But not insectoid windowsill pointage.
It's two flying off to the cinema at speed to catch extortionately priced animatory movies that leap ouf of screen.
Of course, the state-of-the-fart cimena complex is as helpful as ever.
Now, it's an umpteen screen cinema, with many a film starting at 11. So, to cater for such a large number of screens, they open at 10:45.
With vast queueage of hoards of unrestrained freal chavbrats, desparate to see Britannia High. (Or is it Fame? Or High School Musical The 13th?)
So, naturally, they open with 2 people Bernarding the tills.
Who seem to take forever to do one person.
No wonder Woolies is closing down, when they allow ChavMum to force her brood to pay for their own stuff, item by item, rather than paying for the lot so everyone else can get served.
"Buy it yerself yer little shit, I ain't wasting me benefits on you"
"Can't you buy it, and take it out of my pocket money. I need this satchel for school"
"Fuck off, I need the cash for fags and voting on X-Factor".
And why can't they have this argument before getting to the checkout in front of me, rather than holding me up and keeping me away from my McMeal.
Which no longer has a 2-4-1 cinema offer on it.
Which is probably as well, seeing as The Hollywood seem to know what films I wanna see, so don't screen them so I can't use me voucher.
Scuzzbuckets!
Sunday 30 November 2008
Saturday 29 November 2008
What’s this...
Extortion!
Now, there are some who say I have a slight obsession with Tim Burton's Nightmare Before Christmas ,and one thing I've regretted is never seeing it on The Big Screen.
Lucky for me, an eagle eyed angel spotted that it's showing today and tomorrow only.. in 3D! Whoop whoop!
Unfortunately, The Pretties are all off pampering themselves today, so I had to see it on me own, as there was no guarantee they'd be free tomorrow. However, if one's compadres are free tomorrow, I'd love to see it again...
Although, even the staff were shocked at the tickety price! The Trout on the till had to get burly bloke to double check. And in astonishment, they rang up Management for confirmation.
Yes folks, the price of one ticket to see NBX 3D is...
£8.75. per person!!!
In the words of Tony Harrison: This is an outrage!
On the other hand, this is the man who spent {*cough*} on pin badges in Disneyland, so I'd gladly pay 9.7p a minute (with a 2p tip) again tomorrow.
But seeing as there was only one other Billy NoMates in the whole cinema, I expect few others to fork up the extortionate entry fee, just to see exactly the same film as always, just in 3D.
But it is impressive though!
Now, there are some who say I have a slight obsession with Tim Burton's Nightmare Before Christmas ,and one thing I've regretted is never seeing it on The Big Screen.
Lucky for me, an eagle eyed angel spotted that it's showing today and tomorrow only.. in 3D! Whoop whoop!
Unfortunately, The Pretties are all off pampering themselves today, so I had to see it on me own, as there was no guarantee they'd be free tomorrow. However, if one's compadres are free tomorrow, I'd love to see it again...
Although, even the staff were shocked at the tickety price! The Trout on the till had to get burly bloke to double check. And in astonishment, they rang up Management for confirmation.
Yes folks, the price of one ticket to see NBX 3D is...
£8.75. per person!!!
In the words of Tony Harrison: This is an outrage!
On the other hand, this is the man who spent {*cough*} on pin badges in Disneyland, so I'd gladly pay 9.7p a minute (with a 2p tip) again tomorrow.
But seeing as there was only one other Billy NoMates in the whole cinema, I expect few others to fork up the extortionate entry fee, just to see exactly the same film as always, just in 3D.
But it is impressive though!
Friday 28 November 2008
The bell hatted cat...
You're everything to me
…
Is it burning bright
On the other side?
Today
Too late
And memories wont fade
they're still there without you
...
And I need time no more
When you can't cry no more
And love died before
Look behind no more
…
Too late
And I need time no more
Thursday 27 November 2008
Ich bin ein Icelander...
It's all very well claiming that Donovan, Nuclear pussy, Transylvanian Trannies and one of Richie's four tissue fantasy do nowt but stuff their cakeholes full of cheapo grub all day long, but I'm pretty certain they fayre they consume isn't exactly what's proffered.
Party like a celeb... at Iceland? Now, the only icelandic celeb I'm aware of is Björk, and I don't see her clobbering pepperoni photographers in airports with a box of £1 mini Kievs. She's too busy spending all the UKs cash when the bottom fell out of the Icelandic bank*.
Or did Björks bottom fall out in a bank? I remember Björks nörks being all over an album sleeve when she went piercing crazy, but not baring her bot in banks (which would clearly make the Merchant Bankers day, what with their bottoms falling out, and whatnot. Although I'd be concerned if their WhatNots were falling out in front of Björk - probably why she went all Ninja on them in the airport.)
Celebs should be ordering Caviar from Harrods, Bigfoot snouts and Polar bear penises - outrageously expensive, rare and mythical tucker, not a bag of oven chips and a packet of Micro-sausages.
Not to mention rating pasties for their cuteness, the great fat pie-dophile!
Although, to be fair, it could quite well be true of the Jungle Queen - her dependency on the mead is obviously down to the ridiculously cheapo beer. £5.50 for 2 bottles of Jacques - get it down yer neck girl!
If I recall, didn't she keep singing about begging for The Sex whenever she got drunk? Oh yes, It was a hit single that went something like..
Or something...
*APOLOGIES TO ANYONE WHO INVESTED IN AN ICELANDIC BANK, BUT TOUGH TITTY! SERVES YOU RIGHT FOR NOT INVESTING IN BRITISH BANKS, AND TRYING TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF FOREIGN INTEREST RATES THAT WERE BOUND TO COLLAPSE. SERVES YOU TAX DODGERS RIGHT!! MWAH HA HA HA HA HA!
Party like a celeb... at Iceland? Now, the only icelandic celeb I'm aware of is Björk, and I don't see her clobbering pepperoni photographers in airports with a box of £1 mini Kievs. She's too busy spending all the UKs cash when the bottom fell out of the Icelandic bank*.
Or did Björks bottom fall out in a bank? I remember Björks nörks being all over an album sleeve when she went piercing crazy, but not baring her bot in banks (which would clearly make the Merchant Bankers day, what with their bottoms falling out, and whatnot. Although I'd be concerned if their WhatNots were falling out in front of Björk - probably why she went all Ninja on them in the airport.)
Celebs should be ordering Caviar from Harrods, Bigfoot snouts and Polar bear penises - outrageously expensive, rare and mythical tucker, not a bag of oven chips and a packet of Micro-sausages.
Not to mention rating pasties for their cuteness, the great fat pie-dophile!
Although, to be fair, it could quite well be true of the Jungle Queen - her dependency on the mead is obviously down to the ridiculously cheapo beer. £5.50 for 2 bottles of Jacques - get it down yer neck girl!
If I recall, didn't she keep singing about begging for The Sex whenever she got drunk? Oh yes, It was a hit single that went something like..
If you seen me staggerin' down the street
Staring at the sky
And draggin' my two feet
You just pass me by
It still makes me cry
But you can fill my hole again
Or something...
*APOLOGIES TO ANYONE WHO INVESTED IN AN ICELANDIC BANK, BUT TOUGH TITTY! SERVES YOU RIGHT FOR NOT INVESTING IN BRITISH BANKS, AND TRYING TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF FOREIGN INTEREST RATES THAT WERE BOUND TO COLLAPSE. SERVES YOU TAX DODGERS RIGHT!! MWAH HA HA HA HA HA!
