Do people still do flash mobs? Are they still relevant? I hope not. What a pointless thing they were. They weren't even flash, if the meaning was to do something spontaneously, as they were well-organised affairs thought up by attention seekers. A flash mob occurred in my cabbage patch the other day. I was mightily upset about this and despite my warnings that I would soon launch cabbages at them, they ignored me and continued to gyrate to some popular tune. Why did people do them? They're awkward and distract you from getting the 5 o'clock train to East Grinstead. No more mobbing, please.
It really has. It's been a week, almost a week, since my last post on this infamous blog. Where does the time go? Does somebody hoover it up? Does it fly by like a Concorde did until New York got them abolished? Seriously, what happens to time? Many days have passed since I hit Dieter with a cabbage, he may think I'm going soft. I'm sure it was only yesterday that I hit his noggin and yet it has been a week. A week since anything of note happened. One minute I was a little bud then I was a performer on Broadway and then I found my way to commanding an army of slugs. What happened in the intervening years? Were they stolen? If so, who would steal my years? Can I report them to the police? My years have been stolen and I demand them back. It is all quite disturbing and I'm feeling rather flustered. I need to lie down and take a breather. Perhaps I can get one of my trained slugs to make me some tea. However, last time one of my slugs made me tea he accidentally fell into the cup and boiled himself. He tasted like a mushroom. No, I shall have to do it myself whilst I work out what has happened to the past few days, week however long it has been. I want my time back and I demand answers. Anyway, let this be my blog post while I gather my thoughts and write something much more coherent soon... you'd be so lucky!
It could be that I know not what I am talking about, and that is quite likely as there is not much I know - except the art of cabbage throwing, styling moustaches and writing superb children's literature (Duke & Michel) that is adored across all of Camberwell - however, is Minecraft not merely a latter day Sim City? Perhaps you do more actual building and... oh, how I miss playing Sim City. I used to play it. I know that I was but a child growing up in Elizabethan England and then spent my formative years down various chimneys in Victorian London but I also liked to play the odd video game. Could I, Elias Zapple, get to grips with this Minecraft craze? Could I get to destroy others like how they tried to destroy me in Vietnam? I shall, wanted or not, enter the world of Warcraft... Minecraft, and build like I've never built before. I was a master at Sim City, I shall master this too.
Hello there, my minions. Twas a glorious day today when the sun did not shine and Dieter did not venture near for fear of having noggin knocked off yet again. Today, I did conduct another interview, another great interview whereby my interviewing skills were once again demonstrated. Forget Jeremy Paxman, forget David Frost (RIP), forget the American equivalents and forget Terry Wogan, I shall be known the world over as not just being a superb children's author, a master cabbage thrower and a moustache model, I shall also be known as a hard-hitting, insightful and inquisitive interviewer that will probably never win a Nobel Prize. They're all biased, you see. Visit this page to witness my extraordinariness: http://www.eliaszapple.com/elias-zapple-interviews.html
O Elias Zapple, you are so great
from the fields that doth bear your name
to the towns that singeth and cryeth for you
for fear of thou which is curly and furry
O Elias Zapple, you are so resplendent
in your dashing Zappleness
your hair in which poetry has been written and
recited through the ages
where many a cabbage been thrown
tossed hither and thither not landing on
but upon noggin of Dieter
O Elias Zapple, emperor of slugmony
ambassador to slugs that doth battle for thou
fight, explode in all the glory that is thine
thee struggle, bleed thickened slush and
bringeth home chocolate frosted cupcakes
O Elias Zapple, wordsmith for ankle-biters
great thou words be, cherished they are under the candyfloss tree
laureate thou shall one day be
bleed thy words on thy paper
goo goo g'joob
I've stuffed chickens, I've stuffed cabbages, I've stuffed teddy bears and I've stuffed stuff. Now I too am truly stuffed after stuffing myself with a whole load of stuff like stuffed turkey, stuffed peppers, stuffed chicken, stuffed lamb, stuffed cucumbers (which I never knew could be stuffed until today) and stuffed pastries. Even my drinks were somehow stuffed and too bloated to be drunk. My very fine belly that used to make the ladies swoon, is now more stuffed than a giant rhinoceros I once saw hanging on a friend's wall. Why did I stuff myself so much? The blues, I'm afraid. I have the blues and I'm feeling blue and so I proceeded to spend the day in the kitchen stuffing everything, including my slugs who happened to not enjoy it and explode - one by one. However, I don't give a stuff and I shall retire to the lavatory to release my stuffing.
...The Moustache Society. Yes, my dream has come true. After much politicking, bribery, schmoozing, backslapping and assassinating I was finally elected in the second most hotly contested, controversial and rigged election of the millennium - the first being the U.S. Presidential Election of 2000. I was extremely honoured and overwhelmed to be elected and not the least bit surprised as my moustache is head and shoulders above anyone else's. As President I promised to make sure moustaches become compulsory everywhere and must be grown by all people of both genders of all ages - even babies. From now on, the umbilical cord will be secondary, first will be the shaving of the baby's upper lip. That moustaches be examined regularly and if failing to meet new exacting standards, the moustache holder be whisked away to a local barbers and given an immediate styling. There were many other policies in my manifesto, I've forgotten many of them and I doubt I'll enact the majority as that'll just take away precious time from me and my own moustache, Mr Snazzy. My term will last for five years, though no doubt it'll last much longer as I've threatened all of the electorate with cabbages and if anybody should dare try to stage a coup or assassinate me, as I myself have staged many times, my slugs are prepared. Yay for me! Elias Zapple - President for Life of the Moustache Society.
