Fit as a butcher’s dog...

...well, more fat as Pat Butcher's..., well just as fat as Pat, really!

And why is she patting butchers? Surely all that ended with Benny Hill, and besides, not all carvers of cadavers for slicing of steaks are all bald of pate.

And if the butcher is serving up paté, then I'll go for Pat B.

But not Pat Butcher.

Which is also a song by Chaz & Dave, although they draw it out somewhat so it end up sounding like Buuuuurrrrrrtcha!

Of course not! It was gertcha self a rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, rabid rabbits...

Apparently, she (the Farmer's wife) has more rabbits than Sainsbury's. Mayhap lupine husbandry is her secondary talent to rodent tail removal by use of carving knives.*

Although if her husband's a wabbit, he must be the 6ft one they cast in Donnie Darko to shoot out his mixamatosis'd eye so his soul can soar back through to Space Time continuum so he could see that film at the cinema wot he missed first time around.

"Donnie, Donnie, I love you! But we've only for 28 days, 6 hours, 42 minutes and 12 seconds to save the Earth!"

Flash! Ah-aaah!

Now with flashGuard and Bleach action!

Don't tell Bazzer...

* AND HOW COME THE EVIL COW IS POURING FURTHER AGONIES ON ALREADY CRIPPLED MOUSES? BAD ENOUGH ALL THREE COINCIDENTALLY BEING BLIND, BUT TO FURTHER IMPEDE THEM SHE LOPS OFF THEIR TAILS! IT'S LIKE GOING TO THE ACADEMY FOR THE BLIND, FINDING THREE SIGHTLESS SOULS, AND TAKING A CHAINSAW TO THEIR NOBS!

AND THEY TEACH THIS IN SCHOOLS!!

ALTHOUGH TO BE FAIR, MAINLY TO POSH KIDS TO PLAY ON THE FLUTE, AND PREPARE THEM FOR THE HUNT WHEN THEY GO BACK TO THEIR MANSION. "RAH RAH RAH, SLICE OFF THE FOXES TAIL TARQUIN, JUST LIKE THE FARMERS WIFE."
OR TO STEREOTYPICAL COUNCIL CHAVSCUM TO PLAY ON THE RECORDER (ALTHOUGH DUE TO COUNCIL CUTBACKS, IT'S A COMB WITH A SQUARE OF ANDREX DRAPED OVER IT THESE DAYS).

In space, no one can eat ice cream...

Now, these scientific greybeards clearly sit around in their own filth, for who else could design interstellar dwelling accomodation with one, lone, solitary bog with no thought to the consequences of lavatorial breakdown?

Typically, the dumpstation aboard the spacestation broke'd down, so now there's a whole bunch of astronauts floating with floaters in zero-gravity cesspits, awaiting a plumber with a new pump.

Now, it's bad enough trying to get a plumber round on our own planet, let alone in elliptical planetary orbit !

"Clearly having a working toilet is a priority for us," said Scott Higginbotham of NASA. - Higginbotham? Surely a missprint, and should be Mingingbottom after a weeks worth of excretory excess with nowhere to go!

One would assume, though, that with nowhere to void their bowels, they must go on some spacewalk, drop their spacesuit bottoms and launch their golden rapiers into the atmosfear. Shooting stars of shite shine in the skies as turds tumble from the heavens.

UFOs (Unidentified Fecal Objects) splatter the windscreen of visiting Venusian afterburner vehicles as they traverse between the spheres, prohibiting the view and making them crash down in Nevada deserts, where the Space Beasties have to blend in by donning Elvis costumes and pretending to be Nicholas Cage.

Take my love, take my land

take me where I cannot stand

I don't care, I'm still free

you can't take the sky from me

take me out, to the black

perhaps there I can do a cack

burn* my turds, and boil my pee

you can't take the sky from me

There's no place for faeces

since we broke our lava-t'ry

you can't take the sky from me

But they can nick your toilet roll...

* STRANGE THING ABOUT THE WORD BURN - IN ITALICS IT LOOKS LIKE BUM. AND IF THEM ASTRONUTS ARE BUMMING THE TURDS, THERE'S DEFO SOMETHING WRONG WITH THE SCIENTIFIC COMMUNITY. STILL, AT LEAST THEY HAVE THEIR BEARDS OF GREY HUE IN CASE OF THERE'S A LACK OF BOTTY WIPING PUPPIES ABOUT...

Love in an elevator...

...and if you can't get lurve, then it'll have to be a golden shower!

See, we have nice, plush offices with smart lifts. Clearly, the news of us being shunted out into the 1970s backwater of St Peters House has enraged someone, for there was a slight whiff of the lavatorial about the elevator.

Taking a whizz in a steel lined council scum estate lift with accompanying graffiti is all well and good, but not in pleasant surroundings!

I mean, what would they do if they were entrapped within Willy Wankers Great Glass Elevator? I have no desire to see willies and pissflaps streaming forth and putting me off my heathy bacon sarnie as I perambulate past!

