Our friend Lindsay Mutch died this
day last year. A lovely man, a great
journo, a funny guy.
Lindsay, if only we’d known you
were going to kark it, we would
have borrowed more money.
Belinda, Carolyn, John, Phil, Bill.
That’s the memorial notice the Supplements Dept of The Dominion Post put in for Lindsay in the DomPost to mark our year of not having him around the office.
The joke is, nobody every borrowed money from Lindsay, the bugger was always broke, usually spending his money on, among other things, friends, workmates and his family.
Anyway, to do something a bit more constructive than moping around, I thought I would try and print up one of Lindsay’s completed works. It is a novella called Dispirited and is a super tale of the supernatural set in a place not a gazillion miles from Timaru. An extract is below, just to serve as a taste, but the general plan is to see how many people would like a copy, and then get them printed up. (It sounds so simple now …)
At the moment it looks like costing about $16 -$17 per copy. There’s no commitment, but if you would like to be put onto a select mailing list, just email me with the words Lindsay Book in the subject line. I will do my best not to harvest your email addresses to on-sell them to Lithuanian Sensual Ladies or whatever the hell places my email gets sent to for reasons I am completely innocent of.
The email address is
email@example.com (it stands for Kiwi Space Patrol, the company behind the uncelebrated Internet sci fi comedy Super Awesome Mega Battle Tank which Lindsay enjoyed mocking, mainly because of its super-high production values and peerless acting. He also created a couple of props for it.)
So give me an indication of how many copies you might like, and whether you would like the deluxe starlight and pixie dust version (bound in golden unicorn leather), or the wood pulp and black ink version.
Anyway, herebe some words from the start. For free.
As the days passed he lazed in a rocking chair on the veranda of the two-bedroom weatherboard cottage he called home, and the council called derelict.
A loose board on the veranda creaked both loudly and annoyingly with every rock of the chair. Its sound was similar to that harmonic symphony created by an eight-year-old child two weeks into violin lessons.
The rocking chair would rock forward, the board would creak, andZakwould remind himself to fix it – straight after lunch.
Zakwas racing into his retirement head-on. He had pondered his fruitful and reasonably successful life, and decided it was time to relax and quietly dwindle away his twilight years.
At 25,Zakneeded as much time as possible to mentally prepare for the impending onset of middle-age. He shivered to think he was more than halfway there.
His promising career in unemployment had ended rather suddenly at 19, when he was employed as an apprentice exorcist. He soon settled into the more mundane aspects of non-consensual spiritual release (politically correct speak for exorcism).
Zak’s four year apprenticeship as an exorcist ended, and he started his own business.
A year later, a skilful combination of extremely high fees, incredibly low costs and a very, very clever accountant, enabledZakto retire comfortably. (He felt guilty that so many people were being forced to retire uncomfortably, but with true caring he thanked God it wasn’t him and thought about something else instead.)
(All copyright and fiercesome legal stuff – Lindsay Mutch)
And that’s your lot for the moment. Just a wee taste. It’s got lots of great stuff … ancient demons, annoying ghosts, a rat kingdom … by hokey, a person would be mad not to pre-order a copy.
[And thanks to Rachel C. and Cheryl K. for organising the memorial notice in the DomPost. ]
Yes, it was June 28 last year Big Lindsay died.
I found this somewhere on Les Web, which I think must be Lindsay twittering with his friend Cindy O’Neill.
I nearly drowned after trying to use a great dane as a breathing device. That’s the last time I go Scoobie diving.
I’ve joined an agency dedicated to the promotion of stupid people. It’s called the Witless Projection Programme.
Roll on 4pm. Then you’ll all have to beer with me.
I keep a secret dairy. It’s like a secret diary, but it’s filled with cows.
I’ve developed a new arcade game. You put your money in and nothing happens. It’s called Space Evaders.
They advised me to take a novel approach to the situation. I said no thanks, I’d rather take a non-fiction approach.
I’m such a bad cook, I couldn’t even get the sun to set.
I killed a chicken. It was murder most fowl.
The difference between a line graph and a pornograph is that the latter has a triple-X axis.
Remember the boyband Five? It would have been great if one of them had been named Juan. Lots of “Juan in Five believes aliens exist” jokes.
So… is the Fortune 500 a NASCAR event?
Does it concern anybody else that many New Zealanders pronounce “Tua” and “tour” exactly the same way?
No power in Wellington. Damn. We’re turning into Auckland.
Strange that if you’re over the hill you’re old, but if you’re over the moon you’re happy. I think the hill’s much lower than the moon.
Always aim low… that way when you come up with something genuinely good, everyone’s surprised😉
I don’t know why they call them chop sticks… it took me hours to fell a tree with one.
