I had a fantastic blog thought up as I drove into work. A very clevery one as well.
But I was driving, so couldn't write it down. And can I remember what it was? Can I buggery sod as like!
So you don't get one!
Isn't that always the way though -well, in reverse! Normally, people will have a discussion, than 10 minutes afterwards, they suddenly come up with a million and one comeback, all hilariously funny. Me - I some up with some bizzarre old toot, and forget it as soon as I plonk meself in front of the pewter!
And I'm damn sure that William Gates has bunged in some auto-suggestion or hypnotic effect into them Windows Apps. I pop on to MySpace for a few mins - before I know it, hours have passed. Have I done much, seen much, NO! It's like one of them Travis Walton time loss moments! Or Betty & her very large pile of purple dinos.
Could've been worse, I s'pect. Betty could have been chased by a pile of green wolly hatted lumkins, whilst her dress 'fell off' as her hubby repeatedly slaps one of them Grey's on it's baldy bonce.
And people wonder why Area 51 is not publicly recognised by the American Government! I'd deny it too if all that were going on in my Hangar!
Hangars! When I came to Norwich, I often got confused looks from some people. None more so when I spoke of hookhangers. People get genuinely confused! Apparently, despite the fact that there are a hangar with a hook on it, people dahn sahf call it a coathanger. Although they never use them for coats - only shirts, trews and dresses. Coats go on a coatrack, or a hatstand.
Hatstand! Who uses a hatstand for hats! It's a glorified coatrack! I've yet to see a hatstand with a hat on it. Coats, yes. Umberellas - yes. Ne'er a hat though.
Just don't ask about putting clothes on t'maiden!
Friday 30 November 2007
Thursday 29 November 2007
To shave-a da face...
There's been some actual proper singing clips from Sweeney Todd released! Wonder how well Johnny Depp, Helena Bonham-Carter and Sacha Baron Cohen can sing? Check out this link:
If that's too slow, they've been YouTubed (much poorer quality):
And over on the Sweeney Todd movie homepage, there's new content. If you enter the site, click on AUDIO and you can listen to some of the songs (without the intercut dialogue). They have:
If that's too slow, they've been YouTubed (much poorer quality):
Todd meets Lovett (non-singing clip)
My Friends (singing clip)
Anthony meets Turpin (Alan Rickman - non singing clip)
The Contest (singing clip Sacha Baron Cohen)
Lovett finds out about Pirelli (non singing clip)
Epiphany (Singing clip)
A Little Priest (singing clip)
Not while I'm around (singing clip)
A beadle (Timothy Spall) arrives (non singing clip)
And over on the Sweeney Todd movie homepage, there's new content. If you enter the site, click on AUDIO and you can listen to some of the songs (without the intercut dialogue). They have:
A Little Priest - Complete song (Helena & Johnny)
By The Sea - Clip (Helena)
Epiphany - Clip (Johnny)
Green Finch & Linnet Bird* - Clip
Johanna 1 - Clip
The Barber and His Wife** - Complete song (Johnny)
Pirelli's Miracle Elixir - Clip (Johnny & Helena)
Pretty Women - Clip (Johnny & Alan Rickman)
Worst Pies In London - Full Song (Helena)
*PROBABLY THE BEST VERSION OF THIS SONG EVER!
** MISTAKENLY LISTED AS 'NO PLACE LIKE LONDON'. I SAY COMPLETE SONG, AS IT STARTS AFTER THE 'HOLE IN THE WORLD' SECTION FROM 'NO PLACE LIKE LONDON'
Don’t fall, Alec...
I've decided Blogs will continue, as they take my mind off things. Serious stuff first, and then on to the usual 'comedy' banter. Skip the first bit, as it's just me feeling sorry for meself in tears.
[serious]
I tried watching telly last night, but I kept smelling Gingy, as if his little furry phantom was scampering around.. Today, I got through work OK as I kept myself REALLY busy, but it was oh so hard coming home. It's fishie night, and he's not going to be crawling up my leg shouting at me to hurry up. Boy, driving in floods of tears ain't easy. Anyway, I packed away all his things tonight, and that was VERY hard. I even thought I heard him shuffling in his litter tray, even though it's not there anymore. So, I'm going to do stuff, like me blog, so as I can concentrate on something else, instead of the emptyness.
[/serious]
Right, so onto the usual gubbins - won't be up to the usual standards of toot, as my hearts not really in it at the moment, but it's a distraction before The Might Boosh comes on later.
Ok, so I leaves off work, and checks my dampened eyes in the lift mirror. Shock! Horror!
Well, apart from the Shock! Horror! of a vast tub o'lard leering back at me, I noticed a glinty sheen of colour within my ocular orbits. So I leant forward for a closer look.
Now, my eyes are Hazel (or Brown), so imagine my surprise when glaring back at me were two bright green glass marbles! I've NEVER had green eyes before! They were that wet from tears, they had a twinke to them - I'm sure if some young harlot had been in the lift she'd have wasted no time in sipping her coke at me!
I have noticed this before - my eyes do often change colour, and It makes me wonder if anyone else's eyes change, or if I'm some kind of chameleon, or one of the lizardy reptiles out of V (sans vendetta). Cor, maybe I'm one of them Illuminati types that David Ike keeps blahing on about! Yay! Give me wodges of cash and power please!!
Or perhaps I've just got freaky eyes!
[serious]
I tried watching telly last night, but I kept smelling Gingy, as if his little furry phantom was scampering around.. Today, I got through work OK as I kept myself REALLY busy, but it was oh so hard coming home. It's fishie night, and he's not going to be crawling up my leg shouting at me to hurry up. Boy, driving in floods of tears ain't easy. Anyway, I packed away all his things tonight, and that was VERY hard. I even thought I heard him shuffling in his litter tray, even though it's not there anymore. So, I'm going to do stuff, like me blog, so as I can concentrate on something else, instead of the emptyness.
[/serious]
Right, so onto the usual gubbins - won't be up to the usual standards of toot, as my hearts not really in it at the moment, but it's a distraction before The Might Boosh comes on later.
Ok, so I leaves off work, and checks my dampened eyes in the lift mirror. Shock! Horror!
Well, apart from the Shock! Horror! of a vast tub o'lard leering back at me, I noticed a glinty sheen of colour within my ocular orbits. So I leant forward for a closer look.
Now, my eyes are Hazel (or Brown), so imagine my surprise when glaring back at me were two bright green glass marbles! I've NEVER had green eyes before! They were that wet from tears, they had a twinke to them - I'm sure if some young harlot had been in the lift she'd have wasted no time in sipping her coke at me!
