Un garçon, un garçon à vendre...

il va bon marché

seulement sept (les pintes de) Guinness

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

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

or something.

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

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

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

Actually, I shall!

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

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

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

SMACK!!!
  

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

Breakfast!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We all have our keepers, you see...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sounds like a plan to me!!!

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

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

It's scrote-ally different...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or something...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Directors cut the cheese...

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

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

Or something.

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

Sorry, back to the cheese!

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

I'm a typical gormsta (perv it up)

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

love fondue like dat!

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

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

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

Probably.

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

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

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

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

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

I’d buy that for a dollar...

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

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

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

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

Simply pop on eBay and buy a Sheila!

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

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

It’s just a Maniac Monday...

Well, I for one don't wish it were Sunday!

Funday it may be, but it means that tomorrow is Monday again, which is a reason not to wish it were Monday.

I wish it were Saturday, for that would truly be a Funday, coz you can go out in the city, coffee, lunch, Cinema. Dr Who in the evening, Hades if it's Alt.80s, but most fun of all is that the following day would be Sunday and not another Monday.

And how can Sunday be a Funday - it's put the washing on, switch between Trapped & Toonattik, put wash on spin, watch Raven, hang up washing, watch re-runs of scrapheap challenge, watch F1 and/or Columbo, watch the current Scrapheap, watch America's got Talent followed by Supernatural, then a double dose of bloody Jimmy Carr in Commercial Breakdown followed by 8 out of 10 cats. And if that's not depressing enough, by then it's Monday.

Wish it was Sunday my best hat!!

TISWAS!

You can probably tell, work has stressed me out somewhat today...

I DON'T LIKE MONDAYS,

TELL YOU WHY:

I WANNA SHOO-OO-OOOO-OOO-OOOOOOOT

THE GIT THAT USED UP ALL THE SPACE ON THE MAINFRAME SO I CAN'T COMPILE ANYTHING COZ OF SE37 ERRORS EVEN WITH A FREE/COMPRESS AND THE BUGGER'S DON'T REFRESH IT AND THE ENLARGE DATASET PANELS FALL OVER WITH JCL ISSUES COZ THEY GET SE37 SPACE ISSUES, AND EVERYONE ELSES ACCESS HAS BEEN REMOVED SO I'M THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN DO ANYTHING DESPITE BEING ON THREE PROJECTS AND HAVING ALL THE MAJOR REQUESTS IN THE RELEASE ASSIGNED TO ME COZ I'M SO SODDING BRILLIANT I HAVE TO BLOODY DO EVERYONE ELSE'S WORK AS WELL, WHICH I CAN'T COZ THE MAINFRAME STILL HAS NO SPACE FREE AND IT'S CLOSING ITSELF DOWN AND THE CODING WINDOW ALSO CLOSED WITH AN 'EXCEPTION ERROR' DUE TO LACK OF MEMORY AND YOU LOSE 2 WHOLE HOURS OF COMPLICATED WORK AND THEY WANT TO SNEAK IN AN EMERGENCY RELEASE RIGHT NOW AND IT'S "WHAT DO I NEED TO DO" AND HAVE TO WALK PEOPLE THROUGH THE PROCESS AND FIND THEY DON'T HAVE ACCESS AND CAN'T EVEN TAKE A LOCK OUT ON A FILE AND.....

...APOLOGIES: XYMON HAS BEEN DRAGGED OFF FROTHING AND FOAMING AT THE CAKEHOLE AND PLACED INTO A PADDED CELL WITH A NICE WHITE STRAIGHTJACKET POTATO.

We’re busy doing nothing...

Now, it's all very well for these time transported foreign kerniggits turning up at the round table to try and find lots of things not to do, but that scourge of knighthood appears to have been made into one of them cinematic devices.

I'm all for a bit of suspense, but these televisuals make a habit of irritating you, making what's coming so inevitable there be no shock value.

For instance, there's the now legendary "I'm off to check upstairs. On me own. Where the creaking is coming from.", so you know that a cat will jump into shot, scaring no-one but the actress, before she opens the oven and a 9ft tall machete wielding maniac leaps out in an entirely predicable death scene.

BUT... what's REALLY annoying is the 'car boot wait to get slaughtered' scene!

How difficult can it be to put a bag in the boot? Me, key in boot, lift lid, drop in bag, close boot, get in car and drive off. Well, actually, like most people, I can't be jiggered to open the boot, so the bag is slung on the back seat for easy retrieval at home.

No so in the movies! O-ho! Here's how you suspensefully bung your bag in the boot for bringing back home, and it has to be spread over a good few minutes.

STEP ONE: The Set Up
Ensure you have parked by a leafy, foresty bit, with the boot backing onto said shrubbery.

STEP TWO: The Return
Ensure you return to your car once everyone else has gone home. If leaving with a collegue, say a final farewell and wistfully watch them leave to make absolutely sure no-one else is about.

