What is happiness when it’s at home or out on a date? Cause I ain’t getting any. You ever have those wastelands of time where you just can’t get no nothing, let alone satisfaction and if you got any it wouldn’t be good enough, even if Mick jagger serenaded it to you in his stuffed underpants? Is it a warm gun, a cold gun, no gun, no gums, toothless, denchers, drenchers? Will a Hamlet cigar suffice? A hot towel? A sports massage? AND YET, it’s Tuesday, time to read a couple of your pathetic specimen of letters to solve all your horror and sci fi ills to ease your pain, then ridicule your problems, which are probably all in your head, at your expense and for everyone else’s pleasure. Welcome to Episode 29 of The Vigilante Cannibal Nun as Agony Aunt comedy horror podcast - Red Flags and Roadkill.

I was happy for a nanosecond, fancying myself as a Calvinist, thinking that instead of being one of the elect, I was one of the damned and how liberating that was. At least me being in Limbo has nothing to do with me, I was always going to end up here, predetermination and all that, God didn’t choose me, and why would anyone do that, create you to abandon you, WTF, man….so thank God I ate the Colonisers. It made absolutely no difference to my outcome.

Here I am, The Vigilante Cannibal Nun, your favourite, Horror and SCI FI agony aunt, and no, I am not on the road to Damascus, nor am I about to chop – hi ja!- Miss Piggy Stylee, someone’s ears off and eat them, bit o soy sauce, ginger, attitude, No NO NO No NO, I am here as your resident Agony Aunt, as I already said, so why not repeat it? I mean, why not? Residing and floating in limbo, having eaten all the colonisers in Ireland during The Great Irish Famine. Was there one that wasn’t so great? Back to the point, I’m a kind of a mythological sin-eating monstrosity, waiting for all the horror letters of woe to pop into my lap, like the pearls the swine ate and pooped out of their BE HIND, HI. Each week, I solve two horror and SCI FI emotional problems, in less than 10 minutes. What more could you want, I ask you? A chronic disease? A mental illness? A bucket of despair? Cancer? Kemo? Keto? A blood thirsty addiction, thin legs? Oh, Christ, YES! If I had thin legs, I’m sure I never would have eaten that priest at the beginning of this crazy journey. I would be happy, and you would know it because they, the legs, would be out on the street, loud and proud and wrapped around every hot man’s head until I sang “Oh Danny Boy” at the top of my voice when hitting the proverbial high notes. But no, I have a big ass, short legs, builder’s shoulders and rigor mortis. Go figure. Because I can’t. Welcome to Episode 27 Top Ten Tips on Surviving The Office.

I howl like the wolf because I’m bored and looking for attention, seeing as I’m dead and stuck in limbo, but also because I am your favourite & funniest Irish revenge sister and host of this fictional comedy horror sci-fi podcast, where, every Tuesday, I read two letters from my horror / SCI FI fans, otherwise known as depraved lunatics, who are looking for somewhere to lay their fetid brains to soothe their compromised moral core, or to put them aside for a moment, and give them a reason to carry on with their lives after metaphorically killing their awl man or something equally heinous. Personally, I would rather ponder the fact that the moon is not geologically dead as was previously thought or discuss undersea mountains and the fact that they are key hubs for sharks, according to Science Daily. But I dig those desires deep into my underwear so that I can focus on reading your letters in all earnestness, of which I have none. We are not alone, you and I. Bummer, dude. Welcome to Episode 26: Werewolves in the Highlands & The Olympic Robot.

And my second letter is from Pablo, an idealistic priest on an island off the coast of the insane, but not stupidity, circa 2030 who has a crisis of faith when confronted with the realization that the advancement in AI is like modernism’s end goal….ie….get rid of people and the world is perfect. So, he killed everyone and even though humanity is now sublime, and no longer excretes, apart from the dead bodies littering the streets, turning to mush, he is frustrated as he has lost his sense of smell and all the roses are dead, because nature is becoming suicidal. What can I do, he asks?