Wednesday 26 November 2008
Dead as a Dodi...
Some people will go to any lengths to prove a consipracy!
Take that Al Fat Head. Always banging on about how the Queen and Prince Phil drive through Paris shining torches into drunken drivers eyes in order cause the demise of Diana to avert radical fundamentalist muslim offspring fouling the Royal line and suicide bombing Balmoral.
In his latest ludicrous attempt to uncover the truth, he's persuaded the Russians to hand over a teapot to the Queen.
Ah, but not any old teapot!
This teapot comes equipped with tealeaf avoidance detector so that Butlery Buglary Burrell types can't snaffle it under their ermine capes and crown jewel encrusted Swag bag.
But it's main feature, is the attachment of an array of spyware. The ornate style of a samovar teapot is that you can lodge electronic devices about it's intricate bits and bobs.
That way, if Lizzy II is in the middle of munching her Coco-Pops at brekkie, and accidentally says to Phil "Does one remember when one topped off one's ex-daughter in law and that ghastly foreigner", old Moe Hammond can record it as proof of their duplicity!
And if that fails, he can always release the album "The Greatest Brew Stews In The World (vol.iii)":
Track 1: Earl Grey. The sound of swirling leaves in tepid water
Track 2: Lapsang Soushong. Water trickled over a fine filter of dregs into a china teacup
Track 3: PG Tips: Hot water pours into a cracked mug, and Her Magde squeeze the teabag against the side, whilst she slums in in her pants watching H!IACGNOOHN
Bonus Track: PG Tips (Redux). Extended mix, including Chocolate Hob Nob dunkage.
People criticised Bonnie Prince Charley for being mad and talking to plants... clearly these'plants' were literally such! Planted listening and recording devices! For from encouraging them to grow, he was recording all his secret plans and nefarious activities amongst the foliage.
Now, If My Hammerhead has planted a bug on a plant rather than a teapot, he may have caught wind of Charles' confessionals: "Hello Clematis. Did you know, one cut the brakes on ones ex-wife's car, and drugged up the driver on cocktails. Mwah ha ha ha. Serves the attention seeking shagabout slapper right!".
As it is, a simple sweep of Balmoral resulted in Spooks type peoples nabbing all the teapots, due to the "security risk".
Think I may try that in Bennets. "Hmmm - I'm from MI5, and that great big 50" HDTV telly could have a listening device within. Think I'll have that! I mean, remove it from the premises for further analysis"...
Further analysis being watching Danni Behr in a skimpy bikini showering in a jungle waterfall - well, you need to be certain there's no hidden listening or video recording spy type gadgets hidden behind the cathode ray tube.
Or something.
Take that Al Fat Head. Always banging on about how the Queen and Prince Phil drive through Paris shining torches into drunken drivers eyes in order cause the demise of Diana to avert radical fundamentalist muslim offspring fouling the Royal line and suicide bombing Balmoral.
In his latest ludicrous attempt to uncover the truth, he's persuaded the Russians to hand over a teapot to the Queen.
Ah, but not any old teapot!
This teapot comes equipped with tealeaf avoidance detector so that Butlery Buglary Burrell types can't snaffle it under their ermine capes and crown jewel encrusted Swag bag.
But it's main feature, is the attachment of an array of spyware. The ornate style of a samovar teapot is that you can lodge electronic devices about it's intricate bits and bobs.
That way, if Lizzy II is in the middle of munching her Coco-Pops at brekkie, and accidentally says to Phil "Does one remember when one topped off one's ex-daughter in law and that ghastly foreigner", old Moe Hammond can record it as proof of their duplicity!
And if that fails, he can always release the album "The Greatest Brew Stews In The World (vol.iii)":
Track 1: Earl Grey. The sound of swirling leaves in tepid water
Track 2: Lapsang Soushong. Water trickled over a fine filter of dregs into a china teacup
Track 3: PG Tips: Hot water pours into a cracked mug, and Her Magde squeeze the teabag against the side, whilst she slums in in her pants watching H!IACGNOOHN
Bonus Track: PG Tips (Redux). Extended mix, including Chocolate Hob Nob dunkage.
People criticised Bonnie Prince Charley for being mad and talking to plants... clearly these'plants' were literally such! Planted listening and recording devices! For from encouraging them to grow, he was recording all his secret plans and nefarious activities amongst the foliage.
Now, If My Hammerhead has planted a bug on a plant rather than a teapot, he may have caught wind of Charles' confessionals: "Hello Clematis. Did you know, one cut the brakes on ones ex-wife's car, and drugged up the driver on cocktails. Mwah ha ha ha. Serves the attention seeking shagabout slapper right!".
As it is, a simple sweep of Balmoral resulted in Spooks type peoples nabbing all the teapots, due to the "security risk".
Think I may try that in Bennets. "Hmmm - I'm from MI5, and that great big 50" HDTV telly could have a listening device within. Think I'll have that! I mean, remove it from the premises for further analysis"...
Further analysis being watching Danni Behr in a skimpy bikini showering in a jungle waterfall - well, you need to be certain there's no hidden listening or video recording spy type gadgets hidden behind the cathode ray tube.
Or something.
Tuesday 25 November 2008
Handbags at dusk...
There be Office Talk at the moment of Fridays Big Event.
Seems the MIR space station is passing over, so you get a good old goz at the sight of a shiny star moving across the sky.
BUT...
The Big Event is that you can see the Handbag that the dozy mare dropped on her spacewalk!
Now, ladies in space is very popular - after all, what lady doesn't want to be like Ellen Ripley (or Vasquez, for that matter!), but seems a tad extreme to don a huge spacery suit, clamber out into the void of space to do repairs, and take your Ladies Accoutrements along, only to let them tumble into the stratosphere!
Of course, you may be up to your norks in solar panelling, when a UFO pops by, and naturally you'd want to bung a bit of lippy on. For as everyone knows, folks get abducted for sexual experiments and breeding programs with space monsters.
Although, more often, it's munteresque hillbilly inbred types in forests who get ravished by Insemmenoids, so tarting yerself up may indeed be a defense against astro-rape.
As would be a heavily loaded handbag.
But she dropped it, and now we're in for a Leonid shower of lippy & tampons. Or whatever else lurks in the bottomless pits of a handbag.
Chihuahua comet! Hurtling from the sky, yapping at the hedgehogs in the aquasphere as it plummets in a firey streak across the sky.
Would never have happened if they'd sent a proper jobbing jobber to do the job. True, he may piss in your helmet, sit on the roof having a fag at time & a half, downing tea and leering over the lady astronauts in Zero-G strings in the shower whilst being secretly filmed for Matt All-Right's Rogue Space Traders.
I wonder if she was paranoid about her bum looking big in a space suit...
Seems the MIR space station is passing over, so you get a good old goz at the sight of a shiny star moving across the sky.
BUT...
The Big Event is that you can see the Handbag that the dozy mare dropped on her spacewalk!
Now, ladies in space is very popular - after all, what lady doesn't want to be like Ellen Ripley (or Vasquez, for that matter!), but seems a tad extreme to don a huge spacery suit, clamber out into the void of space to do repairs, and take your Ladies Accoutrements along, only to let them tumble into the stratosphere!
