Xyms on film (sans nipply ice cubery)...

No Xym at a white wedding...

Bride: "Oh, you're invited to my wedding & reception!"
Xym: "Oooh thanks! I'll be there! When is it?"
Bride: "30th July."
Fearme Bottom: "Don't worry about it right now - I'll send you the details later"
Xym: "Coolage!"
Fearme Bottom: "Skills"

One week later....

Betty Rubble: "It's Rachel's wedding next week"
Xym: "Yeah - I've been invited too. Fearme Bottom's going to let me know all the details."
Betty Rubble: "St Andrews. I think it's in the afternoon. Not sure. I'll check at let you know."

One week later.... Wedding day...

Fatboy Xym tarts hisself up. Checks phone/fb. Still no details of wedding/reception. On the basis of "sometime today", installs his lardy butt in Starbucks to await textage of times or pickup on way.

The hours pass... do I text Fearme & Betty to check? No - what if Rach has regretted inviting a pervy porker, and has put the word out to keep sctum, and thus save Bridesmaids from finger flickering lechment? What if the wedding's started, and my text sets off telephonic ringtone interruption of the vicars oratory? Should I pop down to St Andrews every half hour on the off-chance of catching the wedding party?

Nah - Betty & Fearme won't forget about me! They'll let me know well before the ceremony starts.

Still times getting on a bit... still no text or facebook message...

Hold up - Shane's put some photos up a wedding he's been to! What a coincidence - I'm off to a wedding later! I wonder whose he went to...

Oh...

So Fearme and Betty deliberately withheld the start time of the wedding (not to mention reception details) so my vast troll-like stature and hideous visage did not ruin the beauty of a loving joining ceremony.

Well, as I've missed the wedding, and I have no details of when (let alone where) the reception is, I'm stropping off in a melodramatic fit of paranoid anguish to feed an comfort pies and take my loathesome presence to where it's aprreciated (in front of the telly)

Screw you guys - I'm going home!

Fake it like a polaroid picture...

Of course!

Last week - Anxiously awaiting DNA results (that don't exist)

Yesterday - Anxiously awaiting DNA results (that don't exist). Later amended to not taking the report seriously.

What have they told their media outlet to print today?

They're no longer waiting on the DNA evidence because... they've seen a photo and decided it's not her!

WHAT?!?!

A photo of someone 4 years older is more reliable than DNA? Surely children change significantly between 3 & 8 years old?

Still, now that their legal action has been overlooked because of the sighting, the sighting is no longer required as a diversion.  So looking at a photo will close this story as another dead end.

A photo that no-one has actually seen or traced...

Read about things that don't happen around the world...

Last week, a book was launched regarding an alleged abduction

Suspiciously, an article appeared in The Daily Fail regarding a sighting of the alleged abductee. An american & 2 other tourists tried to abduct the abductee to free her from the French/Belgian "parents", now in police custody, their passports confiscated, the child being DNA tested. Anxiously awaiting those results

But when Sky News contacted Indian police, they had no record of such a sighting. No sir, no DNA testing going on here. What tourists? What sighting?

And so the story died in obscurity.

But what's this today - 2 papers reporting the same, week old story (with slight differences, such as the passports now being copied). The family are anxiously awaiting DNA results! New Hope! 

Oh, it just happens to coincide with the uproar of the previously mentioned book being pulled, and the author making noises about being accused of defamation!

So Sky, ITN and BBC check with Indian authorities. Once again, no record of such a sighting. No DNA testing. No tourists. No report of any sighting. Sky, ITN and BBC can find no trace of the alleged parents, tourists or the child.

Much mutterings of burying the bad news that The Fund is again being used for legal action on a book covering the facts. Anger that the last 2 legal actions failed. Anger that the first injunction was overturned. Anger at how come they're releasing this sighting to the press, when Scotland Yard should be investigating...

Emergency PR statement issued: "The family are not treating this information seriously".

Hold on - serious enough to release it to the press, and let it be discredited. 

How to dig yourself out of THAT hole?

We shall see...

Wait a minute Mr Hedwig...

Gormsters!

All around and unable to queue.

But now I have my lips round my Bella.

Mwah Mwah Mwah!

The sun always dried, tomatoes...

...or another Xym Turns The World Against Him Blog!

Perhaps I can finally get something pulled off facebook without resorting to spud jugs and tassled tits!

Just getting pulled off would be a start!

Oh dear... start as you mean to go on...

