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∀

¡sԀ∀O ɯoɹɟ ʇno sʞɔıʇs ƃuıʞןɐʍ ǝɥʇ ƃuıʞɔıʞ puɐ 'suɐıɹʇsǝpǝd ƃuıɥɔund 'sǝןɔıɥǝʌ ƃuısıןɐpuɐʌ 'sʇǝǝɹʇs ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ƃuıɹɐǝʇ ǝq ʎǝɥʇ '001 oʇ dn ɟo sƃuɐƃ uI

¡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

Pharoah gobbles donkey goobers (Cleopatra does the Nasty)...

Whoo! Whooo! Rattley ratlley chainment!

Seems that a ghostly figure is stalking the brand new state-of-the-art hospikal in Derby, and all the staff are up in arms at the rising of the sheets!

The deputy manager is already afeared of ex-patient poultrygoose activity, she's organising an exorcism to ally  the mental medics and paranormally paranoid patients.

Unfortunately, she's been overuled by the hospikal spokesbloke, who announced that it was a load of bollocks. Whuch seems reasonable, as how can a new hospikal be haunted if it's new? If the nurses got their hands on some ghoulies, surely it's one's who've been left in corridors to die - not something immediately apparent in a new hospikal!

Ah... but listen to the descripion of this pharmeceutical phantom - a black-clad figure in a cloak stalking wards and corridors.... Surely this ain't no big standard spectral surgical spirit - it be the grim reaper hisseld, shuffling off the sick with his scalpelesque scythe!

Forget getting Mulder & Scully, or Karras & Merrin, - We need Elvis and a wheelchair bound (dyed black) JFK on the case!

"Well, goddamnit. I'll be damned if I let some foreign, graffiti writin', soul suckin', son of a bitch in an oversized cowboy hat and boots take my friend's souls and shit 'em down the visitors toilet!"
  

We ain't got no life insurance (doo-be-doo)...

Yep, a Mars a day helps you work rest and play in the Galaxy!

For in the crater devoted to obscure UK rip-offs of Japanese gameshows with Chis Sievey without his Pumpkin head, ukelele/banjo or Timperly accent, there be stellar chocolatey treats!

The Greybeards of NASA are forever releasing picures of the Martian Landscape to prove that there are no tripedal space monsters amassing their forces against Earth, but they do forget to edit out Certain Structures.
The lastest is The Log On Mars. The Mars Rover Opportunity Knocks, was meandering about the martian plains of Meridiani Planum, when it photographicated the Artifact.

A log, plain as plain can be! Sat there amongst the rocks like a sore thumb (or rather, like a LOG amonst some sand and rocks).

Of course, the greybeards refute this - logs on Mars! How ridiculous! It's clearly a simulacrum of a rock that just happens to look like a log, and not (as the popular press believe) a giant flake dropped by some Fellating Floozie Of The Gods*.

But wait... a flake is a chocolate confection! So is a chocolate log! And what do you find on logs? Only speckled frogs!!! 

O-ho! And remember the Face On Mars? "It's only a rock that looks like a face" claims NASA after much tamperage with negatives. Hah! friend greybeard has been rumbled indeed, for clearly the Face On Mars is just the top bit of a giant Freddo bar!

And what about them Scientologists wot believe that mankind was created by a race of Space Monsters called Thetans... and what happens to Freddo bars - they get (th)eaten!!

Four little speckled frogs

Sat on a martian log

Eating a Cadbury's Wispa bar

Yum Yum!!

One jumped into the pool

But there was none there coz it was all barren and dry & the only water was frozen ice at the north & south poles so it ended up crackin it's noggin on the hard baked floor

Now there are just three specked frogs 

Brrrp, brrrp

Chariots Of The Frogs** indeed...

*AN ERICH VON-DANIKEN REJECT 

**ANOTHER ERICH VON-DANIKEN REJECT THAT WAS PROOF READ BY DAVID IKE, HENCE HIS OBSESSION WITH MARTIAN FROGS IN QUEEN LIZZY SUITS, MURDERIZING THE QUEEN OF TARTS WITH DODO FATHEAD.
   

Shitizen Ka(ni)ne...

Good old East Anglia!

Famed for it's inbred tractor wielding yokels, they've now got specialised cinema showings for that "special member" of the family!

Yep - they're having special shows for dogs (and I don't mean in a Chav The Lads' latest 12yr old scummy mummy shagpot).