Of course, you may be up to your norks in solar panelling, when a UFO pops by, and naturally you'd want to bung a bit of lippy on. For as everyone knows, folks get abducted for sexual experiments and breeding programs with space monsters.
Although, more often, it's munteresque hillbilly inbred types in forests who get ravished by Insemmenoids, so tarting yerself up may indeed be a defense against astro-rape.
As would be a heavily loaded handbag.
But she dropped it, and now we're in for a Leonid shower of lippy & tampons. Or whatever else lurks in the bottomless pits of a handbag.
Chihuahua comet! Hurtling from the sky, yapping at the hedgehogs in the aquasphere as it plummets in a firey streak across the sky.
Would never have happened if they'd sent a proper jobbing jobber to do the job. True, he may piss in your helmet, sit on the roof having a fag at time & a half, downing tea and leering over the lady astronauts in Zero-G strings in the shower whilst being secretly filmed for Matt All-Right's Rogue Space Traders.
I wonder if she was paranoid about her bum looking big in a space suit...
Monday 24 November 2008
Manic Street Preacher Man...
Today, it was announced that Richey Edwards of the Manic Street Preachers has been declared officially deaded after 14 years.
Which made him 27 when he died.
Now, it's well known that in order to be a true star, you have to die when you hit age 27. Heath Ledger, Pete deFeitas of Echo & The Bunnymen, Dave Alexander of The Stooges, Kurt Cocaine of Nirvana, Jim Morrisson of The Doors, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Brian Jones of The Rolling Stones…
…and it's all the fault of that Robert Johnson.
Robert Johnson was a bit crap at the ole R&B (proper R&B that is, all Louisiana Swamp Jazz, not this booty shakin' vocal wailing that talentless Leona Tuneless types try & pass off as R&B), so he took himself off down The Crossroads motel.
Whilst there, he summonsed up The Devil in order to become a Blues Musician of the highest quality. And get lots of cash & gash whilst he was at it.
Anyhoo, Mr Morningstar isn't keen on handing out talent and trollops, and duly set a time limit on how long Bobbo's benefits lasted. And so, whilst recording his 30th record (Apocalypse Blues) on his 27th Birthday, up pops Lucifer and drags him off to hell, leaving naught behind but a devilish chortle on the LP.
Somehow though, you can't help but wish certain other celebrities would take advantage of this deal, preferably 11 months after their 26th birthday.
*cough*JamesBlunt*cough* etc…
Which made him 27 when he died.
Now, it's well known that in order to be a true star, you have to die when you hit age 27. Heath Ledger, Pete deFeitas of Echo & The Bunnymen, Dave Alexander of The Stooges, Kurt Cocaine of Nirvana, Jim Morrisson of The Doors, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Brian Jones of The Rolling Stones…
…and it's all the fault of that Robert Johnson.
Robert Johnson was a bit crap at the ole R&B (proper R&B that is, all Louisiana Swamp Jazz, not this booty shakin' vocal wailing that talentless Leona Tuneless types try & pass off as R&B), so he took himself off down The Crossroads motel.
Whilst there, he summonsed up The Devil in order to become a Blues Musician of the highest quality. And get lots of cash & gash whilst he was at it.
Anyhoo, Mr Morningstar isn't keen on handing out talent and trollops, and duly set a time limit on how long Bobbo's benefits lasted. And so, whilst recording his 30th record (Apocalypse Blues) on his 27th Birthday, up pops Lucifer and drags him off to hell, leaving naught behind but a devilish chortle on the LP.
Somehow though, you can't help but wish certain other celebrities would take advantage of this deal, preferably 11 months after their 26th birthday.
*cough*JamesBlunt*cough* etc…
Sunday 23 November 2008
My eyes are pies…
Ooooh, I look good in goggles!
Sex in specs, that's me!
Let's hope I fail me eye test then…
Sex in specs, that's me!
Let's hope I fail me eye test then…
Saturday 22 November 2008
Lack of Sherman Tank(Top)...
Fast food, and fast women!
Seems that old Ronald McDonald is enhancing the creepy clown's reputation by using the Interweb to put up McPorn.
Of course, the world isn't ready for the sight of Grimace fisting Hamburglar, so Ron has resorted to nudie pics of Pretties.
Well, I say 'Pretties'. Of course, this is in Arkansas, USA, so the lardy lady is probably bloated on Big Mac and Fanny O' Fish meals.
Thankfully, the au naturelle Jabba is suing everyone's favourite fast food feasting palace, and has got her name, address, phone number and porny pics removed.
Oh well, that's what you get for sending nudie pics to your hubby's phone, then leaving said phone in bugger bars!
Seems that old Ronald McDonald is enhancing the creepy clown's reputation by using the Interweb to put up McPorn.
Of course, the world isn't ready for the sight of Grimace fisting Hamburglar, so Ron has resorted to nudie pics of Pretties.
Well, I say 'Pretties'. Of course, this is in Arkansas, USA, so the lardy lady is probably bloated on Big Mac and Fanny O' Fish meals.
Thankfully, the au naturelle Jabba is suing everyone's favourite fast food feasting palace, and has got her name, address, phone number and porny pics removed.
Oh well, that's what you get for sending nudie pics to your hubby's phone, then leaving said phone in bugger bars!
Friday 21 November 2008
I’d give it 5 mins if I were you…
They'll commemorate anything these days!
Recently, it was World Toilet Day (World Toilet Day? The mind boggles!!*) and to celebrate the event, the charity Tearfund comissioned an all-important survey in order to resolve the plight of unsanitary lavatories in The Developing World.
And the title of this survey was: Favourite Activities Of Britons On The Toilet.
Now, exactly how this provides third world shacks with a clean, safe place to drop the kids off at the pool, I'm yet to learn!
However, it seems that the most popular activities when going to the toilet are reading books, papers and magazines, and thinking about food.
Strange… I thought the most popular activity, nay – the sole activity, when going to the dump station, would be for a shit. Or a piss.
Maybe it's me, but if I'm reading a book, I'll do it on the sofa. Or in bed. Or even on a chair or beanbag. But I would never suddenly think "Oooh, I must read the next chapter of Harry Plopper and the Chamberpot Of Secretion. I shall make haste to the lavatory in order to read it!"
And I certainly wouldn't think "Hmmm. What shall I have for tea? I know, I shall go into the bathroom so I can contemplate it further."
However, that said… I can see how sometimes reading the paper can be a popular activity over the bog bowl.
The Sunday Spurt springs to mind…
* GAAAAAH - I'TS HOGGLE!!!
Recently, it was World Toilet Day (World Toilet Day? The mind boggles!!*) and to celebrate the event, the charity Tearfund comissioned an all-important survey in order to resolve the plight of unsanitary lavatories in The Developing World.
And the title of this survey was: Favourite Activities Of Britons On The Toilet.
Now, exactly how this provides third world shacks with a clean, safe place to drop the kids off at the pool, I'm yet to learn!
However, it seems that the most popular activities when going to the toilet are reading books, papers and magazines, and thinking about food.
Strange… I thought the most popular activity, nay – the sole activity, when going to the dump station, would be for a shit. Or a piss.
Maybe it's me, but if I'm reading a book, I'll do it on the sofa. Or in bed. Or even on a chair or beanbag. But I would never suddenly think "Oooh, I must read the next chapter of Harry Plopper and the Chamberpot Of Secretion. I shall make haste to the lavatory in order to read it!"
