Hi, I'm N.Reg Mother and through a lifetime of travel, adventure and heroism I have devised a spiritual ideoligicum that will improve your life beyond the realsm of your wildest dreams, called wotanology. I have also long disproved the foul and evil so-called theories behind gynaecology, which has for so long plagued our society and given womenfolk ideas beyond their natural station.
For many years Mother worked as an esteemed research fellow in gynaecology at the university of Bermeja writing many papers that are still widely used today. However, after an unfounded scandal he was forced to leave, and having all his works discredited by jealous haters, he enlisted in the Navy. During his naval career Mother lead a heroic assault on an unarmed cluster of rocks, however, the rocks did not let off easy, and the ship he was dashed to pieces. He was released from the Navy with full dishonour. Times became rough for our hero as he trudged around South America often picking up work where he could. Sometimes as a carpenter, sometimes as a rentboy. Returning to explore the wilds of England Mother discovered evidence, the basis of which would provide the foundations of Wotanology, at the foot of Horsendon Hill, Middlesex. N. Reg Mother is the founder of Wotanology as well as the author of many fine works such as Aliens, Go Home or How to Avoid Work, and Satan’s Blufty. He has recorded over 3 billion works on Wotanology and has climbed the North Face of Everest no less than 1,500 times. One of which was on a monocycle for charity.
The rain beat down on my brow as I entered Ching Chong Chows Chinese Pagoda Restaurant, Takeaway and Pool Hall. Ching Chong Chows is a local eatery for the most elite foodies in my area and was established in my favourite culinary anno, 1975. I sat down with Johnny Raymond, I mean Mr. R, and I must profess to having a hard time selecting from the menu. Which to have, one wonders, pork dumplings? Salt and pepper ribs? Chiney Chef Special Sauce Oysters? Whole Peking Duck? Prawn toast? Skewered liver and Bacon Chiney Style? Cod Balls Chiney Chef Surprise? Crispy Seaweed? Sweet and sour lice crabs? Tango Ribs? Hong Kong Ribs? Barbecue Ribs? Three Month Matured Spring Roll? Stuff it, I decided, I’ll have it all, and that was just starters. Mr. R had some soup. The butter-like grease from the dumplings, cascaded down my chins like an elegant waterfall in a Chinese garden. All the ribs came away from their bones with the ease of breathing itself. The Whole duck which I devoured, not unlike the Cookie Monster of Sesame Street, was that good I ordered a second one to take the edge off, and everything else went down in a whirling orgy of greed, lust and spite.
For my main I had Sweet and sour pork balls, sweet and sour pork Hong Kong Style, sweet and sour chicken and sweet sour veg all served on a veritable King size bed of rice. A pallid Mr. R had a ham sandwich. There I was gobbling up my meal with relish when it happened. A small rumble in my tummy, no matter thinks I, but then my guts began to quake alarmingly and sweat began to flow from my brow in torrents and stung my eyes. I looked over to the toilet, but the thoroughfare, that would have allowed my passage, was so hopelessly full of diners that I stood little chance on making it. I looked at Mr. R apologetically, grease, sweet and sour sauce, rice and sweat dripping from jowls and mouthed, ‘sorry.’ Then I unleashed a gastric eruption of such ungodly proportions it would have equalled the arrival of Baphomethimself, in volume and stench. To compound this I followed through with 8 pounds of muck and sludge. Some of it solid, some of it not.
Mr. Wu Shu Wank, proprietor of Ching Chong Chows, please accept this as my official apology for clearing your restaurant at such a busy time.
Dear reader, I am recovering from a gang of yobbos who have been churning my front lawn with those wretched miniature motorcycles. I tried to summon the powers of Wotan, using the kcuf eht lleh ffo mantra, but to no avail. I then performed some sex majik to exorcise these street urchins, and as a result it was me that was arrested and threatened with the bloody sex offenders register pending a court judgement.
Rest assured all devotees of Wotan, these measures work most times just not on this occasion.