Take heed, urinators within transparent enclosures, and remember the old adage:

People in glass houses

Should pull the blinds

When removing their trousers

I think I'll get the cleaners to put in a dispenser unit so that there is always plenty of TenaLadies availiable....

...although I wonder what's on offer from a FiverLady...
  

Durm und strang...

They ain't half inconsiderate these mad scientists and receators of papal wines!

How many were out last night, waking me up with their tumultuous cacaphony? For heavens sake, all they need is a couple of jump leads with a plug attached bunged into a nearby socket!

Instead, there's all this heaving and creaking as they raise up their masterwork to the heavens, to attract bolts of electrickery whilst their Egor gamboles about in manic glee. Much professorial cackling abounds, as Herr Doktor intones the now legendary "Live! Live" whilst tugging on his "We Belong Dead" lever (oo-er missus!).

How's I supposed to get some sleep when Norfolk nob-ends are raising hybrid humanoids atop the turrets* of Caistor Castle, with the resulting chimeric monstrosities taking refuge in the windmills about the Broads.

They thought me mad...

* "BLOODY {WANKER} TOWERS ON {ARSEHOLES} CASTLE INDEED", SAID A PASSING BLOKE WITH TURRETS SYNDROME...

Windows AutoUpdate...

Dear Technical Support,


18 months ago, I upgraded to Girlfriend 1.0 from DrinkingMates 4.2, which I had used for years without any trouble. However, there are apparently conflicts between these two products and the only solution was to try and run Girlfriend 1.0 with the sound turned off.


To make matters worse, Girlfriend 1.0 is incompatible with several other applications, such as LadsNightOut 3.1, Rugby 4.5, and Playboy 6.9. Successive versions of GirlFriend proved no better. I tried a shareware program, Slapper 2.1, but it had many bugs and left a virus in my system, forcing me to shut down completely for several weeks.


Eventually, I tried to run GirlFriend 1.2 and Girlfriend 1.0 at the same time, only to discover that when these two systems detected each other they caused severe damage to my hardware. I eventually upgraded to Fiancé 1.0, only to discover that this product soon had to be upgraded further to Wife 1.0.


While Wife 1.0 tends to use up all my available resources, it does come bundled with FreesexPlus and Cleanhouse2005. Shortly after this upgrade, however, I found that Wife 1.0 could be very unstable and costly to run. Any mistakes I made were automatically stored in Wife 1.0's memory and could not be deleted. They then resurfaced months later when I had forgotten about them.


Wife 1.0 also has an automatic Diary, Explorer and E-mail filter, and can, without warning, launch TurboStrop and Multi-Whinge. These latter products have no Help files,and I have to try to guess what the problem is. Additional problems are that Wife 1.0 needs updating regularly, requiring ShoeShop Browser for new attachments and Hairstyle Express which needs to be reinstalled every other week.


Also, when Wife 1.0 attaches itself to my BMW hard drive, it often crashes. Wife 1.0 also comes with an irritating pop-up called MotherInLaw, which can't be turned off. Recently I've been tempted to install Mistress 2005, but there could be problems. A friend of mine has alerted me to the fact that if Wife 1.0 detects Mistress 2005, it tends to delete all of your assets before uninstalling itself.


Help requested please...

A double dose of Hilary’s Wank...

How come these amazing big budget movies of the present can't afford the same limitless offerings of the past.

Take "The Reaping", starts of with the plague of 2 rats, followed by the plague of solitary dead frog.

In comparison, take "Frogs" which seems to incorporate more amphibious reptilia than you can shake a stick at (and believe me, both Clint and Pickett waved  few stout sticks about!)

What gets me though, is a film that is called called Frogs, that depicts a giant frog on the cover with a human arm hanging out it's gob, doesn't even have the aforementioned giant killer frogs! There's death by snake,
gator, spider, geckos (using poison) and turtles, but no death by frog!

I wants me money back!

Jugs down the pub...

Outrage upon outrage upon outrage!

Firstly, some dolly bird offers me £5 a strip. Whey-hay! I hand over the cash, but does she flop 'em out and toss aside her scanties? Does she feck as like, for she missed the key details.

I got a strip alright - a strip of raffle tickets!

And do they have a raffle? Doe they buggery sod as like! At least, anyone sat in the pub were unaware of it.

Apparently, a couple of people by the burlesque pit saw some semblamce of a 'raffle', but no-one heard anything.

Seems to me, if you flog raffle tickets, you should at least make people aware when the draw starts, and perhaps use a mic. As far as I'm concered, there was no announcement and no draw, and I was sat right there.

And as for Burlesque! Now, I'm all for equal opportunities, but putting the burly back into Burlesque is a tad too far. Far from the can-can and nip-tassle swingment expected therefof, an aged burly bearded biker bloke isn't exactly what I expected.

Athough, to be fair, he wasn't exactly burly.. more skeletal and bedraggaled sporting tit-tassles and requiring a few more pies...

Oh well, a commiseratory chinese will sort me out.
 

Chick, chick, chick, chick, chicken...

