Still Not Dead

I never really cared for zombies, never gave them much thought until now.  Could a corpse type, or would it simply headbutt the keyboard until its face was mashed beyond recognition?  Actually, I’m back to not caring.

I don’t know if many people still come here considering how little I’ve posted in the past year, but I just wanted to write a little message saying that I am, in fact, still alive.  I’ve not been neglecting my writings, far from it!  I’ve been focusing a lot more on my larger works over the past year and most of my spare time has been going into those projects.  When I’m further along I will update this site more then, maybe even post a few of the shorter stories I’ve got gathering dust in the dark recesses of my figurative basement.  And finally, to whoever is out there reading this right now: thank you for stopping by.  Much non-zombie love from me to you.  Catch you on the flipside.

The Big, Mean, Smelly Giant That Hates Me


“Cormoran” by Arthur Rackham (1918)

Some days you just can’t get rid of a giant.  So what do you do?  Why, write to your local councillor of course!  Here’s a letter from a man with precisely that problem, for your reading pleasure.  Written on the 21st October 2016.

The Big, Mean, Smelly Giant That Hates Me

Dear Councillor Oberick,

As you may know, I live under the beanstalk. Yes, that beanstalk. It’s a god damn disgrace. And since said disgrace lies within the boundaries of your constituency, I feel the need to write you this very sincere and heartfelt letter of frustration.

I hate that big stupid beanstalk. I hate it almost as much as I hate the evil monstrosity that lives at the top of it. You know the one, the large cretin who feels that it’s perfectly acceptable to twat my sheep up like they’re balloons at a birthday party. They both suck gratuitous amounts of buttock, and I vigorously demand (with all of my vigor) that you wipe both of them off the face of the planet post-haste.

It’s been many years since Jack scaled that forsaken thing and taunted the big brute that lives up there. I never liked Jack, he was an inconsiderate prick, to be perfectly honest. He never once considered what would happen to the rest of us if he ever ticked the giant off. Jack’s been dead a while now. I’ll never forget the day I ran outside to bring in my washing because I thought it was raining but it turned out to be his blood splattering my roof and ruining my good long johns. Damn you, Jack. Damn you to Hades.

And that, my dear councillor, is the very day my long string of beanstalk-related problems began. My house lies right under that stupid stalk, and when the giant discovered how Jack got up there and into his cloud kingdom in the first place, he started climbing down it to see what havoc he could wreak. He messes with me all the time now. All the damn time. Last week I couldn’t even get my front door open because he’d shit on the doorstep. How can any living creature drop a deuce that god damn large? I swear I hate the rotten monster. Hate him with every fibre of my being.

The first time I encountered the giant was actually at Jack’s funeral. You remember that, right? The funeral that claimed the lives of seven old biddies and three pallbearers? Of course you do, if I recall correctly you lost an arm. Now like I said, I never liked Jack, but my mother and his mother were old cribbage friends, so I felt somewhat obliged to attend. There was a coffin, which I thought was kind of odd considering the circumstances surrounding his grizzly death. A bucket would have been more appropriate, if you ask me. Regardless, when the pallbearers lifted it, you could hear him sloshing around inside. It was disgusting. It also made his mother cry a lot. Anyway, as we began the second hymn, all of a sudden there came a massive crash and the church door went flying down the aisle, nailing the minister to the organ with a splat. Everyone turned to see the giant squeeze himself into the church and start tearing the place apart. I think he even ate the organist, but I can’t be sure. There were no more sweet organ solos that day though, I can confirm that much.

He likes to pee a lot too, that’s another wonderful habit of his I’ve learned about. It started with my beloved sheep. I used to find them absolutely soaked through, and they’d be dyed a nasty yellow hue. The wool was ruined, nobody wants to buy a scarf that reeks of giant piss. Then he’d start to pee down my chimney at night, putting out the fire. Once, I was even outside walking up the path to my door when he jumped out from behind the house and urinated so hard in my general direction that I was fired back down the road until I crashed upside down into a lemon tree. I reiterate: I hate that big, mean giant.

