All’s Snell that ends Snell...

Somehow I doubt that the performance of an Irish jig in front of a sickly aminal is likely to induce recovery, but that's just me!

And now, there's a sequel! Babes: Sex In The City, or something.

And, being more Sheep-pig related shennanigans, it's got that Sarah Jessica Porker in it, playing Carrie.

Who, as I recall, got covered in pigs blood by Danny Zuko and that PoliceBird out of Robocop 2 before going on a telepathic rampage, thanks to her mental mother from Twin Peaks.

Now, call me olde fashioned, but surely the porcine pervosity of rubbing aminal blood all over your nudie bod whilst nobbing Mr Big (in the trouser department) isn't really family entertainment for New Years afternoon!

They should have stuck with the nice "That'll do, Pig. That'll do" ending, rather than turn it into some chick-flick sexual empowerment of mole tarnished trollops.

Forget the Irish Jig by Mr Hoggett*, it'll be Gracie Law writhing on a pole for the entertainment of David Lo Pan (or Fumio Yamaguchi, being Carrie's Mom's totally foolproof disguise) !!

Bah! Ram you right up the...

* GRRRRRR... It'S HOGGLE!!!!
  

The strongest gay in the village...

I know The Gays are all proud of their alternative lifestyle these days, but do that have to thust it in our faces?

Their sexuality, that is, not their cocks.

They thrust them in our faeces via our bottoms.

Or something.

Anyhew, it was only a matter of time before they started taking on nom de plume's relating to their sexual picadilloes (or their sexual piccolo, if you know what I mean, and I'm sure that you do!)

I was watching the telly, when the Worlds Strongest Man came on, and one of the contestants is called Fill Fister.

Fill fister!! Fill F, more like! ie Filth!!

A fister he may be, 'fill'ing ladyboys up the elbow with his greasy arms, but there's no need to come on telly, all beefcaked up and brag about it!

Slathering grease all over himself to better hold Atlas's balls indeed... more like getting ready for bumfun in the Jim!

I wondered why they always rub talc over their hands...
   

I kissed a girl*...

an' I liked it
But she tastes like some old chaps dick...

Serves her right for snogging lesbionic babes who've been fellating OAPs!

At least when Jill Sobule sang about snogging her neighbours missus, Jenny tasted of fags.

And not his hairy behemoth.

* WHEN I SAY I KISSED A GIRL,  I MEAN K.T.PERRY KISSED A GIRL. NOT XYMON. THE CHANCES OF XYM GETTING TO KISS A PRETTY ARE A MILLION TO ONE (HE SAID). WHO'D WANT TO SNOG THAT FAT TUB O'LARD!

I KISSED A XYM
DON'T LIKE IT
HE'S SUCH A GORMLESS FAT GIT...

ETC...

Is it Brokeback Mountain...

Bad enough that taking out a top-up results in Asian assault, and now it's incestuous soliciting on the streets!

OK, so Charades is bad enough at Xmas, so you make a great escape to McBastards, and stand in the parking lot, munching on festive McFeasts. And while you stand there like some forlorn rent-boy in a car park, up rolls a car and down rolls the window.

And is it some nubile nympho Hen partystrumpets, asking if you're doing business (and would you mind doing the business with the Bride-To-Be on her last night of freedom)?

No, it's an aged old troll asking if you're offering up for cock for gratis (which is foreign for 'covered in cheese'. Or something).

And it's not just any aged old troll - it's yer gran, offering up her festive pie to McDine upon!

M. C. Pimpnanna in da limo, cruisin' for geek chic...

...and free willies...
  

When in Rome...

..Do as the Romans do.

Now, I may be wrong here, but surely Thompson and First Choice are encouraging larger louty behaviour abroad with this popular adage.

For what did the Romans do when they were in Rome?

{apart from the sanitation, the medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, a fresh water system, and public health}

Well, it was all drinking wine, stuffing their faces and spewing it up, orgies, and feeding Christians to the lions.

