Tag Archives: tooty nolan

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 19

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

On  this particular occasion I have made the bold decision to foist upon you an extract from the first in the series – that being The Where House, which, I’m sure, you are aware is available via the book covers on the sidebar to your right (or below, somewhere, if you’re on a tablet or some such).

Had Boney not transferred responsibility from himself to Colin, then it’s certain that he would have been wringing his paws in indecision at this – very probably until they physically bled. As it was, he made a cup of tea in a feeble attempt to avoid the situation.

For a few precious seconds it appeared that his simple ruse would work: Colin had returned to the sod-ball game, and Lionel appeared to be so deep in thought, that Boney grew concerned that he’d fallen into a waking coma – or at least a hamstery fugue – neither of which could be described as ‘desirable’.

His fears were assuaged when the youngster mindlessly accepted the steaming hot beverage from his almost fur-less paw.

“Mucho gracias.” Lionel mumbled.

“De nada.” A relieved Boney replied.

Was the lad off on one of his out-of-body experiences that he’d once carelessly mentioned whilst they dug over the runner bean plot one frosty morning?’ He wondered. ‘Or was he suffering from a multiple personality disorder? This was not the first time that he’d spoken in Español. But then he remembered that Lionel’s parents hadn’t been amongst the richest rodents in town, and it was altogether probable that they took their annual holidays in sunny Bunnidorm, where they could purchase cheap beer, and as many ‘illicit’ computer games from dodgy-looking jerboas from Sandy Desert Land, for a mere paw-full of Rodentos. Naturally las instrucciones would be in Spanish. Yes it all made sense once you thought about it carefully enough’, he concluded whilst nodding his head knowingly.

Then Lionel took a sip of the steaming-hot tea. If it hadn’t been wet it would have set his bifurcated lips aflame.

“By the Great Angler’s Enormous Tit,” he bellowed, “that’s certainly cleared out both my sinuses and my cobwebbed mind!”

He then went on to explain that he’d been deep in thought. But before he could actually explain anything at all, Boney interrupted…

“It’s about the pretty lass, aint it, son?” he said – which surprised both Lionel and Boney because he was so rarely this insightful.

“Yes it is.” Lionel replied. “And it’s all to do with that day, long ago, when I arrived here.”

“Nose-surfing on an ocean of filth, I seem to recall.” Colin piped up during a break in the game for TV advertising and a desperately needed lavatory break for the players.

“That’s right.” Lionel turned to his android colleague, “And who was it that caused me to slip and fall into that vile ocean swell of slurry?”

Boney had no idea where Lionel was going with this train of thought, but he figured it best to humour the youngster, “A tractor driver, weren’t it?”

Lionel smiled. “And what happened to said tractor driver?” he inquired metaphorically.

Boney recognised the inquiry as being metaphorical because Lionel answered his own question before there was time to so much as suck a lower lip in contemplation, “He was taken to Chunderford General Hospital!”

This last point was obviously very important; but it was still early in the day, and not all of Boney’s neurons were facing the right way when they fired.

“Hmm,” he said, “nasty business. Nasty, nasty business.”

“Would that be his perforated scrotum that you’re talking about there?” inquired Colin.

“Indeed it would.” Lionel turned his attention back to Boney. “And whose teeth left those deep, painful, incisions?”

This final question stumped both flesh and blood, and non-flesh and blood hamsters alike.

Eventually Boney mumbled, “Well it was Fanangy, weren’t it? But ‘ow can that be? She was with us the ‘ole time. But she wouldn’t lie about somethin’ as important as biting down viciously on some poor unfortunate tractor driver’s ball-bag: That’s a pretty major to-do, that is. Grievous Bodily Harm at least. What d’ya reckon the answer to this conundrum is?”

“Time travel!” Lionel blurted the words more loudly than he intended to.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2012


Junior Earplug Adventures: The Grand Tour (part 20)

With the confidence of a tyrant, Marnus Stenchnee stepped forward…

“Yeah.” He growled. “And if you don’t like it, you can shove it in your ear.”

To both Chester’s and Miles’ dismay, Magnuss equalled Stenchnee in both physical act and style of verbal attack…

“If anyone is going to get something shoved in their ear,” he snarled his reply, “it’ll be you, you big red dope.”