Anyhoo, there has been much vilification of Aimz upon ye work forums. Mainly along the lines of "Why should some skank-ho crack whore dominate The News when 93 people died in Norwegianland?"

Hold on - Ameh was a worldwide appreciated talented musician and lyricist of reknown, whereas 93 people no one's ever heard of were shot by a Christian nutjob. It's not like Morten Harket, Magne Furuholmen & Pål Waaktaar got dead, is it!

Yeah, it's a tragedy, but it's hardly surprising news - chap who believes in an imaginary, judgemental, giant beardy bloke in the clouds who let his illegitimate offspring be tortured to death turns out to be a bit mental.

Shock! Horror! Mentally unstable bloke goes on mad rampage!

See, you don't get this in MY religion. As all know, I'm a pastafarian, Having been an former acolyte of the Cthulhu cult, I was enlightened when I realised the cephalopodic tentacles of Cthulhu were actually the tagliatelli-esque tendrils of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. 

No jyhadhi gnocchi for our lot... unless you count the cRAGUsades, where the Knights Tempura tried to convert sushi sinners by the holy sword.

Well, the holey ladle of pasta drainage, at least.

Not to mention the Italian Inquisition!

No-one expects the Italian Inquisition, with the solidified cream sauce Carbonara Boots, drowning unbelievers in pools of pomodoro puree.

I'm gonna make you a brushetta you cannot refuse!

He's a real nightmare man...

Ah, Child of Vodyanoi, how spooky you seemed in 1981.

Alas, a fat man in shiny leather isn't all that scary. 

Let alone be mistaken for a pod monster chimera with dodgy teeths from the planet Mars under the sea.

Although I would want him pouncing on me on a dark, misty golf course! He's not having a hole in one at MY expense, thank you very much!

Och, yeh wee sassenach!

And how come the coastgard are as dumb as a box of wet mouses?

3 of them inside - "Now, you guys STAY TOGETHER"...

"Hoots mon, the Geiger Counter be clicking"
"It be the monster! We're all doomed!"
"Och, it's going away now"
"Hoots mon! Noo the heating's been turned off"
"Och, now ye'll have to tek yeself across the misty darkened courtyard, to yon distant shed to swich it on again. On yer own".
"Aye, I'll be off then. Save me a wee dram, shortbread biscuit, haggis and Maynards Wine Gums for when I return"
* unsurprisingly get "'et" by the Russian gimp *
"Hoots mon, what he dooin oot there?"
"Crimminy - he's been 'et!"
"Noo it's in the hoose! Och, it's got me! Mah hooman joose be loose aboot his hoose! Aaaarrrggh!"
* remaining coastgard shoot it with a flare gun and it runs ootside *
"Och, ahm all aloon in the hoose with a fearsome beastie! I'd better try and crawl throo the smallest  windoo so I can get stuck and get 'et! Och noo! Now I'm stuck! Crivvens! I'm being et!!"

Early russian shadowships, and no vorlons in Scotchland...

Last exit for the woefully lost...

Yeah, go on, mock The Xym for loving the Ameh.

I don't care - I may not have met my Aimz herself, but I has the above to remember the happy times.

Awww, lookit the Happy FatBoy with a mega-pretty on his arm. Bless.

RIP, my sweet princess xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hairless simian, being fed on, cucumber...

A space monster lacking it's hair

and in a pagoda

this charming chimp

Konnichiwa colobus!

Ah, the enlightened chinese - reknown for their supernatural superstitions, overpoliteness and embarassment, hentai tentacle porn and technological marvels.

But marvel at their takenological approach to hungry, hungry haplorhini, for they mistook them for Space Chimps!

Tarsiiformes - monkeys in disguise!

Behold - the alien invader:

AAAARRRGGH! E.T. go home, coz U.G.L.Y, u ain't got no alibi, u's UGLY!

Of course, being human, the first reponse to intergalactic gibbonry in a first contact situation is...

ARREST THE MONKEY!

And in revenge for Aids coming from monkeys in the first place, they started feeding it them there eColiflowered cucumbers. Yeah, take that eColi you man-bumming* babbons! That'll learn your ancesters for giving randy explorers HIV in their Amazonian jungle!

But this is China, so what to do with interplanetaty interlopers? How do you deal with Pod People from the planet Mars masquerading as monkeymen?

Fatten them up on peaches!

Mmmmmm... sweet 'n' sour simian a l'pêche**.