Much of which is performed by these Boozed up Brits on holiday... apart from the lions. Although they probably fed Christian a loin steak (none of that furrin food abroad! A proper full English, a steak or roast for tea, and a proper british kebab pizza on the way back to the hotel at 5am).

Although Pontius Pilates washed his hands - more than can be said for these filth ridden gormsters who can't even glance at a sink after a piss in fear of being called a poof! "Wash my hands? That's only a step away from rubbing in hand cream. And that bog troll ain't rubing his cream all over my hands, I can tell you!".

At least the Romans wore a Xena skirt over their speedos...
 

The Power Of Crist Compells Thee...

..to punch each others lights out!

Yes, It's Boxing Day - the day The Christians celebrate the Almighty's punch-up with Judy and the formation of their cut-price ship merchandising.

As anyone how knows anything about religion knows, The Bible is missing a whole lot of stuff about Jesus. Certain gospels weren't included, and certain bits of the current gospels were taken out & re-edited, as they made Jesus look like a bit of a tit.

I'm not going to delve into the various arguments over what are now called The Heretic Texts, but it's from these we can glean the purpose of Boxing Day.

According to the original gospels, Jesus had had a bit too much to drink on his 18th birthday, and the next morning had a hangover from Hell. Being a bit amnesiastic about the previous evenings events, he got it into his head that Judas (always a bit of a sneak) had gotten off with his bird.

Judas retorted that Jesus was suffering from "Brewers Droop" and that Mary was a prossie anyways, so it made no odds. Jesus, however, was a bit of a hothead, and called Iscariot out.

Judas retorted with the accusation of Jesus being a "fisher of men", and if he was fishing for men, then he was a Palestinian poof, and wouldn't last five minutes in the ring with a real man. But not in his ring, just so Christ didn't get any ideas.

So, a square was hastily drawn out, four pillars at each corner, and ropes strung around the outside. Thomas was a bit doubtful of resolving the argument with a fight, but suggested a forfeit. Both being fishermen, If Jesus lost, being a carpenter, he's have to provide cheap lumber for the fishing boats. Judas, involved in canvas (and probably dressmaking, being a closet queen), would have to provide cheap sails for the fishing boats.

Typically, Peter Simon already had his fishing vessel, but needed a new sail (having recently watched The Goonies, and split it trying to recreate Sloth dropping down the sail with a dagger), so mid-fight, he tripped up Judas, Jesus punched his lights out and won the bet, and everyone rushed off to bag a bargain on the sails.

And Judas was really pissed off at the cheating git, and waited for the opportune moment to wreak his revenge.. which came along when Ciaphas asked Judas to dob in The Christ for 30 pieces of silver.  Judas was so pleased with this scheme, he threw in a lifetime's supply of sails (which the Pharisees lost out on when Judas topped himself - he was, after all, ever such an untrustworthy sneaky git).

Of course, The Vatican later edited out the fight, and the wager, and the whole argy-bargy, so only students of theology know why we celebrate Boxing Day and the Xmas "sales".

No one else does!

Aha! I hear you say! As no-one knows what Boxing Day actually is, Xym could make something ludicrous up, and no-one would be any the wiser!

But I won't do that to you, dear reader, as my blog is a serious thing, not to be taken lightly, with a reputation to maintain.

The truth is out there, and it comes in here.
   

Cranial vertical axis movement container...

So.

Here it is.

Merrie Xmas.

Everybody's having fun.

Look to the future now.

It's only just begun.
  

Mardy Bum...

OK, so there's my Nan, and your Nan, sat by the 6-bar electic fire,
and then my Gran starts threatening your Gran with arson upon the bedding!

Then they talk about the fuel (Hay, now), being rather flammable.

So, after all that, you have to look at the hubby of my country's ruler. Apparently, he likes to doll up in vermillion (who did not sing Kayleigh. Or Grendel).

And he only charges a fiver for assassination! Looks like Charlie got a bargain!!

