She will she will she will she will let farts take your breath away...

So, a long while back, I was persuaded to purchase some quality pop music by the lyrical genius known as Sticky Minge Arse, and ended up with two albums on me iPod I never listened to.

Now, since starting my new job, there are Young Folk in the workplace, who idolize such icons of musical legend.

So, I dug out Pink Friday: Roman Remains, and prepared for a most delightful aural treat.

First up, is the appalling vocals on Track #1: Roman Holiday, with the genius lyrics of "♪ I dare a motherfucker be talking about me / Them bitches must be smoking a couple of OC / Ha Ba Ba Ba Ga Gum the goatee ♫"

Then comes the insightful Track #2: Come On A Cone with the literary lyrics "♪ Ooohh-ooh, dick in your face / Ooohh-ooh, dick in your face / Ooohh-ooh, dick in your face / Put my dick in your face / Put my dick in your face / Yeah Yeah ♫"

What delights await on Track #3: I Am Your Leader? Why, it's the elegant "♪ Motherfuckers on my dick / suck it / I am your leader / Yes I am your leader / You not a believer / Suck a big dick ♫"

And on it goes:
"♪ Bitches ain't shit / And they ain't sayin' nuthin' / A hundred muthafuckas can't tell me nuthin' / I beez in the trap / B-B-Beez in the trap ♫" - Beez In The Trap 
"♪ Like I get that pussy wetter than a dirty sewer / Fuck you mean / Turn around and bust it open for me / Get on that dick and get that money ♫" - Sex In The Lounge

Culminating in the poetical final track Stupid Hoe: "♪ You a stupid hoe / you a / you a stupid hoe / You a stupid hoe / you a / you a stupid hoe / You a stupid hoe / you a / you a stupid hoe / You a stupid hoe / (yeah) you a / you a stupid hoe / You a stupid hoe / you a / you a stupid hoe (stupid, stupid) / You a stupid hoe / you a / you a stupid hoe (you stupid, stupid) / You a stupid hoe / you a / you a stupid hoe (you stupid, stupid) / You a stupid hoe / (yeah) you a / you a stupid hoe (you stupid, stupid) ♫" 

Which is why I was surprised when I found out that the below was NOT the official video to her cover version of The Sisters Of Mercy's Anaconda - I thought the lyrical prowess of this tribute was testament to her skillz as a songwriter fo' sho'. 

Fuck you very much...

Disgraceful!

Not so long back, I advised you about being published in Online Magazine 'Lhyme' to promote a recipe for the British classic dessert Spotted Dick, fused with the musical genius of Margaret J.

It would appear that one the Pretties of my overseas harem hath been hit with undeserved snipey bitchiness from the Overall Editor as regards tweaking some text as regards David 'Buoy' ( see here) and The Cure.

In a fit a pique, my Lady Doom was purged from all records.

And by association, it would appear the ignoramus has also removed all my carefully crafted perfect prose! 

This is blasphemy of the highest order! I am THE Xym - how dare any mundane misery deny the populace the Words Of Xym? Outrageous!

However, this does leave me free to revise, improve and extend my somewhat restrained review! So, without any further Agadoo or pushing pineapples up yer bum, here is my commentary upon Pop Tart Margaret J, with accompanying VD-dye-oh:
==============================================================
So, you teen girls know how embarassing parents can be (as my Niece Jess can attest!), however it's come to something when your parents turn into The Dentons and insist on Nude Day to celebrate your Dad's birthday, and they berate you for not denuding yourself.

After all, it's only a nudie poolside BBQ for your dad's birthday, including all their friends and neigbours.

So you take yourself off into your bedroom, to avoid seeing everybody's exposed 'Barbarellas" and "Godzillas" that are being invited into your pantyhose (or tights, if your not American. Possibly leggings). Which would probably make you a hermaphrodite. or something. 

And for that she thanks you very much. Or spanks her furry muff. probably.

So you decide to brave the party, but not naked, obvs. The kitchen is filled with grizzled, wrinked, sagging, obese oldies, so you sit on the sofa in the living room with all the hot young kidz.

And isn't it just your luck to sit right by the man from the BBC¹ dancing alongside, waving his way below knee-lenth wang about the place and almost whipping your face with it. Yet another oversized weapon of mass distraction!

And then there's the cutting of the cake - at least it isn't your birthday, so you don't have to have any, seeing as any "hundreds and thousands" and "chocolate sprinkles" on top are probably moulted pubes, dried arse shit, diseased skin and crabs.

And then it's dancing time for everyone, and there's no better way to celebrate than to be accosted by a great fat nudie pædo who presses you into his sweaty moobs.

Barbarella? More like fucking Blubberella doing them high kicks. Flash the gash with yer lardy labia. And fat pædo punches to clear a space so you can all adore his Adonis physique.

And out by the pool, some poor bloke is grilling his sausage as Marge sits there singing about biting it on the end...

...before the manly men man up for some manly wrestling...

