TREVOR'S WORLD

TV shows of mine in development

2006-12-18T15:30:00.000-08:00

Behind Closed Doors : Single documentary looking at whether the
light does really go off in the fdridge when you close the door
***** *** directs. 1 x 40 mins.

Bridge Of Lies Comedy feature-film to be directed by **** ****
about a small Welsh village who have to change immense tolls to hid
the fact that they haven't *really* built a suspension bridge.

School Dance New series following the lives of US teenagers
running up to their annual school dance and shooting.

Ease The Load New series of the teaching magazine show trying to
help copraphiles balance their work and home lives.6 x 15 mins.

Date Devil New comedy series being developed specifically for
the satanist market. We also plan a number of
feature-films.

Dishing It Up (W.T.)New cookery series presented by German
consensual cannibals ***** ****** and ****** ******
8 x 30 mins.

Northern SuperStar – A Love Story (W.T.)Rites- of-passage love
story set and shooting in Gateshead and Newcastle's glitz showbiz
districts

Undercover Motherf*cker New series in which a jive turkey police
officer, shows us how we can all make our homes and families
more secure.

Driving Me Crazy New series in which different criminal
psychologists investigate issues about motoring such as
speeding, parking fines, paranoia, and rage against the 4X4's. 3
x 60 mins.

Takeaway My Takeaway ****** ****** presents this series in which
teenagers are kidnapped and taken to the country of origin of
their favorite convenience food and taught to prepare it for their new
masters, naked. 10 x 30 mins.

The Animal Extractors New high definition wildlife series
focusing on gerbils recovered from the anal tracts of celebrities. 13 x 60
mins.

Malus In Sunderland ****** ****** is set to star as a giant alien head freed from a country church and let loose in a contemporary retelling of the Lewis Carroll story. *** **** will direct.

Musicrap New reality series in which young people who are passionate about their favorite genre of music knife people who disagree to the music of Carmen. one-off performance.

The Best Little White Horse In Texas Feature-film based on the fantasies of someone I know, allegedly.

The Mission (W.T.)New series in which some of the richest religious leaders relocate to a poor village in Uganda and then try to spend their money on making conditions better for its residents while literally applying the Old Testiment. 4 x 60 mins.

The Pharm (W.T.) ****** ******* presents this look at farming in a future where genetic modification allows us to grow anything we want, and actresses wank goats with four penises.3 x 60 mins.

The Real Extras New series following the work of real life extras on films, silent with subtitles. 8 x 60 mins.

Franklyn Feature-film drama to be directed by *** *** starring **** ****** as a newly minted figure with a chip on its shoulder.

Worried Stick - documentary looking at people afraid that they might lose their walking sticks.1 x 40 mins.

Yellowhouse Single drama based on the life of Vincent Van Gogh focusing on a Yellow House he once painted.

Turnstyle Lifestyle - New series aiming to help people turn their lives around.

Oldstyle Turnstyle - New series following people over fifty who have had to start their lives again from scratch.

Shooting The Fish - and - Shush: Into the Barrel. Two new stand alone
dramas from the writer and director of S*****ing The P*st. All
details still very hush hush.2 x 90 mins.

Watch for these on your screens soon.

TREVOR

Stories in 6 words.

2006-10-26T12:17:00.000-07:00

This looks fun.

I think I can tell some of my famous stories in this style:-

Ahem....

Tiny Reptilloids Live In The President's Brain.

Godzilla Is A Hot Sexy Moothrafucker.

Nazi Sea-Slugs In Dutch Dyke Horror.

Go-go Dancing Ninjas In Deadly Dance-Off.

The Big Heat Scorched Men's Marrows.

Trevor

2006-10-13T02:45:00.000-07:00

MantisOIDS? Hmm! I feel my lawyer-sense twitching. Is this or is it not simply a copy lock stock and smoking gun barrel of the evidencialistic sense, of my screenplay:- THE FINAL DAYS OF HULL. Okay its an astronaut *not* a milkman, but the budget limitations I was working under explain that.

Is there no iniquity the people who think making television is difficult will never stoop to. They've never hewn the unforgiving word-ore from the mind-seams of the Deep Pits of the Unconscious. They've never risked the miners lung that comes from ranting at a publisher, or the abstract-orosius that divorces an author from the world, his wife, and his poor helpless children.

THIS IS MY BLOOD THEY ARE STEALING!!!

