Hadesgate Forums Newsletter 10 - December 2007

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HADESGATE FORUMS NEWSLETTER

December 2007

MERRY CHRISTMAS

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..:WELCOME TO MADNESS:..

*Cue horrorfying music...*

Hello readers!

Welcome to the Christmas newsletter from Hadesgate. It’s been a while hasn’t it?

In this issue we have the usual round up of news, two product focuses, the Inno view (he's back - woo!), some fiction from Andrew Barker, and we end as we always like, with Mrs Elms.

It's short and sweet, and we hope you enjoy it!

Matron
HGF Newsletter Editor

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HADESGATE SECTION


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HADESGATE PUBLICATIONS NEWS
Matron

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You’ll remember at the height of the UK summer we opened to submissions; and boy did they arrive. For the whole of August they arrived by the dozen. We were truly stunned by the sheer volume of entries. We have made a dent, but have not completed the task. We had hoped to have brought this to a conclusion this month, but have been delayed. We are confident we will have made our final decision by the end of January and will be notifying all authors individually, throughout that month.

November saw the successful launch of authors CJ Lines and Rakie Keig at the NEC. Filth Kiss and Terror Island are wonderful additions to our portfolio. What a blast that weekend was. Both authors were on best behaviour and we sold what can only be described as a shit load of books.

Unfortunately Tiny Terrors 2 did not arrive on time. We can announce that the little rascals will be picked up from the printing house the first week of January and will be distributed pretty swiftly thereafter. Your patience and understanding is appreciated.

The Hadesgate online store has been very, very busy, more recently this has picked up to a daily run to the post office to get all the orders out. National and international, probably a fifty-fifty split. We are delighted that this has proved itself to be a secure and user friendly tool for readers.

Now let’s catch up on the rest of Hadesgate’s authors...

Steven Deighan, is currently working on a graphic novel. Whilst this is not Hadesgate’s area, we will be working hand in hand with Steven with a view to securing, for him, publication elsewhere. He has also been working on a novel in the vein of the old monster ‘B’ movies. How he fits it all in around yet another tiny baby is anyones guess. We’ll keep you posted.

Steve Dean is currently working on many projects. He has secured a multi release deal with another company. Steve, we congratulate you and look forward to seeing you go from strength to strength. Announcements will be made on Steve’s behalf at the appropriate times. I hasten to add that Steve’s connection to Hadesgate remains a constant. We have enjoyed working with him so far and look forward to doing so again in the future.

We want to thank both Steve’s for their contribution to Hadesgate and for helping make it what it is today. As we grow we owe them a debt for working with us when we were still unknown.

On to the other author, the ‘I’m not called Steve’ one. Garry Charles.

Garry continues his discussions with a Canadian film director. This has developed into something larger than at first anticipated. Taking in companies based in San Francisco, Toronto and Vancouver. As soon as we are in a position to announce something tangible, we will. Suffice to say the talks alone are a vindication of our decision making with regards to HF1 and HF2.

In addition Garry is in talks with two separate directors, each having approached him for a screenplay. He continues to review books for Gorezone magazine, endorsing many small press releases. 2008 will see the release of a number of works by Garry. Across the pond Skullvines Press will be releasing Tabloid Terrors 2. Watch out for Garry’s contribution ‘The Porn Star Massacre on the Celeste Marie’. Screaming Dreams will be releasing ‘Tranquillity’ a novella that mixes a biker gang with religion and man eating vaginas. Oh dear! Another short story, entitled ‘Valhalla Unleashed’ has been chosen as the opening tale in Blu Phier Publishing’s Zombie anthology ‘Night of the Working Dead’.

Garry is on a shortlist for a novel adaptation of one of this year’s most talked about horror films. Again, no announcement can be made at this stage, but he has been fully endorsed by the director and production team.

Garry is being represented in the States by Willie Forrest and has already done several radio interviews. In addition, he is also represented in the UK by a fledgling agency based in the north. We’ll leave the announcements to them, but I’m looking forward to meeting them in due course.

Well, enough about him. He’ll be getting a big head and that just wouldn’t d

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HADESGATE WEBSITE / FORUMS NEWS
Demon

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Website Watch:

The website has recently been updated to include an author page for Rakie Keig, and the shop has of course seen the addition of our latest works (which will feature in the following Product Focus section.