...hold on... didn't Jimmy Savile start out as a professional wrester? Now then, now then, jingle jangle, pearl necklace jewellery. No wonder Margaret didn't want to party in her nuddy suit.

And to cap it all, after avoiding a facefull of phallus from the token Person Of Color With Obligatory Massive Cock, someone's semi cock-knocks her Coke out of her hand! And because she's in the middle of a nudie-fest, and doesn't want to go about all underagey undressed, she's now stuck with a damp & sticky gusset. For all the wrong reasons. Probably. or something.

And then you're invited back inside, to be compressed against the clammy flesh of the family, as the bespectacled grandparents poke and pinch at you. More worrying is that the baldy bloke looks suspiciously like he would be more at home in a PVC Nazi uniform. 

And after all that effort they put into pixellation, at 2:40, some brazen trollop is presenting her shaven pussy to the camera. Or it could be a beaver. Heck, it could be anything - it just looks like some hairless hellbeast (immediately followed by a REALLY creepy look from the fat pædo).

How come I never get invited to parties like this?



Original published version:

Salutations gastro-gnomes! For mine debut, one hath been tasked with checking out the latest teen sensation, the Pop Pixie known as Margaret J with her equally debut single "Thank You Very Much". A tune that deals with the harsh brutalities of adolescence and being embarrassed by your parents:

To whit; being forced to attend a naturist party for your dad's birthday with all his nudie neighbours. A horrific soirée of skyclad Barbarellas & Godzillas as you get told off by your mum for not denuding yourself.

Where Rebecca Black's "Friday" called for ear sealant, this pop tart's visual accompaniment will have you reaching for the eye bleach! How can one compete with Robin #Thicko's "Blurred Lines" topless models & Miley Cyrus's twerkage? Why, by surrounding the dodgily aged popstress with great fat hairy nudie dancing old folk like a rather dodgy pædo party!

Which it CLEARLY ISN'T. A minute into the video, and there's nothing more natural than to subject your offspring to a waving wang, but you know what they say "Oop Norf o' t'England" - Once tha's 'ad black puddin' fer t'breakfast, tha'll never go back. or summat.

Spotted dick? No! Thank you, pixelation. Thank You Very Much

¹ BIG BLACK COCK

I just don't think Xym understands...

Nooooooo! Make it stop!

Now, if you were a Space Monster abducting hillbillies in the forest, the last thing you want is to beam up a rapper & Billy Ray Cyrus.

Let alone force them to privately perform the crapfest that is "Achey Brakey Heart 2" with Billy Ray looking like Snake Plissken in shades.

No, you'd mutilate the alleged "musicians" by eating half their face off, ripping their knackers out, and dropping them on bemused farmers farms with the rest of the cattle.

Or abduct Miley Cyrus instead, Wrecking yer Balls with inter-species sexual experimentation (with a dose of intergalactic Rohypnol for the Betty & Barney Hill hypnotic recall later).

If anything's going to start The War Of The Worlds on Independence Day during First Contact, it's being subjected to this example of our cultural excellence. If I was on the Sulaco listening to this, I'd nuke Kentucky from orbit. It's the only way to be sure...

Don'tcha wish ya girlfriend faps on trains like Nic...

I've heard about people being tossed off trains for lack of a ticket, but really...

Now, you've all seen them there commercials for Hairball Essence, where some nymphomaniac with a follicle fetish washes her waterfall whipping tresses with the Special Shampoo and it induces a screaming orgasm.

But I just seen a new one that puzzles me somewhat.

It features that Nicole Skirtlifter off've The Pussyflap Trolls in a tiny toilet on train (or a plane. Pretty sure it's a train though).

Now, there is a distinct lack of natural waterfalls in a small confined cubicle, let alone showerage. Heck, usually the steel bogbowl is crammed full of shitty sheets creating a blockage, so you can't even drop yer barnet in the bog for a "flush rinse".

So clearly, Lewis Hamilton's on-off bed bucket is not washing her hair with Hairball Essences - unless she had an emergency merkin crisis, and had to peel off her quimcurtain for a handwash in the sink.

But surely handwashing your velcro twat toupée wouldn't give you a screaming orgasm. Unless Nic's Hole Shitsinger really loves washing her snatch syrup.

No, quite clearly she's using shampoo as some labial lubricant for a slick clit flick, bringing herself off on a train full of commuters and screaming as she's coming round the mountain.

Or something.

I know sex sells, but I'm not buying shampoo just because it compels you to wank impulsively in public transportation toilets.

Ermagherd, they outsourced Tracy...

Having just returned to the house, I put the telly on and it defaulted to BBC One & Sunday Bitchin'. A show all about food & 'celebs'.

Now, they had that Welsh rare bint off of We Are Scientits in a binkinini being slathered in paint, so I though I'd leave that on whilst I caught up on the hundreds of FB posts & notifications that suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

How comes that always happens - facebook is like a tumbleweeded dust bowl for days, and as soon as something good comes on, such as a scantily clad scientit songstress bring besplattered with smeary substances, Facebook goes manic!

