King Solomon's river spanning construct that often collapses...

Now, I'm all for punishing the promiscuous thieving chavscum on the Utterly Vyle show, but surely anal infiltration is somewhat harsh!

Clearly, dealing with today's Crackhead got Jeremiah all excited. "Crack" and "Head" signalling to Mister Vyle the promise of helmet into labourer's cleft bumfunnery. Live on air!

Poor dear little white haired kindly old grandmother and loveable wrinkly eyed grey haired ancient grandfather were somewhat upset at their cheeky scamp of a grandyobbo, and needed to do those all important lie detector results to see if he was on the rob of their pensions. And Jez, being the affable host that he is, promised the wayward youth that if the results proved him to be a liar, he was in for a "heavy roasting".

There was me thinking that The Vylester and his Therapist Graham were there to help people, not indulge in "Burning The Candle At Both Ends" like some footballers hotel hooker scandal. Then again, Graham is a Therapist, which (if you add a space after the 3rd letter) is basically a thinly disguised way of saying he's "The rapist". rear entry forced entry and cock blocking of the oesophegus.

OK, furrymuff if the detrius of social scorn is some Chavette Hottie (say, Jaqui McQueen off Hollyoaks), but threatening some multi-ASBO award winner with penile intrusion where only space monsters tend to probe whilst choking on Graham's love is just one step too far.

Unfortunately for the Docherty Wannnabe, his results showed somewhat less that truthful fibbery to be the order of the day, so backstage bummery rapeage is all the rage!

But not against any machines, unless Jezza & Graham are automatons... sexual cyborgs well versed in the art of London Bridging vulnerable street urchins who fail the ever-accurate Polly Graff (Sister of Steffie, and who better to judge untruths than sapphic sisters of vagitarian tennis players?)

Expect to see "I was tag-teamed by Jeremy and Graham - now I don't know who the father is*!" coming up in a few months.

* AND BEING SEXUAL CYBORGS, THEY CAN IMPLANT THEIR TERMINATORY OFFSPRING INTO MALES, LIKE THEY DID IN TERMINATOR 2.1 (AKA "JUNIOR"), WHERE THE CYBERDYNE SYSTEMS MODEL 101 WAS IMPREGNATED.

"I'LL BE BACK... IN NINE MONTHS!"
    

Yippee Kai Ay Mo'Fo

People keep tellimg me to buy Rage Against The Machine to stop Cow Hell reaching number one. Well...

Feck you, I won't do wot u tell me!
Feck you, I won't do wot u tell me!
Feck you, I won't do wot u tell me!
Feck you, I won't do wot u tell me!
Feck you, I won't do wot u tell me!
Feck you, I won't do wot u tell me!
Kimo Sabe*

I'm buying Queen instead!

*WOTCHOO TALKIN' 'BOUT BRUCE WILLIS" EDIT

Lot's of space in this Mall...

Christmas Time

Cameltoe and wine

Chavscum snorting crack cocaine lines

Their shoplifted presents

Lie under the tree

A time to rejoice

With the goods that they've thieved

Ah, Xmas shoppers, with their Common-As-Muck sense!

Honestly, how many Door Gormsters are there in Norwich? Chapelfield Mall, St Stephens entrance. 2 automatic Doors, and three double doors that Swing Both Ways. How hard can it be to enter and exit such hinge based barrier systems?

For some, most difficult indeed!

The problem appears to be that swing doors swing shut, and this confuses your average "I've Got The X-FuckedOff Get Me In The Pig Botherer House (with those all-important DNA detector results)" viewer, and they turn into shuffling George A. Romero type Zombies.

Without the cranial content consumption, said store of knowledge having fled in terror at the prospect of points of ingress and egress.

But I digress.

If these Portal Poltroons are lucky, a passing Polite Person Of Intelligence may have gone though one of the doors and held it open for them. This creates the Dawn Of The (brain)Dead. Faced with several unopened doors, and one open one, the zombified shoppers shamble towards the one open door. As everyone can't get through at once, they mill about, awaing their turn, blocking the available doors.

Suddenly, another clever person might pop by, and automatically stride up to an open door, and brazenly walk through! As the door pushes back the groaning, almost motionless cretins, they gaze in anger at He Who Dared To Open Another Door into their midst! Then, a glimmer of understanding slowly dawns in their dead eyes... Door... Not.. Shut.. Yet... Can.. Get.. Through...

Despite seeing a human opening a door, their lack of GCSEs does not allow them to fathom that they too could open other doors. Instead, they split into two hordes of doorblockers.

God knows what would happen if a group of them had arrived, and no door was open! 
Actually, what happens then is that they stop in the middle of the corridor, dive into their bags, and randomly pull out purchases to peruse, or check their mowbli, or double back to the escalator to see if the doors are open upstairs.  Aw, the relief on their little faces when they see someone has opened a door they can scamper through!

Bless!
  

Hellfire

Shroud
    Straight to the Light
        Trees Come Down
            Dawnrazor
                Penetration
                    From the Fire
                        Moonchild
                            Watchman
                                Zoon
                                    Psychonaut
                                        Last Exit For The Lost

Eye sexperience...

*** One-off bloggery by Special Request! ***

There are those who claim that Jesus walked on water. All too true... although the water in question be of the icy persuasion, and the walking consisting of the Torville & Dean variety by way of a line of sheckles arranged "in-line" along the underside of his sandals.

And naturally, for every ice skating Saviour of Mankind lazyass louging at the right hand of God there is a evil minion, lackey or cat's paw of Hades, praying for the day that Hell freezes over.

