of the most dramatically shrunken privates is the winner.”

Despite his better judgement Roman couldn’t help but ask the next question.

“Who’s going to do the measuring?” He asked.

“Well not Gloria Bewtocks, that’s for certain.” Amy answered before Wetpatch could open his mouth, “It would probably give a false reading. I suppose Mister Ho could though.”

“Who mention name Ho?” Mister Ho called out as he arrived with a nervous-looking Sally on his arm, “I don’t have time measure nothing: Sally think we being followed. Gonna take her round harbour. No one follow us out there. We got boat trip to go on. You come too?”

Well with an offer like that, not one of the three hamsters could resist. And as far as they were concerned, Gloria Bewtocks could watch out for the other boys. They’d probably prefer her company anyway: She could hold their towels for them.

“And who cares if their measurements go all awry.” Amy added, “It’s a silly sort of competition: No one’s a winner – not really: Especially the winner.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

An Extract Abducted

Once upon a time I wrote a lovely tale about a schoolboy hamster, who, whilst engaged upon a school trip to the seaside, was abducted by a submarine race of rodents. No, that’s not quite correct: It wasn’t lovely at all. It certainly wasn’t suitable for children – though one reader did admit that his grandson had stumbled upon it and asked his mother for a copy (he didn’t get one). It was rather rude you see. Take a look at this brief extract: see what you think.

Temporally speaking it was only a hop, skip, and an enormous bound later when Roman and Amy found themselves upon familiar territory. Such was their unshakable belief in Amy’s plan that they were both certain that the lounge was just around the next corner. But if there was a flaw in Amy’s plan, the young female hamster reasoned, it was the police constable’s certainty that he would find more Happy Lobster Juice there.

‘Was it too much to expect?’ She wondered, ‘Wasn’t it more likely that an automatic system would have turned off the flow? Wasn’t it probable that in between times the pirates had gorged themselves upon the remaining liquid?’ There were so many scenarios – all of which could end in disaster if they weren’t extremely careful. Then she tripped upon some courgette rind that had obviously been spilled during the descent; collided with a statue of a naked water nymph that had miraculously survived thus far; and caused a most horrendous racket when it smashed into a million shards and was scattered as far as the eye could see along the smoky corridor.

“Holy Fluff!” Amy screeched in alarm.

For a moment Roman stood stock-still in shock. He’d never heard such an expletive pass the delicate bifurcated lips of such a lovely female before. Then shock was replaced by fear as two pirates, alerted by the noise, trudged around the corner in their huge boots, and carrying their deadly directed energy weapons. Worse still – one of them was Gustav Grossemember!

“Argh!” Amy added in horror.

But in that moment of panic, when their plan seemed to billow from the existential window of life like a wind-blown net curtain and career across the metaphysical countryside upon a silent motorbike, their forethought and planning suddenly paid dividends.

Watching events intently upon their TV monitor, Blur and Sprightly sprang into action, and before the two pirates could say much more than “Ach, it is being two of the prisoners: Kill them! Kill them upon sight.” a vicious bolt of electricity leapt across the gap between a broken light fitting and the two helpless former chart-toppers – and blew their guns to pieces.

Well Roman didn’t waste a second lecturing upon the dangers of loose electricity within a confined space: Instead he grabbed Amy’s free paw – the other was covering her eyes – and leapt past the two stunned and bewildered desperados; dived into the empty lounge; and ran his tongue along the skirting board in search of any stray residue of the Happy Lobster Juice leak. As a consequence of this, when Gustav had recovered sufficiently to find his way back into the lounge for a sit down upon the sofa, he found the police constable ready for action.

“Hee-yah” Roman screamed as he jumped across the room – his feet thrusting forward in search of a target.

Moments later those same feet made contact with Gustav’s head, and for the short, powerful, ex-roadie for Badly Needed Piss, it was ‘Goodnight Sweetheart – over and out’.

Roman then pursued the other desperado for fifteen circumnavigations of the lounge compartment, until his opponent suffered some sort of cardio vascular hiccup, and fell headlong down the garbage chute.

“Oh Roman,” Amy gushed as she threw her arms about the young police officer’s neck, “You’re such a hunk. If we weren’t in mortal peril, and we weren’t embarked upon a mission of utmost import, I would wrestle your tattooed personal protuberance from inside your police regulation trousers; and we’d have rampant non-reproductive sexual intercourse right here and now – where the cameras don’t work anymore!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan

This is what the e-book looks like. It remains available at most e-book retailers.

I changed my mind: it is lovely – but in a slightly disgusting way.

A Fanfare, Please, for ‘Fanfare for the Common Hamster’

Way back in the mists of time – that being 2007 – a certain Tooty Nolan wrote a divine magnum opus about a fat female hamster with the talent to pass through walls into alternative realities. Here is a brief extract…

Naturally Rootley, being small and nimble, soon found himself chosen to edge into the obsidian stench of the sewer outlet. As he did so he called out Joan’s name. He tried calling in various tones – from a surprisingly resonant bass, to a shrill soprano that hurt the awaiting Margarita’s ears and made Brother Alfonso’s nose bleed. But in response – save for the constant dripping of foetid water from the curved brick ceiling – all that Rootley’s sensitive ears could detect was silence. So, reaching out with both paws before him, Rootley plunged forward with the abandon normally associated with gay gerbils – and was immediately lost in echoes.

It was so cold inside Freezer Three that Joan’s brain had almost ceased to function. Fortunately she had found the wisdom to clamber inside a large empty cardboard box, thrust her paws between her thighs, and then insert her tail into her rectum before becoming semi-comatose. But even in this state her will to live supplied her ears with sufficient energy to listen for clues to salvation. First one pricked up, quickly followed by the other as Rootley’s muffled voice could be heard calling her name.

‘Hmmm’, she thought, ‘that resonant bass is quite pleasant: But I’m not sure about the soprano: It could shatter ice.’

Then her brain reactivated properly. This was no time for hibernation: Help was on its way.

Rootley was overjoyed to hear Joan calling his name. “This way, Joan,” he called, “Follow my voice.”

He then continued to utter similar inanities until suddenly Joan’s paw materialised from the wall before him. He didn’t see it of course; but in the heat of the moment he’d quite neglected to theorise the potentiality of irregularities within the topography of the different worlds. So naturally it was Rootley’s testicles that Joan’s flaying paw encountered first, and which solicited a yelp of such intensity that it startled her so badly that she lost her grip upon the icy floor inside Freezer Three, and tumbled back into the medieval land of Prannick – and the relative warmth of stale piss.

© Paul Trevor Nolan

Naturally this book remains available at most e-book retailers, including the big boys Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Check out the Lulu logo on the side bar for a look-see.