Anyhoo, as I trawled through and caught up on all the goss (not Matt & Luke), some 'celeb' was outed as the voice of Brains in the new Thunderbirds next year.

So the presenter asked if he could do the Brains voice.

And Brains is now Asian! Confirmed by Brains Voice Man, it's now Bangalore Brains :(

Now, I'm familiar with outsourcing - a model used by managerial fucktards to somehow cut costs on the basis that 1 Asian costs a third the cost of a local employee, so why not make the employee redundant, split that role into 6-8 components, allocate 6 Asians per component, stretch a 5 minute job into 5 weeks, fuck it up, waste more time arguing over delivery, spend 2 weeks redoing the work, then have a local employee ditch the lot and redo it in 5 mins.

And then scrap the project a week before live.

And now they've applied that model to International Rescue!

"Ok, we have a collapsed mineshaft - we need sone form of tunneling device. Get Brains on the phone!"

"Hello, my name is Fred. How can I be giving you the pleasures today?"

"Brains, we need a massive drill boring device"

"For sure, for sure, Do you have a work order?"

"No, it's part of contract!"

"Many excusings please. Ah, we will be needings 6 resources to draw up a Requirement Document  then another 8 to Peer Review it, then it will have to go to my manager for approval. If accepted, we will then send to our 10-man design team to draft up a a Technical Specification, which will be Quality Assessed in the weekly Projects And Enhancements meeting. If accepted, it will be presented for sign off by each if the 12 areas affected. It will then be added to the flightplan with a view to getting a drill request build request to our China sub-contractor. They will give us an ETA for delivery,, from which we can commission 14 test phases. On sign-off of testing, we will then deliver a team of military men marching in formation, as you just asked for a boring drill, and not a drill to tunnel. We will argue we delivered exactly what you asked for, so fuck you if we fuck it up. Just send us lots of money and end up building it yourself. Everybody wins!"

"Why, that sounds perfect. Aren't efficiency savings brilliant!"

See, if I was in charge if the Thunderbirds reboot, I'd've cast Fuzzbox! It'd be all modern, what with the Tracy sisters. Apart from Brains who wasn't a Tracy, but he was a scientist, so you could have the Welsh Rare Bint from Wee On Scientists Tits instead! 

And I'd call it Binternational Rescue too!

So, something for everyone then! Strong, female leads to empower Teh Pretties, and for us blokes - exotic Tracy Island with Vix's long, long bronzed legs. AND the We Are Scientits bird in a bikini as Brains!

ft Sean Paul, Missy Elliot, Jay-Z, Puff the Magic Diddy...

Well, bugger me backwards!

T'other day I moaned about being offered an IT Professional course on basically how to switch on a laptop and use MS Word.

Today, I hear about a new course - nay, a degree!

So, in a change of career direction, I may take up this course.

And what is this course of practicality? Why - a course in pop tart Beyoncé Knowles!

Who needs web design skillz, accountancy skillz, or even social interactivity skillz? Clearly what I'm missing is a degree in being Crazy In Love with all them Single Ladies who put their hands up.

Right up! Putting a ring on it.

Or "fisting", to put it politely.

Obviously, to get a job, I need B.A.Baracus Honor Blackman in Destiny's Spawn and her altar ego Sasha Barren-Cohen Fierce and the politics of Lady Gaga ramming a sandwich in Beyoncé's plastic sex-doll face while they blather on about broken mirrors and motherfucker reflections on the Telephone.

All academics need instruction in a Bootylicious Nasty Girl if they want that promotion. A deep understanding of Déjà-Vu about one night stands with a Naughty Girl and ending up with a Baby Boy for DNA on Jeremy Kyle.

I reckon some damn fool had just made this up! Some Beautiful Liar, albeit one whose pelvic extremities do not dispel untruths.

Or something.

But being unfamiliar with any of Beyoncé's work, I'm at a mass-disadvantage in the job market, having no knowledge of a singular title of her musical compositions.

So I'll just have to sign on. Using my initals only.

XO

OXO, OXO, OXO ooh wa ah...

Got me cooking some gravy right now!

Wow! Xym's a celebrititty!

It would appear that everyone's favourite pop tart, Beyoncé Knowles (star of DIY SOS and National Lottery Who Dares Wins) had written a song for The Xym!

A love song at that!

It's called XO, which as y'all know is the initials of... why, no-one else in the whole world apart from your very own Xymon Owain!

I've been invited to dinner by Kelis, but no top celeb has ever written a song for ME before!

Apparently, she's got into trub about it. Seems she's sampled the Challenge Anneka disaster in honour of one of my teen crushes. I thought it was Treasure Hunt where she ripped her pants open and the chopper handler had to cellotape her arse on camera, but what do I know!

Nothing, it seems, for XO is also txtspk for Kisshug, so OXOXOXOXO is hug, snog, hug, snog, hug, snog, hug, snog, hug.

And there was me thinking it meant "I wants lots of gravy". Love gravy that is. Off that Smegma Bellendcheese.