And lo, Tonya Harding, knobbling kneecapper of rival skateressessessess, has her wish, and taken possession of Rock Chicks at cock rock night! Rather than duff up mulleted Nancy Kerrigold types, she takes to "shhhhhhup shhhhhhup shhhhhhup"ing up to the tables on the slippery surface of tiled floorage!!

And seeing as "hell would have to freeze over" before any bird would go out with me, the arctic floorage* of Hades would indicate I'm now in with a chance. But probably only with Greek chic. 

Who are probably them feminine types who carry about follicle accoutrements to airbrush their furry forearms, and leave suspiciously phallic whore's handbag scented stench mask lying about the sofa.

Still, could be worse. I could be married, then abducted off to Turkey and forced to get a divorce and engage in Civil Ceromonies of a rectally invasive element in the local baths. All the more worrying for me, seeing as Bag Lady types think I'm one of them bisexuals, ripe for gay forced marriage in Instanbul.

Bisexual my best hat! More like "Bye sex y'all", which being a short, fat vision of ghastlyness topped with an unmoveable barnet of mulletness, appears to be my lot in life! All my sex appears to be going to that döppleganger of mine, who is apparently identical apart from the ludicrous locks atop the cranium area/ Said locks performing the same feat as unmaskings of Scooby Doo villany, except, rather than:
"Good grief! It's the owner of the mine/fair/town! Why the ridiculous costume?"
It's more:
"Good grief! It's you! What the fuck you done to your hair! Hold on. You are you aren't you? You are you? You are the you I'm thinking you are, aren't you?"

Apparently, I'm trouble! I caused quite a kerfuffle of a troublesome nature, the nature of which I'm unaware of, but I have it on good authority that I was the source of disputation. That authority being an expert in identifying bagfolk and spouses ripe for Turkish delights, and authority of that ilk deserves respect.

I wonder if it was that foxy lady with the air(filled) guitar that was accompanying me upon the shimmying stage, fighting with some other hot dame over who would get to have me first, but were despatched into the night by the doorfolk before they had a chance to ravish me amidst the auditory cacophony of Twisted Sister and other big-haired bandanarama type rockfolk.

And to top it all, it was raining - they could have fought each other in the mud (well, flowerbeds) opposite KFC in their pants! I'd've joined them dancing all naked in the rain! Blue pearl? Well... wasn't that cold for Lady Oysters...

Oh well, there's always next month...

* WHAT A MISSED OPPORTUNITY! THEY SHOULD RENAME SPUNKY MONKEYS TO ARCTIC MONKEYS, AND GIVE THE FLOOR AN ICY COVERANCE. PREFERABLY ICE CREAM, COZ IF YOU TOPPLE OVER, YOU GET A GOBFUL OF LURVELY CORNISH CLOTTED VANILLA-Y YUMMYNESS! ALTHOUGH YOU'D HAVE TO AVOID THE RASPBERRY RIPPLE IN CASE OF NOSEBLEEDS AND TIME-OF-THE-MONTH ACCIDENTAL SEEPAGE. AND SUCHLIKE.

Suppose he's got a pointed stick...

"Now, it's quite simple to defend yourself against a man armed with a banana. First of all you force him to drop the banana; then, second, you eat the banana, thus disarming him. You have now rendered him 'elpless!"

Naturally, the spotty gormster manning picking his nose in the garage shed dispensing Ginsters pasties and Condoms is not familiar with the perils of the fruit. 

Raised on a diet of Pizza, Coke, McBurgers and 'fries', no wonder the straight-A graduate of the School of Chav can be taken in by drop out chavscum threatening them with their herbaceous dessert treatery.

And once the cash is pocketed, the 'armed robber' consumes his pistol, leaving no trace of the 'firearm'.

Good job he didn't do a Dirty Harry, and hold up the teller with a Magnum. All that Aztec Ecuador Dark melting in the sun is a sure giveaway!

And if they're giving away Magnums, I wants one!!!
   

Peas in our thyme...

Secret ingredient?

In mushy peas????

It's PEAS!

All mushed up!!

Unless the secret ingredient is the addition of PIE, but then it's not mushy peas - it's Pie & Peas, and any glimmer of secrecy of pie based introduction has failed miserably!

Secret Ingredient, my best hat! Who does Reg think he is? Colonel Sanders with his secret recipe?

For peas...

For phucks sake...

You spell Graph, I say Graf...

You spell Photo, I say Foto...

You spell Physics, I say Physics...

So, why do people think I'm a Gormster when I see the word Scrapheap Challenge and call it Scrafeap Challenge?

"Because, you poor deluded foolish fat fool, it's two words. Scrap and Heap. Duhrr!" decrie the readers.

Well, you ignoramii, it's not two words. If it were two words, it would be called Scrap Heap Challenge. And is it called Scrap Heap Challenge? No. It's called Scrapheap Challenge, and therefore should be pronounced Scafeap challenge.

After all, you don't call Stephanie "Step-Hanie", do you? No. You call her Stefanie.

You don't call The Sterophonics "The Stereop-Honics" do you? No, you call them gravelly voiced whiney welsh wankers, on a level with Travis. Just above the talent vacuum known as Coldsore.

Scrap-Heap Challenge indeed!
  

Eggs! Eggs! He said eggs...

Bang, bang, bang on the door Wakey!

Huh, what? I was all sleepyfied...was I imangininge a request for entry??

Bang, bang, bang on the door Wakey!

Huh, what? I'd almost nodded off again... knock a little louder Tate & Lyle...

No sound. Surely they would've used the Doorbell? But in the morning, I finds out that bell button depression is somewhat silent!

Hmmm... who would come a-calling in the Darkness of Night, without textual or telephonic warning, and faced with the serenity of chime failure, resort to tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamberpot door (ya dig mutthalicker)?