Trevor K Grant

STEPHEN UNWIN PROVES "REPTILLOID THREAT"

2006-10-03T14:48:00.000-07:00

Using the ingenious probability proof devised by the great mathematician
Stephen Unwin (whose father Stanley was such a loss to the church) I have
CONCLUSIVELY PROVED the likelihood of the Reptilloid menace as follows:-

Given Unwin's the amended Bayes formula

Pb x D /
Pb x D +1 - Pb =Pa

We iterate the folowing evidential items using the probability
output pa, as the pb for the next cycle:-

1 experience of creepy feelings 10 50.00%
2 existance of normal 'life' 0.5 90.91%
3 my continued life 0.1 83.33%
4 Reptilloid events 2 33.33%
5 Weird events 1 50.00%
6 Continued world strife 2 50.00%

Pb x D / Pb x D + 1 - Pb = Pa
step 1 5 / 5.5 90.91%
step 2 0.454545455 / 0.545454545 83.33%
step 3 0.083333333 / 0.25 33.33%
step 4 0.666666667 / 1.333333333 50.00%
step 5 0.5 / 1 50.00%
step 6 1 / 1.5 66.67%

The creepy feeling we get of being watched is clearly ten times more likely to occur if Reptilloid intelligences are observing our every move. On the other hand both the apparent illusion of normality, and their continued failure to STOP MY MOUTH both suggest that the Reptilloid threat may be on the wane (reducing the probability from
a staggering 91% to 83% and 33% respectively. BUT known Reptilloid Events (twice as likely to be caused if Reptilloids are active, and neutral Weird Events (which clearly may or may not be the work of Reptilloids raise the probabilities back to 50%, and the decisive continuation of global strife, gives us a chilling 67% probability that Reptilloids walk amung us!!!

Trevor K Grant

FERMAT REFUTED!!!

2006-09-20T02:08:00.000-07:00

FERMAT

Thinking further it is clear to me that a general philosophical proof can be derived from the earlier 'approximate' proof, as follows:-

Fermat’s theorem states that there is no real number answer for the values a,b,c in the equation

A to the power (ttp) n = (B ttp n + C ttp n). Where n >=3.

However as we have seen ‘real world approximate’ (RWA) answers exist and are easy to find for many decimal places.

One example is given in my preceding posts and I have further RWA solutions for the power Cases 4 through 7, each tending towards 9.99999 for the A value 10 and the B value 7.

Thus, where A = 10 and B = 7, C below will give RWA solutions throughout.

3 8.69337585343935000000
4 9.33660769705948000000
5 9.63867545001111000000
6 9.793551927
7 9.877974

Now, it is clear that these are approximate solutions. However let the value 8.69337585343935 be extended via simple computation, with the end number z being changed to better fit the required value each time, by z = +/-1 and the addition of a successor z(n)

8.69337585343935~~~~~~~~~~~z(n) So the closeness of C ttp n + B ttp n = A ttp n =
1000.00000000000~~~~~~~~~~~z(n) will proceed with each change to z.

Given that z is extensible with each further extention closing in on the supposedly impossible value C

Therefore if z = infinity, then at infinity the RWA solution will be infinity close to the supposedly impossible solution C, hence equivalent to it.

Now numbers found to be infinitely extensible by calculation, like Pi, are irrational real numbers.

Therefore

Either C will resolve before ~~~~~z = infinity in which case C~~~~z can be raised by 10 power z to be a real number in which case Fermat is disproved

OR

C~~~~~~~z will not resolve before infinity, in which case C~~~~~~~~z is equivalent
to Pi an irrational real (but infinite) number.

C can only resolve, or not resolve.

Now Fermat’s theorem does not hold that there is no rational real solution for a, b, c where n >=3, only that there is no real solution.

However I have clearly proved that there is a real solution, but that it is impossible to say whether or not it is rational.

This is TREVOR K GRANT’S FAMOUS IRRATIONAL FERMAT DISPROOF.

Trevor K Grant

A GENIUS WRITES ON FERMAT

2006-09-18T08:36:00.000-07:00

I find that no one has rigorously tested Fermet's last theorum, preferring to
take as gospel complex mathematical digressions. But consider this simple disproof to
27 decimal places, I leave the extension of it further as a matter for the student.

5 to the 2 = (4 to the 2)+(3 to the 2) = 25

Fermat claims that no >2 power case exists for real numbers, but Excel gives:-

10 to the 3 = (7 to the 3)+(8.69337585343935 to the 3) = 1000.00000000000000000000000000

Therefore raising the value of each to whole numbers gives:-

1E+14 to the 3 = (7E+13 to the 3)+(869337585343935 to the 3) = 1E+45

If I had a larger napkin I would complete the more rigourous proof to any number
of decimals required.

Hm Mathematicians, bah!

What use will ivory towers be against the reptilloids!!! If numbers *in the real world* give a sufficiently close answer, proving they can't is the action of a purblind fool.

TREVOR K GRANT

FOLLOWING ADVICE

2006-09-11T15:35:00.000-07:00

My attention was drawn by a fellow author to this:

HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL It seemed meek mild mannered stuff enough.

