Grizabella Flobadob...

I always thought that Bill & Ben were marionettes, just like John Wayne after his transgender operation, but noooo - they are living creatures, and the ’string’ were put in puppetry post-production using 1960s CGI technology on Babbage difference engines.

The reason I believe this, is that whilst giving the bush a good trimming and mowing the lawn (2 euphemisms for the price of one!), I noticed a preponderance of plant pot reproduction.

Yes, it seems like some beige plant pots have snuck into the garden, and begun  to spawn (although curiously, there was one lone black pot , so inter-racial nobbing is the order of the day).

Now, there are those that would think that these plant pots may have been blown into the garden, rather than blown off in the garden (and if they’ve been blowing off, it explains the stench of catch it). However, this is not a possibility due to the towering fortress of foliage and fencing.

Which explains the foil in the garden.

Not to mention the shady character who’ll "take it off yer ’ands guv’nor". He’s a cool cat, and no mistake...

...not like them felines that are fouling the flowers and bonking in the borders. It’s like The Birds, but with pussies instead of avian types. I goes out to get the scythe machine, and there’s a batallion of Bagpii - on roofs, on fences, in trees and bushes... and they all freeze and fix you with a steely glare.

Which is a shame, coz seeing as they’re headlining the Theatre Royal shortly, they could have at least done a floor show of Magical Mister Mistoffelees (who can’t bloody spell his name right), or MyCavity the orthodontal cat.

Not to mention Mungo Jerry and Rump Hole Teaser, giving the Rum Tum Tugger something to tug about in the summertime - an invite to his Jelly Filled Balls, if you wish.

I still think Lloyd-Webbed-Finger should have put in a neutering scene - Brian Blessed wouldn’t be half as shouty now!

The naming of cats is a serious matter....

...like "Gerroffoutoityershittingbastard"

An’ suchlike.

Midnight

Not a sound from the pavement

Apart from a pussy on heat

Screeching into the night

And knocking over the bins

BASTARD!

Only the grumbliest, flakiest songstress...

Disgraceful!

First, they make The Milky Bar kid a bird, then take away his pisols, and now even the legendary catchphrase has gone! It’s just some kind meandering through a field - at the very least we should get "milky bars are on me".

On second thoughts, maybe melted choccie bars poured onto children is a tad pervy.

But that does NOT excuse the lasklustre performance of Josstick Stoned. Sitting there warbling on about her dreary ass music, then plods over to the sink to mumble "only the crumbliest..." - and she doesn’t do the "tastes like choklit never tasted before" bit.

AND she doesn’t fellate the flake!

Outrageous!

If you want to compete with a drumming gorilla, a moody muppet does not suffice!

Oh well, at least Mars have got rid of the "pleasure you can’t measure" and put the old one back: "A Mars a day eventually makes you a big fat porker".

Or something.

And how come choccie bars are being blacklisted as "indulgent snacks" by these so called "heathy" snacks?

NY snack is an indulgent snack! "Swap your indulgent snack for a great tasting snack bar" - like arse! What they actually mean is:

Swap your indulgent snacks for another indulgent snack
Prefereably one with less lard in

Not to mention the cheek of bloody Rice Crispies! Everyone knows how to make a rice crispy cake. But nooooooo - obviously todays thickarse teens are incapable of melting chocolate, adding Rice Cripsies and leaving it to set.

Snap, crackle and choc indeed!

I can't git no sleep...

Alas, there was a shortage of CDB presence. and I was all confidenced up an’ all! Oh well...

But at least we had Lucy in Leather, with the most fabulous trousers. Not to mention the clee-vadge* of certain ladies.

But you learn something new every day, as Gunny pointed out when The Mission’s Like a Hurricane played - women are like hurricanes. They’re all wet & wild and give you a good blow, but the following morning they leave you with devastation and no home.

Or something.

There was something else about Touchcloth and lezzing up and bumsex, but I can’t quite recall the discussions, due to distraction by too short skirts.

But now, to bed! Even though some selfish chronological kobold has nabbed one of me hours, so I’ve no time to sleep!

And no tights to rip off with me teeth.

And I ain’t got a ledger (no accountant me!)

* [EDIT 01.04] LATE KUDOS GOES TO JOOLZ FOR THE NAMING OF THE CLEE-VADGE, ALTHOUGH EXTRA KUDOS MUST GO TO THE LADIES SPORTING SAID MIGHTILY IMPRESSIVE CLEE-VADGE.

BUT WHICH LOVELY LADY PROVIDED THE MOST IMPRESSIVE CLEE-VADGE? THERE’S ONLY ONE WAY TO FIND OUT!

FIGHT!!!**

** MUD PIT OPTIONAL.

Land of the free, home of the dense...

They’re great, Americans! Bush is clearly a role model for the young intelligensia of modern day US.

One of ’em came up with a great money making scheme. His premise was simple:

Approach friends & family members, and tell them that your wife is a CIA operative. For a large fee, she will be able to train satellites upon you. These special satellites lock on and scan you, and see what illnesses you have. Then, as you sleep, CIA operatives will sneak into your house and inject you with remedies to get rid of cancerous grouths or whatnot.

The beauty of it is that it’s so unintrusive - the satellites scan from space, and you’re drugged up in yer sleep, so you go on as if nothing ever happens, safe in the knowledge that your health is kept in trim by the CIA.

Who’d pay to be scanned as they go about their daily business, and let strangers creep in and inject you in your blissful ignorant slumbers?

Lots of Americans, that’s who! They seemed a tad outraged when they found out that he’d been ever so slightly fibbing.

I really do think I’ll have to go to America and make my fortune! I’m sure I can come up with some equally bizarre idea to part a Yankee from his Dollars.

Only in America...

There’s no rhyme nor reason...

Strange indeed be the thoughts that clamber into one’s cranium whilst cleaning the tombstones:

As I was walking down the street
I met a man with seven feet
It seemed so odd I do confess
I wish he had just five feet less

That’s it - I’ve lost it. My mind, that is, not the extra 5 feet, coz then I’d only be 6in and get trodden on by big booted babes - although some people would pay good money for that! Isn’t there a Trample Club in Norwich...

And we’re not talking about a trample-een, what you bounce up and down on (not to be confused with tramp ho Lynnes - IE skanky chavvy shagabouts, all of whom are coincidentally named Lynne)

I would play Devils Advocaat here, and put forth an opposing view to the sexual stereotyping* of chavettes, but as the DAs office is all about tush shakin’ topless trollops writhing about on poles, I shan’t bother (although I wouldnt mind a bit of writhing on some pretties from Poland). And Horny Hannah in what used to be Manhattan’s (not to mention Primeval) is just as bad!

"Aharr - be there any dubloons in da house? Dis shout’s for you big dog!" (that was a booty call - I hear they’re quite popular these days)...

...or something!

* WHAT’S ALL THE FUSS ABOUT STEREOTYPING? IF BE DEAD CHUFFED IF I COULD TYPE WITH BOTH HANDS AT THE SAME TIME. LEFT HAND COULD BE UPDATING MY RIDICULOUS BLOG, AND THE RIGHT HAND PONCING ABOUT ON FACEBOOK APPS. I’D BE A TAD WORRIED ABOUT 5.1 SURROUND TYPING THOUGH, AS YOU’D HAVE TO LEARN TO TYPE WITH NOT ONLY BOTH HANDS, BUT YOUR TOES ON BOTH FEET. AND YOUR NOSE. THAT LEAVES THE .1, WHICH YOU’D HAVE TO FIND ANOTHER EXTREMITY FOR - MAYBE YOU’R NOB, OR A ’STRAP-ON’ FOR THE LADIES.