I’ve decided to become a fitness trainer for evil spirits … that’s right, I’ll be exercising demons.
I used to be a mad scientist … now I’m just moderately irritated.
I asked for an inspirational quote. She said: “$15.95 plus tax.”
I’m an apthiest. I don’t believe in bees.
I had a butterfly once. But every time I saw a cute girl my pants fell down.
I have this great idea for a pyramid scheme. If everyone on Twitter sends me $1… um, the plan hasn’t really evolved past that point…
An orca just ate my seal of approval.
My train of thought just hit a cow and de-railed
You can now buy really cheap monkeys. Hell, they’re practically gibbon them away.
I can’t help it. I always read “therapist” as two words.
My mates used to throw baseball caps on the tops of houses to mark where the pretty girls lived. That’s right: Hats on a hot teen’s roof.
Don’t judge me because I’m beautiful. Judge me because I’m weird.
My life lacks direction. But it’s got an excellent script.
Last night I dreamt I fell asleep. So I was asleep dreaming that I was asleep. I had to wake up twice! Mine is a weird reality.
“It was a distorted monstrous thing of many heads, none of which were pretty.” — constructive criticism from a workmate
US to NZ translation: US “broiler” = NZ “grill”. US “grill” = NZ “barbecue”. I hope this helps.
If I ever get to name a volcano, I’m going to call on my Icelandic friends.
If that Islamic cleric is right and scantily dressed women cause earthquakes, then California is in more trouble than we thought.
Dynamite. Or Dyna might not. You can’t tell with Dyna.
Only uranium will truly make your skin glow.
Rule of thumb: The higher the cc rating, the fewer the brain cells of the person driving it
I hold myself to a lower standard.
This is another story from the molyworld.net website that Cindy alerted me to.
It is entitled Wet Dreams. Oh Lindsay, you card …
Here’s the first few pars.
The alarm clock gurgled.
Willis opened his eyes and stared at the light playing at the surface of the pool. He got out of bed, stretched, yawned, and swam to the surface.
Beside the pool was a plastic picnic table, three plastic chairs and a tasteless yellow Hawaiian-style umbrella. On one of the chairs was a severe man worn beneath an equally severe suit.
The man had a name. It was foreign-sounding. Forgot it within seconds of first hearing it. He wore the black suit which had become corporate uniform. He belonged to a Super Secret Government Agency (SSGA), the name of which had not been mentioned.
The whole thing is hosted here:
This story, called Two Feet Under, was posted on a website called
and Cindy O’Neil alerted me to it.
It’s about 5000 words and starts off:
The door handle was higher. He noticed as he left the bedroom. How odd.
It had been lower yesterday, and the day before. But today the bedroom door was just a little further up than normal. Simon Aitken didn’t realise there was a problem until half-way down the hall.
There was something wrong with the toilet door too. Indeed, the toilet itself reached further up his legs than before; his knees connected with the seat as he flushed.
It wasn’t until showering that he noticed the problem. He looked down and saw his feet were missing.
The whole thing is downloadable from here:
Does any one know the 0800 number for the after life?
As my dearest uncle Lindsay I would like to tell you how very, very much I miss you. You loved me, teased and touched my heart, guided, played and taught me so much over the 31 wonderful years that I have been so fortunate and grateful to have shared with you.
Lindsay, you are well aware that I have not worked out what I believe happens to us all when we have passed away (YET), which has made losing you so very painful. I read the email you had once sent to Carolyn Enting, when her grandmother died, and although it was painful to read and very dark it was also very true … I want you to know that those words made so much sense to me, they also gave me such a better understanding on life and death, and have also helped me with the whole grieving process. So thank you Lindsay (you always knew the right things to say at the right time). Also thank you Carolyn Enting for sharing this personal information at Lindsay’s funeral and on his tribute site.
I know that you would hate to see me upset and hurt and I have decided that instead of mourning your death I am going to focus more on celebrating your life. Although you have been rudely taken away from me, no one can ever take away the many wonderful and treasured memories of you that I hold so close to my heart.
I use to love all the heart-to-heart conversations we often shared. I could tell you my deepest secrets, and you yours.
I wish there was some way you could tell me that you are somewhere safe with Nana and the two of you are carefree, and are awaiting the day when all the family meet again and live happily in eternity. (Sounds a bit like a fairy tale, eh?) But I wish you could somehow, someway tell me that my fairytale will one day come true.
Lindsay, I love you so much, and thanks for always being there for me. Thank you for loving me as much as you did, and thank you for the many, many wonderful memories you have given me. I will never ever let go of them.
Goodbye my brother, I love you always and forever. Sarsha.