There’ll be no accusations, just friendly crustaceans...

Why oh why oh why do people refer to interplanetary, most extraordainary, craft as UFOs?

A UFO is an Unidentified Flying Object. The flying object in question is a space shuttle populated with bug eyes beasties intent on world domination. And if you know it's a spaceship, then clearly you have identified it as a starship, building it's cities on Rock & Roll. And rogering the shop window dummies.

Could be worse - they could be rogering Crash Test Dummies. Mmmm mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm....

Anyhoo, by now it has surely become an IFO - an Identified Flying Object.

I mean, you don't see reports in Atlantean newspapers about Unidentified Floating Objects, do you.

Actually, that's probably because the paper's far too soggy to read. But imagine:

You go for a walk in the sunken surroundings. You bung a fishbowl over your bonce like a divers helmet, and trundle off to some aquatic Asda. You glance up, and some huge cigar shaped object is floating in the 'sky'! Being brought up under the sea by shrimps, you probably have no idea what a liner is, so you probably waggle your fingers in imitation of your parental prawns tenticular talk. Then you run home and ring up the Weekly Watery News to say how you saw a UFO.

With Elvis at the helm, holding a potato with the face of Jesus on it, being raped by Bigfoot as Batboy watches on.

You know in America, sometimes it rains fish? Or frogs. Anyhoo, I wonder what it rains it Atlantis?

Something improbably land based.

Humidity is risin'

Barometer's gettin' low

According to all sauces,

The street's the plaice to go...

...if you want to be showered by men in posing pouches and macs, brandishing their umbrellas and doffing their hats.

Hur Hur Hur... "Brandishing you umbrella" and "Doffing your hat"... there just has to be a euphanism there somewhere!

Still, at least it's an umberella, and not Bella Emberg falling out of the skies!

Cheese dead, wrapped in plastic...

Now, since they scrapped First Post so Postie could nob bored housewives with hubby safely out the way, for us sad singletons there is the problem of the Parcel Being Delievered When You At Work, of which I have made great mention of before.

But today, I had a note slipped through me door from Linda the Courier advising what she'd done with my package, and for a change she helpfully decided not to take my package back to the depot, but put it in a safe place for me to retrieve!

And of course, the safest place she thought of was wedging it under the wheels of me car!

I can only assume it was some psycho-sexual fetish. After hours of ramming phallic male though front-bottomy letterboxes, she could take the symbolism no longer, and decided to banish the image of rampant shaggery through a castratory fantasy of taking a man's package and wedging it under the wheels of a car in anticipation of performing vehicular vasectomy as the car accidentally reverses back over it.

And after all that, it wasn't my Danish Twin Peaks DVD. (That's the Region 2 Gold Boxset of the TV series Twin Peaks, and not the now legendary 'Danish Glossy' Twin Peaks from the Netheregions, with said 'Peaks' being of the Shakira fame that are NOT mistaken for mountains).

Hah! Went to a 'lunch and learn' session on Assyst today - well, more of a 'Miss lunch and sit an a room and learn' session. Anyhoo, Stuart brought in a couple of buns, and I just had to laugh when he got his pair of small baps out!

And how come a hamburger is a hamburger? It's a beefburger in a bun, so where's the ham? It it because the combo of buns & beef turn you into a porker, or does it turn your acting stylee into a ludicrous overperformance worthy of Timmy's WOTW?

I guess if you dollop a couple of streaks of bacon on it, there's some ham in there. Ish.

Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a seseme seed bun...

With extra trotters.

Did the Earth move for you...

I was totally bemused by the job dodgers on the daytime telly today. A 10 second rumble in the night, and it's Keep The Kids Off School, The Wife Was In Tears Having Hysterics, and I Rang The Police To Get Them To Arrest Gaia.

The cleaning woman at work was having a right old hissy fit! Apparently, England can't get Earthquakes, and was screeching about how she couldn't understand what was going on.

That's probably why her education suited her to such a profession then!

There were those who thought the noise was their washing machines - now, I'm no expert, but surely washing machines aren't as loud as 'quakes, nor make the whole house vibrate! (and just who does their washing at 1am when they're in bed, knowing the drum bangs like a banger banging on a bangy thing?)

Then there were those who thought it was very noisy burglars. I don't watch crimwatch, but I will now - just in case they feature a burglar with a DIY 'quake kit to mask his purloining of the family jewels!

Of course, clever folk like me instantly thought "oh, minor earthquake", saw no damage and went off to bed.

And now it's the talk of the town - all this gumph about mantle shifts, tectonic plates and opposing forces. Shirly Holmes said that the most likely solution is the most probable. I've seen To The Earths Core, so I know for a fact that it was caused by a couple of frisky Emily Brontesauruses having a bit of rubby fun and cracking their oversized craniums on the 'surface' (our ground) and knocking a vase over in Grimsby!

Or, it could have been a 100ft tall invisible giant trekking from Grimsby over to Norwich in a single bound in his seven league boots!

Then again, according to Tagliatelli, there was a baby born in Peters Bra, and the second they cut the umbilical cord, Armageddon began! Proof indeed that the Antichrist has arrived! Not only that, young girls were being bounced about on their beds, reminiscent of Regan.

Although what The Sweeney were doing with the Blair Bitch is anyone's guess!