AH, BUT IF I HAD THOSE SEVEN FEET, THERE’D BE NO PROBLEM.

APART FROM GETTING TROUSERS.

Alimentary, my dear. What’s on...

Apparently, I’ve only had 4 days off sick in the past 10 years! Once for food poisoning, once for cough/cold/flu, and twice with Alimentary.

I don’t recall ever catching Alimentary, nor telling work I had it! After a quick google, it appears to be a canal, which means I must have been off with trouble with me waterworks.

Which is news to me!

But not, apparently to our manager Lottie, who swished by and said I was the top performing member in the team! Exactly how she got to see my member, let alone assess its performance is another mystery! I’m pretty sure I wasn’t that drunk yesterday - I certainly don’t recall servicing the Boss Lady over the photocopier!

Aha! The ladies won’t touch me with a 9ft barge pole! And barges go on canals! And if you’re barging through a canal, then your progress will be much slowed - good job I have the WaterWaist for boyancy - until I get bonked on the bonce by boozed up broads on The Broads with their argy-bargy on their barges.

Oh to be bonked by boozed up broads...

Whore town? Here’s a ho...

It’s raining

it’s pouring

the old gimmer’s snoring

Now, there are lots of cures for the nasal interruptions of a partners breathy grunting, such as the application of a stout stick about their bonce, but I have to say that the latest item is much more practical!

I was watching the tagliatelly nudes last night, and they did a feature on CPAPs, which must be an acronym for Cut Partners Airflow Pachidermally.

Forget them rip-off, overpriced cut down plasters you bung over the bridge of your hooter (and not your hooters - although if you wish to plaster your paps a-la parisienne, who am I to complain! Just send me a moulding, if you will). Clearly a strip of band-aid (or sellotape) doesn’t bring in the moolah, so the CPAP comes in!

And just what is a CPAP?

Well, it’s not gawking at girlie golden globes, that’s for sure! It’s a big black box that sits on your bedside table. From that extrudes a hose, none to dissimilar to one from the back of a tumbly drier. On t’other end of this tubular balls is a gas mask that goes over your beak. Thus atttired like some some lumbering silentnight elephant, you crawl into your pit to sleep without snores.

It wasn’t exactly made clear what the black box does - does it suck the snore out your nostrils, and store them in the box where they can be emptied upon the morrow, or does it gas you to death so you never snore again?

All of which makes little difference, as you’re all entangled with some hosial trunk twixt bed & bedside table. As you toss and turn throught the night, you’ll end up being suffocated as you’re slowly crushed as the hosey bit encircles you, like there’s some python in the bed.

Which makes it worse as you start to choke, and your partner reaches over and feels the girth of your ’python’ and mistakes it for nobbery business and it all goes tits up.

If you’re going to invent such ludicrous bedware, at least make it decorative - they could’ve easily make it into an elefrumps mask, complete with trunk, and turned it into some Ann Summers sex fantasy epic, rather than some One-Legged Dennis in sky colored velvet.

Still, won’t be the first time birds wake up next to Dumbo...
 

Warn her, Picard! Warn her that... oh, not him again...

There has to be some Hollywood cloning facility going on, and it’s got stuck on David Warner!

Like the impossibly prolific Stephen King with the fountain pen grafted onto his finger, I’m being televisually stalked by The Warner sans Bros.

Everything I seem to watch recently has him in it! It’s like some TV bigwig must have a contract that sez David Warner must appear at some point!

• Titanic
• Time Bandits
• Tron
• Hogfather
• BBCs Sweeney Todd
• Babylon Five

and I gets me Tweaks, and who crops up as Eckhart - only he bloody well does!

I was about to order the Sapphire and Steel audio adventures and who’s Steel - only David Bloody Warner!

And today my dramatisation of The Brightonomicon arrived in the post... three guesses who’s Hugo Rune?

Him again!

Even Myleene Klass ain’t on as much TV as he is! 
   

Winnie the pickpocket pooh...

Not content with persecuting Basil Brush, The Law are presecuting animals willy nilly across the globe!

Over in Macedonia, they’ve convicted and fined a bear on the charge of stealing honey from the hives of bees!

Apparently, some Yugoslavian gormster set up his beekeeping jobbies near bear infected forestry, and bewailed his lot when one of ’em crept in and nabbed the honey straight from the hive. It didn’t have the common decency to wait until it was in a Hunny Pot first!

To be fair, he did try to dissuade the bear from scoffing the insectorial delights by playing loud Serbian music (for he had it on good authority that they fear the Turbo-Folk rock of Serbian star Ceca) accompanied by bright flashing disco lights. But his generator run out of steam, and the honey was half-inched once more.

So, as a last resort, he prosecuted the bear for theft.

And because the bear is an endangered species in Yugoslavia, it was given leave to be excused from attending the trial, and in it’s absence was found guilty and fined 140,000 dinar!

Disgraceful - they don’t give the poor bear any chance to defend itself, and then find him guilty! It’s a fit up! Free the Bitola One I say!

Damn fool should have kept his bees indoors if he didn’t want bears guzzling it! I notice he didn’t whinge about that Browneye Thimbletack, guzzling honey to stop him marauding about!

One rule for animals of nature, and another for arachnid wiccan phantasmagoria.

It’s not fair!

Pious fiction, double feature...

Perhaps I’m a bit stupid here, but I’m a bit hazy on the topic of the Easter Bunny.

Now, Eostre was renamed Easter by mental religious types obssesed with that God Botherer Jesus, and they claim the Easter Egg now represents the stone that covered Jesus’s tomb (apparently eating a chocolate egg is a re-enactment of the reanimated Christ miraculously rolling away the stone so he could escape... which is bollocks, coz he didn’t eat the stone - the disciples found it rolled to one side).

So where does the bunny come into it? Was Christ an early Donnie Darko? Frank the Bunny went even further back in time, and helped Jesus escape the cross, before leading him about in some fantastical turn of events to bring about an artifact that will change the past to bring about his sacrifice?

There’s Jesus all nailed up on Golgotha, and up pops the disciples to perform a mourning, basphemous dirge of Tears For Fears's Mad Word by Gary Jules?

Eostre is a celebration of the dawn of the spring equinox, and being a godess probably invoked lots of fertility rites (ie shagging). I can see how this can lead to both rabbits (renown for fornication multiplication) and eggs (needing fertilisation)....

...but what led to the bizarre idea of a 6ft bunny in a bonnet with a wicker basket hopping from house to house delivering chocolate eggs (the basket’s easy - pagans are always fond of  travel programs).

I mean, it’s not like bunnies lay eggs! Unless, of course, there was some intergalactic interjection by nefarious offworld types to alter the birthing process from egg laying to internal gestation....

Aaaarrrggh! I just realised! Clearly the lepus was originally one of them Ridley Scott Aliens until genetic modification removed the egg/facehugger element! Christ - imagine the olde worlde horror!

You’re walking through the wooded glade, with pan piping on his pan-pipes and pissing everyone off. Oooh - there, beneath the tree is some eggs all covered in foil & Cadbury logos. "Yum yum I espie ye olde chocolate" thinks medievil man. You move in for a closer look, and notice the slimy coating when suddenly, the foil peels back, the cocoa shell splits into two halves, and a betentacled beastie bursts out like a Kinder Surprise and rams it’s nob down your throat. Next thing you know, baby bunnies are bursting out of your belly and nibbling your carrot!