I have noticed this before - my eyes do often change colour, and It makes me wonder if anyone else's eyes change, or if I'm some kind of chameleon, or one of the lizardy reptiles out of V (sans vendetta). Cor, maybe I'm one of them Illuminati types that David Ike keeps blahing on about! Yay! Give me wodges of cash and power please!!
Or perhaps I've just got freaky eyes!
Wednesday 28 November 2007
The Lion Sleeps Tonight...
No blog today. I came home to find Jester collapsed in a heap. Despite a mad rush to the vets, he passed away at about 5 o'clock. He's now sleeping in the garden.
I'm somewhat distressed, so there may not be a blog for while.
Rest in peace, Jester.
I'm somewhat distressed, so there may not be a blog for while.
Rest in peace, Jester.
Tuesday 27 November 2007
She ’studied sculpture’ at St,Martin’s college...
I'm perplexed!
Apparently, there's this debating society in Cambridge, and there's loads of people up in arms coz they're debating stuff!
Now, call me an unrestrained arsewit if you will, but surely the whole point of debating stuff is so you debate it? If you're not allowed to debate things, wots the point of a debating society. If you don't have a polar opposing view, it's more of "Yeah, I agree" society, which wouldn't last five minutes.
What I find even more perplexing is Students. Ok, so students always think they know everything, and the crux of their argument was this: We don't like the BNPs views, so we shouldn't debate or argue against them. In fact, the speakers should not be allowed to speak!
That's how Hitler started out, by not allowing any one to voice their opinion other than the 'accepted' one.Before we know it, these little Hitlers will have removed any debate from their society, and with no-one able to challenge them, they'll be imposing their own laws on us! Compulsory visits to the tuck shop, enforced rag week, getting chavs off benefit and set them up as fags to keep the toast & crumpets warm (and get people out of climate changing cars by providing lots of bike parking spaces). And setting up gas chambers in the chemistry lab, coz they can't get hold of Rohypnol, and creating perfect students though use of a bunsen burner, litmus paper, petrie dishes and huge electicity gizmos with the "We belong dead" leavers.
Still, as long as they fairly share out the booze and sex that these Students are famed for, I'm all for it! Centres of Academic Excellence indeed - Diamond White and Rogering with a weeks worth of 'cramming' at the end of the term is the order of the day (so I've heard).
And knowing students, I expect there's more than one type of 'cramming' going on, if you know what I mean (and I'm sure that you do!). Especially them Med. Students.
Wish I'd gone to Uni...
Apparently, there's this debating society in Cambridge, and there's loads of people up in arms coz they're debating stuff!
Now, call me an unrestrained arsewit if you will, but surely the whole point of debating stuff is so you debate it? If you're not allowed to debate things, wots the point of a debating society. If you don't have a polar opposing view, it's more of "Yeah, I agree" society, which wouldn't last five minutes.
What I find even more perplexing is Students. Ok, so students always think they know everything, and the crux of their argument was this: We don't like the BNPs views, so we shouldn't debate or argue against them. In fact, the speakers should not be allowed to speak!
That's how Hitler started out, by not allowing any one to voice their opinion other than the 'accepted' one.Before we know it, these little Hitlers will have removed any debate from their society, and with no-one able to challenge them, they'll be imposing their own laws on us! Compulsory visits to the tuck shop, enforced rag week, getting chavs off benefit and set them up as fags to keep the toast & crumpets warm (and get people out of climate changing cars by providing lots of bike parking spaces). And setting up gas chambers in the chemistry lab, coz they can't get hold of Rohypnol, and creating perfect students though use of a bunsen burner, litmus paper, petrie dishes and huge electicity gizmos with the "We belong dead" leavers.
Still, as long as they fairly share out the booze and sex that these Students are famed for, I'm all for it! Centres of Academic Excellence indeed - Diamond White and Rogering with a weeks worth of 'cramming' at the end of the term is the order of the day (so I've heard).
And knowing students, I expect there's more than one type of 'cramming' going on, if you know what I mean (and I'm sure that you do!). Especially them Med. Students.
Wish I'd gone to Uni...
Monday 26 November 2007
Tell me about your big but...
Why is it, when you're thinking it's about time to go home, the phone rings.
An hour and half later you're still there!
And what's the result of that call - you've spent ages going over and re-iterating what should have taken 10 mins max! Honestly, some people will just flog a dead horse!
Especially them Miss Whiplash types wot are into necrophilious bestiality...
Anyways, I'm home now, and can drink me Sarsarparilla! I tried to get a can of Dr Pepper, but Mr Lardyarse decided to block the machine!
Why is it, some people have no manners. The water machine is to the right of the can machine. So, wot I do is stand in front of the water machine, bung a cup underneath, and press the button. Simple as!
No so for some!
Someone, let's call him Fat Git, decided to get some water, as I approached the can machine for me fizzy. Easy peasy, one would think! But nooooo, Ole Lardy Arse decided to stand at right angles to the water machine and double over! So, his fat arse is blocking my access to the coin slot and selection panel whilst he's keeping an eye level watch on the water levels in his cup! And he didn't move until his drink was done...and it was a sloooow filling machine!
Now, why he's proffering his buttocks to those desirous of a simple can of fizzy, I don't know! Perhaps he thought it was one of them Swipe card malarky's, and was offering his cleft for his own 'chip and pin' amusements. Who knows. Still, it could've been worse - I dread to think of the chocolate he would be supplying if given cash!
And I still ain't got Fergie's buns dropping thru the roof into me lap!
An hour and half later you're still there!
And what's the result of that call - you've spent ages going over and re-iterating what should have taken 10 mins max! Honestly, some people will just flog a dead horse!
Especially them Miss Whiplash types wot are into necrophilious bestiality...
Anyways, I'm home now, and can drink me Sarsarparilla! I tried to get a can of Dr Pepper, but Mr Lardyarse decided to block the machine!
Why is it, some people have no manners. The water machine is to the right of the can machine. So, wot I do is stand in front of the water machine, bung a cup underneath, and press the button. Simple as!
No so for some!
Someone, let's call him Fat Git, decided to get some water, as I approached the can machine for me fizzy. Easy peasy, one would think! But nooooo, Ole Lardy Arse decided to stand at right angles to the water machine and double over! So, his fat arse is blocking my access to the coin slot and selection panel whilst he's keeping an eye level watch on the water levels in his cup! And he didn't move until his drink was done...and it was a sloooow filling machine!