Have I missed out on some identity shy Pretty who has somehow become enamoured of me, and in a drunken stupour sought me out for rampant shaggery behing their partners back, avoiding any phone records that may give them away?

Or is that philately fairy, moving on from the concealment of symbolic monetary adhesives in favor of taunting me in the dead of night with dorr knockage awakenings?

Who knows?

The Shadow knows!

And he's too busy fighing the descendants of Chakka Khan to be rousing me from my slumbers.

So it's a mystery. Miss Tree! Like a tree! Like a birds tree! Oh, if only I could turn back time (but not in a mankini astride a colossal cannon)...

As the crow flies...
   

Oh what a tangled web we weave...

...When darning spiders on tapestries...
   

It's not that easy being green...

Indeedy not. 

For you have to stay one step ahead of the Pepperoni, keeping your anger in check, whilst increasing the size of your carbon footprints by bombarding yourself with more radioactive material than Thor can shake his mighty hammer at.

Carbon Footprint my best hat! Since when have gormsters being attireing themselves with replacatory stationary about their lower limbs and leaving big blue pawprints all over the place for the Council to clean up?

And they dare to claim that we're going all Icey Age just because of pre-photocopier secretaries taking down dictation whilst walking on the bosses back in carbon paper Richards.

See, these enviro-mentals have it all wrong. Yes, there is an Ice Age coming, and yes, it is Man Made.

Made by Men wot work at Pixar.

Ice Age 3.

Oh dear...
  

Where the wormholes are...

So much for frat party ocular blastage paradoxicality!

Far from being a Harbinger of Doom though space monster TURDIS based reconfigurer of Artifacts, he's just been snatched from poncing about the forests with a load of hairy Hagrids!

And all because he was chasing the dog with a fork, and making wolfish growlment at Mom in his bunny suit.

Not that his mum was in his bunny suit, like some Hugh Heffalump Playtart trollop. Unless she was, and that's what sent him screaming from his bedroom into the arms of wild thingies before being thrust into the past to warn Flash Gordon he's only got 28 days, Six hours, 42 minutes and 12 seconds to save the Earth.

Donnie Arden and Minge the Merciless in The 747 Engine of Terror.

An' suchlike...
   

JELLY! I lurrrve it! I want to marry it...

What's this?!

Dromaius novæhollandiæ, dashing about the place free from it's symbiotic existance?!?!

Seems that taking a tumble when fiddling with washing powder recievery apparatus due to simultaneously fisting a blig blue bird led not only to the demise of molesters of popular presenters, but also the extraction of the frottaging arm from the emu's waste disposal unit!

And now the bird is back on our screens! But now able to act indepently of rectal probage

Which begs the question - why did Rodney have to keep putting his arm up some australian birds arse?

Well, as all know it was an excuse to grope young kids! "Sorry, it's his bitey beak! He really wants to bite yer bum. Cor, don't get many of those to the pound, do you missus!"

And now, bereft of disguise to cover the Hand Of Gropeage, he stalks the spirit realm like some astral eidolon. Haunting the corridors of the EBC and the Pink Oboe, like some spectral Emu..., nay, Emo Paedo! Giving Naiomi Wilkinson a proper Milkshake & FingerTits in the 5ive broom cupboard and slapping a cream pie in the face of Anna Williamson off of ToonAttik.

But not Kirsten O'Brien in a lads mag...
    

Where the black rocks stand guard against the cold sea...

For an anniversary?!?!

Seems a pretty odd request to me! 
"What do you want for your anniversary, Dear?"
"Spam up!"

And bless him, the old duffer gets her a tin of the tasty snackette, rather than the annual shagathon she was euphanisming about!

"oooh, I don't half fancy a bit of Spam Up... me snatch! N'yah n'yah N'yah!!!"

Bad enough being drilled with an OAPs pork sword on yer anniversary, but a double dose of pigplague is in the tasty treat - being Spiced HAM and PORK, resulting in STDs a-plenty (Swine Transmitted Delicacy).

But Hogfever isn't the worst of it... according to one of these Spam Up ad, the genetically modified staple* diet of the Vikings is arising out of the tin like some Martian invasionary force!

Next morning, a crowd gathered on the breakfast table, hypnotised by the peeling back of the can..."

"Spam up! And get out the can!
Spam up! Just to feed your man"
Two inches of ringpull projected, when suddenly, the lid fell back...

"Spam up! Coz it's great outdoors!
Spam up! When you could eat a whore's..."
Two luminous, disc like eyes appeared above the rim...

"Spam up! For the specialty!
Spam up! For an anniversary..."
A huge, pinkly bulk, larger than a pear, rose up slowly, glistening like wet gelatine..."

"Spam up! For the taste of it!
Spam up! For the taste..."
It's lipless mouth quivered and slathered, and snake like arms writhed as the clumsy body heaved and pulsated, like a minature Mr Stay-Puft on the rampage!"

* STAPLE DIET? WHO THE FECK IS TRYING TO LOSE WEIGHT BY SCOFFING OFFICE STATIONARY OF PAPER ADJOINMENT FAME? I SUPPOSE YOU COULD SWALLOW A PACK, AND HOPE THAT THE GAVISCON FIREMEN REMAINING IN YER BELLY HAVE A HANDY STAPLER, AND GIVE YOU A QUICK TUMMYTUCK.

I'm a genius in a bottle...

...but you got to rub her the right way!

Now, there is a popular entertainment much beloved by those of a historical bent, who are oft found encased within waterproof Midnight Garden anorakage.

Now, this hobby consists of triapsing around museums and churches with tracing paper and a pencil, where they place the paper onto a embossed surface and give it a damn good rubbing.

They call this "Brass Rubbing".