So I ask you this simple question, Councillor Oberick. What are you going to do about a giant, smelly menace like that? He’s huge and I’m no match for his size or power. I suggest you remove your one remaining hand from your private cavity and sort this mess out. I’ve had it up to here with that beanstalk and the foul thing that lives above it. Get it sorted.

On a side note, I have heard that he likes bread. I’ve also heard that he likes to steal it from the baker each dawn. Maybe you could bake him a loaf of special bread, and fill it with rat poison or dynamite. Whatever, it’s just a suggestion. Just make sure you teach that no good son of a genetic defect a lesson that he’ll never forget.

Anyway, I must dash now, for I have just spotted the hulking brute shimmy down the beanstalk once again. Judging from the expression on his face, he looks about ready to block my front door with copious amounts of steaming feces again. I’ll write to you once more in a week if I have not seen any improvement in the nasty giant situation. In the meantime, I suggest that you get your act together and sort this sorry shambles out. Good people like me are paying the price for Jack’s idiocy and we shouldn’t have to stand for this anymore.

Yours sincerely peeved,

Uchtred Ramherd

Like FREE Books? Have Mine!


Dear readers,

I have great news for you.  If you like to read (and I’m making the ridiculous assumption that you do), then I’m inviting you to grab yourself a copy of my first novel “A VULGAR TALE” for absolutely free right now!  Freebies rule, there’s no denying it.

So snag yourself the most out-there novel I guarantee you will ever read.  It’s likely to destroy your soul, make you laugh (or vomit) and generally question your place in life.  It’s not for the weak of mind, body or soul.  It’s A VULGAR TALE.  It’s vulgar.  It’s insane.  It’s fantastically bizarre and most importantly, for the next few days (13th – 16th October) it’s completely FREE.  Yeah, freebies are awesome.

Check it out!

Amazon US:
Amazon UK
Amazon CA

I’m doing this because I’m amazingly awful at the marketing and promotion game.  It makes my head hurt and I don’t like that.  Therefore, I thought I’d make the thing free for a few days, with hopes that people will be kind enough to leave a little review on Amazon and/or Goodreads, talk about it, discuss it, tell their friends, tell their pest exterminator, etc.  So if you check it out, please consider leaving a review, I’d super appreciate it like you wouldn’t believe and I’d maybe even love you a little (or a lot, if it’s a five star review).

Thanks for stopping by, and please read A VULGAR TALE.  It’s sweet.  Rock on!

A Vulgar Tale – Out Now on Paperback!


My First Novel “A VULGAR TALE” is Now Available on Paperback!

Dear Readers,

I am very excited to announce that my very first novel has just been released on paperback. A VULGAR TALE is unlike anything you have ever read or will ever read again, I can pretty much guarantee that. It’s like an atomic bomb going off inside your brain, but in a really good way. Why does it have this effect? Because it’s the most degenerate, twisted, outlandish, thrilling and spectacularly vulgar novel that I’m aware exists. I do not normally write stories like this at all, let alone full-blown epic sagas of near-unimaginable freakishness. Hence the use of the pretty kick ass nom de plume, “Ebenezer Hellwig”. Mark my words, I’ll never write a book like this again. My soul can’t handle that much blackness.

So maybe you want to read something that’s different. Maybe you want to read something that’s just plain weird. Maybe, you want to indulge in something so out there and so unashamedly bizarre that you doubted such a book even existed. Now I’m not trying to toot the bejesus out of my own horn endlessly here, but I honestly don’t know of anything that even comes close to what this book is. It’s very niche. It lives in a little niche somewhere in the vast literary ocean, a bubbling eddy full of used needles, condoms, the bones of the slain and general nastiness. Oh yeah, it’s A VULGAR TALE alright! The name is also the synopsis, just so you know. Make no bones about it, this is a unique beast.

