Un garçon, un garçon à vendre...

il va bon marché

seulement sept (les pintes de) Guinness

Them vegitarians get everywhere! Apparently, there is now vegitarian Guinness!

Clearly I'm a bit thick, for I thought the demon brew was simply hops, yeast, barley & water bunged in Dale's products and fermented for a while. But no, seems that real Guinness is made from fish bladders and Bovril.

or something.

Anyhoo, at least we now know what that creamy white top is all about - it's the Lard separating from the fishy deluge below... like Innuit harpooned whale blubber stuck in an ice-floe (but not rubber stuck in Aunty Flo in some pervy episode of Bod where Farmer Barleymow went a-ploughing of the furrows... that's certainly not Snap!).

Poor old french lawyet Suzie Ployét - first getting a gobful of Lard in the Emerald Isle...

...still, if a gobful of lard up yer Emerald Isle floats your boat, don't complain about the crispy bits what float to the surface!

Actually, I shall!

Crispy bits, my best hat! What we northerners call Scraps, them southern Jessies call "crispy bits".

Personally, I prefer the term "Scrobblings" or even "Gribblings", although I daren't ask a serving wench for a portion of scrobblings for fear of a duffing up.

How's a bout of bit of scrobblings to go with me fish supper then...

SMACK!!!
  

They tried to make me go to t’cafe, but I said toast, toast, toast...

Breakfast!

Take them Americans. According to gritty crime dramas, the first meal of the morning is a KFC family fuckit!

Which is damn annoying, coz it makes me hungry for chicken coated in secret spices and in the UK the KFC don't open until mid afternoon.

So, in the UK we make do with either a 'full English' or an 'all day breakfast'. Now, apart from the fact that a full English is NEVER a full English*, I take issue with this alleged All Day Breakfast:

Firstly, how can it be an 'All Day' breakfast, if they stop serving it at 11:30?

And second, for those places that do serve it up all day, if you've already eaten previously in the day, it's no longer a breakfast coz you already "broke your fast" with the previously alluded to meal!

Anyhoo, I see Amy Winehouse has been performing some Glasto GBH. According to Michael Eejit, whilst she was singing to the crowd, some cheeky chappie got a hankering for poptart for brekkie, and copped a couple of cupfulls of the High Barnetted Beauty's fried eggs. However, a conflicting report from a Roving Reporter has it then the lad was pulling her hair... clearly after a bit of the old hash browns to go with the eggies, although purloining popstars pubes is a bit much for me that early in the morning...

Good job he didn't fancy Jay-Zeds sausage!

* FULL ENGLISH: BACON, SAUSAGE**, FRIED EGG, SCAMBLED EGG, BEANS, TOMATOES,  MUSHROOMS, FRIED BREAD, BEEFBURGER, BLACK PUDDING, ONIONS, HASH BROWNS***, BREAD & BUTTER,  AND TOAST.

** PROPER CYLENDRICAL SAUSAGES, NOT THEM STRANGE FLAT SQUARES OF MYSTERY MEAT

*** THIS IS THE ENGLISH EQUIVALENT OF HASH BROWNS - A TRIANGULAR LUMP OF CHOPPED POTATO IN A LIGHT CRISPY BATTER THAT'S GRILLED, BAKED OR FRIED, AS OPPOSED TO PROPER US HASH BROWNS - SHREDDED POTATO TOSSED ABOUT IN A HOT SKILLET.
  

We all have our keepers, you see...

I was somewhat alarmed today, for when purchasing my coconut latte, the serving wench kept looking at my shoulder in a very fearful manner.  So, when I took to my seat, I asked my coffee companion if there was anything there... and there wasn't!.

Of course, there could be a rational explanation for her clavicle* glances - mayhap she has a shoulder fetish, and she's seen past the bloated fine figure of a man (a figure 8, with the top part considerably smaller) and I'm "in there" on the basis of sex-on-shoulders (now, that's something that didn't crop up in Shutter!).

However, on the basis of Dogturd Poo last week, it could be that there's a great big fuck off beetle snacking on me neck, and I'm in an alternative timeline, when I said No to that houseshare. If I'd've said yes, I'd be a world famous actor by now, with a bevvy of beauties servicing my every sordid whim! Unfortunately, I don't fancy jumping in front of a bus, just to switch alternate universes where amarous alternative chix have a penchant for lardy old gormsters in purple. That said...

I have been down Regent's Street in Great Yourmuff, so I don't know if that counts. Perhaps as I walked around Martin's Walk Around store, maybe those weren't masks behind the porny joke counter, but space monsters!