STEP THREE: The Deposit and Suspense
Open the boot and ensure that your back is facing the wooded area and open the boot. Throw in the bag. Ordinairily, you would close the boot - STOP! You must now act really busy, fiddling with imaginary somethings in the boot. Take you time over this.

STEP FOUR: The Glance
Whilst you're faffing about with the straps on your bag, a cameraman will ponce about in the foliage, filming you hard at work as the maniac peers through the bushes, slowing moving around. The psycho needs to have a good old look at you, so build up more tension by polishing imaginary foor pumps and tapping the pressure guage, until... CRACK!. Stop fiddling about and stand up straight! Look to the left, or give a cursory glance behind you on the left, where the movie will show you looking right at the killer! Luckily, you're concentrating on doing nothing, so you miss the lurking hulk skulking behind one piddly little branch

Step Five: Concentrate on doing nothing
Turn back to the boot and start a-tinkering with your zips. Being so busy at this, you fail to hear the snapping of twigs, the crunch of gravel, or the clipping of heels on tarmac as the evil one approaches from the side. Ignore you peripheral vision where a shiny black leather clad figure approaches from your right. Tut and reach further into the boot to fiddle with some imaginary WD40 as out the corner of your eye, a shiny leather gloved hand raises a chloroformed cloth or a shiny razor.

Step Six: I Didn't See That Coming!
Slam down the boot lid as the maniac grabs you for abduction or untimely death.

It's like some suicidal version of... ah... can't blog about that, for it would contravene Kelso's blog challenge rules 7 & 8. So, instead, I'll just have to say that anyone who decides to wait expectantly with their boot open, pretending to shuffle stuff about, jolly well deserves to be shoved in the boot, or murdered to death.

You won't find me alone by an open car boot amongst forestry...
  

Though the streams are swollen...

Whilst partaking of luncheon on Saturday, I was discussing going out one night for consumption of curry, and then considered the detail of the night in question. One of the days mentioned was "next Saturday".

Now, exactly when is 'next' Saturday, for there is quite a fine distinction between 'this' Sat and 'next' Sat.

For instance, you could say that next Saturday is 2 weeks hence, for next Saturday is not this Saturday, but the next one. However, if it's Saturday today, then is this Saturday today, or this Saturday coming? If it's Saturday coming, then is next Saturday the Saturday after this Saturday which isn't the Saturday if the curent day is Saturday?

Seems to me that you need telepathetic powers, as you have to be able to read peoples minds in order to determine the distinction between 'this' & 'next'!

And if you can read minds, then perhaps you can harness that power to engage in the ever popular practice of using the mind to influence cheese.

Apparently, this is a most popular pastime, although I am still unsure what benefits this brings to mankind. Of course, there is the obvious - cheese hasn't risen in rebellion to overthrow the human race, which is clear evidence that these Cathedral City Psychics are keeping the killer cheese in place!

Although, that said, every time these boffins supress any murderous entities slaughterhouse desires, they always end up breaking free. Be it gunslinging Yul Brynners in big, black hats, or Wesley Snipe Types encased in chryo-chambers and given mental brainwashing, the old characteristics rise to the surface like hardening fat on recently heated lard in a chip pan as it cools.

Breaking free of the psychic bond would appear to be Double Gloucester!

The mystics of Cooper's Hill have failed miserably in their entracement of the brie and stilton, and by the magical three fold law of return, the Gouda has thrown a psychic backwash right back at the populace!

Not content with simply lying on a cheeseboard awaiting dissection by cheesewire, they trundle off (making obligatory burbling noises) and place themselves at the tops of steep hills, cliffs, and multi story carparks. The killer camembert takes a leaf out of 'Starkiller' Sheridans book, and sends out a mental 'distress signal' in order to gather those weaker minded individuals to it.

Once the damnable edam has all of it's victims in place, it then sends out it's death call, overpowering the minds of it's flock. As le roulê rolls down, it forces the gathering to cast itself, lemminglike, down the hills after it.

Luckily, these days we have Health and Safety officials, so the muderous mascarpone no longer kills in droves, and gets it's kicks from minor limb destruction only.

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

Oh, killer cheese! Now that has to be a movie in the making...
 

You dirty old man...

Gauntlets have been thrown, and the chainmail has scratched the tiling in the hallway!

Kelso has challenged The Blog - can I actually do a blog without any mention of pervosity? Piece of piss!

So, rulewise, the next blog must NOT reference in any way, shape or form, the following criteria:

• double entendres
• lovely ladies (and any associatred lechment thereof)
• boobies
• cheap nob gags
• genitalia
• being a vast mountain of lard wots unable to pull The Birds
• lowest common denomninator for cheap laughs
• rampant shaggery and general humpification

Easy! Watch this space...

Although I'm not sure how long I can keep it up...

...OO-ER MISSUS with added FNARR FNARR on top!

 

Kiri kiri kiri kiri kiri kiri...