Now, why he's proffering his buttocks to those desirous of a simple can of fizzy, I don't know! Perhaps he thought it was one of them Swipe card malarky's, and was offering his cleft for his own 'chip and pin' amusements. Who knows. Still, it could've been worse - I dread to think of the chocolate he would be supplying if given cash!
And I still ain't got Fergie's buns dropping thru the roof into me lap!
Sunday 25 November 2007
To sleep, perchance to d:ream...
Why is it when you really need uninterrupted time, the world, his wife, his mistress and his offsrping all want a piece of you?!
I got in late from Hades, spent ages on MySpace with me blog and doing that ridiculous questionairre, so I went to bed a tad late. Unfortunately, I woke up early and couldn't sleep.
So, after watching Columbo, I tried to watch Pirates of the Carribean - and promptly began to doze off. So, off with the telly and have a bit of a kip...
As soon as I drift off... BRING BRING - d'oh. A text woked me up! Doze off again... DRING DRING - A phone call.... Drift off... DRING BRING...
You get the picture - thank god I don't have a crazy frog ringtone! Still, make a change from being woken up by Sapphire & Steel...
Now, my mowbli hardly ever rings. And on a Sunday, invariably the whole day goes by without a single person even noticing I exist! But try and take a well deserved nap, and that Bastard Stamp Collecting Boggart nips off to everyone's houses and whispers in their ear. Slyly suggesting that NOW is the opportune time to make a call and rouse me from my rest!
So, now I'm wide awake... which means that I'll come home from the quiz all widey wakey, and up awake till Stupid O'Clock! Assuming that I go to the quiz, as their babyshitters have disappeared into the void, or everyone's on their deathbeds. Oh well, as they say in Helsinki...
Fins can only get better...
I got in late from Hades, spent ages on MySpace with me blog and doing that ridiculous questionairre, so I went to bed a tad late. Unfortunately, I woke up early and couldn't sleep.
So, after watching Columbo, I tried to watch Pirates of the Carribean - and promptly began to doze off. So, off with the telly and have a bit of a kip...
As soon as I drift off... BRING BRING - d'oh. A text woked me up! Doze off again... DRING DRING - A phone call.... Drift off... DRING BRING...
You get the picture - thank god I don't have a crazy frog ringtone! Still, make a change from being woken up by Sapphire & Steel...
Now, my mowbli hardly ever rings. And on a Sunday, invariably the whole day goes by without a single person even noticing I exist! But try and take a well deserved nap, and that Bastard Stamp Collecting Boggart nips off to everyone's houses and whispers in their ear. Slyly suggesting that NOW is the opportune time to make a call and rouse me from my rest!
So, now I'm wide awake... which means that I'll come home from the quiz all widey wakey, and up awake till Stupid O'Clock! Assuming that I go to the quiz, as their babyshitters have disappeared into the void, or everyone's on their deathbeds. Oh well, as they say in Helsinki...
Fins can only get better...
I know all that there is to know about the crying game...
I have returned from Hades pissed as a fart, so not may people may understand this, coz my hand/eye co-ordination is shot to Hell, and I can't spell for toffee. Or pizza. Which is a bugger, coz I managed to get a taxi home this week, which means I never passed a pizza parlour, and I'm dead hungry.
Anyhoo, this weeks revelation from Hades is that i'm some sort of Ladyboy! There was me 'singing' along to Crash by The Primitives - although bellowing would be a more apt description! Anyhoo, as I warble, the Lovely Lorraine butts in with the news that Crash is a girlie song! And that makes me as camp as Xmas!
The next track was She Sells Sanctuary by the Cult. Me thinking it's a hard as nails rock track sings along - but nooooo, Lorrie berates me AGAIN for singing along to girlie trax! And to make it worst, Lol joined in with the accusation of me being an afficionado of Girlie Music!
Good job John didn't play Tiffany, The Weathergirls, or Stardust then! (although I could've got away with the Weathergirls, coz that Sian Lloyd is quite tasty!)
Which reminds me, I actually saw a bit of X-Factor tonight, and that bother/sister act were singing the very same Stardust 'classic' - obviously they knew it was from Mannequin, coz they were as wooden as!
Or something!
I also recall dancing (without tears in me eyes) whilst Lorrie & Lol were upon the Floor of Dance, so I dread to thinks what they made of that! Me flounching about like a great fat tart!
And I wonders why I's single!
Probably coz the dorrman writ a big fat cross on me hand in big black ink, like some form of plague marker! Who's gonna get up close and personal wiv me now now that I'm branded with the mark of deathly disease!
No, it coz 'The Birds' don't fancy a great fat ugly Jabba wot flounces about like some lardy arse Dancing Queen, singing along to Girlie Music, like some loathesome lecherous slug!
Think I'll have to give Hades a miss in future!
Anyhoo, this weeks revelation from Hades is that i'm some sort of Ladyboy! There was me 'singing' along to Crash by The Primitives - although bellowing would be a more apt description! Anyhoo, as I warble, the Lovely Lorraine butts in with the news that Crash is a girlie song! And that makes me as camp as Xmas!
The next track was She Sells Sanctuary by the Cult. Me thinking it's a hard as nails rock track sings along - but nooooo, Lorrie berates me AGAIN for singing along to girlie trax! And to make it worst, Lol joined in with the accusation of me being an afficionado of Girlie Music!
Good job John didn't play Tiffany, The Weathergirls, or Stardust then! (although I could've got away with the Weathergirls, coz that Sian Lloyd is quite tasty!)
Which reminds me, I actually saw a bit of X-Factor tonight, and that bother/sister act were singing the very same Stardust 'classic' - obviously they knew it was from Mannequin, coz they were as wooden as!
Or something!
I also recall dancing (without tears in me eyes) whilst Lorrie & Lol were upon the Floor of Dance, so I dread to thinks what they made of that! Me flounching about like a great fat tart!
And I wonders why I's single!
Probably coz the dorrman writ a big fat cross on me hand in big black ink, like some form of plague marker! Who's gonna get up close and personal wiv me now now that I'm branded with the mark of deathly disease!
No, it coz 'The Birds' don't fancy a great fat ugly Jabba wot flounces about like some lardy arse Dancing Queen, singing along to Girlie Music, like some loathesome lecherous slug!
Think I'll have to give Hades a miss in future!
Saturday 24 November 2007
Don’t be fooled if I should chuckle like hyænas in a zoo...
I'm goin' to London
(NOT) to buy Heat magazine
I'm goin' to London
an' I gots me tickets!
AND I got me ticket for t'Human League!
So now I'm all tickety-poo!