Gaaah! The Draakh were lurking behind the vibrators (who were no doubt doing a gig on the pier, and if Gwen Stefani's using a vibrator on the pier, that's be a show worth seeing... unlike the Chuckle Brothers...),  and probably plonked a Keeper on me shoulder. Now, I'm subject to their every sordid whim!

Ha ha! Luckily I recall how Londo helped Sheridan & Delenn. A keeper can't tolerate booze, so consuming alchohol numbs it and sends it into a deep sleep! So, in order to prevent the Draakh from making me their evil catspaw**, I'll just have to drink copious quantitties of Jacques!

Sounds like a plan to me!!!

* IS IT ONLY ME, OR DOES A CLAVICLE SOUND SOMEWHAT LIKE A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT? NO? JUST ME THEN!

** EVIL CATSPAW, MY BEST HAT! SINCE WHEN HAVE CATS PAWS BEEN EVIL? I KNOW RABBITS PAWS ARE LUCKY, BUT NOT PUSSY PAWS... AH, I'M FORGETTING CERTAIN EARTHWORM JIM OVERLORDS ON PLANET HECK. WHEEEE DAWGGIE!!!!!!
    

It's scrote-ally different...

It's all very well for these wayside wenches, tarting themselves up like a dogs dinner and traversing up the M1 for a bit of the ole "ride for a ride" dogging action to work up an appetite for a roadside mobile burger, but it's come to something when motorway munters decide the name of cereals!

And we all know about them hitch-hikers - cereal killers, every man, jack & woman of 'em!

Anyhoo, there she sits in her deckchair in dreamy post-coital revreie, when up pulls her next victim. After explaing the excellent name of his new cereal: "Not Made From Wheat Made From Oats Instead Abix", the hitch-hiking harlot  dashes any pride in his product with a dreary "Should've called it Oatibix".

Where's the fun in that, you miserable sow! Oatibix, indeed! Just coz she got a punter to sow his wild oats and a deluge of dirty doggers to fill their boots in a muddy layby orgy doesn't give her the right to ruin what is, after all, a really cool name for a cereal!

I know some ladies of the wannabe WoG* variety may feel somewhat used and abused after being spit roasted in the boot of a car, especially if the performance was something of a let down, mayhap she would feel the need to bring men "down to Earth". With a bump. And a clattering of crockery.

She's just jealous coz her golden pips just don't cut it anymore... probably her norks are too withered to even dent the foil on her Pot Nipple...

I love the idea of a cereal called NMFWMFOIA. Rebrand it say I! Ooooh, I may just have to create a BaseFuck group petitioning such a change!

Talking of WoGs... I thing perhaps it needs changing. With all these Nikki from Pig Botherer types shagging their way through a pantheon of soccer and rugby stars, perhaps they should be labelled WIGWAMs: Wannabe Ignorant Girlfriend, Wife And Mistress. Married to a footballer, having a bit on the side with a Rugger who's single, and nobbing some married tennis player.

Or something...

* AS I'VE STATED BEFORE: YOU CANNOT BE A WAG - YOU'RE EITHER A WIFE OR A GIRLFRIEND, NOT BOTH. YOU CAN HAVE A COLLECTION OF WAGS, BUT NOT AN INDIVIDUAL WAG.   AND WHAT ABOUT FIANCEES? SURELY THE CORRECT COLLECTIVE NOUN 'W,FAGS' - WIVES, FIANCEES AND GIRLFRIENDS?

SEEMS TO ME THAT A WANNABE WOG STARTS OFF AS A G AMONGST THE W'FAGS, MOVES UP TO AN F, BEFORE FINALLY BECOMING A W.

THEN AGAIN, FOOTBALLERS & THEIR PARTNERS TEND TO BE AS THICK AS PIGSHIT, SO IS IT ANY WONDER THEY CAN'T SPEAK PROPER ENGLISH!
  

Cowl, chest hair, Kath, the drill...

Now, I have previously made mention of the ways of the Illuminati, sending their minions out to spy on the general populace and report back to Their Masters and subjugate the Working Man via brainwashing by insidiously slipping subliminal messages of obedience through the common folks televisual fare of reality telly, such as Pig Botherer and Jeremy Kyle.

Well, clearly having tunneling tibetans listening under the floorboards with a leeching glass isn't good enough - they're shedding their Edgar suits and geting a first hand view of their worker caste of scummy mummies and workshy jackoff-the-lads.

For today, it's reported that one of the Illuminati popped up in a bag of bananas in a Tesco in Essex, where as all the world knows, the chavviest scum dwell. The men a-dripping with burberry, thick gold bling and thick as pigshit. Their harridans painted up like picasso's in their white stillettos and masses pink, and thick gold earblings.