I howl like the wolf because I am your host of this fictional comedy horror SCI FI podcast, where, every Tuesday, I read two letters from my Lizardly fans to feed their recognition hunger by answering all their horror and SCI FI woes deep in the knowledge that they will never ever ever ever do anything about their desire to change, because, get this, like the rest of us, they just want to wallow. And who can blame them? Sometimes, there’s pleasure in pain. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that when a crazed psychopath saws off your pinky with a rusty screwdriver to blackmail your parents out of their pension, that that is acceptable. But low-level pain that doesn’t catch you off guard is tolerable until it is too late, so you write to me and those listening, to keep all three of us entertained. Misery loves company. So, as your favourite Vigilante Cannibal Nun Agony Aunt, I love the letters, and they keep me warm of a night when I burn them. So, let’s see what we have in this week’s bag o’ shite. Welcome to Episode 24: Smallpoxed & Does My Bum Look Big in This?

I howl like the wolf because I am your host of this fictional comedy horror SCI FI podcast, where, every Tuesday, I read two letters from my muck-raking fans to seek advice about all the times they royally destroyed any respect from their friends like the time they visited a nature reserve in Africa during a hurricane and let all the vampire alligators free before it started and it ended up a blood bath. Still, as your favourite Vigilante Cannibal Nun Agony Aunt, I love the letters, because there’s not much else to laugh at around here apart from my attempt to sew my face to my ass. So, let’s see what we have in this week’s bucket of shame. Episode 23: Waking up in Your Husband’s Wet Dream and Love on The Electric Chair.

I howl like the wolf because I am your host of this fictional comedy horror SCI FI podcast, where, every Tuesday, I read two letters from the pasta jar of filth that stores the thoughts, dreams and fuck ups of my fans as they try to salvage their lives from their overblown emotions that went terribly out of control and left them with nothing more than guilt, shame, and blood on their hands. Still, I love each and every one of you, seeing as I empathize with the lost and the losing and because I am perched in limbo until the end of time as your favourite Vigilante Cannibal Nun Agony Aunt. And after that garbled mess of an introduction, there is nothing left for me to do but to welcome you to the show. Welcome to Episode 22: Ballyhalbert & Monstrous Attitude.

Feb but not fab or Feb up already? What happened to January? Time is like rolling thunder without the thunder and certainly without the bells and whistles. Shrug of shoulders. I was not born to be loved. Just thought I’d throw that one in for effect or is it affect. Life is too long and boring to start with that one. Fun. A bit o’ sauce. Laughter. That is what we need and so let’s get cracking. Because I am here to solve two horror and SCI FI emotional problem letters, sent in by fans, in less than 10 minutes…and here we go.

Each week I solve two Horror and SCI FI emotional problems, sent in by my fans, in less than 10 minutes. So, forget about your two-tone aspirations to have a life of genuine happiness or fasting on a yoga holiday retreat because, get this, you will always be bloated. Just accept it. Clothes never feel right on you, but we all know that naked and blood thirsty wearing nothing, but a dicky bow is a better look.

I howl like the wolf because I am your host of this comedy horror SCI FI podcast, where, every Tuesday, I read two letters from the cesspool of iniquity that all you horror and sci fi fans are dwelling whether that’s in or out of your mind, the future, past, present, or in a medieval sponging house - I get all sorts - cutting across time and space to send me their problems in the hope that I won’t laugh and will indeed give them solutions to one particular problem only to walk into a multitude more. It’s like the asbestos in the talc - you’re never going to solve that problem and yet it smells so good. So let it roll, like God’s wheel, and plan for the next disaster! But don’t expect perfection. Where’s the fun in that?

I howl like the wolf because I am your host of this comedy horror SCI FI podcast, where, every Tuesday, I read two letters from our perennially horror-stricken gaggle of fake paranormal found footage limbo freaks to find a solution to their nihilistic but loving it problems, whilst sending them on a ghost ship into the wilds of their pain-stained psyches to accept the fact that it is ok to be dull. No!!! they cry. Not dull, ehhh banal. Ok, phew, that’s better.

Firstly, I was walking through a field of grass the other day in the midnight sun or some time during the day that is equally poetic, and I was confronted with a series of randomly placed, perhaps strategically placed, target practice boards that shot up all around me, like a rake you step on that hits you on your now broken nose, blood streaming down your face, waves of pain pulsating through your head as if miraculously connected to the lunar cycles. So these target practice boards popped up as cut-outs of Chaka Khan in her finest 1978 stage, mind you any stage with her is a winner, with or without the fangs.

