Whilst in the darkest recesses of Hades, one of my many companions of the evening voiced the question:
"What would Xymon look like without his beard?"
Well a great deal fatter faced fool than currently, for The Goatee has a curious property of making your face look thinner than it should.
So perhaps I should a "Brazillian" done on me chest hair then!
Well, strangely enough, The Facial Furniture came into being around 1996-7, but amazingly, I have very few photos of the svelt 28" smooth faced lad of some 26 summers shining like a beacon of gorgeousness.
Just the usual ugly fat git stuffing his face!
So, over on Basefuck*, there's some pics of the fresh faced gormster. Long of hair and bereft of lip slugs and chinwigs.
Nightmare!
And to further inflict the visage of the Elephant Man/Igor hybrid, a couple of 'em are on Owned. Let's see if Joolz can beat me now!
Mwah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
(See, I'm a-makin' progress on that Evil Villian laugh!)
* WHAT'S THAT? YOU'RE NOT ON FARCEBERK? WELL, I CAN'T LET YOU ESCAPE THE FRIGHT MASK USED TO SCARE GWEN TURNER MOBY, SO I'M BUNGING 'EM ON MOISPICE AN' ALL!
EXTRA MWAH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!
Thursday 31 July 2008
Wednesday 30 July 2008
Xym’s got dibs on the mountain guide...
...and not the mountain goat!
How come, if you fall thousands of miles into a bottomless pit, you can still get night and day?
Not to mention rain and fantastic sunsets!
Why is the sea crammed full with razor toothed flying fishies and behemoths from the deep, yet the land boasts a total of one solitary dino?
And how come there's lots of gratuitous poke-it-outta-the-screen cheesy shots of antennae, tape measures, penknifes, hands reaching out, birdies and floating floweryness, yet when tottie-in-flimsy-white-top gets bedrenched in rainstorms, falling into pools, and generally getting all wet teeshirted, there's no golden pips of the sunshine princess looming out of the screen?
And just how many mountain guides pack a Lara Croft outfit when taking someone for a hike up a volcano?
You don't see Ben Fogle get half way up Everest, then suddenly decide to whip off his sensible clothes in favour of skimpy shorts and a sports bra, do you!
At least, not on camera!
How come, if you fall thousands of miles into a bottomless pit, you can still get night and day?
Not to mention rain and fantastic sunsets!
Why is the sea crammed full with razor toothed flying fishies and behemoths from the deep, yet the land boasts a total of one solitary dino?
And how come there's lots of gratuitous poke-it-outta-the-screen cheesy shots of antennae, tape measures, penknifes, hands reaching out, birdies and floating floweryness, yet when tottie-in-flimsy-white-top gets bedrenched in rainstorms, falling into pools, and generally getting all wet teeshirted, there's no golden pips of the sunshine princess looming out of the screen?
And just how many mountain guides pack a Lara Croft outfit when taking someone for a hike up a volcano?
You don't see Ben Fogle get half way up Everest, then suddenly decide to whip off his sensible clothes in favour of skimpy shorts and a sports bra, do you!
At least, not on camera!
Tuesday 29 July 2008
Monday 28 July 2008
ee-oo-ee-oo (...etc) um... Xym! Away...
Plastered all over the new today is the heartwarming story of Christian the lion.
Now, as far as I was aware, you were supposed to throw Christians to the lions, not name the beasties after them!
Anyhew, straight from the pages of Hello! type reporting, some dozy mare bought a lion cub from Harrods (apparently, Mohammed Al Fathead has been raising a pride to unleash upon the Windswords for murdering his dodo). Being posh and full of cash, and therefore thick as pigshit, the gormstress took it back to her flat.
A flat! The ideal place to raise man eating jungle/savannah carniverous clarences*!
So, it got too big & fat on scoffing chavvy flat vandals, so they bunged it off to a wildlife preserve to preserve their purchases. And save them from Claude**.
And so passes 30 year, and they suddenly realise they've missed poor ickle Chris, so a trip to the zoo is called for.
And as they reach the windswept landscape, they gently call out his name, and he tears out of the shrub, all gnashing and wailing, and oh the terrible, terrible teeths! He comes to a halt in front of hs owners...
...then stands up and gives 'em a hug!
A hug?!?! What, is it a bloke in a suit, masquerading in oversized feline form? Lions don't hug people, they bite peoples heads off and Darth up their arms! Mayhap it was some pervy bloke in funfur***, getting a good old grope and hoping no-one notices his 'tail' hanging out.
Good job it were born in 1968 - it if were a 90s cub, it'd be all high-fives and bitchslappin', before legging it with your mowbli and taking yer missus off to become part of his pride. Gay Pride, Home Pride, and yet
another BBC remake of Pride and Prejudice.
An' suchlike...
* AND NOT THE GORMSTER DOING THE SPIN FOR THE MCSCAMS, MR "OOOH WE HATE PEOPLE MAKING MONEY USING HER NAME TO HELP MISSING KIDS WHEREAS I MAKE £50K A YEAR SPONGING OFF THE PARENTS WHO REFUSE TO ACTUALLY SEARCH UNLESS THEY GET A FREE JOLLY IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION TO ANY SIGHTINGS"... GRRRRRRR!
** CLAUDE BUTTOCKS, CONTROLLER OF THE SKY NOZZLE. SEE THE MOST AMAZING MAN WHO EVER LIVED.
*** APPARENTLY, THERE WAS SOME FESTIVAL ON SUNDAY. THE FURRY FUNFUR, A DEDICATION TO ALL THINGS OF LIME GREEN WITH DANGLY FURRY BITS. OR BRIGHT BLUE. OR SOMETHING.
Now, as far as I was aware, you were supposed to throw Christians to the lions, not name the beasties after them!
Anyhew, straight from the pages of Hello! type reporting, some dozy mare bought a lion cub from Harrods (apparently, Mohammed Al Fathead has been raising a pride to unleash upon the Windswords for murdering his dodo). Being posh and full of cash, and therefore thick as pigshit, the gormstress took it back to her flat.
A flat! The ideal place to raise man eating jungle/savannah carniverous clarences*!
In the jungle, the concrete jungle
the lion sleeps tonight
until you go for a drink in the middle of the night and
step on his tail and get eaten to death...
So, it got too big & fat on scoffing chavvy flat vandals, so they bunged it off to a wildlife preserve to preserve their purchases. And save them from Claude**.
And so passes 30 year, and they suddenly realise they've missed poor ickle Chris, so a trip to the zoo is called for.
And as they reach the windswept landscape, they gently call out his name, and he tears out of the shrub, all gnashing and wailing, and oh the terrible, terrible teeths! He comes to a halt in front of hs owners...
...then stands up and gives 'em a hug!
A hug?!?! What, is it a bloke in a suit, masquerading in oversized feline form? Lions don't hug people, they bite peoples heads off and Darth up their arms! Mayhap it was some pervy bloke in funfur***, getting a good old grope and hoping no-one notices his 'tail' hanging out.
Good job it were born in 1968 - it if were a 90s cub, it'd be all high-fives and bitchslappin', before legging it with your mowbli and taking yer missus off to become part of his pride. Gay Pride, Home Pride, and yet
another BBC remake of Pride and Prejudice.
An' suchlike...
* AND NOT THE GORMSTER DOING THE SPIN FOR THE MCSCAMS, MR "OOOH WE HATE PEOPLE MAKING MONEY USING HER NAME TO HELP MISSING KIDS WHEREAS I MAKE £50K A YEAR SPONGING OFF THE PARENTS WHO REFUSE TO ACTUALLY SEARCH UNLESS THEY GET A FREE JOLLY IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION TO ANY SIGHTINGS"... GRRRRRRR!
** CLAUDE BUTTOCKS, CONTROLLER OF THE SKY NOZZLE. SEE THE MOST AMAZING MAN WHO EVER LIVED.
*** APPARENTLY, THERE WAS SOME FESTIVAL ON SUNDAY. THE FURRY FUNFUR, A DEDICATION TO ALL THINGS OF LIME GREEN WITH DANGLY FURRY BITS. OR BRIGHT BLUE. OR SOMETHING.
Sunday 27 July 2008
Flamin’ Nora...
I wonder if I'm some sort of shamistic prophety type.
Them there medicine men consume various smokes and vapours in order to induce Gitche Manitou and various legions of spirits.
Well, I have found that the consumption of spirits invokes much the same in me! Last night, for instance, following a triplicity of Jacques and The Purple Combo, a psychonaut tripping out became I!
Forget Derek's Sam... who rises from the dead in the guise of spirit guide? Only Steve Bloody Irwin!
COMPLETE with manta-ray attachment!
Unfortunately, he didn't reveal any other worldly mysteriis or prophesize this Wednesdays lotto numbers.
Probably because he was accompanied by Snow White and Velma, who'se cleary fed up with mooning after Shaggy, so she's off on some lezza escape with birds with a penchant for the shorter statured fella!.
Should've introduced her to the Sapphic Siren in Season in striped and suspenders! Then again, she wasn't interested in short dumpy cartoon characters, only hot alternative girlies. Poor ole Red Lori getting propositioned for tongue tennis (she should count her lucky stars the little tart wasn't after a bit of lawn tennis!).
I do hope she didn't get rhohypnol'd and lesbo-raped in the lavs by Mistress Big with her huge strap...* - she did just suddenly vanish without trace...
Good job too - I'd be rather worried if she had vanished with Trace for dykey doings in the bogs.
Nyah nyah nyah!
* STRAPPY TOP, OF COURSE! WHY, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, YOU GREAT PERV???
Them there medicine men consume various smokes and vapours in order to induce Gitche Manitou and various legions of spirits.
Well, I have found that the consumption of spirits invokes much the same in me! Last night, for instance, following a triplicity of Jacques and The Purple Combo, a psychonaut tripping out became I!