Well, it doesn't look like I'll get a part in the movie!

Used to be, you'd go in, read a part to show a range of acting styles, and they let you know. Now, the NudeTube generation has to do it all on film! 25 seconds to talk about yourself.. the one thing I can't talk endlessly about!

Still, I think it might be a bit of a scam y'know! Now, I goes in for the photo,, and the lady sez "Ooooh, I've been looking forward to photographing you!". After I comes out of the Sex, Lies and Videotape bit, she's "You're OK to go, but I'll definately be in touch".

Well, I though there's no way I'll get a callback on my shambolic drivel, and she ain't seen it yet.. so maybe i'm "in there". Whey-hay!!!

BUT...

I popped into John's shop (the other John, not 'John' John, or the other, other John. Or even The John, as I didn't need a whizz) to see if he had the 3-disc edition of Ichi The Killer, as typically, now I've decided to buy it I can't find it anywhere. Then it hit me...

Takashi Miike...

I wonder if the whole thing was set up so photography babe could find herself a bloke, which means I could get casting couch opportunities, leading to a domicile of burlap sack, with extremity removal.

And I had dug me keyboard out an' all! Next thing I know it'll be cheese wire garrottes decapitating me bonce as I tinkle on the ivories*, or paralization with needles under the eyes.

Couldn't have done worse if I'd auditioned for an Opera!

Someone "up there"'s really got it in for me!

And I almost got a severe beating by a burly bus boiler who looked like the back end of a bus. She was all miffed coz the Senior Driver gave her false directions. Presumably these Directions were Henna, giving her the carroty top of the gingers, and the now legendary stereotypical psychotic attribututes and all that goes with it.

Apart from missing umpteen stops stropping out the passengers, there were umpteen wrong turns, culminating in thinking that Ives Road was up near the airport**!

As the last man standing, I got a right earful, for who am I to correct the Senior Driver. Me, who knows this bus route, not some mad harridan hired for the day! She was all ready to start throwing punches... which would have been fine if she was young and pretty, and there was another passenger who was young and pretty aldo getting into heated debate.

In bikinis.

In mud.

But they weren't. One wasn't even there!

What a gyp! They should hire bikini clad maidens purely in case of such eventualities - much more pleasurable than a fat old trout bewailing the trickery of sniggering senior charlatans.

Phew! What with close calls with maniacal maidens with piano wire, and violent femmes in charge of buses, it's a wonder I'm alive! And there's the evening yet... I'll probably get deaded by a taxi driver next for telling him to slow down and follow the right route...

...assuming I can remember the address I'm supposed to go to!

* AND I DON'T MEAN PISSING IN SOMEONE'S GOB. OR UP THEIR TOOTH FILLED KEBAB. TALKING OF WHICH... DIDN'T COVER IT IN THE MOVIE, BUT IF YOU HAD TWAT-TEETH, WOULD YOU HAVE TO BRUSH & FLOSS? IMAGINE THE PLAQUE BUILD UP! BIG BLUE ONES, ADVISING OF FAMOUS COCKS THAT GOT BIT WITHIN.

** WHICH IT IS, ISH. BUT NOT FROM A VULCAN ROAD PERSPECTIVE. A VULCAN PERSPECTIVE IS THAT IT WOULD BE A MORE LOGICAL POSITION TO CHECK YOUR ROUTE FIRST.
 

She’s a killer, QuiiiiIM...

Cum! How to? With some cream!

Canniston and vasaline!

guaranteed to make you writhe!

Wanna bite?

The press is ever so misleading these days. I was persuaded to see a comedy/horror movie about vagina dentata. Now, not having seen the lion king, I was unsure of what to expect. I do know, however, that 'Vagina Dentata' was a song released by Teabag and Poobra.

So, imagine my surprise when it certainly wasn't a warthogs tusks doing the chomping!

However, this film is about as subtle as a brick. Talk about framing and symbolism!

Any excuse for a stalagtited cavernous opening, or an opening in the trees. Not to mention a host of excruciating double entendres. It's simulcrums left right and centre as victims of vagicide literally get crabs.

Oh, how we laughed!

Especially at The Party of the Ring Bearers! The Whore of the Rings no less!

I wonder if there's a sequel on the horizon. I know there's people with buck-teeth, so I expect Butt-Teeth to be in production any day soon! Anus Dentata.

Lets see Teapot and Poobum sing about that!

Vagina Dentata!

What a wonderful phrase

Vagina Dentata!

Ain't no passing craze

It means no worries

For the rest of your days

Apart from not having a cock.

  

...of jews and fish from foreign lands, of cabbages that ming...

...of jewsNow, it's amazing what a small typo can produce. There is the classic 'Winkers song' for a start, but spare a thought for poor ole Spielberg. He tried to do a Nazi war drama, and due to a misprint ended up with a rather fishy movie.

