I’ll never play the violin again...

Now, there are those that are seething into their cereal at the appalling rip-off of the Honey Monster's attempts to crimp, yet, lest we forget, the Honey Monster has always been well into his Alternative Comedy.

Who can forget the now legendary Tummy Time series, where the Honey Monster teamed up with John Cooper-Clarke
(relive the magic here:

and here:

)
... until too many children read Ten Years In An Open Necked Shirt and began reciting "You Never See A Nipple In The Daily Express" in front of the Teacher.

... but from leading kids into foul mouthed punk poetry, the Honey monster is now blatently advocating norks galore for brekkie!!

Quite clearly he's getting it on with FHM magazines* High Street Honey Monsters, for what does a bowl of sugar puffs remind him of?

The "golden pips" of a sunshine princess!

Now, I'm not familiar with the Sunshine branch of royalty, but I'm pretty certain that "golden pips" on a lady is usually a reference to her Darling Buds, her Puppies Noses, her Sensitive Ladylump Milk Dispensers.

Yes, the Honey Monster looks at a bowl of sugar puffs and sees a huge bowl filled to the brim with nipples.

Surely, this is the first sign of psychopathic behaviour - illlusions of mounds of mammaries for breakfast, and he's off on some cereal killers rampage?

Me, I look at a bowl of sugar puffs, and think "Hmmm. Not enough Sugar Puffs..." or "Why doesn't The Apprentice do a show to market a cereal called Sir Alan Sugar Puffs, with the 'golden pips' moulded into the shape of the bolshy businessbloke in leather bondage gear?".

Or something...

Althogether now (but not in the alltogether. Unless you're a lovely lady):

Sugar Puffs, Sugar Puffs HUP!

Honey coated puffs in a milky bath

Put 'em in your mouth and they make you laugh**

Kept in the cupboard taken out for breakfast

Spoon's best friend and the fridge's favourite

Huff! Puff! Huff-puff!

Huff! Puff! Huff-puff!

Wheaty chums that settle in transit

Golden pips of a sunshine princess

* OR, TO GIVE IT ITS FULL TITLE, FOR HIS MASTURBATION MAGAZINE...

** SEE - I TOLD YOU THE HONEY MONSTER WAS A CEREAL KILLER - IF THEY MAKE YOU LAUGH WHEN YOU PUT 'EM IN YOUR GOB, YOU'LL CHOKE TO DEATH ON A MOUTHFUL OF A SUNSHINE PRINCESS'S GOLDEN NIPS! BASTARD!
 

The heat is on...

...Yeah, it's on the street

Boiling on your head

And gives you sweaty teats

The heat is {pom pom pom pom} ON!

But not, apparently, when you're actually on 'da street', for as soon as you leave the sweltering furnace of The Office with AirCon One set to top volume and the blistering sun searing through the windows, you're guaranteed to hit the arctic roll.

Maybe it's my abdominal snowmanlike physique blotting out Sol and my vast girth causing a gravity well all of it's own to draw in the surrounding clouds to make me the epicentre of a monsoon.

And so you slink, bedraggled and soaked from Gods golden shower, back into the office, only to walk into the dry air of the Sahara, and freed from my gut-eclipse, the sun burns through the windows.

Now this is something for ole Stephen 'Davros' Hawking to ponder. I mean, it's a far better use of his time to discover why the weather always goes bad when you're out, and good when you're in. Instead, he gets paid to sit there thinking out Big Bangs all day long!!

Still, I suppose if given the choice, I too would forego meteorlogical musings in favour of in depth ponderation of the pink sunshine that is Perky Vic, Magz, Jo & Tina. Actually, more consideration should go into the fusion of certain other 'big bangs' in conjunction with 'em!

After all, The Saw Doctors would love to Bang the Bangles, who wouldn't want to F...

Look at the hits on that!!

I'd love to see Stephen Hawking on MTVs 'Unplugged'!

Do you lick the lid of trivial pastries...

Young mums have all the fun!

Outrageous! Is there no end to the Goverments pandering to teenage trollops with naught better to do than watch Jeremy Kyle and sit in The Sun, dreaming of being a page free moddul like Jordan, coz she's, like, dead down to erf an' that.

Just because I'm sinkhole, with no rampaging brood clamouring around my boots at the benefits office, I have to pay a fortune in landlines and peak/off-peak calls. And what do these Young Mums get?

Their very own exclusive direct line for free!

Multi-hued tendrils of string adorn the foliage, clambering over rooftops and dangling from the roofs of supermarkets (and probably encroaching into railway stations and grasping the necks of artistic TV types). And at the end is the now legendary Yoghurt Pot, so that these Underage Grandmothers can gossip about how much calcium is in their Petty Filou...

...although I don't recall old Mr Beddowes being all that petty - it were more them Black Widders.

Wah-wah wh-wah-wahhhhhh!

Anywhichway, how come Young Mums (Go For It!) get this most cheap of infrastructure? Why not extend it to non-families, and add in optional extras!

How about a bakey bean tim, instead of a tub of yoghurt? OK, so it may not smell as sweetly fragrant, but you could do some cool echoey type stuff - and pull off a Darth Vader! But not in a wanky sense - I'm not tossing off a Dark Lord of the Sith just to get some dramatic heavy breathing down my 'phone'.

Yoghurt pots and string - I bet Alex Graham Bell wish he thought of that, rather than spilling his 'yoghurt' all over his lap, in order to have a reason to use his new electric talky-stick:

"Watson! Come here. I want you..." (fnarr fnarr)
 

I’m just a patsy...

..quoth Lee Harvey Oswald, protesting his innocence and smoking whilst drinking 'Bolly' and calling everyone 'Sweetie, Darling' before Jack Ruby put the bullet in to silence him before Lee began singing "Rickaaaaaaaaay, I don't care, Rickaaaaaay, I'm not scared'.

Good job he didn't yell "I'm a pasty", otherwise he could have been gobbled to death by the gormless godfather - and then we'd have to suffer endless repeats of Oswalds death in a basement surrounded by peppered nazi's in some homosexual oral sex snuff movie.

Anyhoo, it looks like my blogs have revealed far too many truths! The CIA may have assassinated Nigel Kennedy and his god-awful violin, and then got that Drag gangster's moll Ruby to assassinate Oswald to cover it up, but they won't get me!

For within Hades last nght, someone snuck in a sniperesque Sophie Ellis Bextor. Yes, it would have been murder on the dancefloor, but luckily for me my watch behaved like Diana Prince's bracelet's, and deflected the now legendary Bullet With My Name On It.

Like some alternative 80s mystical synchronisation, it was a case of breaking glass, leaving me unable to synchonise watches.