...may well lay a little egg for me, as well as a medium one and a large one.

Now, bung your eggies in a pan and boil them up - remove the shell and slice 'em up. What are you left with?

You have a small white slice... each subsequent slice will become large and have increasing amounts of yellow in it as you move through the egg, eventually once you've passed the yolk, you're down to diminishing white circles again.

So far, so good.

So, can someone please explain the 'pork and egg' loaf - each slice of pork has the same sized central core of albumen and yolk - no variation in size nor color.

How can this be? Is there some genetically engineered chicken that can lay Tubular Eggs, like some form of the sugary sweet of seafront rock with a central core of yolk rather than 'Great Y'ha-Nthleu' written down the inside?

And why aren't these Tubular Eggs for sale to the general public? Instead of all that packaging designed to carefully store ovoids, they just just flog them in oversized Smarties packets!

I wonder if PMT is another word for bird flu. Maybe it's not Evian Flu that birds get, it's Ovarian Flu...

Or in my case, birds fly in the opposite direction...
 

Mumsie says "It’s a lock in"...

Remakes are all the rage these days, so how come there isn't a Bollywood version of Raiders of the Lost Ark?

India is steeped in mystical legends and gods, and you have a whale of a time...

..or even an octopus of a time, coz you could have Anya Jones battling it out with Ganesha - all you'd need to do is put a snake in the squids gob and stick some gloves on the end of it's tentacles and you're away!

Of course, Dr Jones would need a distictive birthmark on his forehead, so that Sallah can call him Bindi Anya Jones.

Now, Half A Sea Clarke has already investigated them Crystal skulls - apparently, they sit on the Lairds mantlepiece, but of you take 'em out of the mansion the whole house starts screaming.

Screamy Screamy Screamy it goes.

(mmmm 's cream...)

Now, there are these dozy parapsychologists who will take to the stroking of the greybeards, and insist on mystical forces imbuing the skulls and by way of the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter they form a psychic bond with the dwelling.

Which is a load of poached spouts boiled in a haggis style casing made from the undercrackers of Bernard Manning, for the skulls are just that - skulls! Of vocal chords, there are none, so they are physically unable to scream in protest at manorial eviction!

It's like Jason and the Argos shopping - hordes of skellington attack, yet bereft of tendons and sinew, they'd collapse in a big boney heap, let alone screeching and stuff!

What they should have had, was a dextrous pupetteer, like Gerry Anderson, as the bad guy, pulling the strings to make the skellies battle it out... yeah, it would be easier for him to take up a sword, but I think it would be rather sporting to engage in gladatorial combat with Pinnochio.

Although the telescopic nose is a bit sneaky, so he should be disqualified.

Or something...
 

Sophie is the Omega...

and if she were triplets, she'd be good mood food, and have to sit at the table in a block of ice whilst feral brats nick off with your fishy fingered sarnies.

However, the government insist on forcing us to shovel in our "5 a day" portions of fruit and veg, so...

• 1x bottle of wine for the grapes (fruit)
• A great big fuck off plate of chips for spuds (vegetable)
• A huge bottle of cider for the apples (fruit)
• A vast carrot cake (vegetables)
• And for dessert, a 'cream tea' for the raisins in the scone AND the strawberries in the jam - Double fruit! AND you get cream, which is just very thick milk, and therefore healthy.

I can live with that five a day regime!

Oh, dammit, I need wholegrain to keep me heart healthy as well - no worries! For from the grain comes the marvel known as beer!

Chips, cake and booze - I'm loving this government advice!

 

Let’s go for a little wank (under a mooning arse)...

I've not been one for keeping up with The News, so I'm a tad behind on current events.

However, word hath reached mine ear that there's been some sort of castastophe in Abroad.

As far as I can make out, whilst on tour Showaddywaddy was on some river, and the aged posters were wooing young Burmese birds with their romantic ballad "Three steps To Heaven".

Being Teddy Boys, they invited the groupies to get in teddies* and get hence to Burma (ie, to Be Upstairs Ready My Angel). However, there was a case of coitus interruptus by the cheap labour hired to hoover out their cabins, and the outraged cleaner ran amok with a Dyson Cyclone (with all 8 cylinders, although I think Showaddywaddy were more enraptured with the groupies "no loss of suction" than the vacuums)

So now we have to send all this charity aid out to these people, just because of a Teddy Boy orgy enraged a hired help whose hoover riot tipped the boat over and the ripples soaked a few hovels!

Tsunami my best hat!

* AS IN LINGERIE, NOT AS IN BEARS.
  

Pervy Sir Peter Spurty QC...

People who like things are always Thingyphiles.

For example:

• A lover of movies is a cinephile
• A person who likes books is a bibliophile
• A nobber of corpses is a necrophile
• People who like english are Anglophiles

Does that mean that devotees of knowledge are encyclopædophiles, or is that uniquely one-eyed catalogers of dodgy underage imagery in A-Z volumes?

Try. Anna saw us marching towards us...

