“To catch a fish finger,” said Skipper Poulsen, “you have to drop acid like a fish finger.”

The more Gacoki thought about it, the more he realised that even though this wasn’t where he’d planned on going, it wasn’t exactly the worst place to be either.

Tabitha had always wanted a pony.

“Oh, look!” her mother said. “Here’s one advertised for just £5.99. That really is cheap. Poor dear. It’s owner must not have the time for it.”

Her father scratched his chin. “There is a birthday coming up.”

“‘Tis the Maltish hag, my lord.”

“What knowest thou of her, Raynard?”

“Passing fair is she, and fair in her passing. Like the willow is she, bending with the wind she sells to those sailors that do visit her.”

“Speckled be her nuncy?”

“Aye, my lord, but not so speckled as we cannot chance it.”

Just as democracy is being introduced in the Middle East, it is being introduced in Pothill’s life. Yesterday’s vote saw Forest Green limping first past the finish line, followed by Dandelion Yellow, Navy Blue, and Royal Purple, none of which truly represented a credible opposition. Pothill had been somewhat anxious because 1) He’s always anxious, and 2) he’d never worn the Forest Green before. But wonder of wonders! Forest Green got its act together and actually went quite well with the black shirt. It worked, it must be said, a treat yesterday evening, eliciting not a “You look so handsome!” but, rather, the quite nearly as good “You look different… I can’t really say why…”

And yet. The introduction of democracy is fraught with difficulties. Though elections were held only yesterday, they’re necessary once again today as a novel situation has arisen.

Check out the Neckerchief Gallery for guidance on colours. In the event of a tie, Pothill will employ his deciding vote and choose one of the selected neckerchiefs on the basis of his own, questionable preferences.

Date: 20 June 2012

Context: Meeting a stranger with the aim of determining whether we should be friends

Companion(s): 1) Brash, female, 39 years old, Russian

Desired Neckerchief Effect: “What an interesting little man…”

Notes on Other Clothing: Black shirt, grey-blue thistle, dark brown waistcoat

Variables: Despite strenuous efforts having been taken to ensure otherwise, it’s possible that Pothill’s companion thinks that this is, in fact, a date. If so, it would be helpful if the choice of neckerchief could rapidly disabuse her of this misunderstanding.

Poll Ends: 15:15, Copenhagen Time.

Welcome to the first Neckerchief Conundrum on Content Declined - and most likely in the history of the entire world!

Neckerchief Conundrums allow you to help Pothill, our hapless protagonist, select his neckerchief for the day. Check out the Neckerchief Gallery for guidance on colours. In the event of a tie, Pothill will employ his deciding vote and choose one of the selected neckerchiefs on the basis of his own, questionable preferences.

Date: 19 June 2012

Context: A second date

Companion(s): 1) Intellectual, humourous, Austrian

Desired Neckerchief Effect: “You look so handsome!”

Notes on Other Clothing: Black shirt, grey-blue thistle, no vest

Variables: 1) Pothill’s date might just end up reading this blog post herself; 2) This being the first Neckerchief Conundrum, it is entirely possible that only one person will vote, which could lead to rather unpleasant results, depending on this individual’s mood today

Poll Ends: 18:00, Copenhagen Time.

Though we stay the same, the world changes around us. And just when we start changing too, the world starts changing even more quickly in order to ensure that we never catch up.

When I began this blog last year, it was hopelessly low-tech, its cartoons mere Stone Age scribblings. Indeed, others at times optimistically labelled these cartoons as “naive art“, assuming that, if they exist, they must possess some obscure, unseen merit. The cogito ergo sum of webcomics, if you will.

Yet years or months or weeks or days or (at least) a couple of minutes of hard thinking and general contemplation have led me to the conclusion that the only appropriate response to this changing world is to focus on the important things: Love, friends, armadillos, and fashion.

Content Declined has thus been repurposed. (Note the momentous-sounding use of the passive tense.) In line with the increasing interactivity of the interactivitynet, no longer will Content Declined solely provide access to “naive art”. In the future, it will also provide access to my very soul, which you can interactively manipulate at your will. Largely by helping me select which colour neckerchief to wear on certain days. But hey, that’s something at least. It will also include strange tales from my wanderings through the world in general and Copenhagen in particular.

To make sure you keep abreast of all of the activity on Content Declined, subscribe to the blog or add it to your RSS reader.

Spread the word to your friends and loved ones! If you have no friends and loved ones, spread the word to me so that I can, at least, feel superior. You can contact me at a.pothill@hotmail.com.

Your humble servant,

A. Pothill

“Ho, Raynard! What tidings?”

“A beast, my lord. Tall and toothless as a Maltish hag and teetering, it was. And yellow as the banana.”

“A giraffe? In this land? What cursed enchantment be this?”

“Nay, my lord. No giraffe, but an armadillo on stilts.”

Elgin stared at the handsaw, then peered back out at the audience in the darkened, smoke-filled gallery.

‘Join a magic show,’ Ralph had said. ‘You can always find work at a magic show.’ Being pulled out of a hat six nights a week? How bad could that be?

Only after he had signed the contract had they mentioned anything about being sawn in half.

The sun continued to blaze down.  Unexpectedly, his ear began to itch. ‘Funny,’ he thought, ‘how you only feel the little things now.’

He shut his eyes a moment — but no, he remained beyond pain. ‘King of the Armadillos…’ he thought, not quite bitterly. It had been flattering at first. But then, eventually, he had begun believing in it himself.

And one last time, he wondered whether things had not, perhaps, gone just a bit too far.