Now, there are those (presumably also secretly in the pay of the English equivalent of the CIA - the TA, most likely) who will try and convice me I simply walloped me watch on a wall whilst flouncily waving me arms out in some 80's gothy poncified dancifications. However, in such circumstances*, surely I would've noticed my extemities colliding with force against concrete?

No, my truth is out there, and They want me silenced...

...although the source of life extinguishment could've have come from one of them possessive types who took exception to my lechment of his lovely lady (although that's hardly fair - if he's going to have hot tottie a-dangling from his arm, he can hardly complain if us sinkholes admire his sexy siren... unless he thinks she's an ugly moose underserving of admiration, in which case he should just hand her over to me rather than trying to take my mortal coil and shufffle it!)

Ooooh, don'tcha miss me, get that hole in my head
Otherwise I may deflect it with chronographications

* WASN'T THAT A NENEH CHERRY SONG - THE "SIR CUM STANCE", SUMMAT ABOUT THE POSITION A KNIGHT FINDS HIMSELF IN THE THROES OF ORGASM WHEN BURIED UP A BISONS BOTTOM WHEN HANGIN' WITH DA WILD BUNCH. OR SOMETHING?
 

I just died in your arms tonight...

...it must've been something you said.

Now, I'm not one for picking holes in plots, but surely if the vocalist died in her arms, then how come he's up and about singing about it, for I don't recall the verse going:

I just died in your arms tonight

It must've been something you said

I just died in your arms tonight

But luckily 'Flatliners' was on Film 4 last night

So you knew how to perform an impromtu recusitation

using a couple of irons for defibrillation

and I'm all better now.

But don't say it again and re-kill me, you wankwhore bitch.

So if he did die in her arms, then being deceased preculdes any change of getting lungular action to get the old vocal chords to emit sound... Apart from a settling belch due to body gas release as part of the decomposition process, that is. So he cant warble on about it.

But who is the woman whose voice causes the poor sap to become terminally inactive in her arms? Whas he perhaps mistaken, and it wasn't something she said, but her arms wrapped around his larynx, suffocating him as she suffocates in his lynx musk poured exessively over his body?

Or did she hypnotise him, like some Parasitic Paul McKenna, or Demonic Derren Brown?

"Come into my arms... Look in into my eyes... Not around the eyes you twat... look into my eyes.. right, you're under... DIE! DIE! DIE! 1, 2, 3... and ... you're back in a coffin"?

Surely this babe should be done for murder, or at the very least Manslaughter (Talking of which, how come you never hear of Womanslaughter, or Daughterslaughter, etc? Is it only Mans who accidentally do a death upon docile deadites?)

Or am I missing the subtext here... It is "I just dyed in your arms tonight"? Mayhap the "something she said" was misinterpreted, and so he flayed the skin from her elbows down to create a pair of Ed Gein-esque human Marigolds, so he could imbue his white 'grandad' shirt with a myriad of hippy henna'd colours without staining his sleeves?

Cutting (the limbs off the missus to jazz up a dull plain wardobe) crew, indeed!

They've got some bloody weird ideas, these songwriters!
 

All the local boys know what he’s done...

I popped on the Evening News website earlier, and one of the headlines was rather striking:

New course offered to kerb crawlers

How cool is that! A masterclass in prozzie pickups! A complete tutorial on how to obscure your number plates and ask Ladies of the Night if they're Doing Business!

That said, I wonder if there's an Advanced Course. Much is made of this Speed Dating, but what of speed kerb crawling? Sidle up to the skank and discuss what your Euros will get you, then when your three mins is up, a beep of the horn (oo-er missus), and it's crawl along to the next ho.  At the end of the evening you see how many boxes get ticked and pick your perfecto prozzie!

And instead of trying to spot the married ones on the lookout for a fling, you can play spot the undercover cop on the lookout for fleshpot afficionadoes.

Courses for Whoresies!

Bloody service standards...

Thank you for reading this blog, Your readership in important to us, and we are pleased that you have selected our exclusive diatribe of unrelenting verbosity.

In order to continue our circumlocutions, please select your preferred option from the following, or alternatively, please wait for one of our Customer Services Representitives to become available, or use the feedback form presented at the end of this message.

And so on...

Yes, the Evil that is automated messaging is creeping into eMail. Parts 4 & 5 of me orrery turned up, but no sign of parts 2 & 3. So I writes a long winded eMail, detailing payment dates, promised ETAs and clarification of postage dates and causes of delays.

Do I get a response - NO! I get a pile of arse saying "Ooooh, have you checked our FAQ? If the answer isn't on the attached FAQ then please use the reply buton and a code monkey will be woken up to respond".

Aaarrrggh! Why can't they read the eMail I sent first and prod some call centre bod to find out where me parts are? What's the point in writing in, only for them to send you a message telling you to write in?

BAR STEWARDS!!!!

Grrrrrrrrr!
 

George and Mildew...

Ah yes, 'tis a great day to be English, for today we celebrate ole Georgie Porgy snogging some right old dragon before having it away on his toes and fleeing the horrendous harridan.

However, I take exception to this celebration of dragon slaughterage, for it's the medievil equivalent of fox hunting! Sir Shagalot would flush out the behemoth by getting the horn from driving lusty virgins before his steed. Although, unlike the hounds, the virgins never got to tear poor Draco to bits - it was left up to Lance and his oversized weapon.

The WWF would have a field day if they were around back then! Decimating dragons into extinction - Hulk Hogan wouldn't put up with that today, I can tell you! Still, at least these plague ridden peasants had the foresight to try and keep the Unicorn alive, although they didn't half fuck up.

I mean, honestly, the Unicorn is more horse than anything, so why the hell didn't they try crossbreeding with other horses? We could have the beauty of golden horned hoofbeats thrumming across our green and pleasant land, sending the ladies into quivering orgasmic spasms at the very sight.

But noooooo, they had to get them to nob bloody hippos. Hippos for fucks sake! And what are we left with? The bloody Rhino. From the sleek, muscular stallion with it's gleaming horn, to some dumpy squat frump with a filthy horn.

I reckon we should start getting the chavscum to start having relations with octopii & squids, so we can breed some Oods to make the tea and hoover up. Then again, that'd make X-Factor worse, with chavvy, talentless Oods auditioning and telepathically bellowing in yer bonce so you can't even turn the telly volume down to escape.

Cephalopod sex - the new Urotsukidōji...

And the wheat shall inherit the Earth...

..for it's Earth Day today!

Whilst having me follicle deforestment, I was pondering crap circles when I had yest another one of my amazing revelations! I was in a salon, where a whole lotta shavin's going on.

Now, there are those priestly types, who oft pop into Toni & Gay to get the old Tresemmé applied to the old Tonsure, which is a circular space surrounded by hair atop of the bonce of monks.

People often like to hide their religion, for fear of Percy Quecian (a 15th century devotee of Torquemada, and no-one like soft cushion pokement), and so they claim to have 'male pattern baldyness' - and what is that pattern?