So, what’s it all about? Well allow me to quote the blurb on the back of the book for you:

When a giant scrotum-like god with phallic-shaped tentacles comes from another dimension to destroy Metropolis, it’s up to two complete assholes with a history of drug abuse and mindless violence to go on a thrilling interdimensional quest to save the day and get laid.

On the instructions of a tutu-wearing biker fairy with type-two diabetes, Ludwig Scumbucket and Basehead Bart set off to fulfil the stupid and mostly-incoherent prophecy and tear shit up like only they know how. Travelling through the very fabrics of existence itself, the inept duo encounter all manner of ridiculousness…and leave it a bloody wreck.

A quest of absurdity for the ages, A Vulgar Tale is sure to warp your mind and liquidise your sanity. If you’re a fan of bizarre adventure, the more deranged the better, then this unholy tome is your jam, man. Featuring plot points fit for a king, a string of gratuitous brutality, mullet abuse and characters so intriguing they belong wedged up Satan’s colon, A Vulgar Tale is as outrageous as it comes.

Is it good? Well of course I’m going to say yes, but don’t just take my word for it. Look at the amazing quotes I got from long-dead historical figures who graciously provided me with their opinions when asked:

“It made me evacuate the contents of my bowels against my will, in a good way”

“Better than a heroin cake”

“Unashamedly bizarre, ridiculous, deranged and spectacularly degenerate on a truly grand scale, A Vulgar Tale is weaponised epic on steroids”

And really, who are we to doubt these fine, upstanding and very much dead people?

So there you have it, in all its glory. A VULGAR TALE is my little, mutated, bastard baby. It’s a sick, sadistic, comedic adventure with a fully enthralling quest of amazing shit and unparalleled epic gratuitously applied for your pleasure. Okay fine, I’m totally blowing my own trumpet now.

In all seriousness though, this is my very first novel and I am very proud to have achieved this life goal of mine to get it published. It’s truly different to anything I’ve ever read before so I think if you have a taste for the bizarre and things that fall firmly outside the realms of normal, then I think you’ll dig it. It’s available right now on all regional Amazon websites in both ebook and fabulous paperback (for those who like to get all touchy feely with their books).

Thanks for stopping by and taking the time to read this, and please won’t you give A VULGAR TALE a try? Check out the ebook’s “Look Inside” preview, read a few chapters and see if it tickles your fancy. Go on, you know you want to! Also, if you do happen to read it (or have read it already) please leave a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads, I’d super appreciate it!

Your friend and mine,
Ebenezer Hellwig

Amazon USA:

Amazon UK:

A Formal Complaint


“Painting of Russian Writer Evgeny Chirikov” by Ivan Semenovich Kulikov (1904)

The following is a letter written from the perspective of a man who is quite upset about his recent robotic arm transplant.  The company who performed the proceedure is on the recieving end of his passive-agressive wrath, and who knows?  He may even get a refund.  Written on the 12th September 2016.

A Formal Complaint

Dear StumpCorp,

I am writing to you to formally complain about a recent arm transplant I had at your Antarctic compound/hospital. I feel it is necessary to put these words in writing as I feel that I might lose my figurative shit if I were to phone you instead. This medium allows me to take my time and present my opinions and feelings regarding my malfunctioning Auto-Masturbator 9K in a hopefully coherent and respectable manner, even if the thing fucking sucks.

At first, I was pleasantly surprised with my new electro limb. Your flagship model was certainly a lot more functional than my mangled stump and its associated dangling bits. Upon taking my complimentary hot air balloon back to my village in Transnistria, I tested the shiny new contraption by choking out a feral goat. I was pleasantly surprised to break my own personal record of twelve seconds until it fainted. Elated, I sought out and choked a further nine goats as well as several small monkeys. On a related note, it is not considered cruelty to dispatch these animals in my village, as we are currently overrun by them and are fearing that they may stage a political coup at any moment.