Well, at least them space monsters that keep delving into our genetic code, modifying our evolution and leaving giant dominoes about, made a sensible mutation. I’d hate for the Earth to be overrun by 8ft slimy rabbits with extendable jaws.

On the plus side, you’d always get Predators down for an Eostre Egg Hunt!

"Son of a bitch is dug in like a packet of buttons in a chocolate egg"
"Christ, you’re hit! You’re bleeding, man!"
"I ain’t got time to bleed"
"Yeah. Huh. Got time for a creme egg?"
"Ooooh, maybe a mini-egg"

Ole painless is waitin’...

How would you like your eggs in the morning...

or rather, a white chocolate Easter!

Literally dreaming, for of eggies I have none.

Serves me right for trying to slim down to try and attract dancing dames* in dingy downbelow dives. But boy, do I crave a big fat easter egg, stuffed with a big packet of chocs inside.

* Not dames as in Christopher Bigguns pantomimic stylee {shudder}, but Hot Hades Honeys. However, my latest advice I has been given on how to approach said top totty is by get some confidence first by boffing a few munters. Apparently, despite their lack of humour and personality, these maloderous mingers are ’well up for it’, so I should be able to boost my ego by being able to pull ’shag for a pint’ skanky hoes. After banging back-end-bus boilers for a while, I’d be so confident in my pulling power, that I’d be able to work my way up to approaching proper ladies with taste and whatnot (especially the whatnots) and be able to take rejection and shame in my strides (coz there’s always more booze britain trollops out there!).

So, Mile Cross Garages, here I come!

On second thoughts, perhaps when my advisor proposed this course of action, perhaps being ’well in there’ was not the there I expect... more like being well into a clinic of the STD persuasion... and what would CDB thing of me then! I’d’ve got ’the practise’ in and the confidence to approach, and I have to void my wallet purchasing blazers with the Chlamydia motif, as well as a belt & pants with Gonorrhea emblazoned acoss 'em.

Not to mention the Cromer coat!

David Bailey...

I had to renew my passport today, so I had to use the Photo Booth.

Well, they’ve certainly changed a bit! I remember the old 4-strip combover slaphead hamlet machines - at least for £2.50 you got 4 different shots.

Not so todays evil machines!

FOUR SQUID!!! AND they have a built in disfigurer to make you look as abnormal as possible for your passport!

So you puts in your £4.00, and up pops the Idiot Card. So, you line your face up with the oval, get your eyes lined up on the eye line... then lean forward to take photo.... damn, you move out of the frame and get a craparse shot.

But luckily, you have the option to retake the photo till you get it right! Hooray!

So strike the pose, and remain stock still as you move only your lower arm to touch the Take Photo button - success.... Oh shit! The fecking camera is on the wonk, and doesn’t take a straight on shot - it’s angled to one side. So, click on retake photo...

...and it sez you only got one chance left to get it right! Shit on a brick - does my head need to tilted left or right to get the full on shot needed? And you can’t cancel the fecker to get your dosh back. PANIC!

Try looking off to the right to compensate...click! DAMN, not quite there, so that’ll have to do.

Now I have to look like a freako on my passport!

No change there then!

They should just accept my profile pic of me as Betamax!

Do, Do, Do the funky Pharisee...

I was flicking through the tellybox channels (having exhaused all of Tweaks, and not in the mood for any DVDs), when I caught part of Jesus Christ Superstar, when he barges into the temple of Jerusalem.

Ole Jesus went into full 70s vocal - and the voice was identical to a certain rotund ornithological twitcher and observer of badgers! Yep, close your eyes (give me your hand darling, can you feel my heart beating, etc) and The Messiah is none other than Bill Oddie!!

And that got me thinking:

Both Jesus and Bill are beardy wierdies!

Both are associates with gardens - Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, and Bill with Graeme Garden!

Both had collaborators Jesus had Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, and Bill had Tim & Graeme.

Both travelled afar - Jesus from Galilee to Jerusalem, and Bill from Cricklewood to London!

Both spent time in the Wilderness - Jesus in the dessert, and The Goodies in some Televisual wilderness, coz they never repeat such classic comedy.

Both had some female hanger on during the night - Jesus had the prossie Mary Magdalene, and Bill’s got that Kate Humble when he’s off on Beaverwatch, or whatever it’s called.

Jesus’s lot wrote The Gospels, and Bill’s lot wrote The Goodies - and both begin with Go, end in ’s’, and have the same number of letters!  The mismatching letters (spel from Gospels, and odie from Goodies), are an anagram of Peed soil, or if you prefer, Idol pees. Proof enough, methinks, as both are idols, and when these idols have to pee, each Idol pees on the soil! Either the dirty soil of Gethsemane, or the soil by the badger sett, the resulting peed soil remains as a marker in history of the saviours sausage sluicing.

Not to mention that spin the 'p' of 'spel' 180° and put it into the 'odie' you gets... Les Oddie! French for The Oddie!

Not only that, Jesus was crucified on a cross, and Bill is often crucified in the media for making people cross!

What more proof do you need? They were looking for the second coming, and there he is! Bill Oddie, Messiah!

Storm the churches! Replace The Hymn Book with The Goodies Book Of Criminal Records! Out with "The Lord’s Thy Shepherd" and in with" Black Pudding Bertha"! No more "Oh Come All Ye Faithful" and more "Father Christmas Do Not Touch Me"!

Good Friday my arse - wasn’t very good for poor ole Jesus, being nailed to a cross in some Philistine verson of Hellraiser! More like Good Riddance Friday, when they got rid of the mental loon. Unfortunately, that bloody Herbert West got involved, with his day-glo green ReAgent.

I don’t know, just coz he got John The Baptist up and running, carting his bonce about and trying to mingemunch Salome, Westy had to start on Christ. Hah, the Bible left out the bit with Jesus lobbing Lazarus about the place and rampaging about before ascending into Heaven.

Pain! We are transformed here!

Come with me if you want to... oops...

They’re great, these old gimmers!

This 81 year old bloke, clearly a tad obsessed with young River Tam, decided to build himself a robot...

...which promptly killed him!

It seems he downloaded plans for a suicide robot off the interweb. Surely there must be easier ways to top yourself than building your very own Terminator. Alcohol poisoning, hanging, sexual fetish gone wrong, moving to Wales, walk in front of a bus, etc.

But to go to all the effort of:

• Trawling through The Interwebz for murderous mechanical blueprints
• Downloading them and printing them off
• Going out to Radio Shack/Tandy and buying lots of Meccano
• Spending weeks assembling your masterwork

... only to stand back, switch it on and have it kill you, is a tad extreme. But I’m confused as to whether it’s actually considered suicide.

On the one hand, he’s build a machine to facilitate his own death, which could class as suicide. On the other, he didn’t actually kill himself, the machine killed him, so that means he was murdered by the titanium topper offer. But then, by feeding the instructions to the rampaging robot, he sort of took a contract out on himself like some mafiosi pizza, and got whacked by his own hired assassin.

And if you’re building your cybernetic suicide tool, what level of detail do you go into? Obviously Cyberdyne went the whole nine yards, hence The Glauster having to put the bazookas back into their holsters. I can understand the need for that, coz they need to blend in, so the female Terminators need cleavage. BUT do male Terminators have nobs and nadgers? I mean, it’s not like they can use them, and they’re unlikely to be all on show (apart from exiting the time splitter). It’s a bit of a wasted expense - unless, as a last resort, their only remaining weapon of choice is to bumlove John Connor to death.