And, being royal, they converse about the latest fodder for their fillies at Ascot, and it's Hay now, and not oats.

And, of course, it's Carnivale, so there's two of The Gays, and one of them is also an arsonist, and threatening to perform his incendiary pleasure upon a square of county symbol bearing cloth!

Which is now a terrorist offence, I believe.

And now we're saying "Hey, Now the flag's raised and it's all aflame!"

And finally, it's either The Hulk (or Robynne Hoode) who puts in an appearance a-la James Brown to roger the nannas and the ladyboys...

Less 'ey Now and more A Nurse*...

Iko! Iko! an de'
Jackomo fe no a na nae' , Jackomo fe na ne'**

* THINK ABOUT IT...
** WHICH IS NEW ORLEAN JAZZ/BLUES SPEAK. AND AS "AUTO DA FE" IS "TORCHING DA CAR", IT PROBABLE MEANS SOMETHINK LIKE...
IKO! IKO! = PARTY! PARTY!
AN DE JACKOMO FE NO = AND DON'T SET FIRE TO JACK THE HOMO
A NA NAE = AH, GO ON
JACKOMO FE NA NE = BURN JACK THE HOMO. GO ON!
OR SOMETHING...

Computer sez "No"...

Cough! Splutter!

Cor, an exploding front door.

Think I need some 6in nail acupuncture and a laundry bag over me head, whist writing to Ian McCulloch.

Better check there isn't a fish in my bed.

Yikes - my parents are coming round to tea, and there's an escaped psycopath in the living room and three harridans in the back room concocting a casserole in a cauldron!

Oh well, at least I'm off work now - still UK Gold on for The Goode Life...
   

Gary Fuckit and the Student Union age gap...

Young girl, get out of my mind
My love for you turns me paedophile
Better run girl
Coz I'm a paedo

According to The Daily Jugs, the star of Gavin and Stacey (Matthew Got-the-horn) wouldn't mind a bit of the old jiggery-porkery with Lauren off The Catherine Tit Show. Especially when she's in her school uniform.

Now, the trollop in question may be a haggard old trout in Real Life, but announcing to the world that you want to nob some gobby chav schoolgirl in uniform firmly is somewhat more than suspect!

I bet he goes to them paedo parties as well. You know the one's - Old Skool Clubnights, where the 'organizers' want the totty in school uniform in some "harmless bit of fun" whilst gyrating to "Cum on, Cum on! You Wanna Be In My Gang".

Gang? Paedo ring, more like!
   

Textin’ in chigago (down in New Orleans)...

Apparently, if you get a T-Mobile phone, you'd better ensure you don't need a top-up. For if you do, you'll be chased out of the store by some mental orientals who'll tackle you to the floor.

Yes, there's molestin' in the street!

I wouldn't mind a bit of improper dancing in the middle of the street if it was a couple of them Harajuku type Manganese Battle Vixens - all short skirts and exploding blouses, but instead you get flung to the floor by a pair of middle age doggers who start stroking you and carressing your face.

Singapore swingers should not resort to virtual rape, just because a customer needs to top up their phone. Unless they misinterpreted "top up on the phone" as a request for the haggard old trout to lift her top up for bazooka exposure for cameraphone snappage.

And perhaps this street sexual assault is their response - happy slapping in the most slappery sense!
I'm on Vodafone, so all I get is the descrepit old crone in the Co-Op requesting my Sharecard, not wrestled to the ground by vodaphonic vixens.

I dread to think what the O2 Bolt-Ons are... sounds suspiciously like an enhanced version of a Strap-On, but involving nuts.

Or something.

And I ain't being ravished by a Hong Dong Honey for a £5 top-up...

A tenner, on the other hand...
 

I'll be back...

And he is!

Didn't old Pearcider claim to be upping sticks and ceasing to inflict his glovular antics upon the townfolk due to abuse and lack of people popping coins into his cap?

Then he came back for a one-off comeback special.

And unless I'm mistaken, he's been a constant irritation since!