I do plan to spruce the website up again during 2008. This won't be a total overhaul (at least I don't think so), but just changes a few colours, maybe a different navigation panel etc. Changing the finer details to keep things fresh.

Forums in Focus

2008 will see Hadesgate Forums celebrate two years in business! April 8th marks the big date, which isn't too far away. We may well have to plan something.

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PRODUCT FOCUS
Filth Kiss

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Product Name: FILTH KISS

Price Information: £7.99 (plus post and packaging)

Product Description:

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PRODUCT FOCUS
Terror Island

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Product Name: TERROR ISLAND

Price Information: £11.99 (plus post and packaging)

Product Description:

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CHATROOM INFORMATION

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As always this facility is available for use 24/7. If anyone would like a larger gathering some time soon just give us the nod and we'll arrange a convenient time and date.

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FICTION CORNER

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The Curious Appearance of Mr. Fiddlewitz
By Andrew Barker

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There was a knock at the door. Timothy Halwood was sitting idly in his study, struggling to read Great Expectations. He wasn’t the strongest reader at the best of times, and although he was enjoying the book, it was by no means a day at the beach. Part of him was glad when the door went; his eyes were beginning to feel heavy anyhow. He put the book aside, along with his glasses, and went out into the hallway.

His wife, Lucy, was already descending the staircase. She was wearing a flowery summer frock and had her dark hair tied up in ribbons. She looked beautiful, just watching her move made Timothy smile. She had a certain way about her.
‘Are you expecting anyone?’ she asked.

‘No.’ Timothy looked down the hallway. Shafts of brilliant sunlight were piercing through the frosted glass panel door. A slender figure was waiting patiently on the step outside. The figure adjusted his tall hat, the movement throwing shadows about the hallway. He knocked again; three steady knocks.

Lucy made her way to the door, unlocked the catch and opened it half way. Timothy joined her and was immediately taken aback by the sight that greeted him. His first thought was that this fellow had stepped right from the pages of Great Expectations.

Standing straight and tall upon the threshold was an elderly gentleman. Timothy guessed him to be in his late sixties, with a face as lined and cracked as the broken spine of an old book. He wore a pencil thin moustache, still dark, with only a hint of grey.

His attire was even more impressive; he had on a long trailing overcoat, the sort of thing you’d expect a magician to wear, under which lay a beautifully coloured purple waistcoat, from which hung an antique pocket watch. A multicoloured scarf was tied around his neck, while on his head, he sported, with all his flamboyance, a tall, black, Edwardian hat.

Discreet this man was not
.
‘Good Afternoon,’ he said, tipping his hat slightly to the lady. ‘Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Fredrick P. Fiddlewitz and I am honoured to make your acquaintance.’

At the mention of his name, Timothy thought to himself; my god, he really is a Dickens character.

Lucy was the first to speak. ‘Hello Mr…’

‘Fiddlewitz ma’am, Fiddlewitz,’ he confirmed.

‘Mr. Fiddlewitz, beg my pardon,’ Lucy said, slightly flustered. ‘What can we do for you?’

‘Well, it’s somewhat of a delicate matter,’ Fiddlewitz began. ‘You see, I used to live in this house as a boy. Many moons ago of course. Recently my mother passed on, and without wanting to appear neither rude nor forthcoming, I was wondering if you would permit me to step across this threshold one last time,’ here he sniggered self-consciously, ‘…and rid myself of a few unwanted ghosts.’

While Mr. Fiddlewitz was talking, Timothy noticed that his teeth seemed somewhat oversized for his mouth, as if he was wearing ill-fitting dentures. Yet it appeared to cause him no real hindrance. He spoke in a beautifully dictated manner, highly articulated and extremely enticing. When his wife failed to say anything further, Timothy thought he’d better had.

‘That’s remarkable Mr. Fiddlewitz; you actually lived in this house?’

‘Yes, I have not returned to this place for almost thirty years.’ Fiddlewitz appeared to swallow hard before continuing on, ‘I feel extremely gauche intruding upon your lives like this, but I am oddly compelled to once again look around this house.’
‘Of course you are not intruding, you are most welcome.’ Timothy said, not exactly sure if he meant it or not.

With that he opened the front door a little wider to allow this mysterious fellow entrance. The gentleman slowly took his hat from his head and gingerly stepped over the threshold. He wiped his feet on the mat as he did so.