Just like The Great Sage, Equal of heaven! Pork up pongo pygmæus on the Jade emperor's three tiered levels of peaches of immortality and Lau Tzu's fountain of youth elixir pills!

Hold on...

The return of a demigod (or Buddha, if you prefer). The rise of the Antichrist in Harper Seven...

Ye Olde Apocalypʃe doth comme - now I'm definately defacating in my dungerees*** about December 2012!

* OI, GEOFF. BUMMERS ARE DEAF!

** A L'PÊCHE MEANING "IN THE SAUCE OF PESCI." JOE PESCI OUT OF GOODFELLAS. PROBABLY. ALTHOUGH WHY WISEGUY TOMMY DEVITO (FATHER OF DWARVEN DANNY) WAS SPURTING SPERMYNESS OVER SPACE SIMIANS WITH SWEET AND SOUR IS BEYOND ME. MUST BE ONE OF THEM ITALIAN MAFIOSI COOKING LIKE-A DA MOMMA USED-A DA MAKE-A.

HARRY HILL: YOU'RE A PISTOL, YOU'RE REALLY FUNNY. YOU'RE REALLY FUNNY.
DANNY DEVITO: WHAT DO YOU MEAN I'M FUNNY?
HARRY HILL: IT'S FUNNY, YOU KNOW. IT'S A GOOD STORY, IT'S FUNNY, YOU'RE A FUNNY GUY.
DANNY DEVITO: WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU MEAN THE WAY I TALK? WHAT?
HARRY HILL: IT'S JUST, YOU KNOW. YOU'RE JUST FUNNY, IT'S... FUNNY, THE WAY YOU TELL THE STORY AND EVERYTHING.
DANNY DEVITO: FUNNY HOW? WHAT'S FUNNY ABOUT IT?
BURT KWOUK: DANNY NO, YOU GOT IT ALL WRONG.
DANNY DEVITO: OH, OH, BURT. HE'S A BIG BOY, HE KNOWS WHAT HE SAID. WHAT DID YA SAY? FUNNY HOW?
HARRY HILL: JUST...
DANNY DEVITO: WHAT?
HARRY HILL: JUST... YA KNOW... YOU'RE FUNNY.
DANNY DEVITO: YOU MEAN, LET ME UNDERSTAND THIS CAUSE, YA KNOW MAYBE IT'S ME, I'M A LITTLE FUCKED UP MAYBE, BUT I'M FUNNY HOW, I MEAN FUNNY LIKE I'M A CLOWN, I AMUSE YOU? I MAKE YOU LAUGH, I'M HERE TO FUCKIN' AMUSE YOU? WHAT DO YOU MEAN FUNNY, FUNNY HOW? HOW AM I FUNNY?
HARRY HILL: JUST... YOU KNOW, HOW YOU TELL THE STORY, WHAT?
DANNY DEVITO: NO, NO, I DON'T KNOW, YOU SAID IT. HOW DO I KNOW? YOU SAID I'M FUNNY. HOW THE FUCK AM I FUNNY, WHAT THE FUCK IS SO FUNNY ABOUT ME? TELL ME, TELL ME WHAT'S FUNNY!
HARRY HILL: GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, DANNY!
DANNY DEVITO: YA MOTHERFUCKER! I ALMOST HAD HIM, I ALMOST HAD HIM. YA STUTTERING PRICK YA. FRANKIE, WAS HE SHAKING? I WOULDA HAD HIM, IF IT WASN’T FOR THEM PESCI KIDS…
HARRY HILL: DANNY DEVITO, FAT CAN OF VIMTO. THAT'S HOW I REMEMBER. GOTTA HAVE A SYSTEM!

*** A SIMILE THAT CAN ALSO BE APPLIED TO THE SHITE AURALISMS POURING OUT OF DEXY'S MIDNIGHT RUNNERS MONSTROUS MUSICALITIES. MIDNIGHT RUNNERS ALSO BEING A EUPAMISM FOR THE SQUITS AT NIGHT.

Paperless orifice....

Blimey o' trousers!

What is it with WH Smith?

I thought companies were all Green and environmentally socially aware - instead they're lopping down rainforests to foist a veritable volley of vouchers and broadshits upon the poor hapless shopperells.

Take today, one goes in to purchase one's monthly academic publication concerning space monsters, oversized pussies, foreign stamp duende, and the like. One hands over one's hard earned pennies, and packs away the paranormal pamphlet.