But it doesn't stop there! Oh no! Our reptillian overlords have joined forces with other Secret World Orders, namely entomological entities! It would seem that Costa Rican bananas are the luxury liner of the day for hidden governments, for a 5inch long elephant beetle also snuck into stores to sociologically spy on its servants!

That'd put the wind up Willy Wanker's chocolate starfish and no mistake, if the Oompa-Loompas threw aside their human casing and went the rampage, crushing the cocoa with their carapace and pointing their pincers with revolutionary aplomb to their brethren to take control of confectionary production plants to douse the choccie with sophoriphic drugs to keep mankind under foot...

That's it! No more Tesco's for me! It's back to Asda, where World Dominators can't bend you to their will and won't let you put a nudie bum on a cake, but will serve cake shaped like jugs.

Equal opportunities, say I. Stuff these world dominators...

...get me some world dominatrix's instead!
   

Directors cut the cheese...

Especially for Joolz, here's the final elements that would have formed part of the 'Though the streams are swollen...' blog if Spike's restrictions weren't in place. I've added in the preceding paragraph in bold for logistical purposes.

Read on, and please, do have nightmares. Which you will do if you eat cheese before you go to bed. Which strikes me as a pile of arse - how can eating cheese make you go all dreamy. If I were eating cheese afore beddy-boh-boze, I'f fall asleep with cheese on my mind, with visions of angels in police uniforms giving me a right old seeing to in the cells.

Or something.

Anyhoo, on with the vulgarity, with additional cheese based waffle. Mmmmmm, Waffle House... Ham, Mushroom & cheese waffle, maple syrup milkshake, cherry & cream dessert waffle...

Sorry, back to the cheese!

Here's comes the hot cheddar (perv it up)

I'm a typical gormsta (perv it up)

pick da cheese up wit a long fork (perv it up)

love fondue like dat!

...And the best that Em Shite Charlatan could come up with blades of grass being pissed off, when there's people dying from telepathetic chedder forcing people to gorge themseves to death in Somerset.

And just here is this summer setting gorge of Cheddar? Why, it's in the Mendip Hills... and if men are dipping their nobs in the cheese, then it's very poor practice indeed. It's all very well having smegma stilton, but it's not very nice for the poor lady gorging on a cheddar chopper.

Cum to think of it, with all this foreskin feta going into the Wensleydale, poor old Wallace must have consumed a fair old amount of the stuff, which is virtually blowing off Victor Quartermaine in the wrong trousers, which makes him the only gay in the stop-motion animation studio.

Probably.

And why do people refer to cheese slices as plastic cheese? Ok, so the inpenetrable rapper is sort of plasticy, but the little covering envelopes encasing each slice are more like clingfilm, akin to each slice in it's little sleeping bag, all tucked up like a very flat (and very nudey) Spongebob NoPants.

But, like all entities who love their beds, it's a bugger to get them out! Open the flap (!), peel it back (oo-er!), and try and extricate the cheese (Oo-er Missus!). It's bloody nigh on impossible! OK, opening it up, and peeling the film back off one side - no problems... but now try and get that square off the remaining piece...

...disaster! Firstly, it will start to flop everywhere (!), but when you eventually prize if off the wrapper... damn! I't no longer square - there is a strip of cheese left behind right at the banjo. So, you put your no-longer-square cheese slice onto your toast, then remove the remaining strip of cheese... which prompty starts to collapse into bits which you try and get on your toast but it falls onto the cheese already melting on the toast and you can't even it out, and you end up serving a right pigs ear of a mess for tea!

And there's STILL a fine line of cheese left on the edge of the wrapper... so, do you bin it or lick it?

Well, I'm not licking anyone's cheese ridge, thank you very much!
  

I’d buy that for a dollar...

'twould appear some bloke split up with his missus, so he's flogging his life on eBay.

How cool is that! You get a house in oz, all it's contents, his job, and all his friends! Clearly, he's not been watching Flog It! on the telly, as he should have split it into individual items, so he could get more dosh...

...and I could bid on his missus, or his ladyfriends!

That'd be so brilliant! No more hiding behind bottle of Jacques in nightclubs, or indeed, as recently recalled due to the philatelic fairy's return from Argentina and signing me up to FiendsReunited when I weren't looking, presenting the light of your life with a carriage clock in the college common room before scuttling away in embarassment to find rocks to crawl under, before fleeing to Norfolk in abstract terror for being a complete creepout tosspiece.

Simply pop on eBay and buy a Sheila!

Of course, there will be those that will confidently boast you can buy a Ting Tong off Thailandish websites, complete with ping pong launching options. But why pay buckets of baht for a banzai bride, when you could snap up a bargain bin Bondai beach babe for a couple of dollars and a case of XXXX!

Strewth, that bloke must fair be a bit of a flibbertigibbet...