A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

Forever the accidental genius, I stumbled upon the blog of Augustus J Stigwood last September. It was a chance encounter which in many ways proved life-changing, first for myself and subsequently for his many fans around the world. For I have come to find in Augustus not only a soul-mate, but perhaps my only equal.

With novels such as ‘Farewell, Sweet Jupiter’, ‘The Sebum Machine’ and ‘Galaxies Like So Much Salt’, my work has pushed the genre of science fiction into new and uncompromising shapes. But the discovery I made in the attic of my house that fateful day was just as mind-blowing.

It was there that I discovered a casket, which I carefully prised open to reveal inside an ancient hard drive. Despite being more concerned with future worlds than past ones, I estimated it to be from around the 1870s. I was not far wrong.

On connecting it to my own computer I found on the drive the following: four photographs of a young lady in a bonnet posing in Kew Gardens (the final of which lent an unusual use to a bamboo stalk); an obscure computer game involving fish leaping from a stream which the player aims to catch in a moveable handbag; and Augustus’ blog.

I can still recall the moment I first feasted my eyes on his life – the visitations from his dead wife (her name, :;.^., I have learnt to pronounce with a series of clicks and whistles), the peculiar dishes on which he gorged, the drink-fuelled nights at his club, The Porcupine (now an outlet of Costa Coffee)… it was a world away from galactic battles and inter-dimensional travel.

And yet in there, somewhere I recognised a like-minded soul. For both I and Augustus have set out on a mission to discover new worlds. At that moment, I decided to serialise his blog on the Internet once more, over 100 years after it was originally written.

And so, I hope you enjoy following Augustus in his life’s journey. As he prepares for what is destined to become his final expedition into the unknown lands, be warned - there are some shocking discoveries to come.

As Voidon Merkx, the charismatic starlord in my 48th novel, ‘Death to all Droids!’ intones: ‘This life is not for the both of us, Excerzon X – heroes are born but once a lifetime!’ Amen to that.

JC Guthrey

A warning

This evening started in delightful concentration in my drawing room. I had been cataloguing and re-ordering my extensive collection of animal sphincters, placing them into a cherrywood case in sections according to dilatability.

Occasionally I would call for my grumpy valet Brown to bring forth tea, or a platter of pickled mouse tails, or a flyjam sandwich, who would despatch them with his typical distaste, at one point pushing a laser printer off my desk in anger. The curmudgeon!

Regardless, the peaceful endeavour of itemising each anal orifice allowed me a little time to reflect upon my life and plans. More than ever, I longed to travel into the unknown lands once more, to kill or marry newly-met natives in the name of scientific endeavour, and to claim another patch of heathenry for Her Majesty.

Before this would be possible, however, I must gain further income through the subtle art of blackmail. My steady income from Mr Bertram Bertram is but a fraction of that needed for me to head out into the unknown. I promised myself I would find further dupes in haste.

But it was as I filed a particuarly impressive wolf sphincter, that I became aware of a presence in the room beside me. I looked around to see that my ghost bride had entered the drawing room and was standing looking impassively in my direction. I froze - although I had become used to these visitations, I was still unnerved by her presence.

"What do you want?" I asked commandingly. At this, the phantom raised its feathered arms to me and her distended eyes took on a pleading countenance.

"What is it?" I asked, with a little less self-control. As if to answer, she shook her tendrills dismissively, spattering ghostly sputum over my hearth rug. I recognised the gesture - it was used by her people as a warning.

"What? What is wrong?" I begged, falling down upon my knees.

At this, she raised her claw to a map of the world that I have on my wall, and made her first sound - a cry I recall many times from our delicious but unnatural love-making. "Mwoooooaaaaaaghh" she called, like a rabid fog horn. It was, in this context, an unnerving tone.

And then she was gone, disappeared in an instant.

Afterwards, I spent much time considering the meaning of her warning. Was I to meet with some fearsome end if I went away travelling? Or was I to find a new bride in the foreign lands?

I head to bed tonight with a brain full of dark thoughts. Let brandy be my guide through the night.

Summer arrives... and an old habit returns

At last, summer has arrived in murky London. The fog that normally gathers in thick piles across Oxford Street has flowed away into the side streets and the sign at Selfridges was visible beyond two o'clock in the afternoon! Such was the temperature that I saw one audacious lady venture out with a bare wrist.

Enlivened by the clemency, I ventured down to Holland Park where I desired to spend a few idle hours worrying the Queen's peafowl with a jar of goose fat. Sadly, they had already been attacked by Baron Tennyson who I saw being dragged away by two Peelers while clutching a potted ham to his chest.