Not many people realise that before he's already tried to film Schindler's List back in the seventies, and because it was all about Nazi death camps, it was called Jews. Unfortunately, a secretary was too busy being rogered over the desk when typing up the title page of the screenplay, and accidentally called it Jaws.
And because the studio favoured a killer shark over holocaust movies, the tide of history turned.

...of fish from foreign lands
Yikes! Transylvanian terror strikes Caistor! Looks like The Count in Caistor Castle has been out and about and vampirising the fishies! For on Caistor beach, prehistoric vampire fish are on the prowl! Looks more like a shit weasle to me, but I wouldn't go paddling if I were you, not if you don't want this beastie rearing it's head at you and turning you into a creature of the night

...of cabbages that ming
Well, not exactly, but salads. For in a twist upon the Tarantula In The Bananas From The Bahamas, there has now been found frogs sealed in salads! I don't know, they can't get through the EuroTunnel, but smuggling illegal immigrants in packets of lollo rosso is a bit steep! Besides, there's no lavvies in a packet - I don't want some trafficked sex worker wiping their arse on my rocket (fnarr fnarr!)

If they spent more time checking their produce, rather than mincing about and singing the name of salady elements, and waving celery in each others faces, we might be able to tuck into out crisp crunchy salad without the crunch of crunchy frog.

And not one from the Whizzo Chocolate Company either!

"We use only the finest baby frogs, dew picked and flown from Iraq, cleansed in the finest quality spring water, lightly killed and the sealed in a succulent Swiss quintuple smooth triple cream milk chocolate envelope and lovingly frosted with glucose"

Coffee and DC...

I'm vexed by our vending machines, and disturbed by drinking fountains.

Now, an ever popular yellow sticky pad has been posted upon the dinks dispenser. Apparently, we're not supposed to let fluid fall into the drip tray, as it buggers up the machine. So it begs the question: Of what purpose is a drip tray and overspill drain on a machine?

Clearly nothing, for there's nowt at all the the water fountain! Once you've filled your cup and ceased button depressment, there is a final bit of dribblage (not unlike an incontinent old chap with a leaky old chap).

Result: Water all over the floor like a gents bog on a drunken night out.

Apparently, it's all the fault of them furriners and their strange customs!

Seems that there is an equivalent 'male bonding' thing going on with out offshore partners. You know as how lovely ladies oft pop off to The Ladies with a gaggle of other ladies (in case some lecherous lezza mugs them in the ladies)? Well, there would appear to be a similar ritual abroad amongst our male offshore partners!

Seems to go like this. It's time for coffee, and in the UK we tend to ask if anyone would like one, and go to the machine and get coffees for all. Not so for these furriners! When one fancies coffee, they get all of them to go and gather at the machine. Then, they each get out a steaming plastic cup of fag-ash tasing fluid mixed with oil. They each take a solitary sip, then tip the rest of the cup into the drip tray/drain unit.

Now, I'm not sure if this is a religeous thing, a quaint custom, or if working as a contractor drives you mad, but it seems a bit odd for everyone to pour away a whole mug of tea bar a small sip. And they do it every day! Sometimes more than once!

Clearly I'm missing something. Perhaps me & my team should all go to the canteen and buy a bacon sarnie each, take a bite, and lob the rest at the serving wench.

Serving wench drenched in bacon...

...Nooooo - shades of Ozone again!

Bring on Xymon Mayo...
  

A mountain of steak sandwiches and beer...

I dunno, after killer grass, killer wigs and killer hair extensions, you'd think I'd be onto a winner with killer photographs!

But it was even better than expected - killer photographs was a decoy, and it wasn't silver nitrate laughterage! Oh no! It's killer dead ex-girlfriends living on shoulders!

Brilliant!

Now, it's a takes a bit of swallowing, does this. For as all the world knows, your shoulders are already filled by invisibubble bulbous headed beasties, their slender digits massaging the scalp to make people conform to it's evil whims.

But still, what a fab concept! You think you're putting on weight and got a sore neck from whiplash, but it's the extra weight of a dead bird sitting on your shoulders and being a pain in the neck!

Mind you, I could probably think of better ways to spend the afterlife, rather than cling to the person you got dumped by. Like scoffing splendips amidst raunchy chicks in some police/angel costume.

Kill the clear!

I think I’d better leaf right now…

OK, so I work for a top UK Insurance Company.

That don't impress me much!

So they, got the news

But it's not up to much

Now don't get me wrong

Yeah, I think it's all right,

But that won't help get my data FTP'd onto the server from craparse outsource partners

Yes, we have a news datafeed at work to keep us all up-to-date in the economic climate, so we are fed relevant financial news.

Take todays top story: "Tina Hobley's post-baby body secrets - MirrorDietClub.co.uk. Soap star Tina Hobley looks fantastic just two months after having baby Olivia.. but how can other new mums take a leaf out of her book?"