Then he lost me at: "Their stress has to be appropriate. If you're going to write a novel about a middle-aged nun's sudden crisis of faith, you can't start with a
barrage of gunfire."

HA! I MEAN **HA**

I immediately wrote

"GUN-NUN-JA MARGARETTE

Sister Margarette's crisis of faith was to take her to many places, but it began with a barrage of gun-fire. Things would probably have turned out differently if
she hadn't been holding the gun. For a start the orphans would have been dead, and -
as she told herself - she hadn’t actually been shooting to kill, it was just that no-one had ever told her how to shoot a terrorist and *not* kill them. But then she hadn’t even picked up a gun before today still less a, what was it, a Russian PP-19 Bizon submachine gun, modified to fire single bursts. Odd how quickly a Roman Catholic could pick up a new liturgy..."

If that isn't the opening of a cracking good read, I'm a piggy reptilloid!!!

Trevor K Grant

NEW NOVEL: THE SILENCE - ALL NEW TKG!

2006-08-06T16:20:00.000-07:00

Chapter One

The scale of the disaster wasn’t apparent at first. It wasn’t unusual for the cities’ emergency rooms to be filled with injured men from a brawl in a bar or a dispute at the entrance of a club, so Peter Giles wouldn’t be surprised to start his shift with the sight of a dozen or more bleeding thugs in various stages of alcohol or drug drench, from maudlin through anger to stupor. He expected to hear them as he approached - the dull angry thrum of testosterone and drink, and it was the sudden silence that enveloped him as the lift descended towards the ER, between one verse of a Sheila Easton song on the musak tape and the next, that ought to have been his first intimation of the horror.
He registered the silence though, only with a tiny quirk of relief, as a respite before the plunge back into work. He was still running the gauntlet of compassionate stares from the colleagues who had been working at St Neot’s when he had had his, teeny breakdown - a phrase that always made him imagine Lilliputian tow-trucks dragging his straight-jacketed body over a miniscule three lane highway - not that it had come to straight-jackets, not quite. Peter hadn’t nerved himself to ask his psychiatrist if the proverbial backward’s facing canvas tied restraints were still in use anywhere. He wasn’t sure whether he’d rather the answer was yes or no, and while he didn’t agree with the school of management-think running through the hospital, as much as anywhere, that said ’never ask a question to which you don’t know the answer’, he did profoundly believe that you should never ask a ‘yes or no’ question if you didn’t know which answer you wanted to hear, and were fully prepared for the other.
He half noticed the absence of the smarmy voice computer voice on the lift - ‘You have reached the first floor’ - with again a feeling of relief, that during his self-pitying sobbing, and crying for mommy, someone somewhere had taken pity on every poor so-of-a-bitch you just wanted to ride an elevator to a floor without a mechanical moron commenting on every single stage of the goddamned journey. Was it genuinely broken he wondered, or had some over stressed engineer put a wrench through the circuits late at night.
He was still wondering as the door sprang open without a ping, and let him out into a silent bedlam.

There should have been screaming. He could see at once a group of men fighting, or perhaps not fighting for that implied some purpose to their struggles, and one at least wasn’t so much hitting out at the others as he was, with seemingly, due and careful deliberation, banging his own head repeatedly against the wall. The wall, institutional pale green, was developing an oval depression in its plaster that resembled the mid-cut of an MRI-scan through the skull. Another was hitting out and his fist had just broken, if Peter was any judge and he should have been after five years in ER, and three in army medical before that, the jaw of the man it had landed on. There were no screams from the nurses, through Peter could see from the corner of his eye, one at the desk. An impression quickly taken in - Munch’s Scream, a white face between spider-spread fingers of hands too scared to let go. There was no sound of alarms: although on the faces of everyone there was something like shellshock, and something like the cringing face a patient makes just after the Doctor’s told them something won’t hurt and before the moment when it does. There was no sound at all. The man with the broken jaw staggered back clutching with one meaty hand at his face. The other hand, his right - Peter noted clinically, flung out in counterbalance caught the lead-edge of a metal tray on top of a metal trolley. The whole thing went over, tray, trolley, surgical instruments of heavy chromium steel. The sound should have been louder than the alarms that weren’t ringing.
I’m deaf. Peter thought. Profoundly deaf. How is that possible. He’d never had any problems before, and Peter-boy, he jerked himself back to his surroundings, he wasn’t going to have them long now if he didn’t get to grips with the situation in the ER. The fight was spiralling out now from the four or five combatants and the wall-hating man, into the people they had barged into, or knocked, or annoyed. It was the usual powderkeg, made worse to him by the pall of silence that had descended upon it. It dislocated him from action and turned the immediate into an old movie flashback, he had to tell himself repeatedly that people were being hurt while he introspected. Yeah, Pete, and its not the first time is it.
He stepped forward and took hold of the head-banger. His eyes were bloodshot and his nose was smashed, but he didn’t look concussed not yet. The man must have the forehead of a rhino. He was mouthing something, but Peter had no chance to guess what it was, and no intent to try, not yet at least. Instead he spun the man into the stomach of one of the bruisers, putting them both down, and began the methodical break-up of the riot. Even though he couldn’t hear them the alarms would be summoning hospital security: tooled up and over eager these long summer days of binge drinking. He only needed to break the tempo of the fight, get people off their stride, put down the worst and hang on. He was telling himself this comforting lie, and another about the strain of coming back to work and hysterical deafness when one of the bloody drunks: less drunk or more bloody minded perhaps, swung at him with a chair leg he couldn’t quite avoid, and nigh broke his shoulder. The pain shouted loud enough, but nothing else was, and as Peter fell back his last thought was - what‘s keeping those fucking slackers in security. Getting their asses kicked was their job, not the job of an emergency room supervisor and lowest-grade-Doctor-of-all-trades.