No, not Smegma Bellendcheese, Lynda Bellendham of course!

[EDIT] Crikey, the filth on telly these days! Never mind Lynda Bellendham's hugkisshug lurve gravy, fanny battered vaginisms have crept into the New Year family movie. Stuart Little is on whilst I get ready, and the cat has just asked Stuart to "read my furry pink lips"!

The last person who famously "read the furry pink lips of her pussy" was deafblind political activist Helen Keller, and that's how she discovered mass debating. 

possibly. or not. as the case may (or may not) be. probably. or something. perhaps.

Deep within this skank and unappealing ho, lives Twerk...

Ever one for expanding one's lexiconal repertoire, a New Word has been created. One which causes much perplexment, as, due to only just being invented, is being banded about left, right, and centre, and nayone knows what the feck it means.

That word is Twerk. After much Columboesque investigatory techniques, I have finally arrived at a definition of Twerk:

TWERK: [activity: To Twerk, Twerking] The act of Booty Shakin' when one lacks the posterior mass required; shimmying what little ass one has whilst brushing the aforementioned buttocks into a George Michael/Beetlejuice hybrid's crotch as some form of lizard's tongue slithers out during a bout of gargantuan finger foam fappage of the flange in rhythm to rapey pop hits.

And to make that definition clear, here is the Twerk in action:

Now, a Beetlejuice thrice the age of Hannah Montanna doing Disney damsels up the derrierré whilst caterwauling out a violent, rapey, mysogenistic ballad isn't quite what I expect from the VMAs... which I presume from the Miley Cyrus erotica performance is an acronym for the Vag, Mouth & Anal awards.

So, she got no titties exceptin' fried eggies, and she got no ass.... well, that's not exactly true... as most of her ass fell out of her chickenskin short, short shorts, giving you troubling connections come Christmas/Thanksgiving...

Gaaaah! You don't want to be stuffing your bird, and have the image of fisting Miley Cyrus pop into yer head! Or worse, the image above becoming Miley with a prolapsed rectum!

Put you right off yer festive feastings that would! (and yes, I've just subliminally put festive fistings into your subconscious, so when you're elbow deep in Paxo, giblets and turkeyarse on Xmas morn, you'll get the image of Robbing Thicko fisting Hannah Montana whilst singing "Good Girl, I know you want it... Up the arse!" )

But buttcheeks spilling out of latex dunghampers isn't the worst. Oh no.

To compound the image, it would appear that plastic surgery has replaced Miley's tongue with some form of phallic protrusion! Obviously, in the image where she's being bummed by Beetlejuice, it's all 'on the flop' and looking like an elongated lapping, panting dog tongue. But witness the post-show flash, where her tongue todger is getting a bit of a semi going on:

WTF - she's literally got a cock in her mouth... and who's that passing by? Justin Trousersake and N'Sync reformed? Oh noes - her penile tongue is rising towards a proper lob-on!

Right, that's it! I'm stopping before she gets to full erectile mastication mouth-piece and adds a pearl necklace to her Red Carpet...

...and, as Always, by Red Carpet I probably mean menstrual fannypad, or something...

Jesus Loves Sandwiches...

Ermagherd!

JLS have split!

Oh noes - I LOVED their pop stylings records. Especially that there Last Train To Transcentral:

♪ J.L.S.
A-ha ha, A-ha a-ha!
J.L.S. is gonna rock ya!

All aboard, all aboard wao-oh
Whoo'hoo
C'mon boyz do ya wanna ride
All aboard, all aboard wao-oh
Whoo'hoo
Gravy Train of X-Factor ♫

Who's next to split? Justin Bieber...

... must resist temptation to make jokes about a belieber's split Bieber must resist temptation to make jokes about a belieber's split Bieber must resist temptation to make jokes about a belieber's split Bieber must resist temptation to make jokes about a belieber's split Bieber must resist temptation to make jokes about a belieber's split Bieber must resist temptation to make jokes about a belieber's split Bieber...

Sure plays a mean Pinball...

"Truly inspiring to be able to come here. Anne was a great girl. Hopefully she would have been a belieber."

So quoth all round girlyboy, petulant child and total titwanked tosspiece Justin Beaver when visiting the Holocaustial memorial of Anne Frank.

As if Anne Frank would have been a Believer - them nasty Nazi's would have found her dead easy when hearing Genocide Inducing Hellmusic blaring from the gramophone.

She'd've probably glady ran into the ovens, rather than listen to his album again!

Unless, of course, she may have been a Belieber by beliebing that listening to that shite at an extremely low volume is the best way to tolerate it. As well as not embarassing yourself by letting anyone hear what your listening to.

"Du bist ein Jew?"
"Nein"
"Das is güt - aber, was ist das - du haben Justin Bieber! Gött in Himmel! Schweinhund! Gehen sie aus Auschwitz, shießkopf!" ¹

Anne Frank, my best hat!