Stenchnee didn’t hesitate for a nanosecond: his response came quickly and was delivered with the assurance of an earplug who believed himself to be in complete control of the situation:

“I wouldn’t test me, Pinko.” The words slipped from between his lips like a string of mercury-coated sausages. “The power generator has a urine bomb strapped to it; and I have the trigger in the palm of my hand. Any silly buggers from anyone and the generator gets flooded with my personal piddle.”

Under normal circumstances, this information would have been enough to quell any thoughts of insurrection: but the Earplug Brothers didn’t believe in normal circumstances. A split second later…

…Magnuss delivered a karate chop to the side of Stenchnee’s head. The world-leader went down like a sack of month-old cabbages, which pleased Marnus Pongfinger immensely. Then realisation struck the ancient, white-haired earplug: “By the Soiled Cacks of the Supreme Being,” he wailed, “we are undone. My evil brother’s puny grip upon the trigger has loosened. Within seconds the power supply will fail. We’re as good as dead!”

“Calm yourself, President Pongfinger.” Magnuss said with a smile. “No such calamity shall assail your fair city. The bomb has been neutralised. Shall I explain?”

“I wish you would.” Uda Spritzer replied as everyone crowded around to kick the inert Stenchnee. “The expectation of a freezing death is…er…killing me.”

“Well,” Magnuss began, “it all started with one of your loyal subjects. His name is Trubbil Dounpitt; and he made a galactic emergency call. One of our ship’s crew heard it and duly took the information to the captain. He, in turn, informed us. As a result we discovered Stenchnee’s despicable plan. But let’s have someone else continue this tale. Let’s hear it from the metaphorical plugmutts’ mouth. Let me introduce my brother, Valentine.”

Valentine didn’t bother with small talk: “Right on.” He said into the resulting, expectant silence. “Rudi and me left Magnuss and Miles holding the fort whilst Chester kept your guide busy…

We thought she looked kinda cute; but we couldn’t take any chances: she could’a been a spy. Know what I mean? Anyway, we went straight to the Nul-Space power generator…

Of course we couldn’t access the urine bomb from up there, so we put on our cossack hats…

…and took the back way inside. Then I emptied the ginger beer from inside my hip flask – all over the bomb. The fizzy goo sealed the bomb in five seconds flat. Then it burned its way through the protective sheath. And that was that: no matter how many times that joker bro of yours pressed his dumb trigger, that bomb wasn’t gonna go splat – no way.”

With that Valentine turned away; happy in the knowledge that he had left his audience in a better frame of mind than they had felt five minutes earlier.

“Gosh, that was good news.” Pongfinger opined quietly to Cruton. “I can’t wipe the smile from my face.”

“Indeed, Sir.” His manservant replied. “But I wonder if Valentine’s reference to his ginger beer-filled hip flask was, in actuality, a euphemism.”

“I was thinking the same thing.” Uda Spritzer added. “I’m a scientist. As a result of which I know a heck of a lot about a heck of a lot of things; and I’m far from certain that ginger beer can burn  through protective sheaths – even the alcoholic kind. It’s a metaphor. You mark my words. A metaphor for his bladder. It’s my scientific opinion that Valentine is no ginger beer drinker: instead he simply possesses the ability to deliver a vast quantity of corrosive wee-wee, on command, with precise accuracy. I just wish I had half his talent.”

“If so,” Pongfinger concluded – if a tad illogically, “I’d hate to be in a cupboard with him when he breaks wind; there’s no knowing what damage he could do to my nasal passages. Have him knighted immediately.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2018


Junior Earplug Adventures: The Grand Tour (part 19)

But time is a great healer, and before too many seconds had passed, the two new-found chums discovered that they quite liked the unexpected anonymity created by the fog…

…and considered doing things that they wouldn’t have done normally, in the open air. But good sense grabbed them by the throat and they duly went a wandering – to a place where the fog was joined by a fresh fall of snow…

…which pleased them no end. And when it turned into a full scale snow storm, Chester couldn’t have been happier…

Though Trubbol did begin to wonder if she was dealing with an idiot earplug…

…and so led him, once more, into the palace…

…where she discovered that she too could smile at the thought of doing something really stupid and enjoy the sensation whilst doing so. But soon duty called and Chester rushed to re-join with his brothers in time for a meeting with Marnus Pongfinger…

It seemed, to Rudi at least, that the planetary leader looked ill-at-ease.