Has he been replaced by a Terminator? Is the original puppeteer lying in a ditch, and a puppet in his place? He never seems to get any older. He looks like puppet man, dances like puppet man, plays the same music as the puppet man, but he's not the puppet man*...

Gone is his mic...

Actually, come to think of it... gone is the puppet dog on a string...

I reckon that he's some evil force from the future - after all, what's more innocuous than a barmy old man with a stereo in a pram, madly making merry in his eccentric little way.

Aha!

I reckon one day he gashed his hand, so out went the puppet onna string, and he had to cover the hand with a full hand-glove puppet to hid the shiny gleam of his titanium endoskeleton.

And how he has TWO glove puppets - clearly bother hands have had some sort of injury, and he needs to keep his mechano fingers hidden from the public!

It's a damn good ruse - sooner or later, everyone in the city will have passed by The Puppet Man, and when the object of his mission strides past, it'll be off with the puppet, and pulling pistols out his pants and taking out the future resistance leader.

Or his mum.

He does seem to like The Pretties... perhaps he's scanning them with his laser eyes, and cross-referencing the data with his microprocessing unit to see if the lady in question is the Norfolk equivalent of Sarah Connor, destined to rear her son to be a Leader of Men.

Taught warfare on the battlegrounds of Mile Cross and The Larkman...

* HE'S A POD PERSON FROM THE PLANET MARS!!!!
 

Poor old Cedric Diggory.

First, Harry beats him in the Tri-Wizard tournament, then Lord Fol-De-Rol zaps him when he clutches the Portaloo.

And he returns as one of The Undead. Wamphyri! Das Wampir! A vampire!!

Anyhoo - Cedric's a modern vampire.Which means...
a) He doesn't bite people or vampirise them
b) He sulks a lot and gives lots of looks at ladies
c) He can walk about in the daytime... but if he gets caught in sunlight then... the sun sparkles on his spray on glitter from Claires Accessories
d) He has a reflection
e) He lives in a great big house with his vampire family... all huge picture windows to let in lots of light
f) He can't transform into a bat, but he can run unbelievably quickly. Or rather, run somewhat unbelievably
g) He teaches damsels to dance by taking them up a tree and having a bit of a chat.

So, technically, apart from being 'immortal', he's not really a vampire at all!

Vegitarian vampires my bum! He's just (badly) put on a load of white foundation and act all mournful to pull pretties!

"Ooooh, I'm a tortured soul. I want to be with you, but I dare not, for I'm a Vampire me, and oh, so tragically alone"
"Swoon! Please make me a vampire, and I can be with you always!"
"Erm... no. Not because I'm not really a vampire, but... erm... I don't want to you be like me, all tragedy laden and miserable"
"But I WANT to be all EMO misery!"
"Feck. Why can't be grow old together"
"But you'll always remain as a 17 year old"
"Oh, the suffering I must endure, to watch you grow old, wither and die, whilst I remain ever so youthful"
"Swoony swoon swoon! It's true love!"

And just how did the mesmerised maiden work out that the unvampire-like vampire was a vampire? Good old google. Seems that googling Indian Legends returns the legend of the slapping beaver... Now, exactly how slapping beaver can make you realise the object of your desire is one of the undead, I'm not entirely sure.

Although, she was getting a bit frustrated, as she so wanted him to bite her and roger her senseless, but he declined in case he ripped her bonce off and feasted on her bodily fluids mid-bonk. Mayhap she got this legend as a mismatched hit whist asking 118-118 for advice on how to get a vampire to slap her beaver.

As you do...
  

Festive fetish FAIL...

OK, so it was Xmas Meal yesterday, and after an afternoon's intoxication, it appears Mr Manager thought it would be a good idea to hire Sin-Sin's.

Naturally, I thought the softcore sex shop had launched it's own nightclub, and it would be a bevvy of basque'd beauties, all decked out in Summer frocks and other erotic ladywear. PVC Sexy Mistress Claws and all that.