Seems that some gormster had the bright idea that Disneys latest 3D venture, "Bolt", about a TV stuntdog would mainly appeal to... well, dogs, actually! And for 95p, your hound can freely enter, take up a seat and poop in the popcorn whist rising the furry third leg salute to their CGI animated hero.

What's even worse, is that some people actually took their pooches to the flix, forcing them to wear 3D spex!!

What is the world coming to - must be them modern times. Even munchmuff moviebuffs are using Wednesdays for sapphic cinema dateage of fictional characters, such as green faced western witches, engaging in scissor sister action in the back row (as long as there's no dirty cops - the reverse of which probably crossed Pee-Wee Hermann's mind during his onanistic Odeon ordeal)!!

What next - a special showing of Dumbo, when some Aminal Activists bring along some circus freed Elephants, whilst some tart tongues out a furry godmother? I don't mind, as long as they clean up after...

...so on my next trip, I don't slip in shit like John Norks...

Got me lookin' so crazy right now..

Some wimmin have a fancy man...

Some wimmin have a fiancee man...

And if they're really unlucky, some wimmin have a Beyoncé man...

A wild and an untamed thing!
A bee with a deadly sting!

Yay, it be germanic sausage knight, all hail Daria O'Brien, host of Mock The Weak (especially if they're in basques). A sweet IRAnvestite, from transexual Portaloo-Narin.

I reckon I can pass for Christopher Bigguns...
    

I went down, down, down...

but the flames rose higher

and it burns, burns, burns 

The Ring Of Fire... 

Outraged and spluttering at the cost of a diet coke, a cider, and a vodka & lemonade (£9!!!!), I settle down to watch some telly. 

Timecheck: 5:30. Ace! Time to watch yesterdays tapeage of Dexter before Hollyoaks!! 

PLAY. FF Credits. Watchy watchy. FF adbreadk. Watchy watchy. FF adbreak. etc. 

WHAT?!?! It's 7:18?!?! That means a 1hr show, skipping the adverts, took almost 2 hours!!! 

So, clearly not a Roti Ringstinger - it's alien abduction and anal probement of the most sordid and debased kind... and all time manipulated so that my viewing was seamlessly uninterrupted!! 

I daren't watch the taping of Supernatural now, in case I get mistaken for a cow, get mutilated, and then dumped in a field from a great height (or onto Princess Whatsherface. Whoeee-Dawggy! Groovy!!). 

Yikes! Space helmeted Psycrows on the loose!
   

And There Will Your Heart Be Also...

We must suffer to free our pain.

Can you help us to find our way?

You're here to stay

Stay here in paradise. 

I'll end this moment to be with you

Through morphic oceans I'd lay here with you

Only to stay

Stay here in paradise.

Only to stay 

So lonely.

From this maælstrom free are you.

Stay

Stay here in paradise.

Only to stay so lonely.

From this mælstrom free are you 

- Fields of the Nephilim, from the album "Elyzium"

A Fistful of Metal...

Hurrah! The snow has melted, leaving me free from sliding to a slippery doom!

But left behind are the frozen statues of Raymond Briggs type characters... impervious to the permafrost, they remain standing tall. And naturally, being built in Chav Central, they still sport their snowschlongs and ice moulded mammaries.

Apart from in The Park, where clearly space monster infected Monsieur Neary types have been tossed out their council flat for moulding mash into mountains, and sculpting edifices of Wyoming landmarks in their dressing downs.

Yup - there be a huge replica of the Devil's Tower National Monument. Right by the bus stop, so the outer-spacial oopma-loompas can pop down Chapelfield for a bit of a touristy shopping before nicking unwary rednecks loitering in Fiddlewood woods.

So now I can't git no sleep, what with the Jean Michel-Jarre lightshow down the road! I thought the noise from Funky Monkeys was bad, but now I have to be woken at 3am by a repetition of the same 5 bloody notes!

Not to mention being evacuated because of Anthrax. Although why popular New York poodle-perm mullet metal rockers of the mid 80s should be allowed to evacuate us just to play "Doo Bee Doop DUM DURMMMM" over and over again in a roller booting venue with interplanetary craft being hoisted over an ice sculpture is beyond me!

Must be a "Rock" thing, along with the obligatory groupies, bouncers and steak sandwiches...
  

Smoother perverter...

Blimey!

