Harry Potter: A lost chapter

The following is the original ending to Harry Potter and the prisoner of Azkabhan, Formerly edited out by censors, recent research has brought this dusty relic into the light. 

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"STATICARIUM!", Hermione screamed. But it was no use. Harry edged forward with eyes that were blacker than Voldemorts nutsack. "Spelliramus" he sniggered, as he pulled out the pinkest wand Hermione had ever seen. 

Hermione didn't want this. She had vowed herself against the pleasures of the flesh ever since her fresher's week frollocks had left her with a nasty spate of hogwarts.

"Stop it, you're drunk! You've been drinking butterbeer again. You're crazy." 

We're all crazy!" he frothed with a manic cackle, as he removed his sweaty spectacles, and wiped white powdery traces of Bertie Botts from his nostrils.

"RON! RON! HELP ME!" She yelled and yelled until her bile spluttered from her lips like the Giant Purple Toadspawn. He slicked closer and closer, until Hermione could smell his nicotine stained fingernails. His hot, oily breathe oozed over her delicate skin. But then… he stopped. He was silent. The air hung heavy, thick, and polluted. And, just then, when she thought it was all over, Harry did something unexpected. 

"RON! RON!" he roared, "HELP HER!" Hermione was stunned. Had he come to his senses? Had the effects of the firewhisky finally smouldered? He inhaled one long, sickly breath, before whispering;

"Weasley can't help you now… bitch…"

"Yes he can! He'll be back from Quidditch any second! You wait! He'll handle this situation, once and for all!"

"HANDLE?!!!" bellowed Harry. He bent over double in gullet-bubbling guffaws. "HANDLE?" Hermione didn't understand. "I'LL SHOW YOU HANDLE!". And with that he shot a beam of light across the room. A wardrobe door flew open and out poured… something. Something terrible...

"RON!" she screamed.

It was Weasley. His face had been bludgeoned into a ginger mush with a Quaffle. Out of his broken mouth poked the splintered handle of a Nimbus 5000.

"He certainly HANDLED that...", Harry giggled.

Hermione's face turned whiter than Draco Malfoy's penis. And, with that, Harry stepped forward…

A recent piece by Fellow bearer-o-quill and long time associate; Steve Dunt

Book Review: Alan Partridge: ‘I, Partridge: We Need to Talk About Alan’. 
This article is written by Steve Dunt; Co-Presiding Chairperson(man) of the South- Norwich-Branch-Alan-Partridge-Fan-Club©.

“...Jesus hasn’t returned yet... Alan has!”

So rarely in life do things come full circle. So rarely does this road that we are all on (metaphor) take us through the dark and ugly, and yet somehow through sheer perseverance bring us back around to where we wish to be. Take for instance the Norwich ring road, the circumnavigation of which is in fact broken up by the Bixley-to- Bracondale bypass. Yet, Alan Partridge, with his second autobiography ‘I, Partridge: We Need To Talk About Alan’, has rightfully returned to the soaring heights of yesteryear and continued the Partridge saga embarked upon in his debut book ‘Bouncing Back’.

However, before ‘critics’ begin to ask the question; ‘why the second book Alan, why?’ let us remind ourselves of one thing; after the success of his own best-selling autobiography, even Jesus himself hasn’t managed a return yet. Alan Partridge has. And Jesus could perform miracles. So, perhaps it’s worth remembering, ‘critics’, that if that little carpenter lad had the creative talent of Mr. Partridge, he might have released a second work as miraculous as Alan’s (perhaps the Black and Decker WM536 – a miracle in its own right). It’s a humbling thought.

Alan has structured this book to Toblerone-like perfection. The story, like all good stories (and Toblerones) has a clear beginning, middle, and end. And, each of these sections is split into rich yet easily digestible chunks containing nuggets of genius to really get your teeth stuck into, as well having a point (like a Toblerone).

Alan begins with his much-rumoured birth; the moment he heroically escaped from the fleshy confines of his mother’s loins like an eagle hatchling taking first flight from its twiggen nest, or perhaps from some kind of jam-filled Ginsters Slice. One of my favourite moments of the book however, was truly an historic one (and yes that is the correct grammar). It is a moment that changed not only Alan’s life, but also my own. For were it not for this glorious moment, I, the curator of the South-Norwich-Branch-Alan- Partridge-Fan-Club©, would not be standing before you (or writing – for those not at Wednesday’s club reading) as chairperson - guardian of Partridge - but would have travelled a very different road (metaphor). The moment of which I speak is the moment when Alan discovered his calling, his fate. Like all of the brightest-burning careers, Alan’s started at Boy Scouts. It was during his post as Officer that he was first exposed to the world of showbiz. As he and his North-Norwich-District-Branch Boy Scouts performed for their parents under the glittering lights (and glitter) of showbiz, Alan knew what he was destined to do. He was to become a presenter. Nay! The presenter. The wheels of change, upon the axel of hope and hubcaps of dreams, had finally begun to roll into motion.