Which leads me on to gingerbread men. How come they’re called gingerbread men when they ain’t got cocks. They were never gingerbread girls, nor had any breasticles, but they’re always gingerbread men.

But that’s all beside the point - these gingerbread ’men’ have no willies, and therefore should be marketed as gingerbread eunuchs, or gingerbread castrati.

See, these scientists could send back cybernetic castrati. If they don’t want to assemble the terminators tackle (in case they get ribbed by their collegues for being a bit gay), they could compensate by leaving the hosepipe off and simply adjusting the pitch on the voicebox. Just imagine Arnie leaning into the camera to say "I’ll be back" in the voice of Aled Jones!

Oh well, I guess the aversion to cybernetic cocks caused the breakthrough in the liquid metal version. No need to handle it’s panhandle, for it can form it’s own solid objects.

Knives, stabbing weapons, rampant priapic phalluses...

...say, that’s a nice [village] bike...
 

Just You... and I... Just you... And I...

Much as I love Tweaks (and I’m on the last 3 episodes now) and will not hear a word said against it... I will however, concede you two!

James Hurley

Actually, make that three...

James FUCKING Hurley!!!

THAT song...

And don’t even go down the Mrs Slatternly Lover ’plot’.

I’d forgotten about both of them... and with bloody good reason as well!

Wish I could now.

The new Bernie, Jean and Jacques McScam...

...or how to make myself REALLY unpopular in one easy blog!

I’m clearly missing something here.

In their latest attempt to divert attention from the dodgy duo, Springer the Swinger and Kate Lawless sued The Tabloids for suggesting that they may have bumped off their babe and covered it up (presumable under a few feet of soil or water).

OK, I can understand The Daily Scum falling over and settling out of court as a cheap and easy option, but having to print that pre-prepared, ludicrous ’apology’ that declares them wholly innocent of all charges?

How the HELL did they ever get this into court?

I thought that both of ’em had been declared Arguidos - which means the cops are suggesting that they may have murdered their babe and covered it up, which the police have often intimated is their main focus of their enquiry (especially as infanticide is not an uncommon event).

So, if you are officially suspected by the police of covering up a murder, how can you sue a paper for suggesting that you may have covered up a murder (apart from continuing to follow the Professional Murderers Diversion manual)?

Despite absolutely no evidence whatsoever for an abduction, and a mountain of circumstantial evidence pointing at Certain Individuals, they have the audacity to sue for libel!

Oooh, I wish I was a magistrate!

"You’re suing the paper for suggesting you may have murdered a child and covered it up"
"Yes M’Lud"
"You’re an Arguido, are you not?"
"Yes M’Lud"
"And what does that mean"
"Well, it means the Police are suggesting that we may have murdered our child and covered it up"
"So, if you have this official status. and the papers are following up on it, why not sue the police for suggesting it in the first place - otherwise, the papers would have been unable to suggest it?"
"Ah - you won’t catch me out like that! Until my Arguido status is lifted, I refuse to answer any more questions. Once it’s lifted, I can refuse to answer them as I did before I was an Arguido. So there."
"Oh sod it - just pay them some money and print their apology."

It’s Jeffrey Archer all over again!

She ain’t messin wit no broke niggas... Kanye feel it...

So the ranting uniped has gone out on a limb and been found completely out of her tree!

Ole hopalong, although pleased with what she got (basically what Macca offered in the first place, plus a couple of houses) instead of £125,000,000, is all up in arms (cos she’s deficient in legs) coz poor ickle 4year old Bernie will only get £35k a year.

That’s two grand a month, post tax!!!

What the feck is a 4 year old going to do with all that dosh? Well, according to Mentally Ills Lookatme, it’s not enough for the poor babby to buy an ’A’ class ticket. The poor mite will have to muddle through on a ’B’ class ticket!

So Lady Muckartney will have to ’stump’ up the extra cash!

Still, with £25K in the bank, I wonder if she went out and got legless.

Mind you, she didn’t have a leg to stand on. Claiming she lost millions coz Paul wouldn’t let her go out and model Bra’s - hah! Might as well claim she lost millions coz Clarkes and Brantano won’t hire Lame Jane Silver.

Earning £35k a year aged 4! I’m 9½ times older than that, and I don’t earn that much!

Now I aint sayin she's no gold digga...

Dirty Gertie from shanty town 30, Ungabunga Land, abroad...

Y’all know me - I love everyone, regardless of race, creed, color or religion, especially if they’re a lovely lady!

Not so everyone’s favourite foxy felon, for the Brushmeister has been apprehended for Race Crime!

It seems young Bing Bing will have to be taken into care, as his custodian (One Basil BNP Brush) has been puppetly apprehended by the policy for spouting racial intolerance! Yes, Basil Bigot is a foul facist fox of the most rabid and racist sort!

Surely not, I hear you cry! What has The Brush said on TV to cause such complaints and command incarcertion? Worn a KKK pillowcase? Called for Jews to be gassed? Demanded White Rights, not Foreign Shites? Slitting slitty eyed japs eyes off? Polishing off the Polish? Put Johnny Foreigner in a field and BOOM BOOM bomb the lot of ’em?

No, it’s much more Evil than that!

He did a sketch where... dare I mention it without retribution and uprising...

A sketch where....

...a gypsy sold him some lucky heather and some wooden pegs!

SHOCK! HORROR! OUTRAGE!

No wonder the policy got called in! Jesus, I remember I was down by GAP on London Street, and an old Gypsy woman tried to sell me some lucky heather and tell my fortune! I should have had her arrested for being racist! How dare a gypsy sell lucky heather and try and tell my fortune - that’s RACIST that is!!!

Sometimes, you just have to wonder about the mentality of people who watch childrens TV*...

Hey, Anna, you’re a disgrace

You’re gonna end the morning with pie on your face

You’d better get ready, coz the points they don’t lie

Here it comes, the Toonattik pie!

Ooooh, excuse me - I need to ring The Filth, coz that’s racist towards clowns...

...or A Scissor Sister, who may indeed end a morning with (hair) pie on her face...

...or even bukkake'd breakfast babes all cream pie'd as they spin on the golden wheel of twizzle. Or something.

* WAIT A MINUTE... HOW DID THIS TRAVELLER MANAGE TO COMPLAIN TO THE LAW - SURELY AS A CAREFREE WANDERING ROMANY TYPE, HE SHOULD BE BLISSFULLY UNAWARE OF TELEVISION, LET ALONE A PHONE! HE SHOULD BE TOO BUSY FIXING THE WHEELS OF HIS CARAVAN, ABDUCTING CHILDREN, NICKING LIVESTOCK & MILK, READING THE TAROT AND SINGING FOLKSIE SONGS BY A CAMPFIRE AS AN AGED OLD CRONE INVOKES CURSES ON THE TOWNIES.

AND HOW COME THE LAW TOOK HIS COMPLAINT SERIOUSLY, AND DIDN’T GO ROUND TO THE TRAVELLER SITE AND ESCORT THEM OUT OF THE VILLAGE, AND SEND THEM ON THEIR WAY WITH A FEW GOOD TRUNCHEONINGS (AFTER PLANTING COPIOUS QUANTITIES OF COCAINE AND PARTAKING OF THE "HOSPITALITY" OF THE GYPSY KING’S DAUGHTER) ?

