As was her want, she patted the host of toothy-grinning, expectant young fillies on the bonce. Ruffling their flowing locks, she smiled, for the time had come for a little divine magic. From just one cotton candy stick and two lollipops, a supernatural phenomenon, as she handed out to each and every one of the pretty little things, the whole ten thousand of them, a single candy stick and a lollipop, all the time singing to herself, ‘Anything you can do I can do better, I can do anything better than you’. She had a certain way with young maidens. They adored her. Sweet miracles her forte. Aside from her propensity to furnish the girlys with a regular overdose of sugar and carbohydrates, why would they not adore her? After all, she was The Goddess of the entire known universe. The mother…a word she’s never quite got on with…of all Goddesses and self-proclaimed Gods, perched atop the latter-day pecking order, her lesser sister Goddesses tolerated, but never loved.

Rather than take up residence in the stereotypical misty, ever changing, ever so tedious, monochrome  clouds or freezing one’s tit’s off on dubious Grecian mountain peaks she, at long last, got around to making terra firma upon Planet Earth her home, the Château de Versailles, to be precise. “Where else is a goddess expected to live on this wretched globe? What with Louis XIV’s marvellous bedroom I’ve commandeered and an illustrious lake I can occasionally cartwheel across to impress the mortals, ‘tis the perfect spot for a gal craving Parisian panache, at all costs. A pity there aren’t any flaky lepers in the vicinity to heal from time to time. C’est la vie,” her general take on the subject of her choice of quarters.

Ever since the fatal decline of weary monotheism’s ‘one all-powerful god’ notion, the conscious womanly human beings had seen, indeed previously demanded, the birth of an exclusive feminine polytheism… a matriarch deity by any other name.

Although she could barely countenance her sister Goddesses, and with great reluctance, she sanctioned their permanent stay at the palace. Her reasoning? “I have the power, they can tinker with all the swoony rituals that bore me shitless.” In essence, she ruled with absolute authority. Her name, Allura. Her colouring, as with all the exclusively feminal populace, divine or otherwise, of the Heavenly Body, cinnamon.

How so this new world order…and what of the one male she had left alive, and debatably well…now that testosterone brutishness had become a nothing, national borders an irrelevance, and bloody wars a thing of the past? Only time would tell. However, one thing was clear. I’d heard it said, woe betide the immaculate birth of boy child’s. Save for the chosen few, they would be scrupulously selected with eventual breeding in mind. The rest, they would be ‘done for’ at birth.


Let me explain. Once I was a soldier. Only when peace became viral was I no longer fit for purpose. I often think back to that day Goddess Allura, she of flowing autumn leaf locks, contradictory fishnet stockings and an inescapable risqué lime green shirtdress, quite out of the blue and across all worldwide television stations, be they linear or streaming servicers, made herself known. “I imagine you, my new found flunkeys, must be wondering what the fuck is going on? I’m sure you are, hence, I shall tell you, and in truth I’ve let this issue run far too long. My name is Allura, and I am the Goddess, the self-same Goddess who fashioned all that you are, and all that you will be…it’s all down to me with a little help from my sister Goddesses. All previous deities as of this moment are redundant…not, I stress, were they anything other than a well-groomed fantasy in the first place. No more the ‘man upstairs’, make way for the ‘woman downstairs’, a woman not too posh to evade living in the company of all of you, rather than hiding behind an invisible false perception and written words of so called scriptures. Do remember, it suited man to make a God in his image rather than the reverse. Take it as read, I am the real McCoy.” Pausing for a moment to roll and light a cigarette, after a few hearty, deep puffs, followed by a bout of wheezy coughing, she continued, “Why, oh why, when creating humans in my image did I construct males and give them ugly dangly bits, and the scope for sinewy muscles and repulsive alpha-male broad-shoulders…not that, that many of you chaps listening in took up that particular offer…did you, fat boys? Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking of. Still, it’s all sorted now as 99.999% recurring, of you chaps, young, old and in-between will be culled in the blink of an eye, for when I click my fingers you will cease to breath; will be no more…say, as of now! Bye, bye.”

My comrade-in-arms and I were glued to the TV watching the Goddess’ announcement, all seventy of us, crammed into the officers mess. Instantaneously, all that was left was just me. The rest had simply somehow dematerialized. Traumatised, I stayed fixed to the screen. Was it a satirical smirk or a feigned smile upon her otherwise charismatic face? It mattered not, save for a sip of opaque absinthe from a chipped champagne glass through a plastic straw, she was back in full flow, “Right then ladies of Earth, I am here to be worshipped and in return I shall make your wildest dreams come true should you follow me…I should add, if not, misfortune will befall you. You see, I made a grave error of judgment when designing males, all we really needed in the first place was but a few stooge men, a freezer and sufficient sperm. What a silly Billy I was in hindsight. Never mind, world order, the way of things as mankind has understood it for eons, as of the moment is done with. Masculinity has become nought but a lamb to the slaughter. Henceforth and forthwith…I so love saying that…the last male still standing shall have but one major purpose, that being…and I’m sure you ladies have already guessed what that might be!”