Alan’s book goes on to chart his meteostrophical rise to stardom; how he shot from his first broadcasting job in hospital radio, all the way up to join the ethereal constellation of Norwich’s biggest stars; snooker’s Barry Pinches, Hi-De-Hi’s Gladys Pugh, Percy Weasley out of Harry Potter, and the Norwich star that’s so massive that he has metaphorically imploded in a gravitational-collapse causing a supernova so dense as to form a black-hole and in turn create a space vacuum... Sir James Dyson. And, like that man’s greatest achievement (the DC24 Multi-Floor), Alan clears the air. He clears up the controversy surrounding his early BBC career; ‘On the Hour’, the series of events leading to ‘The Day Today’, and about how he found his specific niche as sports presenter/interviewer/anchor.

With the man himself as our guide, we strip away Alan’s outer layers of legend until nothing is left but a man; a man standing before us, naked and quivering, with his extensive body (of work) clutched in his palms. And, hand in clammy hand we explore that body, poking an inquisitive finger into his highs; such as the dawning of the historic catchphrase - ‘Ahaaaa!’ - which came 84th in Channel 4’s ‘100 Best Catchphrases’ below three of Jeremy Clarkson’s hilarious Latin-American-themes quips.

Alas, celebrity has its dark side. Like all presenters, Alan became a slave to the bright lights of fame, toiling away under that hot fluorescence like a university-educated prostitute. And, like many stars (not literal ones), he burnt out far too early. Leading up to the disaster of Knowing Me Knowing You’s final episode, the giddy heights of London destroyed his personal life in much the same way it destroyed South-Barling’s Green Belt system. At his lowest point we find Alan entangled in a battle to re-sign, and not resign, with the BBC, and living in the Linton Travel Tavern off the London-to-Norwich A11 trunk road. With Alan’s life ripped apart and scattered across two cities, Linton was halfway betwixt the twain. It is equidistant from Norwich, which Alan claims to be “the nuts”, and London, the arsehole of England. Thus, Alan was stuck in England’s guiche. Yet, the Partridge’s wings were not yet clipped, and the book’s latter chapters witness the man soaring in a vertical trajectory towards North Norwich Digital Radio, and a return to his rightful glory.

Over this book’s 34 chapters, Alan captures the man behind the legend with far more insight than, for example, Richard Blackwood’s extensive series of autobiographical films did in as many hours. The writing is clear and no-nonsense. It avoids avant-garde gibberish by explaining which lines are metaphors and which are not. This is something that for too few writers take the time to do these days. There is, of course, a place for experimentation, but it should be kept within socially acceptable conventions and rigid pre-established frameworks, like a bottle of passionfruit J2O.

This book is perhaps the finest I have ever read. But, by no means should I, Steve Dunt, be accused of bias purely upon my role as curator of Partridge. I too have criticisms. Firstly the writing isn’t even joined up (although I suspect this is an error on the part of the publisher – most likely a women). Secondly, of all the books I’ve read, this book is made from - by far - the worst quality paper. It is far coarser than the other 9. However, the fact that such genius can be born from such poor quality pulp speaks volumes. Never since the bulldozing of Epping Forest for the Woolworths car park has something so elegant been born from something formerly made from trees. And, like that motor-vehicle-temporary-storage-facility, this is a work that will keep on inspiring, keep on giving, for many a year to come.

Steve Dunt

(Co-Presiding Chairperson(man) of the South-Norwich-Branch-Alan-Partridge-Fan- Club©)

Extract: 'The Osiris Code', by Stan Brown (and a new foreword by Alan Holswick)

1

He was running now. Past the Arc de Triomphe, past the Louvre’s pyramid and up into the gallery. The impossibly fast footsteps behind him faded into silence.

Lost him!

He turned towards the exit. He froze. Staring back at him were that same pair of red eyes…

            Robert Lindon woke with a start, gasping for air. He caught his breath. He wondered whether the common man knew that the words ‘gasp’ and ‘gas’ are both derived from the Aramaic word ‘gaspa’ meaning ‘life’.

                        Probably not, he thought, I’ve got a fucking PHD.

But Lingdon didn’t feel too clever now, as he lay in bed covered in cold sweat and panting. The droplets on his skin made his muscular frame glisten under the fluorescent lightbulb which flickered on and off above him.

            I’m like a fucking clever prostitute.

 Lindon’s waist was kept to a near-perfect trim by the forty-nice laps he swam of the swimming pool in Oxford, where he lectured on ‘Ancient Linguistics and Meta-Cognitive Symbolicism’. He wiped the sweat off hid perfectly muscular chest, rolled onto his man-valley of his toned back muscles, and glanced at his Daffy Duck wristwatch. It had stopped working years ago, but he liked to keep it on, as a reminded to touch the child inside him.

