The Humour Mines & Other Unlikely Stories

Stephen Palmer

author of books
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Have you ever wondered what humour is? I know I have. So, for fans of Xana-La and Hairy London who want just one more absurdist fix, I present my forthcoming volume The Humour Mines (a novella) and seven other unlikely stories. To paraphrase reviewer Gary Dalkin, it's a gonzo Ripping Yarns meets Alice In Wonderland... except with Sheremy, not Alice.

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Going to tweak the front cover colours a bit. Not too much. I forget that screen and paper versions differ in heaviness, contrast and tone. The interior looks great. I dedicated the book to Roger Watson, who narrated Hairy London and Xana-La. (Xana-La will be up on YouTube soon.) Toodle-pip!
 
"Sheremy Pantomile picked up the piece of dessicated Saharan camel dung to read the message upon it. The instruction, written in the single-humped font, was perfectly clear: Meet me at the Amusement Club 3pm sharp. Come alone! Franclin Spar-Turney.
Sheremy pondered this message, wondering what it might portend. Following the events of London beneath hair, Franclin had retired from the Suicide Club, though he remained an honorary member in order to undertake administrative work and feed the moon moths. These days however he never became involved in the sort of shenanigans the Suicide Club was notorious for.
The Amusement Club was a small building squeezed between the Bank Of Out-Of-Work Actors and the headquarters of the Guitar Sexing Agency..."

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No time to lose! Velvene carried the clay figure to the machinora, hauled it into the wicker capacity, then turned to see his mother emerge onto the roof, just ten yards away. He primed the bovine heatorix then cast off, cutting the two restraining ropes with his penknife. The machinora floated up.
His mother launched herself at the machinora, grabbing the flailing end of a rope and pulling it. “Come back here, you thief! I’ll whip you myself! Stop, Velvene, stop this at once.”
“Goodbye mother,” he shouted back. “I most cordially loathe you! You say you shall never see me again, well, that means I shall never see you. And that fills me with joy! Joy, do you hear?”
“You useless man, you’re no son of mine! I’ll have you excommunicated.”
“I do not care. Since you have banished me, I am free to go where I please.”
“May God have mercy on your soul!” she shrieked as the rope slipped from her grasp.
“Goodbye! And thank you for everything!”
With that, the machinora rose with resonant lowing into the heavens, leaving a trail of part chewed grass that splattered in a line along the roof.
- from Hairy London.

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I've been extraordinarily lucky over the years with fans who have supported me despite my insistence on hopping from sub-genre to sub-genre. One such is my American friend Jerry Kranitz, an Anglophile, music-lover, and all round good guy. Here he is telling folks about my latest collection, "The Humour Mines"...

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