Once inside, Fiddlewitz stood and stared, saucer-eyed, at the grandeur of the hall and its dusty old staircase.

Lucy came to his side, ‘I am very sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you… Mrs?’

‘Oh how rude of us. My name is Lucy Halwood and this is my husband, Timothy.’
As if on cue, Timothy stepped forward to shake the gentleman’s hand. He found the old man’s grip to be extremely firm, almost uncannily strong for a man of his age, especially considering how frail he looked.

‘It is a pleasure.’ Timothy said, consciously making sure he didn’t wince at the mounting pressure on his hand.

‘Oh the pleasure is all mine Mr. Halwood.’ Fiddlewitz finally let go. It was a relief.
Then he turned to Lucy. He took her hand, arched his back slightly and gave her a single kiss close to her wedding ring.

‘I am humbled by your beauty Mrs. Halwood,’ said the old man, rather intently.
Lucy blushed, then said, ‘Oh my, thank you.’

Something caught Fiddlewitz’s attention. He moved past the Halwood’s towards the foot of the stairs. There, he began to gently run his seemingly brittle fingers over the dusty old banister. For a brief moment he closed his eyes, his brow darkening as if weighted down by a heavy sorrow. Lucy approached him, concerned.
‘Mr. Fiddlewitz?’

‘Oh, I’m fine my child. I’m simply, how shall I put it… overwhelmed with nostalgia.’ He gave a thin smile, then added, ‘Tis a most serious disease with us dreamers.’
He turned his back on the Halwood’s and gripped the banister firmly.

‘I can almost hear my mother calling me.’ He said, his eyes closed once more. ‘She was a terribly obstinate woman, especially when it came to punctuality.

Everything had to happen precisely on the hour; not a minute before, not a minute after. Dinner at six, bath at seven, bed at eight. Everything had to be right, and neat, and just so.’ Fiddlewitz turned back to face the Halwood’s. ‘She was funny that way,’ he concluded, then gave a wry laugh, yet Timothy detected not an ounce of humour in it.

He grew silent; melancholy. Whatever crossed his mind, he kept it to himself. Finally, he took a step back towards the Halwood’s and smiled, exposing all those big teeth. It put Timothy in mind of a shark.

‘I wonder if I may be so bold as to ask how long you have lived in this house?’ asked Fiddlewitz.

‘We moved in about six months ago,’ stated Timothy.

Lucy immediately corrected him. ‘Nine!’

‘Nine months.’ Timothy said, grinning. ‘Time flies, eh Mr. Fiddlewitz.’

‘It most certainly does. It marches on leaving precious moments in its wake.’ He seemed to muse upon his own philosophy for a spell, then said, ‘I do hate to appear intrusive, but I would very much like to see my old bedroom.’

Timothy tried to meet his wife’s eyes, hoping to glimpse her feelings on the matter. Part of him was unsure of this whole situation, yet another part of him, a bigger part, wanted to find out where all of this was going. Lucy, it seemed, didn’t hold any reservations and said enthusiastically, ‘I don’t see any reason why not.’

Fiddlewitz looked over at Mr. Halwood for final approval. Realising that it all now rested on him, Timothy did his best to give a warm smile and said, ‘Lead on, Mr. Fiddlewitz.’

‘Splendid!’ said Fredrick P. Fiddlewitz, then turned to ascend the stairs he had not ventured up for more than thirty years.


The room itself was now used by the Halwood’s as storage space, besieged with unopened boxes and other assorted odds and ends. It had a high ceiling, which was badly in need of repainting, while on the walls still hung several decades of crudely stripped wallpaper. Timothy moved a few half used cans of paint in order to accommodate their strange guest a little more.

‘I apologise for the mess,’ said Timothy. ‘We haven’t had chance to unpack everything yet. We just never seem to get a minute these days.’

Fiddlewitz smiled politely, but made no comment. He moved to the centre of the room and exhaled theatrically, his eyes shifting from wall to wall.

Lucy came to his side.

‘This was your room then, all that time ago?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ Fiddlewitz said. He flashed his shark teeth. ‘I shared it with my brothers. We had our beds lined up here, along the back wall. It would remind me of the row of beds in Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Our father would read that story to us when we were very little. You see, my older brother had a much larger bed than Archibald and myself; and to my young eyes, the entire room appeared to be filled with queer shapes and sizes…’

Fiddlewitz thought on this for a moment. Then his smile slowly faded. He moved over to the window and stared out, lost in the past. He looked haunted, as if the memories of this place were almost too painful to evoke.