And I certainly wouldn't think "Hmmm. What shall I have for tea? I know, I shall go into the bathroom so I can contemplate it further."
However, that said… I can see how sometimes reading the paper can be a popular activity over the bog bowl.
The Sunday Spurt springs to mind…
* GAAAAAH - I'TS HOGGLE!!!
Thursday 20 November 2008
11pm chronometer...
Them crazy Russians!
OK, Putin's punishments my be somewhat extreme, but changing a Pretty into a stuffed owl, bunging her in a cardboard box, and bunging her in a dusty drawer for 60 years is a bit much!
And then, after converting the owlage into a Pretty, to switch her mind into a blokes bod (and vice-versa) only to watch said bloke checking out the contents of the 'over the shoulder boulder holders' and having a good squeeze of the bot is a bit much.
Even worse when the bloke takes the Pretties bod off to escort another Pretty home - especially when the bloke and the escorted Pretty fancy each other.
Not to mention escorted Pretty asking Bloke-In-A-Pretty's-Bod (not knowing it's a bloke) for a towel in the shower, resulting in some sapphic shagathon in the shower.
And then gets the munchies and stuffs the Pretty's face full of salami before taking escorted Pretty out to dinner before getting into a slo-mo action fight with the big guns and the laying about the place with fisticuffs.
And after being switched back into her own bod, Blokey only goes and chalks 'No' on the wall, meaning she's back in the box as a taxidermidized Tawny owl!
Ah, the circle of Life... Or, as Eddie Hitler puts it:
"You're Born... You keep your head down... Then you die.
...If you're lucky!"
OK, Putin's punishments my be somewhat extreme, but changing a Pretty into a stuffed owl, bunging her in a cardboard box, and bunging her in a dusty drawer for 60 years is a bit much!
And then, after converting the owlage into a Pretty, to switch her mind into a blokes bod (and vice-versa) only to watch said bloke checking out the contents of the 'over the shoulder boulder holders' and having a good squeeze of the bot is a bit much.
Even worse when the bloke takes the Pretties bod off to escort another Pretty home - especially when the bloke and the escorted Pretty fancy each other.
Not to mention escorted Pretty asking Bloke-In-A-Pretty's-Bod (not knowing it's a bloke) for a towel in the shower, resulting in some sapphic shagathon in the shower.
And then gets the munchies and stuffs the Pretty's face full of salami before taking escorted Pretty out to dinner before getting into a slo-mo action fight with the big guns and the laying about the place with fisticuffs.
And after being switched back into her own bod, Blokey only goes and chalks 'No' on the wall, meaning she's back in the box as a taxidermidized Tawny owl!
Ah, the circle of Life... Or, as Eddie Hitler puts it:
"You're Born... You keep your head down... Then you die.
...If you're lucky!"
Wednesday 19 November 2008
If you take a look, inside a book...
Assault! Subterranean subterfuge! Carrie-On Out The Graveature!
Recall a while back when The Illuminati were after me for revealing their reptillian secrecy over their World Domination plans, and they sent them old codgers after me to Take Me Out (or 'Whack' me, as they say in Goodfellas - but not in Beavis and Butthead Do America - they never tried that kind of whacking at all - good job they didn't take Take Me Out in a datey sense!).
Anyhoo, those mysterious masonic masters have tracked me down again, and set the Underworld upon me!
Returning from The Holiday Inn up by the Airport from a conference, I noticed a myriad of molehills... or were they? For in making my way home, suddenly, I gets pulled into the earth!
Yikes! Mutant moles on the prowl wanting a Xym Sandwich, or Terrible Tibetan Tunnellers, grasping the ankles of a blissfully unaware Xym, to be dragged to the shadowy subterranean city of Shamballa to face the Wrath Of The Overlords.
Who may, or may not, be named Khan.
Luckily, I tore free from the Buddhist burrower, and although he managed to give me The Limpage (in the leg! Although also in the cock, for there is not much in the way of arousal by being yanked down to be buried alive.) I arrived home safe and sound.
But not before passing the moley monks secret monastery on Fifers Lane - The Mole's Rest! A-ha! The name's a dead giveaway! Good job I escaped, as this is clearly some kind of Hostel of the Eli Roth persuasion, where the tunnelling Taoists flog Revealers Of Sinister Societies off to lizard kings for evil torturey pleasure!
Oh well, at least I've got my health.
Apart from the twisted ankle...
Recall a while back when The Illuminati were after me for revealing their reptillian secrecy over their World Domination plans, and they sent them old codgers after me to Take Me Out (or 'Whack' me, as they say in Goodfellas - but not in Beavis and Butthead Do America - they never tried that kind of whacking at all - good job they didn't take Take Me Out in a datey sense!).
Anyhoo, those mysterious masonic masters have tracked me down again, and set the Underworld upon me!
Returning from The Holiday Inn up by the Airport from a conference, I noticed a myriad of molehills... or were they? For in making my way home, suddenly, I gets pulled into the earth!
Yikes! Mutant moles on the prowl wanting a Xym Sandwich, or Terrible Tibetan Tunnellers, grasping the ankles of a blissfully unaware Xym, to be dragged to the shadowy subterranean city of Shamballa to face the Wrath Of The Overlords.
Who may, or may not, be named Khan.
Luckily, I tore free from the Buddhist burrower, and although he managed to give me The Limpage (in the leg! Although also in the cock, for there is not much in the way of arousal by being yanked down to be buried alive.) I arrived home safe and sound.
But not before passing the moley monks secret monastery on Fifers Lane - The Mole's Rest! A-ha! The name's a dead giveaway! Good job I escaped, as this is clearly some kind of Hostel of the Eli Roth persuasion, where the tunnelling Taoists flog Revealers Of Sinister Societies off to lizard kings for evil torturey pleasure!
Oh well, at least I've got my health.
Apart from the twisted ankle...
Tuesday 18 November 2008
Oooh, that’s a rather large package...
Good ole DHL bunged one of them "tough shit, you were out when we delivered, ha ha ha" cards through the door, but rather than having to trek down to the inaccessible hinterland, they left my package with a neighbour down the road, in a neighboring street.
Luckily for me, the Evil Thieving ChavScum of Poland have been ejected from their domicile, and a replacement friendly chappy kindly returned my parcel.
Now, the only think I'm expecting delivery of is a book, which is now over 2 months late, so imagine my surprise when I gets handed a 4.5ft by 2ft box!
What could it be, in oh-so-large a container?
A-ha! It be filled with AirBags!
Turf them out to find...
Giant cheesey wotsits!
Turn them out to find...
Another cardboard box!
Better than pass the parcel this! Openy openy!!!
Oh, it's a book.
Wot a let down. Still, it never does any good to get excited over an oversized package.
Oh well, at least I got one Xmas present this year.
Even if it is from meself...
Luckily for me, the Evil Thieving ChavScum of Poland have been ejected from their domicile, and a replacement friendly chappy kindly returned my parcel.
Now, the only think I'm expecting delivery of is a book, which is now over 2 months late, so imagine my surprise when I gets handed a 4.5ft by 2ft box!
What could it be, in oh-so-large a container?
A-ha! It be filled with AirBags!
Turf them out to find...
Giant cheesey wotsits!
Turn them out to find...
Another cardboard box!
Better than pass the parcel this! Openy openy!!!
Oh, it's a book.
Wot a let down. Still, it never does any good to get excited over an oversized package.
