oct-magazine

The Kraken Makes: October

In response to a small public outrage in September (not mine, for once) here are a few articles to accompany my latest mag cover. Gird yourselves…oct-magazine

Orangey bit

When Mavis Nutbucket woke one morning to find she could see nothing but orange she rushed to A&E for treatment. However, she discovered that far from suffering from a terminal condition she was just mid Halloween season.

“I’d completely lost track of time,” she said when asked about her panic. “One minute it was summer and then, suddenly, Tesco was so stuffed with Halloween orange that I thought I thought it had caught fire. In fact, I thought I’d developed what idiots think is the condition that makes women only recognise the colour pink. Thankfully I was just being marketed to death instead. I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I mean, at one point, in bed, I actually thought I was shagging an Oompa Loompa.”

Mrs Nutbucket isn’t the only person made to panic by this merciless dash towards Halloween. Mickey Pipette claims to have suffered in Asda. “It happened when I was looking for my pile ointment,” he said. “Suddenly all I could see was scorchingly flammable fabric and I had a flashback to my father scraping out a swede for me to go trick or treating in 1978. Will this hell ever end?”  Nutbucket and Pipette both intend to start legal proceedings as soon as they can differentiate between carrots and pens.

 

orange-1Harvest!

If you’ve fretted about the cost of fabric in recent weeks you aren’t alone. Thanks to a hike in the cost of fucking everything except the ugliest polyester, it seems that the nations’ sewists are going to ever greater lengths to snap up decent fabric.

“I flogged a kidney last week” explained Molly Wodge. “I spotted the gorgeous red wool mix in my local fabric shop and knew there and then that I’d have to compromise my ability to piss straight to get it. It’s not just me doing this, though. Several of the women in my Stitch and Bitch group have done the same thing. One of them is currently mourning the loss of her gall bladder while being comforted by two metres of faux fur. ”

Fleur Donkey has a similar tale to tell. “I didn’t know what else to do,” she says. “I needed two metres of chiffon for a holiday sarong and the only way for me to get it was by selling my right arm. Course, it now means I have to stitch with my teeth but it was soooo worth it. And think of the money it saves me on sunblock!”

Concerns about this alarming trend, though, are now being raised in Parliament. Goggle Valley MP, Mandy Flap, recently asked the PM what she intended to do about rotting organs being pushed about the streets in trolleys. She has been promised an inquiry into the issue but fears that any real concerns about the health of sewists will be masked by the fact that they look just so fucking good.

 

Nights drawing in!aztec-4

Who doesn’t love autumn? The cosy evenings, the comfort food, the annual attempt at leaf-kicking while not looking a complete twat at the age of 46… So why not indulge in a little fireside sewing while you’re at it? Here’s how.

  1. Plan a project that, in all honesty, needs good light and a sewing table and put it on your lap in a room lit solely by flame instead. You know, screw it. You’ll cope;
  2. Stitch, by hand, until the light dims to the point where your eyes begins to squint and water;
  3. Rub said eyes, narrowly missing them with your seam ripper;
  4. Drag yourself off the sofa to switch on the lamp. Settle back down, only realising that you’re sitting on the scissors when the blood pools around your feet;
  5. Notice that, thanks to the shitshower that is your energy saving lightbulb, you won’t have sufficient light to sew by until June 2018;
  6. Get back up and switch on the standard lamp, convinced that this will provide you with ample light to handstitch that entire quilt before the end of Corrie;
  7. Realise, within minutes, that you have marginally less light than a pit pony and significantly fewer prospects of getting this job done;
  8. Get back up and switch on the main living room light, thereby destroying any cosy ambience that was promised to you by your sewing mag;
  9. Go back to your fireside sewing, only now the needle keeps slipping out of your hand because you are sweating so hard from your exertions;
  10. Start sobbing and make a promise to yourself that you won’t sew again until the clocks change again in March.
  11. Give that cosy fire extra punch by chucking your latest copy of Mollie Makes on the flames, dancing around them as they rage.

 

birds beakGo vintage!

Ever looked at Pinterest and wondered how you could achieve the vintage look? You know the one, where pretty tea-sets nestle against quirky ornaments and distressed tables and dressers? Well with this step by step guide from Shirley Peanut you too can create the look!

“Start by looking at your home and deciding that everything in it needs to be burned,” advises Shirley. “This’ll provide you with a blank canvas even if it does mean you need to piss into a bucket for the next six weeks and cook on a primus stove. That’s when you need to start sourcing your key vintage pieces.”

Shirley suggests visiting car boot sales and second hand shops, all the time keeping in mind the potential of the items that you find. However, she also has a few tricks up her sleeve. “Visiting geriatric wards in hospitals always works for me,” crows Shirley. “They can be veritable troves of vintage furniture. Just sneak in at the dead of night, rifle through the patients’ records and find out who’ll soon be passing onto the great yesteryear in the sky. Sidle up to their families when the time comes to commit them to the local council-run plot and make them an offer they can’t refuse. What could be more simple than that?”

In fact Shirley is about to publish her fifteenth book on rifling through skips and dumpsters, perfect if you’re serious about turning your hand to vintage pieces. Chapters of her new book include Chalk Fucking White, Dead People Rock, Why the War was Fun and Miss Haversham Rolls Her Eyes.