Hello. It is November 2025. The world is dark, wet and cold, like the intimate parts of a sea-lion. This is the thirty-fifth monthly issue of Interesting Skull, a newsletter of light chuckles and heavy going by me, author and occasional night-time big bag o’sweets quaffer Mike Rampton. It’s being sent out late, but I’m the only one who knows that. Hi.

Mycology is the study of fungi. Mikeology is the study of one VERY fun guy!!!!

I am about to not win a big award. Amazingly, There Are No Silly Questions (the US title of There’s No Such Thing As A Silly Question) is a finalist for Barnes & Noble’s Book Of The Year 2025. The winner will be announced on November 13th. I think it’ll be Katabasis by R.F. Kuang, but until it’s announced, it might, might, might be There Are No Silly Questions. So, I’m not really doing a lot of work at the moment because, like, I might be about to become a huge literary star? Of course, if I won, what I’d actually get would be a nice congratulatory email, and in about six months there’d be some royalties, so even if I felt like victory was ahead of me (it isn’t, it’s a children’s non-fiction book), that wouldn’t really be a reason not to be working in the interim. It’s more that I’m quite tired, the weather is depressing and I don’t actually really like work. I find it difficult! It’s certainly not as good as, for instance, not working.

In May 2026 I will publish more books than I read. This is silly, but I have four books coming out in 2026, and three are out in the same month. Solve The World’s Greatest Mysteries (a fact-filled novel-sized paperback bursting with mad historical intrigue) is out on May 7th. So Bad It’s Good: The Art Of The Terrible Joke (a funny gifty joke book perfect for Fathers’ Day) is out on May 21st. And, another book I am working on at the moment — also a funny gift book perfect for Fathers’ Day, but I don’t know the title yet — is out around the same time. I’m going to guess May 14th? So I’m going to make a huge effort to read absolutely nothing that month just to really enjoy how little sense anything in my daft life makes.

"I just had a pleasant drink at the bar with my favourite film director, David."
"Cronenberg?"
"No, we both had Strongbow."
"David Lean?"
"He didn't need to, there were stools. So yeah, me and David Lynch had a pleasant time."

There was one battle in the Texas Revolution, where pie was served with ice cream, that will never be forgotten. Remember the à la mode.

In America there’s a Bud advert where people shout “WAZZUP!” In France there’s a bird advert where people shout “OISEAUX!”

A photographer came to my house the other day. I write stuff for the i paper fairly regularly, and it usually ends up being accompanied by stock images or rubbish pictures I’ve taken myself on my phone. The idea behind this was that they’d get a bit of a bank of me looking generically grumpy in my house that could be used for subsequent articles without having to resort to rubbish stock photos or me leaning my phone against a plant pot then pouring a drink over my head.

He was really nice, and it was quite good fun. I climbed a tree. It feels like the chances of being commissioned to write an article about climbing a tree are slim to none, but it seemed like a good idea at the time because I slightly panicked. Every so often he’d look at the back of his camera and say something like, “Oh, that’s a great one!” which felt really nice.

And then I looked at some of the really good ones, and had an oddly deflating moment where I realised I still had, you know, my face. Beautifully taken pictures, perfectly lit and everything, but it wasn’t like a previously undiscovered handsomeness had been unearthed. I’d briefly become confused about how magic a camera is.

(I initially wrote far, far too many words here about my difficult relationship with my physical appearance. It was quite good but, even by the usual standards of this newsletter, which could pretty much be called Please Agree With How Great I Think I Am, it was a bit much on the old self-indulgence front. And it wasn’t funny at all. The jump from heartbreaking vulnerability back to “Here’s a silly pun based on a place name I saw while driving on the M11” would have been very jarring.)

"I spent the months from October to February living in a village just outside Saffron Walden."
"Radwinter?"
"No, my season in Shortgrove was actually rather bogus, dude!"

"We need a name for this supergroup featuring Mark Knopfler and the singer of Driving Home For Christmas. I'll think of one in a moment, I just need to pop to the bathroom first."
"Dire Rea?"
"No, a normal robust poo."

(As a bonus, I’d like to point out that Chris Rea’s full name is Christmas Reallywouldn’tbethesamewithoutmysongaboutdrivinghome.)

"A peasant revolutionary has got a job as editor of a magazine that compares handymen specialising in bathroom walls."
"Wat Tyler?"
"No, it's Grouter Choice Monthly that Thomas Baker has got a job at."

I went to Legoland and had, legitimately, one of the best days of my life. So much fun. That said, at one point my niece got upset on one of the rides, which I guess made it literally an emotional rollercoaster. Bought several small Lego people: figures!

Got some royalties for the first time ever. Got excited and bought a really beautiful lamp on the internet for a princely £35. My daughter helped me choose it. It arrived and was absolutely rubbish. I realised the stunning picture of it online was AI-generated, it was all a scam and I was an idiot, blinded by good news. After 57 — FIFTY SEVEN! — emails I got £28 back. I’m going to think about that extra seven quid for absolutely ages.

Joined the Natural History Museum because there was a long queue and we were having a lovely day, so everyone’s Christmas and birthday presents are coming from there for the next year, and despite it being 65 miles from my house and not a pub, that’s my local now.

Outsider artists are great at performing hair transplants. They’re used to operating on the fringe.

What is a dock leaf’s favourite musical genre?

Heavy nettle.

“My friend, who is a B.O. fetishist, works for a mining company.”
“Digs pits?”
“He certainly does, and he is an accountant for a mining company.”