Not much in the way of appreciative glances within The Yeti today, although I did get stroked by some passing young maiden. I may even take The Yeti down to Hades tonight, as it's a bit chilly, and there's no smoking, so it won't get scented up!
That's if I go to Hades... looks like everyone's coming down with The Black Death. I thought it were plague at first, but we're talking Goths here! Lucky we're not talking plaque, which I need to have a squizz at, coz I'm off to the Scrivello in a couple of weeks.
Doesn't really build confidence if my dentist has a big brass plaque by the door, displaying him & his partners names. If he can't be arsed to remove that plaque, what about the one on me gnashers? Is he really removing it wiv that drill, or just etching his name in copperplate on the back of me toothipegs?
Thank god it's not an unstable orthadontist from the middle of Japan hiring Barbara Streisand DVDs...
...a mental central-oriental dental rental of Yentl!
(NOT) to buy Heat magazine
I'm goin' to London
an' I gots me tickets!
AND I got me ticket for t'Human League!
So now I'm all tickety-poo!
Not much in the way of appreciative glances within The Yeti today, although I did get stroked by some passing young maiden. I may even take The Yeti down to Hades tonight, as it's a bit chilly, and there's no smoking, so it won't get scented up!
That's if I go to Hades... looks like everyone's coming down with The Black Death. I thought it were plague at first, but we're talking Goths here! Lucky we're not talking plaque, which I need to have a squizz at, coz I'm off to the Scrivello in a couple of weeks.
Doesn't really build confidence if my dentist has a big brass plaque by the door, displaying him & his partners names. If he can't be arsed to remove that plaque, what about the one on me gnashers? Is he really removing it wiv that drill, or just etching his name in copperplate on the back of me toothipegs?
Thank god it's not an unstable orthadontist from the middle of Japan hiring Barbara Streisand DVDs...
...a mental central-oriental dental rental of Yentl!
Friday 23 November 2007
I’ll have five quids worth please...
Some bloke posted a note on our discussion database today (entitled 'I'm off to East Harling') about the strange things what crop up on planning application websites, and pasted in one of the entries.
Now, what got him all excited is the fact that someone has applied to convert one of the units on the Cloverfield Industrial Estate into a licensed sex shop. Unfortunately, the planning office ain't one for withholding yer personal data, so now we all know the home address of this purveyor of porn! His house is called Bottrell - now we know his business, perhaps he should have named it ButtTroll!
Apparently, there's a secret sign to recognise a porn shop - it's got three big shiny balls over the door.
Clearly, someone isn't familiar with human anatomy, as though the shinyness can reflect reality through judicious use of razor and turtlewax, someone has miscalculated the number of lovespuds possessed my the average bloke. Unless, of course, the original model had a misshapen nob, in the shape of a third ballbag.
I don't think I'll join him on his pilgrimage to Harling though - I've heard tell of this here Cloverfield - great big sea beastie on the prowl, ripping the bonce off've statues in vengeance for its aquarian brethren being bunged into beverages! And a right old monster it is, presumably along the lines of the legendary monster 'King Dong' - although somehow I can't imagine being welcomed to Manhattan Island by some huge French tart with a book of justice and a Rampant Rabbit in her mitts.
Liberté, egalité, vibraté...
Now, what got him all excited is the fact that someone has applied to convert one of the units on the Cloverfield Industrial Estate into a licensed sex shop. Unfortunately, the planning office ain't one for withholding yer personal data, so now we all know the home address of this purveyor of porn! His house is called Bottrell - now we know his business, perhaps he should have named it ButtTroll!
Apparently, there's a secret sign to recognise a porn shop - it's got three big shiny balls over the door.
Clearly, someone isn't familiar with human anatomy, as though the shinyness can reflect reality through judicious use of razor and turtlewax, someone has miscalculated the number of lovespuds possessed my the average bloke. Unless, of course, the original model had a misshapen nob, in the shape of a third ballbag.
I don't think I'll join him on his pilgrimage to Harling though - I've heard tell of this here Cloverfield - great big sea beastie on the prowl, ripping the bonce off've statues in vengeance for its aquarian brethren being bunged into beverages! And a right old monster it is, presumably along the lines of the legendary monster 'King Dong' - although somehow I can't imagine being welcomed to Manhattan Island by some huge French tart with a book of justice and a Rampant Rabbit in her mitts.
Liberté, egalité, vibraté...
Thursday 22 November 2007
Harry the Bastard...
Oh, have we got a video?
Have we buggery sod as like!
I spent ages piecing together "Epiphany", using the Depps audio track and clips from t'ttrailers. And will it upload?
Is the Pope Jewish?!?!
Honestly, I think it's time for Xymon's next mystical universal law:
The longer you labour at a task, and the more impressive the final result, the skiddy knickers of fate will intervene, causing ones mammaries to suddenly have an intake of helium.
Every time! You send ages on a card, and at the last minute knock yer cup of tea all over it. You spend ages crafting a perfect meal, then they turn up late and it's all gone orf.
Or Windows has some bug in it that screws you right at the last hurdle!
Hurdles! Now there's daftness for you! I can understand how some people want to be the fastest runner, but why bung a load of obstacles in the way. if yer gonne do that, they should have varying heights to make it challenging. Not only that, they should alternately vault the first hurdle, then limbo under the next! With a big steel drum band alongside.
And instead of them Americal cheerleaders, they can have them Tribal Warriors, all stomping and jumping and calling out to Baron Samedi, who can come in with his 2-tone face and do a bit of Ska.
Yeah, mon, dose olympics be mighty fine!
Have we buggery sod as like!
I spent ages piecing together "Epiphany", using the Depps audio track and clips from t'ttrailers. And will it upload?
Is the Pope Jewish?!?!
Honestly, I think it's time for Xymon's next mystical universal law:
The longer you labour at a task, and the more impressive the final result, the skiddy knickers of fate will intervene, causing ones mammaries to suddenly have an intake of helium.
Every time! You send ages on a card, and at the last minute knock yer cup of tea all over it. You spend ages crafting a perfect meal, then they turn up late and it's all gone orf.
Or Windows has some bug in it that screws you right at the last hurdle!
Hurdles! Now there's daftness for you! I can understand how some people want to be the fastest runner, but why bung a load of obstacles in the way. if yer gonne do that, they should have varying heights to make it challenging. Not only that, they should alternately vault the first hurdle, then limbo under the next! With a big steel drum band alongside.
And instead of them Americal cheerleaders, they can have them Tribal Warriors, all stomping and jumping and calling out to Baron Samedi, who can come in with his 2-tone face and do a bit of Ska.