A baldy circle despoiling their lush locks!

Which is none to dissimilar to a circle in a forest of crops.

Now, either the clerics are creeping into crops at dusk to shave tonsures into the field, or very tiny space beasties are landing atop blokes bonces and leaving behind a ring of slaphead as a message to mankind.

Now, the concept of saintly old friars in brown robes tied up with rope, shaving tonsures into a field to dedicate the crop to The Lord whilst engaging in twilight Gregorian chants is perhaps a tad far fetched, for the truth is that they would be far too busy with Brother Fingers digging up spuds (all covered in mud) to make into packets of crisps.

So, we're left with space monsters shaving heads. This is entirely more believeable, as anyone will tell you that "The Greys" are all baldy gits, so clearly they're removing the hair from a number of the populace to blend in more freely. As their chrome domes are far too slippery for a Whiffy's wig to adhere to, they take the hair they shave off and glue it onto their noggin using sticky backed plastic.

Of course, it could be the unthinkable: That Gaia has awoken and Got Religion, and she's showing her faith by getting miniature tornadoes to embed tosures upon her fields and pastures. Although clearly, that isn't the unthinkable, coz I just thunk it.

Or something...

Who ate all the pies...

...well, according to the tellybox, it's ole Porky Prescott.

The foolish fat fool is currently claiming that's he caught Bulimia off Lady Di, and wants to serve an an example that men can get Bulimia too.

But hold on... surely bulimics are anorexic waifs, keeping dead slim by regurgitating all their grub. But old Two Jugs (so named after his monstrous moobs) is as fat as fat can be!

One can only assume that his is an extreme form of Bulimia, whereby you purchase a McLardy burger, scoff the lot, sick it up and then partake of the resultant pavement pizza as a snack, thus enabling the portly politician to claim bulimia whilst also keeping the lard intake at a maximum.

Perhaps it's the new scheme to offset the removal of the 10p tax band - save money by spewing up your meals and having them again for tea! Well, if the Italians can get away with it, why can't The Poor?

Yes, the Italians have been selling off blocks of solidified puke under the pseudonym "Palmesan Cheese" - however, anyone who has ever taken a whiff of this cheese will tell you that it has the sweet scent of sick about it. If there's anything to put you off your AngliaTelly, it's someone plonking a heap of grated hurl on the top of your Kate O'Mara, or Spaghettit Bollocknaise.

'tis almost as bad as a "Carlisle Lolly", when certain Go-Go girls freeze their pees. I shudder at the though of a block of "McKeiths Chocolate" being on the market.

Recycle! The possibilities are endless...

Guess who’s back... back again...

Some may recall a few blogs back that no matter what DVD I picked up and put on, invariably David Warner crops up in it.

Well, I thought I'd broken that spell, for he didn't make an appearance in War of the Worlds 2, but as soon as I pops in my new Wild Palms DVD... Up comes the titles, then Starring... The Warner!

So I immediately ejected it.

Can I not escape this man? Is there some mystical link that Ye Goddes have forged, so that no matter what I purchase, he will be there somewhere.

Is it any coincidence I am plagued by the stamp thievery of Gnome - perhaps his impossibly prolific guest star perfomances are the work of nefarious gnomes that take his man shape to make multiple films at the same time, then revert to their natural physique and springing out at argentinian builders whilst ensuring that when selecting a DVD, they quietly whisper in my ear to encourage me to buy one with him in it?

Who can say?

Robbie Williams and that Reg Presley, no doubt (but not Gwen). As these gnomes are cryptozoological anomalys, they fall into the realms of Forteana, such as Space Monsters and Crap Circles.

Being in showbiz, both Robbie and Reg must come across David Warner (not in some spurty gaylove event, but in an entertainment aquaintance sense. I bet if you look at a few Album credits, David Warner will be credited somewhere. Or him and his simbling, under their Production Company Warner Bros that they founded to get him onto as much tellyshows as possible.) More so, because Robbie is obsessed with UFOs (as he was often heard to shout at Gary Barlow, "Oi! You, Fuck Off", or u.fo in txtspeak).

Also because Reg is even more obsessed with Crap Circles. In fact, he seems to like all mystery, for not only did he named himself after a bloke who has a statue on Mars and lives on the moon with Lord Lucan in a bus, he called his band The Troggs... which is short for Trogolodytes, which he believes to be Wild Things living in Thetford Forest (although that turned out to be a load of crusties at a Levellers gig.)

Anyhoo, crap circle makers hide out in the open - The Levellers get away with it, even though their choice of name shows quite plainly that they are levellers... of crops in circulatory fashions, which in turn leads to dedicated followers of fashion, who are apparently quite kinky, creating these circles in a frenzy of rampant jiggery pokery, whilst other jig in a frenzy of ram poking...

Or something.

That a Teeny Turnip on the books...

I'm your private dancer

A dancer for money

I'll do what you want me to do

I'm your private dancer

A dancer for money

And any old music will do

Well, that's all very well. If 'any old music will do' I'm getting onto the Turnip's agent and hiring her to do me some private dancing. Let's see her do The Birdie Song, The Cheeky Dance, Saturday Night, The Macarena, Agadoo and round it off in a pair of volumious trews and give it a bit of the old left/right Hammertime shuffle.

Shame she weren't in the city today, for I would've paid good money to see her joining that scourge of England... Morris Dancers. Oh, to see them recreate the Thunderdome, and wallop her in the mush with a bladder onna stick.

Yes, Kemp's Men are celebrating the birth of their Idol by dancing along to such hits as Gold, True and Through the Barricades. To cut a long story short, gangs of Musclebound Morrisers have descended upon our fine city, befouling the walkways with their stick clobbering shennanigans and assailing our eardrums with the tinkling of bells and the wail of accordions (although I'd prefer a cord around their necks. Or The Corrs. But not Jim.).

I really don't need this pressure on me when I'm out a-shopping!

This... is... BRITAIN!!!!!

It seems some dozy doxy on The Government has been ogling that Gerard Russel - not after being scorched by Northern Dragons before swanning off to gay Paree to live in the sewers, but in his briefest of briefs, all oiled up and rippling his pecs in Thermopolæ (which I believe is the Grecian equivalent of Monopoly).

Yes, 300 spartans in sparce speedos has got Jacqui Smith frothing at the gash, so she wants a British equivalent to hold back the hordes of hunchbacked fundamentalists and kick hook handed clerics down wells.

In the latest in The War Against Terror (or TWAT for short), we're going to forget about crime, and have a crack team of 300 dedicated warrior plods, winkling out radical suicide bombers to make into a decorative wall in Travulgar Square. Buff Bobbies in black briefs and red capes charging through the streets like something out of The Full Monty... costumed cops putting the Fun back into Fundamentalist plotting.