There was a grinding interlude of pain, during which at least once Peter was sure that the head-banger had got him and was trying to use him as a face-saving stand-in, and that the oval green blur in front of his eyes was the impression his broken skull was making in a wall of infinite thickness for all eternity.
When the pain had lessened enough, he tried to shift his position, get some feedback from his body, get some sense of what the fuck had happened and where the fuck the goddam security men with their God-love-em uniforms and great big lovely slobbery vicious bastard dogs were.
The first thing he saw though was words. Thick black words printed longhand on a card. The sloppiness of the writing made him think they couldn’t have been written by any great shakes writer, but then he realised the sloppiness was that certain laxness that comes with writing out the same thing over and over again. In his half dazed state he recognised, the signs of repetition, from the memory of his own handwriting back in school at around the seven hundredth of the thousand line’s he’d got for his part in the Big School Dirt Fight Of 1989.
The writing said ‘NO-ONE HERE CAN HEAR: IF YOU CAN HEAR IT IS VITAL YOU RING 9-11 AND SUMMON ASSISTANCE. THE SILENCE BEGAN AT AROUND 18:00 HRS. WE DO NOT KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE IT HAS AFFECTED’.

CHAPTER TWO: IN WHICH WE SCREAM REMASTERED

2006-07-29T14:58:00.000-07:00

Rennie smirked as he saw the owner's wife sassey into the ship's galley, as he was putting the last of the polished and cleansed wine glasses into their racks. He loved how she walked, the sweat beat of hip in socket, the heeel to toe, heel to toe grace of her. And he kloved that she was on him like flies on shit on jam, pressing her horny body to his, her mouth to his.
He let his tongue move in response to her's: two mouth snakes mating. He swelpt the galley table clear with one huge muscular hand, leaving a wooden wood surface pitted here and there with occasional indentations and knife-nicks, but now in his intent the bed for their inpromptuous liaisoning.
'No Rennie, I can't' she giggled, 'not to night, not til my husband is safely dead, and the insurance in our tight jeans pockets (not that she was wearng jeans having come in her night-attire, but he was and the vision in her head of his jeans in some Erica Yong, zippered but soon to be zipperless state, amde her wonder if perhaps the pleasures of the table weren't to be laid out tonight after all). She half expected him to remonstriate with her about her teasery, coming here half-clothed and tantalising and yet devouring only his lips and tongue, and she half wished he would so that she could acquiese, but she saw suddenly no rising lust in his eyes or loins, but only the blank faced imbecility of engorging fear that wiped his face clean of shear sin as dsut erasures cleanse the work of poor school brats.
Something he has seen, something over her shoulder had defeated his normally undefeated parts, had unmanned his manlyiness, and left him, useless. Useless except for screaming.
Fearing her husband with a big gun, she turned - and yes her husband was there, and for a second she believed he had enacted the old story of the maid discovered in adultery - but then she saw he floated frozen in a mass of jellied flesh that translucent as pig fat in a pie, like aspic, or like that gell they use to hold in water for expensive plants encompassed and enfolded him, and bore him with it like a living tidal wave of stultifying cold. She too had time to scream but not for long....

To Be Continued

CHAPTER ONE "THE DAY THE EARTH FRAZZLED!" REMASTERED

2006-07-27T15:55:00.000-07:00

THE DAY THE EARTH FRAZZLED!!