Since when have ponderous mythological beasties had bloody twin rocket launchers strapped to their backs?

And, for that matter, how do they fire them? Being lumbering rhinostrosities, their limbs are on the floor, hoofing it about the place!

I mean, I can understand badass babes being able to attach a machine gun to their knee stump, for they can let the hairs on their dickie Dido hang down to their knees, plait the twat thatch, and attach it to the trigger, so a quick tug pubic tug and rat-a-tat-a-tat - god-damn sexual tyrannasaurus with no time to bleed.

Still, I suppose even plodding beasts of large girth have no requirement for Merkin, so a quick tug and they go off like a rocket.

Watch out macca - that's no prostheic leg.. it's a a 7.62 mm x 51shell M134 general electric minigun with 1.36kg recoil adaptors and a 6 muzzle velocity of 869m/s (like the one Blaine had in Predator)....

Lady Madonna

Doesn't have two feet

Instead she's firin' bullets

From both her teats...

(The gun in Mentally Ill McCuntney's stump was a decoy - instead her 'weapons of mass distraction' open upon hinges to reveal phased plasma rifles in a 40watt range).

Hey, just what you see pal...
 

I just don’t know what to do with myself...

Ok, so if 'Brains' Tracy is now dancing about the place promoting the pleasures of hydration, can we expect to see Lady Penelope getting all wet & 'hydrated' in some skimpy hotpants writhing about some pole in a seedy soho bar?

With Parker in a gimp mask standing by?

I’m GodZILLAAAARRRGGH...

Now, I recently pointed out my annoyance with supernatural entities creeping up behind people and making as much noise as possible before they attack, but how come monster's don't even creep up?

Take a dragon, you're fleeing for your life, and hoping not to get et, when you run into a dead end - be it the side of a car, a wall, or the middle of a field. Invariably, The Hero grabs The Heroin and turns her face away as he embraces her... then the great big beastie stands there and roars away!

After a momentary distraction of a tank firing a shell at it, it turns it's head and The Lovers flee to safety!

Why the buggery sod don't dinosaurs and irradiated reptiles just gobble up people instead of wasting time roaring at 'em and letting 'em get away!

It beggars belief!

And how come, right, if you're not The Hero but Stereotypical Character In The Film Purely To be Killed Off By Monsterific Chompage, you don't take evasive action, but run down the middle of the street, before falling implausibly and waving your arms in an innefectual warding off of munchment?

"Yikes, I've tripped over an invisible blade of grass! Damn, here's come a giant razor toothed beastie's cakehole to gobble me up! Perhaps if I wave my arms at it, I'll miraculously fend off the force of it's fangs!"

And how come if someone tells you you're some reincarnation of some japanese bird who has to die to save the world do you just accept it and not think they're talking bollocks?

"Wotcha mean, that's a Dragon? And it, and it's minions, are after me because I'm an all powerful goddess reborn as a dozy cow who has to sacrifice herself to save the world?

Oh, all right then."

Gormstress!

Lay your hands on me...

In the words of Sigue Sigue Sputnik:

I wanna be a star!

NU really know how to waste cash! We've got an advert on out intranet ro be a supermodel, and NU will pay up to £220 expenses to photographicate your hand!

So I put me name forward!

Soon, my hand could be the Poster Boy for Personal Accident! My gnarled, withered, grizzened and taloned grubby mitts could get wordwide fame all of it's own!

I just hope they don't get too big for their boots and go off on a Body Politic Hands of Orlac Evil Dead II slaughterous spree, groping up groupies and auditioning for Addams Family movies.

The hand of God!

Hand of the blob, more like!
 

Je m’appelle Joe de Lait...

According to the picture box, there's been a development in the Haunted Garden Children's Home in Jersey.

It would appear that the "key evidence" of the discovery of "bones in the cellar" was not actually bone - it was pieces of coconut! Now, exactly how SOCO mistook a hairy shell* for a skull is beyond me...

...unless...

...the skull in question was a coconut, and they'd uncovered the final resting place of Precious Lilywhite!

Now we know how the police discovered the "punishment rooms" - clearly, they found Serge's movie of the Calypso party, and his recording of the cover up!

So, all that crap the staff told the other kids about the missing ones building rafts and going on holiday was a big fat lie! It was down to arguments about putting up shelving in the cellars at 11:30pm!

Grease my cockney palm...

...but not in some coconut highway fisting palace...

* THANK GOD THEY DIDN'T FIND A HAIRY CLAMSHELL...

Two cocks of mine that’s right on time, it’s sticky...

Apple are fond of bunging a lowercase 'i' in front of everthing, but did you know that their first project was adhesive, and that the 'i' at the start of their product is an abbreviation of ice?

Now, there are those who will tell you that eskimos live in ice houses called igloos. This is slightly incorrect, as the dwelling itself is actually called an iHome (ie 'ice'Home, to be more precise). Common sense will tell you that you can't make a building out of blocks of ice, coz they'd slide about on the curvey bits and fall in on itself.

