The Squirrel Cage Bulb Lamp...

What home can be without OSM Industries Squirrel Cage Bulb Lamp...?
(now with dimmer switch for that "romamtic" glow)

Pinhead Toy...

Another perfect child's toy...
When the brass button is depressed the head flashes...
(and you can keep stuff in it)

The Cranial Integument Enhancement Helmet

My journeys though the cosmos require the ability to communicate with many different life forms....
I developed the Cranial Integument Enhancement Helmet to facilitate inter-being interlocution...
Saves having to pull the ray-gun out to get my point across...

The Mavelous Toy...

What child could be unhappy with this...? A switch to flick... A button to push... To be rewarded by light and sound... You can keep stuff in it as well...

9v Power Supply...

Imagine, if you will, you are on stage in front of thousands of adoring fans...
Step up to your Theremin for that all important transcendent solo... You stamp down on your boutique effects pedal and... nothing... flat battery... What do you do, what do you do...?
Reach for your OSM Industries emergency 9v power supply of course...! Your reputation is saved and everybody buys one of your t-shirts from the stand your current partner is running... (perhaps a copy of your groundbreaking waxing as well..)

The Waving Machine

A machine to greet you or, wave goodbye....

The Cabinet of Dr. Outa_Spaceman

This speaker cabinet was built from bits and pieces I found in bins around Bognor Regis.

The gang in my lab...

Some of my 'experimental' friends...

Kew Bridge Steam Museum

Well worth the entry fee...
Friendly informative staff, amazing engines & beautiful building...
My only criticism being the lack of Cornish pasties in the cafe...
I climbed the 240 steps to the top of the Stand-pipe tower... The view is spectacular (even on a grey day)...
The rest of my photos:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/9848948@N05/sets/72157603590452058/
Their site:
http://www.kbsm.org/

Goggular Modifications...

I'm getting close to what I want my goggles to look like....

The Brass Goggles Day Out

A grand day out at the Black Country Industrial Museum...

Mortal Cardboard...

The Blessed Clara Rockmore...

Create A New Identity...

If you take the initial of your first name, find it on the first list below and write down the word you find there. Then go to the second list and repeat the same exercise for your second name and again with your last name from the last list. You should have a new name to call yourself by...
(I am unable to offer advice to anyone with more or less than three names. You must use your own judgement on how to proceed.)

A=Wandering; B=Crusted; C=Excitable; D=Oily; E=Enormous; F=Shouting; G=Twisted; H=Beige; I=Deluded; J=Anxious; K=Ungainly; L=Fetted; M=Scared; N=Wooden; O=Numb; P=Comatose; Q=Scalded; R=Bonkers; S=Myopic; T=Huge; U=Dead; V=Whelk; W=Bold; X=Wobbly; Y=Washer; Z=Bloody

A=Sticks; B=Lupin; C=Stumps; D=Wiggles; E=Beetle; F=Peach; G=Bongos; H=Eye; I=Flapper; J=Digger; K=Lump; L=Mumps; M=Fang; N=Sock; O=Mopper; P=Neck; Q=Rage; R=Twig; S=Gums; T=Nipper; U=Brow; V=Cheese; W=Salt; X=Arm; Y=Plums; Z=Fumes

A=Ronson; B=Morgan; C=Wilson; D=Dixon; E=Goldblum; F=Bennett; G=Jonas; H=Relph; I=Miggins; J=Webb; K=Scott; L=Pollock; M=Lister; N=Taylor; O=McQueen; P=Hopwood; Q=Hunt; R=Jesmond; S=Darnell; T=Fisher; U=Grey; V=Jenkins; W=Brayshaw; X=Thompson; Y=Green; Z=Buck

Snake Skin Rose...

During my night time forays in the the under belly of Old Bognor Town I found an old guitar in a skip.
I wrapped it in old sacking and scuttled back to my attic domicile.
I have spent many hours restoring the instrument to it's former glory.
I have enhanced it's appearance with snakeskin Fablon and rose transfers.
Now behold SnakeSkin Rose!

They are here...

I have seen them....
You can see them to...
Watch this....

I told you so.