‘I don’t mean that the earth was invaded by bacon scented corn snacks gentlemen, oh no, although as you’ll see the pigs were involved, the pigs and their masters. I mean that the heat came and singed and fried and burnt and scorched the back of your throat and the tallest trees and set the hairs in your nostrils a blaze when you breathed in. I know because I was there twelve scant years from now, in the future that’s burning its way to us like the powder keg fuse burning down to an explosive blast of gun powder in a dry, locked, and mysterious locked room. You think me mad but the reptilloids and their pigs, their grunting slovenly diminutive assistants in every act of vileness and definitude are amongst us. KEEP WATCHING THE STYES!’

Irving Dyke: The Reptilloid Menace: The Truth

It had been Geoffrey Pannah thought the strangest autopsy he had ever performed on a living man. If Irving Dyke could still have been called living trapped as he was in that mysterious coma which has struck him down two months before during the scheduled live broadcast of his exposa: The Reptilloid Menace: The Truth..
Irving a tall gaunt, taut, grim, invertebrate of a man, had wrecked his career as a presenter of British TV morning discussion programmes with his flirtation with hair oil and outre political views until, stoned out of his mind on meth and tonic he had derailed a live Rotyal Variety performace with his attempt to wrestle the mask of the Duke of Edinburgh, whom - Dyke had averred was really some form of humanoid pig-creature sent back in time from a ghastly future of oriental reptilloid dominance. Needless to sy the Duke wasn’t amused, and only the fortuitous or uncanny collapse into comeric inconsciousness had spared Irving the ordeal of a right royal kick up the arse followed by a swift trip to the Tower and a ceremonial breaking of his TV talkshow hosts microphone stand.
Spun by his lawyers and Doctors into a suddern brain-fever caused no doubt by some blameless tertiary syphilis or hereditary quinsy, Irving had been shipped to the Lord Develmann Memorial Hospital in Arrowfleet, where after a sojourn of two months with no sign of brain activity, his friend Geoffrey was to find himself empowered under the terms of Irving’s living will, to make this attempt to draw back the visionarys erstwhile consciousness from his enskullulated sense deprived brain.
It was to be a novel and innovative procedure and Geoffry though both a wunderkind and a prodigy, wasn‘t technically a brain surgeon, indeed his only official medical qualificatuion had been a Scout first aid badge at the age of three (so prodigal had been his involvement with Baden Powell‘s Gallant Dreams) still he had a full grasp of the mechanical and hydrostatic principles underlying antomy, and it was to he and he alone that Irving had entrusted the execution of this strangest of rescues, for Irving had always believed that by speaking out he risked everything. His dreams of being the new Wogan, his career as deputy head of the English Independence Party, his beautify wife Desiree and their three afgan hounds and the house in Maidenhead. The future perhaps of every single one of the billion human beings that live on our glorious blue green globe, surrounded as out numbered as unknowingly they were by the five billion reptilloids and pigs that had swarmed and multiplied in their image.
Geoff snapped his blue gloves on tight he had precisely twenty minutes to revive a vegetable to sapience if Irving was still to make the fateful broadcast he had promised, even that would be cutting it fine with the journey from Arrowfleet and the necessities of set up time and makeup. His hand almost trembled as he contemplated the incision he was about to have made. In moments he would know if his friend, boyhood companion, and the husband of his lover, would ever interview again.

To be continued....

Rejected Gems #1

2006-07-24T14:14:00.000-07:00

Rejected by the shortsighted editors of Hardboiled Cthulhu and the Temple of Dagon site on the ridiculous grounds that the ghost depicted is 'not cthulhoid enough'. Have they not read The House On The Borderland one wonders!!!! In Praise of that, and its coeval yet Greater Masterpieces: THE NIGHT LAND, for your true delicatation, part one of my Accounts Of The Great Hog: a short story I call:

"The Stink Cistern of Graven Myth"