If you look at it from my angle...

...and as all the world knows, the angle of the dangle is proportionate to the heat of the beat. And when you get that angle in your gaudily coloured shorts, then the Spheres are opened and from outside come the Elder Gods.

Outside being under the sea when you're having a bit of a kip, and some git starts falling into yer obtuse angles or ramming a ship up yer belly button.

Yes, we're talking that now legendary triplicity of angles befamed by He Of The Massive Hooter (and not she of the massive hooters, which is something totally different). Aye, people are legging it to Bermuda from the Cola Cabinet to escape his nasally symphonies!

And why is it a Triangle? Why can't it be the Bermuda Dodecahedron, which I thought was a water lilly type version of a Rhododendron, but there you go!

Perhaps it's them Space Monsters again, and like Crop Circles, they's mapping out shapes to tell us their wishes. So, here we have them painting out a big triangle over the deep blue sea...

...wait a minute! Let them abduct rednecks in woods, let them mutilate cows and nob Americans to create a superior hybrid race, let them build tripodic fighting machines and let loose the Heat Ray over Londinium...

...but they ain't getting their tentacular mitts on them blue triangles in me Quality Street!

And they can leave me Big Purple One alone an' all!

You didn’t being me along for my charming personality...

It's a hard life, being a computer engineer for a nefarious gang of germanic thievery types!

You get dragged along for your pewter expertese, and what skills are demanded of you?

Well, it would appear you start off by asking Oriental Types for their password. Failing that, get old Grubby Hands to ask him for you. Then when he's deaded, just decrypt his password.

Then sit by a drill whilst the other 5 locks are bored through, and you don't even get to put yer skills to any use on the magnetic locking system.

On the plus side, you get to provide witty banter as you watch the escapades of the FBI on the CCTV.

But what really riled me is that amongst his inane witticisms, he sees the big tanky car, which he refers to as an RV.

Now, to me, an RV means Remote Vehicle (being short for ROV, Remote Operated Vehicle). But there was a certain lack of remote control going on, what with several driving types up front in their camelflange. What made me laugh was when the RV tried to roll up the steps and got stuck, fortitously at the same time the rocket launcher is ready to fire.

But then I realised that it's one of them thicko type things, like the Three Arse. As cretins try to convince you that Arithmetic begins with an R, so the R in RV is the first letter of Armoured Vehicle! Then again, how you you get Maths from Arithmetic - surely it should be Meths, and if they've got meths at school, it's no wonder we've got alchohol dependancy!

And if they've been on the meths in Norfolk, then they'll end up on the cider, and be one of them Farmer's Boys or Wurzels, droivin' an Ooh-Ahr Vee.

Or tractor, as it's more popularly known. Oooh, I'd love to see an armoured tractor! That's one for Kryten & Ted on Scapheap Challenge! I'm writing to Ch4 so The Rogers can tart up as some buxom farmers daughter in a hayloft.

Prahper jahb!

Conundrum of the day II

If someone is as thick as two short planks, then I'd like to know some details of the length & depth of these here planks.

If the planks are quite short, they can't be all that thick, for then they'd cease to be planks - more like a block than a plank.

In addition, when you put 2 short planks together to gauge their combined thickness, then surely what you have is a fairly thin rectangle, which can't exactly be a fair measue of intellect.

Also, how does someone who's as thick as two short planks compare to someone who's as thick as pigshit? And what about the consistency of the porcine poo? What if they've got the squits - it would be like saying someone's as thick as runny soup in piggery faecal terms.

And don't get me started on some gormster being Hard As Nails - that stuff's like pollyfilla until it sets. And Ronseal doesn't do exactly what it sez on the tin, coz Ron never turns up to do any sealing - just varnishing and wotnot. And YOU have to do even that, bloody lazy fecker that he is, selling his farmery burgers and his 4-minute-wait fillie of fish.

That's not a painted smile, that's the ketchup off've his Big Mac burger, and his pale face is due to constantly throwing up his very healthy and nutricious burgery dishes.

I wonder if Big Mac is any relation to Daddy Mac, and if he makes you jump...

Gordon ain’t a moron...

...booze make you really clever!

I got one of them 'fiendishly difficult' puzzley effort malarkies as a birthday treat. Now, according to the instructions, the target time to complete it is 83.5 mins.

I did it in under 20.

Not sure if that makes me a genius, or some all-night orgasm delaying stud muffin, but I think the results are conclusive: Drinking copious amounts of Jacques until the early hours of the morning focuses your mind upon awakening, and you become an Einsteinian calculus solving superprofessor.

Unfortunately, the drawback is that as the alchohol leaves the body, you lose that heightened state, and end up as thick as two short planks later in the day, and cant resolve perplexicities for the life of you!

Another drawback is the actual getting into the position to become that braniac, for the cost may be far to high! Take last night, someone must've read my unwisely posted drunken blog bewailing my lot and inviting all to give me a damn good kicking, for someone appears to have taken me at my word, and snuck into the house and set about my nasal passageways & Daniel Day-Lewis with a blunt object.

Either that, or someone waylaid me in a darkened alley and set about me with a stout stick on the way home, and I have no recollection of it!