But wait sir - you forgot your receipt! A whole willow* went into that parchment, you must take it!

But wait also - you must take this special offer too! £5 off when you spend a grand on pencils and protractors! Have that too, otherwise a larch died and you're spitting on it's pulped, pressed and printed cadaver!

And where go you think you're going? You've not taken your glossy £35 off when you spend a million squid on half-price bestsellers. A hedge of hawthorne blended with whore's chest-nut tree was pulverised into papyrus just for you! Schoolboys sacrificed the longevity of conkers just so we could offer you this exclusive discunt.

Oi - don't walk out the door, Porky! You forget yer free paper! Clearly we haven't laden you down with enough emergency bumwipe! Please, take today's Times - it's got no phone hacking or tits, but a copse of conifers was corpsed just to inform you of Londinium 2012 and killer immigrants. So if you don't take it, you're a Nazi!

I only wanted to educate myself on the latest swampy lake monster shennanigans and time shift tall tales, and instead I have deforested Norolk.

And I don't mean making cardboard cutouts of Dr "Bones" McCoy and placing them at strategic scarecrow points around the county... although it seems like good scheme to me. Make a roll of arsewipe, dress a babby in a manegerial suit & plant a tree? Stuff that - for every tree chopped down for paper products, erect a life-sized sci-fi cardboard cutout!

Ah, to roam the cuntryside amidst replicas of Aeryn Sun, Talia Winters, River Tam, River Song...

* NOT WILLOW'S HOLE. THAT'S A TOTALLY DIFFERENT TYPE OF GENTLEMEN'S RELAXING ART PERUSAL JIZZMAG. BUT NOT THE HOLE OF WILLOW WHOM MADMARTIGEN CALLED PECK. T'OTHER WILLOW - THE ONE OUT OF VAMPIRE SLAYING IN THE BUFF. OR SOMETHING.

The Fandom of the Oprah...

Montel Williams linking to me blog?


Stevie Wonder never ceases!


Fame! I's gonna live forever...


and pay for all my purchases in sweat.


Well ain't that nice for the serving wench.

Return of the Attack of the Killer Fluffy Bunnies (Part II) in 3D...

Spur of the moment last minute popsicle with additional blokement.

Honestly, why couldn't Midwitch dredge up her Pretties for me instead :(

Oh well, new moniker for The Return.

Alas, no scoffage - but what's this? The presence of non-existant peoples?!?!

For The Midwitch once invented a male Pretty for betrothal upon ye olde BaceFook, and apparently, from her invented mind he manifested at The Whatacunt. And now, he's manifesting himself all over the place.

So, it would seem that Xym needs to invent a pretty of his own. Buy that there Photoshop and blend together a montage of my Pretties to get Ultimate Pretty. Set my ficticious femme fatale up on FaceFuck and announce our courtment. Then all it needs is of to The Whatacunt and Bingo Wings! I'll have created a Pretty of my very own to exact specifications who shall appear in my presence!!

Although, knowing my luck, even a manifestation of mine own mind via the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic antimatter (precipitating a flexi-tangenital spatial interflux within the symbiotic parameters) would instantly loathe the loathesome lecher that is Xym!

Anyhoo, beaten by spatially perception impaired rapscallions. Boo!

Perhaps next time we'll be The Classic Special Limited Exclusive Ultimate Extreme Collector's Unseen Director's Theatrical Extended Edition of the Revenge of the Return of the Attack of the Killer Fluffy Bunnies From Outer Space (Part II) in 3D Triple Play Blu-Ray, DVD and Digital Copy steelbook boxset with lenticular sleeve, poster, postcard set and colletors booklet (includes both the Original and the remake) with replica prop from the movie and sculpted figurine by a world renown artist, plus 4 sets of Red/Blue Stereoscopic 3D glasses with cute bunny ears and optional twitching nose.

Or something.

Here comes LeBane...

Dem bones, dem bones, dem wet bones...

Oh Mickey, you're so fine
You're so fine
You blow my belly up and feast on the heart within
Hey Mickey!
Mick tan tea cut Lee!

'ere boney! have a squirt of my liquid nitrogen I just happen to have around the house!

People! LeStrange! And when you're LeStrange... er... um...

Oh yeah!

Faces get lovely, burglaring banks!

After spectacles of marketplace pugilistic punchups as one munches on brunch, it's off to devirginate the 3D iMax experience.