Suicide is painless...

...it brings on many changes.

Well, obviously! The first major change is from a state of being alive to being deaded.

And who sez it’s painless - I’m fairly sure that taking a razor to one’s wrists may not be as painless as the song suggests, more like "Ow, FUCK! That fucking hurts like buggery!".

Still, at least you end up Down Below, where it’s nice & warm, waving your foliage about, with ne’er a cross-dressing woodchopper in sight!

In their wonderbras.

And that caught me out, when I first got invited to a brasserie for a meal, for it wasn’t a nosedive into a brasierre as expected. Oh, the pitfalls of language.

But forget being invited out for a meal - I am now desperate for some young bird to come and tell me that her mate fancies me... just so I can turn to my compadres and bellow "Broadband for £6.49!!!".

That’s gotta be a new catchphrase when you pull now!

"Hey, how’d ya get on last night, didja pull then?"
"Let’s just say I got broadband for £6.49"
"Whey-hay! Get in there"

Cheap at twice the price! Now, some people will try and say "Cheap at half the price", which (a) is bloody obvious coz it’s 50% cheaper, and (b) if it was £1000 to start with, then it’s still not cheap at half the price, coz £500’s still pretty expensive.

Whereas, if it’s cheap at twice the price, then you’re onto a bargain any which way!

But loose.

Right turn Clyde.

And I’d like those grapefruits... freshly squeezed...

Now,  Tenpole Tudor did a song about ’em, and their catchphrase is ’ello boys.

Yes, we’re talking Wonderbra!

Exactly how I got educated on the aforementioned bap hangers, I can’t quite recall, due to vast quantitties of Aspall & Magners. Oh yes, it was an innocuous remark about ’seeing to the boys’ that let to a Sid James/Finbarr Saunders event, whereupon I became privvy to closely guarded Lady Secrets regarding these mammary matresses.

Boys take note: A wonderbra is not the most effective of romantic gifts. For I have learned that the wearing of this item of apparel causes much distress to ladies in this dress. Or that dress. Or any old dress. Or no dress at all. In fact, any situation where a wonderbra might be worn.

It would appear that although the garment squishes the golden globes up to look like some giant arsecrack, it causes problems when trying to move about, for the busoms are delicately perched on their supportive bower. Anything more than a slow, stately walk, and they start to quiver. At a normal pacing, the effect is like having a pair of jellies wobbling about.

Mmmmmm... raspberry jelly....

Anyhoo, although this may be pleasing upon the eye, it’s most discomforting having unstable ladylumps, and panicking about them flopping out all over the place and having to hoik them back into place every five minutes. Hence ’wonderbra’, ie ladies wonder how the hell this classes as a bra, and not a impractical item dreamed up by blokes to see bigger bazookas.

I always wondered what a wonderbra trifle was... now I know. It’s because of a certain type of creamy custard that’s squirted on top at the culmination of an act of mammarial lovin’.

I dread to think what the hundreds and thousands are made up of - not to mention the sponge fingers!

So boys - be wary about buying your beloved bras* - for she may be all smiles and "awww, how romantic" and stuff, but inside she’s really seething at the discomfiture and the pervosity of men.

Seems best to stick to a thong (not literally, coz that’s waaaay too pervy!), as these young maidens seem intent on flaunting theirs all over the shop. So much so, you could crouch alongside and fire an arrow using the bungee properties of said undergarments. A sort of crotchal catapult, if you will.

Would brighten up Robyn Hoode and the task of the Golden Arrow, if Lady Marion had to hoist her petticoats so he could shoot his load through her thong, splitting the arrow in the process (which sounds quite similar to Splitting The Bamboo, which is an oriental term for the old hump time).

Or so I’m led to believe...

* NOT BELOVED BRAS, AS IN BRAS YOU LOVE, BUT BRAS FOR YOUR BELOVED, IE THE LOVELY LADY IN YOUR LIFE. IF YOU HAVE A LOVELY LADY THAT IS. IF YOU’RE A TRANSVESTITE TRYING OUT THE WONDERBRA, THEN FEEL FREE TO BUY MAMMARY MOULDS AND MAKE A PAIR OF HOOTERS OUT OF JELLY TO FILL OUT YOUR FLACCID CUPS. YOU CAN ALWAYS SCOFF IT LATER (OR GET SOMEONE TO CHUCK THEIR MUCK ALL OVER IT TO MAKE A TRIFLE. EWWWW).

XYMON - YOU ARE WRONG. SO VERY, VERY WRONG!!!

Da ba da dan dee dee dee da nee na na na...

Saturday night!
I feel the air is getting hot...
Like YOU baby!
I’ll make you mine,  you know I’ll take you to the top...
I’ll drive you crazy!
Saturday night!
Dance!
I like the way you move, pretty baby!
It’s party time and not one minute we can lose!

Cuz I’m...

High. Feeling high.

I’m really gonna shake it through the night!

I’m gonna nail the beat to the floor

I’m gonna make you scream...

...Scream for more "Get of the dancefloor you great fat oaf"!

There ain’t nobody better than me!

Mwah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Damn.
Me mam threw away me favourite comic, and I gotta fart, for me right, to parrrrrrrrrrrrr tay when I’m dancing with beer in my eyes, pushing pineapples and shaking trees whilst doo doo doo, coming on and doing the conga.
And all that jazz (mags).
Oi, Xym! Shaddappa ya face!
               Wossa matter you - Hey!  Gotta no respec’ - Hey!
C’mon, Vogue!

Everybody, move to the music...

Everybody dance now!

C’mon let’s work!

Jeez - I’m too sexy for this blog.

Hammertime!
Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear!

I got my head in my pants

I’m in a groovy disco trance

They were clean on just last week

Yeah, yeah, baby, look at meeeeeee

I’m gonna dance in my pants

Just like they do in France (HAW HEE HAW)

I’m gonna take a chance

And do the knickers on the noodle prance

AND DANCE IN MY PANTS!!!!!

Fin.



Land of Hope & Glory, Mother of Godfrey...

I wonder what Harry & Will would have to do, if they brought in this ludicrous idea of pledging loyalty when they turn 16:

"I pledge allegiance to me gran, but my dad sez I shouldn’t coz I should show allegiance to him, and push her down the stairs so he can reign over England (unlike me mam, who threw herself down the stairs so she had a flimsy excuse to spend more time in bed, being the Queen of Tarts and nobbing blokes left, right and centre, them moaning coz Dad nobbed only one trollop)".

Pledge of allegiance, my arse! It’s all very well for them public school types, all ra ra ra, grass on one’s wicket - better get one’s Fag to give it a good polishing, daddy bought one a Portia (a higher class of Escort), AND one drinks champers strained through Jodpuhrs as one watches the hired help lift her skirts and get rogered by the pony as The Lady of the house gets rogered by the Gardener. Stand to attention while the National Anthem’s played, and sing along to Land of Hope & Glory, waving one’s flag at The Proms. God save the Queen, and long may she reign over The Empire, and put Johnny Foreigner in his place, serving up the Tiffin, what-ho.

But what about the Chavscum PigBotherer NudeTube generation? 4st 2  plej aleguns wen der all: Abolosh d monaki, coz der all ovapaid, ovaprivligd gits wot on hols all d time. All dey do is wach opra an’ ponci music an eat caviar n samon. Britin 1ts a president, like wot dey av in USA, coz Bush, is like, ded cleva, like us, yeh. Let’s c d Queen try an liv off benefits, bet she cunt manage 2 bi a PSP, PS3, X-Box, Mobies 4 all d family, HD teli wiv cabl AND nappies 4 my 9yr old dortas baby (Like, I’m so proud, it’s, like, all she eva 1ted). Stik yer Queen, and I’ll plej alegance to Ant and Dec.