It has come to my attention, that a well-known celebrity lifestyle blogger, and clearly a homosexual, has began muttering things about myself and the Church of Wotanology. And they have not been positive things, dear reader. Oh no. Desist immediately unless you want to be at the wrong end of a no win no fee lawyer. D’ya hear?
The simple answer is NO, we don’t have to. Work is for the lower orders or numbskulls who do stuff for you, juts because you ask. It clearly says so in the book of Wotan, let me tell you.
It’s my own fault I know, dear reader, but I have just suffered the most hideous sunburn imaginable on my recent holiday in Crete. I also suffer from heatstroke terribly and it is not uncommon to see me waddling around a resort, stripped naked, pink as a pig and howling to Hades as I succumbed to all manner of strange delusions which are often filled with enraged eroticisms. Oh yes, dear reader, many an old Baba, hunched over as she tries to negotiate a dusty, winding road through a village, her black shawl and dress rustling in a breeze. Then, a look of indescribable horror she is forced, by morbid interest, to behold an Adonis, 6ft 6, 400 lbs, lobster red, crazy eyed, as naked as the day he was born and clearly aroused screeching obscenities at the heavens as he shucks through town like some kind of undead. Oh reader, I have spent many nights cooling off in a foreign gaol, as you can imagine. Fnar, fnaaar.
Some underling came to Wotan one day and said “Lord and sire, the Gynos are gathering up their forces and mustering in Tolworth to fight you. They have also wound up our women folk and given them ideas above their station and the lower orders and people of colour.”
Wotan thought long and hard, holding his manly beard in his hands, gave a gastric eruption and muttered something that was not heard by the underling, but probably and ungentalmanly profanity.
He gathered his forces at the foot of Tolworth tower, in what is now Surrey, the next day. After travelling by foot from what is now the USA with 10 billion hungry proles. He collected his forces in one big fuck off line and faced the Gynos much bigger forces (they had also collected all of Wotan’s peoples womenfolk, ungrateful proles and colourds), and the face each other across a field.
He then rode his horse, Terrence, a dappled stud 50 hands high, in front of his men and said:
‘These bloody Gynos have taken our womenfolk and given them ideas which have confused them. Ideas like, how they can work the same as us and that when their natural place is in the kitchen and bedroom. They don’t take into account that when the women are with child that they’ll want maternity leave… and expect to be paid for it too, and have their job on their return when they’re all soft in the head! It takes the fucking piss.
“And don’t talk to me about those ungrateful colourds and bastards who have aligned with the girlies. The colords will do our shit jobs and the others are probably poofs which is sinful. So lets fucking kill all of’em.”
With their was a huge roar, which shok the ground and made all the birds fell the trees in flight. The Gyros looked at each other and looked all worried. Saussos the leader of the Gyros whimpered, “look boys and girls I know we’re all liberals and therefore shitters but lets give it a go ya, and then maybe get some lattes after.”
Wotan and his lads thundered across the field and clashed into the Gybos like in Braveheart. Wotan was in first and flying kicked Saussos so hard he flew into space, squaling like a little girl. Half the Gyros army, women, colourds and proles who were seeking “fairness” shit themselves and fled. The fight was over in 10 minutes leaving a load of wounded Gyros on the floor. None of Wotan’s men had as much as scratch.
“Maybe we should show the survivors mercy, so they will learn that we are forgiving people and maybe teach them the right way, too,’ said one of Wotan’s advisors.
“No we’ll touchier our ways into’em,’ so says Wotan, ‘They’ll never forget then.’
Wotan had that done and then the advisor killed for being such a liberal.
Anyone who criticises the Church of Wotanolgy –from hereon to be known as critisisorists – is a terrorist. There have been many provable links of critisisorists who have are terrorists or, who have had no provable links with terrorists, terrorist groups or terrorism. This has been discovered with the tireless research performed by us and some bloke we found in the Brighton Free Ads. As a result, any critisisorists from now on will have their asses sued by our no win no fee lawyers and end up getting batty raped by marines at gitmo once their terrostness has been discovered.