Forget Derek's Sam... who rises from the dead in the guise of spirit guide? Only Steve Bloody Irwin!
COMPLETE with manta-ray attachment!
Unfortunately, he didn't reveal any other worldly mysteriis or prophesize this Wednesdays lotto numbers.
Probably because he was accompanied by Snow White and Velma, who'se cleary fed up with mooning after Shaggy, so she's off on some lezza escape with birds with a penchant for the shorter statured fella!.
Should've introduced her to the Sapphic Siren in Season in striped and suspenders! Then again, she wasn't interested in short dumpy cartoon characters, only hot alternative girlies. Poor ole Red Lori getting propositioned for tongue tennis (she should count her lucky stars the little tart wasn't after a bit of lawn tennis!).
I do hope she didn't get rhohypnol'd and lesbo-raped in the lavs by Mistress Big with her huge strap...* - she did just suddenly vanish without trace...
Good job too - I'd be rather worried if she had vanished with Trace for dykey doings in the bogs.
Nyah nyah nyah!
* STRAPPY TOP, OF COURSE! WHY, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, YOU GREAT PERV???
You must have been a Dance Commander...
Givin' out the order for fun
You must have been a Dance Commander
You know that he's the only one
Who gives the orders here?
Alright?
It would be awesome- If we could dance
It would be awesome, yeah - Let's take the chance
It would be awesome, yeah - Let's start the show
Because you never know, never know, never know,
Until you go!
I want to make it last forever!
I am The Saviour Of Dance!
Saturday 26 July 2008
Smooth operator...
Today, I'm blogging deep within the heart of HMV!
How cool is that! Surrounded by shelves of DVDs and on a pewter...
...actually, not much different to being at home then, apart from the inclusion of various shopliftery types slipping CDs up their jumper left, with bomb filled backpacks about their person.
Anyhoo, being in The City on a hot day means the guzzlement of icy cold drinks, such as smoothies.
Smoothies my arse! They're not 'all that'.. and actually, they ain't that smooth at all! In fact, they've got bits of seeds and peel and pith in it (and I sure hope that the serving wench didn't have a lisp when she said that!).
And if it's got bits in, it cannot be called a smoothie.
A liquidized drink with NO bits in is a Smoothie. Ergo* a liquidized drink with bits in must be called a Bittie...
...but I ain't suppin' on norks in a city centre cafe bar!!!
* AS OPPOSED TO ORGO. THE MAGNIFICENT. OR EVEN THE SLIGHTLY LARGER AND OVERWEIGHT IMP-LIKE COMPANION TO F'TUM'SCH!!!
How cool is that! Surrounded by shelves of DVDs and on a pewter...
...actually, not much different to being at home then, apart from the inclusion of various shopliftery types slipping CDs up their jumper left, with bomb filled backpacks about their person.
Anyhoo, being in The City on a hot day means the guzzlement of icy cold drinks, such as smoothies.
Smoothies my arse! They're not 'all that'.. and actually, they ain't that smooth at all! In fact, they've got bits of seeds and peel and pith in it (and I sure hope that the serving wench didn't have a lisp when she said that!).
And if it's got bits in, it cannot be called a smoothie.
A liquidized drink with NO bits in is a Smoothie. Ergo* a liquidized drink with bits in must be called a Bittie...
...but I ain't suppin' on norks in a city centre cafe bar!!!
* AS OPPOSED TO ORGO. THE MAGNIFICENT. OR EVEN THE SLIGHTLY LARGER AND OVERWEIGHT IMP-LIKE COMPANION TO F'TUM'SCH!!!
Friday 25 July 2008
Knitted by nectarines...
In order to cater for dwindling viewing numbers, Pig Botherer has always had some ludicrous ideas to pep up it's dull format. Outright fraud, race rows, and some haggard young trouts flopping their babs about like there's no tomorrow to draw in the crowds for about one episode, but what twist can galvanize the public?
Get shut of Dermot O'Leary, and replace him with some gobby arse troll who can't present for toffee! Damn! Didn't work... ah toffee!
Evict the chocolate!
Yes, there's now an ad where you can vote to evict chocolate! No more revelling in the pig bother snack sized packet of assorted treateries, for one has to go... but who goes?
YOU DECIDE!
And not Deicide, the death metal noise merchants.
So, up for eviction is The Minstrel, The Toadface Harsh, The Taunter of Shopping Centres, and The Big Black Guy With Magical Healing Powers. And you'd better decide quick, otherwise they'll ship you off to some Vietnamese hovelly shantytown shackery to play russian roulette, and if you get the caffiene hit it's off to the leech pens and the terrible laughter and the blowings up, an' suchlike.
Anyhew, once Davina has scoffed the lot (please do not sweat), we get a new 'packet'mate! We had that limited edition Biblical Crimes of Liotta, but what next in cocoa pleasure? Maybe a white chocolate owner of american self-service garages that service 1958 Plymouth Fury's?
Ooooh! Strawberries! In chocolate! Ladies doing the splits with bananas!!!!
And how come grannies keep calling themselves nannas? A Nana is sort for a banana! If I say I'm off to munch on a nana, I'm not off to perform an act of oral lovin' upon some septogenarians hairy pie! It's a banana!
Face it missus - your daughter has had a baby. The baby's a baby, your daughter is it's mother, therefore you are the babies Grand Mother. a Grand mother. Now, if you don't consider yourself to be all that grand, well don't put yourself down! Just don't call yourself a nanna because you'd rather be a fruit than a granny.
Although, you could be a granny pleasuring yourself with a nana, but that's just plain wrong.
Especially coz someone could slip on that banana skin and take a nasty tumble and claim compensation from InjuryLawyers4U. Beside, you don't want tarantulas eggs hatching up yer snatch and weaving webs about your womb.
Nannas indeed! Nanatoo bringing about nannageddon!
Wrinkled evil sucking the life from the youthful faces!
This is an outrage!!!!
Get shut of Dermot O'Leary, and replace him with some gobby arse troll who can't present for toffee! Damn! Didn't work... ah toffee!
Evict the chocolate!
Yes, there's now an ad where you can vote to evict chocolate! No more revelling in the pig bother snack sized packet of assorted treateries, for one has to go... but who goes?
YOU DECIDE!
And not Deicide, the death metal noise merchants.
So, up for eviction is The Minstrel, The Toadface Harsh, The Taunter of Shopping Centres, and The Big Black Guy With Magical Healing Powers. And you'd better decide quick, otherwise they'll ship you off to some Vietnamese hovelly shantytown shackery to play russian roulette, and if you get the caffiene hit it's off to the leech pens and the terrible laughter and the blowings up, an' suchlike.
Anyhew, once Davina has scoffed the lot (please do not sweat), we get a new 'packet'mate! We had that limited edition Biblical Crimes of Liotta, but what next in cocoa pleasure? Maybe a white chocolate owner of american self-service garages that service 1958 Plymouth Fury's?
Ooooh! Strawberries! In chocolate! Ladies doing the splits with bananas!!!!
And how come grannies keep calling themselves nannas? A Nana is sort for a banana! If I say I'm off to munch on a nana, I'm not off to perform an act of oral lovin' upon some septogenarians hairy pie! It's a banana!
Face it missus - your daughter has had a baby. The baby's a baby, your daughter is it's mother, therefore you are the babies Grand Mother. a Grand mother. Now, if you don't consider yourself to be all that grand, well don't put yourself down! Just don't call yourself a nanna because you'd rather be a fruit than a granny.
Although, you could be a granny pleasuring yourself with a nana, but that's just plain wrong.
Especially coz someone could slip on that banana skin and take a nasty tumble and claim compensation from InjuryLawyers4U. Beside, you don't want tarantulas eggs hatching up yer snatch and weaving webs about your womb.
Nannas indeed! Nanatoo bringing about nannageddon!
Wrinkled evil sucking the life from the youthful faces!
This is an outrage!!!!
Thursday 24 July 2008
Taking the piss...
Seems that the greybeards of the day are in dire need of incontinent astronauts!
It turns out that NASA is developing a spacey rocket that runs on urine, and need tena ladied ladies to remove their sodden teabags and donate their widdle to the space race so they can test the new Orion spacecraft.
But it would appear that the cash hungry government is one step ahead, and already has traffic wardens patrolling the lunar surface, ever ready to slap a fine on an unsuspecting space shuttle or flying saucer that just happens to overrun by one minute.
To avoid paying out more cash to The Man, the purpose of the Orion is dead simple - it'll drop astronauts on the moon, then go off into orbit for 6 months until it has to pick up the astronauts again.
However, seems more like a school run by granny! Then again, being all dribbly about the nether regions, she can fuel the orbiting shuttle for years on end. As long as the astonuts don't decide to "pull down their pants and water the plants", for that would mightily (not to mention literally) piss off Victor Carune as he sheds his spore laden tendrils about cathedrals.
And all because Urine Gagarin was the first man in space...
It turns out that NASA is developing a spacey rocket that runs on urine, and need tena ladied ladies to remove their sodden teabags and donate their widdle to the space race so they can test the new Orion spacecraft.
But it would appear that the cash hungry government is one step ahead, and already has traffic wardens patrolling the lunar surface, ever ready to slap a fine on an unsuspecting space shuttle or flying saucer that just happens to overrun by one minute.
To avoid paying out more cash to The Man, the purpose of the Orion is dead simple - it'll drop astronauts on the moon, then go off into orbit for 6 months until it has to pick up the astronauts again.
However, seems more like a school run by granny! Then again, being all dribbly about the nether regions, she can fuel the orbiting shuttle for years on end. As long as the astonuts don't decide to "pull down their pants and water the plants", for that would mightily (not to mention literally) piss off Victor Carune as he sheds his spore laden tendrils about cathedrals.