...although somehow I can't quite see Reg Hollis in this getup (though I wouldn't mind PCs Keane, Green and Armstrong in flimsy white togas. In the rain. But not roadside nob-gobbler Taylforth, thank you very much!)

Not very practical though, those briefs. You don't want to be chasing down Osama Bin Liner with your truncheon waving about left, right and centre! Might as well bring back The Empire and the Devils in Skirts!

If we can see off Bung'dit Din and his Burpas, we can easily see off the likes of Candyman Abu Hamza.

300 indeed!

Jesus Christ, Masterchef...

Legend has it that The Messiah fed 5,000 people on a couple of fishies and 5 packets of Warburtons.

However, it shows just how uncaring The Christ is.

You'd think in 5,000 people, one or two might be vegetarian. But does his kindly catering cater for them? Does it feck as like - it's Tuna Fish sandwhhhhhhiches all round, coz vegitarians all eat fish, coz fish aren't meat.

And what about those allergic to seafood? Or them with wheat intolerance (bloody wheat, bloody gets everywhere)? Hah, there's little mention in The Bible about the Coeliacs scratching their arse with their Itchy Bum Syndrome, or the Scombroids dying in their droves.

Guess he didn't care, coz he could always heal them (for a few Sheckles, of course!).

So, we can Credit Jesus with the first ever Nazarethian Nouvelle Cuisine... unless he'd eMailed the bakery, and got Derek Warburtons lad to make a 'masses loaf' - each one capable of providing 2000 slices.

Although them fishies wouldn't spread very far - guess he topped it up with the sweetcorn out of his Palestinian poo, and whacked off into his loincloth for the mayonaisse with Mary Magdarlin' pleasuring herself with his crudités to get the fannybatter to coat the fish fingers in, ready for the follow up course (which the Vatican edited out of the Bible).

Unless, of course, the fish in question were a bit larger than we're led to believe. Mayhap they were Sperm Whales, which would be a excuse to market his man-mayo. "Sperm Whale Sarnies with Saviour's Spunk!".

And Jesus went up on a mountain, and there He sat with His Disciples, and He said to Philpot: "Where shall we buy bread, that these may eat? For I like my bread fresh, baked on the premises, on the day."

And verily, Phil suggested "Morrissons?"

So they got the FirstDonkey to the Out-Of-Gallilee hypermarket and stocked up on Nimble, and returned to the throng.

And Jesus took the loaves, and when He had checked the sell-by date, he knocked up some Princes Fish Paste sarnies and He distributed them to the disciples, and the disciples to those sitting down.

And many amongst the gathering asked: "But what about us vegans"

And Jesus replied "You fuckers are never satisfied. Here, have a sprout sarnie". And The Lord gave forth his bounty, but realised his error, and replaced the coconut treat with the vegan option, and the vegans bewailed the loss of chocolate.

And the vegans were wrathful, believing that Jesus was trying to pass off sperm whales eyeballs as sprouts, and The Lord replied: "Look, I'm a fuckin' miracle worker, right, so it I say it's a sprout, it's a fuckin' sprout. Now fuck off before I get Judas to give you a good kicking"

And the throng turned upon Him, and called him many names, such as Bastard.

And He could not refute this, for technically his cheating ho of a mother knew God and God begat Jesus. But He tried to bluff it out, recalling that his 'parents' were married, and his Father was a Carpenter.

And the cynical Vegans mocked Him singing .'I'm on top of the world, looking, down on creation' to which Jesus replied ""ha fuckin' ha, like bloody Peter Simon doesn't sing that every fuckin' night before covering me in gunge, and he still thinks it's funny. Bloody gobshite disciples. I really wanna nob that prossie, Mary, but with Matthew, Mark, Luke & John hanging around all the time, trying to get me to join their Boyband, I'll never get her alone. And I hear she goes off like a rocket when you put a finger up her..."

And lo, the meek interrupted the waffling gormster, decrying: "Sorry, best be off - Earths to inherit, and all that. See ya!"

And He turned to His disciples, saying "Gather up the fragments that remain, so that nothing is lost. We can flog this lot down the Camel Boot! Lovely Jubbly"

And James, Son of Zebedee, lustily nudged The Lord, saying "Cor, that Florence ain't half got a pair of lovely jubblies, know what I mean! Sod the Camel Boot, I'm off to explore her Camel Toe."

Therefore they gathered up the fragments, and filled twelve bio-degradable Bags-For-Life with the fragments of the tuna sarnies which were left over by those who had eaten. Then those men, when they had seen the sign that Jesus did, said, 'This is truly the profit who is come into the world.', for the sign said "Sperm Whale Sarnies with Saviour's Spunk. £3.60 (or spend an extra £1.40 for a value meal with Christ Blood flavour Coke and a bag of crisps:. Christ Chips - His body in a bag - foil packed for freshness!")

Why oh why do the Vatican insist on taking all these best bits out!

Nellie the elephant packed her trunk...

...and promptly suffocated to death due to trunkial blockage.

Todays puzzlement stems from going to look at a new chart, and being told "Ooooooh Trunky Wanna Bun!" (although I almost got sidetracked by the concept of Disco lights instead of traffic lights. Instead of Red, they could go into light-based apoplexy and you could boogie in your brum until the lights go red again. In fact, traffic lights look just like the hired disco van man's lightset he plonks down either side of The Dex before aurally assaulting Agadoo upon the festivities. However, Disco Traffic Lights and the evils of the Hired Disco fiend will have to wait until another blogging).

Now, from whence does this bun relatated trunkage originate? At first thought, it would be because stereotyped elephants scoff buns - but that don't tie in with me wanting to know about something. At a push, you could say it's because if you stand near an elephant, it'll molest you with it's trunk in search of your buns.

Which would make the phraseology more along the lines of "Trunky want to shove his trunk right up your arse or sniff your crotch", which doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.

Then, I thought it should be based on JJ Merrick, nicknamed Trunky because of the length of his tumourescent todger. Perhaps he demanded sticky buns topped with human beings the size of amoebas as payment for people to gawk at him all nudie, waving his schlong about, pretending to be the Man With An Elephants Trunk For A Cock.

Or something.

Then it occurred to me: It's actually Chunky want a bun, for todays kids are so obese that the mere mention of Bun, Cake or doughnut will have them waddling over to find out where the creamy treats are stored. In fact, given todays councilscum mums shoving Lard Pie and Chips at their chimps through the bars of the educational menagerie, it's more like Chunky Wanna Bun Shop!

They're great, stereotypical councilscum mums!
"I ain't 'avin skool giv me kids veg and fruit, coz they giv ya cansa. Kids need crisps, chocolate, chips and pies. Neva did me no harm, and I'm only 25 stone. Besides, it give me sumfin ter do at dinnertime, coz there's nowt on the telly between Trisha and Rikki Lake"

I wonder if it's different for posh kids. Does the schoolma'aaaaaaam insist on serving up McPorky Burgers so the posh kids can get integrate with da yoof, whilst spindly mumsies force crudités through the topiary fencing?