Unless, of course, I'm being abducted by space monsters again, and they're forcing me to play some nefarious intergalactic version of Saw, before giving me a 'memory pill' a-la Touchcloth to leave me with a bloodied nose and unwalkable limbs and no idea how it all happened.

There will, of course, be those who'll simply say that the alchohol thinned up the blood, and I simply got a nose bleed in me sleep, and damaged me foot flouncing about on dancefloors failing to attract the attention of dreadlocked damsels. But that's preposterous, as despite having a bloodied fizzog, pillowcases & sheets are all suspiciously free of claret! Proof of someone covering their tracks!

Space Monsters it is, then!

And that’s why I don’t like cricket...

I need Jeremy Kyle!

I need one of them courses he does 'after-show' to instil some form of self confidence!

But surely, I hear you ask, you are such a supremely self confident egotistical git that approaching Cute Dreadlock Babe and starting a conversation should be a piece of piss! Just talk to her like one of yer blogs.

Unfortunately, talking to hot chicks (who've just moved from Leeds & know no-one) sounds dead easy, but it's not quite the same as typing inane witterings onto a faceless MySpace textbox!

I think I'll have to get some practice in one of them 'Speed Dating' efforts they have at Traffik (oooh, there's one on tomorrow!)

Please feel free to give my cowardly butt a damn good kicking - if you can find me, that is! I may just have to hide meself under some stone due to the embarassment of not even being able to speak to CDB, and everyone knowing what a shy lardyarse scaredycat I am!

Oh well, c'est la vie

Although I ain't sittin' in a tree with me mum telling me to come home for me tea. Nor is any Irish lass prepared to show me hers if I show her mine.

Got to let her in (yeah yeah yeah)

Let the fun begin (yeaaaaaah)
She's a fox today
Yeah, yeah, yeah,
She'll huff, She'll puff
She'll huff & puff & blow me right off

Ah, tuff shit, coz I can't even work up the courage to say Hello, so no fun for me.

B*Witched me, she did!

Oh yes it’s Hades night..

...And the feeling's right

Oh yes it's Hades night

Oh what a night (oh what a night)

And none of that Nuclear Pussy either!

And in an effort to Goth up the iPod I managed to crash not only my iPod, but me PC an' all - all thanks to the bloody Sisters of Mercy videos. But now we're all fixed. Yay!

Growly growly growly - why does technology make life sooooo difficult! They say that it makes life a whole lot easier, but it still takes the same amount of time to clean the house as it did when we sent 5 year old kiddies up the chimneys and down the mines.

A minor miner if you will! Or, if he's inbetween some adolescent state, a man (or minor) miner!

And when I'm relaying any messages to his germanic boss, it's a case of a man (or minor miner), mein Herr.

And if they are excavating follicles, then the man (or minor miner) mines hair, mein Herr.

And how do they do it? In what manner would a man (or minor miner) mine hair, mein Herr.

And what if the mine was in a cellar of a big posh house? In what manner would a man (or minor miner) mine hair in a manor, mein Herr.

And what if the basement of that manor was up for sale, and the seller of the cellar...

AND VERILY, THE READERS OF THE BLOG ROSE UP, AND SMOTE XYMON ABOUT THE BONCE WITH MORE STOUT STICKS THAT YOU COULD SHAKE A STICK AT, CRYING "NO MORE, PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST STOP!" AN' SUCHLIKE.

"You're on our manor, and we've rumbled your game"

Doan push me...

John J Rambo's latest extravagana seems to be not much, not much, not much then BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM and limbs everywhere, heads a-shattered, with nowt but a bullet in the shoulder.

And it's all in Burma. Now, I can certainly see why El Presidente is up in arms (or blew off his arms in this case) over his portayal of Burma! Makes it look like a free for all Battle Royale of rape & genocide, when all Burma stands for is get ready for nobbing.

As all the world knows, Burma is an acronysm for Be Upstairs Ready My Angel, in much the same way as Norwich is an acronism for Knickers Off Ready When I Get Home.

Of course, the pedants will notice that it actually spells out Korwich, but you have to bear in mind that the people of Norfolk call Norwich Norridge. As well as calling Costessey Cossie, and Wymondham Windum. Not to mention Happisburgh (or Heys Bra as it's affectionately mispronounced).

Strangely though, Old Catton isn't pronounced Alcon.

None, of which, defends spelling knickers without the K (although Kay without her knickers is probably a regular occurance down Riverside, or so I'm lead to believe).

If you're going to have acronyms, use words that fit! Every one seems to blithely accept that the N stands for Knickers - why not use a word that starts with N? Nightie Off Ready When I Come Home? Nob/Nips/Nadgers Out Ready When I Get Home? Naked Outstretched When I Get Home? Nannies Orifice Ready When I Get Home?

And I've barely started! But Nooooooo - the best East Anglia can come up with using their webbed fingers is Knickers, cos it's got a silent K (although, in relation to her earlier mention, I hear she ain't all that silent, and actually screams in ecstacy quite loudly in the throes of passion).

At least the sporting word got theirs right. Adidas. All Day I Dream About Sex (although now they claim they dream all day about sport! Hah - After ogling them gymnasts in their thongy leotards flouncing camel toes in their faces, it's an altogether different 'sport' on their minds as they squeeze the baby oil on in the showers).