”Hey, Marny, baby.” He said with concern evident in his every syllable, ”What’s eating you, man?”

Rudi was to find out…

”Um,” Marnus replied hesitantly, ”Boys, I’d like you to meet my brother.

He has supplanted me as Head of State. Now I suggest you all bow down to him and grovel pleasantly. Quickly, please; years of pointless servitude means that he has a terrible anger within him. He might even have you eaten.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2018



Junior Earplug Adventures: The Grand Tour (Part 18)

So, whilst Scroat Titan emerged from the cave into which he had teleported; and duly spotted the nearby Metalworker’s encampment…

…and even more duly entered it, where he was spotted by a clandestine local…


…his nose led him to a vast pile of excrement…


…which steamed alarmingly.

”Jeepers,” he’d yelped in surprise at the discovery, ”that sure looks fresh to me. It can’t be more than a few hours old. And it definitely belongs to a cork!”


Then realising that he must be getting close to finding Ballington, he’d made straight for his next destination – the Time Shard Museum of Future Technology…

…where fate cast him into a situation whereby he encountered Yelli Smello and the other former inmates of the Sloshed Antlers penitentiary. But, naturally, the Earplug Brothers knew nothing of this. And even if they had, they wouldn’t have cared less. They had a quest of their own; and it involved the ice planet’s capital city…

…in which Chester continued to admire Trubbol Attmill’s rear end – as she led him upon a pleasant tour…

Trying to break through Chester’s fixation upon her devilishly curvaceous buttocks, Trubbol told him all about her enjoyment of precipitous ledge walking; and how, during the Great Thaw, she had been left stranded when a ledge gave way before her…

”Gosh.” Chester exclaimed. ”I bet that was really annoying. Were you late for tea?”

”I was late for tea; the following day’s breakfast; and every meal for a month.” Trubbol replied. ”The surface of the planet had broken up. But I was one of the lucky ones: I had a flask of soup and a packet of doilies in my knapsack.”

Moments later she opened a door to the outside world, where…

…quite unexpectedly, a vicious fog had descended.

”Ooh-er.” They said as one.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2018



Sorry About My Moribundity

I couldn’t help but notice that progress on THE GRAND TOUR has been somewhat slower than is normal with an EARPLUG ADVENTURE. This is because…well actually I’m not really sure why I’m writing so slowly. Maybe I have my mind on other matters. But whatever it is, I thought I should keep you salivating for the next episode – despite my moribundity – even if I haven’t actually written it yet. So, to this end, here is a small montage that features two future characters. Their names are Dorkan and Dawlish Deathwish. They are brother and sister and they have an entire planet to themselves. Here’s some of the stuff they’ll be getting up to…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2018


Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 17

Long before those delectable earplugs appeared upon the scene, my comedic desires were pleasantly 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 seventeenth attempt to invite you to join the Hamsterista of the world, I bring you an excerpt from Danglydong Dell Diaries.

It must have been an hour or more later when Tits remembered why they’d entered the bar. She was now thoroughly sated, and her belly almost protruded as much as her namesakes. Joan was in a similar position. Brother Alfonso, unused to alcohol, could barely form a coherent thought. Dung giggled stupidly into the bottom of his glass. And Brenda was asleep on the floor, with her tail wrapped about her like a hibernating dormouse. Dragging herself up from her seat in a cosy ‘snug’, the large breasted female approached the bar.

Kendrick looked up from wiping some glasses. “Ah-ha, fair female, do’est thou require a top up?”

Tits tried to shake her head, but it began to spin, so she gave up. “Um, not right now, thank you.” She tried curtsying again, but her knees buckled, and she fell upon a stool.

“What I’d really like is a little information.” She said as she righted herself, and then slumped against the bar.

Although a charming and gregarious character that treated all of his patrons with utmost equanimity, Kendrick couldn’t help but have a lustful eye for females who were constructed to his preferred configuration. Or to put it another way – he had a hankering for girls with big boobies.