Hooting Yard Fan Fiction

This is my stab at Hooting Yard Fan Fiction.
The crust was thick, a composite mixture of beeswax, lime pickle and bread-crumbs, it encased his entire body from head to foot. This situation had lasted for so long now that the few people he counted as friends had all but forgotten him. Occasionally one or more of these acquaintances would meet at bus stops or behind packing cases in abandoned dock yards and, after the elaborate greeting rituals necessary in these dark times, would try to recall "that odd fellow," "used to wear battered oilskins," "always rattling on about his damnable pamphlets," "Oh, what was his name?" Soon their conversation would drift to the more pressing topics of ornithology, bandages & the crippling Neet's Foot Oil shortage. So the memory of him languished.
This was, of course, all part of his design, to escape a time where he had been ignored and misunderstood, to reawaken in an age of greater reason where he would be seen as the champion of clearheaded thinking, feted as the arbiter of high taste and moral rectitude.
One person had not forsaken his memory, though she had forsaken every other memory she had ever had, as she stared out of the window at the ducks frolicking in the shallow pond to the rear of the Panghill Maximum Security Facility For The Terminally Bewildered. Her plastic wristband informed anyone that cared to look that her name was Chew M. (Miss) , that she was to be given one blue pill on Saturdays and six orange pills on Tuesdays. The nursing officers called her Marigold.
It was the 13th of January, St. Mungo's feast day. In an apparently deserted farm house near Fellahreppur a complex machine began to function. The first signs of the machines' activation were indicated by a series of rusted whisks rotating above a flagon filled with iron filings and lavender seeds. A large piece of plywood, painted white, decorated with twelve unrelated heraldic devices, began to gently waft up and down with a particularly pleasing motion. Flaps fitted into the side of the heavy gauge iron box fanned three paddle wheels on the interior which, in turn, broke the wax on the hasps around the bauxite block triggering the oiled mirrors set in the recess of the ventilated tea chest to oscillate and cause the collapse of the Hopkin's flange thus allowing the vinegar solution to dissolve the plugs and release the brake on the torque wheel as the Novick jets sprayed a fine yellow mist towards the cocooned figure lying prone on the crumbling chaise. It was only a matter of time now.
Three weeks later the ludicrously emaciated figure of a man twitched and groaned in a shaft of cruel sunlight filtering through a tattered gauze curtain. The reanimation was nearly complete. Swinging his spindly legs off the chaise his stockinged feet came in to contact with the rough wooden floor, so far so good. He groped in a befuddled fashion towards a dusty escritoire and pulled at a hidden lever on the underside releasing a secret draw containing a polythene bag of nourishing slops which he gulped down noisily.
By mid-July he was as recovered as he would ever be. Taking an old tweed jacket from a nail bashed into the rear of the front door he put it on and rummaged through the pockets looking for a packet of boiled sweets he dimly remembered putting there many years ago. He found nothing save for a crumpled piece of paper. Smoothing the sheet out he read the inscription with growing dismay. It read "Hail Dobson! Redeem my from my incarceration. M. Chew (Miss)". He tossed the note into a rusty bin and pulled on a pair of reindeer hide boots he had found in the room. Opening the front door he turned and took one last look at his sanctuary before striding off towards a distant lighthouse on the horizon. He was puzzled by just one thing. Who the hell was Dobson?

Infants in Peril No. 2

Infant In Peril No. 2
Gordon ran toward Betty with the sissors and, in his haste, failed to notice the tripwire...

Z Day...

And so the day came. How long had she waited in this dark labyrinth, 10, 15, 20 years?
She pushed her chair away from the console of the Susan 300 workstation and surveyed the vast, gleaming engines of destruction that would soon devastate all the land between the mountains and the sea. She smiled.
And what of the architects of her design, whose loyal servitude had been bought with lewd, unspeakable promises? All dead, sealed off in a far anti-chamber of the great corridor where they had been lured for a celebratory feast on the completion of the project. How heartily they had ingested that vile paste that she, herself, had collected from the feeder-receiver valves of the Brant compression compensators. With what relish they sucked at the tubes attached to the fetid leather vessel containing their final poisonous repast. Unaware that the door to the room was being sealed, trapping them within. She had sat for seven days outside the annex listening, stone-faced , to their crys, screams and fever muttered mumbling until all was silent. And now, standing on the bridge of the vast chamber, she adjusted the vents on her iron mask, brushed aside a few strands of her fushia hair, wrapped her cloak tightly about her and, with her gauntlet clad hand, threw the switch. . . Z day had begun.

Infants In Peril No. 1

Here we see a poor mite in peril.
Oh! woe. Can nothing be done?