The ambience at Lidl was intriguingly stifling and one is instantly reminded of what Gropecunt Lane was like two-hundred years ago. A fight broke out between two of the patrons as I was about to commence a perambulation of the isles. Two, what I took for females - only because of the pendulous breasts they were sporting – weighing in at around 350 lbs a piece, began to square off to each other in a most colourful fashion. One was a hunchbacked crone with, dirt coloured hair which hung like wet string fro her visibly irritated scalp. T’other had rather long, luxutious blond hair but this was spoiled by the lump of pustule infested meat which looked as if a navvy had spent the day beating it with a shovel, which it framed. After enjoying them wallop each other and screeching “ave that yeaow kant” at one another, I decided to continue on my culinary voyage. Oh foodies beware, Lidl has one or two surprises in stock for the refined pallet at prices which will keep your wallet delighted as well as your lower intestines. Exotic variations of spam fritters, Turkish hotdogs, dry frozen prunes served in industrial grade syrup fresh from Serbia and a wonderfully intriguing dish which rejoices under the name “canned meat – origins unknown”. What surprises does it hide, one wonders. Even if one is an expert on all things food, such as I, one never fails to receive a gastric education at Lidl. For example I was up until know completely unaware that fillet de porc is as and as thick as man’s arm and even has an elbow joint in it. I decided to select from the menu and then dine in the wonderfully decedent car park area al fresco. Starter was a wholesome chicken and bacon sandwich. The chicken was nice and dry and has the same consistency as halva. The bacon? stiff as a board and you could’ve used it great nutmeg, delicious. Du pain managed to be both soggy, stale and stiff all at the same time, hats off to the chef, and for some reason there was evidence of a smear of marmite in mine. Are they experimenting, one wonders. Main was a simple Peppered Steak Slice al a Ginsters, followed by just as simple, but wonderfully done vanilla pudding. The pudding had a strange biological smell and quality to it that I had not been expecting, and give it quite a kick, yummy. This was all washed down by a bottle or two of Chateau a la Shite budget Nigerian Cooking Wine 2010. The bill came to £6.15. I would have gladly paid double that for this deliciously enticing meal of mystery.
So it is my old friend and fellow Wotanologist Bernard Madoff has been slung into debtor’s prison, as another follower of Wotanology Richard Madeley protests his innocents on radio 4 regarding that heist he tried to pull on Sainsbury’s. I have also had many brushes with law and have done a spell in a Turk chokey and Bangkok clink before now, let me tell you dear reader.
I may get leather biker’s jackets printed up for the Church, with gang colours printed up on them with the chapter written underneath.
But this is all by the by dear reader, with Madeley on Desert Island Disk it shant be long before all manner of media ruffians trapes a path to my door and seek me as a guest on their sleazy programs.
Here’s a list what I absolutely demand be waiting for in my dressing room for those seeking to hire me for enlivening their programs or evening events:
48 sticks of butter, 6 packs of Charmin Kitchen towels, 8 packs of D-cell batteries, 6 bottles of Nigerian cooking wine, 2 bottles of Tramp Trawler whiskey-like drink, the bra section of Little woods catalogue, a chimpanzee, 8 pounds of chocolate, a plump rumped rent boy, 6 boxes of Viagra, 12 pounds of marijuana, a bottle of pure lysergic acid, twice the amount of amphetamines you deem appropriate for human consumption, a pair of nipple tassels, a single rubber glove, a Japanese gentleman and a used 10 pound note.
Dear reader. Last week in a simple moment of indulgence I spent more than I aught on shoes and weskits. Several thousand pounds in fact. Now my damned credit card was wrenched from my grip and callously cleaved in two by some bloody dullard of a shop girl, so beneath my station I could barely credit it. Then to compound this act of impudence, the wretched creature dared utter, and I quote: “no more heels for you, fat boy”.