So, to all my lovely ladies out there, this blog is S.W.A.L.K., just for you!

Mwah! Mwah! xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Just one last thing ma’am...

The best thing about being unwell (when on holiday) is the chance to don your big warm dressing down and plonk on the sofa with hot chocolate.

Failing Errol Brown's presence, you tend to make do with a book, some choccie, and lots of hot drinks.

BUT at least you get a chance to sample the ever helpful and informative TV shows, such as Trisha, jeremy Kyle, THe Wright Stuff, Airport!, Airport! USA, Quicy,

And Columbo.

And what a rare treat - Londo Mollari as a sex therapist!

I'd love to know where they breed these backwater gormsters up from for Jeremy Kyle. It's all Paternity Tests, DNS results and Lie Detectors on people who are so incredibly 'brave'. Well, Jeremy calls them brave, whereas normal people would call them retarded freak mingers from the planet mong!

Honestly, I'm no oil painting (apart from maybe some Dali or Pickarsehole), but how come some of these Quasimodo types have umpteen relationships on the go, whereas I can't even bag 1 decent bird?

I reckon some of them might be actors, you know!

Usually cast in some inbred carnival freakshow cannibal forestry type movie!

There's, like, these 2-tonne gobby Bertha's with their munter tugboats, nobbing people behind their partners backs left, right & centre. Blokes claiming to be 38 (looking like 108) being accused of shagging around behind their 18yr old girlfriends backs. Haggard old trouts who don't know which one of 7 mingin' chavs is the father.

Not to mention Jeremy bellowing over everyone, spouting whatever crap will get the audience to whoop and screech like a pack of harpies being raped by a horde of columbus monkeys (complete with cigar, raincoat and occasional basset hound).

Look out, he's got a knife!

Lowestoft ’ello...

And it is!

True to form, the one shop I wants to get stuff from is all out of stock.

Still, at least I replaced me finger!

Although to hear the chavettes on the bus tonight, getting fingered in the showers by the gym instructor is all the rage!

Honestly, even the iPod couldn't drain out the incessant stream of filth pouring from Daddy's Little Angel's overloud gobs. And from what they were discussing, it weren't streams of filth that normally fills their cream cakeholes!

Forget them Late Night C4 Sex Guides and Lovers Guide Interactive DVDs - you can learn more detail from a 20 min journey on a bus after 3:15pm!

Lovers Guide Interactive DVD indeed - interact with what, I ask? Stick yer nob in the VHS slot of the VCR? Use the remote control as a makeshift dildo? Must be a bit off-putting when you're trying to Do The Business whilst getting instructions from a DVD! What if you're in mid flow, and you're partner exclaims "Oh, you you just rewind it a bit to see if we missed something, coz I'm not getting any buzz from this!". Not very romantic, is it!

Unless, of course, the DVD is like them Atmosfear videos, and whilst you're on the job, up pops a random nudie figure to exclaim "That's it", "Give her one from me", "Just a little to the left", "No! You're doing it wrong! You do it like THIS"

Voyeuristic DVD presenters - whatever next!

Tea for two, and two for... nah, there’s only me so I’ll have to scoff the lot meself...

You have Chav and Chavettes... but wot about them Masterchefs?

Do you get Mistress Chefs, or Chefettes? And if they've et a Chef, then they're either cannibals, or indulging in fellatio in the kitchens.

Which should upset the Health Inspectors! It won't be cockroaches they cum across!

And how come, right, these contestants on Masterchef have to cook all poncey stuff? "Yes, I'm making a cream of fois gras sauce with a piquant sautee of maris piper potatoes with a duck breast and baby shallots, served with an aubergine rosti and julienne baby carrots".

Why can't they just cook normally - like

"I'm going to serve up a Fray Bentos tin of Steak and Ale pie, with a side dish of Smash with a tin of Green Giant Sweetcorn, followed by a Sara Lee Triple Chocolate sponge with Birds custard for dessert".

Or if you're on Ready Steady Cook: "I'll heat up some Campbells Tomato soup in the microwave, followed by a co-op micro-meal for one Chicken Curry (with basmati rice) and for dessert a scoop of Walls Cornish Ice Cream"

Ooohh.. I hear the dulcet chimes of the nursery rhymes of the ice cream man - hold that van! I want's me nut sundae...

As the chefette said to the Health Inspector as he got his cockroach out...

Damn that Jack & Nick...

And now we get the fall out from The Smoking Ban!

Now, if the pubs and clubs still had indoor smoking, then the smoke wouldn't escape into the atmos and rain down in a smog of unrelenting soup and create a lack of visibility upon our roads.

Although Al Farted would probably blame Prince Phil for it.

And if there's no smoke without fire, then someone explain the condensatory fug outside me window!

And Switchblade Romance was basically Secret Window. If I knew that beforehand, I wouln't have wasted an ill cephalopod on it. Switchblade Romance? There int even one in it - I guess Rotary Saw Romance was a bit long winded (even though more aptly alliterative).

And now I have to weld a finger, if I knew how to weld.

Or had the equipment.

Grrrr.

A-harr there Jim laaaad....

I had great plans for today, but the lot got scuppered. Again.