Yeah, mon, dose olympics be mighty fine!
Wednesday 21 November 2007
Cistern addict - never can get enough...
There is a rather popliar chain of florists called InterFlora. Now, normally these bods deal with infidelious husbands trying to ease their guilt through the purchasement of lovely scented flowers.
It now looks like they're branching out - only the smell isn't so sweet! Not so much a bouquet, as a bucket of slops! The newest brand in the 'chain' is InterFlush!
All our office dump stations have been rebranded, and it's a nightmare to get used to. So, normally in a lavatory you grab the handle and give it a good old tug, releasing a gushing stream of fluid. Then you flush (boom boom!). Ah! Not so with these new fangled removal techniques!
In order to 'save water', you now have to press the lever 'for as long as needed' - which means most people simply press down and walk away. Out of habit, you press & release, then realise you have to keep the lever depressed. But you can't reflush coz the cistern's filling up. So you wait, and keep flushing in spurts, and you get paranoid that people are outside wondering wha yer up to!
Mind you, office toilets need much more water to cater for the bizarre lavatorial habits of some neanderthals. Surely they can't leave their home bogs in such a state! It gives you a glimpse into the mindset of some people - and you have to wonder who they are! It's not nice to be greeted by the fecal foibles of co-workers!
For instance, there's The Wallpaperer. This person leaves the bowl lined with paper. Not just covering the water to prevent splashback, or the embarassing SPLAT as the shit hits the pan. No, this person leaves every inch of the bowl lined with bumwipe, right up to the rim, as if making a papier mache bogbowl, with a dogs' egg centrepiece.
Then you have The Rapper. This person often leaves a present in the bowl. Clearly obsessed with presentation, their doings are left in a perfectly square (or rectangular) package of loo roll, floating like a wedding cake in a lake.
Then there's the Crusty Crack. The one who leaves an unflushed monster blocking the pan - but clearly hasn't wiped.
Nearing the bottom (literally) is Jackson. Pebble dashing the bowl like a right pollock.
And finally, there's the Ellens - the DeGenerates who for some reason can't quite manage to get their arse in the right place. Honestly - how is is possible to miss a huge great pan? Projectile poo seems to be the order of the day for these people!
And don't get me started on The Snotmeister! That evil git who, whilst dropping the kids off at the pool, passes the time by extracting his nasal contents and applying them liberally to the wall!
All that, but ne'er a floater!
I can't help but wonder if women have the same toiletry terrorists, or if it's just men?
It now looks like they're branching out - only the smell isn't so sweet! Not so much a bouquet, as a bucket of slops! The newest brand in the 'chain' is InterFlush!
All our office dump stations have been rebranded, and it's a nightmare to get used to. So, normally in a lavatory you grab the handle and give it a good old tug, releasing a gushing stream of fluid. Then you flush (boom boom!). Ah! Not so with these new fangled removal techniques!
In order to 'save water', you now have to press the lever 'for as long as needed' - which means most people simply press down and walk away. Out of habit, you press & release, then realise you have to keep the lever depressed. But you can't reflush coz the cistern's filling up. So you wait, and keep flushing in spurts, and you get paranoid that people are outside wondering wha yer up to!
Mind you, office toilets need much more water to cater for the bizarre lavatorial habits of some neanderthals. Surely they can't leave their home bogs in such a state! It gives you a glimpse into the mindset of some people - and you have to wonder who they are! It's not nice to be greeted by the fecal foibles of co-workers!
For instance, there's The Wallpaperer. This person leaves the bowl lined with paper. Not just covering the water to prevent splashback, or the embarassing SPLAT as the shit hits the pan. No, this person leaves every inch of the bowl lined with bumwipe, right up to the rim, as if making a papier mache bogbowl, with a dogs' egg centrepiece.
Then you have The Rapper. This person often leaves a present in the bowl. Clearly obsessed with presentation, their doings are left in a perfectly square (or rectangular) package of loo roll, floating like a wedding cake in a lake.
Then there's the Crusty Crack. The one who leaves an unflushed monster blocking the pan - but clearly hasn't wiped.
Nearing the bottom (literally) is Jackson. Pebble dashing the bowl like a right pollock.
And finally, there's the Ellens - the DeGenerates who for some reason can't quite manage to get their arse in the right place. Honestly - how is is possible to miss a huge great pan? Projectile poo seems to be the order of the day for these people!
And don't get me started on The Snotmeister! That evil git who, whilst dropping the kids off at the pool, passes the time by extracting his nasal contents and applying them liberally to the wall!
All that, but ne'er a floater!
I can't help but wonder if women have the same toiletry terrorists, or if it's just men?
Tuesday 20 November 2007
Dint we ’av a luverly time, the day we went to bang ’er...
I found myself uttering one of them popliar phrases today. As I came up to The Roundabout, Mr 4 Wheel Indestructible Jeep decides to speed past, cut everyone up, and ignore his indicators. As he sped by, I huffed to myself...
"You won't get there any quicker, mate!"
Now, thinking on this, it really is complete bollocks. He's well breaking the speed limit, and he cares not a jot for the wake of destruction he leaves behind, so of course he'll get there quicker!
In fact, by the time I'd gotten round the roundabout, there was only a tiny speck of light in the distance. If he'd been going at a sensible pace (like myself!) he'd've gotten home much later.
And probably not caught his missus being pleasured by the paperboy!
Now, there are those who'll tell you that these speeders always end up at the lights, where you catch up with them, proving they don't get there any quicker. Like arse! They're through the lights, and as soon as you approach 'em, the lights go red, putting you even further behind!
Still, at least you can basque in the knowledge that while you're still only halfway home, he's found his missus being rogered by some young buck, and his life is falling apart. Oh, he berates himself, if only I had stayed within speed limits, then I would have arrived home after the young lad had left, and remained blissfully unaware of my wife's infidelity, and it would be bangers and taters, not a life in tatters.
Me, I'm smug as smug can be, for I have arrived home safe and well, and don't have any chance of being greeted by thrusting buttocks upon my entrance...
...having finished up with his missus earlier than expected (boom boom!).
"You won't get there any quicker, mate!"
Now, thinking on this, it really is complete bollocks. He's well breaking the speed limit, and he cares not a jot for the wake of destruction he leaves behind, so of course he'll get there quicker!
In fact, by the time I'd gotten round the roundabout, there was only a tiny speck of light in the distance. If he'd been going at a sensible pace (like myself!) he'd've gotten home much later.