So, what holds the blocks of ice in place? Mortar? Concrete? Well, it's a special formula that Apple came up with called iGlue. A mix of snow, ice, innuit sperm, blubber and Apple's secret ingredients.

Due to translation issues and Phonetics, the iGlue became igloo, and stuck (ha ha!) as the name of the house.

BUT where in an igloo (I'lll use igloo for ease, as people will still call it that) is the iLoo? In all these movies, documentaries, I've never seen an Armitage Shanks bowl in the arctic domiciles. Do they cut a hole in the floe, and drop a log straight into a dolphins gob?

And how do they pee? Surely, in sub-arctic conditions as soon as the flow starts, it'll freeze up! Seems to me like you'd start to pee and get an arcing stream burst out like a golden rainbow, then it'll instantly freeze, blocking you off, so you have to snap off the stream of urine to let another rainbow burst free, and again, until you've hosed out all your fluids.

Jeez, if they're also jerking off, they'll end up with spurts of frozen white spunk - never mind "Watch out where the huskies go, and don't you eat that yellow snow", it's also "Watch out where the lonely eskimo's go, and don't you eat that white spunky snow"

Look deep into the parka...

...do you dream of lesbian ham...

I’ll have a pee, please Bob...

Pease Pudding Hot

Pease Pudding Cold

Pees on pudding in the pot

by a 9 year old

Now, Legend has it that there are many ways to ward off evil entities. There's the old Horseshoe above the Door, The Warding off of the Evil Eye, Sealing your 'Sills with Veruccas...

Which is all very well, but it's no help when Goblins are lacing your lunch with mushy peas and unconvincing passing it off as icing, or green sandwich filler, etc., for it seems that if tempted by fairy food that could turn you into green goo for the munchings of trolls upon, then there's only one preventative...

Piss on the picnic!

Of course, there are those who will pooh-pooh the idea, but if they're pooing on the chocolate chicken pot pie then they're just as bad, if not worse! Passing diarrhoea off as a side dish of Bisto is not my cup of tea.

Then again, a tankard of tinkle isn't either. A chocolate log maybe fun for yule, but yule regret it upon the morrow.

As a safeguard against consumption by kobolds though, it ain't much cop - I ain't gonna whip my wanger out and whizz on the spag bol, just so The Dinner Party escapes liquification. True, there may be those who like ammonia scented soup, but I isn't one of 'em!

Do you wanna go to a club where people wee on each other...

...with Grandpa Seth watching you through a 2way mirror...
  

Xym binnery, Xym binnery, Xym’s bin of blue...

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...rewolf elttil ,emoR ni nehW

...od snamor eht sa oD

angolob dna eseehc emos kcap uoy erusne ,gobliN fo nwot eht ni er'uoy fi tub...

ruoy eetnaraug lliw slacol fo ecneserp eht ni meht emusnoc ot rof ,sehciwdnas

!epacse

ecnedeerC ylevol eht fo smra eht ni esimed a dnim t'ndluow I ,yllanosrep hguotlA

fo noitacoffus a dna spil ruo neewteb boc nroc a htiw gniggons ,dugleiG eronoeL
...nrocpop

...htorb rey knird dna reh tuoba 'niyrrow tiuQ

Returning to the calculators of Golems...

P'tah!

I got some of that Indy's Truck Table gel to get a High Barnett, as I wanted to jump on the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull bandwagon and keep my hair all flared out & spikey. So, I puts it in me mop, and does it stay in place?

Does it buggery sod as like! Flop all over the shop it do!

So much for dancing on me noggin, and pulling the hood of me hoodie up and down and me hair springing back into place COZ IT DON'T!

Shame, coz if I decide to go to 80s night on Friday, I was gonna gel it all up in a Follicle Seagull stylee.

Shan't bother now!

Clearly, It's because Xym ain't worth it.
 

Je vous parie ne peut pas mettre un 'Fruit Pastilles' dans votre bouche sans le mâche...

Today, within our hallowed halls, there echoed the sounds of a Small Soft Hamish trumpeting away, and we recalled one of the best reasons work working out of them city.

The M&S Scotchman outside M&S!

There is a time and place for bagpipes – primarily on the Mull of Kintyre album which should never be let near a gramophone (although my phone's quite heavy at several grams).

Failing to be restricted to avoidable Wings collections, the time is Joolz Holland's Hootananny – although I'd prefer a Shootananny, preferably that trollop out of How You Solve A Problem Like Maria, easily solved by a driveby shootoin from a speedily passing goat.

Anyhoo, the only place bagpipes should be played is in a great big castle in the middle of some deserted highland, before a great roaring fire with a couple of crossed claymores above it. And an moose head on the wall. And dresssed in full regalia – A William O'Shatner on the noggin, a benedictine monk in your sock, Kilt and sporran (with full array of silver twiddly bits).

Such a combo inevitable leads to a impromptu Hogmanay to the tune of "Hoots Mon, There's Joose loose aboot this hoose" and much partaking of the Wine Gum (as The Scotch are well famed for excessive wine about the gums. And Whiskey.)

