Category: Andrew Ian Dodge

Andrew says a little something about the times…

Times a’ changin’, don’t be pinin’
Times a flowin’, don’t be moppin’
Times move on, doncha mourn
Time flows on, don’t be forlorn
Yeah, time moves along apace
Yeah, time moves like a race
Yeah you leave not a trace
Cause time goes, doncha know
Cause time flows, doncha know
Cause time moves, doncha know
Cause time flows, doncha know
Don’t worry it happens to all
Things move all along
No matter what we want
Times moves full trot
Look to the future
With an eye to the past
Hold onto those treasure
And do have yourself a bloody blast

Andrew Ian Dodge continues the saga of The Mime…

As the boat stopped Maurice tried to access his options. He expected to hear splashing soon as the others were tossed overboard. There was no splashing only muffled screaming. The mime was not sure what he heard but he knew he felt something wrap around his body. Something that felt cold, smelled fishy and was quite strong. He felt himself rise into the air and the muscles in the tentacle tensed around him. Maurice tried to wriggle his way out its grasp and tentacle gripped harder. The mime’s breathing became increasingly hard he barely had enough to scream. He tried…

Andrew Ian Dodge continues the tale of the mime…

Maurice was trapped in a bag on the Thames. Those who had been harassed by the mime would find delicious irony in this fact. Maurice assumed he was heading downstream as he wasn’t overly hot in the bag; his face-paint remained in tact. He tried to move a bit in the bag and was able to move around a tad. He couldn’t sit up at all; he could hear others mumbling to themselves. Occasionally he heard voices speaking in an odd language; one involving lots of gutteral grunts and clicks. He was overwhelmed by the fishy smell. The boat stopped…

Time for a little rap with Andrew Ian Dodge lamenting the situation we’re all in…

I’m just a lonely blogger
Writing online to make ends meet
I’ve got loads of ideas
And comment on current news every week
My shoulders are quite stiff
& my fingers are well used
And I often forget to dress
My best ideas come when I’m nude
I drink copious of amounts
Of lemon tea each day
It gets the juices flowing
And keeps me regular so its said
The newest is podcasting
This could be my thing
I’ve loads of contributors
And its getting quite interesting
Oh someone pay me to write
That is my only wish
You know its my right
Please someone pay me to write

I challenged Andrew Ian Dodge to write a story about a mime getting the crap beaten out of him because I was having a lousy day.
What do you think? Did he meet the challenge?

Maurice had been “performing” in the park next to the House of Commons all evening. He was doing all the classics.
For all his admirers there was at least 10 others who found his performance irritating. He contently cursed the philistine English under his breath as he did his bit.
Later in the evening he had a bit of bread and some wine as a late dinner. The cool river air put him to sleep.
He didn’t notice the oddly shaped men approach him. Their strength overwhelmed him as they tossed him in a sack.
The mime couldn’t cry out.

I think he did. Splendidly.

Andrew Ian Dodge brings us more from Galad’s tales…

“You bastard Galad!” grunted the large man. “You fucking promised me 5000 quid! And the pick of the women!’
“Yes, I did Ahmed,” he calmly paused lifting the man with ease. “You promised me that things would go smoothly.”
“What the hell you playing at?”
Galad tossed him into the large hole. He yelled behind him; “enjoy your 72 virgins unbeliever!”
Ahmed screamed as he plummeted into darkness unaware of the gapeing maw beneath him.
“But not before you help feed my helper!” Looking at the collection of fag ends on the ground. “Hope it enjoys the taste of nicotine.”

Sorry for sitting on this one for so long, Andrew. Hopefully it hasn’t lost its bite…

Not quite in his padded cell; Galad said a prayer for DPM John Prescott MP. The bloody great row about him and his relationship with AEG did a great job of deflecting unwanted attention from Galad’s latest project. Even the reports of disappearances from Scottish cities had disappeared into the back pages of the newspapers. Yet again, Galad had been saved by the stupidity of others. He wrote his spell in blood on the ancient parchment. It was fortunate that tramp’s blood worked as well as virgin’s. “Nicely done John ole’ boy.” He smirked as he murmured aloud to himself.

Sauntering into the scene
Getting all’s attention
Looking for the cream
With loads of pretention
Misery is all they leave
For the money they crave
Discord is all they leave
Trashing reps o’ the brave
Hailing from exotic places
Lieing about past traces
Pick em’ off one by one
Until they are the Don
Looks don’t matter loads
Justs take a bit o’ bold
Fat or fine works just the same
When handing out the pain
Misery is all they leave
For the money they crave
Discord is all they leave
Trashing reps o’ the brave oh yeah

Andrew Ian Dodge continues the story of Galad:

Unlike some of his fellow mass exterminators; Galad didn’t have an army protecting him from his persecutors. He once had a small army around him to make sure no one got near but that was not really possible in the modern day. He had a few helpers and that was it. His fate would to be stuck in a sound-absorbent padded cell until death. His captors wouldn’t be keen on any chanting or praying lest he calls for help. He would be fed three meals a day. He wondered how long he would take to revert to his true form.

Andrew has a new podcast called Dodging Reality that’s an eclectic blend of various contributors. If you’re got an opinion and a moment to record your thoughts, why not give Andrew a shout and send your recordings his way?

Andrew Ian Dodge continues the creepy saga of… GALAD!

Galad wasn’t known to panic. He generally eliminated his problems without prejudice. He was feeling a bit of it now it has to be said. The delays to the project due to lack of raw materials was getting the Evening Standard interested. And Galad was wise enough to know in his business it was unwise to go around knocking off reporters. He really did need to get some more supplies and quick. His trickle of addicts and homeless from London was not doing the trick. Galad impatiently waited to see if his Scottish source could supply any more from Glasgow.