So, we gets there... and it wasn't on St Bendy-dicks as it used to be. Clearly, they've moved down Prisoner of War road, to take on the Norwich Clubland.

Anyhew, we enter... and the place looks suspiciously like a brothel (based on what I've seem on The Bill).

And then we're lured into The Cellar by the Door Dolly (closely followed stereotypical The Bill type seedy weedy pornographer), where red lighting lights dingy corridors with small cells leading off. ..

And then we're split into 2 groups and ushered into a small cubicle, with padded walls and a telly, and some form of cushioned couch (bed?). Hmmm... looking more and more like some CD sex show booth, with live streaming from another rooms onto the telly.

Hmmm... there seem to be a couple of King Dong pleasuring devices as well. Ah, technology - they has a pewter monitor to select your wanton trollop!

Wait a minute... Smack My Bitch Up? Surely I've not been lured into yet another punishment palace...

D'oh! Our mistake. The place is called Sing-Sing's, and the percieved Love Truncheons are microphones!

It's not Carry On Clubbing, or Let's Hire Carrie, OK?

It's a karaoke bar.

Good job we didn't proposition the pint pulling pretty then!
  

There’s a guy in the place with a bitter sweet face...

...and he goes by the name of Bob The Builder!

Never mind the breezeblocks, It seems it's more like Bob The Dealer!!

And just like E's Are Good, he's encouraging pill peddling with his latest musical offering "Big Fish, Little Fish, Cardboard box".

Now, as all the world knows, this is a song designed to get the rugrat ravers into the aceeed house dance stylee, by having the iconic hyped-up hand-jive of the afficionado of the speed freak as the official dance.

So now know we know why his 'Escort' is called Wendy. Wend-E, more like!!

I'll just bet Spud's "On the job" - a bank job, to feed his crack habit that Bob's got him dependant on!

And there's a healthly supply, what with gay Farmer Pickles* growing Certain Substances on his back allotment.

Can we fix it...

Yeah, we can get you a fix, no probs mate...

* HE OWNS A SEMI-TRAILER TRUCK CALLED PACKER... SHORT FOR FUDGEPACKER!!
   

Too much hard work...

No blog today, for I can't be arsed.

It was going to be about this SCD furore, and how I can't get me head around this voting palava.

A vote is a vote - if Person A gets 1,000,000 more votes than Person B, they win. Simple as.

Not so the BBC with their preposterous excuses to cover up their latest fixed show and phone-in scandal!

In order to fix the result, 2 couples got the same score, which left one couple with less points. According to the Beeb, no matter how many votes they got, they could never win!

So, if the public vote, and EVERYONE voted for this pair of losers, and the other two got nowt, the other two would still win? Well, if one person voted for one of the other 2, then they'd win, despite having 999,999 votes less than the 'loser'.

Who organises these phone-in voting rules? Has Robert Mugabe been drafted in specially to ensure the Judges favourite cannot lose in some outlandish voting rules that means a clear winner is certainly a loser?

Anyhoo, I can't be bothered going through all that now, and would much prefer getting to back to playing with everythiiiiiiiiing.

So, another day, another lost blog...
    

If wishes were horses...

...beggars would not ride. They'd eat the horses, or hollow them out for makeshift tents.

Not to mention having to shovel all their shit.

And if they had all these mares and stallions, they'd make wodges of cash flogging them off to racing courses.

Or flogging dead ones, in some cat o' nine tales festishery.

And I don't mean biscuitty blind detectives!

If wishes were horses, I'd be pissed off I didn't get me wishes.
"Ah, Aladdin! You've rubbed me lamp, so you get three horses"
"Don't you mean three wishes? Cash, Gash, and out on the lash"
"Nah, wishes are horses these days mate. Here, have this triplicity of fine equestrian fare"
"But them's nor horses - them's a mule, Uncle Peter (woof! bark!), and a certain tall hair of monochrome boxing promoter!"
"Beggars can't be choosers, you great arabian oaf!"
"How about whoresies instead..."
"Hmmmm, I think we can get away with that.."
"oh, I can't keep me hands off 'em"
"what?"
"ME ARMS!!!"