With no fowl to trouble, my mind was quickly stultified in the heat and I confess I became a little mischievous. Forgetting all of my recent promises, I took a match to a fine old English beech in the Kyoto Gardens and watched it light up with devilish glee. Recalling a stay with the Swtllthth people in Lower @land and their magnificent rituals, I stripped to my longjohns and did a tribal dance around the tree, chanting thoughtfully.

However, the fire got a little out of hand and I quickly slipped away to a safe distance to witness the slow response of the city's fire service. The fire had engulfed all of the south east side of the park, not to mention a row of houses in Kensington, before the officers gained control of the blaze! By which point, I was safely watching the activities from the Fountain Tea Room across the high street.

It is, incidentally, remarkably difficult to get served high tea when dressed only in a pair of long johns.

A surprising incident caused by a distracted valet

Brown, my curmudgeonly old retainer, has been at it again. I rang downstairs at ten past eight, feeling peckish for a little lightly-grilled sea otter. The rumple-faced old darling arrived at my door an entire eighteen minutes later, with no excuse for his tardiness.

"What the devil is this?" I wondered to myself at my valet's manner, which was even more morose than usual. When I requested a second helping of walnut shavings, he positively glowered at me from beneath his heavy brow. My interest well and truly piqued, I questioned Brown as to whether anything was distracting him from his business. At this, he revealed what was on his troubled mind.

"Our industrial policy is about a dialogue with business, leading to a consensus about what we in Britain need to do to face this global future, and then of course a partnership for the future that I believe is to the benefit of all," he muttered stonily, as he ladled Cardinal sauce all over my jacket.

"Damn it, Brown!" I exclaimed, leaping from my chair and throwing my napkin to the floor. "What in the blazes is wrong with you?"

My man-servant looked sheepishly at me, then slowly uttered: "We have difficulties that we are overcoming, but we have also got enormous opportunities and challenges ahead. Working together, we can meet and master every challenge." He then excused himself and left the room.

I can only suspect his eccentric behaviour has something to do with his questionable management of my household finances - an area in which I was led to beleive he had impeccable credentials. If such erratic acts continue, I shall be forced to send him out onto the street and seek new help.

A weekend in Pentonville Prison

Ah friends! I am duly rested and relaxed chez Stiggers. Good old Brown kippered me just half an hour hence, and now the thought of those two days I spent at Her Majesty's Pleasure sends my mind a-quiver. But think on them I must, to explain to you how it is inside that wretched trap.

Being that I was still entirely twisted from the over-indulgence of my Whitechapel encounter, my memories of standing in the dock are muddled. I do recall the be-wigged magistrate braying like some pompous ass, while I - now experiencing the downside of my misadventures - demanded a mug of port.

Then a darkness fell upon me, broken by glimpses: gates, ill-lit galleries, the ceaseless banging of doors, all around me blaggards of every description, a deep horror upon my soul as the whole scene played out in the hyper-reality of my ever-extant acid trip. Finally, I was plunged into a cell, falling upon a bed barely fit for a pauper.

I recall a reverie that played in my mind - wandering, I was, through a passage of meat, my naked arms brushing against the hanging beefs as I became ever-lost. Then I awoke with a start, surrounded by the twisted faces of my co-detainees. "Look 'er 'im" uttered one gnarled ogre, poking me in the crotch. "Splendid gent 'in 'e?" And so they babbled until I passed out again.

Then, some hours hence, waking again to find myself at work upon a satanic machination; an enormous stone disc of 30 feet diameter, rumbling aound a central point and pushed by myself and numerous other ne'er-do-wells... the purpose of this I cannot ascertain, perhaps to grind corn or such? A sentry post sat on top of the disc, where an out-of-sight guard maintained speed with a cracking whip that would leap into view if I slowed even minutely.

Again, time passes in subconsciousness. I find myself in an exercise yard wearing some heavy bronze mask. Around me are others dressed the same. We attempt to play some obscure game involving a ball being passed over each other with a square bat, which involved leaping and dashing, but the weight of these masks precludes physical exertion. We loll about like fools. Again, the lash comes down.

And then I am being handed some clothes in an office. I inspect them to find them to be from my tailor. A brief gasp and I'm pushed out into the street from whence I came... I leap into a Hackney carriage and utter my address in a deathly hush. My ordeal - over! Next time, I vow as I head homewards, I'll just take a half.

A first person account of the London underworld

It was on Wednesday night that my demand for knowledge led me from my smart Marylebone townhouse and took me to some of the most notorious rookeries of infamous characters in the metropolis. In truth, this is not the first time that my thirst for truth has led me into Godless danger, but it was still a momentous night in any book.