‘Who put this in for you then,’ the wizened old plumber asked plying his helper’s black cavernous mouth around the soft velvet whiteness of the sink, so that its pliant rubber bent back and whispered a soft undulant slooping suction.
‘The previous tenant,’ Major Hardcastle tentatively replied in all earnestness and whiskers, his military crewcut and moustache a-bristle. ‘Some namby pamby hippy type, the place stank of josh sticks and student wacky-baccy. Still, no more of that here now, eh, Carstairs.’
‘No, Major,’ the plumber agreed absently, tugging on the hard wooden handle of his appliance. With a grinding squitch the sink gave up its blockage. A tangle of hair, red, stiff, and spiky - more the Major thought, queasily, like pig’s bristles than any normal mane. Pig’s bristles and something else. A flash of gold, a chain that might once have fastened together the manacles of a temple dancer’s wrists or ankles.
‘Mine I fancy,’ the Major interjected hastily as the fat greedy hand of Carstairs moved to stuff it away with his plunger.
‘Bit fancy for you, eh Major, heeehhhheeh,’ Carstairs chundered, to find his insolence met with a sharp slap from the Major’s ever handy swagger stick. It might be 1964, but by Gad, the Major wasn’t going to put up with any insolence from a fat tradesperson: Beatles or no Beatles.
That night, prompted by some strange impulse, half misunderstood, half intractably otiose: telic and insomniac the Major tossed in his bed, the chain (divested now of its hairy burden) lay on his bedside table along with one of Strutt’s instructive pamplets: The Careless Dairymaid And The Stool.
It was around three of the clock in the early hours of the morning after the midnight hour had passed untenanted unheralded and unannounced that the Major was moved from deepest slumper in to a fitful waking dream state by the flushing of the great stone cistern in the loftspace somewhere above the bathroom, and the bedroom which let onto its porcelain.
Porcelain, the word in his dream: reminded him of pigs, porcine porcelian, the deviation of the word escaped him in his dream as so many things did, and the rumbling thunderous pump of the water flow into the great cistern sounded like the muttering of innumerable hogs.
He rolled over, and his hand flailing out momentumtarily teetered on the brink of the bedside table like an ant on a precipice and touched the gold links of the chain.
Instantly he recoiled as at the touch of an adder, for the chain, in that cold dank noise filled moment of the early morning felt like nothing on earth. It did not feel hard or ductile or golden, or chainlike. Its palpitivity conveyed nothing of its form, rather touching it brought the feel of stuffing his fingers into something warm and soft and living, something grunting and snuffling, something drooling and palpitating. Into the leaving mouth of the Great Hog, about whose legend he had so freely scoffed when berating the hippies who had fled the house aware of it denouncing in their peripatetic excursions all brisket, sausages, bacon, or pork scratchings…….

The Greats

2006-07-17T14:18:00.000-07:00

When they talk of the Greats! Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, Lional Fanthorpe, Terence Haile, Edmund Huldon, Christopher Bulis. All I ask in my own small niche in that celestial pantheon. And through my novels I will have that power!!!

Notability a postscriptum to the wikiwars

2006-07-16T02:10:00.000-07:00

I see I'm not notable enough to appear on wikipedia as an author but I am notable enough to be high on the list of Vandalism Inquisitor D J Clayworth's list of interesting edits done.

"Here"

Just under Pam Ayres and above Madalyn Murray O'Hair. THAT I'm cool with. Popular poetess, and founder of US Atheism. Right On!

CHAPTER ONE "HELL LORDS OF THE 9TH OVAL" REMASTERED

2006-07-15T14:37:00.000-07:00

FACT

When Dante wrote his Inferno, he cast the shape of hell as a cone and its layers as circles in negative mirrory of the heavens wherein translunarly it was believed the planets perfectly circled. But as we know now: the planets move in elipses or ovals and as the sun is the centre of those ovals in positive spiritual space, so the deepest depths of the pits of hell are oval and correspond with the outermost parts of the supposed 'solar' system. For as the Sun is the visible embelm of the Godhead so the outermost is the embelm of the King of the Pit, and thus the outermost planet is Pluto, named for the King of the Greco-roman Underworld. Therefore in modern chaos magick - as all know - the centre of evil is the ninth layer (as Pluto is the ninth planet) and is oval (as Pluto's orbit is an oval): as above, so below.

PROPHESY

And in the latter days many will cry out saying
Look an antichrist, and many others will say
verily, you wait ages and here come three at once:
for the anti-christ is three male triplets born of evil
each with three marks of evil, so that the number of the marks
of the devil is three times three which is nine.
And the shape of the marks and the number of them
is the same as the depths of hell.

CHAPTER ONE

'I have to tell you Mr Ambassador-Elect, there's been a complication.' 'My God don't tell me my wife's dead.' 'I have to tell you sir,' the Doctor spoke softly, his scots burr giving him the comforting warmth of the Littlenose stories the Ambassador had seen as a child on the BBC during the long years of his father's residency at the Court of St james representing the American people, the post his son had now followed his father's footsteps into, ' that you have read my face correctly, you wife passed away in childbirth, approximately nine minutes ago.
You will need to be strong, she gave all her strength to bring forth three triplets all boys, and you will now have the raising of them.'
'But how will I do that without a mother's love and strength to foster them ad to feed them.'
'I have a number of leaflets about proprietary babyformula, sir, or there is a very good guild of wet-nurses in Britain, first established in 1348, their patron is Lord Develmann, I can give you a contact number for them. You may also be interested in a support group that exists to assist men whose wifes have died leaving them responsible for triplets while otherwise facing a highpowered and nigh exausting role on the world stage.'
'Indeed?'
'Oh yes, you see this is not the first time this has happened. Tell me are you familiar with the cartoons of Leonardo.'