Yet another break taken in the heart-to-heart for a swift glug from the damaged glass…the plastic straw aborted…of absinthe, then, “To the one out there left alive…yes you, I know you’re watching this broadcast…I shall, by way of commandment, expect you to give yourself up to my legions of snotty nosed angels who are already, I stress, on your case. What will become of you, you may ask? Some of us will, no doubt, see you as a mere plaything for us gals to abuse, like you chaps once did to us, others might conclude you suitable for breeding, as in siring the next generation of exclusive females. Not I stress, breeding by way of the traditional leg-over mode you may well have taken for granted. Oh no, that would never do. Better you think, lady farmer and her hoofed mammals, as you are now akin to livestock. After all, a tub of sexed semen from just the one bull can spawn any number of fresh new female calf’s. See, I’ve given you a purpose!  ‘Unblessed those with bollocks for they shall inherit sweet fuck all’, I say. Goddess only knows why I left you all in charge. Still, your kind had their opportunity. Since the beginning of time I’ve let your, now deceased, countrymen run the place, yet they treated women as nothing more than mere chattels or sex objects, and have comprehensively failed to succeed or achieve. Warfare, disease, famine, plagues, viruses, rapes, inquisitions, and plunder; selfish, bossy bastards one and all. To the one…yes, I’m still talking to you…about to be belittled, no one salutes you. I trust you understand…well, I don’t give a flying fuck if the truth be told, whether you do or don’t, actually…but you alone must pay for the crimes of your forefathers; their crimes against women. Let you be made an example of; let you suffer as did the women and, I might add, the planet itself. Only then will I declare you surplus to requirements. Gosh, I’ve rabbited on haven’t I, never mind, that’s all I have to say for now…bollocks, my iPhone’s begging for my lugholes…oh, nearly forgot, you can catch up with me on Twitter, although I stress I don’t ‘follow’ back! Bye, bye.”


Albeit in the fullness of time, and as forecast, they came for me. Allura’s henchwomen, certified white feather-winged angels on Harley-Davidson’s them all, tooled up to the gunnels and clearly not keen on taking prisoners should I protest.  At the time, I’d been trying to stay out of harm’s way in an old military underground fortification just off the Normandy coast. It seems there was no place for me to hide…


blue eyed cat front cover

Herewith the inevitable ‘Blurb’ for my latest book, a fictional story entitled ‘The Blue-Eyed Cat’;
‘A book of mind boggling time-travel, feverish sex, syrupy romance, ho hum history, a dark future, The Moon, Constantinople, Paris and Berlin, human consciousness, infinity, a tongue in cheek take on all things carnal, art for art’s sake and three thoroughly mad yet oh so delightful gals’
Should it take your fancy it can be found at;
I am not entirely sure of other Amazon global links and thus I apologize for not revealing them here.




    1. My thanks, Ms S. This one doth appear to have cost me a few followers. C’est la vie. I’ve been engrossed in doing a little of this and that and really do have some obscure tales to tell you. By the way, your book is a joy to read. You style of writing is very much your own. You have the ‘less is more’ skills I can only dream of…more on that soon. Super stuff.

      1. Oh my lord, you are way, way too kind. I mostly think I write crap. And my toes generally don’t just bunch when i reread bits, they knot ten times over, and I hit myself for allowing that other bit of me to write a word. Listen you don’t need to dream of any ‘skills’ from me. You are a wonderful writer. Oh God yes. I am just awful at padding you know. I was reared watching old movies. And I see anything I write that cut to the chase storyboarded way. I worked for a while in comics and it quite suited cos you thought in storyboards, just the dialogue and the basic instruction to the artist, so many frames per script, always end with a cliffhanger. Never you mind re followers. I love your work. It’s fearless and true, intelligent and evocative and anyone who thought…hmmm.. does not know what they are missing.