Apparently, you have to pledge allegiance if you’re a Cub Scout (or a Guide with a Browneye & Beaver. Or something).

I’ll swear allegiance - Alle-fucking-giance.

Prahper jahhhhhb!

The air is sweet, and fragrant...

Oft have I been in a public house, or nightclub, and been in the vicinity of rancid young bucks and wanton young trollops, choking me with their perfumery, clouding the air like some phantasmagoric miasma.

But gasping as Kylie or Mambo No.5 slips up yer passageways is much more prefereable than your nostrils being assailed whilst you guzzle down scented womans latte!

For our young minx in our Coffee Shop has started to douse herself with bottles of the stuff instead of showering! You gets your coffee and toast (yum yum!), and whats happens? She’s only gone and pressed the plastic lid onto your coffe cup!

Now, I’m all for these baby beaker type beverage containers, for it means less spillage. However, by putting on the lid and handling the cardboardy cup, she also impregnates the lot with her aromatherapy! My vanilla latte now smells like the proverbial tarts tights in a handbag! And the taste - hooo-eeee! Don’t need to snog her now, for I know exactly how she tastes!

Unfortunately, by handling the mug and sipping at it, me hands and soupcatcher niff like a whores drawers - and there’d be hell to pay if I had a girlfriend, going home whiffing like some soupkitchen strumpet! Like someone’s gonna believe that I reek of Hot Chix, just from sipping coffee - it won’t be bacon baps I’ll be accused of fiddling with in the canteen!

Not to mention the scent seeping into the toast.

Still, I guess I can’t complain. It’s not every day I get coated in a lovely ladies liquid...

We’ll rip your fish to bits...

Cor, there be a world of difference between an inflating matress on a sofabed and a memory foam matress on a proper bed!

And them foamy things exude heat like nobody’s business!! Although that is a rather strange analogy, for if someone’s done their business on my bed, then nobody couldn’t have done it. If no-one’s there, then no-one can do the business, therefore no-one’s business is non-existant! But if someone is doing their business on me bed, I wanna know why, coz defecation on the duvet is not nice.

Therefore, my matress must exude heat like someone’s business - although I’m not going around ole Gill McKeith’s and asking her to take turdal temperatures to compare the heat from some lard-diet’s business with a matress.

Suffice to say, memory form is lovely and snug - and it moulds to your body! If you’re VERY quick, you could get up, lob some plaster of paris into the depression, and hey presto - a full body mould! Only problem is you got about 10 seconds before it reverts to solidity and you lose the shape.

It’s be even better if they got one of them beds o’ nails like them fakirs have, and make it into one of them pin sculpture type efforts like wot they sell in Hawkins Bizarre. Not only would you get a perfect body shape, but it would be like acupuncture when you sleep!

Acupuncture indeed!! You know where that word came from, it’s coz someone popped when pricked with a pricky pin, and went "Ack!" and the oriental pinhead replied with "You puncture?". Easy weight loss - puncture that spare tyre round my waistline!

I doan wanna be punctured - It’s be ’orrible to sit there,  leaking air like some prolonged flatulence.

Actually, I tell a bit of a fib there! The real origin of acupuncture came from A Q puncture, coz a ’Q’ looks like a balloon being punctured with a needle, or someone’s noggin upside down with a needle popped in to let the imps out in a miniature trepanning session.

And that’s true, that is!
 

There was a fish... IN the perculator...

What a fab day!

• Arrival of boudoir apparatus
• Arrival of damn fine DVD
• A plaice in the sun for lunch
• Haircut by foxy follicle femme

Days off are great!

Apart from having to tidy up!

Another of life's great mysteries is how does polystyrene get just about everywhere, even when it's been nowhere near where you find it. And no matter how much you hoover it up, there's always more, clinging to your T-Shirt, or clambering up the hoover stem. It's like your body has a gravitational field that only attracts polystyrene (literally, in my case, for it certainly don't attract 'the birds')!

So there's polystyrene balls on your sleeve - try and brush 'em off, they stick on your hand. Shake hand over bin - won't come off. Slide hand over the rim of the bin,  hoping the polystyrene sticks to the Osama* - like arse it does! What happens is the polystyrene in the bin leaps onto your hand and sleeves.

So you end up hoovering yourself (ensuring flies fully zipped, as you don't want to end up in the N&N on Bizzarre ER, trying to convince the nurses that you were trying to hoover polystyrene balls, not performing an act of hoovery lurve upon oneself and getting stuck in the pipe).

And when you're all done and the hoover packed away... you see another white clustering of foamy balls... and another... and you look at your sleeve...

Aaarrrggh!

* BIN LADEN LINER... NO? WELL, PLEASE YERSELF THEN! OH WELL, AT LEAST IF HE TRIES TO SUICIDE BOMB ME FOR HIS LACK OF THE SEVENTH SENSE**, THE RESULTING SWARM OF POLYSTRENE BALLS WILL FLOW OVER HIS BEARDY MUSH AND SUFFOCATE HIM  TO DEATH. AND SERVE HIM RIGHT TOO!

** MUCH IS MADE OF THE SIX SENSES, BUT EVERYONE KNOWS THERE'S SEVEN:

1. LECHING AND OGLING
2. GOSSIPMONGERING
3. STENCH
4. TRUNKY WANNA BUN
5. FONDLEMENT
6. SEEING DEAD FOLKS
7. A SENSE OF HUMOUR

Less is more...

Yay! I'm having a bed delivered tomorrow! No more inflateable sofa bed for me!! After 2 years, I can sleep on a matress onna frame!!

Trouble is, I decided to start sorting the rooms out, now that the main bedroom's become free, and I spent ALL DAY yesterday trying to sort it out.

But another of them mystical forces crept in... for it seems moving from one bedroom to another generates a never-ending möbius loop of tasks!

You start off one thing, then in the midst of that, you can't get any further coz something else needs doing first, and as you're doing that, you need to do something else to get any further, and as you get on with that...

Basically, the universe will organise itself so that the simple concept of moving from one bedroom into another means that every room in the house is upturned with stuff everywhere!

And how come the Noo-Noo seems to always be right where you are, tripping you up, causing you to lose your slipper and stand on an upturned plug? And no matter how much you shift them out of the way they always come back for more!

On top of all that, replication takes place at a frightening rate! How many empty CD cases can I possibly rack up? How much stuff have bought that could possibly justify that many cardboard boxes? Not to mention sweetie wrappers, receipts, and numberous cables!

Cables! They're the worst of the lot! Surely if I have connector cables, they should be connecting something? 

I reckon it's that stamp gnome's latest hobby. Nip down Poundland and buy random sets of AV connectors and suchlike, and strew them about the place, forcing you to ponder if you bought them, and why.

And the little feckers knows exactly how to mess with your mind, for he'll place all these cables about, but the one you really need and know you have somewhere he'll place in some parallel dimension so you can't get yout hands on it. In addition, he'll wait until you buy one, or get a unit with incompable connectors before he puts it somewhere for you to find.