Seems to me that it's no wonder these nerdy types are bereft of birds, for who'd want to join them on an evening scribbling on a piece of paper over some brass.

Surely someone simply made a typo somewhere over the rainbow, and it should really be Bras Rubbing. Now there's an opportunity for pulling! An evening of persuading Pretties to lift up their blouses and give them bras a thoughough going over. With the lead in yer pencil.

And it's not pervy, or anything. It keeps a record of how bras evolve, and the range and sizes, and how they are filled by the contents as the subject ages over time. That makes it of historical importance.

Not only that, but it's paper and charcoal illustration - and therfore Art. After all, there was that documentary on the tellybox with her off scrapheap challenge about ugly hairymarys, and there's a bloke out there taking plastercasts of pissflaps.

And if some baldy gayboy is allowed to sluice pollyfiller all over young harlots minges and have a fannywall, surely I should be allowed to lightly rub my crayon over some well filled Pretties bap hangers!
    

Help! Help! Here comes the boars...

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Spawn of Wymondham space rapists, miner's Haiku, and a turkey drummer...

Oooooooh

Watching the Lizzy get lairy

Because she is drooling at Charlie

He thinks that she's looking quite scary

And offering chance at her beaver

She's hoping it's gonna get eaten

Best look t'other way at the B2

Would never have happened to Xymon

An old fat Aquarian

La-di-da-a-a, Tra-la lalla la

Oi predicts a riot, oi do!

Oooooooh

Look who's arrived in a taxi

It's only that bloke of the telly

He wasn't the Chief of a Kaiser

But he wants to be Chef of a Master!

A finalist who hadn't won one

Spent too little time in the oven

Now he's in a band with his cousin*

And not steaming vegetables

La-di-da-a-a, Tra-la lalla la

Oi predicts a riot, oi do!

* PROBABLY

( . Y . ) Currant buns for tea...

After the visual spectacle of Alec Hollandaise brethren on a hickey rampage, The Gathering Of Chumlies flicked through the tellybox to see what other visual treatage was in store...

Vacuous gormstresses and their airhead friends!

Jades, Chantelles and Vikki type scabbers, minging munters wanting mammoth mammaries whilst beingk as fick as shit, or sumfink.

Take pizza faced hag and her brainless "supportive mate", whose there to see how mammoth her puppydogs have become:
"Wotcha fink?"
"Oh My God! Your boobs are bigger!!"
Well, WTF did you expect them to be after an jugular augmentation!! She's had an enlargement - so of course they'll be bigger you ditzy ass troll!!

Then there's troutpout and her feckless tart of a mate:
"How'd it go, babe?"
"God, my boobs look bigger. I think it's the swelling from the operation."
No, you thick twat, they're bigger coz you've had waterbags shoved into 'em, you thick sod!

Mind you, you can't blame them for wanting to look pretty - especially if they thought they'd turn into that scarfaced troll harridan of a mother! Eurgh! 

Still, I blame the parents. Just as blank of thought as their daughters.
"I don't want her to have a boob job. She's too young. She needs time to develop. I mean, it's wrong, against nature, and it can all go wrong. So I'm going halves on paying the 5 grand for it".
And don't get me started on the glammuh muddul wannabe - only wants to be a glammuh muddle coz SHE'S TOO FICK TO DO ANYTHING ELSE...

Luckily, I only caught 15 mins of it before I was summarily ejected from my friends domicile, as the incessant parade of boobage had clearly left them "ready for bed", if you know what I mean (and I'm sure that you do!)...

Tired my ass - fired up into a sexual frenzy by leech orgies and jugfests more like!
      

I would like you on a long black leech...

Ah, the crystal clear waters of the Louisiana swamps!

Where rotund buffoons can marry and boff a purty yang thang (Anne Lids?) and use the rounded protuberance of his gut to file away her belly into a concave svelte figure through The Sex.

Even if she does forgo the bed to nob yer best mate in the evergladian forestry.

But, even when all the crocs, fish and other aquamarine life are no longer in the swamps, you can't use explosive to kill off mutated bloodsuckers, as that might kill off the crocs, fish and other aquamaine life that have already been killed off by the mutated bloodsuckery fiends.


Although it's OK to use explosives to cause mild cavern tremors to jiggle the captives into the water to a death of drownage.

The captives being tired and shagged out due to lakeside abductment followed by leecherous necking, rampant bumming, a quick mis, and a threesome with one Rhynchobdellæ sat on yer face and another Arhynchobdellid blowing the pink oboe like there's no tomorrow.

Isn't it nice...

...luring southern belles into a life of vice!

Gimme Big Mac, Highs to go...

No wonder Ronald has a great big dreamy smile on his scary clownish face!

Seems that a certain popular fast food chain-smoking is offering up a bit more than just hash browns for brekkie!

Drive-Thru druggery be the order of the day (hence why the gormsters are too lazy to spell Drive Through properly!), for Certain Employess have taking to the plum coloured apparrel and flogging it to the ganja diners. Mon.

Apparently, it's a simply sign of the times. Said sign being a certain emblem of a leafy plant oft plastered on cans of piss.

No wonder Jamie Oliver had worries about them chicken McNurgotics!

Hah! As if Jamie Oliver can lecture us on grub - being brought up on gruel and picking pockets or two in exchange for snacking on Fagin's sausage! 
"Please Sir, Can I Have Some More?"
"No, Young Oliver, your mum can shove chips through the Workhouse gates. With pukka pies and crisps."
"Wikkid! Hope she throws in some Bernard Turkeyfuckerwitt Twizzlers an' all!"

Better take a leak...

Rarebits, rarebits, rarebits!

Y'Yo...