Oh, how we laughed...
 

Quicker than a Ray of Shite...

That gnome of stamp removal has been at it again, but this time he's playing switcheroo with my DVD special features.

Wary that I know of his existence, he's not actually snaffled the discs, but took them to his toadstooly hideaway and mucked about with them in his elven editing suite.

How else can anyone explain the new wave of "Deleted Scenes" on my DVDs?

DVDs used to have this feature, and you'd watch a film, then watch the deleted scenes. Now, these scenes may have been shite, or cut down for time, but at least you got to see all the bits that made up the movie and added more plot/content and filled in some plot holes.

No so now - the boggart has buggered about with 'em. A "Deleted Scene" now appears to be an undeleted scene. In fact, it's invariably identical to the one in the film, except perhaps one sentence was cut!!

And it's really annoying watching 5 mins of the same footage, only to discover that the word Bum was acutally recorded as Arse, but changed in the edit.

I reckon that goblin is keeping all the Deleted Scenes for himself, and replacing them with undeleted scenes as a pure anoyance to the mortal world.

And suchlike.

And talking of special features on DVD - how come Scene Access and Interative Menu are now listed as special features? They're not! They're part of the bog standard offering of every bloody DVD going! Put a DVD in - get a menu, select Play All or Chapter Selection. How is that a Special Feature?

Not only that, the DVD Imp adds loads of crap to piss you off on the Main Feature disc.

The first clue is that he's reburnt the CD - sometimes he forgets to put the phrase "Disc One", etc on the presing, so you never know which is which... and always end up putting on Disc 2 first.

When you finally get Disc 1 and pop it in... the SKIP and MENU function are deactivated whilst the following plays:
1. An string of video distribution animatics
2. A screen where you have to select your country
3. The "You wouldn't steal a car" advert
4. Several screens advising you not to fuck about with the DVD. In several languages
5. A sequence of adverts for films totaly unrealated to the movie.On the plus side, SKIP is now active, but you still can't get to the Menu until you've skipped  passed all the ads.
6. You select PLAY MOVIE... up pops numerous disclaimers, about how the production company aren't responsible for the content in the commentaries (even though you ain't gonna listen to them).
7. Animatics for the sound company (Dolby or THX)
8. The Production company animatic
9. And finally the movie starts... but coz you've been making a cup of tea due to the endless waiting, you've missed the first 5 mins so have to return to the start of the movie and view the opening logos all over again.

And by the time you are finally settled to watch the movie (which would be half way through if not for all that preamble), the phone rings, or you have to go out, or something.

And when you DO get to the end of the film, you skip through the credits to watch the bonus ending clip (that you didn't stay for in the cinema, but everyone else appeared to). More often that not, there ain't one... but then it seagues into another set of foreign language warnings about copyright, and STOP and MENU and SKIP are disabled, so you have to switch it off.

And how come, even when you select country as Great Britain, Language as English, do you still have to view all these warnings in arabic and Danish and Sanskrit? Surely, being in Britain, with English language switched on, I shouldn't have to sit through screen after screen of foreign warnings...

UNLESS there's a clause I should be aware of, and I need to learn Mandarin, German and Sumerian to ensure I'm fully compliant of all the regulations (as Ignorance Is Not An Excuse, apparently). I'll get my collar felt by the rozzers for ripping my DVDs to my iPod because there's a clause on the Ukraine page saying I can't coz I'll get banged up with Mr Big in the showers for the passing of soap request.

I dread to think how many compulsary screens are on these discs, as they hold a lot more info.

Which I doubt, seeing as they haven't got enough room to spell Blue-Ray correctly.

And don't get me started on why we don't call DVD Red-Ray...

The ’beautiful’ gamey-wamey...

My manager was looking at the Evening News website, and announced that some brainless wonder managed to do 4,000 keepy-uppies.