            What a strange dream

It must have been triggered by the mysterious phone call from the stranger with the robotic voice who told him to travel to Cairo the next day for a lecture, without disclosing why or who he was. Still, Lindon thought nothing of it, pulled himself out of bed and dressed for the lecture.

2

            Three hours later, Lindon arrived at Heathrow Airport. He walked down the tarmac and past the Airport control tower. He recalled how the Airport tower was actually a recreation of the Tower of Babel – the Biblical tower which, as myth has it, crumbled into thirteen parts, spreading different languages around the globe.

                        Now sending flights around the globe.

            He wondered if the airport staff knew that they were actually working in a recreation of a Biblical myth.

                        Probably not, he thought, they’re only fucking airport staff.

            Suddenly he heard rapid footsteps behind him. Images from his dream the previous night flashed into his mind. He spun around in horror to see a pair of red eyes, staring at him.

3

            Sarah Cocksteady clutched her mobile phone in horror. It was an iPhone 4.She had bought it recently from one of the high-street stores near her science lab, although it was available in all good electronics stores nationwide. Not surprisingly, given Apple’s dedication to customer satisfaction, she had purchased it for an extremely reasonably price. In fact, Sarah Cocksteady had only just finished telling her secret benefactor, only known as ‘Laqab’, that if he wanted to discuss the product further he could call 0800 741 741, when she had received the horrifying picture-message. The phones iCase, which she had bought to ensure a lifetime of customer satisfaction, reflected her terror-stricken face. The picture-message was some kind of code. It read;

IVIVIV. The answer lies at the feet of a God.

            She stared at the number in the handy contacts log which could keep a complete record of all the iPhone 4’s^ã history, making staying connected to her loved ones a whole lot easier. Sarah recognised the number. It was the same number that had called the night before, right after her brother, the curator of the British Museum and researcher of Egyptian Mythology, had gone missing. She knew that the text was sine kind of code, and she knew that she had the option to call, text, Email or Facebook a friend all at the touch of a button, making keeping in touch a whole lot quicker. But who could she contact for help? The fibres of her tight lab coat stretched over swelling chest as her breath quickened.

                        Who can I call?

4

            Robert Lindon stared into those red eyes. “Sit”, he commanded, and the dog sat. He chuckled at himself for jumping at a simple dog. He stroked the dog’s neck. It was wearing a collar with the name ‘Anubis’.

                        Appropriate.               

            Anubis was the Jackal-headed god who ruled the underworld in ancient Egyptian mythology. He wondered if the god knew it was named after an ancient anthropomorphic mythological deity.

                        Probably not, he thought, it’s only a fucking dog.

            Suddenly Lindon noticed something underneath the collar. It was white, and square. He picked it out from underneath the collar. It was a piece of paper. He opened it out. There was a message scribbled on it. He read it. His eyes opened in shock.  It read;

If you want to see Dr. Cocksteady alive, call077186247  

            Lindon gasped. Peter Cocksteady was his best friend. He was the curator of the British Museum and had taught Lindon everything he knew about Egyptian mythology. He had not heard from his for a while, but assumed his unusual summoning for a lecture had something to do with Peter.

                        Seems like this shit goes deeper.

             Lindon turned around to head towards the plane, where he could call the number in peace and quiet. The plane was painted gold and had the name ‘Osiris’ painted down the side. He recalled how Osiris was the Egyptian sun-god who would travel across the sky every day before engaging in battle with the serpent god ‘Set’. Every day he would lose the battle and darkness would descent, only to be reincarnated the next morning, for another cycle of this everlasting struggle. Lindon wondered whether the plane knew that this myth is where the term ‘sunset’ came from.

                        Probably not, he thought, it’s only a fucking plane.

            He walked towards the plane, dialled the number into his cell phone, held his breath for an answer. But he stopped. He felt a strong presence behind him. He turned around, and to his astonishment the dog began to stand up, revealing well-muscled legs – human legs, and then a human torso.

            Anubis!

5

The albino kneeled. Above his head, nailed to the wall, hung a gold disc - an Egyptian sun-disc. The man’s huge, muscular body prostrated before it. He’s rippling back muscles stretched the thin white sheet that was covering the Adonis-like body beneath. The man raised himself up, making his huge, thick sex-organ bulge against the thin sheet which could barely contain his manhood, like a shaved otter hiding behind a table cloth. He bent down again, causing his perfectly sculpted buttocks to quiver under the sheet, like a muscely baby behind a curtain, terrified of his own father. He was now kneeling before a cross-symbol. It was not the crucifix; the ancient instrument of torture still worshipped by the follows of Jesus, despite being their prophet’s cause of death. No, this symbol was older. It was the Egyptian ‘Anch’ symbol, used by the pharaohs to represent the stability that they brought to the land. Next to this was the symbol of the Egyptian creator-god, ‘Amun’. As he worshipped one after the other, he was prostrating before a code. The sun disc, if rendered as ‘son’ – a correction of an ancient mistranslation, follows by the ‘anch’ symbol and the ‘amun’ symbol spelled out ‘tut-anch-amun’. Or, Tutankamun.