All was fine and dandy, that is until I chose to get intimate with myself later that night. You would think that a device approved by the “Allied Council of Honest, Agreeable and Undoubtedly Legitimate Business Practices” would be able to live up to its namesake of Auto-Masturbator 9K and easily achieve its primary purpose. Not so. I am now sans genitalia and am quite upset about this alarming fact. A robotic arm should not have a secret built-in miniature chainsaw which only makes itself known when the user is in a high state of excitement and therefore unable to do anything other than scream and bleed. Nor should it be built into the palm of the thing. I am deeply disappointed with StumpCorp for not informing me about this feature. This is clearly a huge oversight in design and I request that an immediate investigation begin, in addition to a full refund and a goodwill gesture of a new prosthetic penis (preferably forty inches or longer so I can also use it as a bullwhip), if you do in fact produce such a thing.

In summation, I cannot express my disappointment at my new arm’s inability not to fuck me up. The removal of my genitals has perturbed me greatly. I believe that all companies operating in the field that you have chosen to specialise in should offer quality aftercare and honour their patient’s right to not be fucked up in as spectacular a manner as this. A prosthetic arm should be capable of much more than just choking out goats and monkeys. I didn’t even get to play ping pong with the gimp I keep locked in the cage at the bottom of my garden, and that is undoubtedly your fault. For shame, StumpCorp, for shame.

Please do your best to resolve this disconcerting situation as soon as possible, otherwise I shall be left with no choice other than to begin legal proceedings with my very expensive lawyer. Failing that, I shall ask the Transnistrian government to bomb you off the face of the planet (and don’t think I can’t do that, they owe me a favour).

Yours furiously,

Ron Fanny

My 1st Novel is Now FREE on Amazon!


“A Vulgar Tale” by Ebenezer Hellwig (2016)

Dear Readers,

The reason for my lack of posts lately has been due to me finishing my first published novel. It’s entitled “A Vulgar Tale” and it’s exactly that. Extremely vulgar. In fact, it’s so vulgar that I used a pseudonym instead of my own name in order to distinguish it from the kind of things I normally write. I’m very proud to share this novel with the world now, and even more pleased to let everyone know that it is currently being offered for FREE on Amazon (though only for the next two days, so be quick, afterwards it will be a mere 99p/99c). Links are at at the bottom of this post. Now, here’s the exciting synopsis:

When a giant scrotum-like god with phallic-shaped tentacles comes from another dimension to destroy Metropolis, it’s up to two complete assholes with a history of drug abuse and mindless violence to go on a thrilling interdimensional quest to save the day and get laid.

On the instructions of a tutu-wearing biker fairy with type-two diabetes, Ludwig Scumbucket and Basehead Bart set off to fulfil the stupid and mostly-incoherent prophecy and tear shit up like only they know how. Travelling through the very fabrics of existence itself, the inept duo encounter all manner of ridiculousness…and leave it a bloody wreck.

A quest of absurdity for the ages, A Vulgar Tale is sure to warp your mind and liquidise your sanity. If you’re a fan of bizarre adventure, the more deranged the better, then this unholy tome is your jam, man. Featuring plot points fit for a king, a string of gratuitous brutality, mullet abuse and characters so intriguing they belong wedged up Satan’s colon, A Vulgar Tale is as outrageous as it comes.

Make no mistake, this book won’t be for everyone. It’s extremely bold and absurd. But if you yearn for something vastly different than pretty much everything you’re ever likely to read, then pick up a copy of “A Vulgar Tale” right now while it’s FREE. It’s available on, and all other Amazon regional sites for absolutely nothing.

Please check out my new novel and thanks for stopping by!

Neil Dinsmore/Ebenezer Hellwig

Amazon UK – FREE:

Amazon US – FREE:

To Whom It May Concern


Shaggy the Creep

I wrote this on the 10th of June 2008, some time after going to see Saw IV and finding it horrible.  It reminded me of the worst film I ever paid to see, Scooby Doo 2.  Do yourself a favour and never watch it.