And all because Urine Gagarin was the first man in space...
Wednesday 23 July 2008
We’ll tear your dover sole apart...
Begrizzled as he is, I can't see Marco sprouting kitchen utensils about his bonce and setting about the diners to create some cannibalistic course of his feastery shennanigans.
Explorer in the further regions of gastonomic experience is all very well, but eternal torment with a ladle and a colander is a bit excessive. OK, so he maight have a bit of inventiveness with his whisk and an egg slicer, but from what eyesore, the evilest he got was forcing Mr Fishy to wait in the car whilst everyone else got fed!
Angels to some...
Devils to others...
Chefs to the common man...
Oh, no tears please, it's a waste of good suppering...
Mmmmm.... supper....
Eton mess indeed - sounds like some pervy lights-out-in-the-dorm public school spunkathon! And as for Cambridge... how come people call it Came-bridge, when it's named after the bridge over the river Cam.
Ergo, the first syllable is Cam, not Came. You'd think these public school toffs would know that, but I suppose their too busy chucking their Eton Mess onto biscuits for the last one to come to scoff* to actually learn anything of academic value...
That said, how come camera isn't pronounced Came-ra. Probably so that it wouldn't be mistaken for the brother of Princess Adora (But obviously not Prince Adam).
By the power of numbskulls!!
* AND THAT'S TRUE, THAT IS. SPIKE MILLIGAN (GOD BLESS HIM) SAID SO. WELL, HE WAS REFERRING TO SOLDIERY TYPES, BUT WE ALL KNOW WHAT THESE OXBRIDGE TYPES ARE LIKE, WHAT WITH TARQUINS SISTER NOBBING CARRUTHERS HORSE AND WAGSTAFF KEEPS HIS CRUMPETS WARMLY ENSCONCED TWIXT FAGS CHEEKS.
Explorer in the further regions of gastonomic experience is all very well, but eternal torment with a ladle and a colander is a bit excessive. OK, so he maight have a bit of inventiveness with his whisk and an egg slicer, but from what eyesore, the evilest he got was forcing Mr Fishy to wait in the car whilst everyone else got fed!
Angels to some...
Devils to others...
Chefs to the common man...
Oh, no tears please, it's a waste of good suppering...
Mmmmm.... supper....
Hello! Hooray! What a nice day!
For an Eton Trifle!
Eton mess indeed - sounds like some pervy lights-out-in-the-dorm public school spunkathon! And as for Cambridge... how come people call it Came-bridge, when it's named after the bridge over the river Cam.
Ergo, the first syllable is Cam, not Came. You'd think these public school toffs would know that, but I suppose their too busy chucking their Eton Mess onto biscuits for the last one to come to scoff* to actually learn anything of academic value...
That said, how come camera isn't pronounced Came-ra. Probably so that it wouldn't be mistaken for the brother of Princess Adora (But obviously not Prince Adam).
By the power of numbskulls!!
* AND THAT'S TRUE, THAT IS. SPIKE MILLIGAN (GOD BLESS HIM) SAID SO. WELL, HE WAS REFERRING TO SOLDIERY TYPES, BUT WE ALL KNOW WHAT THESE OXBRIDGE TYPES ARE LIKE, WHAT WITH TARQUINS SISTER NOBBING CARRUTHERS HORSE AND WAGSTAFF KEEPS HIS CRUMPETS WARMLY ENSCONCED TWIXT FAGS CHEEKS.
Tuesday 22 July 2008
...IT’S A POD PERSON FROM THE PLANET MARS!!!!...
Oooh, I talked that one up dint I!
I gets back from a pleasant evening of coffee, Draco's Lair, Pig Botherer, sensory synthesisory abandon and humourescent pain, and I pull into the drive...
...look out the window at the low wall alongside...
...KILLER SLUG AWAITING ATTACK!!!!
I cautiously eased upon the door, and slid out, petrifiedly pressed against the car. Slowly sidling up the drive for fear of drawing it's attention in case it leapt for my jugular!
But, phew, luckily I made it to the door, where I had to go through masses of keys on a chain, each one not fitting, and meanwhile it slid millimeter by millimeter, baring it's fangs ready to devour my foot whole.
After several droppings of the key, much lock turning to no avail, I eventually found the correct one and dived into my house, slamming the door shut behind me...
...where a evil wail of frustration echoed through the trees, as the army of molluscs beckoned "Join Us!"...
Kandarian cephalopods on the prowl... I can only thank the Great Maker I wasn't ravished by the wisteria and turned into a part-human-part-slug and ended up being locked in the cellar that I don't have.
As if I needed any more proof of these nocturnal nightmarish daemonia, they were gone this morning, and none there when I got home from work.
But come the sunset...
"Come out, Neville!"
I gets back from a pleasant evening of coffee, Draco's Lair, Pig Botherer, sensory synthesisory abandon and humourescent pain, and I pull into the drive...
...look out the window at the low wall alongside...
...KILLER SLUG AWAITING ATTACK!!!!
I cautiously eased upon the door, and slid out, petrifiedly pressed against the car. Slowly sidling up the drive for fear of drawing it's attention in case it leapt for my jugular!
But, phew, luckily I made it to the door, where I had to go through masses of keys on a chain, each one not fitting, and meanwhile it slid millimeter by millimeter, baring it's fangs ready to devour my foot whole.
After several droppings of the key, much lock turning to no avail, I eventually found the correct one and dived into my house, slamming the door shut behind me...
...where a evil wail of frustration echoed through the trees, as the army of molluscs beckoned "Join Us!"...
Kandarian cephalopods on the prowl... I can only thank the Great Maker I wasn't ravished by the wisteria and turned into a part-human-part-slug and ended up being locked in the cellar that I don't have.
As if I needed any more proof of these nocturnal nightmarish daemonia, they were gone this morning, and none there when I got home from work.
But come the sunset...
"Come out, Neville!"
Monday 21 July 2008
Shaun of the Shed’s on...
Blimey, we sort out universal harmony in Northern Ireland, but it was only a matter of time before another evil terrorist group stepped up to the oche and it's not them Irish lads either!
'twould appear that the IRA has been supplanted by the DAI... Dai Jones and his mining brethren, that is!
Yes, The Welsh, fed up with Holiday Home Purchasing English and not being allowed to have the English Language banished from Cymru*, have begun their Campaign of Terror!
Now, the IRA were all bombs and suchlike, but The Welsh are a bit more countrified. In fact, their Weapons of Mass Destruction appear to have been inspired by re-runs of Jon Pertwee's Dr Who. In particular, the now legendary Welsh mining horror "The Green Death"!
But instead of killer maggots on the prowl, the rarebit munching Welshies have bred something far, far worse...
Killer flesh eating slugs!
The Press have christened it The Ghost Slug because it's a pure white cephalopod (or mollusc, if you prefer).
Also, because The Welsh call it "Selenochlamys Ysbryda", and Ysbryda is welsh for ghost, but the press, being English, couldn't be arsed to figure out what Selenochlamys** means. But it's only welsh, so who cares!
Now, if one of these Killer Slugs is seen in Norfolk, we're supposed to report it to the "National Museum in Cardiff"... O-ho! National Museum my arse! And Cardiff? Sounds suspiciously like a front for Touchcloth if you ask me! Another excuse to get in a load of birds for Capn Jack to flirt over whilst nobbing Ianto up the arse!
But methinks it's too late, for they've already been seen devouring worms at Alby (near Aylsham), where the local girls were revolted by the horrible confrontation as it chomped away with it's razor blade smile, gnashing and tearing and feasting on unfortunate aminals.
On the plus side, at least the blooms are safe... unless the murderous molluscs fancy a side salad whilst chowing down on human limbs.
Apparently, the best way to get rid of genetically modified bio-technology chemical warfared up sluggery is to follow the lead of the Winchester boys, and encase yourself in a circle of salt to stop them biting your head off.
Alternatively, the Greybeards suggest a 'beer trap'... which seems a bit risky to me! After all, with psychotic serial killing cannibalistic slugs on the prowl, how much worse will they be with a few sips of Special Brew inside? They'd be CCTV'd on Booze Britain, flashing their bits and trying to get off with the English slugs, happy slapping the Ladybugs and duffing up the Snails and nicking the mobile phones out of their shells.
Slugs on ASBOs.Where will it end? The Welsh send in a slug army, The English respond with killer cromer crabs, and the scotch wade in with Hannibal "The Cannibal" Haggis with murder in their black hearts. and liver. and offal. and pig bladder. Then where are we?
Cross-breeding Leeks and Triffids in the deepest of mines, and sending out the walking veg to wreak revenge upon mankind, until after incessant escargo escalation...
...the world is ruled by one giant sprout...
Night of the Living Dead?
Dawn of the Dead?
Day of the Dead?
Land of the dead?
Diary of the Dead?
WORLD OF THE VEG!!!!!
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!! Say it isn't true!!
Oh, but it is.....
* PROBABLY BECAUSE YOUR GENERAL WELSH GORMSTER CAN'T READ PROPER - HE'LL WRITE CYMRU, BUT PRONOUNCE IT CUMRY, DYSLEXSIC FOOLS THAT THEY ARE! IF IT'S PRONOUNCED CUMRY, THEN BLOODY WELL PUT THE Y AND THE U THE RIGHT WAY ROUND FOR FECKS SAKE! NO WONDER ANNE ROBINSON THINKS YOU'RE THE WEAKEST NATION!
** MOLLUSC. NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH MOLLUSC-UDGDEN, FOR I DOUBT ANYONE WANTS TO TAKE HER UP ON HER OFFER TO STROKE HER SLIMY PUSSY...
'twould appear that the IRA has been supplanted by the DAI... Dai Jones and his mining brethren, that is!