                        Soon the secrets of the treasure will be mine!

            He closed his eyes – coloured red by his albino condition – relishing the thought. Suddenly, a shout interrupted his thought. He groaned, pulled himself up, and walked into the next room. A scared old man sat in the corner of the room, tied to a chair. He had managed to spit out the gag that now lay in his lap, limp and soggy like an apologetic salmon. “Laqab!” the man bellowed, “let me go! I told you, I know nothing about any lost treasure!” “Shut it gramps!” shouted Laqab – the albino giant, “speak again and I’ll shove your face so far down your throat you’ll be smelling your own scrotum for a week! Besides, I know you can’t help me, don’t insult my intelligence. But, I know a certain little lady called Sarah who could!” Peter froze.

                        Sarah!

            “Don’t you dare touch my sister”, he screamed. A grin spread across Laqab’s chiselled face. He stepped forward, “I hope you like the smell of nuts”, he said as he rolled up his sleeves.

6

            Sarah Cocksteady was staring at her iPhone 4^. She had just logged on to the Internet and was Googling^ã the phrase from her terrifying picture-message ‘at the feet of gods’, using the iPhone’s 16MB Internet connection which was available all over mainland UK. Although the connection time was the fastest of all the iPhone’s high-street competitors the Google search was so broad that it was taking some time.

                        Lucky that unlimited browsing is included in my monthly tariff. She thought to herself.

            Suddenly the iPhone began to ring. She didn’t recognise the number that flashed up on the long-lasting screen.

                        Perhaps it’s about Peter!

            She answered the phone, only having to shake the phone thanks to its Gravo-Tech software that makes staying in touch with friends just a shake away. 

          “Hello!”, she almost shouted into the phone. Luckily the iPhone^ã was equipped with 8GB of Audio-Accaleratory Transfixiciation software, meaning that no matter how loud she spoke, the person on the end of the line would hear her voice at a volume level guaranteed to be non-harmful to their hearing, making speaking to strangers a whole lot safer. On the other end, she heard muffled grumbles.

                        This is due to the bad quality of the sound-source, she assured herself, and not the fault of the iPhone’s^ã Cubic-Metereophonic Speaker System.

            It sounded like some kind of fight was happening on the other end of the line.

                        Peter?

7

            Lindon heard a muffled “Peter” coming from his phone receiver, but he was too busy wrestling with the half-man-half-dog creature to answer. The creature grabbed the phone from him and threw it to the floor. The phone, being one of the poor-quality high-street competitors to the iPhone 4 was flimsy, and smashed into a thousand pieces upon impact with the runway tarmac, revealing it’s cheaply-constructed wiring. “Should have splashed out on iPhone”, he quipped, before the creature smashed him in the face, splitting his jam-bone in two and breaking most of his teeth. Robert Lindon’s world went black. The creature stood over its victory. It reached its hands up, and removed its canine head, revealing a well-chiselled face, with white hair and albino eyes….

To continue reading, Alan Holswick and Stan Brown’s novel ‘The Osiris Code’, you can find it now in all good bookshops and Apple Stores.

            

Jean-Gough Frais album review

An review for Jean-Gough Frais' upcoming album... as featured in the Sunday Telegraph;

You thought you knew about tasty grooves? Put that shit back in the pantry grandma! And even that wouldn't keep it this fresh. This shits fresher than a thousand Femwipes, and more raw than freshly picked sushi! Forget sweet guitar solos. Get ready for some guitar sol-oh my gods... these are sweeter than the Easter Bunny's cunt! This Bass is so deep you'll need a chopper to get outta there! In fact, fuck hello-copter, youll need a "hello Doctor" the bass is that sick. And with production thats slicker than Draco Malfoy's penis, this shit swings like a sack of horse nuts. Tired of hearing same old same old? Make like a stripper in denial and forget about having pop rammed down your throat every night. Heres something far more tasty, and a tad less cheesy. You thought your tunes were hard? Jean-Gough makes yall feel like dolphin vagina. Thought your tunes were hot? Jean gough makes yall feel colder than a turkey wiithout smack. The verses are tighter than a cats back-mouth, and the choruses as catchy as Gonorrhea. And you're gonorrhea-lly like the price!  Only £10.99, including P & P - Party and Pussy!

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