But it's not all Och Aye The Noo in the sweetie division. Oh no, Le Francais are well into their sugary treats, for they have devoted a whole commemoration to it, when Rowntree had a revolution against Basset (Frenchly pronounced Bassay).

Seems the french revolution was an uprising against the consumption of Jelly Babies in favour of the Fruit Pastille, and La Guillotine was used to behead jelly babies bonces (which leads to our current tradition of biting the heads off Jelly Babies). This overthrow of power is now celebrated as the Fête de la Fédération, or as we English say, Pastille Day.

Revolutionary biscuits of Italy, and now Revolutionary sweeties of France!

Put yer lurve to the test...

Oft I have said about them there Fates having it on for me, and once again Dame Fortuna had lifted her skirts and golden showered within her Big Knickers and ensured she has go-faster skid streaks to make the felonous faeries deflate my fun and ruin all my exuberant bubble.

Thought I'd book The Train so I can go and buy my Heat magazine on 12th July - So, let's try National Express for ticketyboo.

Oooh, train there for £6 quid, return for £6 quid! Hurrah - best just check compardres don't want tickets. Aha, they do - recheck! Damn, just sold out of £6 tickets - it's £12 to come home now.

Recheck times - feck on a whistle, It's now £12 there and £12 back!

Oh, I'll get the earlier train there - feckariddle! It's still £12 there but it's £24 quid back now!

I don't think it's wise to recheck prices, it'll be like, a million squids next! I'll have to get a quote off've confused.com and win that star prize!

Maybe I'll do a Martin Kemp and prance all the way from Norwich to Londinium...
  

Look into my eyes...

Clearly, I'm a bit thick!

Trick or Treat:
Trick = Something Nasty
Treat = Something Nice

I must be missing something when a treat is making you perform electrickery on a puddy tat!

Someone's been catching Cat's Eye a bit too much... or someone's got cat shit in their eyes.

A treat is a treat, in other words something good.

You know I...

You know I...

You know I...

You know I-e-I...

You know I just know you're gonna go and kill a pussy

Utah Saints

Utah Saints

Utah Saints

U-U-U-Utah Saints, etc

Bzzzzzzz - Miaow - goin' on up to the kitty in the sky...

Bloody Shark...

Holes in the poles...

...is not, as you would initially think, some erotic movie concerning the insertion of polished poles into the orifices of polish folk, but the entrance points to the Hollow Earth.

As you are probably aware, dear reader, there is an underground city known as Shamballah, and the entrances to this mystical realm are found by cavernous holes in both the north and south poles.

Now, legend has it  that it is from this mystical city that the world is run by bipedal lizards in Edgar suits, and the Tibetans (ousted by the Chinese) are forced to burrow throught the Earths mantle, creating a network of tunnels allowing the Illuminatii to listen in on various world leaders secret plans.

Unfortunately, Satnav isn't available in the underworld, so sometimes the tibetan tunnelers go astray. Seems that one has ended up poking his spade too far and breached The World Above. Typically, his error wasn't in some secluded field, or australian cellar/prison, but Newmarket Road, causing consternation to the automotive populace!

It's all the Daily Llama's fault - he likes a good laugh, sitting there in his milk bottle goggles giggling like a schoolgirl, rather than putting an end to his brethren's subterranean antics!

Taoist Tunnellers and Bhuddist Burrowers - It's only a matter of time afore they cross paths with Shudde M'ell - and you don't want tentacled beasties on your trail if you have state secrets to secrete in Shamballah!

Although, I thought Shamballah was some jamacan spicy ricey dish...
 

rrrrrrrrrrRATBURGERS...

This isn't Xymon, your blogger, friends...

This is something that looks like Xymon...

Acts like Xymon..

Smells like Xymon...

Even talks bollocks like Xymon...

But in reality, it's a martian..

You mean...?

Yes...

Our Xymon is a pod person from the planet Mars!

Gaaah! I've been pricked with a ring and turning into a giant green turd to emit tendril vines out me belly to turn the living room into woodland shrubbery!

Ninmma nimma neh

Ninmma nimma nimma neh

La la

Quick! Get the horn (whey-hey!)

Well, let me give it to you straight. You see, I am a single, unattached guy. And I live upstairs, right above you. Now, I'm into swinging, and children having pillow fights at all hours of the night while I'm trying to score, may cause a few strikeouts, you get me!

Oooh, must get some pancake mix in the kitchen to go with the cock shaped singing toadstool.

Must learn the dance to Summertime Blues before my next boogie...

But beware...

YOUR CANARY IS A POD PERSON FROM THE PLANET MARS!!!!!

Put a ’wurr’ after W, and a ’wurr’ after O...

I knew that hot Irish bird off've The Apprentice looked familiar...

...it's bloody Aunt Sally from Scatterbrain Farm! A Una Stubbs for the noughties (and who didn't want to get naughty with the painted doll in a haystack, back in the day!).