Yes, The Welsh, fed up with Holiday Home Purchasing English and not being allowed to have the English Language banished from Cymru*, have begun their Campaign of Terror!
Now, the IRA were all bombs and suchlike, but The Welsh are a bit more countrified. In fact, their Weapons of Mass Destruction appear to have been inspired by re-runs of Jon Pertwee's Dr Who. In particular, the now legendary Welsh mining horror "The Green Death"!
But instead of killer maggots on the prowl, the rarebit munching Welshies have bred something far, far worse...
Killer flesh eating slugs!
The Press have christened it The Ghost Slug because it's a pure white cephalopod (or mollusc, if you prefer).
Also, because The Welsh call it "Selenochlamys Ysbryda", and Ysbryda is welsh for ghost, but the press, being English, couldn't be arsed to figure out what Selenochlamys** means. But it's only welsh, so who cares!
Now, if one of these Killer Slugs is seen in Norfolk, we're supposed to report it to the "National Museum in Cardiff"... O-ho! National Museum my arse! And Cardiff? Sounds suspiciously like a front for Touchcloth if you ask me! Another excuse to get in a load of birds for Capn Jack to flirt over whilst nobbing Ianto up the arse!
But methinks it's too late, for they've already been seen devouring worms at Alby (near Aylsham), where the local girls were revolted by the horrible confrontation as it chomped away with it's razor blade smile, gnashing and tearing and feasting on unfortunate aminals.
On the plus side, at least the blooms are safe... unless the murderous molluscs fancy a side salad whilst chowing down on human limbs.
Apparently, the best way to get rid of genetically modified bio-technology chemical warfared up sluggery is to follow the lead of the Winchester boys, and encase yourself in a circle of salt to stop them biting your head off.
Alternatively, the Greybeards suggest a 'beer trap'... which seems a bit risky to me! After all, with psychotic serial killing cannibalistic slugs on the prowl, how much worse will they be with a few sips of Special Brew inside? They'd be CCTV'd on Booze Britain, flashing their bits and trying to get off with the English slugs, happy slapping the Ladybugs and duffing up the Snails and nicking the mobile phones out of their shells.
Slugs on ASBOs.Where will it end? The Welsh send in a slug army, The English respond with killer cromer crabs, and the scotch wade in with Hannibal "The Cannibal" Haggis with murder in their black hearts. and liver. and offal. and pig bladder. Then where are we?
Cross-breeding Leeks and Triffids in the deepest of mines, and sending out the walking veg to wreak revenge upon mankind, until after incessant escargo escalation...
...the world is ruled by one giant sprout...
Night of the Living Dead?
Dawn of the Dead?
Day of the Dead?
Land of the dead?
Diary of the Dead?
WORLD OF THE VEG!!!!!
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!! Say it isn't true!!
Oh, but it is.....
* PROBABLY BECAUSE YOUR GENERAL WELSH GORMSTER CAN'T READ PROPER - HE'LL WRITE CYMRU, BUT PRONOUNCE IT CUMRY, DYSLEXSIC FOOLS THAT THEY ARE! IF IT'S PRONOUNCED CUMRY, THEN BLOODY WELL PUT THE Y AND THE U THE RIGHT WAY ROUND FOR FECKS SAKE! NO WONDER ANNE ROBINSON THINKS YOU'RE THE WEAKEST NATION!
** MOLLUSC. NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH MOLLUSC-UDGDEN, FOR I DOUBT ANYONE WANTS TO TAKE HER UP ON HER OFFER TO STROKE HER SLIMY PUSSY...
Sunday 20 July 2008
Barbie is a slut...
Seems like Barbie has taken the T-Shirt slogan to heart, and turned into a right dolly of the night!
Apparently, her latest look is black PVC and fishnets, calling herself Black Canary Girl Barbie, causing outrage at this peddled filth!
Barbie in a brothel!
Still, that the kids of the Naughties for you. Pregnant at 9 through slapper dolls and alcopops. And you can't blame the parents, as according to the Gruesome Twosome in the Creepy Coupe (or rather Dodgy Renault Scenic), it's all "Responsible Parenting".
Then again, seeing as they can't tell the truth or keep their story straight, it probably means something along the lines of "UNresponsible Parenting With Spin So As Not To Get Justly Nicked For Neglect".
Ooooh, they'd better not "get off' tomorrow...
Apparently, her latest look is black PVC and fishnets, calling herself Black Canary Girl Barbie, causing outrage at this peddled filth!
Barbie in a brothel!
Still, that the kids of the Naughties for you. Pregnant at 9 through slapper dolls and alcopops. And you can't blame the parents, as according to the Gruesome Twosome in the Creepy Coupe (or rather Dodgy Renault Scenic), it's all "Responsible Parenting".
Then again, seeing as they can't tell the truth or keep their story straight, it probably means something along the lines of "UNresponsible Parenting With Spin So As Not To Get Justly Nicked For Neglect".
Ooooh, they'd better not "get off' tomorrow...
Saturday 19 July 2008
Murder she wrote... well, photographed...
The perfect crime!
I just seen that tellyad for the cybershot cameraphone from Sony Goran Eriksson. Seems that it's got an in built disintegrator attachment!
How cool is that!
According to the ever accurate and un-misinterpretable marketing campaign, you line up the Object Of Your Photo, and when you snap at them, they're sucked right into the camera, whilst some gormster sings about why people take pictures.
It does beg the question though, of teleportation. If this mobile device can extrapolate human beans from reality into digital compository status, surely there must be some 'back engineered' technology to reassemble them when you get home.
Or upload them to a memory stick, and take your photographications out on the move! Say you go to a gig, and like all good gig goers, ignore the statutory "no photographic equipment allowed". Take the snap, and suck the band into the camera (obviously, wait until the close of the encore so everyone thinks they've left the stage, rather than nicked for home, personal use). Then, you bung them on one of these memory sticks, and go out clubbing down Hades or The WhatACunt. Press the reassemble button, and hey presto! Your favourite band are suddenly in the venue!
And because they are somewhat stranded, they'll have to play an impromptu gig, just for you and your mates. On the downside though, being stuck in Norwich, you'd have to put them up for the night, which would be a right bugger if it was something like Blazin' Squad, for you would never have enough room in several houses to house the multitude of chavvy rapboys. Although I wouldn't mind putting Amy Winebottle up (oo-er!), she'd probably be sick all over the duvet, what with all the drink and drugs and stuff.
Still, a pop tart in the pocket is worth a shot at her bush...
Or something...
I just seen that tellyad for the cybershot cameraphone from Sony Goran Eriksson. Seems that it's got an in built disintegrator attachment!
How cool is that!
According to the ever accurate and un-misinterpretable marketing campaign, you line up the Object Of Your Photo, and when you snap at them, they're sucked right into the camera, whilst some gormster sings about why people take pictures.
It does beg the question though, of teleportation. If this mobile device can extrapolate human beans from reality into digital compository status, surely there must be some 'back engineered' technology to reassemble them when you get home.
Or upload them to a memory stick, and take your photographications out on the move! Say you go to a gig, and like all good gig goers, ignore the statutory "no photographic equipment allowed". Take the snap, and suck the band into the camera (obviously, wait until the close of the encore so everyone thinks they've left the stage, rather than nicked for home, personal use). Then, you bung them on one of these memory sticks, and go out clubbing down Hades or The WhatACunt. Press the reassemble button, and hey presto! Your favourite band are suddenly in the venue!
And because they are somewhat stranded, they'll have to play an impromptu gig, just for you and your mates. On the downside though, being stuck in Norwich, you'd have to put them up for the night, which would be a right bugger if it was something like Blazin' Squad, for you would never have enough room in several houses to house the multitude of chavvy rapboys. Although I wouldn't mind putting Amy Winebottle up (oo-er!), she'd probably be sick all over the duvet, what with all the drink and drugs and stuff.
Still, a pop tart in the pocket is worth a shot at her bush...
Or something...
Friday 18 July 2008
Abbot and Costello...
Its cold outside.
There's no kind of atmosphere.
I'm all alone (more or less).
Let me fly far away from here.
Fun, fun, fun, in the sun, sun, sun.
I want to lie shipwrecked and comotoase.
Drinking fresh mango juice.
Goldfish shoals nibbling at my toes.
Fun, fun, fun, in the sun, sun, sun.
Failing that, I'll just have to lounge on the sofa guzzling cans of Scrumpy Jack with Fergie* sucking me toes.
Or something.
* THE DUCHESS. THE BLACK EYED PEA ONE. NOT THE SCOFFED-TOO-MANY-YORKIES ONE.
Thursday 17 July 2008
The move to new orifices in the city...
There's a colleague in the loo
Texting someone, God knows who
Tip-tap-tapping, as you do
And puts me off my poo
No lavatorial etiquette, these offshore people...
Texting someone, God knows who
Tip-tap-tapping, as you do
And puts me off my poo
Take him from the cubicle!
Stick pins into his cuticle!
Throw his phone into a crucible!
And melt the fucker down!
Talking loudly 'bout his plans
Whilst sitting firm upon the can
I hope that he will wash his hands
Coz I ain't having him do a coffee run with shitty fingers!
No lavatorial etiquette, these offshore people...
Wednesday 16 July 2008
A riotous and rare do...
I wonder if a wig is weaved on a family hairloom, and if so, is it woven by the insane relative in the attic, IE a hairloon?
These things are important!
As opposed to impotent, as I've heard that having a baldy bonce is 'quite a turn on' apparently, and the more scalpy you are, the more virile you are.
That said, this fact is often proffered by those bereft of flowing locks upon their pate, so there could be a bit of blowing their own trumpet going on. And if they're blowing their own trumpets, it's litle wonder that they want to buff up their sexual vigour in order to be blown by a strumpet instead...