I howl like the wolf because I am your host of this comedy horror SCI FI podcast, where, every Tuesday, I read two letters from our perpetually discomforted collective noun of listeners to find a solution to their sadomasochistic flip-flop personalities, whilst sending them on time travel back to the Spanish Inquisition to be keel hauled or to the horror version of the Sack of Rome to be shot. Their choice. Welcome to Episode 16: New Year’s Resolutions for Zombies. Let’s get real for a second and admit that we are all walking backward, blindfolded, in and out of our own existence with only ten to twelve commodity fetishes to ease our pain, my favourite being the crimper that I use on my hair to delude myself that I look like Kate Bush circa 1979. WOW indeed.

I howl like the wolf because I am your host of this comedy horror SCI FI podcast, where, every Tuesday, I read two letters from our horror listeners, to find a solution to their wind up merchant debacles and then laugh at their expense and for the pleasure of all Santa’s vampire reindeers, paranormal wives and demonic elves put together whilst gurning for the film of my life that is running in my head but not in a cinema near you any time soon. Welcome to episode 15 TOP Ten TIPS ON HOW TO DEAL WITH YOUR NARCISSISTIC PARENTS OVER CHRISTMAS…that’s the one….yes, we are talking about the parents who really shouldn’t have had you or any of your brothers or sisters in their game of a psychologically horrific marriage that they call home, on this Christmas Eve, the day before what is probably the worst day of the year for y’uns. But I am here to help, and you know my motto. When you are truly miserable and at the end of your tether, prepare for a dystopian hell to come so that your present condition will feel like stinging agony by comparison. And if that makes sense to you, then you are truly screwed from this Christmas forward.

I howl like the wolf because I am your host of this comedy horror SCI FI podcast, where, every Tuesday, I read two letters from my horror fans, indulge in their Christmas folly, sever a crazed outlier turkey leg or five with a Kenwood 28cm Electric Carving Knife or make love to a spiked Faux Snow Tipped Mountain Pine Christmas Tree that is addicted to snorting talcum powder, then laugh at the expense of their paltry addictions and for  the cost of everyone else’s drunken Christmas avoidance techniques. Welcome to episode 14: Top Ten Presents to buy your partner for Christmas when you want to ditch them on New Year’s Day.

In the bleak mid-winter, The Vigilante Cannibal Nun felt cold and alone and angry and horny all at the same time. And I am sticking to my guns in that I will never ever ever ever EVER eat sprouts. Colonizers, that’s what I eat, and lots of them, with their red coats and mansion houses and entitlement issues that are not issues as they feel no guilt. Hurrah for Limbo and loneliness, which gives me all the time in the world to solve two weekly horror / SCI FI emotional problems, sent in by fans, in around 10 minutes, give or take a fentanyl lollipop.

For once in my life, I have someone who needs me, like a giant hole in the head, blasted with  a possessed AK47 left to rust in the cold and wet and itching to get used and abused so that it can bite back. Who says romance is dead? Me! The Vigilante Cannibal Nun, that’s who, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t laugh at your stupid mistakes when in love or out of love or hovering around contempt. We’re all just plain bored, and that’s why you’re listening to me, your least favourite Agony Aunt, of the eating the colonizers kind, and yes I do like chocolate with my chips.

Firstly, Feckn feel good films hi, who needs them? Hello, is it me you’re looking for??? The Vigilante Cannibal Nun, and no, I’m not parading around in frilly underwear, neither am I running for Fanny of the Week…But I’m still your least favourite Agony Aunt, of the eating the colonisers, but not the mushrooms, kind. Each week I solve two horror and SCI FI emotional problems, sent in by my fans, in less than 10 minutes. So, forget about your willful sexual fantasies and the girl next door with the mountain of neurosis including a vampire bunny crossing as a psychotic wolf, and here we go, jumping out of the frying pan straight into the cauldron and lapping up the time-warped lace around thigh-high stretch marks, or someone else’s wet dream. Rationality is for the birds man, I mean, hi.

Here I am, The Vigilante Cannibal Nun, and no, I did not fly head-first, crashing into the earth’s atmosphere, only to avoid hitting planet earth. Neither did I careen straight into a parallel universe called oblivion…..Noooooo….I just ate a few colonisers during the Irish Famine and ended up in Limbo. So sue me. You can learn from my mistakes as your favorite Agony Aunt, here for your pleasure but mostly because you defaulted from your own personal limbo called boredom to seek a little something from The Vigilante Cannibal Nun. Moi.