Hmmm... I know the character is now 'legal', as evidenced by previous films nudie snogment and highly suggestive lezzing up. But is it really necessary for so many severe drenchings? Trying for Miss Wet Corset 2011 are we? Miss Slick Clingy Skirt VPL 2011?

Not to mention the drop freeze, with camera suspiciously angled right down the be-bodiced kle'varg of polyjuiced Pretties.

Blimey - I half expected a Matrix style frozen 180° rotation shot for a gozz right up her golden snitch!

But, oh my, the subtle blending of Dr Watson with über Pretty Bella... me wants one! It's über Pretty, but now über über über Pretty!

And Julie Walters is no longer permissible as a recurring default quiz answer. She is to be stricken from the records and never mentioned in my presence ever again.

With the record selection at John & Chris's discretion...

As I flounce all over the dance-floor 

Checkin' Pretties that pass through the do-or

But they're wary of Xym's mental health

Coz I'm dancin' with my shelf

Proof enough, I think, that carpentry and clubbing don't mix.

However, clubbing in the Clubber Lang stylee is de rigeuer coz apparently I looks like Don King, arranging fisticuffs on the dance floor.

Except I ain'tst black!

Still, I suppose it's better than Donkey Kong. But not as good as Donkey Dong, which is a shame, as being blessed with a monsterous member would be better than a mountainous mop of cranial forestry. Impressive though the big backcombed bushy barnet is, it's a monumental failure as a Pretty attracting plumage.

Although as a man-magnet, it's disturbingly alluring... although this month I only got given 'The Eye'. No follicle gropeage, no man-hugging, no frottagey pole dancing using The Xym as pole. And 2 Pretties slapped me arse! So things are looking up!

From Well Fed Dredd to Don 'Seaman Staines' King in one night! Maybe I should refrain from giving the long luscious locks The Chop and keep the preposterous hair.

Decisions, incisions...

Last strain to TransMENTAL...

Yo, pass da ganja mon, I and I be a pastafarian now!

Baseball caps on bonce? Nah, such follicle obscuring fashion accessories are outlawed on the cranium for Driving Licence photographic identificationism.

Unless, of course, you have religious headgear.

And as a pastafarian of the Church of Flying Spaghetti Monster, you can wear a pasta-straining sieve on yer head in your photos thus:

How cool is that! And lookit the driving licence!

Apparently, he had to have a psychiatric evaluation to be allowed to wear his draining utensils, but was passed by the Austrian authorities.

Hold on - you need to be assessed for being mental for believing in a huge meatball and pasta behemoth that dwelleth in the aerosphere (mmmmm... aero!), yet believe in another imaginary man in the sky, and you're deemed fit for society!

I'd don a collander atop me barnet for tomorrow night's 80s night, except all my hair would seep through the holes, and I'd look like some 80s Play Doh Hair Salon work in progress.

The people would avoid me even more, and I'd feel cannelloni* out on me own...

Penne for your thoughts...

* CANNELLONI... KIND O' LONELY... NO? OH, WELL, FORGET IT THEN!

Read all about it, Nudes of the World...

Blah blah blah... Phone hacking

Blah blah blah... BSkyB bid dropped

Blah blah blah... Blagging records

BUT...

On the plus side, a shoplifting seagull nicks a packet of cheesey Doritos every day

AND

The ghostly imprint of a snowy owl appeared on a window!

"Mind you, they're all 'snowy' owls by the time I've finished with them, Stu"

Lets get physical! Phy... sick... hurl...

Oh, what's a poor old fat boy to do!

After being abandoned by all and sundry, repulsed by the squat, bloated, lecherous lump of lard, I deemed it time to Get In Shape.

And healthy food is not sufficient, so one must resort to...

THE EXERCISE

*shudders*

And so, braving the elements, The Xym braved walking into the City sans car/bus.

Oh, the terrible shock to the system!

But still, one step at a time.

Sweet Jesus.

And when I'm ripped and slim Xym is back... watch out Pretties!

We're on the goal, to Hell...

"I will see you in Hell, Mr Thorne

There, we shall shout out our sentence"

Half Past 7?

Of course not - it's Harpic VII, which sounds more like a bog cleaning robot to me!

Anyhoo - every wondered how a mentally challenger kicker of balls and his Stepford wife got so powerful?

Revelations 14:2

And I heard a voice from heaven, as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of a great thunder: and I heard the voice of harpers harping with their harps.

A-ha!