You know how if yer limbs get lobbed off, people still get itches & pains in 'em - Phantom Limb Syndrome, they call it. Well, I got the reverse!

I had slightly achey legs due to Quasaring, but when I got off the bus last night, I could not walk - I had to lurch down the lane in a lumbering fashion! And it wasn't due to the combo of Scrumpy Jack, Magners, Westons & Jacques, but a crippling pain in me Daniel Day-Lewis.

And it's there today! I had to limp to the shop fer bread & milk before Columbo came on in excruciating agony!!

So I've had to spend the day with me feet up (unlike last night in Traffik when I was buried amidst 4 ladies legs. Well, 8 ladies legs, actually, being the number of lower limbs upon 4 ladies.).

"I say, Eddie, do you like putting your feet up?"
"No. I'm not that pervy."

Every time I gets days off work, I gets some illness! It's probably that God Botherer wot cornered me in Haymarkey who's prayed to The Lord to smite me for pointing out the inconsistancies of the Bible. He hath rained down upon me the raspy throat and destabalising slipper filler. Well Lordy, the jokes on you, coz I'm gonna get some Strepsils & a Gothy walking cane upon the morrow!

Wenn ist das nürsdhtück git ein slottermeier...

Well, I'm back from celebrating  me birthday!

Now, I was planning on going to a party in Heathersett tonight, but I now have to have me tea, shower, shave, get tarted up, get a bus from Catton into the city, and another bus from the City to Bowthorpe, so I can get a lift to the party.

Somehow I don't think I can accomplish all that in 6 minutes!

Anyhow, talking of tarting up - I went into Fuckers in CFG Mall whilst waiting to zap young ladies with me laser. Now, they had Black Forest Kirsch Gateau, which I stuffed me big fat face with.

How many languages does it need to be in! Surely not three:

Black Forest - English (obviously)
Kirsch - German for cherries
Gateau - French for gateau

Grrrr! It should be labelled Black Forest Cherry Cake, Schwatzwalder Kirsch Torte (or Schwarzwald kirschroter Kuchen for the pedantic), or le gâteau noir de cerise de forêt.

Or just plain CAKE!

Bashing the Bishop...

Now, I was readin' me book last night, when Question Time popped on t'telly, and some damn fool posed the question: "Is Archbishop Wotsisface fit for the job?" because he proposed that some aspects of Sharia law (or was it Shania Twain?) should be included within the legal system, in the same way as we deal with the legality of other religions.

Such as Christianity.

Now, how you can challenge someone's political influence on the basis that they'd like to legalise some illegal aspects to ensure everyone is subject to the same law is beyond me!

The fact that he believes in fairies, winged harpers harping on their harps and some old beardy git in a toga only doing 6 days work sounds more like he's mentally unfit for any job!

But, the great tabloid readership are up in arms. At least, they will be until they get their hands lobbed off under these new laws, as they're stoned to death for not wearing a mask of a cold climate cow like animal.

Presumably, they want good, clean, decent Christian laws, like those in the bible. Like slaughtering witches, ripping out peoples offensive eyes, and nuking gay folk and turning into pillars of the Sodium Chloride community.

Not to mention torching all the schools.

On the other hand, if these Christians are sooooo devout in their belief, how come they ain't clamouring for The Yorkshire Ripper to be released? As I recall, he said that God told him to do it, and old God does have a bit of history with that type of thing. Started out as a little prank on (Jacob?). "Go on, kill him. Go on. Go on Go on go on. Go on go go on go on go on go on...Stop! Ha ha! Only joking. Have another cup of tea there Father!".

God's just 'upped the Ante' since then.

And if he's been up his Aunty, that not very moral for a divine being (as if God was moral anyway, nobbing Mary behind her husbands back!).

"Thou shalt not cover thy neighbours ox
but if his wife's a hottie, give her one for me".

Presumably, that makes the supreme diety some sort of Bilical dogger, who was unfortunate enough to be omnipotent instead of impotent, and ended up on some Pharisean version of Jeremy Kyle.

"Today on Isiah Hail: Admit you cheated - Paternity test show. Son of God... or son of a clod? We find out, after this break!"
Have you ever cheated on your partner with a celestial force?
Are you pregnant, and believe you are a still a virgin?
Does your husband obsession with whittling drive you into another beings arms?
Do you believe your child is the saviour of mankind, or simply just a prophet?
Give us a call - we'd love to hear from you!

This... reminds me of something...

I see that Britain is planning on joining The Space Race and we'll have good old British astronauts to take to the stars.

Doesn't look good for one of them "first contact" scenarios!

Remember that English bird off've Beadle's (no longer) About? They planted a blow up slanty eyed Grey in her back passage, and what does she do?

Offer it up a cup of tea!

Now, apart from being as thick as pigshit for being taken in by a blow up doll, what if our intergalactic cousins had an aversion to tea? The dozy doxi could have poisoned the interplanerary personage and started Interstallar War and have us all zapped by ray guns with Slim Whitman our only hope.

Besides - what if they'd been an ET equivalent of a club 18-30 holiday?
"Venusians! Vist Earth - the Ibiza of the Milky Way! Them english birds are well up for it!"
"Fancy a cup of tea love?"
"Sod that! Give us a lager and whip yer funbags out! Veeee- nurrrrrse! Veeee- nurrrrrse!"