‘It seems the most vivid recollections I have of this room are of the winters,’ he said. ‘Strange how a season can echo the past.’

He moved back from the window and went to stand over by the old brick fireplace, (which had long been missing an actual fire) and continued on.

‘I remember one Christmas; we were up late playing Jim Rummy by candlelight. Snow was falling outside and it was bitterly cold. I think we even had our hats and gloves on while we played. I can picture it now. I looked over at my brothers, their breath lingering in the candle glow, and for no reason at all I became overwhelmed with this great sense of… how shall I put it? Absolute contentment. Serenity, I think that’s the word for it. Everything felt right and true. I’ve come to learn that such moments in life are rare indeed. But every now and then, for a few fleeting minutes, you realise you’re living this wondrous, golden experience. The only thing is you know such bliss surely cannot last. It will always remain a most treasured memory, mind, but the loss of it leaves you with a dull ache in your heart.’

He grew silent.

Timothy looked over to his wife, there seemed to be tears in her eyes. She tried discreetly to wipe them away, then said, ‘I find all this fascinating Mr. Fiddlewitz; discovering a whole secret history to my own house. Maybe we should retire to the lounge, have some tea and, if you desire, tell us more of your childhood days.’

‘Sounds like a fine idea,’ said Timothy. ‘Mr. Fiddlewitz?’

‘I concur,’ said Fiddlewitz, ‘tis a grand idea. But before we head back downstairs, there is still one room I would love to see above all others.’

Timothy gave a thin smile, then said. ‘Certainly, where?’

‘The Attic!’


Fredrick P. Fiddlewitz opened the door, but didn’t step through right away. He peered in with wondrous eyes. Aside from a few pieces of the Halwood’s clutter, it was almost as he remembered it. The great exposed oak truss in the room’s centre was just as it once was, though slightly more rotten. It was as if in another lifetime when he and his brothers would swing from it like bats, all seeing who could hang there the longest. Laughing and jeering each other on as the blood rushed to their heads. But that was a long time ago. Now only silence lay steadily against the wood and brick of this old attic.

He stepped in, the wooden floor creaking under foot.

Timothy and Lucy entered the room behind him. Timothy flicked on the light switch, but it did little to illuminate the scene, it simply cast larger shadows.
Fiddlewitz didn’t speak for a long time. Lucy noticed that he seemed to be holding back a rush of overwhelming tears, as if he were literally standing upon the edge of an emotional abyss.

Finally, he gathered his thoughts and moved farther into the room.

‘This was our most sacred place,’ he explained. ‘We would always play up here. It was our hideaway, our secret den.’

Fiddlewitz turned away from the Halwood’s intrigued faces and looked out again across the attic. Lucy caught sight of such intense longing in those ancient features that she thought she was going to cry again. He looked as if he had somehow managed to see through time and space itself and was once again seeing with childhood eyes.

‘We would make believe fantasies, where we would dress up as Pirates or Highwaymen, or something of that nature, and act out little plays. This was our sanctuary; away from mother, away from school… away from the trials of the world.’

He paused for a moment and breathed deeply. ‘I remember those times being filled with extraordinary love, and warmth… and brotherhood. And it all happened here, in this room.’ He turned and fixed his gaze on Timothy, it made him feel strangely uneasy. ‘Time is remarkably cunning Mr. Halwood; don’t let it steal away your lives. Seize the moment, take the chance, and never allow a day to pass in regret… for all too soon you become old bones, tired and wasted, with such ardency for the past.’

‘We have plans Mr. Fiddlewitz,’ said Timothy, annoyed at the old man’s assumption he would achieve little with his life. Or at least that’s how he read it.

‘Don’t let them slip from your grasp,’ said Fiddlewitz, in barely more than a whisper. He stepped from the shadows and stood before Timothy. ‘I wonder… I have not set foot in this room in over thirty years. May I be so bold as to ask for a few moments alone, simply to gather my thoughts and possibly, say goodbye?’
Before Timothy could answer, Lucy said, ‘Certainly, you take as long as you wish.’
Fiddlewitz grinned. ‘My deepest thanks to you both, your patience and understanding has been overwhelming.’