Oh reader I weep, pity me.
Now I have some half-witted thugs, calling themselves bailiffs at me heels. The credit crunch is supposed to be suffered by the dronelike zombies who work for a living. Not privileged prophets like yours truly. Was Jesus ever flung into a debtors prison because they wouldn’t let him off the exaggerated costs of a Top Shop store card? I think not.
I have, of course, demanded a bail out from the government, but to no avail. My old chum Fatty Brown isn’t returning my calls, but that’s what happens when you have a scotchman in the house.
Thus reader I await you kind donations. They can be wired direct to my account or placed between two slices of corrugated cardboard and be posted to me. Nothing less then a grand, dear reader, do be sensible.
Now then. I must return to my bacon sub, whose attentions I have been neglecting. Come here you!
Three –and-a-half trillion years ago Gynos, from the planet Gyno – which is in the Turdus Solitarius – came to Earth on seventy-five trillion Boeing 737s to use the supply of Earth women for “breeding purposes”.
During the flight there was an almighty mutiny, orchestrated by the lower orders of Gynos. They were pissed off that their Leader, Samu, and his mates - the upper-class Gynos - were enjoying all the trappings of business class, while they had to travel in the cramped conditions of economy class for duration of the three-thousand year journey.
To “lean” the lower orders for there impudence, Samu, on their arrival, pile the planes on top of one another at the foot of what is now Horsenden Hill, Middlesex and then blows them up with H bombs to show the lower orders that he “ain’t messing about”.
Wotan, who was roaming the land and keeping things in order, alerted to the explosion ran from his big flash house in Hollywood Los Angeles, across the seas saw Samu embroiled in a very amateurish punch-up with one of the main ones of the lower order. Seeing that this was a result of idle hands gave Samu a roundhouse kick to the head and said “get a job”.
Because there was no job centres in them days Wotan, being wise and merciful gave Samu a job as second in command saying, ‘I like the cut of your gib. The way you smack them proles around and letting them know whose boss, is right up my street, because I don’t take no shit, from no ne’er-do-well. Sam, you can be my lieutenant and help me keep things in order around here. If you play your cards right you and me’ll be best buddies.”
And so they became best buddies and roamed the land righting wrongs and keeping everyone in their rightful place. But came the day when Wotan discovered Samu was teaching his foul Gynaecology and giving the women folk haughty ideas above their station.
Wotan invited Samu for a drink at the pub one day. When Samu arrived, Wotan got the rounds in and asked Samu to come around the back for a chat. Samu, expecting nothing obliged, and when the got around there, Wotan, acting as if he was going to tell him something well important, round house-kicked him in the head so hard his neck stretched around fifteen feet. Wotan then proclaimed, “right you, from now on you’ll be a goddamn giraffe and I doom you to spend the rest of your goddamn days nibbling cherries from tree tops in the jungle, biatch. Now get!”
Samu tried to get one of them no win no fee shyster lawyers to sue Wotan’s arse but they were no match compared to Wotan’s team of Lawyers who succeeded in counter suing Samu and suing Samu’s mum for giving birth to such a specimen.
And that is how giraffes were invented and why there are no giraffes around Horsendon Hill, Middlesex. Fact.
Fairness in society – some of us are born privileged
The Guardian and The Independent newspapers
She Ra cartoons and memorabilia
Anyone who does not exhibit velveteen portraits of N. Reg Mother (looking typically ravishing) in prominent positions in a multitude of highly visible locations in their threshold and places of work.
Naked or near-naked ladies and other such obscenities
Weston-super-Mare and anyone from there
Any remarks to any degree of negativity directed at N. Reg Mother or Steven Segal (the two are often mistaken, dear reader)
Low fat foods – an abomination, I’m sure you’d agree
Anyone saying anything that is not positive about Wotan or Wotanology
Shops that aren’t supermarkets
Weight Watchers
Freedom of speech – unless to espouse the attributes of The Church of Wotanology
Bumholing and Giddy Aunting
Ladylads
The budget-minded – Wotanology is not for you
All the scoundrel so-called literary agents who have refused my masterpieces.