If there's anyone in History who can truly appreciate the talent of Justin Bieber, it'd be Helen Keller...

...who discovered masturbation by reading her own lips, don't ya know!

¹ YES, MEIN DEUTSCH IST SEHR CRAPPEN. OR SOMETHING. COME ON, BE FAIR - I AIN'T SPOKE GERMAN SINCE 1988!

His favourite way of getting kicks...

Go onstage late and dissapoint kids

BIEBER PATROL!

Well, what a week for talentless pop scumbag Justin Diva.

First of all, he has a right old paddy in his dressing room behaving like a brat.

"Mr Bieber! It's a riot out there! Kids are screaming! You gotta go on before their beddy -bo-boze timehz."
"Fuck you, Mr Manager! I'm Justin Beiber, and I'll go on when I want. Except on Wednesdays when I get rudely awakened by the dustman¹"

Anyhoo, the little scrote decided to go on 2 hours later at 10:35pm... 10 minutes after many of the last trains home have left. So he had to perform to very few underage groupies (the rest having been dragged off home by Mum to get some sleep before school in the morning).

Backlash! Every Belieber hates him!

Realising he's damaged his fan base, he goes for the sympathy vote.

Runs a bit on stage, and gets out of breath! OMG, like The Bieber has fainted on stage and been rushed to horsepickle! Oh noes! We luvs him again!

Oh wait... he didn't faint on stage and wasn't rushed to horsepickle? What? He had a 20 minute "recovery" break from the "bit out of breath dash" between the 2 halves of his "act", and at the end of the gig, decided to go to horsepickle.

And prompty issued an image of his sickly, fainted, ill, emacited self all on life support in horsepickle...

...well, a photo of him mainly nudie on a bed, posing to show off his six-pack to get the underage girls to forget he's just faked a major SHOCK INCIDENT ON STAGE!

And we loves him again...

...oh what, he's gone mental, and attacking photographers? And after getting into his chauffeur driven car, gets out to attack them again? What a fuckin' violent little spoilt brat shitearse talentless twat!

On the plus side, he's had such a "negative experience" of performing in the UK, he's NEVER COMING TO THE UK EVER AGAIN!

Oh my! Oh joy! Oh bliss! Let me just revel in that a little longer!

JUSTIN BIEBER IS NEVER COMING TO THE UK EVER AGAIN!

Result!


¹ AND BY RUDELY AWAKENED, HE MEANS A BUMMING, WHICH IS VERY RUDE INDEED.
A HABITUAL VOYEUR OF WHAT IS KNOWN AS...
...NOB GAGS!
AAAAAALL THE PENII, SO MANY PENII, AND THEY ALL GO IN HIS HAND
HAND JOBS FROM PÆDOS
NOB GAGS!
ETC, ETC...

[Aural] Rape. Murder. It's just a vote away...

Oh, Depeché Mode is threatenin'

our music moguls today

If Gore don't shoot that Cowell

all music's gonna fade away

Aw diddums! Simon Cowell is upset (yay!).

Apparently, that there Martin Gore out of Depeché Mode said:
"I'm not advocating violence, but I think somebody should shoot Simon Cowell. What happened to bands getting together? They are very few and far between now, and the ones that do probably can't afford to get into a studio and make a record."

So Cowell burst into tears and blubbed to the Press.

"Waaah! I doan wanna be shot! Martin Gore's a wierdo. Ner ner nee ner ner! He was is in Depeché Mode - does he realise how weird and stupid that makes him? Waaah - doan shoot me! Other peoples are being shot - it's unfair! He's a wierdo. Tell him Mum! I'll set me mate Louis on you, and he'll bum you with all the token gay ones out of our boybands. Waaaaah! I bet Dave Gahan didn't get to shag Sinitta, Danni Minogue and Cheryl Cole so ner."

You great girly big girls blouse of girlyness!

Think about it Cowell - Depeché Mode have been around for over 30 years, still selling out stadiums and making lots of albums. One of the most influential and popular bands ever.

What's your legacy?

Loathed supplier of atrocious Karaoke singers who can't sing, can't dance, have little (or no) fashion sense¹ who are never heard of again, that's what!

What happened to all them shite singers who won them Cowell shows? Does he seriously think Steve Brookstein (who?) is comparable to Dave Gahan?

Sorry Cowell, but I concur with Gore. If we had the death penalty, you would be up in front of the firing squad for crimes such as the murder of music, and the fraudulent promotion of "talent" such as Girls O'Lard & Little Shits.

Martin Gore? A wierdo? Being in Depeché Mode makes you weird and stupid? This, from the man who inflicted Ashleigh and Pudsey upon us as the cream of British Talent? This, from the man whose company "SyCo"...a-ha!

...by your own admission, Cowell, you're a Sicko! A sicko (syco) who gets off on on torturing the mass populace with absolute mediocre shite through the tellybox , brainwashing 9yr olds to badger their mums to fill their bedrooms with your depraved audio bollocks that keep car boots in business for many a future Sunday!