Not to mention their mate Colin, who's come all the way to Earth to find a chemist where no-one knows him sp that he can buy a  packet of condoms without his mum finding out.

Still, makes a change from "Kin i gets you a jug of moonshine, sonny, afore ye tek ma pa up inter gawds country?"

I have your cold, Blake...

Strange thing The Fog...

Out in Norwich - all sunshine, lollopops, and puppeteers dogs performing karaoke, but traverse out to Catton - thick pea soupers, full to the brim with betentacled beasties and revenge seeking leperous piratey types!

Is there some ginormous extractor fan set up atop The Castle, sucking out the smog and pumping over the outlying areas? Surely, the city centre is generating all the smoke from their wokhouse orphanages shovelling coal, so The City should be all clammy and opaque.

I reckon we should all don top hats, capes and canes, and revert back to Victorian Values (nobbing serving wenches and the like).

I say Holmes, is that the baying of some monstrous, gigantic hound?

No Watson, it's some pissed up chavette down PoW road!

Enraged, Incensed, There’s no reason, no sense...

It would appear that the latest penny pinching scheme proffered by The Council is that, in order to save money and the Environment, they're considering turning off the street lights at night

Now, call me an unrestrained arsewit if you will, but surely it's a bigger waste of cash having them on during the day? How often have you gone down a daylit street and seen the bright beams of 1950s martian war machines seeking you out and burning you to a crisp?

The whole purpose of lights at night is to illuminate the area and drive away The Darkness (although Justin will probably take refuge in the nearest curry emporium). Imagine coming out of a nightclub, then having to traipse up The Most Dangerous Street In The World and getting deadded by some yob. PoW road? Yeah - taken and held in bamboo shacks and dipped in and out of the Wensum.

Wensum one comes along and foolishly takes a plunge into the icy depths in an intoxicated fashion! They were moaning on the nudes this morning, of how some drunken sot managed to fall in the river on Riverside, and they were bewailing the lack of railings.

Well, Excuuuuse me, but there is a great big fuck off road and pathway with barrier all down Riverside. If you decide to leave the path and wander along the embankment, you dererve the watery grave you end up with! If the aquanautical gormsters bypassed one huge set of railing to get to the trickling brook, I doubt another one's gonna stop 'em! Honestly, you don't find me jumping off the Tube platform and wandering alongside the rails, and wondering why I get walloped by trains, do you!

Darwin Awards and Gene pool cleansing, I think it's called.

And that was with the lights on!

Still, at least if they lights are off, they're more likely to walk into the barrier, rather than vault/duck under it, and collapse on the floor bewailing their bashed and bruised bodies before getting on the mobile to injurylawers4u or the fat faced Pie Man to claim cash for being thick as pigshit.

"I walked through a slippery puddle that was marked with a huge 'wet floor' sign, and lightly bruised my shin. I could've walked around it, but instead I got £5,000 compensation."

Awake...
A dream in the distance...
A scream...
In and out my mind goes...

Brown paper packages tied up with string...

Why can't all cars be made of cake?

Honestly, these automobiles suck cash wose than vampires on a virgins neck!

My brum failed the MOT cos it needed a new bush. Now, what exactly a bush is going in my engine, or why there needs to be one there to make it run is beyond me!

Perhaps they're sneaking in all these green environmental (emphasis on MENTAL) measures by running transportation off've life giving oxegenating plantlife.

It's well known that you can power a space rocket on a hamster in a treadmill, a nail in a ping pong ball and some small screws, but trimmed hedgerows powering the engine? Perhaps they're the long lost Entsprog, turning cogs and pistons with their trendril like branches.

And how come it ends up so expensive, all you have to do is pop into Catton Forest and shoplift some shrubbery - cheaper than spending piles of cash on a sapling at B&Q wot dies in about three days.

Shame really, coz when they rang up and said they'd got me a new bush, I suspected they'd found out my birthday's coming up, and got me a bush in the nubile Spearmint Advocaat trollop 'Happy Birthday Big Boy' in the back room type sense.

And not with the bouncer with the greased up arm and the gimp mask!

Oh well, look like I've enough left to treat meself to a McDonalds* Birthday Fillet o'Fish...

...as in nubile young student fillie and associated fishlike connoctations.

Or something!

* LOOKS LIKE IT'LL HAVE TO BE! ALL MY PARTY PLANS HAVE BEEN UNINTENTIONALLY SCUPPERED BY PEOPLE DOING THEM IN ADVANCE, SO THEY AIN'T GONNA GO AGAIN SO SOON.
THINK I'LL STAY IN AND GUZZLE EGG IN SOUP (WITH PORK PIE SIDE DISH) INSTEAD!

I don’t like Mondays...

nor Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays or Saturdays

Nor Sundays.

Particularly Sundays.

Like today.

I close my eyes

Draw forth the curtains

Aw-wah-waaaaaah

Pills a-poppin'

Best get me DVDs back first though!

Dancing on hot tiles...

All my life I thought they were tenderhooks. e.g. "I'm on tenderhooks", as in hooks that are fairly tender, so that's you on the cusp of pain, but not quite, as they're tender, and not sharp.

Bit I now finds out that I am quite wrong, and people are on tenterhooks.