And probably not caught his missus being pleasured by the paperboy!
Now, there are those who'll tell you that these speeders always end up at the lights, where you catch up with them, proving they don't get there any quicker. Like arse! They're through the lights, and as soon as you approach 'em, the lights go red, putting you even further behind!
Still, at least you can basque in the knowledge that while you're still only halfway home, he's found his missus being rogered by some young buck, and his life is falling apart. Oh, he berates himself, if only I had stayed within speed limits, then I would have arrived home after the young lad had left, and remained blissfully unaware of my wife's infidelity, and it would be bangers and taters, not a life in tatters.
Me, I'm smug as smug can be, for I have arrived home safe and well, and don't have any chance of being greeted by thrusting buttocks upon my entrance...
...having finished up with his missus earlier than expected (boom boom!).
Monday 19 November 2007
Lets get ready to fummmmbbbblllleeeee....
Well, we managed to raise £261.54 on Friday for Children in Need.
That's enough to buy a needy child either a frost free under counter freezer, or 26,154 penny chews!
Although why they would want a GMTV Newsreader to come over and have her chew on you is beyond me! I guess sending that Fiona Phillips out there wasn't good enough.
Personally, I'd send 'em the freezer, coz they can sit in it and escape the arid African heat. Not only that, they can sell ice creams to their neighbours, and it's just damn lazyness if they can't flog a Funny Feet to a passing celebrity!
Celebrities indeed! I was round my chums last night, and we accidentally caught a glimpse of "HELP! I'm a celebrity...get me out of here NOW!". Surely, this has to be retitled...
"HELP! I was a celebrity (allegedly)...get my career revived NOW!"
This is because no-one knows who half these 'celebs' are! You got...
● Anton Dec presenting
● Anna "Ride Her!" Richardson
● Christopher Not-Quite-As-Biggins
● Kate The Strumpet off've The Apprentice
● That Chef off've Britains Best Dish
● Some singer from 5ive
● Some annoying old gits
● Some annoying young gits
● Some haggard American with a big gob
I'm a celeb - WHO'S the celeb, more like!
I wanna be in that jungle. Mainly so I'm forced to lose tons of weight.
And get a eyeful of Ride A Richard's sons norks. Mwah ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Oh, the comedy!
Will it ever start...
That's enough to buy a needy child either a frost free under counter freezer, or 26,154 penny chews!
Although why they would want a GMTV Newsreader to come over and have her chew on you is beyond me! I guess sending that Fiona Phillips out there wasn't good enough.
Personally, I'd send 'em the freezer, coz they can sit in it and escape the arid African heat. Not only that, they can sell ice creams to their neighbours, and it's just damn lazyness if they can't flog a Funny Feet to a passing celebrity!
Celebrities indeed! I was round my chums last night, and we accidentally caught a glimpse of "HELP! I'm a celebrity...get me out of here NOW!". Surely, this has to be retitled...
"HELP! I was a celebrity (allegedly)...get my career revived NOW!"
This is because no-one knows who half these 'celebs' are! You got...
● Anton Dec presenting
● Anna "Ride Her!" Richardson
● Christopher Not-Quite-As-Biggins
● Kate The Strumpet off've The Apprentice
● That Chef off've Britains Best Dish
● Some singer from 5ive
● Some annoying old gits
● Some annoying young gits
● Some haggard American with a big gob
I'm a celeb - WHO'S the celeb, more like!
I wanna be in that jungle. Mainly so I'm forced to lose tons of weight.
And get a eyeful of Ride A Richard's sons norks. Mwah ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Oh, the comedy!
Will it ever start...
Sunday 18 November 2007
Last night I heard my momma singing this song...
..."ooooo-eeee, chirpy chirpy cheep cheep"
Woke in the morning and my momma was gone...
Probably because Poppa had her sectioned for standing in the kitchen going "Oooo-eee, chirpy chirpy cheep cheep" during the night, which isn't exactly normal behaviour.
Now, I may have come home slightly tipsy upon occasion, and although I have no offspring, I have had guests stay over. And on no occasion have I found it necessary when all are a-bed and in their slumbers, to parade around the living room pretending to be a chick.
Or even one of the animal variety (boom boom!).
Anyhoo, this song is clearly an anti-drugs song. Back when them slatternly mothers in the 60s (or even in their 60s) were partaking of free lurve and freebasing on LSD, they were tripping off their tits (or those in their 60s, tripping over their tits). It is any wonder many kids heard these hippies parents trumpeting like elephants stampeding across the serengheti, or howling at the moon, or thinking they could fly like a right blue tit (esp. when they leave theit blouse unbuttoned and it's cold out). So, it's not surprising many kids found them gone in the morning after squawking like squirrels.
And for those high on mescaline and peyote, squaws pretending to be Eagles, waffling on about Californicating in hotels, as their progeny in papooses suckle their mothers tainted milk, and start seeing things and grow up mad as a hatter and be classed as a mystical Shamen and babble on about Love, Sex, Intelligence and how they can move any mountain.
Psychonauts and Phorever people indeed! We want PHWOAR!Ever People. Or the Tomorrow People (the original scary ones, that are probably pants as piss to watch back now).
So let that middle of the road song be a warning to ye all - NEVER feed your mothers hallucinatory drugs, or lewt her swallow worms fed on peyote in Tequila, otherwise she may not be there in the morning, but constrained within a straight jacket by men in white coats.
Iorek Byrnison & Iofur Raknison!
Woke in the morning and my momma was gone...
Probably because Poppa had her sectioned for standing in the kitchen going "Oooo-eee, chirpy chirpy cheep cheep" during the night, which isn't exactly normal behaviour.
Now, I may have come home slightly tipsy upon occasion, and although I have no offspring, I have had guests stay over. And on no occasion have I found it necessary when all are a-bed and in their slumbers, to parade around the living room pretending to be a chick.
Or even one of the animal variety (boom boom!).
Anyhoo, this song is clearly an anti-drugs song. Back when them slatternly mothers in the 60s (or even in their 60s) were partaking of free lurve and freebasing on LSD, they were tripping off their tits (or those in their 60s, tripping over their tits). It is any wonder many kids heard these hippies parents trumpeting like elephants stampeding across the serengheti, or howling at the moon, or thinking they could fly like a right blue tit (esp. when they leave theit blouse unbuttoned and it's cold out). So, it's not surprising many kids found them gone in the morning after squawking like squirrels.