And at the end of it all, every room now seems to have much more stuff in it. And this is most perplexing when you look down at the numerous sacks of stuff you're chucking out - and this seems to become another immutable law of the universe:

The volume of the contents of a room will increase by a greater proportion to compensate for the loss of volume removed from that room.

Hence the inevitable "Christ, I didn't realise we/I had so much stuff". The truth is, you didn't. Evil entities from another dimension play with your mind, making you think you had all this stuff before. In reality, they've frozen time, opened a trans-dimenstional portal, bunged a load of crap about, brainwashed you into thinking you always had it, then jumping back to their own parallel universe before unfreezing time with a maniacal giggle.

So, no matter how much stuff you chuck, there will alway be more in the room than there was before.

With a hoover lurking right outside to trip you up!

When the Three Suns become one...

Now, I'm all for dumbed down telly, but if you're going to show something, at least give it it's proper name!

I've always wanted an orrery, so I bought part 1 of Build your own model solar system.. Now, why bother calling it a model solar system when the actual term is an orrery? Why not call it Build your own orrery, for by the illustration of the completed item on the cover, you can see it's a model of the solar system!

The trouble is, it's a partwork, so there's another 51 weeks worth @£5.99 - that's a lot of dosh just to assemble a working model of the universe. Not only that, if you want the correct size allen keys and screwdrivers, you have to subscribe!

And after all that, I'll get it all up and working, and wearing me new eyepatch to prevent ID theft I'll have only 1 eye on display, so I'll get mistaken for Aughra and bloody beetling Garthim warriors will trash me walls so they can snatch The Aniston away from me and do her a death.

More bloody expense!

Render all aid short of actually helping...

Grrrrrr and a half!

Why do till jockeys ask the most stupid of questions?

You spend ages looking in the 2 for £20 (or £12.99 each) section, and surprise surprise, amongst all the tat is one lone gem. So, you resign yourself to getting the one item you want (well, at least you didn't end paying another £7.01). Upon arrival at the till:

Cashier: "Sir, did you know these are on a 2 for £20 offer?"
I reply "Yes."... wanting to say: Like the great big fuck off label plastered on the front that'll ruin the case when I try to take it off didn't give it away in any way shape or form.
Cashier: "Did you not see anything else you wanted in the 2-4-20 section"
I reply: "No"... wanting to say: Oh, isn't there one there? It must have completely slipped my mind to pick up the other item I saw and really wanted. Of course I din't see another one - why do you think I only brought one stickered product to the counter you great tit".

It's like when you want to pay for something, and the cashpoint decides to give you all your cash in £20 pound notes.
Cashier: "Do you have anything smaller"
I reply: "Sorry, I don't." when thinking: Why do you think I gave you a 20 quid note in the first place - if I had the right amount, or a lower demonination close to that amount, I wouldn't have given you a £20 note you fucking wankshaft. Jesus H. Corbett.

And how come, when you're just browsing they're all "Need any help sir?", but when you actually need any help, they manage to evade you in any way possible?

And how come, when you've arranged to meet people, God decides to press the PAUSE >> SLO-FRAME ADVANCE button on his celestial remote control at the cashier, meaning that picking up the case and taking the disc out of the drawer and putting in the case now takes FIFTEEN minutes...

...until they move back to x1 speed, and come up with some lame-ass excuse like "oooh, there's no disks in the drawer. Someone must've put it out on the shelf with the disc in and someone's nicked it.". Hah. More likely he couldn't see past his EMO fringe.

And when it's a birthday card you want - ho ho! Never mind the cashiers, the angelic choir team up with the minions of Darkness, and remove any suitable card from the shelves. The 'humour' section is so woefully unfunny, and what you find funny you just know that the recipient will just snigger politely and think that it's wrong. So very wrong.

The alternatives get worse and more trite, or explicitly risqué, meaning that you daren't buy 'em in case their partners think you're after their missus and duff you up.

Or then they get sort of satirically funny, but you wonder if the recipient will take it the wrong way. Then you get duffed up by their partners for insinuating they give it to 'em 'the wrong way'. And they get offended coz the 'humerous' message on the front is taken as an insult, and you get another good kicking.

So you end up getting one you think is quite funny, and pray to god they do, so you don't get damn good pummelling. After all, it's taken hours of searching, umming and ahhing, switching cards, etc, that you just hope they appreciate the effort. Not that they will, coz they don't know just how long you've taken agonizing over choosing a piece of card with a picture on t'front.

In any case, I plan to give it to her at her party, so she can't beat me up in front of her friends. And after I've given it to her, she can have her card (boom boom!).

See, you just knew that was coming, dintcha!

I'm nothing if not predicatable, me!

I hate finding birthday cards.

Shit - better go check it's not the wrong message inside. When I got me mums card, I went to write in it, only to find it stamped with 'Happy Birthday'...

Lucky really. The 'Aspargus got their tips out for the lads' card may not have been the best choice for Mother's Day...
 

It’s you! I knew I knew you. But you ain’t you...

According to the telly, ID Cards are being introduced through the back door.

I went to look, and there was just the garden - no ID card at all!

However, that David Millipede was rabbitting on about the secure database - apparently, you don't have to carry your ID cards, and your identity is safe because the data will be held on a central system that won't be connected to anything. No outside line or data cable will be linked into the pewter - just a mainframe with a dumb terminal.

Now, surely this is a major flaw in the whole purpose of ID cards, as it basically means it's a fraudsters paradise! You can nick/replicate anyone's ID card, and no-one can prove you ain't you, because the system can't be accessed to compare your optics or your dabs!

Mmmmm booze, lollies and sherbert!

There's only one reason I want an ID card, and that's to eyeball the screen, good buddy, as I very much doubt it would prevent me having a bash at being a suicide bomber should the mood take me.

There are them that are all for ID cards, proudly boasting "Nothing to hide, nothing to fear" - apart from them DI Fuhrball types planting evidence to catch The Simpsons, or nefarious manics of the Vorhees persuasion, creeping into your bedroom to nick some of yer DNA to plant at the scene to divert suspicion.

Yeah, there's always a worry about Simon Pheonix and his pupil popping pencils, but I know where he works (he was selling stuff on the office 4sale board) so I'll be avoiding him like the plague... or have him freezed up to pester peaceful people of the future (with no 3 shell training either, so he has to shit his pants. A fair and just revenge for trying to pilfer my peepers).

On the plus side - I'd also get to play at being Snake Plisskin, coz in order to avoid someone scanning my sclera from afar with a laser scanner, I'd have to wear an eyepatch. How cool would I look then! It would also benefit me at Quasar, as without the eyepatch, the red laser guidance beam could scan over my revealing retina and reflect all my bank details on the ceiling. Then I'd get ambushed by the feral chavs, and forced into a wrestling ring* with hairy burly Russians with nail studded clubs.

I've never been to a nail studded club, although I have heard that there is such a dancehall in Camden. Or Soho. Or something...

Just one Cornea.. give it to me...

* HOW COME A WRESTLING/BOXING RING IS SQUARE? A RING IS A CIRCLE, SO IT SHOULD BE A WRESTLING CUBE. ADMITTEDLY, IT SOUNDS A BIT TOO MUCH LIKE OXO CUBE, SO MAYBE A WRESTLING SQUARE - JUST DON'T CALL IT A RING.