I suppose that would make Sir Alan a kind of Crowman, but although he may have the grizzled look, I can't see him shuffling about a field pulling a wheelbarrow, all bedecked in feathered millinery products.

Forget "You're Fired", it'd be like "You're Stuffed (full of hay)!)

It'd be dead ace to be able to switch heads though! I'm fed up of boufifng up me barnet, but for it to deflate and flop after travelling through wind & rain to my destination. At least with a spare head I could get to a dance hall, a quick switch, and I'm all impressively follicled again!

And you could be out on the dance floor, strutting your funky stuff, while your other head is buried in some young maidens muff (or, in my case, being kicked whilst it spouts bollocks about stamp thieving gnomes, loch ness camels, and general random shite that no-one can find the wavelength to).

Ooooh - and if you dropped your spare head on the floor, it could sprout legs, like the one in The Thing, and go scuttling about like some aerobic arachnid.

Or something.

Double ooooh - what would be better would be having a spare body! Then, I could have my At Home body, feeding on Roulade and Ragout, but come Hades Night - pop on my svelte Bird Pulling body and I'll be well in there! No more repulsive sweaty mass of wobbling lard sending gorgeous gothettes into a frenzy of fornication avoidance! Let me apply a slim, toned, Humpmeister Generale bod to get hot EMO chicks into rampant rabbits wrigging on my rod!

No more Pheromones for me - fed up with Two Ton (Nick) Kamen bewailing his loss of pop chart buffoonery and soiling his undercrackers on filthy launderette seats.

I hear he groped Jeremy Vine...
 

Is this a kind of magic...

It would appear to be Carnivàle time down the Krusty Krabb!

Turns out a certain Eugene H. Krabb is an pseudonym for Victor Kruger!

Seems like Brother Justin got a bit carried away lopping off immortals bonces, and ended up with The Prize...

...the secret formula of the Krabby Patty!

Good job he didn't get caught perfoming cranium severance utilising utilities such as spatulas, otherwise he'd have to duff himself up in Shawshank, and have to sort out Bull Queens such as Sheldon Planton!

There can be only one!

One more dollar! Whoo-hee!!!
   

Pre-emptive gnome pilferage...

The little blighter has gotten ahead of me now!

You know how it is - you have your particular perfumery and specific scents, be it Body Shop's Lychee and Mango Arse Scrape Mask, or Boots Forest Glade Pitstench remover.

But, there comes a time when you traverse into The City, and find that all stocks of your favourite fragrancing foams and gels are mysteriously absent!

All I wanted was a bottle of A*Men hair & body gel - but nooooo, that fecking kleptomaniac kobold has dashed into the shops and rid the shelves of it!

Stacks of deodorant, body tonic, shower foam and squity bottles of Parfum abound, but not a hide or hair of shampoo! Looks like I'll have to hide my hair.

Or use a real poo, and not just a sham one...

There are those squalid types that profess that if you don't wash your hair, it starts to cleanse itself. Strangely, those who tend to advocate this method of follicle cleanliness tend to have rather greasy hair, who often claim that they "still need to give it a couple more weeks".

Also, the same devotees seem to deeply believe that the same process applies to skin, and take a severe aversion to soap, in the believe that in "a few weeks" the body will start to excrete fluid to cleans itself.

Said fluid apparently being sweat and piss!

And when you're scrolling through the Manga section (looking for the Dark Crystal manga wot STILL isn't out yet), you don't want to be assailed by the fug of the sweaty glands leather clad EMOs sat on the floor drooling over dog eared copies of Battle Royale and Battle Vixens.

Bloody skankarse gits (umpteenth gig SAC, etc)
 

Dere’s a rat in me kit... yikes! There’s a dog in me belly...

Seems like the Swedish trend for hobbis in handbags has already crossed the pond, for I saw it in action last night!

I was down The Black Whore's, and in the beer garden was some bloke, proving rather popular with the ladies. All because he had a weeny Jack Russell in his jacket.

It certainly worked as a bit of a bird puller!

Oft have I been told to get a dog, as it's a good way to meet hot tottie out walking their dogs, so I toyed with the idea of sidling up to some babes and asking if they'd like to stroke the Daschund in my pants. However, it was pointed out that this would earn a slap in the face, rather than a slap of the ole sausage dog.

I wonder if I ponced about town with an animatric Alien hanging out me shirt, I might pull a few of them alternative EMO chicks that line the walkway up to The Castle...

I'm not having a puppy in my jacket - how am I suppose to pull some cracking crumpet when I reek of dogs eggs.

Chihuahua!!
 

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood...

Murderous monstrosities haven't got a clue about stalking their prey.

Take your Lions and Tigers, when seeking a kill, they stalk through the grass, as quiet as quiet can be until they're ready to pounce.

Not so supernatural entities or killer chimeras!

Why do they insist on burbling and groaning all the bloody time? I just watched Darkness Falls, where (by strange coincidence) when darkness falls, out comes the toothfairy to slaughter her victims. But does she creep up in silence - no, it's all shrieks and gurgling to draw attention to it!