To Whom It May Concern

Dear “Producers”,

Yeah you, I’m talking to you. I feel a strong need to share my over-ripened hatred with your no good, worthless asses. Recently, I had the misfortune of watching Scooby God-Damn-Piece-of-Shit Doo 2 at my local cinema. That was a spectacular mistake on my part. Simply put, your movie is a bowl of fuck. My anus weeps runny brown tears at the mere thought of it, yet somehow I will endure this warm fudge puddle as I relate to you my feelings on the tragic rape of my Saturday night.

That mouldy toe-cheese and anal scrapings pie of a movie was so ball-blisteringly atrocious that I had no choice other than to vomit all over the person seated in front of me. Honestly, the sight of those putrid chunks of filth sliding down his sweaty bald melon was a damn sight more entertaining than that colossal asshat of a movie. What I still don’t understand, is just exactly why I felt compelled to purchase a ticket for this abomination on celluloid in the first place. Perhaps it was the advertising I saw on television, maybe that’s what enticed me. Yes, that must be it. I must have liked the TV ads. Well, it was either that or I have some undiagnosed mental condition.

Regardless, I go and watch this miserable pile of bastard with my good friend Tosh. A mere five minutes into the feature he communicates to me through a series of lurid hand gestures that this movie is unadulterated “wank poop”. I had to agree with him wholeheartedly, for wank poop was exactly what it was. I conveyed my agreement by standing up, dropping my trousers, bending over and unleashing a sizeable wave of diarrhoea onto the cinema screen.

It’s around this time that my stomach decides to evacuate its contents via my mouth onto the follicley challenged gentleman sitting in front of me. There was a notable amount of screaming. I did feel somewhat bad for the man, after all he had just witnessed an arc of brown fudge batter narrowly pass overhead, only to be bathed in my warm bile soup afterwards. I had been drinking blueberry Slush Puppy too. Peg me sideways with a pickle, those things are lush.

I suppose that everyone around me in the cinema that day got some degree of satisfaction from their movie-going experience in the end. That is because the sight and smell of a stranger’s ripe bodily fluids participating in an unscheduled redecoration of the cinema was infinitely more thrilling (and engaging) than your utter omelette of a pig manure art project. As I have made quite clear, Scooby God-Damn-Piece-of-Shit Doo 2 is a total polyp of a film, it’s actually worse than a bag of fresh dog feces set on fire and left on your doorstep. Just when you think it’s safe to stamp the flames out, you end up with brown anal sludge slopped all over your expensive slippers. Seeing and smelling my steaming diarrhoea and vomit was a much more pleasant experience. In fact, feces is once again running down my leg as I type this at the mere recollection of that forsaken goat teet of a movie.

The rest of the audience equally hated it. I could tell. I was not the only one to throw anal waste at the screen. In fact, after the credits had rolled and I had helped a trio of pensioners disconnect and lob their colostomy bags at the ushers, I made a point of running around outside in the atrium asking each and every one of those poor, shell shocked bastards if they thought Scooby God-Damn-Piece-of-Shit Doo 2 was the movie equivalent of a lobotomy and anal probing with a large pencil at the same time. They all agreed with me that it was. One suggested that I take ecstasy and try it again. He’s dead now. That didn’t have anything to do with me though.

Now, I do realise that some people may have actually enjoyed this movie, much in the way that I acknowledge that there are people out there with profound learning disabilities. I met someone out in that atrium who told me that he absolutely loved said dog fart of a film. I was taken aback. Not only had I met someone who deserved to be drowned in the diarrhoea of a thousand cholera-suffering apes, but he was also carrying around a deceased pigeon. It was stuffed behind his ear, in the same manner a builder would with a pencil. Someone, and I’m not saying who, pushed this man in front of a bus that night. Several of us gathered around the splattered puddle and stared at it for 90 minutes. It was more entertaining than your film. Your film was pants.