On my journey eastward, I swallowed down two tabs of the most piquant LSD, in order to make the learning experience all the more startling. And so it was. Arriving in Whitechapel I entered a public-house on Union Street, where I ordered a low drink. Fully aware that I was in sotadic zone 2, I remained on guard for dark deeds at my elbow.

Indeed, I immediately noticed four brutal-looking men loafing about the bar. I studied them, fascinated, from a quiet corner - their coarse, meat-like flesh, their stench of stale perspiration, the cruel look in their eye. As these features toughened and quickened before me, I guessed the medication was taking effect, and steadied my nerve with a handful of quaaludes.

So bolstered, I made my way through a door into a small yard behind the house, where I found a number of dogs chained to their kennels. These, I presumed were the dogs of the scented gentlemen. I swam through, their rotten maws snapping at my flinching face, and passed into an outhouse behind. There, between thirty and forty persons were assembled round a wooden enclosure looking on, while more rotten dogs were killing rats.

Hiding myself in the rear, I spied on the crowd - they consisted of burglars, pickpockets and the associates of thieves. Shouting oaths of encouragement as the dogs tore into the rats, they had the rough stamp of the criminal in their countenances and were enflamed by strong drink. Furthermore, the room began to pulsate with an unholy logic, as if breathing like a giant lung. I collapsed against a wall, shuddering. The cacophony of villainy seemed to rise to a crescendo, and I fled in terror, a handkerchief clasped to my mouth.

I passed through a tiny squat passage that seemingly carried on for eternity. I felt as though the dogs were barking at my very heels all the way. On emerging, I found myself on a street corner, where there were three women talking together. They were innocent of crinolene, and their countenances stolid. Gathering they were prostitutes, I walked over to make further my understanding of London's underworld.

After some discussion - I know not what - I was taken from that place with the three, to a house on Frederick Street. I imagine I had meant to develop my knowledge of their home life, although I am uncertain of my mental processes, having on the way inhaled an impressive helping of cocaine from a delicate glass orb tied around my neck.

After a dizzying array of bodyless faces passed by me, I found myself in a wretched tumble-down hovel that passed as a bedroom. There was not a chair to be seen, nor a bed-stead, and the whore lay down upon palliasse placed upon the floor. She introduced herself as Emma. Hastily, I prepared a spliff, and asked to know her story.

"My father and mother," she said, "kept a grocer's shop on Goswell Street. Mother died when I was twelve years old, and father took to drinking. I went to live with a sister who was bad. One day I met a sailor. He died of yellow fever in the West Indies. One of his mates brought me a silver snuff box. We lived in Gregories rents. When I was drunk, he used to tie my feet and hands and take me into the street. He'd throw me into the gutter, then throw buckets of water over me..."

And so it continued, dear friends! The banal patter of the low street walker! Shushing her so that I might learn more about the actualities of her trade, we were surprised by a loud knocking through the hallway. "Police!" came a scream, and all hell seemed to break loose, with bodies rushing hither and thither, many naked, both male and female.

I must admit I was most taken up in the moment, and when the peelers rushed through I did hastily remonstrate with them about their uninvited entrance. Slavvering somewhat, I beleive I did strike one of the fellows, flinging his helmet against a cracked tea pot. At this, he brought his truncheon down upon my brow and the rest is darkness.

When I awoke, I commenced what would be a terrifying but ultimately instructive Easter weekend. Allow me to explain further, tomorrow. But now, to bed.

A wearied return...

Friends, forgive my lack of web-activity these past five days. As you will see, I have reason enough for my absence.

I have spent the Easter period not rejoicing the resurrection of our Lord, but rubbing shoulders with pickpockets and horse stealers in Pentonville Prison. Woe is me! The stench of petty larceny seems soaked into my flesh! But that I had a scrubbing brush that could draw out these stains!

A bath, a strong brandy and a pipe await me before I might unfold the terrible story - how my scientific investigations led me further into the dark heart of mankind than even I thought possible.

A hypothesis

It was today that I began to ruminate upon a number of previous theories, these being on the inter-connection of sexual proclivity and geographical positioning. In keeping with the Sotadic Zones hypothesis of my esteemed colleague Richard Francis Burton, I am coming to some inescapable conclusions. Allow me to relay them to you now:

1. Being heavily built-up centres of population, cities contain their own zones within which the residents are more accepting towards certain sexual behaviours deemed to be inappropriate elsewhere. These may include pederasty and acts of triumvirate.