Like that woman who crept into Cowell's bathroom to smash his face in with a brick, I think these are some of the sanest people out there!

Simon Cowell. What a twatarse gobshite!

¹GIRLS O'LARD ON CHILDREN IN NEED THIS YEAR - I REST MY CASE! BAD, BAD OUTFITS, BAD, BAD DANCING, AND BAD, BAD OUT OF TUNE/TIME SINGING. AND THAT WAS WITH AUTOTUNING!

Be ready, be ready to get confused...

My mind is blown!

On today's Sky Nudes website: "Naturalist Sir David Attenborough is teaming up with Icelandic pop star Björk for a one-off Channel 4 music documentary to examine the development of music".

There's definitely,definitely, definitely no logic... but yet so, yet so irresistible

That's Sir David Attenborough! and Björk! - the lurker in the bushes watching monkeys mating, and the lurker in airports walloping journos with their handbag.

For she's terribly, terribly, terribly moody... then all of a suddenly turns happy

I know the former Sugar Cubist's warbling and wailing has oft been described as whalesong (when said whale is former portly beardy indie DJ James Whale. Harpooned by a Japanese blubber farmer), but combining Sir David Attenborough and Björk for a historical evaluation of musical audiocity...

This is gonna be ever so, ever so satisfying!

and there is no map!

and a compass wouldn't help at all!¹

Although GPS in their Cars may help transport them about a bit.

Oh, but if they ever get close to Gaz Numan, and Numan's behaviour....

¹ SIGH. IF I MUST LOWER MYSELF TO EXPECTATIONS:
   AND THERE IS NO FAP
   AND A CUMMED ASS WOULDN'T HURT AT ALL
   YEA HEH HEEE HEEEEEEEEEEEEE (THAT'S SOME OF THAT THERE WHALEY WARBLING WHAT SHE DOES LIKE WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT EARLIER!)

Happy smiley people holding fans...

And The Xym is a fan who wouldn't mind if Stacey Solomon was holding the aforementioned fan!

For The Stace is one fit bird. Phwoar. Right up my street. And when she smiles, it lights up the room like an olympic torch being shoved into a gem encrusted golden musty tomb by Evie Hammond being played by Rachael Weiss.

I think it's safe to say "yeah, The Xym definately would!"

Anyhew, the "fan" in question is a different sort of fan entirely. A fan for fanning away the fug of scented miasma in a bottle. For everyone's favourite Iceland shopping waterfall showering pop tart¹ has released aromatheraputive perfumeries curiously named "Smile".

Now, I'm no expert, but surely a product called Stacey Solomon's Smile should be accompanied by the Pop Pretty's radiant cakehole moistly opened wide and turned up at the corners (and not turning up at the coroners like my other perfect pop Pretty Ameh).

So what's with the miseryarse expression accompanying the Eau De Toilet?

Look at her - call that a Solomon Smile? She doesn't even look happy in the remotest of remote interpretations of happyness.

That's one bloody pissed off mardy bum expression if ever I saw one!

Stacey Solomon's Smile? Stacey Solomon's Sulky Arse Stroppy Hissy Fit, more like!

I suppose they were going for Stacey Solomon's Sultry Smile, which I would be most appreciative of. But no. That's someone who is not impressed at all with something over in the top right of the room.

Unless, of course, what The Xym and his incomprehensibility in interpreting social interaction understands as a smile is not actually a smile. Perhaps a smile is that kind of 'meh' expression displayed on that promotional package!

Well, no wonder the Pretties all avoid The Xym - clearly what I thought was a cheeky, charming, friendly and inviting smile is a scowlage of fuck-offery proportions! Perhaps I should emulate the Solomon Smile above, so people know I's a smiley happy peoples...

Oh well..

¹ NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH OTHER WATERFALL SHOWERING POP TART MY CLEAN ARSE. WHICH IT WOULD BE, AFTER ALL THAT TIMOTEI RUNNING DOWN HER BACK AND FLUSHING THROUGH HER CRACK. OR SOMETHING.

It's the end of the world and we knows it...

Next year, the world ends on 21st December 2012¹, which means...

... next years Xmas number one chart topper will the the last one EVER!

So, what's it to be? Leave our malformed mutated survivors of catastrophe with a musical legacy to linger on, or give them such an apocalyptic dirge that musical intonation is outlawed by The New Society of giant chimeran human-cockroach hybrids?

Will we go out with a bang, or a careless whisper?

Surely we don't want Simon Cowell and next year's equivalent of Little Fix with a generic bland cover?

How about another campaign to get something like Rage Against The Machine to the final top spot?

Or should be all back Ultravox's Vienna, then sneak in Joe Dolce's Shaddapa Ya Face at the last minute?

LET'S GET THIS STARTED PEOPLE!

I votes for Swede Mason's Masterchef Synesthesia (buttery biscuit base!) for Xmas No.1 2012, just before the Mayan calandar runs out, and we have to dig out the Hollyoakes Babes calander 2013 before the terrible flooding and lack of Arks.