Bit of a long winded title, but I'm slightly bemused by just how, exactly, some soapy scrubber impacts the financial world of Home, Motor or Travel insurance.. actually, now I think about it… soaps… Ah, that's where Travel Insurance comes into it! Wooden actresses probably need travel insuance so they can get to these beaches to parade around in a couple of dairylea triangles and a thong for the Hollyoaks Babes calendar 2009!

Anyhoo, I'm most concerned about the final part of the title: "but how can other new mums take a leaf out of her book?". Now, I'm no expert on law, but surely this is illegal? Handing out tips to new mums on how to creep into soapstar trollops houses in the dead of night, evading the security systems, locating the pressed flower collection and callously filching all the superfuous foliage from the stems!

Disgraceful! Encouraging new mums to engage in floral thievery! It's political correctness gone mad. Or something...

Just don't come crying to me when you purloin the greenery and it convinces you to stock up on hotdogs & talk to plastic shrubbery before forcing you to top yerself by comically headbutting the window.

Gaia's an antichrist

Gaia's an anarchist

Don't know what she wants, but she knows how to get it

She wants to destroy passers by...

By passing wind in the trees…

Silt on ya face, a big disgrace...

Outrageous!

Now, there are all these aminal activists telling us how we should save the planet and look after the endangered aminals before they turn on us and eat us all up in revenge for mans' wanton destruction of the aminal kingdom.

Not unlike that killer grass and wind.

So, what do they do? They only hold a bloody rock concert on the shores of Loch Ness. Rock Ness, they called it. What about the poor pleasiosaur? They she and her brood are, going about their business, swimming about guzzling fish and bothering the radar, when they get their ears all blasted by The Mystery Jets.

No thought seems to have been given to the consequenses. Born Slippy could be warbling on about larger, lager, lager when a mega mega slimy sea serpent slipd onto the shore and starts feasting on the festivalgoers!

And it won't stop there! Oh, no. I watched Loch Ness Terror - after gorging on grubby students, The Family Ness will swim over to America to terrorize the lakeside gigs over there!

I guess there'll be a bit of a punch up though, when Nessie meets Ogopogo, as the latter has probably booked tickets to see The Orb and preferred not to munch on musicians and their followers.

It's Lake monster aural abuse, I tell thee!

There should be a law against it...
 

Where’s Colin...

Now, Em Knight Charlatan is renown for making a world class movie named The Sixth Sense, and since then his films have gone from bad to worse.

Take his latest offering: The Happening. Now, being born in 1970 I'm too young to know the ins and outs of Hippies (oo-er!), but as far as I'm aware 'a happening' is where a bunch of hippies get together for free lovin' and drugs and psychadelic prog rock moonbeamery.

And not a single hippy is present in the film! Well, you could at a push include the Hot Dog goofball as a possible contender as a super-dense proto-hippy, but there's no trippy out happening at all!

I guess there is a bit of a hippyish undertone to the movie, albeit an unbelievably laughable one. Still, the comments from those around were bountiful - ranging from "well, that was shit" to "well, that was shockingly shit".

After watching "The Happening", it places "Signs" and "The Village" into the category of being Really Good.

S'pose I'll just have to get my fix of free lurve from www.Hippies-On-The-Job.cum

Or something...
  

Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny... yell at porcine goths called Xymni..

OMG! It's the last Chains On Velvet! And if it's the last one, my CDB may well be there! And there's me, all podgy though holiday KFC, McDonalds and fizzy.

Not to mention being a MIDGET!!!!

Three feet round

and three feet tall

with the general appearance

of a rubber ball

Diminutive dwarvishment! They accuse moi of a lack of vertical stature! Honey, I ate all the pies and shrunk meself! And ate the honey (mmmmm... high street fish supper).

Ewwww!

I need one of them taffy pullers, like in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - allthough I believe a 'taffy' is a welsh person, so I assume Taffy Pulling is getting off with Welsh Birds.

Like Nerys Hughes, or Catherine Zeta-Jones.

I'm just too short for my volume. Ooooh - I could have all me bones nicked, and replaced with longer, adamantium ones! Not only would I be all tall and slim, I'd be able to do the Prince Charming dance AND shoot out razory talons from twixt me knuckles!

Althogh shooting talons into echidnas is not to be advocated.

Ridicule is nothing to be scared of...

especially if you're Wolverine, legging it before he turns 30 and the Deep Sleep Operatives come to put him to sleep.

Mr Sandman, bring me a dream...

  

...kwauqs kwauqS

I was watching that pteradactyl tosspiece winning The Apprentice last night, and they were all blathering on about 'metrosexuals'.

Metrosexual? Transsexual, Homesexual, maybe, but metrosexual - WTF is that all about?

Getting it on with parisienne underground train services? Humping the letterbox of the local mini-tesco, or slathering your mini metro's gearstick with vaseline and lowering yourself onto it in some emergency strap-on substitute?

Although if your slopping lubricant over Richard Geresdick, you'd better be sure there's no hamsters about, for I very much doubt that Richard Hammond's into that kind of thing.