What is the world coming to when passing puppets can lure innocent cycling pretties into their vehicle, presumably for rhohypnol rapeage and the like.

C'mon indeed.

Cartographers delight (without sky rockets)...

Spacefaring Equadorian types rejoice, for the makers of black tablature bedecked with a quantity of white dottage (or without) have developed a treat in celebration of the high-altitude detailer of the Earth's surface (without additional paddy field optional extra).

But it's so weeny, you really, really have to look ever so close to see what it is...

Peery, peery..

Ah, that exquisite italalian dishery!

Poulet vouz! (a-ha!)
Take it now and eat it (a-ha!)
Pizza's what we get (a-ha!)
But in the morning you'll regreeeeet...

...Italian munchification leading to swollen belly* and ill fitting trews

* ESPECIALLY IF THE ITALIAN IS LUIGI, AND THE SAMPLING OF HIS "SPECIAL SAUSAGE" LED TO TEABAGGING OF THE MEATBALLS AND SHAGGERY IN THE SPAGHETTI BIN AMONGST THE RAGU AND CARBOURETTA SAUCE.

[Gina] Jihaddiwaddy...

Encircling Alpha Aquilæ four in with tongue forged from eloquence!

What's that? Danger, Will Robinson? High Voltage! I ain't snogging no blokey robot - especially not one with a glowing perspex knackersack!!

And what does this Future bring?

Table strappage and medievil Holy Land shennanigans, that's what! Trying to rid Hairy Ticks of their prescient 1960s cult spy based religion. Apparently, some Nostradamussy types were fondling some goats entrails when it turned into a futuristic telly!

Of course, being medievil, these peasants did not know what to make of this. All they saw was some mystical picture box showing moving picures of The Saint. Quickly, the mystics created the Simon Templar Society. 

And so were The Templars born, off looking for Draakh plague cures, nicking the Holy Grail off've King Arfur, lifting the Arc of the Coverlet off've Harrison Ford, and bunging the lot in Rosslyn Chapel. And making secret codes and maps and pointy statues to show where they're hidden. 

And they were the Social Services of the day as well. Bloody Judas Iscariot rung up their childline anonymously*, claiming that Jesus said he heard the voice of God. As Peter Sutcliffe heard the same thing and became Jack The Northern Ripper, The Templars got a court order against Jesus & Mary Christ, and their babby placed into a foster family called Merry-Fingering.

Who weren't pædos at all, despite their fondness of molesting hobbitses with their delicate digits, like some biblical Mr Tickle. And I don't mean Jon.

Ooo-arr, jurst a lirrul bit mowah...

* ON A PREMIUM RATE 0890 LINE. STILL, AT LEAST HE GOT TO SPEND 30 PIECES OF SILVER ON THE HOME ALONE MUSLIM MILF WANTS HER MOSQUE FILLED CHATLINE IN THE BACK PAGES OF JIZ MAGAZINE...
  

Phantom Menace of the Opera...

And as for Ms Christine Daaé

No doubt she'll do her best

It's true her voice is good

She knows though 

Should she wish to excell

She has much still to learn

If pride will let her return...

Hold on a minute! What be that from her eyeballs?

"Help us OBI-Wan, you're our only hope!"

Artoo! You're all gothed up and breastified in a flimsy gown!!

Bugger. Here comes Darth Head to turf you out the airlock. Boo! Hiss!!
   

Oh crépe...

Apparently, pancakes are called pancakes because
(a) They're cooked in a pan and
(b) They're made from cake mix.

I disagree, coz
(a) It's a skillet, not a pan and 
(b) If it were cake mix, it wouldn't turn into Yorkshire Puddings in the oven.

Although, you could stuff a Yorkshire with Jam and Cream and pass it off as a deep fried vicky sponge. 

Toad in the hole - bung a banana in, throw out the gravy and slap on some maple syrup or toffee sauce for a delicious deep fried banoffee pie!

And how come it's Yorkshire pudding? Puddings are desserts - all spongey treaclyness and custard, as opposed to a crispy crunchy battery lump floating in gravy. At least Steak & Kidney pudding looks like a sponge pudding...

....well, looks more a créme caramel really, especially when Mr Chippy pours the gravy on top like the caramel sauce...

Oh, what I wouldn't do for Pudding, Chips, Peas and Gravy right now!!

Pudding indeed - even the word sounds some pervy illicit activity... One for the Profanisaurus, methinks!

Pudding: The act of pulling one's pud. Or something.

What a load of collops...

What's this? A festive flyer festooning the floor? A decorative pizza menu crying out "Season's Greetings" - emblazoned with ribbons, snow, stars and christmas tree baubles!

So clearly it's Lent!

Ah, yes. Tomorrow is the last day you can get lemon scented Syph*, because you have to give up rampant rogering for 40 days, and then you can eat lots of chocolate.

Or something.

See, this is where I'm torn with religion. On the one hand, it's rabid mumbo-jumbo for mental folk, but on the other, it's the law to stuff yer chops full of grub this weekend!

Egg Saturday - where you have to scoff loads of eggs. Scrambled, poached, fried, cadbury's creme - I don't think it matters.

Quinquagesima Sunday - dunno what that means, but it's an anagram of Singe Aqua Quim - so you probably have to take a lighter to some birds pubes before dousing the flames with a bottle of water and supping from the hairycup.

Collop Monday - the best one! Bacon and eggs all day long! Yay! A biblical excuse for literally an all day breakfast!