Oh well, at least I got one Xmas present this year.
Even if it is from meself...
Monday 17 November 2008
Infertile sponge based snackery...
There's one of them governmenty type 'Shocking Surverys been produced.
And just who eats 8 sprouts at any one meal? 4's a bit much - 6 is just pushing it too far! But 8?!?!?!
Even Elvis could only manage one - and that was in his ear!
Seems that 1 in 20 parents don't realise that an orange is part of your 5-a-day, yet 1 in 10 believe a Jaffa Cake does coz 'it's got oranges in, innit'.
And despite goverment wailings that a chocolate covered spange with a smashing orangey bit is most unhealthy, I concure with these irresposnsible parents, for Jafa Cakes do indeed contain orange, and therefore are a legitimate contribution to your five a day.
Worryingly, though, these self same parent belive that coke and spaghetti hoops are part of the 5-a-day plan, despite their total lack of fruit and veg...
Although, I'd like to claim that Spaggy Hoops is TWO of your five a day, with the tomato that going into the tommy sauce being claimed as both a fruit and a veg.
Spaghettit Hoops on toast, a bottle of cider, some jaffa cakes and a bottle of Perry - 1x tomato (veg), 1x tomato (fruit), 1x apple, 1x orange and 1x pear. Sounds good to me! Much better than the Governments insisted meal of:
- Half a courgette
- One apple
- TWO pieces of broccolli (gaaaah - the Creeping Moss from the Shores of Shoggoth! Quick, replace it with Egg in soup with pork pie/sausage roll side dish)
- THREE tablespoons of peas
- EIGHT Brussels sprouts (gaaaah- the Sprouts Of Evil arise again!)
- ONE bowl of salad
And just who eats 8 sprouts at any one meal? 4's a bit much - 6 is just pushing it too far! But 8?!?!?!
Even Elvis could only manage one - and that was in his ear!
Sunday 16 November 2008
Jif Microliquid where are you...
Dammit!
Hallowe'en was two weeks ago, and I just remembered I forgot to make Sprouts Mexicaine.
Sprouts Mexicaine?
Sprouts Mexicaine!
How's yer sausage? Can I drink your juice? We'll just have to eat our flakes!
Forget the Myers mask next year - it's a horny mask, white shirt & black tie, Y-Fronts and tights for me!
Oh God. Why does life have to be so horrible?
And the bloody kettle's STILL hot...
[EDIT]: not only that, but I just remembered I could've pulled at Hades/WhatACunt if I'd rolled back the lino and summoned up Lucifer via the Sprouts Of Evil and the secret Devil raising incantation in the Ladybird book of witches in exchange for 25 years of amazing sex and cash!
Guess the penciltangle will have to wait until next year.
You don't wear slippers when you're raising the Evil One...
Hallowe'en was two weeks ago, and I just remembered I forgot to make Sprouts Mexicaine.
Sprouts Mexicaine?
Sprouts Mexicaine!
How's yer sausage? Can I drink your juice? We'll just have to eat our flakes!
Forget the Myers mask next year - it's a horny mask, white shirt & black tie, Y-Fronts and tights for me!
Oh God. Why does life have to be so horrible?
And the bloody kettle's STILL hot...
[EDIT]: not only that, but I just remembered I could've pulled at Hades/WhatACunt if I'd rolled back the lino and summoned up Lucifer via the Sprouts Of Evil and the secret Devil raising incantation in the Ladybird book of witches in exchange for 25 years of amazing sex and cash!
Guess the penciltangle will have to wait until next year.
You don't wear slippers when you're raising the Evil One...
Saturday 15 November 2008
The cavalcade, the jam butty...
Ole Xym appears to be emitting a miasma of misery that causeth people to conclude that the great fat fool is in some form of abject gloom, when in reality he's as happy as happy can be!
Perhaps this unwarranted perception if the reason of the new sport of Xym Avoidance!
After the Here-Comes-Xym-Let's-Sidle-Off palava at Hades, I'm now subjected to the Phew-He's-Going-Shit-He's-Not-Let's-Go-Instead scenario at the WhatACunt!
I pops upstairs to see what dupious delight is presented in Paradise Shitty when personage A comes up and states that A & B are leaving. So I returns to say me farewells to B.
C, D & E greet me with waveature, clearly under the impression I'm the one being sent home with no tea! I decides to stay, then suddenly C, D & E suddenly decide to leave! Meanwhile, B tells me I should go off and play with my other friends who happen to be present.
Dial Emma!
For these be the self same friends of the Here-Comes-Xym-Let's-Sidle-Off persuasion!
Oh, what to do!
Sidle off home into a life of hermittery and agrophobia (fear of getting into a fight, ie a bit of aggro).
I should never have stormed Mount Olympus and bewailed by lot unto the Moiræ. The Moiræ being the three fates, although I only know of one, that one being Moira Stewart, who likes to dress up in reptilian space monster outfits.
Gronda! Gronda!
Perhaps this unwarranted perception if the reason of the new sport of Xym Avoidance!
After the Here-Comes-Xym-Let's-Sidle-Off palava at Hades, I'm now subjected to the Phew-He's-Going-Shit-He's-Not-Let's-Go-Instead scenario at the WhatACunt!
I pops upstairs to see what dupious delight is presented in Paradise Shitty when personage A comes up and states that A & B are leaving. So I returns to say me farewells to B.
C, D & E greet me with waveature, clearly under the impression I'm the one being sent home with no tea! I decides to stay, then suddenly C, D & E suddenly decide to leave! Meanwhile, B tells me I should go off and play with my other friends who happen to be present.
Dial Emma!
For these be the self same friends of the Here-Comes-Xym-Let's-Sidle-Off persuasion!
Oh, what to do!
Sidle off home into a life of hermittery and agrophobia (fear of getting into a fight, ie a bit of aggro).
I should never have stormed Mount Olympus and bewailed by lot unto the Moiræ. The Moiræ being the three fates, although I only know of one, that one being Moira Stewart, who likes to dress up in reptilian space monster outfits.
Gronda! Gronda!
Friday 14 November 2008
Ground floor, comin up...
'Jonergy' instead of 5th Dimensional Cephalopod?
Oh well, at least Rorschachs fluid mask works onscreen. Not to mention Silk Spectre II walking down them steps at SingSing Prison...
No Squidward! Hurm...
Gawd help us all
And for anyone wondering about Doc Manhattan - yes, in the movie there will be a big blue CGI cock for the ladies.
Oh well, at least Rorschachs fluid mask works onscreen. Not to mention Silk Spectre II walking down them steps at SingSing Prison...
No Squidward! Hurm...
Gawd help us all
And for anyone wondering about Doc Manhattan - yes, in the movie there will be a big blue CGI cock for the ladies.
Thursday 13 November 2008
Crack fox...
Gaaaah!
Bin blokes are like buses!
Ever changing their times tables, when they had their myriad of recycleyment going on, they set collection on a Tuesday, when it used to be a Friday.
And when I remember on a Tuesday morn to put the rubbish out, they don't blimmin' well take it!
Well, more take everyone else's and forget Xym's bin!
Enslaved by maniacal vermin partaking of Shaman Juice, looks like they want to create an underworld den out of pizza boxes and sweetie wrappers.
But they ain't puttin' me in a dress and hurting me, I'll tell you that for nowt!
Bin blokes are like buses!