And what else does The Bible have to indicate a harbingedrinker of Armadillo? Only the number 7... Seven Seals, A red dragon with 7 heads and 7 crowns, A score of 7 on Strictly Come Apocalypso!

And surely, the aforementioned Harpers must be a septet...  7 Harpers... a Harper Seven if you will!

Forget The Omen - clearly The Antichrist will not rise from the Eternal Sea of political power, but from the sea of Celebrity Royal power (although The Church tried to prevent anyone interfering with God's ineffable plan by mentioning Eternal instead of The Spice Girls, so Louise Nurding would be a scapegoat instead of Posh Spice Victoria Beckham, mother of serpents).

But Xym - doesn't The Father Of Lies usher in his Son as servant at 6am on 6th June? 666 - number of the beast, and all that?

Another mistranslation. Remember revelations? All them 7's? Forget 6 sixes, it's 7 sevens!

1. Born 7(:55) am 

2. Born in July -the 7th month

3. Weighed 7lbs, 

4. David was number 7 for England 

5. He was also number 7 for ManChestHair United

6. He has a tattoo of the number 7 in Roman Numerals on his forearm (or foreskin. One of the two, anyway)

7. The  Beckhams have 7 brain cells between them

7 sevens! Proof enough, I think, of the heralding in of Ye Endde Tymeʃ !

And if Goldenballs "The Lion" is the equivalent of The Jackal, Ole Cloven Hoof* must be Victoria. 

"The voice of The Devil,

is heard in our lands!"

As evidenced by the screaming of the teeming tortured souls encapsulated within the caterwauling cacophany of such eternal torment as "Out Of Your Mind", "Not Such An Innocent Girl", "A Mind Of It's Own" and "Let Your Head Go/This Groove".

Old Nick?

Old Knickerless, more like!

Or something.

* OR OLE CAMEL TOE, DEPENDING ON YOUR PREFERRED BEASTIAL ANATOMICAL COMPARISONS OF VADGE DEFINING TOO-TIGHT LEGGINGS.

The mouse turds on cue eat maypole syrup...

Why are them Americans so gullibubble?

Orson Wells does a radio show, and thousands leg it in panic, thinking tripodal machinery is advancing forth, belching black plumes of death, parabolically heating them and groping them up with tentacley steampunkery limbment.

And now, all it takes is a gormster child to say he'd read a comic and they all goes nuts!

Of course, self destruction due to the belief that your neighbor is a pod person from the planet Mars is nothing new, but as evidence of poddington pea-pod takeover, surely "I've read a comic" isn't really sufficient to convince ye olde townsfolke bearing ye flaming torches?

Who presumably is bare, due to the somewhat ashy state of his apparel. But he's a superyhero, and probably given a flame retardent big catshit by Reed Richards.

Unlike Liz Sherman (sister of Ben, who ended up as The Thing*), who appears to do all her shopping in Primark. Big, furry overcoat - get's in a strop with Red, whooses up all flamey and doesn't even burn all her clothes off!

Of course, Selma Blair was facing the eggs of Sammæl during the usering in of the Ogdru Jahad (mystical speak for Stan & Hilda Ogden out of Corrie), and not space monster boy racers inducing fright of pod people from the planet Mars by switching a car engine on.

Come on Guillero Del Zoro - Lesss trancing like a cat on a hot tin shack, and more nudie lady pyromancers if you please!

And as for you invasionary space monsters - less pretending to be a meteor, and less tampering with the 'leccy. Prices are bad enough without you piddlign about with it and pitting us against each other.

Or something.
 
* NOT THE ONE IN THE ICY WASTES. THE ONE WHO SEZ "IT'S CLOBBERIN' TIME". CLOBBER BEING ANOTHER TERM FOR CLOTHING, HE'S PROBABLY BEING ALL GIRLY AND GOING OFF SHOPPING FOR BLOUSES AND BRAS. WHEREAS THE OTHER THING, IN THE ICY WASTES, WAS ALL SPACE MONSTERY. AND IT DIDN'T HAVE TO PUT THE WILLIES UP PEOPLE  BY PONCING ABOUT WITH STREETLIGHTS. OH NO. IT'S ALL IMMEDIATE ASSIMILATION AND THE POD PEOPLE EFFECT AS IT SHOULD BE.

Khyber, Khyber, Khyber, Khyber, Kyberchameleon....

After 23 years, I finally did the Lord Mayor's procession.

Well, sort of!