But with the Hollyoaks Babes calendar, no lack of Norks. Preferably thems of Carmel & Jacqui McQueen!

¹ OTHER APOLOCALYPSE AND RAPTURE DATES ARE AVAILABLE

Vanilla Slice - Nice, baby!

There's this thing, right, where people are being requested to store their emergency contact person's number in their mobile as ICE (In Case of Emergency). Also, they should keep a card in their wallet with an ICE as a contact number.

Apparently, this helps in an emergency situation, so the Emergency Services can inform the relevant person of the situation.

Luckily, I'm good friends¹ with top rapper and B-movie Z-lister Ice-T. Which is handy, because he's a man who can handle himself in an emergency. Especially if he brings his mate LL Cool J along too.

Not only that, he now appears in my Phone Contacts under ICE Ice-T, so I had to get our other bezzi mate² Vanilla Slice to re-record top pop hit Ice Ice Baby to Ice Iced Tea for a personalised ringtone.

Serial Killers! Drug Dealers! Anacondas³! Emergencies? What emergencies! These guys laugh in the faeces of Emergency and send it fleeing with it's knickers around it's ankles and an unwiped bum!

But I work for that there Aviva, and I've been reliable informed that I should put my emergency number as internal number ----†.

I think not - If I'm in an emergency, I'd rather rely on Mr J, due to keeping his cool in emergency Deep Blue Sea style sharking scenarios. Especially if he's sharking that (j-j-j-j-) Jessie J!

Plus, you get Samuel L. Jackson thrown in for free, which is a bonus is you're fed up with all them muthalovin' snakes on your muthalovin' EasyJet.

That said, I do recall that there John McClane out of Die Hard being on an Aviva advert, telling us not to call him Walter. I'd dial ---- if Aviva have Bruce "wotchew talkin' 'boot Wincey" Willis on standby, ready to assist if I were subjected to a heist at the office Xmas party next month‡. Hah - knowing my luck, I'd get Paul "Don't Call Me Ringo Thomassy Tank-Engine Fat Bastard Controller Edwynn" Starr. Or Freddie Starr, eating my Hamster and somewhat exacerbating the nature of my emergency somewhat as snakes run rampant writhingly on Ringos carriage.

And hopefully not the snakes on his undercarriage, like some Spyder Dijon with 8 cocks, plagueing octo-pussies ladygardens in the shade of their damp wet mossy bush.

Or something.

¹ THIS MAY BE A BIT OF A FIB.

² THIS ALSO MAY BE A MISREPRESENTATION OF THE NATURE OF THE REALITY OF MY ACTUAL  FACTUAL ACQUAINTANCES.

³ ALTHOUGH PERSONALLY, I'D PREFER TO WRESTLE WITH RONNI ANCONA, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN (AND I'M SURE THAT YOU DO!)

† NUMBER OBFUSCATED SO THAT NONE OF MY IMAGINARY READERS START RINGING UP AVIVA TO DEAL WITH THEIR INTERNAL EMERGENCIES.

‡ "I HAVE HAD IT WITH ALL THESE YIPPEE KAY AY MOTHERHUMPIN' ELVES ON THESE YIPPEE KAY AY MOTHERHUMPIN' FILING SHELVES!"

Hand In Ovenglove...

Empty BBQ by the main stage, Desolate

They haven't lit a charcoal briquette

Watch from the beer-tent bar

that Salford twat

Why pamper whims of Morrissey

When a chef's not allowed his packet of meat

I'd go and see his show

But I cannot buy a bacon roll

Now I know how Jean D'Arc felt when the smoke rose to her roman nose and it lacked that burgery scent. 

Desperate to bag a top-name, the Lokerse Feesten festival in Belgium had banned meat for one day.

Yes, depressive lyricist of The Smiths,and soloist performer of the voice behind Bob The Builder (can we fist it?) has persuaded the organisers to enforce 24hr  vegetarianism on the festival goers.

Hold on... this fezzie is in Belgium - you know Belgium... where all them eColi killer veg are!

Typical aminal rights activists - look after the cute aminals, but maim and murder humans! And with poisonous veg too! Bio-illogical Warfare!!

But wait - where did this idea that Morrissey is a militant vegetablist come from, when it's clear he's one of them there cannibals.

At the 2009 Coachella Festival, he famously lost control at the mouth-watering aroma, and ranted "I can smell burning flesh, and I hope to God it's human!"

Ha! So much for his vaunted Meat Is Murder stance, when he's publicly slavering, drooling and hoping for BBQ haunch of Long Pig after his performance!

Godlike Mancunian genius he might be, but I'm not having eColi cucumbers rammed up me bum whilst the two faced singer dines on grilled groupie gash, laughing at us denied the pleasures of the flesh.

Spit-roasted BBQ'd flesh, that is!

"Oh well, what difference does it make when there panic 'bout the meat at festivals."