TO BE CONTINUED.....

CHAPTER ONE "IN WHICH WE SCREAM" REMASTERED!!

2006-07-14T14:37:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER ONE

It was the breast of times, Jon Rudduck thought dreamily nestling his head on Melinda's twin love-pillows. Outside the luxuriously appointed stateroom of his palatial private yacht - staffed by mute albinos in dinner jackets, and home-from-home for every mediafleeing supermodel in his thick black book - the waves lapped gently, shoosh, shwoosh, shoosh. It was an enwombing sound. A tender sound, and his eyelids drooped heavily as it washed him back into a sleep peaceful and profound, a sleep that little known to him would end in the beginning of the world's long prophesied nightmare.

When his eyes were firmly closed and his virile manly snoring was echoing a deep tone in counterpoint to the waves, Melinda, slipped from under his head, and drapping an ocelot and ermine tippet over her skimpy night attire, left the cabin softly closing the door with a faint voluptous snick. Jon was a good man, a kind man, a rich man: but his long overindulgences and both endings candle burning had left him, unable to satisfy her. Unknown to him she had long been seeking consolation elsewhere. As she went out on to the deck of the Santa Clara, the sound of the waves made a counterpoint to her impassioned heart beat, as if deep under the always restless surface of the sea something living existed.

'Melinda, quit, it' Jon grumbled half in sleep, the sudden shaft of cold suggesting to him that his erstwhile lover was hogging the quilt again, but no the sensation was colder than the morning air, colder than the ice tinkling in his last night' barcardi breezer. It was the sweet ice cream cold of death. Up his legs the advancing pain of freezing death advanced, his toes were already cracking with expanding frozen body fluids in icy aqony, as he snapped bolt up-right, his eyes shuttered open with fear. Through the open door of the cabin, a skein of almost invisible tenacles had flooded, like vermicelli - he thought wildly - like the open mouth of a giant plasmid sea-anenomi, and it was the touch of this gelid and abysmal sea-demon that had leeched the life from his very limbs, the pulsing lifeforce from his frame, and the skin from his blue toes. Frantic he tried to scream, the sound croaking out from freeze tensioned vocal chords, as the writhing tendrillic endings of the giant jellyfishoid thing caressed his knees as he knew instinctively no woman ever would again.

WANT TO READ MORE!!! READ CHAPTER TWO FREE HERE SUPPORT THE CAMPAIGN TO REPUBLISH "IN WHICH WE SCREAM!!"
LOOK FOR EXCITING INSTALLMENTS COMING SOON TO AMAZON.SHORTS

Wikipedia

2006-07-12T14:46:00.000-07:00

Call off the dogs. They deserve their encyclopedia unTrevored.

They can't conceive of an author who has no net presence because he prefers to live in the real world, to go down the pub, to smell the grass, to weep at the tiny antics of an ant. To embrace a woman. (Not a dig at my man-embracing friends there, okay mates).

Is it not enough that I am forced to take up this mechanical and dehumanising method of the construction of words and sentences: no it is not enough.

Because being alive is not notable. And writing books isn't notable. And the world is a sorryer place.

Well when my books are back in print we will see just how notable I can be.

Until then if you want me: look for me here, and in the pub, and in my fan's hearts.
But do not look for me on wikipedia, where every ancient disproven religion and fake belief of man's childhood has its venerated place, but nothing newly imagined has any home and no imagineering student such as I, can rest until after the Corporate Beast has eaten out his biles.

WHO is this upstart?

2006-07-11T05:09:00.000-07:00

WHO is this Lawrence Miles, whose blog so obviously follows the cutting edge design of my own. Is he the turbulent beast to my Henry Fitzempress, the yang to my jang, the clanging titantic impact echo to the majesty of my iceberg?

Whatever I will not give him the obvious oxygenated publicities he so eventually craves.

Look away my minions of excellance, there is nothing to see.

What can you do when your teeth are kicked in but lisp defiance!!

2006-07-08T14:45:00.000-07:00

I don't know what's worse. Wikipedia getting on your wick because it proports to set out as fact any old rubbish - see the recent case of the much maligned John Byrne - or it denying webspace to God's own truth just because it falls below a certain number of googlewatts.
Or the tryth only being the toothpaste smeared over the dental plac of ignorance before the blind date of fate leads to the court case of eternity.
I'd intended to let wikis entry reside here as a testiment to the fans how put it up, whose beating hearts that monolithic org had cruelly stilled. So much so that I reposted it virgino intacto, unadulterated and as given.