Crudités, indeed! They had some in our canteen - it's a pot of raw veg! Typical of these ponceyarses who call mash "creamed potato".
"One has crudités for luncheon"
"Better get that looked at love"
"No, I mean crudités - look on one's plate"
"No, that's sticks of raw veg you twatarse wankshaft."

I've gone off breadsticks now. I want crudités au wheat!
 

Like looking for a needle in a haystack...

Why do people insist on saying this when they can't find something?

Finding a needle in a haystack is a piece of piss! Especially if you got a couple of magnets and a metal detector!

And if the haystack in question is Giant Haystacks, it's probably in his volumous beard, and dead easy to pluck out!

It does, however, beg the question: Why would anyone go looking for needles in haystacks? Clearly not the seamstress at work, for it would drop on her lap, or to the side, and easily pick-upable. Of course, if the seamstress is at play, with some rampant muscular stagehand, she could well indeed spill all her needles into the straw - and probably find them all as they poke her up the ass whilst being poked in some acupunctural shagathon.

Besides, if you did lose all your needles, you'd just think "fuck it" and buy a new pack from Jarrolds, not piss about hunting through the hay for a piddly pinpricker. Worse comes to the worse, you're out in the country, so there's always a handy hedgeryhog available (and you've a handy weapon to deter ramblers orf yior lahhhnd).

And so it begins-a

Needles from Quills-a

Still, at least it's not needles in quims-a, like some female Albert Fish in a sadomasochistic farmery lifesize voodoo dollybird sexfest, rogering the chickens and ripping off big black cocks heads off for Barone Sameday Sameshit to create Zombified gap year students to toil upon turnips and allow much ploughage of her furrows.

An' suchlike!
 

First and Last and Always...

Last night I reached for me book - gadzooks! 'twas not there!! So I looked again elsewhere... and more elsewhere's also. And then I found it.

Not having a lovely lady by my side, there was no-one to utter the now legendary phrase:

"Why is it always in the last place you look?"

Then I suddenly remembered Rune's "Law of Obviousity"*, and should have remembered to apply it and look in the least most obvious least most obvious place. For those unfamiliar with Rune's Law, in a nutshell, it's this:

"Everything has to be somewhere

and nothing can be anywhere other than where it is"

Now, at a first glance, this seems rather straightforward, but it's application is not. Try not to get a headache as I try to explain it:

Your item is lost, so where do you look? Normally, you'd look in the most obvious place - but if it's missing, then that certainly isn't where it'll be, coz you'd've found it already.

So, you start to look in the next most obvious place because everything has to be somewhere and nothing can be anywhere other than where it is, and when that fails, you move on to the next, then the next... etc, which is a bit of painstaking palaver. So, the best place to start looking would be in the least most obvious place.

However, if the least most obvious place is now the most obvious place to start, then clearly it's not the least most obvious anymore. And as we know it's missing, we know that it's not in the most obvious place, coz we'd've found it already.

So, having eliminated the most obvious location, and the least most obvious location, naturally it should be in the least most obvious least most obvious place.

Which means it will be in the original most obvious place, coz that is always the least most obvious least most obvious location there is.

Obviously, there are those that will claim that if it's in the original most obvious place to start with, then it's not missing. If so, why are they looking for it?

Or something.

* FOR A CASE STUDY OF THE APPLICATION OF RUNE'S LAW IN ACTION , I MOST HEARTILY RECOMMEND ROBERT RANKIN'S "THE DANCE OF THE VOODOO HANDBAG" WHERE RUNE EXPLAINS IT MUCH MORE CLEARLY THAT I EVER COULD.   Which is a rather gormstery comment, when you think about it, because it will always be in the last place you look, for once you've found it, you're going to stop looking! Even if you found it in the first place you looked, that would still be the last place you looked!

Weapon of choice...

According to that nobber of Zoe Ball, the 'Weapon of Choice' for the impossibly prolific screen actor Christopher Walken appears to be dancing about a rather large building and gliding from bannister to bannister.

Which may all be very well, but not much use in battle (unless you're Jet Li or Eat-lotsa-chow And-get Fat), but them New Zealanders have a most unlikely item of bombardment.

For all their effort at WETA and the mass production of warlike armoury, the Kiwis shun the swordsmanship. and go for the animal ammunitions, for one of the preferred methods of attack is the launching of the hedgehog upon their opponent.

This formidable foe is an ideal choice, for not only is a weighty object, it also delivers mass puncturement via it's quills. Imagine how much money them terrorists could save on nails, if they could just tease a hedgeryhog into a ball and fire it via mortar cannon!

Now, there will always be those who say it is cruel to toss hedgehogs about - but this is their true environ.

For those familiar with the works of Hugo Rune, you will know that that these dwellers of the aquasphere normally live high up in the clouds, where they are naturally bouyed upon wind currents and suchlike, but when they've plummeted to Earth, they are too heavy to get enough thrust to get back into their natural orbit.

So, by lobbing them at each other, the Kiwis are helping them relive a few moments of soaring through the atmos, before braining a dullard upon the bonce.

"Raise your hands and step away from the hedgehog" quoth the papers...

Still, makes a change from "Raise your trousers and step away from the sheep"..

There’s no place like Gnome...

I thought none of my stuff had disappeared in a while! It seems that the Gnome of stamp thievery has gone on holiday to Argentina!

Apparently, some local teens were hanging out down by the graveyard (as you do in Argentinia, presumably weeping over Eva Pernod) discussing fishing and filming themselves on their phones "clowing around" when out of the shrubbery a small shadow shuffler stepped out!

Despite soiling their trousers in terror, one had the foreskin to film the beastie, before fleeing like a big girls blouse. Unfortunately, he didn't have the foreplay to sent it off to You've been framed, so missed out on the 250 quid.

So, to all of you doubters out there, here's living proof of Gnomes abroad:

They thought me mad! Hah! Justification at last!

Of course, there will be those doubting Thomas's out there, saying it's just some argentinian fox caught at an odd angle. But at least it's not some argentinian minger! Argy-bargy? Argy-Bargepole, more like!

If you want more proof, I've got a picture of a juvenile sasquatch...

Yeah, I'm just a Teenage Bigfoot baby...

And you know what they say about teenagers with big feet...

"Jesus, your feet reek! Get some febreze on 'em!"



A plan I must hatch to open the latch...

Back in olde worlde days, when men wore shining armour, and women wore tall pointy cone hats, chastity belts were all the rage. Most often installed by evil pantomimic Uncles, every wary of Sir Shagalot trying to get his maiden in distress outa that dress, and on with they hey-nonny-non in Farmer Toadface's haystack.