Shrove Tuesday - Where you take all the food in the house and put it all into pancakes. Fish finger pancakes, Scotch Broth pancakes, Findus Crispy Pancakes, etc

And then, it all breaks down, for it's Ash Wednesday, where you have to pop down the local boozer and pour the dregs of the counterside glasses into the ashtrays and guzzle the remains of fags. But, thanks to the smoking ban, a lot of devout Christians will go to Hell, as they cannot obtain any ashes to eat. Unless they have an open fire, but that probably reminds them of the Eternal Fires Of Damnation, so instead they usually have radiators. Perhaps they keep creamated relatives in an urn they bring out each year. A spoonful of Aunty Mildred to ensure their entry through the Heavenly LadyPearly Gates.

Of course, I'm joking! Ash Wednesday is in celebration of Ash from Evil Dead III, where he went back in time and got a mention in the Bible (proof indeed that the Vatican are witholding vital pages!!).

And then you can't eat for 40 days. BUT WAIT! I hear you cry - there are 47 days from Ash Wednesday until Easter Sunday! A-ha - Sundays are exempt from Lent, as they're a day of celebration and resurrection!

Which means whatever you give up for Lent, you can indulge in excess on a Sunday! And as it's 40 days, not 40 days and 40 nights, you can legitimately fill up yer evenings in wanton debauchery! But come the daybreak - it's back to not having any!

Until you get to Easter Sunday, and celebrate the Stone Roses hit "I Am The Resurrection" by gorging on chocolate eggs.

Although some Christians regularly break the 40 day rule 3 days early on Good Friday, by scoffing buns with crosses on the top, in celebration of the torturous crucifiction of Christ...

...which is a bit like marking Diana 'Queen Of Tarts' Spencer's death by the whole nation eating cakes decorated with a squashed marzipan Mercedes on top...

...but not on top of Malachi (Who wants an HIV Eostre?)

* FORMERLY KNOWN AS JIF, BUT THE EU RULED THAT JIF WAS RATHER RUDE IN FOREIGN LANDS, AND THEY RENAMED IT TO SOMETHING LESS NAUGHTY AND UNRELATED TO SEXUAL CONGRESS...

Get yer coat luv, yer've pulled...

Now, I don't mind the recognizement by a Pretty due to Yetification and test photographication of Aquabog Park, but stalkage by shemales upon the recognizement of WhatACunt presence due to the distinctive plumage...

...that may be hilarious to all, but certainly gives one The Fear!

By the Power of Numbskull, SheMan may have The Power after transforming from Prince(ss M)Adam, but I think I'll remain as Cringer rather that turning into Alley Pussy.

If you know what I mean, and I'm sure that you do!

I am more than just a damn loveable hairstyle with a monstrously fluffy coat...

...I got a very tactile shirt for the pleasure of ladies to stroke upon.

Must get down to Chapelfield and invest in some matching pants...
   

No. Sleep. Till Bedtime...

Do I? Don't I?

All rotund through birthday feastage...

All sleepy due to late night traversment home after seeing blackly testosterousered comedy folk...

All bleurgh due to various airbourne ailments...

Even more ancient due to the annual passage of spawning anniversary...

All light abut the wallet due to the penny pinching pickpocketing pixie, for the vast sums of cash that weighed down me wallet seem to have evaporated in the presence of Robyn Hoode types...

Let's see what's on the Window To Hell Showing Trapped Souls Performing For Our Pleasure... What's this... The StaTURDays? WTF?? Ruining a classic Depeché Mode song?

I need copious amounts of Jacques to get over THAT performance!
   

Merrie Men made Marian...

Where's me tea?

Ah, not getting past the Post-gender transplanted Friar Tuck serving wench in Ye Olde Withered Spoon tavern! All the other tables... quick service. 

And how come these outlaws in Sherbert Forest wore Lincoln Green tights? Was Nottinghamshire Puce not good enough? Did Go Wank hate the way Apple Sunset clashed with the sick of more leaves? What's wrong with the shade that Vicky's sister Cher went with envy, when Trinny shagged All the merrie men in the Wood?

Who can say? All I know is Lincoln ain't that green, and it's got a bloody steep street right up the middle. And an archway. And an incence shop. 

At least there's archers...

mmmm... cocktails...
  

What a smashing Kimono you have on...

Well, no wonder stone based simians turn out like they do!

Seems God was too busy spending his western night heavenly nights with his {ahem} "good friend" discussing {ahem} "business matters" behind his missus's back! If he'd paid more attention to apey escapades instead of satisfying his libido with weaving girls, perhaps he wouldn't be distracted from his nobifiction by carousing chimps.

And the hypocracy! There's he, shagging Star Vega on the sly, but if a tipsy Marshall asks for a snog, it's piss off out of Heaven and be a pig!!

Not to mention dumping people in lakes for breaking an 'orrible teapot! (oh, the terrible, terrible ramifications...)

As usual, it's one rule for omnipresent Jade Emperors, and another for those with an eye for a pretty lady and a tankard of partyjuice!
  

I'll look down and whisper "No"...

T minus 16 days and new (albeit edited) video clippage!!

ch1: (At midnight, all the agents) p5-p8, p19
Opening dialogue from p1 - Rorschach investigates murder victims apartment
Breaks in to see Dr Manhattan

ch1: (At midnight, all the agents) p12
Rorschach warns Dan - cuts off after panel 1 on p13

ch1: (At midnight, all the agents) p17-18
Dan (replacing Rorschach) visits Adrian about The Comedian's murder 

ch2: (Absent Friends) - p1-4
Laurie visits her mother 

ch2: (Absent Friends) - p10-11
Adrian's flashback to The Crimebusters first (and last) meeting

ch2: (Absent Friends) - p16-17
Dan's flashback during The Comedian's funeral 

ch2: (Absent Friends) - p17-p18
Dan's flashback during The Comedian's funeral continues

ch4: (Watchmaker) - P7-8
John Osterman's accident

ch4: (Watchmaker) - p12-13
Dr Manhattan is introduced to the public

ch5: (Fearful Symmetry) - p26-27
Rorschach escapes from Edgar's apartment

ch7: (A Brother To Dragons) - p23-25
Laurie's cure for Daniel's impotence

ch8: (Old Ghosts) - p16 & p18
Dan & Laurie's Prison Break

ch10: (Two riders were approaching) p10
An awkward moment - and check out Rorschach's mask in action!!! 
    