Unless it was Errol. Or Kevin.

Metrosexual, my best hat! Luckily, Sir Alan Demerera asked wot one was - apparently, it's a bloke that likes rubbing various creams into his face.

Ewwwwww. Imperial Leather JizzParty strikes again...
 

I didn’t expect to be blown from behind...

Boating on a lake brings much distress when some bloke suddenly hoses all over your back - 'tis most unpleasant!

Still, not as unpleasant as going to breakfast with the sight of EuroChavs parading round in their PJs. Well, I say PJs, more t-shirt and undercrackers with a hungry arse. Last thing you want when faced with a full English is some harradan picking the seat of her scanties out of her arse and putting you off your sausage.

Although, some people are far too fond of all day breakfasts - seems to be an every five minutes for some of these two tonne Tessa's putting everyones life in danger! You know them bars that drop over your gut to keep you safe on the ride, well some bloated trollop was so obese, she was huffing & puffing it was too tight, and whinged all the way through! Too tight? Coz of her portliness, we end up with very slack safeguards! I could've sat Chez on me lap and STILL it wouldn't keep me safe! Imagine the outcry if I'd been tossed out of me seat and got impaled on a giant branch, just because some Scummy Mummy can't say no to Chips for brekkie.

(And how come the Fresh Fish & Chip shop poster shows no fish, only pie? Pie & Chip shop or Fish & Chip shop? Oh, the confusion. Probably Pie, fish, pie, chips, pie and extra batter (and a pie in batter) for the porker preventing the safety bar to lock me in).

Safety! Don't make me laugh - look at the latest Alton Towers map. On the right, in X-Sector, it shows the ride 'Submission' - and it's the only ride on the map that depicts funseekers being thrown out of the ride to an untimely death! Although I did go on the Runaway Death Trap, and sadly for you lot, failed miserably on getting demised by the shoddy workmanship of maniacle moonshined miners.

And how come, in a park with like a million people, do you keep running into the same few? Started off when it was discovered that there was a clone of me running about. It was not a clone of me at all, but a very very very lovely lady modelled on Amy Winehouse... but no matter where we went, there she was. Of course, I probably noticed her more as she stood out a mile in all her summery gorgeousness. (the only other person we recognised was breakfast minge, but that wasn't half as pleasant as my Amy. Amy MINEhouse. Mine, mine mine! Even if she was with some Pete Docherty scuzzbucket.)

And coz it were all Piratey, I wore an eyepatch a lot! I reckon that's gonna be my new fashion accessory! Move over Gabrielle, I'm off to Chains/Rawkus on Fri wearing said monocular vision disabling device... although peripheral vision means an increase of door collision, and the accidental bumbing into nubile young maidens.

Ohhh! Result! I wonder where I can buy a range of suave, sophisticasted eyepatches.

Call me Snake!!

Plissken, that is. Not a cock.

Although, and I can't stress this enough, wearing an eyepatch dies not make me fair game for Pirates seeking wives, so any other females trying to escape a lifetime commitment to Blackbeardy types can leave me well out of it.

I dunno - what with nightwear abuse, arranged marriages and the supplied jizz party in the shower kit from Hotel Management...

...can't wait for next year!

Swiss army snacks...

Too tired to blog, having just got back from 2 days of non-stop theme park adventurement.

So no blog tonight. You'll just have to wait for this years escapade documentation - from one-eyed compensatory matters with door encumberment to Amy Whinehouse hybrids {sigh}.

But I am slightly perplexed - non-'Pot Noodle'-branded Pot Noodle type noodle-inna-pot snacks now include a clever invention - the Spork, being a spoon/fork combinatory utensil. This is all very well when you're sporking away at some watery meal, but what about more substantial comestibles?

Say, like, you wanted a "my newt" steak - you may find the need for carvery a somewhat indispenseble tool. Why don't they invent a knife, fork combo - the Knork?

Although piercing the perforations on your pot noodle lid with your knorks may turn out to be a mistake - you don't really want to go around with hot chicken curry flavour pot nipples when you're out on the pull.

And the Bombay Bad Boy may well spice up yer life, but you don't really want babbies first breakfast of the day to be mammarial milk with added hot indian spices burning their mouths as they suckle. 

Spork indeed!
 

The pitter patter of little sapient pearwood feets...

How come, when off on a short jaunt, they don't make the right size luggage? It's either too small, or unfeasible large (oo-er missus!).

If you use the large suitcase, it's all unwieldy due to it's lack of content, and if you use the smallest travel bag it's all wong shape bulgy and hard to get on yer back.

They should invest bottomless travelling luggage like what Rincewind had. Surely it can't be that hard? After all, Athur C. Clarke wrote about Telecommunications satellites, and the greybeards went off and invented them!

Still, I've been up all night.

Now that's what I call 'Anarchy'.

Oh, have I got a video...
 

A terrible whiff of creosote...

Oi! Greybeards of the astronomical kind!