“Ah-ha.” He boomed at a level of audibility several decibels lower than was normal for him, and which he probably thought sounded conspiratorial, “So t’is information you’re wanting, is it? How much are you prepared to pay for this information? Would a peck on the cheek sound unreasonable?”

For someone who was reasonably inebriated, Tits was remarkably fleet of thought. “Face or bum?” She said with a girlish grin.

“Oh, what a naughty female you are, you intoxicating wench from far away.” Kendrick’s tone had moderated even farther. “Poor Kendrick wishes only to lay his lips upon the delightful face of his most beautiful guest. Your bum I’d sooner grab with both paws. But more of that later: What is that you want to know?”

Tits described Tybrow Mooney as best she could. Having never seen the ghastly specimen, she had only the verbal picture that Joan had drawn of him with which to work.

“Tall and skinny, and looking more like a tailless rat than a hamster, you say? Kendrick rubbed is chin in thought. “That does sound familiar. And he used to own a tavern hereabouts?”

“I think it was called the Rancid Maggot Inn.” Tits told the helpful barkeeper.

Kendrick snapped his fingers. “I know the place.” He said almost as cheerfully as he might have yelled, “I’ve won the lottery!”

This time he actually lowered his voice to little more than a whisper, and Tits had to strain to catch his words over the general hubbub of the busy bar. “A bunch of weird eastern Europeans have taken it over. I think they might be desmons.”

“I’ve been told they’re bank voles.” Tits corrected him.

“Oh you might be right at that.” Kendrick tried to compare the two species in his mind’s eye. “I’ve also heard that they’re converting it into some sort of education centre – stroke – religious shrine to the former owner. Oh that’d be this Tybrow Mooney that you’re looking for. Odd, he doesn’t look very rat-like in the mural they’ve painted on the side wall. But that’s religious fervour for you: You can be blind to the truth, but still believe.”

Tits found that she liked this Kendrick Tweezledown. He was kindly, slightly lecherous, and possessed great insight and wisdom. He wasn’t that bad looking either

– especially for a mouse.

“Hmmm.” She agreed dreamily.

Kendrick looked at her. “Your pupils are dilating.” He said. “That means one of two things: I’m in with a real chance with you; or you’re too drunk to care.”

“A little of both I expect.” Tits mumbled as her head slumped closer to the bar top.

For the first time since she’d met him, Kendrick looked ill at ease – flustered even. “Do you think one of your friends can come and help prop you up. We’re not due to close for another hour, and I don’t think that you’re going to last the distance.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

Junior Earplug Adventures: The Grand Tour (Part 15)

Yelli had made his farewells by the time that Buttox had rounded up a plugmutt and ridden it into the mountains to a secret, sunny valley…

Stopping only long enough to give the kindly creature the opportunity to piddle up a tree trunk…

…before climbing higher to rediscover…

…the cork gods of the mountains.

“Well if isn’t Buttox Barkingwell!” They exclaimed, as one. They then reminded Buttox of their previous meeting, during which they had given her the magic hat that allowed her to control minds weaker than her own…

Rather needlessly, or so thought Buttox. “Enough of the old times.” She interrupted rudely. “I have something to tell you. It’s about some corks.”

“We know.” They said in unison. “We have read your mind. Now come with us.”

With that the cork gods led Buttox to a patch of instantly forgettable and apparently random mountainside…

…where a couple more corks joined them.

“Fret not, young Barkingwell.” Three of them spoke in perfect harmony. “The matter is in hand. We thank you. Now sod off back to your poxy museum and leave cork problems to corks.”

A moment later the fourth cork escorted the earplug away. Apparently the audience was over…

Buttox took exception to this. In her opinion she was more than capable of departing the secret valley ‘under her own steam‘. The cork’s behaviour was quite unnecessary. She felt insulted. So she decided to produce some steam of her own – and blow it out of her bottom…

…which momentarily overwhelmed her escort’s olfactory senses – rendering him inert. This could not have been better timed, because…

“Did you see that?” The largest cork god exclaimed. “Vile and indignant farts incapacitate corks. Inform our field agent immediately!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2018