2. In cities, these zones are designated into 'bands' that radiate outwards from a central point.

3. London, being one of the larger of the world's cities, has one of the most well-defined ranges of sotadic zones. This diagram gives visibility to their formation. As I have observed it, the behaviours within each zone follow the following characteristics:

- Zone 1 is what might be called the Zone of Repression. Here, in refined places such as Kensington and Mansion House, sexuality is expressed properly and without passion between married people, while acts performed in darkened alleys are seldom occasioned.

- Containing such places as London Fields, Whitechapel and East Acton, Zone 2 might conversely be named the Zone of Iniquity. It is here that depraved acts of wanton sexuality are commonplace, where husbandry of the young is ubiqitous and where a gentleman may happily provide payment for the delivery of specialist acts without fear of opprobrium.

- However, it gets worse: Zone 3, wherein Wood Green and Streatham are situated, is inundated with female impersonators, onanistic clerics and virgin-seducing satanists.

- In Zone 4, the houses of Mill Hill East are filled to the rafters with scatalogical hermaphrodites, while hyperactive flashers prowl the streets of Southall, Barking and Morden.

- Meanwhile, if you are insane enough to walk the streets of Zone 5 after dusk, you can expect to be drenched in a rain of man-fluid falling heavy from the rooftops. But to seek shelter would merely lead you into the hands of leather-clad pimps who will excavate new sexual organs across your body while swigging Pimms straight from the bottle. But that's Dagenham Dock for you.

- Zone 6 - there is little to fear in Zone 6 apart from a short Irishman in Thames Ditton who may occasion to glance across your torso in a lascivious manner.

As you can see, my theoretics are faultless - but it is now time to test these considerations. Tomorrow night I shall head forth and explore these dens of obscenity. Wish me luck!

A curious gentleman brings a delivery

I have eagerly awaited a delivery to Stigwoodia all day. After a light repast of pilchards, the clock struck eight and my sour-faced old valet Brown informed me that a visitor was waiting in reception. Being entirely naked at that point, I donned a sequined jumpsuit and called the visitor through.

This low gentleman was a fearsome sight. His face was a mass of pustules, buboes and chancres which twinkled in the gaslight. His corroded visage tapered to a fine point (his chin), which pointed slightly upward as his head was tilted so far back. Set into this horrific backdrop were two eyes - one glassware, the other true, which glared upon me with an unnatural intensity.

I can be sure that I have never set eyes upon this creature before, although I knew of the outfit for which he worked.

"The name's Dyson," he introduced himself in a croak, thrusting forth a withered hand. "I brung the merchandise you called for."

At this, he raised a leather briefcase and placed it upon my desk. One side panel was painted with a floral bouquet. Pulling open an accordion filing pouch he revealed a tray into which were fixed numerous items.

He pointed out the contents: "LSD - 100 tablets, ten grams of coke, a nine-bar of resin, two score of amphetamines, some mandrax and..." he lifted a stoppered test tube to his twinking eye, "enough liquid ketamine to bury a stallion."

I eyed Dyson's wares greedily, then reached for the top drawer of my desk, bringing out a sheaf of notes. As I did so, I saw over his shoulder the phantom of my dead bride walk briskly past then turn to face me. I ignored her and handed the notes to Dyson which he counted carefully, then bid me good day.

And so my friends, I have in my posession a stash of such potency that it may enliven and invigorate any endeavour on the streets of London!

Good night!

A return to London - and plans are made

Ah, how happy I am to return to my London, friends. The smoking chimney stacks! The gin palaces and chophouses! And my Marylebone abode - mine some 15 years - remains an idyll of calm in these dark streets.

The ghost of my poor dead bride continues to walk the rooms of this house. And yet I am becoming more at ease with these encounters, often calling out a shrill "halloo" when I glimpse her feathered hind-quarters.

Since issuing my monetary demands to the obscene Bertie, I am glad to say he has given in with little struggle. Having seen at first hand my tenacity as we fought our way through the Marabalana sweatlands, he clearly knew there was no point. The first installment of £25 4s 5d arrived by discreet delivery boy this morning.

And so a plan forms in my mind to go forth once more and explore new lands. If I can raise more money by further blackmail - another three victims would be ideal - I shall be able to comfortable sally forth in three months, replete with map, photographic equipment and sundries.

Further consideration of my direction is of course required - the Phallic elaphant-towers? The gasflats to the east of Marrrrrrrrrrrfle? Or the pretty isles of Sebadoh? Decisions!

Before that, I plan to hone my scientific skills here in London with a series of "urban expeditions". And a delivery shall be arriving here tomorrow to aide these investigations...