Catriona’s Storybook Corner

My sister makes things up

Catriona VS. CumberBatch

Catriona must fight to overcome the greatest evil on earth

The year is young, and as usual I found myself beginning it in the company with people just like me – young, merry, beautiful and drunk. As the bells rang we laughed and poured wine, settled comfortably upon the large piles of money we had amassed in the previous year. Yes, life was good.

But the talk soon turned sour.

“Catriona,” laughed one of my many, many friends as she lay back in the wealth pile, gold coins shimmering around her head like a halo, “we were just talking about Benedict Cumberbatch.”

The mood quickly became dark. I felt dark clouds gathering above. (In all fairness we were very high up, so that may have been why)

“Oh yes?” I replied cautiously.

“Isn’t it sad how he’s getting married? I mean, first he’s having a baby, and now he’s engaged? It sucks. I totally would have married him.”

“Yes,” I agreed, gazing off into middle distance. “Yes, it’s certainly… unfortunate.”

They did not know they had hit a sore spot for me. From then on, the party was ruined. I simply could not enjoy anything, not the money pile nor the bowling alley made of pauper’s dreams, nor the post-firework electric rap battle.

The conversation haunted me that night, as I tried to coax myself to sleep in my monster-truck shaped bunk bed where I sleep, inside my mansion under my own private thunder dome. What kind of life had I been leading? I was young and rich, beautiful, extremely sexually gifted probably, owner of the world’s foremost Marilyn Monroe inspirational quote poster companies, and I had the love of the most wonderful woman in the world (me). But still something was missing. I knew that this year, I had to do it. I had to do what I have always meant to.

The time has come. In 2015 I will finally fulfil my life’s mission: to fight Benedict Cumberbatch and in doing so, become the new Cumberbatch.

What a lot of people don’t know is that Benedict Cumberbatch is not a name. Benedict Cumberbatch is a title, bestowed only upon those who are strong and worthy, noble leaders. No one quite knows the origin of the title “Cumberbatch,” but absolutely everyone can agree that it sounds like something dirty. The working theory is that the practice began in ancient times, when the warrior who had the least sexually transmitted infections was awarded the title in honour of his near-cleanliness. Obviously over time the name gathered more prestige, and soon came to mean “divine being,” “powerful man god,” or “good Lord do I respect that beautiful person,” (depending on the translation).

The current Cumberbatch is not worthy of the title. For many centuries the Cumberbatch name has been passed down through a family line, preserved through high breeding, expensive education, huge amounts of money and infanticide of runt children. The current Cumberbatch stands impenetrable at the centre of a ring of money and privilege, like a dragon guarding gold, except he’s guarding power and fame, which the dragon uses quite openly as a weapon, and Cummerbund’s weapon is breathing fire or something.

He is strong. But not as strong as me.

“But Catriona,” you are probably thinking. “Why are you doing this? Why do you hate Benedict Cumberbatch so much?”

The answer is simple, my doubting Thomases. I do not do this from hatred. Do you think it is easy, preparing to fight one of the most formidable opponents in the world? I wake each morning before dawn, after sleeping a night on a concrete block to strengthen my back. I eat only pulses and tiny drops of morning dew, brought to me from lands afar by fresh Guatemalan orphans. I train all day and well into the night, walking around and around in a circle to remind myself that peaceful unity and togetherness form the basis of all meaning, then hitting blocks of cement until the bones in my fingers sing.

No, it is not easy. It is not at all easy. I do this for the good of humankind. I know that I can use this power for good. How dare you make assumptions about me. Shame on you.

I don’t do this because I hate the Man Who Would Be Cumberbatch. I do it because I need to prove I’m better than him. It’s not like I don’t have experience in these sorts of matters. In 1999 I declared war against Switzerland on two fronts. In 2010 I personally fought the sun with my bare hands. As the history books show, I emerged the victor from both battles. The world should be mine. But 2010, as it turns out, was a dark year, and not just because I literally destroyed the entire fucking sun. That same year the Pretender emerged, slithering forth from the oily depths of the BBC. Oh how I loathed him. I stood by and watched, helpless, as one by one my most trusted friends and most detested enemies fell prey to his lopsided smirk and strange reptilian charms.

But not me. I am no fool.

The upcoming wedding will provide the perfect opportunity. The location is near, his guard will be down. But what is the best way to go about defeating my nemesis?

Idea 1: The Classic


Idea 2: The Rap Battle


Idea 3: We Embrace And Allow Our Bodies and Souls to Become One And Everything

3And then I realised the only way to go.