Or something...
These things are important!
As opposed to impotent, as I've heard that having a baldy bonce is 'quite a turn on' apparently, and the more scalpy you are, the more virile you are.
That said, this fact is often proffered by those bereft of flowing locks upon their pate, so there could be a bit of blowing their own trumpet going on. And if they're blowing their own trumpets, it's litle wonder that they want to buff up their sexual vigour in order to be blown by a strumpet instead...
Or something...
Tuesday 15 July 2008
Pelted with stones...
Yay! My follicle adjustment facilitator has made a fwe tweaks to the ole barnet here and there, so I just need to be wary of commons, foreign students and Jehova's Witnesses...
Or should that be Jojoba's Witnesses!
Or Jo's job in Widness, although I'm uncertain as to what that job actually is. Or even who Jo is. Presumably Widness is the waterfall centre of the world, where women wade in water to lather themselves up in some Hairball Essences orgasmatron in some special Chenery Travel coach trip (including fish supper in Dunwich as Wilbur Whatley's brother goes out a-stomping and crying out to the Elder Gods).
Still, the hairy bird catches the wyrm, apparently. Guess it's one of the old Carny phrases. Or old wives tales.Or a load of bollocks. Or something.
Still, fate turns on the shining torch of synchronicity, as in conjuction with the trimming of the mop, the Japanese killer wig movie drops through the letterbox as the japanese killer hair extentions movie is dispatched.
Hair today, more tomorrow!
Or should that be Jojoba's Witnesses!
Or Jo's job in Widness, although I'm uncertain as to what that job actually is. Or even who Jo is. Presumably Widness is the waterfall centre of the world, where women wade in water to lather themselves up in some Hairball Essences orgasmatron in some special Chenery Travel coach trip (including fish supper in Dunwich as Wilbur Whatley's brother goes out a-stomping and crying out to the Elder Gods).
Still, the hairy bird catches the wyrm, apparently. Guess it's one of the old Carny phrases. Or old wives tales.Or a load of bollocks. Or something.
Still, fate turns on the shining torch of synchronicity, as in conjuction with the trimming of the mop, the Japanese killer wig movie drops through the letterbox as the japanese killer hair extentions movie is dispatched.
Hair today, more tomorrow!
Monday 14 July 2008
The wine will be flat, and the curry’s gone cold...
Now, much has been made of the Allocated Zones of Londinium, but I have a sneaking suspicion that these ethereal realms also cater for a significant amount of The Tube!
Aside from the fact that you get from A->B in scant few minutes (which, when you think about it, it's quite disturbing. Either you're breaking the speed of light, or you're passing through Unknown Dimensions via Space Time Mörbius portals), it's the meandering through the myriad of tiled tunnels.
Seems it's literally the trans-perambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter!
I reckon that they built the Tube out of old sci-fi sets, where you see them actors running down the same corridor again and again (apart from shfting a plant pot about to give the impression of a Different Corridor). They have done the same thing with time & space to commuters!
You trek down a corridor, turn around, and ZAP! You're back at the start of that self-same corridor, get to the end, follow the bend, and ZAP! Back again!
Eventually, the stationmaster gets fed up of the teasing, and lets you out into an Exit Corridor... at the same time as he lets everyone else in! You come out the corridor with about 5 people, and as you approach the escalator, out of nowhere come packs of gormsters with enormous packs upon their backs, double buggys and a drag along ankle biting granny trolly. Between Mum and Dad are 2 kids... all 4 holding hands so no-one can get past, and they can't walk more than 1 step per 2 seconds as they cajole their offspring along before parking their pram across the entrance to the escalator to give the child a scolding for playing up, and tut-tutting at all the people who want to get out of the hot, sweaty fug of the underground when they can see a glimpse of blue and sky at the top of the stairs!
And Oh, how The Tube staff like to play with their victims. You get to the top, and can see the sweet, fresh air beckoning just ahead... but the staff see the oncoming throng, and switch 90% of the electronic turnstyles to a big fat red 'X', so everyone has to hunt round for the green exit arrows... which are promptly blocked by some gormster whose Oyster card hasn't been topped up, and keeps flitting it over the scanner in the vain hope that some money may miraculously credit his card, or the angry mob held up set about him with stout sticks. Or the fat controller eventually waddles over to let them through.
Talking of the evil games of Tube Staff. Camden Market. Sundays. You get the Northern line up to Camden - piece of piss. Come back to the station... the jeering staff laugh at you all laden with heavy bags of purchases, and advise that to avoid congestion you need to bugger off to Mornington Crescent or all the way back to Chalk Farm - both a goodly 10 minutes away through streets thick with people stood in the middle of the street guzzling pizza or gawping at shop frontages. Or gothchicks frontages.
Or something.
Avoid congestion by closing 1 out of three stations? Surely there would be less congestion if all three were open! Besides, the Camden Market station is at the bottom end by the Electric Ballroom - if you're at Camden Market itself, then you're already at Chalk Farm anyways, so you should be getting on that Tube, not battling through sulky emo boys in guyliner all the way back to the other tube!
Guyliner, indeed! I thought they were taking about imitating 1980s secret agents and building preposterous mechanizations utlizing household objects to perform some ludicrous task in their darkened tomb of a bedroom.
But it's not. Nor is it The Guyver, that meshing of cyberpunk manga anime that them emos are so very fond of!
It's eyeliner, for fecks sake!. Guyliner, my best hat! Sounds a tad like Gayliner to me, like some homosexual cruising episode of The Love Boat! Although, according to these so-called 'on-the-edge' emos, they're all Bi anyways, coz, they're, like, individual and different and don't conform to stereotypes...
...apart from being a moody git in red/white & black, a nightmare before Xmas bag, and more necklaces, rings, pentagrams, ankhs and guyliner than you can shake a HiM CD at.
An' suchlike!
Aside from the fact that you get from A->B in scant few minutes (which, when you think about it, it's quite disturbing. Either you're breaking the speed of light, or you're passing through Unknown Dimensions via Space Time Mörbius portals), it's the meandering through the myriad of tiled tunnels.
Seems it's literally the trans-perambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter!
I reckon that they built the Tube out of old sci-fi sets, where you see them actors running down the same corridor again and again (apart from shfting a plant pot about to give the impression of a Different Corridor). They have done the same thing with time & space to commuters!
You trek down a corridor, turn around, and ZAP! You're back at the start of that self-same corridor, get to the end, follow the bend, and ZAP! Back again!
Eventually, the stationmaster gets fed up of the teasing, and lets you out into an Exit Corridor... at the same time as he lets everyone else in! You come out the corridor with about 5 people, and as you approach the escalator, out of nowhere come packs of gormsters with enormous packs upon their backs, double buggys and a drag along ankle biting granny trolly. Between Mum and Dad are 2 kids... all 4 holding hands so no-one can get past, and they can't walk more than 1 step per 2 seconds as they cajole their offspring along before parking their pram across the entrance to the escalator to give the child a scolding for playing up, and tut-tutting at all the people who want to get out of the hot, sweaty fug of the underground when they can see a glimpse of blue and sky at the top of the stairs!
And Oh, how The Tube staff like to play with their victims. You get to the top, and can see the sweet, fresh air beckoning just ahead... but the staff see the oncoming throng, and switch 90% of the electronic turnstyles to a big fat red 'X', so everyone has to hunt round for the green exit arrows... which are promptly blocked by some gormster whose Oyster card hasn't been topped up, and keeps flitting it over the scanner in the vain hope that some money may miraculously credit his card, or the angry mob held up set about him with stout sticks. Or the fat controller eventually waddles over to let them through.
Talking of the evil games of Tube Staff. Camden Market. Sundays. You get the Northern line up to Camden - piece of piss. Come back to the station... the jeering staff laugh at you all laden with heavy bags of purchases, and advise that to avoid congestion you need to bugger off to Mornington Crescent or all the way back to Chalk Farm - both a goodly 10 minutes away through streets thick with people stood in the middle of the street guzzling pizza or gawping at shop frontages. Or gothchicks frontages.
Or something.
Avoid congestion by closing 1 out of three stations? Surely there would be less congestion if all three were open! Besides, the Camden Market station is at the bottom end by the Electric Ballroom - if you're at Camden Market itself, then you're already at Chalk Farm anyways, so you should be getting on that Tube, not battling through sulky emo boys in guyliner all the way back to the other tube!
Guyliner, indeed! I thought they were taking about imitating 1980s secret agents and building preposterous mechanizations utlizing household objects to perform some ludicrous task in their darkened tomb of a bedroom.
But it's not. Nor is it The Guyver, that meshing of cyberpunk manga anime that them emos are so very fond of!
It's eyeliner, for fecks sake!. Guyliner, my best hat! Sounds a tad like Gayliner to me, like some homosexual cruising episode of The Love Boat! Although, according to these so-called 'on-the-edge' emos, they're all Bi anyways, coz, they're, like, individual and different and don't conform to stereotypes...
...apart from being a moody git in red/white & black, a nightmare before Xmas bag, and more necklaces, rings, pentagrams, ankhs and guyliner than you can shake a HiM CD at.
An' suchlike!
20,000 leagues under the sea...
What is it about gigs that make burly blokes with BO want to strip off to the waist and be downright arses in the moshpit?
You're average, fully glad, attendee will often bop about, but these unshirted louts are always maniacs - shoving everyone out the way, clambering onto shoulders and farting in faces, barging through left right and centre, and gernerally being rude and obnoxious.
And I'm surely missing something - what's the deal with inflatable fishies at a gig? Top rock act upon stage, and throughout the auditrium are blow up sharks and fish of a Disneyesque character.
I mean, I can understand inflatable sheep at Shepherds bush, and at a push a trans-gender blow up doll with merkin attachment, but Finding Nemo...