Sneak-thieves in the night
Men who are not manly
Women
Knickers
Fruit
Aeroplane lavatories – they do not adequately accommodate my almighty girth
Health food
Proletarians
This is an incomplete and ever growing list and will undoubtedly be added to in the future.
I would like to share with you my thoughts regarding the recent spate of lycra-clad superhero movies that have come out recently at the talkies:
What would my super power be? I mused, gazing whimsically at a large voyage of mildewed damp across the ceiling. Super strength? Nay. Invisibility? Hmmm, intriguing. But nobody will be able to behold my beauty, so nay. A body, made of bricks, flourished by a pair of royal blue underpants that seem a size or two too small, perchance? Nay, nay and thrice nay.
I have however, dear reader, narrowed it down to a combination of brute strength and sheer beauty. Like a diamond or perhaps a single sheet of triple-quilted lavatory paper with floral accents. Diamond Man or Bog Roll Boy? Which to choose, one wonders? Oh I simply don’t know.
I bought myself a couple of these so-called comics, to provide myself with inspiration. I was flicking through one The Boys, by an Irishman who rejoices under the name of Garth Ennis. Oh-ho I can hear you filthy mind whirring away, dear ready. “Oh Reggie,” you cry, we wonder why you chose a book called the Boys.” Oh shush you. Anyway I was flicking through this and incredulously observing some rather fetching chaps, all muscular and covered head-to-foot in brightly coloured lycra, getting thrashed to within an inch of their lives by a bunch of ruffians. I found it hard to credit that ones so omnipotent can be, not only engaged in, but duffed-up in a simple bout of fisticuffs.
If I, mild mannered N. Reg Mother by day and Bog Roll Boy or Diamond Man by night, were there, things would be rather different, I imagine. For I would deafen the ruffians with the grace of my poetry and blind them with the awesomeness of my physical beauty.Then, having reduced them to naught all but a living consciousnesses, I would simply apply a sound, open-handed slap to their cheeks that will send them comfortably into next week. I would of course be victorious, cue standing ovation and a shower of bouquets. Curtsey, exit stage left. Genius, I’m sure you’d agree. I shall be furnishing Mr. Ennis, if that is his real name with my treatment, forth-with.
Nuts oh hazel nuts, I must begin to construct a costume. Something revealing. Something sexual. “Typical Reggie,” say’s you, the reader. A leopard-skin leotard with a severe back , me thinks. Something that shows off my shapely form and allows me free movement to express myself through the medium of dance. I may be six-foot-six and tip the scales at a dainty five hundred pounds but I am as graceful as a kitten and deft and sprightly as little girl collecting daisies.
Maybe I could be Diamond Man, and Bog Roll Boy shall be my, oh what’s the vernacular, side slap? Left hook? Bottom Punch? Oh I don’t know, ah sidekick, that’s it. If Bog Roll Boy was to be my sidekick like Batman has his Robin and Cannon has his Ball. Oh reader, tihihihi, I can’t possibly tell you how that’ll pan out as it simply isn’t for here, mwaha!
As a child I attempted all sorts of ingenious ways to achieve my dream of superpowers. One time I took my beloved gerbil, Pootube, and attached a naked wire from every power outlet of the house to either side of his cute little head, having secured him to a chopping board with gaffer tape. I then turned the mains back on. Oh reader, I find myself weeping still. In my failed attempt at harnessing the power of electricity to embellish my own attributes, using Pootube as the proverbial guinea pig, I succeeded only in raising my beloved parents pile within a ball of queerly bluish flame. As to what became of Pootube, I am ignorant. One must assume that he is off fighting crime in the rodent world or some such.
Now if you’ll excuse me, dear reader, Diamond Man must rescue a Boost bar from the news agent and devour it with much gusto.