"THREE RINGS FOR THE ELVEN KINGS UNDER THE SKY

SEVEN FOR THE DWARF LORDS IN THEIR HALLS OF STONE

NINE FOR MORTAL MEN DOOMED TO DIE

ONE FOR THE DARK LORD ON HIS ... OH SHIT,

OI, BORDUM - THIS ONE AIN'T FUCKING CIRCULAR, IT'S A FUCKING SQUARE

IT'LL NEVER FUCKING FIT ON THE DARK LORDS FINGER

FUCK WHAT YOU SAW ON WWF** - FORGE IT INTO A CIRCLE YOU STUNTED TWAT"

** AND HOW COME THE WWF HAS A PANDA AS IT'S LOGO WHEN IT'S ALL BEEFCAKE TWATTING THE HELL OUT OF EACH OTHER? I RECKON IT'S COZ THEY SPEND SO MUCH TIME BUILDING UP THEIR MUSCLES, OILING EACH OTHER UP AND GRAPPLING EACH OTHER IN SOME HOMOSEXUAL BONDING SPORT THAT, LIKE THE PANDA, THEIR NOBS ATROPHY AND THEY CAN'T PROCREATE. HEAVEN HELP THESE WRESTLER IF THEY EVER START MUNCHING 'BAMBOO' AS WELL... CHRIST, EVEN THAT LOOKS A BIT TOO MUCH LIKE MUNCHING ON RAMBO...

Who will dance on the floor in the round...

Many folk seem to be taking a tumble these days with them there inadequately grounded paving slabs in pedestrianised areas. This results in wodges of compensatory cash from the porker pie man and the kickboxing trollop.

Now, due to the dullness of light upon leaving work, I hit upon a fab new idea: Why not replace the paving stones with them touch sensitive malarkies! How cool would that be, mincing down Gentlemen's Walk with the floor lighting you up with every move, as you take a spin, grab yer crotch and strike a pose up against the fish stall.

You have to be careful though, of the betrenchcoated private dick, lurking behind the lampost and photographicating you through The Daily Jugs with the Ladylumps cut out for eyeholes so he can spy on you.

Then again, if he's in the city, he's not so much a private dick, more public dick, and that's indecent exposure
that is!

On the plus side though, as all the lovely ladies flounce over the lightboxes, they'll be all lit up from below like some goddess, with the light shining through their light summer frocks like the now legendary photo of the Queen of Tarts, Princess Die.

Even better - once you've got the gist of Wacko Jacko's moves, you could replace the lightboxes with them Playstation Dance Mats! They'd be cheaper than touch sensitive lightboxes, AND you can dance about on them. It'll give the Puppet Man a whole new edge to his act!

Ah, if only the Puppet Man had a Dance Mat when performing last Saturday's redition of Tom Jones' cover of "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy'...

A TISWAS Order Of Death...

This is what you want...

This is what you get......when you spend £1.19 on a special FX blockbuster!

Well, you can take your burger and bugger it right up twixt yer own buns, for I want to see the special FX blockbuster!

Honestly - what a no-brainer! A piss-ass burger, or a brilliant film about a giant dog in a Godzilla costume!

Honey, I Blew Off The Pets, or something! Who needs huskie hounds heads thrusting out of the protoplasmic mass of The Thing when you can have a pug with it's tongue lolling out from beneath a green monster head.

Cloverfield? Pah! Roverfield I say! THIS IS WHAT WE WANT!!!

[EDIT]: I forgot to mention that Godzilla is an anagram of I DOG LIZA L. Not that I ever go out dogging with the left eyed one (or the L'Amour one, which going by the name you'd think was well up for it!), but it proves that there is at least one dog in godzilla (and presumably that Liza is a right old dog*), and that alone justifies the £1.19 expense to realise such a literal vision.

Also, that this should really be captioned TIWWAS instead of TISWAS, but hey ho.

As long as the Blockbuster Movie has a segment of Trevor McDoughnut interviewing survivors of the killer-dog-inna-rubber-suit, I'm happy. Happier if it were multiple segments of Chocolate Orange, but you can't have everything.

* AT LEAST, THE LIZA I WAS AT SCHOOL WITH WAS, SKANKY SCANDINAVIAN SCUZZBUCKET THAT SHE WAS!

You gotta make me an offer, that cannot be ignored...

Now, I may be being a bit thick here, but surely the best way to fight temptation is by not bunging it right in front of you and chewing your lip in tension?

Take the latest round of Special K crumpet.

Bird number 1 plonks a transparent bag of choccies on her desk, and keeps giving it sidelong glances. Then she bungs a vase in front of 'em so she don't guzzle the lot. So why did the greedy cow bring in a mountain of choc if she didn't want to eat it. Or put it in her desk. Or give it to me.

And the chocolate!

Bird number 2 shoves FOUR choccie biccies on a plate by her desk! FOUR! She sits there, seductively stroking a cookie with her little finger before tipping the plate (when she could be using her fingers tipping the velvet). Again, why shove a pile of biscuits to shovel in your cakehole if you're going to whinge about them!

Don't buy the biscuits or put them on your desk!

Then they look all chirpy coz the harlot in the red dress has brought them all mini-bite nibbles (finger babe's more interested in biting on harlots mini nipples). Suffice to say that they probably feel so good on eating a teeny pack of healthyness, they gorge on the chocolates later and end up with fat arses.

Me, I'd've scoffed the lot in five minutes, then gone on the prowl for more!

Same goes for the chocolate (fnarr fnarr)!

Who do you love more...

I was watching that there documentary last night about the lead singer of The Darkness's brother...

Now, wittering on through his vocoder, he keeps banging on about big bangs (probably coz he don't get banged in a big way very often) and Black Holes, Singularities, Quantum Physics and Relativity. And after 20 years, he's no nearer aligning Relativity and Quantum together.

Now, Relativity deals with big objects (ie, the Milky Way is a big fuck-off galaxy, with other galaxies relatively far way), and quantum with micro-teeny objects (eg a 'Hollyoaks' 'actors' talent).

I propose that he give up - after 20 years, I doubt it'll drop into place overnight. Instead, he should take up more weightier matters. Such as the Oven Chip.

The Oven Chip is a freak of nature. Not only in it's chameleon attributes (eg the ability to appear crisp and golden anfd fluffy in an advert, instead of the black ended, whitey goldey browny sticks that ends up on yer plate), but in it's reproductive abilities.

For the Oven Chip replicates in heat!

Take a small handful of Oven Chips and place them on the tray - not many are there. Now, bung 'em in t'oven @ 220°c and return after 25 mins...

...now try and fit that small handful onto a plate!

You will find that, rather than the meagre portion you doled up for yourself in a forlon attempt to cut down on chip intake, it has miraculously become a mountain that spills off the plate!

It would seem that the randy spud is all frigid from the freezer, but as soon as the oven kicks in, the Dogg chips are like: "It's gettin' hot in herre, so take off all your clothes... or the oven chip equivalent of clothes". And the Ho chips reply with "I am, gettin', so hot, I'm gonna take my clothes off". And they ravish each other in some oveny orgy, resulting in some short gestation period when birth is given to lots of other oven chips.

Result: More chips than you wanted... but you have to eat them coz they're there!

They should cast Stevie as Davros - his voice is the perfect template for those mechanical scions of Skaro, and he's got his own chair! All you need to do is sellotape some mini Xmas puds painted silver down the side and stick a sink plunger on his forehead.

The martians may laugh at us for peeling potatoes, boiling them for 20 of our Earth minutes and then smashing them into bits, but at least Davros could solve my dilemma of always ending up with too many chips for tea...

chips for tea...

...the kind you don't see on TV Screens!

More likely in a Maelstrom!