It's certainly not tradition...
...definately not an old charter...
...but it must be something!
And due to the sheer volume of ballonery, I'm obviously the only one not getting it.
Or the concept of fish balloons (Boom Boom!)
Sunday 13 July 2008
Ceromonies 2008: Ad Vitam
The harmonica man
Preacher man
Moonchild
From the fire
Penetration
Requiem xiii-33 (Le veilleur silencieux)
Xiberia (Seasons in the ice cage)
Dawnrazor
The Sequel
The Watchman
Mourning Sun
---Encore 1---
Zoon (Part 3) (Wake world)
Last exit for the lost
---Encore 2---
Celebrate
Celebrate (second seal) - Outro only (recorded) as band left the stage
And I am a bunny that is most hapy indeed! Well worth all the trains and tubes!
Preacher man
Moonchild
From the fire
Penetration
Requiem xiii-33 (Le veilleur silencieux)
Xiberia (Seasons in the ice cage)
Dawnrazor
The Sequel
The Watchman
Mourning Sun
---Encore 1---
Zoon (Part 3) (Wake world)
Last exit for the lost
---Encore 2---
Celebrate
Celebrate (second seal) - Outro only (recorded) as band left the stage
And I am a bunny that is most hapy indeed! Well worth all the trains and tubes!
Saturday 12 July 2008
Ceromonies 2008: Ad Mortem
24th Moment
Shroud (Exordium)
Straight into the light
For her light
Trees come down
Shine
Endemoniada
Penetration
Wail of Sumer
And there will your heart be also
Psychonaut
---Encore 1---
From the fire
Moonchild
---Encore 2---
Mourning Sun
Brilliant!
Shroud (Exordium)
Straight into the light
For her light
Trees come down
Shine
Endemoniada
Penetration
Wail of Sumer
And there will your heart be also
Psychonaut
---Encore 1---
From the fire
Moonchild
---Encore 2---
Mourning Sun
Brilliant!
Pray for Leviathan...
May the mountain overpower you
May the mountain hold you back
May the mountain conquer you
May the mountain frighten you
May the mountain shake you to the core
May the mountain hold you in check
May the mountain subject you
May the mountain cover you
May the mighty mountain fall on you
May you be held back from my body!
Tonight & Tomorrow!
Friday 11 July 2008
My house. It’s... blown away...?
Admittedly, I don't live "way out west" in 19th century dustbowl america, but I find it hard to believe that some haggard old gimmers would fall for such a tall tale such as a house taken upon a zephyr.
OK, so maybe they believed in faeries, and were taken in by carny types with their inch high private eyes and big fat merkin'd women, but windy domicile relocation? No way, Sir!
Surely it was obvious to the entire family when the pussy posse ride up, with their lame excuse for a beaver patrol, and have to be prompted by the cretinous cowboy. Not to mention his ludicrously implausible request to go!
How come the freakoid family were so keen to say "oh kai" when it's clear he was lying between his teeth?
Mayhap they were keen to get rid of the miserable malfeasant so they could engage in a bit of rampant rodeo action on the ranch. Deliberately place him a corner and play dull piano tunes until he gets the hint and fecks off, leaving them free to throw their Sunday Best to the wind and get down & dirty in the parlour.
"Our clothes... they've... blown away... Oh no. May I come..."
The man, he may have said Oh Kai...
...but now it's Oh Yes! Oh Yes! Yes! YES! YES!!
OK, so maybe they believed in faeries, and were taken in by carny types with their inch high private eyes and big fat merkin'd women, but windy domicile relocation? No way, Sir!
Surely it was obvious to the entire family when the pussy posse ride up, with their lame excuse for a beaver patrol, and have to be prompted by the cretinous cowboy. Not to mention his ludicrously implausible request to go!
How come the freakoid family were so keen to say "oh kai" when it's clear he was lying between his teeth?
Mayhap they were keen to get rid of the miserable malfeasant so they could engage in a bit of rampant rodeo action on the ranch. Deliberately place him a corner and play dull piano tunes until he gets the hint and fecks off, leaving them free to throw their Sunday Best to the wind and get down & dirty in the parlour.
"Our clothes... they've... blown away... Oh no. May I come..."
The man, he may have said Oh Kai...
...but now it's Oh Yes! Oh Yes! Yes! YES! YES!!
Thursday 10 July 2008
Babble on...
If you wanted any more evidence of the lacklustre toss that's passed off as 'music' these days, then surely it's the application of audio arse as a form of punishment!
'twould appear that in order to get these hook handed suicide bombers to confess and divulge the intricacies of their plot, they are exposed to Popular Music as a form of torture.
One musician that is apparently quite effective is old wobbly head, David Gray. A quick burst of his Greatest Shits and terrorist tumble at the feet of the American Invaders!
Unfortunately, I'm on the side of the terrorists here - If I was banged up in QuentinTatantino Bay, and they played that at me, I'd confess to being Gossamer Bin-Liner himself! It's inhumane, I tell thee. OK, so they might have been involved with killing 3000+ people in the Twin Towers, but playing David Gray at them is a step too far, and just fuels further incitement and hatred against the west.
I mean - where does it stop? If you accept David Gray as acceptable torture, then it's a slippery slope down to Natasha Beddingfield (although I wouldn't mind slipping down her slopes on a bed in a field), and then there'll be a Parliament Act to rush in James Blunt. Live.
What they should do, is bung on "No Limit" by 2 Unlimited - it's got such an infectious beat that guards and terrorist will caper about, hand-in-hook, and forget about Jihads and oil, and the world will be full of Smiley, Happy People. Having fun.
After all, who can remain angry at the west and all it's invasionary justice, when you've got Anita flouncing her hair about in full 1993 stylee. Heck, even Gossamer Bin-Liner would throw off his smock, don a black leather coat, and pretend to be Ray in a cave full of pinball machines, punching the cavernous air with his arms as he declares "you try to diss me coz I sell out, I'm makin' Techno, and I am PROUD!"
Let me hear you say Yeah!
'twould appear that in order to get these hook handed suicide bombers to confess and divulge the intricacies of their plot, they are exposed to Popular Music as a form of torture.
One musician that is apparently quite effective is old wobbly head, David Gray. A quick burst of his Greatest Shits and terrorist tumble at the feet of the American Invaders!
Unfortunately, I'm on the side of the terrorists here - If I was banged up in QuentinTatantino Bay, and they played that at me, I'd confess to being Gossamer Bin-Liner himself! It's inhumane, I tell thee. OK, so they might have been involved with killing 3000+ people in the Twin Towers, but playing David Gray at them is a step too far, and just fuels further incitement and hatred against the west.
I mean - where does it stop? If you accept David Gray as acceptable torture, then it's a slippery slope down to Natasha Beddingfield (although I wouldn't mind slipping down her slopes on a bed in a field), and then there'll be a Parliament Act to rush in James Blunt. Live.
What they should do, is bung on "No Limit" by 2 Unlimited - it's got such an infectious beat that guards and terrorist will caper about, hand-in-hook, and forget about Jihads and oil, and the world will be full of Smiley, Happy People. Having fun.
After all, who can remain angry at the west and all it's invasionary justice, when you've got Anita flouncing her hair about in full 1993 stylee. Heck, even Gossamer Bin-Liner would throw off his smock, don a black leather coat, and pretend to be Ray in a cave full of pinball machines, punching the cavernous air with his arms as he declares "you try to diss me coz I sell out, I'm makin' Techno, and I am PROUD!"
No no
No, no no no
No, no no no
No no
There's no Jee-had
No, no Jihad
Won't bomb from the skies
No cavern to keep
No mountains to hide
No, no Jihad
We'll give up our fight
We'll do what you want
And reduce the oil price
Let me hear you say Yeah!
Wednesday 9 July 2008
Al fresco scoffing with the first Reavers...
I don't know, firstly it's Chrissie escaping from Barrie and hiding out in wunderbar wonderbras, and now it's turn-of-the-century schoolgirls transforming into lizards and falling into trans-dimensional portals in time and space!
OK, withholding the final chaper as a marketing ploy is all very well, but what's the point in creating an enduring myth that people take as fact, then spoil it all by a preposterous cop-out ending!
BatTarts in bras, Lizards in lacey dresses...
...maybe I should give the the Sunday Spurt a call about the snake in me trousers...
OK, withholding the final chaper as a marketing ploy is all very well, but what's the point in creating an enduring myth that people take as fact, then spoil it all by a preposterous cop-out ending!
BatTarts in bras, Lizards in lacey dresses...
...maybe I should give the the Sunday Spurt a call about the snake in me trousers...
Tuesday 8 July 2008
The creamiest silk, the whitest bra...
Some people are just gormsters!
Take the bird up at the Holiday Inn - goes to work with vibratory jugs. Assuming her phone's going off, she ignores it. Come lunchtime and the feckless mare drops her phone... but her knockers are still thrumming away as if receiving a text.
So, she goes to investigate - only to find she had a bloody bat nestéd in her bap hangers!
Honestly, how can you not notice a winged rodent scrabbling about in your busomly bower from 7:30am till 12:00?
Anyhoo, I like how she went on and the publicity shy plonker posed for the Eastern Evening News to replicte the moment of discovery:
According to the associated article, the dozy wench "went on to say that when everyone in the office crowded round to see the bat it escaped to a dark corner in the office"... Looking at her Reconstruction in the photo, I very much doubt they were crowding round to see the bat... more like gathering round to get a really good eyeful of her baps!
I dunno, Batman, Batgirl, and now the BatTwat in a Batbra...
Take the bird up at the Holiday Inn - goes to work with vibratory jugs. Assuming her phone's going off, she ignores it. Come lunchtime and the feckless mare drops her phone... but her knockers are still thrumming away as if receiving a text.