And for those high on mescaline and peyote, squaws pretending to be Eagles, waffling on about Californicating in hotels, as their progeny in papooses suckle their mothers tainted milk, and start seeing things and grow up mad as a hatter and be classed as a mystical Shamen and babble on about Love, Sex, Intelligence and how they can move any mountain.
Psychonauts and Phorever people indeed! We want PHWOAR!Ever People. Or the Tomorrow People (the original scary ones, that are probably pants as piss to watch back now).
So let that middle of the road song be a warning to ye all - NEVER feed your mothers hallucinatory drugs, or lewt her swallow worms fed on peyote in Tequila, otherwise she may not be there in the morning, but constrained within a straight jacket by men in white coats.
Iorek Byrnison & Iofur Raknison!
Saturday 17 November 2007
Geat balls o’ fire...
Depsite having a humongously huge CGI Hopkins arse filling the screen right at the start, I was mightily impressed with Beowulf in 3D.
They've converted the cinema down Riverside to cater for 3D movies, and boy was it impressive! Even more impressive how they managed to have a nudie Pork Winchester, without showing his weapon!
And who else was impressive?
Well, I was! I had lots of appreciative glances, shy smiles and winks & stuff from nubile young vixens. This is probably down to wearing The Yeti. Ah, if only I had the confidence to go over and engage these wanton maidens in conversation, rather than shyly smiling back and hurrying along upon my errands, or burying me face in me DS or a book.
And I would've had plenty of time to chat up a couple of these strumpets, coz I ended up on a longer round trip than expected!
So, the No.9 pulls up and I gets on it. I sees Mr Driver tinkering with his display - ah, methinks, he's changing it from "9 - City Centre" to "9 - Ives Road via Mile Cross". So I sets to reading...
Looks up from the pages, and I's at Broadland Business Park going past me office! 180° in opposition to the direction I was expecting, and miles away from any return service!
Lawks, I thought! Maybe he's going to the Park & Ride, then heading back.
Noooooo.
I ends up in Brundall - and I got the impression it's not somewhere you want to be left stranded after dark. I didn't quite see The Slaughtered Lamb, but I have no desire to be set upon by the Brundall Massive and force to squeal like a piggy. Unless, of course, it was the 2 pretties who got off in Brundall, especially the tall one wot kept 'giving me the eye', even after she got off. Got off the bus, that is, not with me.Luck don't work that way with me! Still, at least I never started that Fawkesian Facial Furniture, so there's Hope for me yet!
Anyhoo, it appeared that the driver had changed bus numbers after I'd gotten on, so the number 9 that came in was taken over for the Brundall route.
Scumbaggery!
They've converted the cinema down Riverside to cater for 3D movies, and boy was it impressive! Even more impressive how they managed to have a nudie Pork Winchester, without showing his weapon!
And who else was impressive?
Well, I was! I had lots of appreciative glances, shy smiles and winks & stuff from nubile young vixens. This is probably down to wearing The Yeti. Ah, if only I had the confidence to go over and engage these wanton maidens in conversation, rather than shyly smiling back and hurrying along upon my errands, or burying me face in me DS or a book.
And I would've had plenty of time to chat up a couple of these strumpets, coz I ended up on a longer round trip than expected!
So, the No.9 pulls up and I gets on it. I sees Mr Driver tinkering with his display - ah, methinks, he's changing it from "9 - City Centre" to "9 - Ives Road via Mile Cross". So I sets to reading...
Looks up from the pages, and I's at Broadland Business Park going past me office! 180° in opposition to the direction I was expecting, and miles away from any return service!
Lawks, I thought! Maybe he's going to the Park & Ride, then heading back.
Noooooo.
I ends up in Brundall - and I got the impression it's not somewhere you want to be left stranded after dark. I didn't quite see The Slaughtered Lamb, but I have no desire to be set upon by the Brundall Massive and force to squeal like a piggy. Unless, of course, it was the 2 pretties who got off in Brundall, especially the tall one wot kept 'giving me the eye', even after she got off. Got off the bus, that is, not with me.Luck don't work that way with me! Still, at least I never started that Fawkesian Facial Furniture, so there's Hope for me yet!
Anyhoo, it appeared that the driver had changed bus numbers after I'd gotten on, so the number 9 that came in was taken over for the Brundall route.
Scumbaggery!
Friday 16 November 2007
This is a booty call...
Arrr,
We on on the high seas, and we be pirates, and we grab ourselves some booty!
Now, Pirates may have been at sea for quite some time, and abstinence make the heart grow fondler, but why oh why must they grab their glutes?
And to cap it all, these new-fangled wenches tend to talk a lot about booty calls. Why would anyone want to phone up another persons bottom? Putting a phone up, I can understand - whatever floats yer boat (and long as said boat isn't raided by Pirates), and you can get on More4's show Another Top 100 Things Found Up Peoples Bottoms. But making a telephone call to an anus?
Well, there are some who say that wimmin don't half talk a lot of shite!
Maybe it's a booty call - calling for buttocks? Or simply calling out to posteriors - "Yo! Arse!" perhaps.
And what about that TV show "Car Booty" - rear ends in cars - sounds suspiciously like dogging to me! And on Prime Time TV. TV is just too sexualised these days! Unless, of course, it's Binge Britain, and the Car Booty is a car filled with inebriated Chavs mooning out the windows.
Yeah, gonna git me some sweeeeet booty!
Gold Dubloons, wot have got choclit under the gold leaf!
And there's loads of it about, coz it's Chriiiiiiisssssstmaaaaassssssss (and I ain't talking choclit coins here, if you know what I mean, and I'm sure that you do!).
Ah, I've now been informed that a "booty call" is where you ring someone up and ask them over to take tea with the parson, and it's all very discrete.
Looks like no-one's got my number...
And I ain't putting it in no phone box!
And, for that matter, I ain't puttin' my number in one either!
Boom boom!
We on on the high seas, and we be pirates, and we grab ourselves some booty!
Now, Pirates may have been at sea for quite some time, and abstinence make the heart grow fondler, but why oh why must they grab their glutes?
And to cap it all, these new-fangled wenches tend to talk a lot about booty calls. Why would anyone want to phone up another persons bottom? Putting a phone up, I can understand - whatever floats yer boat (and long as said boat isn't raided by Pirates), and you can get on More4's show Another Top 100 Things Found Up Peoples Bottoms. But making a telephone call to an anus?
Well, there are some who say that wimmin don't half talk a lot of shite!
Maybe it's a booty call - calling for buttocks? Or simply calling out to posteriors - "Yo! Arse!" perhaps.