A chance encounter with a Pretty led to the revelation that another Pretty was engaging in harem based shimmying outside The Forum.

So, off we went to see the belly dancing eroticism of The Alan Partridge Bellydancers!

And lo, it was good. Although the Pretty looked good as Princess Djelli with a hot dusky maiden Pretty alongside, the rest of the troupe consisted of Terry Scott, Roy Castle, Peter Butterworth and Charles Hawtrey.

And after a second helping of dusky maiden oglement in my guise as the Khasi of Khalibar, it's off to CFG. Not Roald Dahl's Cunty Fucking Giant, but Chapel Feeled Gardens. Settling in by Mrs Miggin's Pie Shoppe (due to the caterwauling Bain Sidhe on vocal), 'tis time to get ripped to the tits on Monster and a selection of e-numbered cocktails.

And so we missed the actual procession.

Although we we did see a mad crackpot steampunk scientist sat atop some mechanical monstrosity, although 'twas a dragony thing, not a giant arachnid

I'm a badass cowboy, livin' in a cowboy's age

wikki wikki scratch yo yo bang bang

Me and Artemis Clyde-Frog

go save Selma Hayek from the big metal spiders

A-wikki wikki wik, wikki wikki wik

Fresh Cowboy from the West Side

wikki wikki scratch yo yo bang bang

Me and Artemis Clyde-Frog

go save Selma Frog, Polly Prissy Pants 

Go down to

well... um...

Rumpltumski

And then there's the terror, the terrible terror of The Magic Of Take Shat, preceded by a tribute to Robin Williams.

Still - Pretties in the Park, so good times!

Baby I've got porn this way...

Why is it always me!

After severe penny reducing pints with Pretties in commiseration of work woes and a celebration of a decade of Tanis, it's off home via the Public Transport, and the now legendary Nutter On The Bus.

But this is no normal Nutter on the bus, this is a creepy, sneak up from behind S&M Nutter!

The safety of bag-on-seat-to-deter-Nutters is no safety at all. At least if The Nutter sat next to you, you knew where he was and what he was up to.

Much worse is when you think you've avoided getting The Nutter, and then he takes the seat behind.

The seat that's elevated, allowing then to lean over and whisper his deranged offerings out of sight.

Todays aincient old nutter decided to regail me with tails of magazines. Magazines of a Belgian nature. Magazines that woud make Danish glossies such as Donkey Capers blush. Magaines that can make their way here, if you have The Contacts.

And it's offered to me for a mere £17,000.

Or I could have a selection for £1,000.

Because men like us need to punk it up. Stick together and keep these mads going. Stick it to The Man.

Is I being chatted up again? I'm not sticking it to no men, than you very much!

He's 63... but 27 inside. Keep them magazine's alive.

Alas, he managed to catch me on the one day I don't have 17 grand in me wallet to spend on his pornogratifications.

Oh well, That'll learn me for hoarding me pennies. Let alone whoring me pretties. 

Or something,

When I'm dead, will you cry more..

Right, That's it!

ENOUGH!

I'm taking charge again!

Apologies for the last couple of days - but fear not - Abnormal Service Will Be Resumed As Soon As Possible.

For there be tales on the whore eyes son. Of teabagging leporidææ, biblical mistranslations of deadly sins concerning panthera leo enforced by Father Neil Tennant, and Shakira (Shakira) apprentices.

But right now, me and mah crewz is beseiging the bastion of bipolarity and kicking back at The Man. Who's with me!

Things can only get bitter...

It get's worse!

An hour!

A whole hour!!

And thence to put us into a state of panic.

And to make things clearer, the clarification is that... it was a back of fag packet job - we don't know what we're doing yet.

Bloody pointy heads.

Trapped in my bag, only - no mammaries for company...

If I wasn't on suicide watch, I would regail you with tales of preposterous prisoners stuffed in suitcases. Of the transparency of cats. Of the obtaining of convoluted lockery and it's resolution. Of employment and another attempting at the casting out of Xym in furtherance of ideals of foreign nationals in Scotchland who have no skills or infrastructure to do anything.

But, freewheeling down a depressive incline of a rapidly increasing steepness, I shan't!

So, no blog today.

However, a picture of the nudie sock-clad mexican Houdini's facepalm moment needs to be added, to mask my misery and chaperone chucklement gingerly back in apologetic shame.

You got to praise me like a God...

Clearly, some blokes have their gaydar turned up to 11.

I now have another bloke with a "man-crush" on me, and another believing me to be a God and taking my babbling as biblical.