It's all very well, sitting there stroking your beard and pondering the planets, but surely you can decide once and for all how many planets are in our Solar System.

Mmmmmm.... Mars Planets...

OK, last year the scientific community announced there were no longer 9 planets. Nothing to do with Vogon constructor fleets, but they decided that Pluto was no longer a planet.

And who can blame them, for we all know that Pluto is the dumb canine companion of one Michael Mouse.

So, imagine my surprise when today I finds out there are now 11 planets in our system! Apparently, Pluto is a planet again, but out of nowhere have come the planets of Eris and Ceres! OK, so we already knew about Ceres, with it's average heighted wearers of grey coveralls, with high cheekbones, slightly tanned complexion and uncany similarity to young Jack Palances.

I guess they had to announce the discovery of Ceres, what with Lombard Omega crashing his flying saucer into the Brentford Pyramid due to a teleported levitating camel incident.

It's gonna bugger up me orrery, these new planets.

Stuffs them astrologers up somewhat though!
 

Life...

Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck Feck

ARSE!

Captain Lockley is one of our most popular requests...

There's some odd folk on MySpace*... and they're hounding my female friends!

Take the following message:
"Would you dare take a bath wearing a business suit and send me some photos of you doing it please?"
- Now, maybe I'm in the minority here, but I would much prefer to ask young ladies to take a bath wearing naught but their birthday suit and send me the photo's!

Still, whatever floats your boat. Or rubber ducky. Mayhap cost cutting ShopGoblins were most upset to find nubile nudie nymphos in bathtubs bellowing for shampoo - maybe he was trannvesting it up in the linen basket by donning her business suit before joining her in the tub.

Who can say?

And as for them Turkish blokes:
"I much like your picture you are very beatiful and you are most sexy woman I have ever seen are we can be friend? I very see to want your hot body we to meet and we do cybersex"- What?!?! OK, they start off well, but what's with this "meet and do cybersex"?

Surely the point of cybersex is that it's cyber, in some virtual reality. You're not supposed to actually meet - you get your avatars nobbing each other, or enter some HoloBrothel donned in a cybersuit so that you can get rogered by Carol Phwoarrderman on Cuntdown whilst a CGI Richard Whitely pervs over the proceedings.

It's like driving over to a friends house with your laptop so you can eMail them!

How come I never get such comments from hot nympho tottie? There must be some sex starved harlot out there with a penchant for bloated gormsters that talk nowt but verbal shite?

Well, anything's possible...

* WOTCHA MEAN, XYM'S ONE OF THEM....?

What do you know about the beans...

Now, the ShopGoblin has always been a strange breed of person. You can be browsing through a book in Borders, considering a computer in Curry's, or simply just groping the graprefruits in the greengrocers, and then, out of nowhere, a ShopGoblin appears:

"Need any help sir?"

Of course, not all ShopGoblins leapt out at you and obsequiously offer their services. Take Bonds (or is it John Lewis'?) - if you don't have a gold plated credit card they will avoid you like the plague!

However, all ShopGoblins have The Knack. That strange talent for knowing exactly when you do require assistance, and at that point their secret power of invisibility kicks in, and you are left bereft of helpful helpers.

Well, I say 'helpful'...

Anyhoo, it seems once they've mastered the art of invisibility, they use it for their own pervy purposes when they get employed by cut-price supermarket chains. "Damn, I need dog food!" bewails the forgetful feeder of feists. But luckily, there's a handy ShopGoblin hiding in the kennel, nobbing the dog whilst flogging cheapo tins of dog food.

Not to mention hot nudie ladies in baths - run out of shampoo? No problem, there's a ShopGoblin leching from within the linen basket, grubbing about amidst the soiled undercrackers, handing out hair wash whilst 'covering' his eyes by holding his hand a good foot in front so it looks like he's not looking, but in reality he's getting a good old gozz at her jugs as she starts moaning in orgasmic pleasure as she massages Hairball Essences into her locks. Then it's back into the wicker basket to peer through the weaves as she gets out the bath, all moist and dripping, and slowly rubbing baby oil over her body...

...I wonder if I there's any jobs going at CostCutters?
 

Mushi mushi? Mushi peas! And fresh octopussies...

Now, if you can cast your minds back to previous blogment, I warned you of nefarious neighbors sneaking into your house through the wardrobe and nicking yer stamps.

Looks like the craze has now hit manga central, for the Japanese have taken to closet hopping!

Why go to the expense of knocking though a wall just to pretend that travelling into next doors boudoir is like gambolling fauns into Narnia? Why not simply traverse from house to house, secretly secreting yourself into closets and stuffing your samurai face full of sushi. All the while leaving the perplexed houseowner wondering at the ever decreasing volumes of raw fish

Some poor sap in FuckYouOver installed CCTV to find out who was nicking his grub, and caught a shadowy Sadako lurking on the screen, flopping out of the telly before stealing the sushi and diving back down the well

Turns out some 58 year old woman had been hiding in the closet for a year! Perhaps he should've kept an eye out for strange women in closets, rather than closetly getting his Japs Eye out for women.

