An outcome of farce and grandiosity, this book is an opus of complementary lunacies , even down to the title. Pauline said "Er..." and Clem said "Worglegrodes."
The reckless unmedicated drawings came first, and were emailed to Clem. He paced back and forth, deep into the night, on tea and cheap carpeting, challenged into frenzy by a rival inconsequence, and slung into orbits of hingeless versification.
Is there life before death? What does it all mean, really? How many species of Worglegrode survive? These are just three of the eternal questions that this glittering rhinestone of a book fails resoundingly to answer, or even ask.
Be warned, this book is very silly!