      2. I disagree with the version of yourself you paint, Ms S. In the tale that follows I, for just one example, make mention of your ability to create and introduce, in just the first few pages of a book, a number of wholly believable characters by way of a well-chosen word or clever nuance. I haven’t got a hope when it comes to that ‘gift’, and gift is what it is. I’ll wax more lyrical on the subject when I eventually get a serious review together…your book deserves it. A lengthy comment coming up, I apologize, but the whole world seems to have had a laugh about the events I shall describe, so I thought I’d share it with you.
        Right then. A couple of weird tales the latter of which dear Shirl has shared with all continents of Earth save for South America and Africa. I mentioned before that I’ve got this stress triggered IBS. They give me tablets that begin with ‘M’ followed by 30 odd letters, when put together I can’t even pronounce. This is while back I should add. I’m three chapters through your book at the time. Enjoying it, relaxing, impressed at the way…as I mention, above…you introduce in chapter one a number of characters that one can see in the mind’s eye straight of the bat and believe in all because you use a well-chosen word or clever nuance. I go for to the kitchen to get coffee. I come back and I can’t remember a single thing I’d read. I tell Shirl. She says I’ve been stopping mid sentences in conversation for a while. She suggests it might be dementia. The thing is I knew it was the tablets. They’d been playing with my mind. So I cut them out for 5 days and my head was back to working order. I then feel as fit as the proverbial dog. Had full recollection of your book. Then the IBS decides to return. In essence I have to live with it and hope I can soon rid myself of the tabs. All this has meant is things like the blog are erratic presently.
        Moving on, the event that Shirl caused…in her own sweet little way…to go, arguably, global. You see I’m trying things out that aren’t tablets from the doc. I’ve had success with all sorts of probiotic ‘stuff’. Also a thing called magnesium flakes. Expensive ones on recommendation. Basically, you run a bath and chucked a bundle of flakes in, then relax for 20-30 mins, 3 times a week. I hadn’t had a bath for 10-12 years as I always shower. So, there’s me in the bath. Now you have to take into account that I’m a worrier. I can worry about anything. While in the bath I notice a rather crucial part of me…that part women don’t have…is ‘floating’; literally ‘floating’. I remember thinking that that had never happened before in all my life insofar as I could recall. Had ‘they’ got a mind of their own? I started thinking I might have a unique form of cancer. Then I lie back in the bath for a jolly good think. In doing so I notice my legs are now ‘floating’…it was all my calf muscles could do to get said legs underwater. I concluded that I had somehow created the Dead Sea in a bath. I then realized the ‘flakes’ were essentially made from salt. Problem over…or was it? Oh no, I don’t get that sort of luck. Shirl thinks I’m talking rubbish.
        Three days later, another bath. Halfway through in comes Shirl. She establishes I’m not telling lies. A couple of OMG’s and LOL’s later she agrees that it’s the flakes, yet not before adding, ‘so cute’…which did little for my self-confidence. Then she suggests she get her iPhone for pictures of my…as she now refers to them as, ‘floating bollocks’. Plainly I told her that that was not a runner in part or at all. Over the next few days she phoned around telling her chums and some of mine all about it. My how we laughed!

      3. My lord that is so -oh funny. Jeez. Also I think with this craziness right now and folks going batshit nuts, we are all doing odd things. I took my older girl a bunch of flowers this morning cos she has worries right now and I actually took them downstairs in the jug and looked for a bag to put them AND the jug in, water and all. I mean DUHHHHH. Everyone seems to be doing things that aren’t just down to doing stuff you don’t usually do or haven’t done for years. I hope you do get this IBS under some sort of control. My dear sister claims to have it. I say claims cos the list of what she doesn’t have is shorter. and whatever she does have doesn’t make her any nicer. XXXXX again for your kind words. Truly you are a gent in every way. xxxx

      4. I’m now referred to as a native American called ‘Big Chief Floating B……s’. Thanks Shirl!
        Yes, I agree, these are strange times, yet not all is a disaster. I don’t think Shirl and I have laughed so much for years. We make a point of sitting outside the back of the house, pre getting to the garden itself, in what she’s made a mini-French café…we even have a flag up, pretending we’re in France. Okay, there’s no scope for people watching…especially so the mademoiselles promenading, yet a chat, a coffee and a fag works fine. Prior to the shutting down of cafes we religiously visited daily, so now we do the self-same thing at home. The plus being that we talk to each other rather than people we bump into in a regular café…quite often seeing me in a row with right-wingers and racists. Less stress etc.
        I love your story re the flowers. I can picture that. Slapstick humour will make a recovery in these times. It’s a form of humour if, like you, it isn’t planned. Talking of your sister, I well remember Shirl’s mum Olive. Once she was chatting away with a friend of ours. Olive knew the friends mother very well but hadn’t seen her for a while. Upon hearing that the old dear suffered from whatever it was she suffered from, Olive said ‘I’ve had that’. Then as the next illness was announced, Olive pitched in with another, ‘I’ve had that,’ and so on, and on, an on. Then it came to our friend saying, ‘Mum died last week’. Olive’s riposte of disappointment? ‘Well I’m nearly dead’. 100% true story. We hung our heads in shame!