Now, if I was one of these ethereal entities hell bent on doing in nubile young teenage lasses, I'd be dead
Silent until I snatched them into the sky, not going "Ehhhshhhkkkrraahh" as I approach!

It's like the police - why do they drive to burglaries with sirens a-blazing? How you supposed to catch the little tea leafs if you advertise your presence? If some burglar is in mid-burgle, and hears a siren approaching, he's bound to have it away on his toes before the Filth arrive, leaving the coppers scratching their helments in puzzlement: "He's long gone Sarge", etc.

Hold on, I can hear something...

ssseeerkaaaahhhhkkreeeaaak

Excuse me whilst I go an investig.... AAAARRRGGH!

It’s not big, and it’s not clever...

..which is totally incorrect, because in Sweden, there's a epidemic of those who aren't big, but ARE clever!

It would appear that there is one of them there Crimewaves going about, where persons of diminutive stature are esconsed within baggage. When said baggage is left lying about, say in the Luggage Compartment of a plane, when the coast is clear, out pops the thieving oompa-loompa to ransack the place and nick all the stuff!

And when the normal sized bloke trots off with his bag, no-one would think to search it to see if a dwarf was hiding in there with his loot.

The perfect crime!

No wonder Paris Hilton didn't Want to go to jail that time! Someone might have found a hobbit in her handbag while she was away! People keep saying she carries a miniature pup about - it's not! It's a short statured kleptomaniac in costume, ready to pop out and pinch posessions when she takes her bag to various fancy functions.

I never believed it was a dog anyways - who'd run the risk of it shitting all over her bag and pissing on her purse, especially with the designer one's she has.

All this time I've been going on about the stamp thieving gnome in my domicile, when it's been the influx of my many (imaginary) guests and (even more inaginary) friends, sneaking in shortarses in carrier bags to nick me stuff, like putting Dunston Checks In into practise!

Still, at least now I have an excuse to perform security checks and  'pat-down' lovely ladies to ensure they don't have a dwarf about their person, like Kuato in Total Recall.

Oooh, Strip searches! Get yer kit off ladies before entering my domain...

Spread 'em MotherFu...
 

And just a nagging doubt remains...

Here comes the gimmer man

(Ooo-weee-ooo-oooh)

Sez he's a people Fan

Here come's the gimmer man

(Ahhhhh-aaaaaaaah!)

Ever felt you're being stalked by docile doddering decrepits? Well, I certainly have!

For it seems no matter what time I leave the city via omnibusial transportation, there they are. I can pick any random time to his the bus stop, but to no avail - they're ALWAYS there! Mr & Mrs ancient, shoving to the front of the queue and bewailing the manners of the young.

In fact, these coffin dodgers are so unobtrusive, they make the perfect assassin, for who would expect some zimmered up gimmer to suddenly stand back, and cunningly slide bits of their zimmerframe into position to reveal a handy shotgun!

Jeez - not to mention those in them Mobility Scooters, transforming like some Pastits Optimal-Prime into some tank like beastie just to put an end to me!

Y'know - I think it may have been them wot tried to shoot me in Hades, descending into the basement using Spencer's Stannah Stairlift to take Pot Shots at me in inebriated dancing mode.

Well, I let them get off the bus before me bus now - I'm not having them jab me up the bum from behind with their brolly to pierce my posterior with poisoned pellets of plutonium, or brain me bonce with a brace of baked beans in tins.

Septogenarian skullduggery be afoot!

Plop goes the weasel...

Todays nasal assault around Broadland signalled the presence, once again, of Dogturd Poo in the Turdis. However, this time, his arrival heralded the Minions of Evil.

Now, occasionally the office bogs are closed as some Missus Mop runs a duster over the dumpstation, but today our floors fecal repository was closed, and being serviced by Rentokill!

I though Rentokill was some pest control agency, so clearly one of The Dogturds arachnid arch-enemies is dwelling within the porcelain throneroom. Perhaps a collection of 'cock'roaches - evil Ken Barlow clones taking over the toilets by todger terrorism.

Or maybe Mr Grey is delivering a deposit of Shit Weasles to bite yer ass, before placing a crap circle in the middle of your cranian forrestry as you try and do a Derren Brown memory dump.

Sack Rentokill, I say. Get Rentaghost in there - It's May Day after all! We should have Mr Claypole Jestering about, and young ladies dancing around Maypoles...

...sounds like an excuse for all these Pagan types to get off down Devils Advocate..

..or to go down Devils Advocate and get off...

Although pagans don't exactly have Devils, it's more like The Green Man's Advocate, which sounds more like a pub. Actually, saying that, it's more likely to be Pan's Advocate, which means loads of pagan panpipery combined with Pan's People gyrating in some mass MayPole dance.

Although Pans People are probably getting on a bit from their TOTP days, so they probably can't be arsed shaving their legs no more, so from a distance they'll look like shaggy goat legged fauns, gambolling about to The Pussyflap Trolls, as they Draw Down Diana The Moon in their bare scuddies in a small grove on Mousehole Heath.