Well, the idea is once more creeping in!

Obviously, the chastity belt is not exactly a fashion item (although would go down well in a fetish club - although you wouldn't be able to go down on a babe in a fetish club, due to the metallic box covering her box), so a new craze is sweeping the nation!

That nation being in Indonesia...

...and only in brothels (which is short for Broth Hole, like a watering hole, but where they serve soup instead of water. But you can get a watery hole if you have enough cash, or so I'm led to believe).

Molestation is getting the masseuses miffed, and they don't want to be muffed, so they've a-taken to the padlocking of pants!

Now, exactly how you padlock your pants is a bit beyond me - for they don't exactly lend themselves to easy shacklement. And you're stuffed if you need a piddle, and you forget the combination!

Unless it's an old fasioned, key driven padlock - although I do recall an episode of CSI where some swingers wore padlocks, and you got your nobbing partner from the keys-inna-bowl and matched the key to the padlock. Strangely enough, I watched that episode with a masseuse... I'll have to find out if they have to shackle their scanties, and invest in a pair of boltcutters and a sack, crack and back wax-on, wax-off...

...sorry, it's no longer a masseuse, it's a Beauty VeryPissed, these days!

And talking of seductive salon sirens, just what's happened to Nadine Baglady? Some other troutfaced hag is promoting her panty riptides now! Obviously the re-gender wrist ain't anti-ageing enough if they've dumped the Baggott for starting to look old and withered, like an old blokes scrote.

May I have the key to YOUR heart pants, my Lady?

Olé!!

You are not ready to play...

Star of stage (and bit part TV) and directorial maestro that I once was, I think I'll have to revive my dramatis personæ and get back into the old acting malarky, coz you can film any old shite these days and get wodges of cash!

After much nagment, I was persuaded to record a short avant-garde* film off the late night telly after Battle Royale called Ozone.

Basically, it was some office worker getting a reward for a job well done... said reward being a dancing fat bird with ham stuck to her arse whilst giving a running commentary about her three daily meals. She then tries to give him a blowie, but he's not ready, so she sends him off to have a shower. After which, he nicks a jar of mayo that he drops on the floor, splattering a clone of himself who likes the taste.

Apart from the fact that I'm a bit miffed that NU don't provide scantiliy clad ladies providing oral sex as part of their rewards package (although I could do without the fecal streaked meats), someone clearly got paid to make that little package of total irrelevance!

And if the tellyfolk are willing to pay for such toot, I could be quids in, for my obscure randomess knows no boundaries... although I may run into trouble casting lovely ladies to be all nudie and give me The Sex for my teleplay...

OOOOOOOH! Casting couch opportunity!

Right, I'm off to pen a string of total randomness, interspersed with scenes of me getting The Sex off've hot babes! Good old BBC Talent - cash & gash just for writing bollocks!

If only my blog had the same effect...

* AVANT-GARDE IS FOREIGN FOR "UTTER RANDOM BOLLOCKS" - SOMETHING THAT IS ARTY AS AN EXCUSE FOR NUDIE WENCHES, NOBMENT AND HIGHBROW INTELLECTUAL MYSTICISM MASQUERADING AS METAPHORS. 

Attack of the killer tomato(s)auce...

Now, it makes perfect sense to ban the selling of glue and knives to youngsters, as they spend so much time sniffing glue and playing Manhunt on their PS2, that they go out and slice up all their mates.

Luckily, they’re all stocked up on glue, so a bit of the old copydex on their wounds, and they’re all fixed up without the need for sutures.  Then they’re off to copy Dex again, and relive the whole cycle in some Ice Cream Van/Skating rink escapade.

But lo, the feral scum have a new weapon amongst their armoury, and the local populace have had to ban the sale of Caister Ketchup.

’twould seem that they’re high on The Goodies, and are re-enacting the Bunfight at the OK tea rooms.

Blood flows (or at least, some Heinz Red) through the magnificent Caister Hall as the rampage goes on. 

Thank God that the Olympic torch didn’t go through caister, as it would be extinguished throush a surfeit of sauce.

Olympic torch indeed! Everyone’s got it in for the chinese coz the Daily Llama’s not permitted to go to Ladbrookes, and Blue Peter Presenters being mobbed, just coz they carry a torch. Dunno what all the fuss is about - you can pick a couple up in Poundland for a quid ! Torches, that it, not Blue Peter presenters*.

Although I wouldn’t mind spending a fiver on Konnie Huq, Katie Hill, Janet Ellis, Yvette Fielding and Caron Keating for a "Blue" Peter session in the drawing room.

Although, it may niff a bit, what with Caron being dead. Oh well, a bit of febreze should shift that!

Which reminds me - there’s another ludicrous advert for home fragrancing, to rid the room of the fug of fannyfumes. There’s Dad, Brat and Mum on the sofa, all crosslegged, and the voice over goes "Does your room smell of fish" - and both Dad and Brat give accusing looks to Mum. A squirt of Air Freshener later, and the smell’s gone, and mum’s all legs spread wide, without a care in the world, for her minging minge no longer whiffs like last weeks kippers.

Or something...

* "EDDIE, ARE YOU CARRYING A TORCH FOR HER?"
   "NO, IT’S JUST THE WAY MY TROUSER RUCK UP"

For the touch of your hand...

Clearly the Jeremy Kyle generation are a few car keys short of a swingers soiree!

There was all this squit about that little girl going missing, and then found in a drawer of the divan, with her uncle in another drawer. I’m no expert on the construction of bedding, but how can a fully grown bloke be lurking in divan drawers?

Unless, of course, said Uncle is an Oompa Loompa.

Anyhoo, the latest news is that the gormster of a Parent got confused with telly and real life, for she watched that Shameless programme. Now, not having seen the programme, I can proclaim myself an expert, and assume the scabrous chavacious brood depicted upon the show are their role models.

It seems that on the Shameless, they hid one of their kids and pretended it were nabbed to get wodges of cash... and it worked. So, stereotypical council skiver sees it and thinks "Cor! That were dead good that. I reckon I could do that. They didn’t get caught" and propmptly puts their idiotic idea in into practise with the idea of scamming some of the cash the McScams have already scammed off everyone else*!

Gormsters!

You’d think even someone with as much limited intellect as a Scummy Mummy living off’ve the council with it’s horde of spawn and wastrel partners and relatives wouldn’t be as thick as to copy such an outlandish plot from the telly! And even if they were, you wouldn’t expect their lone brain cell to kick in and blurt out a confession ’secretly’ to their mates in front of a DC.

Mind you, when they said the woman was a DC, she probably thought she was talking about comics, coz that’s, like, litchrichur, innit. Beano and Nuts fer the kids, Spiderman for uz adults, and on Sundayz we get the Sunday papers - Viz and the Sunday Spurt. I ain’t fick!