And what about that TV show "Car Booty" - rear ends in cars - sounds suspiciously like dogging to me! And on Prime Time TV. TV is just too sexualised these days! Unless, of course, it's Binge Britain, and the Car Booty is a car filled with inebriated Chavs mooning out the windows.
Yeah, gonna git me some sweeeeet booty!
Gold Dubloons, wot have got choclit under the gold leaf!
And there's loads of it about, coz it's Chriiiiiiisssssstmaaaaassssssss (and I ain't talking choclit coins here, if you know what I mean, and I'm sure that you do!).
Ah, I've now been informed that a "booty call" is where you ring someone up and ask them over to take tea with the parson, and it's all very discrete.
Looks like no-one's got my number...
And I ain't putting it in no phone box!
And, for that matter, I ain't puttin' my number in one either!
Boom boom!
Thursday 15 November 2007
Paws for thought...
Hooray! It's Children In Need night tomorrow! This year ole Tel's glamourpuss is Fearne Cotton - now, Ole Tel's renown for his musical muppetry "All together in the Floral Dance", so I'm waiting for the after midnight "anything goes" celebrity specials - Fearne Cotton "In the altogether" at a floral dance? I'd pledge 50p!
Anyhoo, our team's somehow been designated as Event organisers, and as I'm somehow seen as quite intellectual (Yes, me! Ha ha ha ha ha!), I was given the task of coming up with a quiz, and so I've done a brainy bod anagram quiz - I'll send it round on a bulleting tomorrow so you can have a go.
Anyways, being called intellecual made me think of them thickos in MENSA. There's this ludicrous poem going about (again) that them 'clever' MENSA lot try and trap you with, to make themselves look like right tits:
As I was going to St. Ives
Normally, these greybearded bods expect you to add up all the 7 and multiples thereof, and giving a calculated answer. The MENSA gobshite would then laugh at you, calling you a fool, and saying that the answer is 1, as YOU were going to St Ives.
At that point, you would give the overly clever tosspot the kicking he so richly deserves.
The actual answer, if of course, NONE!
First of all, you have the initial subject, "I", on his way to St Ives.
On his way, he meets a man. We are not told within the rhyme if "the man" was also on his way to St Ives or not. He could be either off to Yarmouth, or continuing on to St Ives with "I" for company. So immediately we have ambiguity of how many are on their way to St Ives.
Now, this bloke has seven wives. Again, we're not told whether any of the wives were present, or if he just happened to have 7 wives. Also, this would be classed as bigamy, so "I" and "the Man" would begin a heated debate about various laws vs religious dogma.
Then "the man" reveals that the 7 wives have 7 sacks - again, is that 1 apiece, or 7 each?
Not only that, the 7 (49, or 7 of the 49) sacks each have 7 cats in them. This would certainly make "I" a bit on the wary side, and animal cruelty crops up into the debate.
On top of that, "the Man" increases the tension, by saying that 7 cats (again, just 7, or each group of 7) have 7 kittens. By now, "I" would be EXTREMELY concerned. We have sacks filled with cats and kittens. By now, "I" is surely giving "the Man" a good duffing up whist calling the RSPCA and The Law on his mobile.
And as he waded in with fists of fury and pincers of power, he'd be arrested for GBH or aggrivated assault.
And as they're all banked up in Joliet, no-one's off to St Ives!
So, next time some foolish fop lands you with this 'conundrum', recite to them the PROPER version of events:
As I was going to St. Ives
MENSA? Thick as pigshit, the lot of 'em!
Anyhoo, our team's somehow been designated as Event organisers, and as I'm somehow seen as quite intellectual (Yes, me! Ha ha ha ha ha!), I was given the task of coming up with a quiz, and so I've done a brainy bod anagram quiz - I'll send it round on a bulleting tomorrow so you can have a go.
Anyways, being called intellecual made me think of them thickos in MENSA. There's this ludicrous poem going about (again) that them 'clever' MENSA lot try and trap you with, to make themselves look like right tits:
As I was going to St. Ives
I met a man with 7 wives
7 wives had 7 sacks
7 sacks had 7 cats
7 cats had 7 kits
Kits, kats, sacks, wives
How many were going to St. Ives?
Normally, these greybearded bods expect you to add up all the 7 and multiples thereof, and giving a calculated answer. The MENSA gobshite would then laugh at you, calling you a fool, and saying that the answer is 1, as YOU were going to St Ives.
At that point, you would give the overly clever tosspot the kicking he so richly deserves.
The actual answer, if of course, NONE!
First of all, you have the initial subject, "I", on his way to St Ives.
On his way, he meets a man. We are not told within the rhyme if "the man" was also on his way to St Ives or not. He could be either off to Yarmouth, or continuing on to St Ives with "I" for company. So immediately we have ambiguity of how many are on their way to St Ives.
Now, this bloke has seven wives. Again, we're not told whether any of the wives were present, or if he just happened to have 7 wives. Also, this would be classed as bigamy, so "I" and "the Man" would begin a heated debate about various laws vs religious dogma.
Then "the man" reveals that the 7 wives have 7 sacks - again, is that 1 apiece, or 7 each?
Not only that, the 7 (49, or 7 of the 49) sacks each have 7 cats in them. This would certainly make "I" a bit on the wary side, and animal cruelty crops up into the debate.
On top of that, "the Man" increases the tension, by saying that 7 cats (again, just 7, or each group of 7) have 7 kittens. By now, "I" would be EXTREMELY concerned. We have sacks filled with cats and kittens. By now, "I" is surely giving "the Man" a good duffing up whist calling the RSPCA and The Law on his mobile.
And as he waded in with fists of fury and pincers of power, he'd be arrested for GBH or aggrivated assault.
And as they're all banked up in Joliet, no-one's off to St Ives!
So, next time some foolish fop lands you with this 'conundrum', recite to them the PROPER version of events:
As I was going to St. Ives
I met a man, who may (or may not) have also been going to St. Ives
The bigamist had 7 wives
some of whom may (or may not) have been with him
Those wives who may have been with him
may (or may not) have also been going to St. Ives
The 7 wives may have had 7 sacks between them
Or 7 sacks each
Either 7 sacks, or each group of 7 sacks,
may have had 7 cats in total
or 7 cats each
Either 7 cats, or each group of 7 cats,
may have had 7 kits in total
or 7 kits each
Or something
Kits! kats! Kit-Kats! Sacks! Wives!
Assuming I didn't call the Police
To arrest him for Bigamy
Or call the RSPCA
for animal cruelty
How many were (or may not have been) going to St. Ives?
MENSA? Thick as pigshit, the lot of 'em!
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