Still, I wouldn't complain if there was a harem of Harajuku girls hidden in my wardrobe! Not even if it were Anneka "he's-my-Japanese-Boy-eating-a-bowl-of" Rice

I'd complain it it were Wincey Willis though

Or Gordon "High Street" Honeycombe...
 

I dunno - a kit, kat...

Ebony & Ivory live together in perfect harmony

Side by side on my piano keyboard

Oh Lord, Why don't we...

Well, you dozy git, it's because peoples are not designed to dwell side by side on piano keyboards.

There is the line of of baldy blokes that you bop on the head with a mallet, and you could sneak in a few black blokes in the same position as ebony Alisha's, but being bopped on the bonce isn't that harmonious.

And they keep falling in and out of the line (wit you) as they get rapped into insensibility.

Anyhoo, Ivory is from endangered elephants, and to use Ivory is very much frowned upon, so Macca can just go and shove an ivory tusk right up his Fleetwood Mac.

Bringing about ice ages and climate change though elephantine detusking indeed!

Still, could be worse, it could have been ebony and ovaries, which makes for a very messy piano - and no-one wants to lie side by side in that!

Not me!
 

Oh Pauline, that Arfur’s useless...

Apparently, them BBC presenters are not paid too much after all! It seems that paying Jonathan Ross £18,000,000 a year to get guests to talk about Jonathan Ross is the going rate!

In that case, I want Lou Beale's job!

Far from being an aged crone lording it over the Fouler households of the Eastend from an armchair, they've given her a complete makeover into a foxy weatherbabe on the tagliatelli!

Not only that, she's on for about a minute and a half, just to get the weather wrong!

I'd love to be paid masses of wonga to be made into some svelte sixpacked hunk just to say "Mild showers over Hunstanton, with a westerly breeze across Cromer, with some sunshine in Norwich with occasional cloud"! - All for thousands, nay, MILLIONS of squids! All waving their tentacles in the floodwaters and eating the fisherfolk who refuse to belive there's a great big feck off Architeuthis Dux terrorising the bay!

Cor if that ain't workin', I don't know what is.

Probably paying your guitar on the MTV.

Money for nothing and it's chips for tea.

McCain MicroChips, I think, coz you have to install them microwave ovens in some custom kitchen delivery.

Unfortunately, you can't move the refrigerators, coz Sting's buggered off to some Amazonian rainforest to have tantric sex with plate lipped bare-breasted prostitutes as he tries to hide from the paper ratsies in his car.

He wants her...

He wants her...

He wants her empty "V"...

filled with Sumners' stiffy.

Or something.

Probably.

Do you have to let it linger...

...I'm just a fool for booze

I had to lick it from my finger-er-er-er-rs*

Does it have to , does it have to, Does it have to bloody linger...

Booze is a funny old thing. By the time I crawled in at 4:30am I'd've thought that by this morning all the alcohol would have disappated.

No such luck!

Clearly, my cocktail of cider, cinnamon aftershock & jaegermeister enjoyed it's absortion into the body and was very reluctant to leave, for at 7pm I was still to drunk to drive and had to spend fortunes on taxis for pop quizment.

Taxis! They charge about a million quid to transport you in a sealed carriage with a driver who not only has no regard for speed limits, traffic lights and other drivers, but has a rather windy whiffy bot.

And why do they take the most complicated route? I know the way from A to B, but I've never had a taxi driver take the simple quick route - it's all unmentionable sidestreets and möbius portals!

Followers of the work of Hugo Rune will know of the secret cabbie society within Englands capital (BOLLOCKs**). I wonder if they've set up branches in other cities, and if Those In Power have set up A-Zs in Norwich to store all the booty of small screws, pens, and yellow handled screwdrivers. I suspect this spin-off is called CUNTS - Cabbies Undermining Norfolk's Transportation System)

Anyhoo, after quizment and much coffee, I recall certain aspects of Hadesment I was supposed to blog about. There was something about cut-glass gash, but exactly how the minge of Alistairs big haired pal cropped up, or was cropped into topiary, currently elude the memory cells.

A very Dark Crystal indeed, as I'm assuming that they included the dark haired one's bush. She must've been a skeksis, as one would expect that their opposing counterpart would be a Mystic with crystal balls.

Which makes you wonder if the UrSkeks were trannies or Hermaphroes, as they did wear dresses (or Mystic Robes, if you are a Bongo Brother).

Although Ms Tipps did have a sort of afro, so it's probably the latter.

Or something.

* AS OPPOSED TO LICKING IT FROM KELSO'S PARK-YER-PINT KLE'VARJ, WHERE I RECALL MUCH SPILLAGE AT ONE POINT.

** THE BLACK ORDER, LONDON'S LEGION OF CAB KNIGHTS