So, she goes to investigate - only to find she had a bloody bat nestéd in her bap hangers!
Honestly, how can you not notice a winged rodent scrabbling about in your busomly bower from 7:30am till 12:00?
Anyhoo, I like how she went on and the publicity shy plonker posed for the Eastern Evening News to replicte the moment of discovery:
According to the associated article, the dozy wench "went on to say that when everyone in the office crowded round to see the bat it escaped to a dark corner in the office"... Looking at her Reconstruction in the photo, I very much doubt they were crowding round to see the bat... more like gathering round to get a really good eyeful of her baps!
I dunno, Batman, Batgirl, and now the BatTwat in a Batbra...
Monday 7 July 2008
Who lives in a house like this...
Apparently, one of them self-hypnotists went into Peters Bra for non-invasive keyhole surgery, using hypnosis instead of anaesthetic.
Now, maybe I'm something of a complete arsewit here, but surely keyhole surgery is an job undertaking by a jobbing jobber, such as a locksmith, with the 'patient' being a jammed or broken lock. How can you have keyhole surgery on peoples?
Is it something them Surgeons do to Frequent Fogeys - install a lockable flap for easy access when they have another operation? Or is it called keyhole surgery coz the dozy doc tends to sew his keys up in yer belly?
And what's all this non-invasive bobbins - surgery has to be invasive - otherwise you can't get at the bits to lop, chop, tie and fry. Ah! It's one of them ways to save money! Don't do any expensive operations, and fob off anyone who queries it!
"Are you sure you gave me that brain transplant, for I can't see any scarring to prove it"
"Ah, mate, that's coz it was non-invasive! And because we don't invade your body, we can replace your brain without marking your perfect body"
"Duhr.. Oh yeah! This brain transplant worked. I'm a gormster no more!"
I don't think that woman had hypnotised herself at all. More likely the ward sister asked the woman if she was in for hip replacement, and she started to say "Hip? No sis..." and before she got any further a fat goateed bloke was there, asking her to look around they eyes, not into the eyes, but around the eyes, and before she knew it the hypochondriac hippie was hypnotically rhohypnolled and her hypersenstitive hip injected with hypodermic hyperbole.
An' suchlike...
Now, maybe I'm something of a complete arsewit here, but surely keyhole surgery is an job undertaking by a jobbing jobber, such as a locksmith, with the 'patient' being a jammed or broken lock. How can you have keyhole surgery on peoples?
Is it something them Surgeons do to Frequent Fogeys - install a lockable flap for easy access when they have another operation? Or is it called keyhole surgery coz the dozy doc tends to sew his keys up in yer belly?
And what's all this non-invasive bobbins - surgery has to be invasive - otherwise you can't get at the bits to lop, chop, tie and fry. Ah! It's one of them ways to save money! Don't do any expensive operations, and fob off anyone who queries it!
"Are you sure you gave me that brain transplant, for I can't see any scarring to prove it"
"Ah, mate, that's coz it was non-invasive! And because we don't invade your body, we can replace your brain without marking your perfect body"
"Duhr.. Oh yeah! This brain transplant worked. I'm a gormster no more!"
I don't think that woman had hypnotised herself at all. More likely the ward sister asked the woman if she was in for hip replacement, and she started to say "Hip? No sis..." and before she got any further a fat goateed bloke was there, asking her to look around they eyes, not into the eyes, but around the eyes, and before she knew it the hypochondriac hippie was hypnotically rhohypnolled and her hypersenstitive hip injected with hypodermic hyperbole.
An' suchlike...
Sunday 6 July 2008
Moonpig, lure me down...
Damn, I missed that program t'other night about The Truth About Britains UFOs.
Only just remembered about it, coz on the news they were talking about some dozy mare who called out the police because there was a strange light in the sky. Along come The Pigs who surely must have set about her person with their truncheons, as the Strange Light In The Sky turned out to be the moon.
Clearly, the woman just wanted to get some hunky uniformed officers round her gaff!
Honestly, how can you mistake our neighboring satellite for a great big feck off spaceship bent on wordly conquest - it's not like the moon is an unfamiliar sight in the sky.
I reckon it's just another cover up, pretending that there was no betentacled beasties invading, and calling it a lunar mistaken identity! Did anyone fall for that advert - "Most people would think this is a spaceship.. .in fact, it's a lamp post". Ooooh, I'm so convinced now that our atmosfear is polluted by flying lampposts, and not insterstellar space monsters.
Ok, perhaps at a push I can see people could mistake a Great Glass Elevator pursued by Vermicious Knids could be mistaken for a fleet of flying saucers, but lamp posts darting about the sky? That's pushing credulity a tad far.
Then again, these spaceships could have Chameleon Chips, and take the form of lamp postage upon arrival to blend in. Lamp post in Narnia - SPACESHIP! Heck, if The Master's TURDIS can be a fireplace or a statue, it can easily masquerade as a source of street illumation.
Anyone seen the 1953 version of War of the Worlds? What's on top of the Manta Ray body of the War Machines - only a freaking lampost that spits out a heat ray!
Maybe that program was right: "Most people would think this is a spaceship.. .in fact, it's a lamp post hiding the presence of ghastly galaxian gremlins in plain sight." It's the 1950s all over again!
Invasion of the Laser Lamp Posts from Beyond The Stars
or something...
Only just remembered about it, coz on the news they were talking about some dozy mare who called out the police because there was a strange light in the sky. Along come The Pigs who surely must have set about her person with their truncheons, as the Strange Light In The Sky turned out to be the moon.
Clearly, the woman just wanted to get some hunky uniformed officers round her gaff!
Honestly, how can you mistake our neighboring satellite for a great big feck off spaceship bent on wordly conquest - it's not like the moon is an unfamiliar sight in the sky.
I reckon it's just another cover up, pretending that there was no betentacled beasties invading, and calling it a lunar mistaken identity! Did anyone fall for that advert - "Most people would think this is a spaceship.. .in fact, it's a lamp post". Ooooh, I'm so convinced now that our atmosfear is polluted by flying lampposts, and not insterstellar space monsters.
Ok, perhaps at a push I can see people could mistake a Great Glass Elevator pursued by Vermicious Knids could be mistaken for a fleet of flying saucers, but lamp posts darting about the sky? That's pushing credulity a tad far.
Then again, these spaceships could have Chameleon Chips, and take the form of lamp postage upon arrival to blend in. Lamp post in Narnia - SPACESHIP! Heck, if The Master's TURDIS can be a fireplace or a statue, it can easily masquerade as a source of street illumation.
Anyone seen the 1953 version of War of the Worlds? What's on top of the Manta Ray body of the War Machines - only a freaking lampost that spits out a heat ray!
Maybe that program was right: "Most people would think this is a spaceship.. .in fact, it's a lamp post hiding the presence of ghastly galaxian gremlins in plain sight." It's the 1950s all over again!
Invasion of the Laser Lamp Posts from Beyond The Stars
or something...
Saturday 5 July 2008
Paper view...
One can't help but notice another staple of the catastrophic scenario.
Now, many things tend to happen in these apocalyptic shows - be it a meaty whore, earthquake, unfeasibly large monster/robot, or even towing the planet through space.
There is Shaky Table, the Wobbly Sideboard That China Plates Fall Off, the Cup Of Tumbling Tea or Glass of Champers. Heck, there's often the Crack Running Up The Wall and/or Across The Ceiling. Not to mention the Bookcase That Falls And Traps You Between It's Shelves.
But this is all par for the course. All dwellings have tables, a handy drink and walls/ceilings - what bemuses ME is the sudden formation of atomic particles to make solid objects.
In this case flying forests of foolscap!
Just why is it, when the room shakes, lots and lots of A4 paper starts drifting through the air, as if some off-set stage manager was lobbing paper props in from of a giant fan?
Look around your living room - are there stacks of A5 sheets lying about? Are there buggery sod as like! So where does it all come from?!?!?!
And how come they call an A4 piece of paper foolscap? Even a fool wouldn't use it as a cap! It makes no sense to me!
Still - you always seem to run out of paper right when you really need to print something off, so the spontaneous appearance of paper can be a godsend in a disaster. Actually, mayhap you don't run out of paper! Maybe it just evaporates into the air, and the magnetic flux thrown up by The Disastrous Event causes the elements to reconnect and return to it's original form.
Unless it's on online form, and that's normally a PDF (which is an acronym for Paper Don't Fit*, so it has to be seen on-screen, which is wider than a piece of paper.)
* PAPER DON'T FIT
...AS A HTML DOCUMENT FOR FUTURE REFERENCE
Now, many things tend to happen in these apocalyptic shows - be it a meaty whore, earthquake, unfeasibly large monster/robot, or even towing the planet through space.
There is Shaky Table, the Wobbly Sideboard That China Plates Fall Off, the Cup Of Tumbling Tea or Glass of Champers. Heck, there's often the Crack Running Up The Wall and/or Across The Ceiling. Not to mention the Bookcase That Falls And Traps You Between It's Shelves.
But this is all par for the course. All dwellings have tables, a handy drink and walls/ceilings - what bemuses ME is the sudden formation of atomic particles to make solid objects.
In this case flying forests of foolscap!
Just why is it, when the room shakes, lots and lots of A4 paper starts drifting through the air, as if some off-set stage manager was lobbing paper props in from of a giant fan?
Look around your living room - are there stacks of A5 sheets lying about? Are there buggery sod as like! So where does it all come from?!?!?!
And how come they call an A4 piece of paper foolscap? Even a fool wouldn't use it as a cap! It makes no sense to me!
Still - you always seem to run out of paper right when you really need to print something off, so the spontaneous appearance of paper can be a godsend in a disaster. Actually, mayhap you don't run out of paper! Maybe it just evaporates into the air, and the magnetic flux thrown up by The Disastrous Event causes the elements to reconnect and return to it's original form.