Ever changing their times tables, when they had their myriad of recycleyment going on, they set collection on a Tuesday, when it used to be a Friday.
And when I remember on a Tuesday morn to put the rubbish out, they don't blimmin' well take it!
Well, more take everyone else's and forget Xym's bin!
Enslaved by maniacal vermin partaking of Shaman Juice, looks like they want to create an underworld den out of pizza boxes and sweetie wrappers.
But they ain't puttin' me in a dress and hurting me, I'll tell you that for nowt!
Wednesday 12 November 2008
What’s that coming over the hill...
...is it a monster?
Nah, It's Xym in his Abdominal Snowman Yeti coat!
Brrrr, it be cold out there.
Chilly down.
With fire!
Nah, It's Xym in his Abdominal Snowman Yeti coat!
Brrrr, it be cold out there.
Chilly down.
With fire!
Tuesday 11 November 2008
Stop the pigeon...
Now, a fair while back I made mention of the curious pusuit of the maniacal masked killer. To whit (to who?), that no matter how fast you run, it's no match for the slow, ponderous lumber of the strolling psycho.
Having sat through a number of Friday The 13th's due to cheap box set purchasement, I noticed a couple of other items that appear to be essential to any serial stalkery types.
Item 1: The Distraction Pussy
A popular item this. Seems that your average knife wielding maniac carries a cat in his coat pocket. After entering a deserted room, the lonatic secretes the kitten in a cupboard, behind a window, in a drawer, or in a pan. Then, he'll make 'The Suspicious Noise', causing the victim to wander alone into the creepy empty location, where (by use of a sophisticated form of mangonel or trebuchet) he will flinf the feline at females faces, thus distracting them with a sudden shock. Allowing time for him to creep up behind for The Unexpected Shock.
Item 2: The Dick Dastardly school of slaughter
Clearly, in order to become an Unstoppable Force Of Evil, you need to attend this school. Seems to me, that in order to speedily and efficiently dispatch a horde of horny teens, you need to send much time taking each murdered councillor and array them in a series of artistic displays, so that the Lone Survivor can run into them. Put them in a tree, hang them in a cupboard to swing out, or artfully arranged around a dining table. Result: The masked maniac becomes a cropper at the end.
And I'm not talking about Roys Rolls.
See, Dick Dastardly was the greatest driver of the Wacky Races. He should have won every single one! After all, he always managed to get so far ahead of all his competitors that he had pots of time to set up his elaborate traps! If he had just carried on racing, he'd've won!
You don't see Massa, Reikonnen or Hamilton in the F1 Grand Pricks, streaking ahead by a lap and on target for first place, only to stop at a shady bend, hang a canvas of the circuit across the road and dig a deep pit behind it, then hide behind a steward giggling like a maniac as they pack streak by. Then, wondering why everyone went through, try to drive through also, and go through the canvas and into the pit, thus losing the race.
Too busy being whipped by Nazi Dominatrix in cellars, that's the problem with these F1 bosses. We want skullduggery on the circuit - maybe Torro Rosso can hire Professor Pat Pending and his Convert-a-F1-Car. Perhaps Penelope Pittstop can chug around in the Compact Pussycat.
Even better if the Ant Hill Mob put Max Mosely in concrete slippers.
Dratt, Dratt, and double dratt!!
Having sat through a number of Friday The 13th's due to cheap box set purchasement, I noticed a couple of other items that appear to be essential to any serial stalkery types.
Item 1: The Distraction Pussy
A popular item this. Seems that your average knife wielding maniac carries a cat in his coat pocket. After entering a deserted room, the lonatic secretes the kitten in a cupboard, behind a window, in a drawer, or in a pan. Then, he'll make 'The Suspicious Noise', causing the victim to wander alone into the creepy empty location, where (by use of a sophisticated form of mangonel or trebuchet) he will flinf the feline at females faces, thus distracting them with a sudden shock. Allowing time for him to creep up behind for The Unexpected Shock.
Item 2: The Dick Dastardly school of slaughter
Clearly, in order to become an Unstoppable Force Of Evil, you need to attend this school. Seems to me, that in order to speedily and efficiently dispatch a horde of horny teens, you need to send much time taking each murdered councillor and array them in a series of artistic displays, so that the Lone Survivor can run into them. Put them in a tree, hang them in a cupboard to swing out, or artfully arranged around a dining table. Result: The masked maniac becomes a cropper at the end.
And I'm not talking about Roys Rolls.
See, Dick Dastardly was the greatest driver of the Wacky Races. He should have won every single one! After all, he always managed to get so far ahead of all his competitors that he had pots of time to set up his elaborate traps! If he had just carried on racing, he'd've won!
You don't see Massa, Reikonnen or Hamilton in the F1 Grand Pricks, streaking ahead by a lap and on target for first place, only to stop at a shady bend, hang a canvas of the circuit across the road and dig a deep pit behind it, then hide behind a steward giggling like a maniac as they pack streak by. Then, wondering why everyone went through, try to drive through also, and go through the canvas and into the pit, thus losing the race.
Too busy being whipped by Nazi Dominatrix in cellars, that's the problem with these F1 bosses. We want skullduggery on the circuit - maybe Torro Rosso can hire Professor Pat Pending and his Convert-a-F1-Car. Perhaps Penelope Pittstop can chug around in the Compact Pussycat.
Even better if the Ant Hill Mob put Max Mosely in concrete slippers.
Dratt, Dratt, and double dratt!!
Monday 10 November 2008
Eels up inside yer...
Hurrah for Mr Vic Reeves!
On the hunt for Jack The Ripper, he stopped off in a Eel, Pie and Mash shop!! Good on yer, Elsie!
Kudos to Vic!
Wonder if he went for a Lambeth golden shower afterwards, right in the face.
In a dolphin costume.
And got stump fucked.
These Camden types'll stab you up a treat!
John Wayne certainly ain't Big Leggy!
Bigleg - the detective with a big fucking leg.
Ah, mammaries...
On the hunt for Jack The Ripper, he stopped off in a Eel, Pie and Mash shop!! Good on yer, Elsie!
Kudos to Vic!
Wonder if he went for a Lambeth golden shower afterwards, right in the face.
In a dolphin costume.
And got stump fucked.
These Camden types'll stab you up a treat!
John Wayne certainly ain't Big Leggy!
Bigleg - the detective with a big fucking leg.
Ah, mammaries...
Sunday 9 November 2008
And happily we shiver...
Snap!
Crackle!
Pop!
Cereal in the sky and a milky drizzle of shimmer over the neighbours roof.
Still, it can't beat the display over Lake Disney.
Well, it could, if they had a Wicker Mickey. Filled with Pushy Mothers who ram their riotous brood into the faces of Disney Personages so no-one else can get a photo, and fat as fuck foreigners forcing through the queue due to their severe lack of manners, and inability to form an orderly line.
Not to mention them Gormsters who, when you are taking a photo, decide at that moment that they have to pass in front of you so all you get is a big fat gormsters head. Or when you're watching a parade, with the whole of an empty street to choose from, they simply have to stand right in front of you. And then pop their brat onto their shoulders so you can't see a damn thing.
And reserving all the breakfast tables, and not using them. Or if they do, simply stuff their big fat monky faces without taking in the view. Apart from the view of their plate, filled with a mountain of mystery meat and croissants.
And just why would a monasterial convention for mystical enlightenment be held in Disneyland? It may indeed be an ideal place to let your hair down, but it's a bit hard to let your hair down if you're a baldy buddhist.