Idea 4: The No-Holds Barred Beatdown


From there things will be simple. It will be just me and him, the two purest forces of the universe, battling out for the title of humanity’s leader. It will be a bloody battle. But I will emerge the victor. Bandersnatch may have his fancy drama fencing training or whatever, but I fight dirty. His cottage cheese ass will be mincemeat under the sheer power of my holy fists, my mighty feet and my iron skull. I will pound him into the dirt, and when I am finished, I will stand, drenched in the blood of my enemy, dazed and exhausted but victorious. And, as the hushed crowd draws around me, breath held in trepidation, they will witness as the CumberSoul rises from the weakened flesh of the Usurper and transcends into my body, rendering me the most powerful being in all creation.

Game on, Cumberbatch. The glove’s at your feet.

Catriona and The FUNeral

Catriona recounts a recent tragic event.

Clown Funeral One 001

Clown Funeral 2 001

Clown Funeral 3 001

Clown Funeral 5 001

clown funeral 6 001

Clown funeral 4 001

Clown Funeral 7 001

Clown Funeal 08 001



The Help – With Dinosaurs 

COMING SOON TO A CINEMA NEAR YOU – ‘The Help’ with Dinosaurs

EPSON scanner image

EPSON scanner image

EPSON scanner image

EPSON scanner image

EPSON scanner image

EPSON scanner image

The Pretentious And Frankly Ludicrous Adventures Of Quentin. H. Trousers, Spy Extraordinaire

Yes, it was a sunny day, and I was making my merry way home, when I was stopped by a Mysterious Man. He worse sunglasses, a trench-coat made of the skins of young gerbils, a maraschino shirt, a knee-skimming kilt and formaldehyde ankle boots. Most noticeable of all, his head was entirely bald. I tried my best not to register my disgust, and looked him right in the sporran.

‘Woa!’ I professed. ‘How did you know my name?’

‘I didn’t say your name,’ the Mysterious Man said.


‘Quentin H. Trousers,’ continued the Mysterious Man.

‘Woa!’ I ejaculated ‘How did you know my name?’

 ‘You’re still wearing your name badge from work,’ The Mysterious Man said

‘Ah.’ I took off my name badge, zipped up my fly, tied my shoelaces and straightened my deerstalker. ‘Now, how may I help you?’

‘Enough of this gay banter,’ the Mysterious Man said briskly. ‘Now, Neo’

‘Woa,’ I projected ‘That’s not my name, my name is Quentin H. Trousers’

‘From now on your name is Neo,’ said the man. ‘It’s short, its catchy, its easy to insert into a poem, and it’s short enough for overweight sci-fi nerds to type.’

‘I don’t want to be inserted into anything! Can’t I just be Quentin H. Trousers?’ I asked


‘Oh please!’

‘No, we have no time for this, we have very little time. You must take one of these pills.’

On announcing this he proceeded to offer me two red pills.

‘Erm,’ I said ‘Isn’t one of those supposed to be blue?’

‘We ran out of blue ones,’ said the Mysterious Man briskly ‘Now choose a pill.’

‘There’s no real point in offering me a choice, it’s unnecessary. It’s Hobson’s Choice, a false illusion of freedom, a mockery of justice -‘

‘Shut up and take a pill.’

So I painstakingly selected one of the two pills (the left one) and lo! What I did see! Suddenly I found myself overlooking a vast human farm, in which we were enslaved as helpless energy providers, and as I looked down, I saw before my eyes human beings being grown, not born, fed intravenously by the carcasses of the dead. And I witnessed the end of the world as we know it, the machines having enslaved humanity, and civilisation having collapsed.

‘Argh!’ I exclaimed ‘Ouurhg arrgh euuurgh oooo ehhh Jesus Christ!’

‘What is it?’ enquired the Mysterious Man.

‘Oh it’s terrible!’ I squealed. ‘You’ve opened my eyes to the reality in which we live! Now I see the appalling truth of life!’

‘Hmm,’ said the Man. ‘That’s strange. They must be out of date. I’ll fetch a fresh one for you.’

He gave me a new red pill, and I took it. Instantly I felt balanced and content.

‘What was that pill?’ I asked serenely

‘Femibion,’ The Mysterious Man told me. ‘You looked cranky and irritable. Femibion restores balanced and harmony to your hormone –crazed system. Now come along, for we must go to my top secret head-quarters’.

As she says herself: ‘It was a bad year for me, Eleanor.’

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