‘Come on, we’ll go and make some tea,’ said Lucy, ushering her husband back out of the door. Then to Fiddlewitz she said, ‘Come down when you’re ready.’
‘I shall my dear,’ he said.

With that she closed the door on the old gentleman, slicing shadows from the wall. Fredrick P. Fiddlewitz listened for their footfalls to grow distant, then he moved over to the oak truss. From within his magician’s coat he pulled free a weighty crowbar, and with a swiftness you wouldn’t think he was capable of, proceeded to prise up several floorboards.


Lucy got to the foot of the stairs and turned to her husband. ‘Don’t you find it fascinating, all the things that have gone on in this house? Strange, I feel almost like an intruder in my own home; like he has more right to be here than us.’
‘Huh-uh,’ he muttered. Truth was he did find this whole experience intriguing, yet, something didn’t feel quite right. There was something odd about that old man, something he just couldn’t put his finger on.

‘When he comes down, I want to ask him…’ Lucy never got to finish her sentence, because at that moment there came another knock at the door; a single hard pound on the glass.


Meanwhile, Fredrick had pulled up several boards and was staring with greedy eyes into the darkness beneath the floor. Gingerly, he fumbled around in the opening and then pulled forth a dirty black bag. With almost childlike zeal, Fiddlewitz opened it up and exhaled a lungful of air. In the bag was around half a million pounds in deeds, bonds and money.


Timothy opened the front door. Fredrick P. Fiddlewitz was once again standing upon the threshold, or at least it looked like Fredrick at first glance. This gentleman however, was far from ostentatious. His suit was a coarse, pale grey, which he wore with a dirty red shirt and broken shoes. His hair was longer; unkempt, and several days’ growth shadowed his face. He had a flat nose, which was reddened and blotchy, the telltale sign of a man who more than liked a little drink, and his eyes were hollow and dark. Timothy felt Lucy’s hand slip into his.

‘Afternoon,’ said the stranger. ‘Terribly sorry to bother you both, but my car has broken down a little ways down the lane and I was wondering if I could use your phone.’ Then as an afterthought, he added, ‘Name’s Archie by the way.’

Was this a game? A trick of some kind? Timothy’s patience was beginning to wear thin. ‘Not Archibald Fiddlewitz by any chance?’ he asked.

The gentleman was stunned. ‘How… how do you know my name?’

‘You used to live here, didn’t you?’ said Timothy. ‘Your brother’s inside, Fredrick.’
‘Impossible!’ he said, but doubt was in his eyes.

‘You did live here though didn’t you, Mr. Fiddlewitz?’ Timothy was determined not to let himself get intimidated by this scruffy old man.

‘Don’t call me that!’ he shouted. Lucy squeezed Timothy’s hand tightly. ‘I’ve long since abandoned that name. I’m Archie Scrim and you two are in a world of trouble.’ With that, he pulled from his jacket pocket a small stub-nosed pistol and slowly levelled it at his side. Lucy gasped. The old man had a fearsome look about him. ‘Now get inside, we’re going to have ourselves a little chat.’


Fredrick was making his way down the stairs. He held his razor smile, although that was soon to fade. ‘Now, my dear Mrs. Halwood, how about that cup of…’ His voice trailed off.

‘Hello dear brother.’ There was no warmth in Archie Scrim’s greeting. Fredrick P. Fiddlewitz momentarily froze; wearing a face that only a man who had seen a ghost could wear. He noticed the gun resting at his brother’s side. Fredrick descended the last few remaining stairs, being careful not to make any sudden movements. The Halwood’s were to Archibald’s left, pinned to the wall.
‘What’s in the bag?’

Fredrick didn’t feel the need to answer his brother’s question; he simply tucked the bag tightly under his arm, and then said, ‘It’s been a long time Archibald, I didn’t see you at the funeral.’

‘You’re damn right you didn’t, you expect me to go to her funeral, after everything she put us through!’

‘She was still our mother.’ Fredrick said, in little more than a whisper.

‘Oh well, that’s all fine and dandy then, isn’t it?’ scoffed Archibald. ‘Makes up for all the lying and the cheating, and all the times we hid up in the infernal attic, too terrified to move. She was a wicked woman Freddy. She tore us apart.’

Timothy took Lucy’s hand and slowly led her along the wall; he wanted to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the Fiddlewitz brothers.

‘We tore ourselves apart! You, me and Tommy. I have searched for these bonds for nigh on forty years and now I have them. And you shall not see one penny. I feel its compensation for those decades of wasted life.’