Mea Culpa, I now see it has perpetuatrated one of the oldest misaprehensions about my work going back to the Andromedia Books Catalogue error of 1983. Without more than a towelflick of ire to the fans wetted with the false water of past-attribution, I must correct this:

Quite simply. IN WHICH WE SCREAM, is not the same novel as HELL LORDS OF THE 9TH OVAL. Particularly it is not the first part of the title of that latter work. It is true that the novels contain some genre, elemental, and thematic links forming as the do the first two books of my spelunking trilogy (the third part of which DANGEROUS SIGHTINGS AGAIN, has been delayed due to my ongoing legal wrangle with the Comeuppance Comics.) And owing to one of the vile misprints for which my erstwhile and supposed publishers were entirely responsible pages 43-57 of both books were misprinted each in the other (an error the more impossible to understand as one is set, in that section, in the Lustboudoir of the Hell Lord Frinth, and the other in a Sainsburys in Walthamstow). Never the less each is unique and distinct as I will demonstrate on the morrow when my ailing PC (whose fragile hard-drive still drives my heaert into my throat every time I recall the sad loss of my fifth novel) permits me to post the cover for the original print run of HLOT9O.

'til then trust me and set the record straight, mates.

I see the hyenas are circulating

2006-07-07T11:12:00.000-07:00

I see in the brief period while my books were unavailable owing to V****, Wikipedia has decided to regard as deleteworthy the few, small facts about my life placed there by my devoted fannarati. Trevor's Armed Guard!! We will fight this judgement, but in case the plutocrats and the vested interest prevail here for the eternal records of admanatium perdurite is the roll call of honour (complete it must be said with some transcription errors: 'Hello' lords indeed. Nevermind their hearts I'm sure where in all the right places.

'''Trevor K. Grant''' (born Liverpool, 1959) is a science-horror writer.

Trevor K. Grant has published two novels –''In Which We Scream "Hello Lords of the Ninth Oval"'', and, ''The Day the Earth Frazzled''. The second concerns the terrifying revelation which underlies behind the truth about global warming – the fiendish and terrifying scheme by which alien reptilloids who are transmogrifying the Earth into a new homeworld for alien reptilloids. The first is about Hell Lords from the 9th Oval of Hell – who instantiate the equivalently terrifying scheme of metamorphosising the Earth into a new Hell world for the Hell Lords. Scientist Jeff Pannah, a long-time friend of Grant's who ensures the scientific accuracy of his books, appears as a minor character in both these novels.

Both his novels, while technically in print, are very difficult to find because of ongoing legal disputes between his publishers. Trevor's play "Fisticuffs at Twilight", detailing the sometimes comical, sometimes demonic, but always intriguing & desperate scrabble for the rights to his ouvre; will be produced at the 19th Hay-on-Wye Playfest in September 2006 by the BodyCrunch Theatre Troupe. Trevor will be played by Cavan "Plocky" Darrow, son of the famous old actor and stair-lift promoter from Blakes Seven.

In early 2006, ITV was said to be considerng adapting "The Day the Earth Frazzled" into a six-part drama series to be screened on Saturday evenings. In it a race called ''Reptilloids'' are aliens revealed to be the force behind global warming. While the appearance and true nature of the Reptilloids is never revealed in the novel, fans speculate that given the name and their love of warmth, they are probably reptiles.

Trevor K. Grant's '''"''The Time of the Wheel''",''' a 10 Book Decology in ten volumes, covering such mind spanning themes and life, love, death and elves is being prepared for publication on the 10.10.2010. Trever is currently half way through book two.

TREVOR K GRANT'S WRITERAMADROME

2006-07-07T10:36:00.000-07:00

Okay so you all know me, right, I'm Trevor K. Grant author and I'll be building and publicising my work and worlds from here, the centre of my writeramadrome. Watch for exciting announcements as to how you too can be part of the wonderful life affirmationatory world of quality writing, and how you can purchase and cherish the words of the pen mightier than the sword.

Following the dispute with my publishers detailed elsewhere and the enforced deletion of my previous website "penis.mightier@thanthesword.com" due to a tiny typographicalic errorum: this is now the OFFICIAL SITE for Trevor K. Grant news and views.

As I will shortly be republishing my books having regained the copyright from V*rg*n (I will never ever use their full name until they return to me the full worth of my writing life which they filched from me in their putrid and evil editorial suites,
I'll be keeping my readers informed here as to how and when the goodness that if pure unfiltered prose can again be theirs.

In the meantime if you own on of the previous issues of my work, hang onto them and do not be lulled into selling them at the vast prices for which they go on amazon and e-bay. The re-release will not harm the value of your investments which I personally guarantee will always be worth 1000% the money you have already paid.

And remember as the warriors against the reptilloids on thri homeworld of navf say:-
fghwy, ghigt, erriuy, f'hjqwt!!!

Trevor G.