I kissed a (bat)girl...

What is it with these modern writers?

OK, so Brucie cops it after years of Dick (brother of Larry and probably best mates with Everard) - but that's no need for Babs to go off chasing baps!

In her wheelchair.

It's all very well fighting crime all dolled up in leather, but plonking your cherry chapped lips onto some the face of Poison Ivy types is somewhat above an beyond the call of duty! 

Scissor sister superheroes indeed...
  

Bring on the Branson plot...

Either my mate Paul is a pod person from the planet Mars, or he's one of them beings that interferes with magnetic impulse.

And I don't mean lady deodorant!

I was in the city, no problems. Meet up with Paul... BUT once Paul has gone, suddenly, every shop I enter or leave sets off the instore alarums!

Was I hypnotised into a comatose state in the Chapelfield KFC and subjecter to Alien Implantation via rectal probe amidst the connisseurs of cajun poultry treats? Or mayhap his extraterrestrial presense triggered off one of them homing beacons that some space beastie has previously placed about my person?

Who knows! It's certainly a bit of a pickle!!

Unless, of course, I have become a psychic kleptomaniac, and my mental powers are pulling the residual energy of shopfront merchandise into some form of ectoplasmic manifestation that takes an invisible (and yet identical) spiritual form that fools the security system into thinking a real product has been pilfered!

I know shops need to clamp down on shoplifters in these credit crunch times, but surely policing the afterlife in case of a poultrygoose thieving the manitou of a Girls O'Lard CD (with exclusive bonus DVD extras) is taking things to extremes!

I mean, how does the burly bouncer stop an appartion from taking the spiritual essence of a console game? Is he armed with the now legendary Trap? Does he & his fellow doorblokes go into the CFG urinals and play at "crossing the streams"? Does he whip out a dog collar and recite an exorcism at the thieving spectral snaffler of goods?

And anyhoo, spooks don't fear Jail, as they're already in chains, a-rattlin' and a-moanin'. Like Bob Marley and Bob Scratchitt taunting Ebeneezer Goode with the ghost of compilations past (NOW! #1 Reissue!), the ghost of birthday presents, and the ghost of Virgins yet to cum (as they went Zavvi and died an 'orrible death).

And if it's a reanimated Richard Branson seeking to haunt me because I preferred to shop in HMV, he can jolly well get stuffed! Which is another name for Taxidermy... 

A-ha! Taxi- as in mode of transport! -dermy as in dermatological, as in skin! IE using my skin like a taxi to carry out his nefarious five finger discount spree against those evil high street retailers wot put him out of business!

And he ain't even deaded yet! Astral Projection taken to extremes! UNLESS he's also taken to the implantation of alien anal tracker devices, in which case, it's more Arsehole Possession, than astral projection!

Good job he forgot about the alarms, otherwise we'd never know...
  

I ain't 'fraid o' no goats...

Unless, of course, it be the legs of Pan (or Mr Tumnus).

But why would anyone ring dodgy 70s-moustachio'd beshorted athletes to advise them of the fact?

It's not like there is a maurauding mass of goats swarming through the streets followed by yodelling goatherders!

And it's not as if goat is an everyday meal (unless you're having a curry at a festival).

However, it does appear that they're remaking 80s blockbuster Goatbusters. Instead of Dana's appartment high in a tower block, it's high on a hill! Zozer the Gozarian is replaced by a lonely goatherd, with Zuul and Vinz Clortho two sheep(goat?)dogs.

And to top it all - they've taken out Mr Stay-Puft, and replaced it with a duality of Got Your Number types!

I'm gonna dial 118-118, and ask "Just exactly what is a fear of goats called?"...

High on some pills

Was a lonely goatherd

Yaydle-odle-Yadle-odle-Yay-eee-oooo

Rolling around

In a load of goat turds

Yaydle-odle-Yadle-odle-oooooh

  

Claude Raines or Clawed Buttocks...

I appear to have entered one of them there parallel universes!

Seems that today, I have either become invisible, or I died in me sleep and am wandering about the city in some ectoplasmic residual form. (The latter means that I could be all poultygoosey, and instead of throwing pubescent trollops across bedrooms, my spectral spirit is tippy-typing away in the netherworld, which is better than trip-trapping over me netheregions. Or something).

Anyhoo, as I blithely meander about the city, I see many an acquaintance... all of whom suddenly have Business Elsewhere, or blank me so blindly that I could be a blankety-blank board with all the non-blankety blanked words also blankety blanked out!

Even waveage of the arms in an attention seeking fashon avails me not! Although my haunted shade did catch the second sight of Pondy on the second pass by. Oh, and one other tried to exorcise my demonic apparition via the application of Perambulator Of Casting Out rammage.

On the other hand, I could be dreaming I'm awake.

Which is a bit late in coming, as I could have done without last nights shiteness that was the WhatACunt's inept attempt at letting EMO band members play at being incompetent DJs. 

Although, last night could have been a dream also, as there was a new Significant Pretty at The Doghouse, and Certain Significant Pretties in The WhatACunt... HOWEVER, in the words of Malcolm Reynolds:

"Y'all are making a big deal and I would appreciate it if one person on this boat did not assume I was an evil, lecherous hump."
     

airborne reptilians...