‘Compensation!’ said Archibald, exasperated. ‘You forget Fredrick that I was the one who had to endure mother’s bitter end. You haven’t been back here in thirty years and you scoff at me for not attending the funeral. That was our father’s money; it is as much mine as it is yours. Now hand it over.’

This is all over money, thought Timothy. He found it almost comical; it wouldn’t have surprised him if this had turned out to be some kind of ghost story, or even a murder mystery, but a caper? In a way it was fitting, a morality play on the corruption of the greedy and the wicked. A theme Dickens would have found favourable.

Archie Scrim levelled the pistol at his brother. ‘You know, it’s almost funny,’ he said. ‘I sat there watching her slowly fade to bone, listening to her curse and denounce me, and all the time the money, which she had hidden from us since father’s death, was sitting above my head in that goddamn attic. And she knew Freddy! For all those years she knew.’

Fredrick pulled a gun from his magician’s coat and said in a hushed voice, ‘You’ll have to kill me if you want this money.’

At those words, Lucy panicked. She tried to rush from the hall, but as she slid along the wall she knocked into a picture. She watched it fall to the floor; it was taken on her wedding day, which now seemed like a very long time ago.

The picture frame smashed on impact, sending shards of glass across the tiles. What happened next, happened fast. Fredrick was the first to fire off a round. The report was deafening. The slug hit Archibald square in the chest. Yet before his legs gave way entirely, he too managed to fire and sent a bullet straight into his brother’s temple.

Fredrick flew backwards, the bag and its contents sent high into the air. The Fiddlewitz brothers fell to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Timothy and Lucy stood bewildered. The deeds rained down on them. Timothy looked at his wife; tears were running down her face. She looked beautiful. They stood there for a long time, staring at one another, two dead bodies at their feet and thousands of pounds swirling about them.

Then, almost like an echo, there came another knock at the door.


Copyright © Andrew Barker 2007

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VARIETY SECTION


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THE INNO VIEW
Inno

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Well, Hello. Or should that be HO HO HO (and I don't mean Jamie Lynn Spears either) as this is, after all, the weekend before Christmas.

As it's the last weekend before Christmas, the annual UK rush to see what will get the once coveted Christmas Number 1 slot on the singles chart is in full flight. This year’s race seems to be between Reality TV show muppet (Although he can be slightly forgiven as he’s Scottish) Leon Jackson; Shaun the Sheep (I have a pound on him at 20/1 – yus!) and a re-released Pogues and Kirsty MacColl. I’d love to see the Pogues get the Xmas number 1 they so richly deserve, but sadly, X-Factor hype will power Leon “Blander than bland” Jackson to the top of the chart.

But, in the weird and wonderful way that my mind works, it got me thinking. Leon’s record is dashed awful… but is it the worst Christmas record ever? Which brings me to this – a patented Inno List Column! Yay!

Ladies, Germs and small furry animals (Hi Demon) I bring to you… (in reverse order, natch)

INNO’S BOTTOM TEN WORST CHRISTMAS SONGS EVER!!!

Little Saint Nick - The Beach Boys

You’re the Beach Boys! You sing about surfing, summer, beaches, girls and California, and you do it damned well! Why, in the name of all things right with the world, would you release this monstrosity of a song upon the world in the vain hope of seeing it re-released on EVERY Christmas album in the world… EVER?

Wings - Mull of Kintyre

It has bagpipes and a full pipe band, and it’s about a piece of land. If Paul McCartney was determined to pee away the legacy of his Beatles work, then this was a step in the right direction. Is it the worst thing he’s ever released? We’ll see…

Aled Jones - Walking in the Air

Just NO! Thank God his voice broke and he can’t sing it any more or we’d still be hearing it. Sadly, it’s now a standard for any squeaky voiced little oik that wants to get on TV or Radio at Christmas. Gah!

Miss Piggy - Santa Baby

Two words, folks – Bacon Sandwich.

Rolf Harris - Two Little Boys

Easily one of the most depressing songs in the history of music and as such, an ideal cheery Christmas number 1! Sheesh. Rolf Harris has also racked up such quality hits as Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Jake The Peg, My Boomerang Won’t Come Back and a skiffle version of Stairway To Heaven. Draw your own conclusions.