I’m now off to watch Hollyoaks! There must be a foolproof money making scam going on I can put into action, without fear of capture!

Mwah ha ha!

* WHICH DIDN’T WORK ANYWAY, COZ THAT CASH WAS TO PAY FOR THEIR BILLS AND MORTGAGE, TILL THEY GOT CAUGHT OUT, SO NOW IT’S TO PAY DETECTIVE AGENCIES TO HIRE WITNESSES, OR AVOID THE POLICE AND PORTUGAL AT ANY COST.

GRRRRRR - WHO LEGS IT OFF TO BRUSSELS, JUST TO AVOID THE POLICE, AND THEN REFUSE TO GO BACK TO EVEN DO A RECONSTRUCTION. SO MUCH FOR "WE’LL DO ANYTHING TO HELP"... YEAH, RIGHT, APART FROM REFUSE TO ANSWER KEY QUESTIONS, REFUSE TO GO BACK AND COME UP WITH A NEW STORY EACH TIME THE POLICE FIND HOLES IN IT.

AND WHO THE HELL LETS 2 NEGLIGENT PARENTS AND OFFICIAL SUSPECTS OF POSSIBLY HARMING THEIR CHILD GO TO SPEAK AT A CONFERENCE ON CHILD SAFETY? MIGHT AS WELL HAVE SENT ROSE WEST ON A SEMINAR ABOUT LODGER SAFETY WHEN SHE WAS A SUSPECT. GRRRRRRRRR!

For bonza car insurance deals...

..girls get onto Sheila’s Wheels...

...which is not quite accurate, seeing as the latest ad has the three trollops pinkly poncing about screeching about getting Home insurance!

Far be it from me to complain, but surely they cannot continue trading as Sheila’s Wheels, unless they only insure Caravans, mowbli homes and camper vans. And just what exactly are camper vans camper than?

Charles Haughtrey in Carry On Camping?
"Oh, I say! My vans so much camper than yours!"

Talking of camping it up, I notice when selecting my mood on me profile, there is a mood of ’bummed’.

Who’d want to advertise being in the mood for Squidwards special tentacle right up the ole chocolate Patrick! Still, I guess it follows the ’Aroused’ and ’Horny’ moods. But why can’t it be less risque:
Aroused - > Horny -> Post-coital. Bummed is just far to explicit!

I’d still like to know what some of them other moods are - WTF is crunk & froggy, and how come the mood I’m in is never an option?

But I digress...

How come that Basil Brush get’s jailed up for doing sketches about Gypsies selling pegs & Heather, yet Cher can prattle on about Thieving Gypsy Tramps. The tramp in question I assume to be the Heather who Basil was on about. A right ole tramp ’on the game’, with the gypsy king pimp flogging her off (as in selling her body, not flogging her to get off in some cat o’ nine tales nazi dungeon sado-sex torture fest whilst watching Leona Lewis-Hamilton driving about).

I don’t know what you heard about me

But a bitch can’t get dolly pegs from me

I’ll give you Heather (McCuntney) for free

Coz I’m a motherlovin’ P.I.M.P.

But even worse is that Sheila’s Wheels - clearly this is propogating racial aussie stereotypes - what’s next?

Blokes get on to Bruce’s Mooses, being a travel service based in Alaska, with free corks-onna-hat sunshade and car key shorts and shirt (with option manta ray on left breast pocket) with a crate of XXXX and a free blow-up Kylie?

What’s that Skip? Three birds in a pink caddy ran you over? Strewth! Flamin’ Galaaaaahrs. I’ll set me bunyip on ’em, flamin’ mongrels.

An’ suchlike.

On our block all of the guys call her flamingo....

...cause her hair glows like the sun?

...cause her eyes can light the sky?

Ah... because when she walks, she moves so fine -  like a flamingo

Walks like a flamingo... that’s that one-legged bird isn’t it? And the only one-legged blonde bird I know of is that harridan Heathen Fleece-paul-to-pay-my-bills McCuntney.

And in the beginning of the credits for Miami Vice, there’s a whole load of flamingoes, and ole Stumpy was called ’Mucca’ coz aparrently she was well into vice (but not carpentry, which would have been ideal, coz she could so with a vice to hold her leg in place as she lathes her leg, which is the uniped equivalent of using the old Venus and revealing the Goddess in you. Although, in all likelyhood, with the money she’s got, her prosthetic pins are probably carved by oiled up nudey dusky ladyboys. Or something).

"Crimson dress that clings so tight" - aye, I bet it did an’ all! Another porny picture to leak to the paps (unlike the court picture of her leaking her paps over Beatley barristers barnets to make ’em look 10 years younger. The barrister looking 10 years younger, that is, not her gahoonies).

Yeah - forget all that Gak Won and Nicky Hambleton-Jones tarting about, just get Muccas Miracle Mammary Milk squirted over your bonce. But be warned, your hair may niff in The Sun as it goes as sour as Muckas mental health.

Pretty Famingo? Pretty awful flaming ho, more like!
  

Escorts BESTcourts!...

Move over Dreamytime Escorts, for Xymon’s taking over! Admittedly, it’s currently in it’s infancy, for the chivalrous escorting home of lovely ladies from public houses to ensure safe return to their domicile is quite popular.

It’s a far cry from the hiring-for-a-bunk-up-whilst-hubbies-away-on-business model, but you have to start somewhere! But my fledgling service is quite essential, for there are plenty of dangers a young lady can face when walking home alone...

...such as foliage attack!

This appears to be a problem at the Dereham Road/Sweet Briar roundabout, for there are plentiful notices advising to beware of heavy plant crossing.

Once again, I need help to get my head round this, for what pops into YOUR head when you are warned of such things?

A gargantuan triffid, lumbering over the roundabout, slapping you about the face with it’s tongue and knocking it’s bollocks on it’s trunk?

Led Zeppelin, stuffed with pies traipsing over the roundabout.

Rhône Poulenc sprouting limbs and the whole power ’plant’ hob-nobbing off to The Willows?

Well, the third one wouldn’t surprise me after what I’ve heard about what goes on in there! I used to know a whistleblower. In truth, I know loads, coz blowing a whistle ain’t difficult, so I don’t see why there’s a fuss about them (apart from those having a mini rave and giving it large on the whistle and waking up the neighbors).

But vexation upon vexation - what plant is so very heavy, and how can it be crossing... unless it’s a cannabis plant! That’s it! It’s probably a consignment of very hard drugs (really heavy man...)

Look out for trucks marked FRAGILE (being Transvalian for Very Hard Drugs).

I’m off to catch, catch, my horror taxi...
 

Signs and portents...

They say that Armageddon is foreshadowed by signs and portents.