      5. That is brill. Obvi not one to be left out eh! Love the sound of your cafe. Great to know that folks are indeed doing their thing, creating their own space, making their bit of heaven for them. In those moments you can forget the bat-shittedness going on all round. AND count yourself in a place you love. What I love re where we are is that the gardens are so private …you would not there’s even houses where there are houses and everyone is quietly doing their thing. They have been from the start. I of course know..LOl.. cos our kitchen is upstairs so we do see it all.

      6. If I remember correctly, Ms S, I’ve seen some shots of your garden either on WP or FB a while back and recall it being ideal to enjoy without others blocking the view. I rather like the concept of an upstairs kitchen. We inherited an extra bathroom right next to the kitchen from the days when this was a guest house. We have no excuses when it comes to cleaning teeth following a Scottish smoked mackerel salad! I still don’t buy English or Welsh anything.

      7. AWWWW. You are a gem Mike. We liked smoked salmon and scrambled eggs… A monthly treat. I mind your house was once a guest house.Most convenient re the bedroom. Ours is the upper half of and Edwardian so the kitchen is upstairs. The garden at the back of the house backing on to various other quite secret ones. Lots of houses been built in grounds of bigger houses here. So i do have a bird’s eye view

    1. I agree, Liz…although I have to say as I’ve progressed with this tale she’s turned a little dangerously darker at a time when I’d hoped she’d be more satirically dark. I must have a word with her. Regards, The Old Fool

      1. I do hope so, Liz. That last I heard the Goddess had taken a dislike to the last man standing…this could go tragically wrong for him. I’m being to wonder if I need a divine super-hero to intervene. My thanks for your interest, The Old Fool

      2. It has failed thus far, Liz. The last man of earth is, put frankly, an abject bore. I need to beef him up to match the Goddess and here mad angels.

  1. Brilliant. I do think the Goddess might regret limiting the gene pool so, but then she can always tinker with the science if need be. I just hope the soldier left alive is up to the task before him. We’re counting on it.

    1. Ah, young Leslie. I can report that the last man standing is presently in the hands of falsetto voiced, white-winged angels dressed as 1970’s punks, prior to his forced pilgrimage to nirvana, otherwise known as Versailles. I have to say this tale may well die a natural…it’s getting too weird for even me!

    1. It’s daft is this one, Rachel. Because of lockdown I’ve been able to write a ton of extra words following on from this blog post. I’ve hit a mountain though. The Goddess is a diamond; the wicked angels a joy to write about…I have them with falsetto voices now just to make the whole thing weirder, but the last living male human isn’t working and I don’t know why. He’s a fine chap. Truly frustrating as I think I could be onto a half-decent tale here.

  2. Cost you a few followers? Why on earth? Oh Master Steeden, your stories are always a bit of fun, a bit of inspiration, a bit of style! I do like how she wished for the occasional leper to heal for a show–such is the deity’s conundrum 🙂 And the Harleys! As a Wisconsinite, may I just add that a mere fifty of those things can tear up the sound barrier for ages. A Heavenly army of thousands could silence the world–which, come to think, may have been their plan… 🙂

    1. Ah, young Ms Lee. I’ve long since come to the conclusion that some take life too seriously. Save for just a few delicate subjects, to me nothing is taboo. Dark semi-satire, a thing I enjoy, and it harms no one. Written with tongue in cheek a ‘thing’…whatever that ‘thing’ might be…shouldn’t offend, yet there are always a tiny, overtly serious, minority who see it otherwise. Having said that I find myself struggling taking this tale forward. The Goddess is a diamond gal, as are her angels…to whom I’ve since given high-pitched, falsetto voices and a passion for loathing the very existence of the last human male standing, via inuendo or actual semi-violent behaviour, jealously their motive. They do, after all have him a prisoner. I’ve written another 10,000 words or so…curtesy of ‘lockdown’…and it’s that last male on Earth who is not working for me. I haven’t got a blind clue why. He’s friendly enough, has self-deprecating wit, yet put together with the angel gals on a pilgrimage to the latter day nirvana, Versailles, there’s no comfortable connection twixt both sides i.e. he and them. I may have to abort this one. Such is life. I do hope you’re creative juices still flow in these strange times. Regards, The Old Fool

      1. Oh dear! What a bummer one character puts the whole story into a precarious position….hmmm. What if the last male was a different kind of male, such as a morose slob or pious teenager? Hmph, I’m not sure about those either, but perhaps it’s a matter of changing up the chemistry?

      2. Fine observations, Ms Lee. I’ve since worked out the issue. He…the male character…was ‘me’, being ‘me’. That’s never happened previous! No wonder it wasn’t working!

  3. Great stuff, TOF!
    I finally answered a comment you left on my blog…. about a gown for this woman!
    From reading this… what I have suggested would be her regular classic goddess gown. Obviously she makes many appearances in fashions along the road of her story.

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