Threadjacking!

[Gary James]

I wonder if it means anything that William Gibson is London today of all days?
https://twitter.com/GreatDismal/status/1223153095191994370

Is it okay to hate the fact that one of his tweets contains more literary value than anything I've done in the last year? 

As for him being in Blighty... Pretty sure we're well past "warning signs of the apocalypse" by this point anyways.

[von Boom]

I've lost my train of thought. Have any of you seen it?

[Dandontdare]

I think I saw it over there with my motivation and energy

[The Legendary Shark]

We have this sheet, on the farm. We call it "The Sheet," we even pronounce the capitalisation and bold font. We sometimes add italics and waggly finger tips to acknowledge impending eerieness. Because The Sheet isn't what it seems to be. The Sheet is purest evil.

Oh, it must have been magnificent when it was new. Tough, hard, shiny black plastic cut to precisely three metres by twelve metres, easy to fold in half to receive a load of wood chips or horse manure; I imagine how easily my spade would slide over it as I fill barrows of chippings for the woodland paths or barrows of horse shit for the Smelly Corner. How easy to scrape up those last bits, how easy to wash off, how easy to fold away.

But all that was long ago and The Sheet has long since revealed its true nature. It's more holes, now, than plastic, twisted and evil. Jagged, rent pennants flap from its once geometrically perfect sides, jagged holes pucker and gape, sucking at your hands and boots with bad tempered jaggedy edges. And it stinks, now, and it's always unpleasantly moist, and it has... things living in it. Things that disappear when light gets on them. It whips and it writhes and it whispers in the wind even, and especially, when it isn't windy.

It is like the four dimensional shadow of the ideal Platonic shape of a nightmare protruding into our world. But I fear it may be more even than that. I can't be certain (because I had to construct my instruments out of old baked bean tins and a hair dryer) but I think the farmer is deliberately feeding The Sheet. Nearly six per cent of every load simply vanishes between delivery and relocation. It's odd, because she's always so careful to keep the cats and dogs away from it and hates to go near it herself. We lost a chicken to it, one time, and all Hell let loose for a fortnight - The Sheet kept blowing loose and ending up in all sorts of weird places. I swear one night I saw it fighting with another sheet in the woods, whipped up by one of those storms that come screaming in at us from the Irish Sea, whipping and rending and biting - black jagged fury in a black jagged night.

This morning, I had to unfold The Sheet in preparation for a delivery of wood chips. It's easy to do - just be aware of your feet and under no circumstances gaze into one of the holes. I looked at it, lying there, the solid four dimensional shadow of the mouthparts of a superdimensional energy-sucking death worm, pinned down by the eldritch powers of six bricks and a traffic cone, and I thought...

Maybe I should do a blog about how the world is in danger from a massive attack of the sheets.

And then I thought...

Nah.

[von Boom]

Send it to Chibnall. It's as good a plot for Doctor Who as any he's done so far.

[Funt Solo]

Work that up into a Terror Tale, there. (Also: reminds me of Black Bag - the Faithful Border Bin Liner.)

[Dandontdare]

KILL IT  BEFORE IT GROWS!
https://imgur.com/gallery/XeZdIsi

[paddykafka]

We have this sheet, on the farm. We call it "The Sheet," we even pronounce the capitalisation and bold font. We sometimes add italics and waggly finger tips to acknowledge impending eerieness. Because The Sheet isn't what it seems to be. The Sheet is purest evil.

What can I say, Sharkie? Sheet happens.

[Rately]

We have this sheet, on the farm. We call it "The Sheet," we even pronounce the capitalisation and bold font. We sometimes add italics and waggly finger tips to acknowledge impending eerieness. Because The Sheet isn't what it seems to be. The Sheet is purest evil.

Oh, it must have been magnificent when it was new. Tough, hard, shiny black plastic cut to precisely three metres by twelve metres, easy to fold in half to receive a load of wood chips or horse manure; I imagine how easily my spade would slide over it as I fill barrows of chippings for the woodland paths or barrows of horse shit for the Smelly Corner. How easy to scrape up those last bits, how easy to wash off, how easy to fold away.

But all that was long ago and The Sheet has long since revealed its true nature. It's more holes, now, than plastic, twisted and evil. Jagged, rent pennants flap from its once geometrically perfect sides, jagged holes pucker and gape, sucking at your hands and boots with bad tempered jaggedy edges. And it stinks, now, and it's always unpleasantly moist, and it has... things living in it. Things that disappear when light gets on them. It whips and it writhes and it whispers in the wind even, and especially, when it isn't windy.

It is like the four dimensional shadow of the ideal Platonic shape of a nightmare protruding into our world. But I fear it may be more even than that. I can't be certain (because I had to construct my instruments out of old baked bean tins and a hair dryer) but I think the farmer is deliberately feeding The Sheet. Nearly six per cent of every load simply vanishes between delivery and relocation. It's odd, because she's always so careful to keep the cats and dogs away from it and hates to go near it herself. We lost a chicken to it, one time, and all Hell let loose for a fortnight - The Sheet kept blowing loose and ending up in all sorts of weird places. I swear one night I saw it fighting with another sheet in the woods, whipped up by one of those storms that come screaming in at us from the Irish Sea, whipping and rending and biting - black jagged fury in a black jagged night.

This morning, I had to unfold The Sheet in preparation for a delivery of wood chips. It's easy to do - just be aware of your feet and under no circumstances gaze into one of the holes. I looked at it, lying there, the solid four dimensional shadow of the mouthparts of a superdimensional energy-sucking death worm, pinned down by the eldritch powers of six bricks and a traffic cone, and I thought...

Maybe I should do a blog about how the world is in danger from a massive attack of the sheets.

And then I thought...

Nah.

I think PJ should draw this up. Folklore Thursday? How about a Thursday Shark Tale!

[shaolin_monkey]

Richmond vegetarian (might actually be vegan?) sausages are almost identical in taste and texture to the meat ones. I just had the most delicious sausage sandwich.

[von Boom]

Richmond vegetarian (might actually be vegan?) sausages are almost identical in taste and texture to the meat ones. I just had the most delicious sausage sandwich.

Ah. Those are the ones with the grammatically incorrect bags. They were supposed to read Free-Meat sausages.

[TordelBack]

You'd have to think that Winona Ryder has been almost uniquely badly served by popular music over the years.

[Tiplodocus]

Richmond vegetarian (might actually be vegan?) sausages are almost identical in taste and texture to the meat ones. I just had the most delicious sausage sandwich.

I'm having a go at making my own seitan "steaks" for tea tonight. Actually easier than I thought. Using a Bosh recipe. Will let you know how they taste.

[JayzusB.Christ]

I wonder if Richmond Clements is involved. I bet he is.

[TordelBack]

Using a Boosh recipe.

FTFY.