Bing Crosby & David Bowie - Little Drummer Boy

This is just flat out wrong. The video is one of the most awkward things you’ll ever see, both Crosby and Bowie look like they’re having a “Who the HELL are you?” moment, and it’s so cheesy, it would melt if you put it too near a fire. David Bowie’s lowest point since “The Laughing Gnome” – and go check that out if you haven’t heard it!

Cliff Richard - Saviours Day

OK, confession time – Mistletoe and Wine isn’t too bad compared to some clunkers on this list… but this? Even by Cliff’s ‘Standards’ this is putrid. A total cash-in designed to be bought by Grannies the length of Britain. What's got 80 legs and no teeth? The front row of a Cliff Richard gig... That said, it’s not his worst record ever…

Spice Girls - Christmas Wrapping

OK, someone has to be taking the piss. The original was OK in a “hear-it-once-a-year” kinda way. The Spice Bints version sucked all the soul out of it and replaced it with crap… no surprise there then. Avoid like bubonic plague.

Paul McCartney - We All Stand Together

OK, Mull of Kintyre suddenly sounds a lot better. This is a song about FROGS. It’s sung by Paul McCartney and a chorus of animated frogs. Seriously. If Mark David Chapman hadn’t shot John Lennon, THIS would have killed him.

But the worst Christmas song ever is:

Cliff Richard – The Millennium Prayer

Take the words to The Lords Prayer. Sing them to the tune of Auld Lang Syne. Shoot a video of yourself singing it, standing looking deadly serious in front of footage of starving children. Listening to this inspires the same feeling as opening your presents, finding a box that says “PLAYSTATION THREE” – opening the box and finding a piece of paper that says “Ha! Fooled you! Love Santa” - Hadesgate and myself accept no responsibilty for any permanent damage caused by clicking the enclosed link...

Merry Christmas, folks! Have a happy New Year too!

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A CHRISTMAS QUICKIE

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The Last Word
Steven Pirie

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Hello Dears, it’s me again, Mrs Elms, on my deathbed in room three.

Eee, is it really Christmas time again? These Christmases come around a lot quicker than they did in my day. I was only saying the other day to Dolly Pearson, her on her deathbed in room seven; doesn’t seem like more than twelve months since the last one, I said. Not that Dolly knows much since her brain turned to mush and dribbled from her nostrils. Christmas does that to a brain, you know.

Anyway, an angel came to me in a dream. “Edna,” he says, “You must follow a star across vast oceans and deserts, until, in a lowly stable and with a manger for his bed, you will find the Son of God.”

Now, I’m on my deathbed, so I don’t want to pour scorn on holy visitations or anything, but these days it takes me a week and a half to get to the outside lavvy and back. So I’m looking up at this angel and thinking: bugger me, how am I going to do all this ocean and desert business, and me with my warty insteps and varicose veins?

The angel, being an angel I suppose, can read my mind. “Have no doubts,” he says. “Be of good Faith, for Faith can move mountains in its path.”

“But which way do I go?” I says.

“Turn left at Cleethorpes Street,” says the angel.

“Are you going to immaculately concept me?” I says.

But the angel’s off like a rat up a pipe. A bit shifty to disappear like that, if you ask me, as if he was up to no good. The gas man was off like that last week, right after I’d mentioned how knobbly his pipe was. But they’re like that, angels; “Never trust an angel,” Alice Braithwaite, her on her deathbed in room twelve always says, and she’s had more near death experiences than an Israeli bus driver.

Next morning, I gives Dolly a shove early. “Pack a lunch, we’re going to follow a star,” I says.

Dolly’s game. She gurgles all excitedly, and blows bubbles on her lip. Mind you, she was always good at blowing things was Dolly. Back in the war, she’d often nip round the back to help a GI out with a good blow. Seconded to the bomb disposal unit she was, see, so she’d often help them see off a stray whiz-bang. At least, she did when she wasn’t busy blowing on their short fuses, the dirty little mare, if you know what I mean, and I’m sure you do.

Anyway, “Get your coat, Dolly,” I says, “we’re off to find the Son of God.”

“Doesn’t he live off Cleethorpes Street?” says Dolly.

“That’s the one,” says I, “little bloke, always complaining about the price of loaves and fish fingers; parts the puddles a lot in Lepers Lane; cured that young tart in the newsagents of her virginity.”