Remember when chavscum shops were hiding their vouyeristic clerks in laundry baskets in babes bathrooms on the offchance that the Pretty might need shampoo?

They've gone one better now, and brought it out into the open!

Forget shampoo - as the sultry siren slides from her bath, a-glistening with essensual oils and wearing naught but a dreamy smile, she naturally reaches for the mouthwash...

...when a pervy pianist whose been ogling her amusing herself in the tub, suddenly strikes up blues tunes. Blues tunes? Blue movies, more like! And how come she didn't notice a big black bloke and big black grand piano in her bewhitened bathroom?

Perhaps she was blinded by the brightness of his BLUE shirt!

And, just like the knickersniffer in the linen basket, she doesn't bat an eyelid at the unannounced presence of an all seeing Ray Charles tinlking in her bathroom... but if I snuck into some pretties bathroom with me Casio Keyboard and started ebony & invorying away as she nudily slids out of the shower, I'd get a slap in the face and made to sign some sort of register.


As usual, it's one rule for a blues brother, and another for me...
  

Sup up yer beer an collect yer fags...

There's a plough trawling through t'streets of Slough

You know, them modern unbearded Greybeards of the future may well have a point, for who can say when traipsing though soggy slush that they haven't thought that it felt like wading though the splattered remains of a cyclopean jellyfish that has fallen from the skies?

Not many!

And they'd be right too - for what falleth from the skies be not "Snow" - it's Götteravaparti - The "Munt-Up Of The Gods", and no party is complete without Jelly & I scream... or the deities delicacy of SKY TRIFLE!!!!

It is from the Nordic Legends of Old that we get our modern interpretation of Trifle, from when the Black Rocks stood guard against the cold sea, in the dark night that was very long, when the Men of the Northlands sat by their great log fires and told tales of the Food of the Gods.

The basis of all Trifle is Jelly - and what more popular than the Giant Skybound Jellyfish! Ah, I hear you cry! Jelly doesn't taste fishy at all!! This is because we only symbolically represent the fishiness, for what do we bung into jelly for the fish element?

Boudoir Ladyfingers! Now, you're probably thinking what on Earth Ladies fingers in boudoirs have to do fish*. Well, it's obvious really... they are sponge fingers - and what are sponges? Only aquatic based poriferans feeding on crustacians... and basically is a fish! And what so sponges have in the middle? Jelly! The Jammy Dodger of the cleansing world (which is much better than a jam rag of the... oh, well, you get the picture!!)

But what of Custard? Aha! Who is the most prolific custardeer of all... only Birds! And where do you find birds... flying in the sky alongside the floating jellyfishies! Creamed canaries and sunbirds, drenched in sunlight and bathed in the golden showers of Aphrohaircut be the basis of this most vanilla essenced layer.

And just who else is big in the Custard world... those makers of Creamed Rice - Ambrosia! And what is Ambrosia? Only the neckhair of the Gods!! The Amber neckhair, in fact! O-ho!!

And it that snow on the ground? Is it heck as like! That's the celestial equivalent of Dream Topping, that is!! And what go Gods provide? DREAMS! Although, in these credit crunch times, it looks like they've forgone proper whipped cream in favour of cheapo ærosol substiture, what evaporates as soon as it gets slightly warm.

And have The Council been gritting - no way, the lazy shifters! That's not Grit, it's the frozen crumbly bits of flake and vermicelli that were on the top as decoration!

What they should do, is drop cans of beer into the 'snow' - then you'd have like alcoholic slushpuppy snowballs - much more fun to be hit in the gob by in a snowball fight. But never use cider, in case you pick up the wrong yellow snow - you don't want a golden hailstone in yer face!

Sky Trifle? Sky? Trifle? It's the future...

* LOSE 10 QI POINTS IF YOU WERE THINKING OF A CERTAIN FEBREEZE ADVERT...

Samuel laps it up...

Phew - no dodgy P2P metamphetamine murderous shennanigans in the bogs last night! Then again, we're not in Widness, so it don't matter none.

But beware, young rumspringa, for your nonconformist use of telecomunications for the mule & cart home can lead to excommunication from them thar Plain Folk. 

Poor old Anna Baptiste - should've been Forsythe or Campbell with their Toblerones and Boom-Sticks (Shop smart - Shop S-Mart!!)

Now you can luxuriate in a nice jail cell, but if your hand touches metal, I swear by my pretty floral bonnet I will end you...

Good ole Book - The... SPECIAL Hell...