Right now, on this very website, you can find many interviews conducted with Elias Zapple. That's right! Get your Zapple-fix and head on over to:
You can never have enough Zapple! Go there pronto before he gets angry, turns green - from having eaten too many cabbages - and starts to order his slugs to attack you. These are killer slugs!
Basset Hounds are adorable, cute, intelligent, superior, lazy, hungry, sarcastic, pompous, food-obsessed, witty... wait, that's just Duke. Basset Hounds are an incredible canine. I had my first encounter with a Basset Hound when one night, as I slept in my four-poster bed, I was rudely awoken by some strange barking. I rushed downstairs to the parlour to see an adorable Basset Hound staring at me with those say, puppy-dog eyes. He opened his mouth and said nothing because he's a dog and cannot speak, not like us tulips. However, it got me thinking. What if he could speak, what would he say? I went back to sleep, after having kicked the Basset Hound out of the house, and the entire book of Duke & Michel: The Mysterious Corridor came to me, page by page, word by word.
I do enjoy listening to the odd tune when hurling cabbages, setting the mood for my slugs to procreate or pricking my finger so that I may write another glorious sentence in the stunningly funny Duke & Michel saga. What kind of music, I don't hear you ask? Well, depends on what I'm doing. If it's to help my slugs go to battle then something like a Beethoven fused with Rage Against the Machine seems to do the trick but if it's for them to help them make their own kind of music then I find Marvin Gaye to be splendid. When I hurl cabbages, it needs to be something with a bit of fire and I quite enjoy a little Metallica on some days and Nirvana on others. Now, when I write, well nothing beats The Beatles for true inspiration. A most innovative band, as innovative as I am with my prose and the tactics I employ when targeting Dieter. How about when I'm grooming Mr Snazzy? Well, he's a gentle fellow and he prefers more calming, chilled tones so I stick on a bit of Sigur Ros or Massive Attack. That sort of music seems to put him right in the mood to be groomed.
Readers often ask me if I have a special someone in my life. I tell them that I have many special someones - my slugs, my cabbages and Mr Snazzy. They then continue with their persistent questioning until I'm forced to unleash a barrage of cabbages at their heads. However, I can confirm that there is a certain somebody who does indeed share my life, my philosophy, my love of cabbages and my love of hairy upper lips. Shall I say who? First, let me enjoy smoking my pipe, relax in my comfy armchair and consider whether to tell you or not... No, I won't. However, I shall dedicate the song below to my favourite moustache, Mr Snazzy.
Out one day, surveying my cabbages
a crisp breeze swept through my luscious hair
I caught a glimpse of my reflection
and was awestruck.
The colour, the shine, the waviness of it
It filled me with wonder, pride and contentedness.
One of my slugs, he too looked up and marvelled
at his master, happy to be the pet of Elias Zapple.
I moved on, accidentally squishing the slug - for there are many
- and spotted Dieter venturing out
I didn't throw a cabbage this time, however
and simply smiled at him.
He tentatively smiled back then turned away, foolishly
as I propelled a cabbage at him. Strike!
A foe of mine, (one of many for they're all jealous of me, Mr Snazzy and my team of incredible slugs,) suggested purple cabbages for my cabbage patch, a huge departure from my natural green. I scoffed at the idea. Purple cabbages? Why, that just looks too Aix-en-Provence. No, I shall stick with my green ones with their steel centre, aerodynamic shape and ability to knock off a passing head within 50 metres of my porch.
Readers often ask which football (soccer) team Michel supports. Now, this has been the source of much conjecture by many of my pet slugs as there could be a whole load of possibilities. Now, Michel lives in the borough of Kensington and Chelsea and could therefore support Fulham or Chelsea, but does he? Now his dad wasn't born in that borough, though he is from London, (and sons often support the teams of their dads), and could therefore support a number of other teams such as Arsenal, Tottenham Hotspurs, West Ham United, Crystal Palace, QPR or even Millwall. What if Michel chose to support a French team? His mother is, after all, French and thus he might support PSG or his grandfather's team of Lyon. His English cousins, hailing from the North West of England support the big teams of that region like Liverpool, Everton Manchester City and Bolton. When it comes to national teams, where does Michel's allegiance lie? With England or with France? There's even some Spanish in his blood so perhaps he's a fan of Spain? The answer is... it shan't ever be known until the very last book. Now listen to my evil laugh, which sounds like a combination of the following:
Sometimes you just have one of those days, don't you? I had mine today - one of those days. I don't know why I get one of those days. Not the one of those days as in one of those days I'm going to get you and turn your head into a flower pot but one of those days where you just feel ugh, you know, one of those days. It had started off perfectly normally. I had woken up feeling almost as fresh as a trampled daisy, spotted Dieter watering his rose bush so I nipped out and launched a cabbage at the back of his unsuspecting head then went back inside, joyously before feeling deflated and knowing I was having one of those days. Despite my best efforts, it still remained one of those days. Nothing productive happened, my slugs were evidently having marriage problems, my finger was dried up and unable to write down a single word and my pipe remained empty. It was just one of those days. Even Mr Snazzy, my famed moustache, seemed to lose his sheen. So I crawled back into bed, literally crawled as I was moderately intoxicated, and went into an eerie slumber that didn't refresh me at all, naturally. I say naturally because I knew it was one of those days.
In Maputo I am known for my love of tinned tuna.