This early, the care home’s locked, so it’s a bit of a struggle to get Dolly through the storeroom window. She lands on her head, so there’s no real harm done. And don’t you know, there’s a bloody star over Cleethorpes Street. Or is it my cataracts?

“It’s hovering over Mr Mohammed’s house,” says Dolly. “Isn’t he a muesli? What would he be doing with Christmas stars above his roof?”

“Shush, Doris,” says I. “You can’t go upsetting the mueslis in this day and age. They’ll put at fatter out on you. They’ll lop your top off.”

“Mr Cohen has had his top lopped off,” says Dolly. “He’d been to the barber’s. Bald as a coot, he was, when he came visiting last week. And his penis is circumcised.”

Eee, but you should have seen the sight to behold in Cleethorpes Street. Mr Cohen was out, and Mr Mohammed, and Mr Patel, the Sikh from number two. Father O’Brien was there with his best choirboy, and the Arch Deacon came in the same car as the Pope. And all of them laughed and embraced in the pious glow from number twenty-three. All of them shared a moment’s humanity beyond the theologian within.

“See, Doris,” I says. “This is what the real message of Christmas should be.”

Doris nods. “Are you sure you’re not merely hijacking Christian dogma in a piss-poor attempt at moralising against anti secularism and religious intolerance, Edna?”

And why not?

Anyroad, I must get back as I can feel a prefrontal aneurism coming on. And Mr Cohen is coming around to give my chimney a good seeing to. We don’t want Santa coming against any blockages now do we? Last year he got stuck up my floo, and it took four burly firemen and a determined surgeon to get the bugger out. Ee, we laughed, we did.

Merry Christmas, dears, and Happy New Ears. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

====================================================

AND SO CLOSES ANOTHER CHAPTER

====================================================

I’d like to thank the contributors for bringing some much needed mixed spice and levity.

Steven, Andrew, Inno and Demon you are all stars. I’d also like to wish all our readers, old and new a very merry Christmas and a happy New Year.

This newsletter is dedicated to Bessie ‘Nana’ Martin (12.07.19 – 13.12.07)

Matron
HGF Newsletter Editor

====================================================

WITH THANKS TO THE CONTRIBUTORS FOR THIS ISSUE

====================================================

Demon, Garry Charles, Inno, Matron, Steven Pirie and Andrew Barker.

The fictional works featured remain the property of their respective owners. All other content is copyright Hadesgate Publications 2006.

I probably shouldn't be pointing this out, Inno, but good ol' Rolf Harris didn't sing "My Boomerang Won't Come Back".

That dubious honour goes to the one and only Charlie Drake (Hellooo, My Darlins)

Well done

You spotted my deliberate error to see who amongst the assembled crowd was on the ball.

You win a warm Christmas glow

Or did I just screw up?

You decide

I should like to know why Mr Drake's boomerang wouldn't come back...

Because Mr. Drake was old and probably smelled slightly of wee.

Ah, those fickle laws of physics and aerodynamics...

did anyone else see that really surreal episode of Jonathan Creek where Alan 'Tramp Biter' Davies and Caroline Quentin had a big shouty argument about 'My Boomarang Won't Come Back'? (she was getting it confused with the Witchdoctor song and was convinced that it was about a guy who went to the witchdoctor because his boomarang wouldn't come back)

anyway, back to the point...

awesome newsletter as always!! good to see it back, i have indeed missed it.

Excellent newsletter, short but sweet just like me!

And thank you Matron for the kind comments.

And while we are on the subject, Boomerangs were never originally designed to return, but were used as weapons of war. They were intended to be a convenient way of smashing a kangaroo's/enemy's/nosy explorer's brains out quickly and easily and in relative safety. The clever aboriginals also had an anti-boomerang device, which was basically a stick with a handle. It was probably some students with too much time on their hands who invented the whole coming-back-when-chucked gig.

So there you go,

Happy new year all!

BWAH! Haha! Ha!

I too have missed the newsletters, so it was great to see this one, and even better to see Inno and Steven Pirie meeting their usual high standards (long live Mrs Elms!).

Good to see that the Hadesgate shop has been busy, too!

A year on...

... and here is the news...

Can't believe it . . . Was this really? . . .


. . . the last ever Hadesgate newsletter?! Wouldn't it be nice if we all compiled notes and updated everyone at once with a special Twenty-Ten newsletter? Maybe something to look forward to at the end of the year . . .