The best things in life are free

But you can give them to the birds and bees

I wants money!

Nooooo! What use have pelicans or a honey making insectoids for free gifts? If they're free, give 'em to me!

I can flog 'em down t'car boot or eBay and be quids in!!

And if I take them down to Flog It or Bargain Cunt, I can Ocshun it off for wodges of wonga!

And just what are these 'best things' that are free? I think everyone will agree that one the the best things in life is chocolate. And is chocolate free? No. Nelson Mandela is.

And surely, trying to foist off ex-political prisonery world leaders as a free gift isn't the best way to impress your beau. And just why are you with this callous partner, who would rather dump Nellie in the garden to be feasted upon by pigeons and bees alike?

But what do I know? I just wants MONEY!
  

Iraqnaphobia...

They're great these top-secret Nevadary Area-51* type bases and the security around them.

Seems that if you mistake a space shuttle for a UFO and clamber within, when The Forces arrive, you can stand by the Great Big Hole In The Side and not be seen at all!!

Naturally, you don't want to be nabbed by the Men in Black, so you Make Good Your Escape - across an empty field of debris and still cannot be seen!! And to get out of The Complex, you hide in the back of a truck.

And lying on the floor of the truck once again renders you invisible to soldierescent types as they plonk dead astronauts on top of you. This means that when in transit, once you toss off the spaceblokes, you are rendered inoperative in any sort of tarpaulin lifatage to free yourself from the confines of the jeep.

And naturally, once taken deep into The Facility, these G.I. Jerks remove the space explorators, and still can't see you!!

But, being a journalist, you have to investigate and escape (despite an 8ft giant spider on the prowl, all 58 levels of The Hive are guarded by Evil Man In Black, Hero Man In Black, Token Black Guard, and three gung-ho guards).

But being a Lady Journo, and faced with a alien-arachnid hybrid, you do the only decent thing...

Divest your upper garments!

A-ha! Stairs! I must remove my jacket and throw it to the floor! A-ha! A giant web, I must remove my blouse! Oh, dammit, I'm in a flimsy white vest top. Oooh, a pool of watery chemicals! I simply must dive in to escape the tarantula teeths... oh, lordy, I'm all wet and transparently topped...

Hurrah! Here comes Hero Man In Black! Phwoar, cop a load of Miss Wet T-Shirt! I must tear off my black jacket and tie! Good grief - a slight cut on her arm! I must rip off my shirt to bind her slight graze! Oh, damn! Look as us in our vests... get a load of me honey!

No time for nookie - for the Evil Man In Black has met his inevitable doom against his mother-in-law! Escapery and elevator arachnid crushment!

But what's this - get back to the paper, and lo and behold! Evil Man In Black has made his inevitable return to change into a 20ft tall arachnid with King Kong apprehensions (and the ability to make shieking trollops stop running and sit down to await their doom, as well as causing drivers to not drive away - but to srive in the general direction of the beastie for A-Team overturnment)!

Ah, sod it! Dangle Bird In A Vest from your chopper and blow it away!

I reckon they should invest in more security staff - 6 people to manage 58 underground floors of mutant space monsters is somewhat lax. Oh, I forgot the three staff (The two docs who freezes at the sight of a spider before getting et, and The LadyDoc who screams a lot, runs a bit, then gets et).

No wonder the American Government deny it's existence!

* WHY DO PEOPLE KEEP CALLING IT AREA 51, WHEN IT'S ACTUALLY AREA S1 - BESIDES, ALL THE SPACE MONSTERS WERE MOVED TO AREA S4 IN 1997.
   

˙˙˙ooɹɐɟןoᴚ

¡soƃuıp puɐ sɹoʇɐƃ 'sɔoɹɔ ʎq sʇǝǝɟ ɟo ƃuıʇıq ǝɥʇ pıoʌɐ oʇ - ʇǝǝɹʇs ǝɥʇ uı ƃuıɔuɐp

¿ǝq ǝʍ ןןıʍ ǝɹǝɥʍ uǝɥʇ puɐ 'ʇı oʇuı sooɹ, ǝɥʇ ƃɐɹp ʎǝɥʇ ǝɹoɟǝq ƃuoן ǝq ʇ,uoʍ ʇı pu∀

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¡sʌɐɥɔ ʎqɐןןןɐM ǝızzO s؛ʇı 's˙ƃ˙o˙ʍ ǝqɐuuɐʍ ⋊∩ ǝɥʇ ʇǝƃɹoℲ ¡ןʍoɹd ǝɥʇ uo sןɐıdnsɹɐɯ snoɹǝpɹnɯ ǝq ǝɹǝɥʇ 'ǝsɹɐ ɟo ǝןıd ssɐɹƃ ɹǝןןıʞ sıɥ puɐ uɐʇɐןɹɐɥɔ ʇɥƃıuʞ˙W ʇǝƃɹoℲ

˙ʞɔǝɥɔ uı ɯǝɥʇ dǝǝʞ oʇ sʇɹoɥs ıʞʞɐʞ uı ǝɔnɹq ǝpuoןq ɐ ɟo ʞɔɐן ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝuıɐɹʇsǝɹun 'ʇuɐdɯɐɹ unɹ ʍou ɐıןɐɹʇsn∀ ɟo sןɐuıɯɐ ǝɥʇ 'ɯɯınΌ ɐʇuɐW ɐ ʎq uǝʞoɹq ʇɹɐǝɥ sıɥ ʇoƃ uıʍɹI ǝʌǝʇS ʇɐɥʇ sʍǝu ǝɥʇ ǝɔuıS

¡ǝʇɐɯ ɥʇʍǝɹʇS