The Gospel Of Xym!

I know I have the bod of a God (Buddha), but how comes my disciples are all fishing for men? Why can't I have hordes of Pretties lining up to marry me and bear my children?

David Koresh - more wives than Papa Lazarou. Perhaps I should "black up" and start abducting Daves for my circus menagerie.

Watch out Pretties - You're all my wives now!

Sunday, Bloody Sunday...

Bloody Bloody Bloody!

Having no friends desirous of my company for Saturday Night pant swinging, I made the mistake of solacing myself with the Denizens of Roysten Vasey followed by a journey into the fifth dimension beyond which is 
known to man.

Unfortunately, all night screenings do put The Tiredness upon thee.

All very well being hoisted by my own pet toad (we don't say the F word here) and indulging in metaphysical mystical meanderings, but it meant a slight dozing off in the early hours with an awakeing beyond teatime!

Which gives me a lack of bloglature to draw upon.

So a quick rinse around the key areas, and it's off to The Black Whores to come 4th in The Quiz.

But alas, alack, prizes for 4th place have been withdrawn.

Mayhap we can do better than 4th place.

Oh, we came 4th,

C'est La Vie, as the lovely B*Witched once put it.

And who wouldn't want to put it into B*Witched?

Uh-oh! I'll show 'em mine of they show me theirs!

Or something.

Like to get to know you well, to get up yer bum...

Heavens above - Xym be arousing passions in the busoms (and moobs) of everyday folk!

Firstly - last night in King's Lynn. I have never found a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We had to be cautious...

So, being the only Northern Outsider, my normally abhorrent visage that provokes revulsion amongst Normal Folk is a beacon of beauty to the backwater inbred behemoths!

"Are we human, or are we dancers" sang Howard Jones...  well, In 'Lynn, sub-human chancers would be yer answer mate! In a town where octogenarian trolls in short shorts and halter tops need to be checked for ID, Xym is a veritable Adonis.

Whilst sat relaxing with a rehydrating beverage, approacheth the ambassador of the teenage siren with amorous intentions - alas, said Pretty fled in embarassment as her mate made enquiries about my singularity of status. Ah, the old skool "my mate proper fancies you, and I ain't even joking" betrayal of confidence.

Well, at least one person finds me desireable... even if my troll-like feature only appeal to the degenerate denizens of market towns.

But that was last night - today, my pheremonal fragrance is once again arousing homoeroticism stalkerage!

Wandering down the Royal Arcade, some fellow-me-lad flags me down. Once again my barnet has attracted admiration for it's fabulous follicle forest. Not only that, I was noticed the other day, as apparently my apparel caused admiration also. 

And then I was subjected to another obsessive ranting on about worshipping the God Gary Numan. Do I like NiN? Cradle of Filth? What do you thing about Gary Numan? Oh, no-one loves Gary more than me!

So, like the now-legendary News Reporters, I made my excuses and left.

Only to come out of the Castle Mall toilets to find myself being stalked by Mr Numan once again! Luckily, no carrier bags for cottaging, but yet another lecture on the deity that is Numan, and the Pure gospel.

Honestly - Do I look gay or something? Hardly a night at The Whatacunt goes by where some bloke isn't hitting on me! OK, I've accepted the fact that Pretties find something inherently repulsive about me, and resigned myself to a life a solitude. But that doesn't give every gay in the village the right to try and spatula me!

That's it - I'm off clubbing in 'Lynn, where my fanny magnetism holds no bounds!

God gave croc and roll to us...

Crocs!

Crocs with socks!

A sight to see is crocs with socks
Upon a fox from down the docks
who's caught the pox upon her box
when the cure, say docs, is eat some cox*

And if The Public's shocked and mocks

a fox who rocks in socks and crocs

Shave off their locks! Kick their buttocks!

Them cocks that mocks a fox in crocs.

But what about crocs upon Burt Kwouk?
Take the glock out of your pock'**

Beat the clock! Shoot off his block!
That's what you do with crocs on Kwouk.

Crocs with socks - it's all bollocks
I prefer a fox with big New Rocks
A great big shock of tousled locks
And not a fox in crocs with socks.

*APPLES, OF COURSE. NOT THE GORMSTER YELLING IN A ROWING BOAT. OR EATING COCKS - THAT'S HOW SHE GOT INTO TRUB IN THE FIRST PLACE...

** ABBREVIATION OF POCKET.