"Sweetness - I was only joking when I said I'd like to ram a beefsteak down your neck"
"Oh, shut yer gob, how can you say I barbecue ribs the wrong way*?"
"Girlfiend - in the kitchen! Sheila, take a bap (and shove a quarter-pounder in it)"
"There is a light that never goes out"
"You dozy mare - the light goes off automatically once the sausage rolls are done and you turn the oven off"
  
* I'M GARY NUMAN AND I NEED TO BE LOVED. JUST LIKE AMY WINEHOUSE DOES

Caught in a lap romance...

Clearly I's be getsing old, for I clean forgot my recent brush with celebrity!

And it's not Basil.

Or Hellboy's dad.

No, it's Davros himself... only without his exterminatory carapace!

When returning from Peterkaysville, I had to stop at the train station to purchase ticketyboo papers of passage. Alas, I forgot about The Fry Up Inspector's post of Boltonian Brekkie and neglected to lard up and partake of the Worlds Biggest Breakfast.

Anyhoo, I gets to the counter, and whose there to issue me with a permissible travel slip? None other than STEPHEN HAWKING himself!

Now, many of you will picture a drooling mechanical soundbox in a davrosmobile with pop tartlet Stefani Midwitch writhing about on his lap, with a laptop on top of her lap laden with Londinium lookylikies of Boris Johnson licking her labial swipe card reader. 

Or something.

Not so! For he was of a most ambulatory persuasion! Well, not so much dashing here and there, but enough to stand and move his robotic arm to pick up the cash and thence to the ticket machine...

Hold up a minute! Of course! He's not got multiple sclerosis at all (not even a single sclerosis) - he's just been skiving like Roy in The It Crowd! He's just nicked someone's wheelchair, curled up in it, put his ticket machine on the side and pretends it a talkybox!

Right - I'm ringing that benefits cheats helpline - there he is, hiring strumpets in skimpy nurses uniforms to "look after him" and getting a free council house and stuff on The Benefits, and when no-one's looking, he's off conducting on buses and trains. Strolling up and down carriages, typing destinations into his 'text-to-speech' keypad, and of his 'voicebox' printer comes a ticket!

The cheek of it! 

And when he's not dispensing tickets, he's writing about wormholes and quantum physics tablets for his dishwasher! It's a right old disgrace.

Once again, It's one rule for academic crippleprofs, and another for agadoo chavscum!
    

Reach! For the choir...

Now, i'm no pervy pædo priest, but lately Those Who Don't Want Me To Reveal The Truth are slandering my name so that people will not listen to me revealing all about their nefarious works.

I was down at The Whatacunt on Saturday, and some chavscum accused me of being Gary Glitter!

I know I had endless numbers of drunken strumpets stroking my bountiful mane, and wondering in wonder at the cute crimpiness of my lush locks flowing in full follicle forestry about me bonce.

However, I didn't recognize any from JailBait Reef (Arrrrr!).

Then, today, someone commented that There's no party - like an S-Club Party!

To which I replied that surely, an S-Club Juniors party would be just like an S-Club Party.

And once again, I'm suddenly cast as a pædy perver of underage tribute acts!

I thought the squeaky clean S-Club were all twee and Jelly 'n' ice-Cream types, playing their bland banal hits, and therefore the minature version would be, to all in tents and porpoises, identical.

No so! Seems that an S-Club Party is somewhat different! Maybe S-Club Juniors were not formed as S-Club 8, but S-Club Ate Her Out!

Or something.

Did I miss something back then - what was the S in S-Club for? Sex Club? S&M Club? Sodomy Club? Why was there S-Club Search on telly, recruiting (trafficking?) underage innocents to replicate the sexual shennanigans of their older dogging counterparts?

Not a follower of manufactured poop idols, I assumed S-Club Juniors were there to capitalize on S-Club 7, and therefore blindly compared the two as being virtually the same. If I'd've known that such comparison of S-Club 7 & S-Club Juniors parties would lead to pædophillic accusations of pervature, I wouldn't have mentioned it!

Although thinking about it:
"S-Club, Gonna show you how..." - How to what, exactly?
"Reach for the stars... " - in orgasm?
"Ain't no party like an S-Club party..." - obviously not when the party's held in some torture garden with the fistings and the whippage (not to mention the whippets!).

It's a national disgrace! Why, it's almost a revisit to the 70s and Top Of The Tots and MiniPops!

Oops - better dash. Time for LazyTown...

Hello Stephanie...
    

I love this titty...

Put your hands up
Put your hands up
Put your hands up
Put your hands up Marcella Detroit!

Yes, Mr Fedde, But I'd prefer Siobahn Whahey!

But not that hot chick with the squirty teats. You know, the Nandos trollop. Katie Perry-Perry.

She kissed a girl, and she liked it, but it tastes like some old chaps dick, apparently.

So she didn't like it all that much then, coz she ended up marrying Russell Brand!

And now she presents a Big Ass show, does Katy Brand (néé Perry-Perry) coz she let herself go a bit. Your Hot 'n' You're Cold? You're Full Of Pie 'n' Mash now babe!