Like, WTF is a tenter?

Tentertwo, when it's 13:50?

Or is a dweller within a small canvas structure, performing some mystical Sun Dance, dangling from the steel rods atop a gas burner sizzling their sausages?

Surely it's be a bit cold, as the temperature seeps into the hooks, and chills you to the bone?

At least if you're Abu Hamza, the fundamentalist, you can put the fun back into being mental, by dangling one handed in wardrobes, hiring yourself out as a coat hanger, and keeping all snug in wolly mammoth skin pacamacs.

The Cleric in the Cupboard - Terrorists on Tenterhooks!

Bitch back? The Chronicles of Roddick...

Growly growly!

On a par with Nadine Baglady and her panty riptides, that slapper in No.7 slap drives me wild!

Not in a frenzy of lust and ravishment...

then again...

But I digress (though exactly what gress is and why it needs to be dyed I have no idea!).

She's so bloody WOODEN! That oh so flat "ta da.", and "If I put them on the wrong way round, will they may me look older?".

Course it won't you thick arse trout!

But what REALLY gets my goat, is a troll.

On the other hand, what I find REALLY irritating is how to put cream and serum on in the right order. Think of it like putting on your underwear before your dress. "Ah, I wondered where I was going wrong".

Like it matters! I don't have any experience is such ladywear, but I would assume it neither matters which way round you don said garments. Dress on first, you have unrestricted access to bung on some pants.

Unless you go commando.

Surely the ad should have compared it to putting on your underwear before putting on your trousers, for obviously you can't put your scanties on after stepping into some slacks. Unless, of course, you're a Superhero like Soupyman.

"Stand back, Croutons of Doom, for I have placed my pants over my brightly colored pantyhose. Flee my wrathful package! Beware the Kryptonite Cock, for my trunks are tailored to display my trunk in a fashion to put David Bowie and Borat to shame! These are special knickers, called a gress, dyed red to accentuate my lustful manlyness! I'm not called the Man of Steel for nothing - just grip my rod".

Anyhoo, now she's back with another dull as dishwater performance in the latest ad! Oooooh, I'd like to give her a slap, and bring some color to her pale cheeks...

...in some bare assed spanking session no doubt (alas, without Gwen. Though she's welcome to join in, the gap toothed Welsh wench!).

Anti-aging serums indeed!

The Phantom Menace...

I think I'm being stalked by them Other Worldly types, wot appear as dark shadows ready to make thievery with your soul.

And now they got transport!

Driving along in my automobile (sans the parallel newborn), you notice a dark car behind. Long, straight road, nowhere to go, glance in mirror...

AND THEY AIN'T THERE!!

Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo (That's the Twilight Zone, in cas you were wondering!).

Same with peoples. Sometime you glance behind for some reason, and see some blurry figure a-striding down the road. Looks back a second later...

NO ONE THERE!

Not to mention the ectoplasmic cats, rats, and arachs! Sit on the sofa, watchy watchy watchy telly, and out the corner of yer eye you see a dark shape scuttle across the floor. You swiftly gaze at it  - it stops...

AND THERE'S NOWT THERE!!

No, I'm not one for conspiracy theories*, but I'm half tempted to think that there may be some korean type Sadako types lurking in the crevices, ready to half inch my lifeforce and whatnots.

Still, if she's after me whatnots, I reckon I'll have to have one of them there invocations!

* OOOOH - THERE WAS SOMETHING ON THE NUDES TODAY! THEY RECKON THAT ONE OF THEM VIKING TYPE SPACESHIPS WOT LANDED ON MARS TOOK A PHOTO OF SOME SPACE MONSTER STROLLING ABOUT. AND JUST LIKE THE FACE IN CYDONIA, THEY'RE TRYING TO PRETEND IT'S A ROCK!

Time & tide wait for Norman...

I keep seeing adverts for a movie called Jumpers.

Being fat and foolish, I could not understand why anyone would want to see a filum about pullovers, polo necks and tank tops.

Not to mention knitted cardies!

So, imagine my suprise when it appears that it's not one of them Don Ameche/Jessica from Tandy Electricals gubbins (such as How To Make An American Quilt), but a cheap rip off of the Necroscope novels.

And instead of using the Möbius Continuum to fight the monstrous Wamphyri, it's poncey ass espionage type bobbins.

One the one hand: Instantaneous travel anywhere in the universe - culminating in space/time paradoxes, parallel dimensions, the greatest ever Vampires ever invented (not to mention the creatures they construct), E.S.P.ionage, Global political intrigue, masssive Blood Wars, and the survival of mankind.

Or some fop instantaneously travelling across the Earth whilst being chased by Samuel L. Jackson.

And they say Cinema isn't being dumbed down for "the YouTube generation."

How come there's all these great ideas out there, but them someone has to re-write their own version, take out all the good, thought provoking bits, and make it as simple as possible for thick people?

I seem to have fallen into a malaise of moaning misery recently!

Just don't get me started on Pants before Dress woman.

Ta da.

Grrrrrrrr!

I really need to pick meself up out of these doldrums.

Though why I'm in a cylindrical container with skin streched over the top that's owned by Barbie, I'll never know!

Baby! Baby! Baby!
You are my voodoo child
My voodoo child!