I've heard of the Tao of Pooh, but the great Bodhisattva Kuan-Yin doing the Pirates Of The Carribean ride on the offchance of perving over a Jack Sparrow lookylikey?
Om mani padme hum? More like...
Yo! Ho!*
Yo! Ho!
A pirates life for me!
* A POPULAR GREETING BY BLACK GANSTAS TO THEIR BITCHES, OR SO I'M LED TO BELIEVE...
Crackle!
Pop!
Cereal in the sky and a milky drizzle of shimmer over the neighbours roof.
Still, it can't beat the display over Lake Disney.
Well, it could, if they had a Wicker Mickey. Filled with Pushy Mothers who ram their riotous brood into the faces of Disney Personages so no-one else can get a photo, and fat as fuck foreigners forcing through the queue due to their severe lack of manners, and inability to form an orderly line.
Not to mention them Gormsters who, when you are taking a photo, decide at that moment that they have to pass in front of you so all you get is a big fat gormsters head. Or when you're watching a parade, with the whole of an empty street to choose from, they simply have to stand right in front of you. And then pop their brat onto their shoulders so you can't see a damn thing.
And reserving all the breakfast tables, and not using them. Or if they do, simply stuff their big fat monky faces without taking in the view. Apart from the view of their plate, filled with a mountain of mystery meat and croissants.
And just why would a monasterial convention for mystical enlightenment be held in Disneyland? It may indeed be an ideal place to let your hair down, but it's a bit hard to let your hair down if you're a baldy buddhist.
I've heard of the Tao of Pooh, but the great Bodhisattva Kuan-Yin doing the Pirates Of The Carribean ride on the offchance of perving over a Jack Sparrow lookylikey?
Om mani padme hum? More like...
Yo! Ho!*
Yo! Ho!
A pirates life for me!
* A POPULAR GREETING BY BLACK GANSTAS TO THEIR BITCHES, OR SO I'M LED TO BELIEVE...
Saturday 8 November 2008
Coffee with Kara Thrace...
Confusion reigns upon the purchasement of caffiene based beverages!
Ok, you orders your Latte, and the inevitable question arises:
"Drink in, or drink out?"
Now, initial confusion arises here, because you get charged more for drinking in... BUT what about the seatage just outside? Is that classed as drinking in (as the table & chairs are part of the cafe), or drinking out (as the tables and chairs are outside)?
And to confuse me even more, the one in the Castley Mall has an outdoors indoors!! There is seatage outside the coffe house, yet it's inside the mall!!
In effect, this is inside, outside, on the inside.
And if you get charged more for drinking inside, then the double inside should, in effect, cancel each other out, with the outside resulting in a discount.
And did I get a discount?
Did I buggery sod as like!
Just a pint pot of Dark Cherry Mocha, which is apparently the color of some birds skin, who's into superstition (black cats and voodoo dolls and suchlike).
And how come in the coffe shop it's Mokka, yet Rikki Lake pronounces it Moaker, so that it rhymes with Loca.
Which is Espaniary for The Locomotion, popularised by Kylie and turned into some gyratory sensual spanish frolic by Chris Martin.
And I'm sure Gwynneth Poltroon would have something to say about her talentless husband covering The Minogue.
You probably can't tell, but I fecking well loathe Coldplay...
Look at the stars
Ok, you orders your Latte, and the inevitable question arises:
"Drink in, or drink out?"
Now, initial confusion arises here, because you get charged more for drinking in... BUT what about the seatage just outside? Is that classed as drinking in (as the table & chairs are part of the cafe), or drinking out (as the tables and chairs are outside)?
And to confuse me even more, the one in the Castley Mall has an outdoors indoors!! There is seatage outside the coffe house, yet it's inside the mall!!
In effect, this is inside, outside, on the inside.
And if you get charged more for drinking inside, then the double inside should, in effect, cancel each other out, with the outside resulting in a discount.
And did I get a discount?
Did I buggery sod as like!
Just a pint pot of Dark Cherry Mocha, which is apparently the color of some birds skin, who's into superstition (black cats and voodoo dolls and suchlike).
And how come in the coffe shop it's Mokka, yet Rikki Lake pronounces it Moaker, so that it rhymes with Loca.
Which is Espaniary for The Locomotion, popularised by Kylie and turned into some gyratory sensual spanish frolic by Chris Martin.
And I'm sure Gwynneth Poltroon would have something to say about her talentless husband covering The Minogue.
Her lips are devil red
And her skin is the color Mocha (pronounced Mokka)
Cold play should be sent
Into Davey Jones Locker With all their albums so they can't assault our ear'oles with the aural torture they try and pass off as music
You probably can't tell, but I fecking well loathe Coldplay...
Look at the stars
See how they shine f'or you
And all the things you do
They were all yellow bollocks...
Friday 7 November 2008
Future sailors...
Ooooh, them Fates certainly pick some exoctic punishmentery!
Yum Yum! Whispery shakeage! Oooh, the others are piled up with cream and a flake - I'll just open me lid and scoff me crumbiest, flakiest choccie!
D'oh! Drenched in creamy goodness, all over me bestest hoodie. And so early in the evening. So now I has to trek round Sherwood Forest all a-whiffing like sour cocoa based dairy beverage!
And now it's teatime!
After umpteen McDonald trips, I really really really don't want yet another meal. So, it's a choice of Wetherspoons, Boots meal deal, McDonalds or elsewhere.
Wetherspoons! Wetherspoons! Wetherspoons! Something different! Oooh, what to have? Chili? Mixed Grill? Steak and ale pie? Bangers and mash? Please, not McDonalds yet again! I can't face another burger and fries...
So, McDonalds then.
And then it's Nabbo singing about Pussy, and Bobby Bob Bob's dancing class, then half-time drinkage! Oooh, Smirnoff Ice is only £1!! Wow, that's cheap!! Fighty fighty fighty through throng - Shitnuts! It's £3.20! Stuff that! But don't worry Xym - there be a garage on the way to the car!
Thirsty, thirsty, all through Howard Moons epic of the Future. And Nanageddon. Hooray! End of show!
Crawl along the desert floor to the oasis and merchandise!
Oh, we're at the car, with no sign of beverage offering garages.
Lady Fortune.
She don't like me much at all!
Does anyone, these days?
(and verily, those who know him cried out "NO!")...
Yum Yum! Whispery shakeage! Oooh, the others are piled up with cream and a flake - I'll just open me lid and scoff me crumbiest, flakiest choccie!
D'oh! Drenched in creamy goodness, all over me bestest hoodie. And so early in the evening. So now I has to trek round Sherwood Forest all a-whiffing like sour cocoa based dairy beverage!
And now it's teatime!
After umpteen McDonald trips, I really really really don't want yet another meal. So, it's a choice of Wetherspoons, Boots meal deal, McDonalds or elsewhere.
Wetherspoons! Wetherspoons! Wetherspoons! Something different! Oooh, what to have? Chili? Mixed Grill? Steak and ale pie? Bangers and mash? Please, not McDonalds yet again! I can't face another burger and fries...
So, McDonalds then.
And then it's Nabbo singing about Pussy, and Bobby Bob Bob's dancing class, then half-time drinkage! Oooh, Smirnoff Ice is only £1!! Wow, that's cheap!! Fighty fighty fighty through throng - Shitnuts! It's £3.20! Stuff that! But don't worry Xym - there be a garage on the way to the car!