Unless it's on online form, and that's normally a PDF (which is an acronym for Paper Don't Fit*, so it has to be seen on-screen, which is wider than a piece of paper.)
* PAPER DON'T FIT
I'M IN TROUBLE DEEP
PAPER DON'T FIT
I'VE BEEN LOSING SLEEP
BUT I'VE MADE UP MY MIND
I'M
SAVING ME WEB PAGE
MM-MMM, I'M GONNA SAVE ME WEB PAGE
...AS A HTML DOCUMENT FOR FUTURE REFERENCE
Friday 4 July 2008
Off peak, On peak, TWIN PEAKS....
Now, that there BT has yet another advert with The Family, and now they've gone all Nice & Sleazy!
Gormster walks out of the shower to see his luscious lady lounging in bed, gossiping like some fisherwife to some other saucy slapper. Now, what is he thinking: it's about living together, and life's little 'perks'...
...and we all know what perks HE'S gawking at! What's the camera focused on? Only the slinky strumpet sheathed in a silky slip! Not only that, the bedcovers are rolled down so that her bra-less bazookas are in full high-nip-def as her top lightly moulds to her every curve.
And then he goes an whips his towel away, flashing his cock about, whilst she gives a cursory glance before returning to her mystery caller.
I know sex sells, but norks and nobs are hardly the right advertising utensils for a free weekend calls, unless you're calling at a brothel, which is a soup kitchen (from the word Broth - a form of soupy stew. Although, if Stu is covered in soup, then it must be one of them specialist brothels that offer Personal Services: Dominatrix, Female Nazi PoW Camp Leader, or Nigella Lawson with lobster bisque in a basque).
I dunno - next it'll be how you can slip your SIM card into any model phone represented by indiscriminate jiggery-porkery instead of just jugs.
BT? Bitti more like!
Gormster walks out of the shower to see his luscious lady lounging in bed, gossiping like some fisherwife to some other saucy slapper. Now, what is he thinking: it's about living together, and life's little 'perks'...
...and we all know what perks HE'S gawking at! What's the camera focused on? Only the slinky strumpet sheathed in a silky slip! Not only that, the bedcovers are rolled down so that her bra-less bazookas are in full high-nip-def as her top lightly moulds to her every curve.
And then he goes an whips his towel away, flashing his cock about, whilst she gives a cursory glance before returning to her mystery caller.
I know sex sells, but norks and nobs are hardly the right advertising utensils for a free weekend calls, unless you're calling at a brothel, which is a soup kitchen (from the word Broth - a form of soupy stew. Although, if Stu is covered in soup, then it must be one of them specialist brothels that offer Personal Services: Dominatrix, Female Nazi PoW Camp Leader, or Nigella Lawson with lobster bisque in a basque).
I dunno - next it'll be how you can slip your SIM card into any model phone represented by indiscriminate jiggery-porkery instead of just jugs.
BT? Bitti more like!
Thursday 3 July 2008
Love under swill...
Them greybeards are quite fond of sending monkeys up into space, and justify it by claiming that the chimps "have a whale of a time".
No so aboard the Swinetrek! I recall the crew being all happy and jolly - witness the joy:
Hold on a moment... Dr Strangepork doesn't look too happy.. in fact, he looks a bit of an old miseryarse! I reckon he got tossed off ship by Capn Link Hogthrob and set up camp on Moonbase Alpha from where he decided to market greeting cards to amaze friends & family. Great cards, funny cards for every imaginable occasion! Each and every card personalized to create something unique...
Honestly, look at the happyness on this snout:
In fact, that pig has an expression much like many people subjected to moonpiggery jinglement...
Mo-onpig!
Piiiiigs Iiiiiiiiiin Spaaaaaaaaaace!!
No so aboard the Swinetrek! I recall the crew being all happy and jolly - witness the joy:
Honestly, look at the happyness on this snout:
Now, to me, that looks like one ANGRY moonpig! Just look at that snarl - the fury of being jettisoned off to the lunar landscape has driven him mad! Ridley Scott's Alien? P'tah! Imagine that porcine behemoth rampaging through the Nostromo, bursting out of stomachs brandishing a personalised card on the occasion of gammon gouging out yer gut in a bacon beserker brough-ha-ha.
In fact, that pig has an expression much like many people subjected to moonpiggery jinglement...
Mo-onpig!
Moonpig!
Moonpiiiig... MOOONPIIIIG!
Moonpig dot com!
Piiiiigs Iiiiiiiiiin Spaaaaaaaaaace!!
Wednesday 2 July 2008
Casper gives Susan the horn...
It's amazing what firing tachyon particles through a positron beam utilizinf the trans-perambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter can achieve!
Now, say you're sucked into a parallel universe in your smartest of smart outfits. You arrive on a beach, and after farting about in the sea & sand in said outfit (for you don't want to go a-skinny dipping in forn parts where your parts may cause interdimentional outrage), you then trudge through muddy fields and jungle until you find A Place Of Residence, where you can get clothing to fit in with the general populace.
Now, what happens when you get sucked back into your originating universe? Do you stand waiting for the tube in all your other wordly attire? Do you buggery sod as like!
In order to prevent you from sticking out, them Illluminati that monitor the points of dimensional intersection thoughtfully nip back to where you entered, retrieve your original clothing, give it a good old laundering and redress you! Not only that, they also ensure that you're free from grime and sweat!
In other words, as you exit, they freeze you in time, strip you naked, give your nudie body a good old soaping, redress you and plonk you back in the real world!
Well, I for one ain't going near any tachyon laden sections of the multi-universe! I'm not saving the galaxy and batttling beasties and evil tyrants just so some transdimensional trollop can whip me kit off and start giving me a full all over bed bath and soaping down me nether regions...
...hmmmm. Maybe I should reconsider, and go off a-searching for anomalies, with biological experts running about in naught but their briefest of scanties in extremely hot flats...
Now, how do you find G'Kar's auditory device...
Now, say you're sucked into a parallel universe in your smartest of smart outfits. You arrive on a beach, and after farting about in the sea & sand in said outfit (for you don't want to go a-skinny dipping in forn parts where your parts may cause interdimentional outrage), you then trudge through muddy fields and jungle until you find A Place Of Residence, where you can get clothing to fit in with the general populace.
Now, what happens when you get sucked back into your originating universe? Do you stand waiting for the tube in all your other wordly attire? Do you buggery sod as like!
In order to prevent you from sticking out, them Illluminati that monitor the points of dimensional intersection thoughtfully nip back to where you entered, retrieve your original clothing, give it a good old laundering and redress you! Not only that, they also ensure that you're free from grime and sweat!
In other words, as you exit, they freeze you in time, strip you naked, give your nudie body a good old soaping, redress you and plonk you back in the real world!
Well, I for one ain't going near any tachyon laden sections of the multi-universe! I'm not saving the galaxy and batttling beasties and evil tyrants just so some transdimensional trollop can whip me kit off and start giving me a full all over bed bath and soaping down me nether regions...
...hmmmm. Maybe I should reconsider, and go off a-searching for anomalies, with biological experts running about in naught but their briefest of scanties in extremely hot flats...
Now, how do you find G'Kar's auditory device...
Tuesday 1 July 2008
Even cheaper car insurance...
Am I mising something here?
Project Elephant at work; a myriad of betrunked aminals in sculpturescent form across the city (one with a TURDIS arising out of its' back!); blue suited trumpeting salesfolk and umbrella stands and piano keys galore.
Not to mention Fleetwood Pacamac.
I'm sensing some recurring theme, but can't quite put my serenghettial snout on it. Probably something really obvious, but I just can't remember!
Ah! Lions en masse coming out of the grass!
Of course not, it's a plague of stationary dwarf elephants, which would have made a very interesting version of Snow White. Seven Elephants for Seven Elephants, as Indian elephants have them there arranged marriages. As well as 8 arms. And Ganesha must have it's acolytes. Still, better a Priest, than a Beast. And if it's a beast with eight cocks, then Snow White's kicking out six superfluous shortarses in favour of an octoschlonged oompa-loompa.
But what about them (south) African elephants - enforcing apartheid and treating indian elephants as little more than beasts, and making them use their own, segregated, watering holes? Disgraceful! I don't see Nelson Mandela campaigning for equal elephantine rights, do you?
I reckon all this elephantine entheusiam is down to it being the the Chinese Year Of The Elephant, where ladyfolk should emulate the revered aminal by writhing about in mud and getting hosed down by a long trunk...
Or something...
Project Elephant at work; a myriad of betrunked aminals in sculpturescent form across the city (one with a TURDIS arising out of its' back!); blue suited trumpeting salesfolk and umbrella stands and piano keys galore.
Not to mention Fleetwood Pacamac.
I'm sensing some recurring theme, but can't quite put my serenghettial snout on it. Probably something really obvious, but I just can't remember!
Ah! Lions en masse coming out of the grass!
Of course not, it's a plague of stationary dwarf elephants, which would have made a very interesting version of Snow White. Seven Elephants for Seven Elephants, as Indian elephants have them there arranged marriages. As well as 8 arms. And Ganesha must have it's acolytes. Still, better a Priest, than a Beast. And if it's a beast with eight cocks, then Snow White's kicking out six superfluous shortarses in favour of an octoschlonged oompa-loompa.
But what about them (south) African elephants - enforcing apartheid and treating indian elephants as little more than beasts, and making them use their own, segregated, watering holes? Disgraceful! I don't see Nelson Mandela campaigning for equal elephantine rights, do you?
I reckon all this elephantine entheusiam is down to it being the the Chinese Year Of The Elephant, where ladyfolk should emulate the revered aminal by writhing about in mud and getting hosed down by a long trunk...
Or something...
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