Aye, and you're that bird outta Neighbours...

If you wanna be the best...

...don't wanna shit yer kecks

Whoa-ho-ho

Defecation's what ya need

If you wanna be a record beaker

Yeahhhhh......

They say it's pleasure you can't measure.

Well, someone certainly thought so! In La Toilette l'Office there is almost always a scattering of bog roll about the floor, due to the inexplicable dispensers that only allow teeny scraps of paper to be torn from the base of the unit.

And amidst this lavatorial tickertape parade, there lies an empty Mars Bar wrapper!

Now, who goes to the bog to eat a chocolate bar? To lay a chocolate log, perhaps. Maybe the cuplrit was so desparate for choccie, but their bowels were blocked by brekkie. Drop a bite sized plop, take a bite of Mars to replace it. Another dollop of poo, free room for another chomp.

And so forth.

Makes you wonder - with the poor quality arsewipe, wot if his finger had gone through? How can he be sure he's licking his fingers free of chocolate, and not 'chocolate'? And if he goes in with a Fry's Turkish Delight, and it gets smeared all over his grubby digits, will he think he has a bleedy bum and seek medical attention?

"Doctor, I think me arse is bleeding!"
"Nah, that's just a Turkish Delight"
"That's what the fakir said before rodgering my bum in the baths"

Oh, how we laughed!

There is no more Mr Quick...

Mr Quick?

Mr Hands?

Mr Book?

Blimey, Riff Raff & chums have shed their leathery knickers for a Herr Flick outfit as some preposterous reality manipulating Mr Men!

Of course, Magenta's been turfed out coz you can't have Helga the Little Miss fecking up the tuning when your imprinting people with fake memories.

Good job Frank ain't about, as he'd be implanting fake mammaries!

And to think, we could be on a discworld like city, all unaware that only yesterday I was a playboy millionaire with chicks a-plenty.

I hope I don't fall asleep dead on 12!

Have I seen daylight ever...?

Dunno about about that, but I have seen Daylight - and that's got watery terror all over the shop!

So, no good for Strangers then.

But at least it keeps Kiefer safe, and his gammy leg. Alien invasion? Jump in a jaccuzi!

Honestly, when will these space monsters with aversion to aqua learn not to invade aqua based planets. AND not to have handy big vats of water that can conveniently bring about their downfall lying about all over the place.

Connect Four would have been better...

I don’t care very much for chocolate...

Grrrr!

WHY do people insist on claiming they're gonna give 110%?

You can't give more than 100%! 100% is the maximum amout of effort you can possible give!

If you think you're giving 110%, then clearly when you thought you were giving 100% you were only giving 91%. And if you were only giving 91% before, then you need to pull your socks up.

Or at least remove them, coz they're probably causing you to lose 9% through drag.

And if you're in drag, you might as well shave yer shins, coz you don't want to attempt gymnastics with hairy legs as well as spider legs!

Ah shaved ma beard fer you, Devil Woman...

I'm distraught.

One's trimmer would not trim, and so a bit of dismantling took place. Once reassembled, it was fully functional. AND there were no small screws left over!

So I promptly used it.

Unfortunately, I forgot to replace the trim guage, and it resulted in a virtual removal of all mouth bordering follicle enhancements.

I now look like a right tub o'lard who's had a sprinkling of iron filing thrust onto his chin.

Oh waily waily. I cannot go out, as I can't look at meself in the missor and seeing a great fat fool scowling back at me. Without the soupcatcher, I'm just not me!

And it's too cold out there.

And I spent too much time in the city, so I've no time to get ready and go out.

And I spent too much time boozing, so I'm too drunk to go out.

And then I ended up watching The Host Primeval.

But I did see Cloverfield in all it's detail - and there's a lot more monster than can be seen on a 2.5" screen!

AND on the Big Screen you can make out all the clues in the overtaped bits (esp. the Coney Island clip).

!evila lltis s'tI

Wake me up, before you fuck off...

...don't leave me hangin' on, like a bad cough

There's nowt worse than coming home at 4:30 and discovering that thanks to Ms Baldy Porters strained flatulence, your clambering foliage support has gone all awry.

It's no fun having to be out in the icy winds, trimming your top heavy bush, and then having to get your tool right into it and start banging away at your wood.

And fixing the trellis ain't fun either! (boom boom!)

It's cold outside, but it's warm in bed. And parents of underage strumpets are up in arms, for Woolies have introduced a bed aimed at their little scrubbers. And what name have woolies come up with for the pre-pubescent little madams?

The Lolita Midsleeper Combi.

Now, I've heard of this Lolita. A Lolita is some 12 year old girl being nobbed by Jeremy while he does his ironing. Woolies have now hastily withdrawn this model, under the pretext that they were totally unaware of the connotations associated with the word Lolita.

Exactly how you can be unaware of said connotations, yet manage to link a term for underage sexually promiscuous trollops with the selling of beds aimed at underage kids (who, it is claimed, are probably engaging in teenage pregancy practice these days), is beyond me!

I'm thinking of going on Dragons Den. I have this idea for "Proverb Pants!". Aimed at young ladies, they'd have a fetching thought embroidered upon them, such as "The bird in your hand needs two up her bush".

Completely free of any sexual connotations whatsoever!