Well, as I understand it, that Glastonbury festival is choc-full of signs and poor tents, letting all the mud in and dripping on your bonce like some evil japanese water torture.

Still, could be worse, it could be signs to portaloos, and you don’t want them dripping on your face in the dead of night. Golden showers they may be, but no-one wants a gravy boat sloshing over them!

Michael Eavis should heave his butt into gear and cancel the festival, rather than attempting to bring about Ragnarok though lip-synching pop tarts (for apparently, lip-synching is miming to music, and not, as I thought, some scissor sistery aligning of their organs in some sapphic symphony Although how matching up their keyboards and grinding them together is is some lesbic lovefest, I’ve yet to learn).

Oh well, at least it’s not signs of impotence... Which, according to the telly, is what you get when you bung a fag* between your fingers, and pretend it’s a little person with a huge cock.

or something.

* CIGARETTE, OBVIOUSLY. NOT A FAG AS IN PUBLIC SCHOOL, KEEP THE CRUMPETS WARM, PLAY THE PINK OBOE IN THE DORMS, SENSE.

Look into my eyes, you will see...

Now, men are oft perplexed by the females seeming interest in Italian Stallions. It seems all it takes is a sidelong glance, and before you know it, they’re on Marcus Aurelius’s column and being taken up the colosseum by some bronzed adonis on break from the local Pizza Hut.

Many think it’s the accent, or the honed, toned body with the posing pouched pasta penis - but no! It seems there’s more too it!

These Luigi Lotharios are hypnotists! The Don Derren Browns of Italy! And unfortunately, their sly scrying’s been caught out on CCTV!

It appears that some Mafiosi Magicain popped into the Supermarket, and asked for change for a €100 note.

On bagging up at the end of the day, she was €600 short! On reviewing the CCTV, as she opened the till, he did the old "look into my eyes, not around the eyes" palaver, and made her hand over wodges of cash!!!

It seems the Romans have mastered the art of hypnotism for their own ends... the end of their nob in particular! I’m suprised the bloke didn’t get the serving wench to perform additional services, for let’s face it, the main reason people want to learn hypnotism is so they can nob all the birds who’d normally turn them down flat...

...hold on, they’re onto something there!

Onto a bloody promise, most likely!

Note to self: Must learn hypnosis before next Hades...

That’s why these stage shows are so popular, coz the hypnotist can get everyday birds up on stage, and get ’em to whip their kit off, then to become a nympho for 2 weeks and not remember any of it (or so I’m lead to believe).

BUT what puzzles me, is these people who claim to hypnotise themselves! How can you hypnotise yourself?

Surely you’re trying to talk yourself into a deep subconcious state, but you can’t drift off coz you’re babbling on! And even if you do ’go under’ - you won’t be able to give yourself any commands coz you’d be in a subconcious comatose state!

And why would you want to hypnotise yourself anyways - unless you want to make yourself whip your kit off and have loadsa sex and wake up without knowing anything about it, which would basically be a whole load of unnecessary effort just for a wet dream.

Oh, hello lovely pretty lady reading my blog...
You’re feeling sleepy...
Very sleepy...
That’s it....
You lurve me....
You really do...
You want me...
You’ll see my gutbucket as a bouncy castle of love squeezin’s
Climb aboard my pretty...

Piece of piss this hypno lark - I’ll be buried up to the lovespuds in ladylurve in a never ending cycle of brainwashed babes before the week is out!!

Just call me Xymanio Owainetti! Ciao!

I’m a firestarter, Twisted firestarter...

...but not so twisted I want to start a conflagration dressed up in Drew Barrymore’s dresses.

I got given a post this morning, but I had no need for fencical supportage. Only joking - it was a new role, and boy do I lurve hot sausage rolls (oh, for a hot saussie roll from Craskes in 1992. Mmmmmm).

I was made Fire Marshall Co-Ordinator, but due to a downstairs mix up, I was unmade in the afternoon, which is a shame, coz I was looking to have a load of fun with it.

Yes indeedy - fire drills need to test the procedure, and to ensure that the plebby Fire Marshalls are getting everone out, you get to hide people in cupboards! Brilliant! How cool is that?!

On the one hand, if there is a fire, you get to tell the old gimmers there’s a fire, and to hide in the coatrack, so you can dispose of them in smouldering secrecy. And if there’s a drill, if you can find one of the babes amongst the aged mingers, get ’em in a cupboard for a bit of ’sardines’ whilst everyone’s off outside!

Red hot fire in yer pants missus? Best cool you off with me foam - let me just me extinguisher hose out...

But, alas, twas not to be.

And coincidentally, we had a fire alarm go off in Hades. Now, I wouldn’t mind being trapped in a cupboard with gothbabes sporting more cleevadge that you can shake a stick at, and less skirt that you raise a dick at.

Or something. But you have to laugh - Fire in Hades! Isn’t that ironic!

Dontcha fink?

It’s like rayeeaaaayn when you’re weeding clay

It’s a free pie, when you want to get laid

It’s a Goodies vice, that you just can’t break

And who would have bought Rick’s digger...

Well, no it isn’t ironic, actually, coz Hell is all aflame, whereas Hades is like some cavernous gloomfest, bedrenched in a miasma of phosphorescent mist rising from the Stalag Muff III and dripping from Stella McCarntney’s tights.

Not to mention the Aardvarks.
 

Can I fiddle with Suggs and the gang...

...quoth the medievil torture device, although I can’t see it working. A heady mix of heavy metal and the heavy, heavy monsta sound.

However, they then go on to blather on about running off to the hills to save their lives. Now, this is all very well for Hobbits escaping the deluge coz God’s dunked a warmed up hob nob into Leona’s tea, but these bad boys are all about slaughter and mayhem and pillage in the village.

It’s a very poor tatical move to run to the hills, as there’s probably them maurauders up it already, as whoever has the higher ground has the advantage. Besides, even running to the hills would get you mown down by a cavalry charge of warhorses.

If you’re gonna run anywhere, you can run to the trees, as there’s lots of hidey holes, you can hide up a tree, and branches (or a bit of twine twixt trees) will nobble any galloping gormster trying to do you in.

All of which is academic, coz you’d ring the police if a horde of befurred bezerkers descended upon your little hamlet, trampling your cigars and setting you’re thatchery alight.

Yes!!

999 - the number of The Police!

Hey Sting, bring your daughter the slaughter, venue: My house (it’s the one in the middle of our street).

Actually, that’s not entirely true, for if the house was in the middle of the street, then the cars couldn’t get past, for La Maison De Madness would be in the way! Truth be told, it should be "Our house, somewhat central in the line of domiciles that line the sides of the street. On the left. Or right, if you’re coming from the other end".

Unless there isn’t another end, and it’s "Our house, in the middle of a cul-de-sack".

Cul-de-sack indeed! Sounds like a purging of scrotums to me!