Now let’s break that analogy down, shall we? We shall. This divine twat of a movie is indeed pants, but it’s not the equivalent of good pants. Nor is it mediocre pants, It’s not even Tesco Value, left out in the rain for seven weeks on the rotting corpse of a homeless man pants. I would rather suck the sweat out of those pants than watch your movie again. So what kind of pants is this film? Well, it’s the kind of pants you would see only Shaggy himself wearing. That is, the very same dirty delinquent bastard from this movie who looks like he’d be too stoned to realise he’d dropped a series of deuces in his trousers a month ago. Those are some pretty bad pants. Be that as it may, you would still rather wear them on your head than behold this festering rectal wart of a movie with your poor accursed eyeballs.

In summation, Scooby God-Damn-Piece-of-Shit Doo 2 was a waste of my Saturday night and I would like to point out to the makers of this atrocity that I will be arriving on their doorsteps in the very near future to slap their smug faces off their worthless skulls and steal all the nice things they happen to own in the apartments they bought off the money they made from my ticket. I’m also seeking compensation for my Slush Puppy. You don’t get to churn out a brown plasticine log like that in Hollywood and get away with it. Why do you even call yourselves producers? As far as I can tell, you took a hangover-grade shit and called it a film and now you’re producers? Well I produced a brown toilet submarine myself while watching your movie and my liquid bowel baby was plastered all over the big screen, does that make me a producer now? No, it makes me a guy who took a shit in a cinema. That’s something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life, which is exactly what you useless scrotum lesions have to do now as well.

Thank you for your time, screw you for making this movie and I hope you have a terrible life full of skin diseases and brutal accidents. You assholes.

Yours spectacularly,

Ernie Penisdance


Still Life with a Skull and a Writing Quill by Pieter Claesz (Dutch, Berchem 1596 or 97 – 1660 Haarlem (1628)

Still Life with a Skull and a Writing Quill” by Pieter Claesz (1628)

Dear Reader,

First and foremost, allow me to welcome you to my humble slice of the internet pie and thank you for stopping by. This is The Book of Hangman, a collection of writings (and occasional other such artistic pieces) created by myself. My name is Neil Dinsmore and I have always been into creating art. I dislike calling it that though, it feels somewhat pretentious. I feel it’s up to others to decide whether it’s art or not. Maybe you’ll enjoy it. Then again, maybe you’ll think it’s dog feces converted into binary code, perhaps through the use of an as-yet undisclosed apparatus which the government will one day use to convert your own excrement into data and thus begin the enslavement and subsequent farming of the human race, because as we all know data will be the sole currency of the universe once the intergalactic squid aliens come and threaten us with their big pink laser rifles. Man, I really got off track there…

Throughout my life I’ve always taken great pleasure in writing, particularly fiction. I’m not saying I’m therefore any good at it, but be it short stories, poetry, fictional biographies, fake product reviews, newspaper reports, letters, interviews, full length novels or anything in between, it’s been my reason to stick around. The realms of fiction are infinitely more interesting to me than those of reality. Reality is cold and clinical, for the most part anyway. Art is escapism. I love the limitlessness I’m afforded by my own mind, I conform to no rules. My style tends to have an absurdist twist to it, for the most part. Actually, who am I kidding? It’s not a twist. It’s a mangled spine holding up the shivering torso of unfathomable ridiculousness.

I have written stories and poems, created music and comics, made films and recorded radio shows and podcasts. I love the freedom and escapism of art, and so I have never stopped creating. I don’t for one second think my pieces are great, I simply do it because I enjoy it. Therefore, I have decided to not let this stuff rot unseen any longer. I have set up The Book of Hangman to share some of my writings and other pieces with the world. Hopefully someone out there will garner a smidgen of enjoyment out of some of them. Failing that, I hope I make somebody cry instead.

On a closing note, if you’re reading this years from now and I’m long gone and scattered to the four winds… “Boo”.

Yours preposterously,

Neil “Hangman” Dinsmore