Thirsty, thirsty, all through Howard Moons epic of the Future. And Nanageddon. Hooray! End of show!
Crawl along the desert floor to the oasis and merchandise!
Oh, we're at the car, with no sign of beverage offering garages.
Lady Fortune.
She don't like me much at all!
Does anyone, these days?
(and verily, those who know him cried out "NO!")...
Thursday 6 November 2008
Ph’nglui mglw’nafh... oh, I can’t be arsed...
What is it with this aversion by the film and telly medium for a big betentacled beastie?
Seems to have started back in the 60s/70s with certain Whatley types displayed as a shimmery pool of light.
Then along comes the latest Pratchettery adaptaton, and no sign of the Eater Of After Eights.
And Zack Shyter is test screening without Squidward draped over the Institiute for Extraspacial Studies!
I'm sorry, but if there;s a betentaled behemoth in the book, I expect to see it on screen.
Oh, well - at least CoC got it right... shame they filmed in a B&W 20s stop-motion stylee and not a colour CGI extravaganza.
Colossal killer calimari!
Circling round the sushi bar in Lakeside.
Seems to have started back in the 60s/70s with certain Whatley types displayed as a shimmery pool of light.
Then along comes the latest Pratchettery adaptaton, and no sign of the Eater Of After Eights.
And Zack Shyter is test screening without Squidward draped over the Institiute for Extraspacial Studies!
I'm sorry, but if there;s a betentaled behemoth in the book, I expect to see it on screen.
Oh, well - at least CoC got it right... shame they filmed in a B&W 20s stop-motion stylee and not a colour CGI extravaganza.
Colossal killer calimari!
Circling round the sushi bar in Lakeside.
I got nothing to do-oo-ooooh...
...but hang around and wait for coach drivers to finish their fags.
How come they stop at a 'service station' for a 30 minute break, where there's feck all apart from coffee.
And then they stop at the cash & carry warehouse for a 10-15 minute shopping trip?
Half an hour to buy and drink a coffee, but 15 mins to get round a huge warehouse, look through the alchohol & wotnot, check prices, decide what you want, and go off to pay for it. And try and get chips.
That aren't allowed on the coach, coz they smell.
Wish I'd never left and hid in the shrubbery and become a real life Ben Gunn in the Piratey Area...
Oh well,
C'est la vie.
How come they stop at a 'service station' for a 30 minute break, where there's feck all apart from coffee.
And then they stop at the cash & carry warehouse for a 10-15 minute shopping trip?
Half an hour to buy and drink a coffee, but 15 mins to get round a huge warehouse, look through the alchohol & wotnot, check prices, decide what you want, and go off to pay for it. And try and get chips.
That aren't allowed on the coach, coz they smell.
Wish I'd never left and hid in the shrubbery and become a real life Ben Gunn in the Piratey Area...
Oh well,
C'est la vie.
Wednesday 5 November 2008
You are travelling through another dimension...
A dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind.
And of plummeting down in a lift.
More love in an elevator (with extra walking this way).
Not to mention the turtles head, with fat foreign feckers trying to barge through the queue.
And still no rabbit hole obsessed pretty... unless you include the French Fancy who couldn't keep her hand out the front of her pants.
And is there really a word such as a candleabration, or have they made it up?
Expand the ribs with Chicken, Chili and corn - and the return of Magic Lucy and her hankies.
Oh why does it have to end???
And of plummeting down in a lift.
More love in an elevator (with extra walking this way).
Not to mention the turtles head, with fat foreign feckers trying to barge through the queue.
And still no rabbit hole obsessed pretty... unless you include the French Fancy who couldn't keep her hand out the front of her pants.
And is there really a word such as a candleabration, or have they made it up?
Expand the ribs with Chicken, Chili and corn - and the return of Magic Lucy and her hankies.
Oh why does it have to end???
Tuesday 4 November 2008
This is stuff I’m talking Billy Bob, Don’t give me any grief...
DISBELIEF!
A severe lack of Alicery going on!
But lovin' the Aerosmith!
It's a small world after all... not it sodding well ain't - it's a fecking HUGE one if the amount of trekking about is anything to go by!
Still, the christening of Mr B'lerb'lerb'lerb'er more than made up for it.
A real rib tickler, that one!
And the ribs were very tasty indeed, with a side accompanyment of Eighties EuroPretty hooping her hoops about like there's no tomorrow.
And more pumpkins than you can shake a stick at!
A severe lack of Alicery going on!
But lovin' the Aerosmith!
It's a small world after all... not it sodding well ain't - it's a fecking HUGE one if the amount of trekking about is anything to go by!
Still, the christening of Mr B'lerb'lerb'lerb'er more than made up for it.
A real rib tickler, that one!
And the ribs were very tasty indeed, with a side accompanyment of Eighties EuroPretty hooping her hoops about like there's no tomorrow.
And more pumpkins than you can shake a stick at!
Monday 3 November 2008
It’s on it’s roof! And the lights are on...
Travelage!
Early doors.
Nay problemo - but permittery takes, like, a thousand years due to Gomster staffage! How many tickets do you need for a 4 day permit (Four!!).
Yay! Brian!!!
Feck, no. There be a fire in the tunnel, so we taking the tunnel. Still, got an upgrade out of it!
Posh hotelery!
Luckily not posh hostelery (unlike D&A who separate you and take the lady upstairs to flog to weathy specy fetishist for toturement).
And how many fag breaks does a bus driver need - surely not that many!
Still - arrival! And spend, spend, spend!
Damn that Disney and their NBX merchandise!
Early doors.
Nay problemo - but permittery takes, like, a thousand years due to Gomster staffage! How many tickets do you need for a 4 day permit (Four!!).
Yay! Brian!!!
Feck, no. There be a fire in the tunnel, so we taking the tunnel. Still, got an upgrade out of it!
Posh hotelery!
Luckily not posh hostelery (unlike D&A who separate you and take the lady upstairs to flog to weathy specy fetishist for toturement).
And how many fag breaks does a bus driver need - surely not that many!
Still - arrival! And spend, spend, spend!
Damn that Disney and their NBX merchandise!
Sunday 2 November 2008
Furtive eyes peep out of holes...
Glamming up is all very well, but rainage certainly puts a dampener on things!
And there's Chivalrous Xym, offering up capeage to protect pretties from precipitation.
However, said capeage causeth much difficulty upon the dancefloor, not to mention the accumulation of heat.
And I'm not talking about celebrity gossip magazines!
By departure time, Xym was looking like some bloated medallion bloke.
No change there then!
The night is all that we have
And there's Chivalrous Xym, offering up capeage to protect pretties from precipitation.
However, said capeage causeth much difficulty upon the dancefloor, not to mention the accumulation of heat.
And I'm not talking about celebrity gossip magazines!
By departure time, Xym was looking like some bloated medallion bloke.
No change there then!
The night is all that we have
Put on the masque...
Saturday 1 November 2008
I saw this blank, pale, emotionless face. And the blackest eyes...
Outrage!
Duplicity!
Abandonment!
Everybody loves Raymond?
Everyone loathes Xym.
No more Hades for me!
Stuff 'em.
:(
Duplicity!
Abandonment!
Everybody loves Raymond?
Everyone loathes Xym.
No more Hades for me!
Stuff 'em.
:(
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