Of course, I had to ask WTF was a keepy-uppie. Seems it's a term for thicko footballers so they know what to call it when they can keep a ball in the air.

Now, footballers aren't the brightest spark in the pie van, but surely they can come up with a game terminology that's a bit less like talking to a baby gormster.

Honestly, so the little shit can do keepy-uppies. Ooooh. Can he do kicky-wickies to get the bally-wally into the netty-wetty?

For fucky-wucky's sake!

I reckon it's all the fault of Brand and Woss. Starts off with a simple Booky-Wook, and now look where it's gotten us.

Next thing, these lager louty-wouts will be making obscene phoney-woney calls to referee's missus, claiming they shagged his daughter. Up the shitty-witty.

Keepy-Uppies indeed!

Grrrrrrrr!
  

Tripped over Ciccone and her huge knockers...

There was quite considerable debate today, for The Eighties were a long time ago, and the Mind plays funny tricks upon you.

Todays discourse was on Xmas 1st number ones of the 80s, and the debate was on the title (and subject) of a 1982 Xmas shit.

Now, this is all down to René out of 'Allo 'Allo, and that Renato bird. My recollection is that their now legendary musical hit was "Save your love" - however, some people recall differently, and are convinced it was called "Shave your love".

Now, them Italian types are renowned for their friskyness, and I recall the great fat french shopkeeper lobbing Cornettoes and Cadbury Roses up at the bird on the balcony, but I definately don't recall any Shaven Haven action going on!

Of course, it's entirely possible that a song about pubic follicle removal could get to No1 in the 80s - after all, Relax was all about bumsex, gay blowies and Holly Johnson jizzing over arses.

Shave your love, my darling

shave your love

For summer nights* with moon and stars above.

A serenade I long to sing you

The reddest rose** I always bring you

Save your love for Roma and for me.

He could be right...

* COZ SUMMER NIGHTS ARE HOT, AND YOU DON'T WANT YOUR BUSH GIVING YER BITS A BIT OF A SWEAT
** REDDEST ROSE? I'LL BET!! RED BLOODY RAW AND SORE AFTER THE APPLICATION OF A RAZOR TO YOUR DOWN BELOW JUMANJI.

PC Peek at knees...

Forget Police, Camera, Action and the like - there appears to be a new bobby on the beat.

Of the mixed black and white clerical style!

Yes, whislt a-waiting for the omnibus, there was a police chase. But not any old police chase.

It was a police chase on foot...

..or should I say pause?

Two yappy chavvy dogs, charging down the street, pursued by a burly canine with a big flashing blue light on his bonce!

Certainly not a sight you see everyday, so I suspect that I just got a glimpse into the real world of aminals. 

Whilst the owners are blissfully unaware, they have their own secret society, and I just happened to catch sight of the woof justice being doled out to crackhead canines.

I dread to think what's going on when we're not looking. Poodle prostitutes on street corners, mastiff muggers, Rover the Rapist - and there's the Bulldog Bill, harassing a couple of Jack-The-Lad Russels for sexual misconduct in a public place.

Buttsniffing clampdown. It's a canine PC gone mad, I tell thee!
  

Should’ve gone to...

Yay! As fom Monday, Xym will be a speccy four eyes!

And even more on the plus side, there's a Siren of the Specs in Specsavers*, so my first view with new eyes will be Alternative Pretty in Hi-Def!

Looks like I don't have to rush out and buy a PS3 and 1080p telly, as I'll be stunned at the picture quality on me bog standard telly and bog standard DVD.

A gormster in goggles!

Call me Twoflower.

Actually, don't, coz Twoflower sounds so... gay!

* WHO I'M NOT OLD ENOUGHT FOR. ALLEGEDLY.
  

Leader of the plaque...

Why are wisdom teeth so called?

Doesn't seem very wise to me, forcing it's way out your gums at a strange angle, leaving itself ripe for invasion from Mystery Cats with hidden paws.

On the other hand, it's appears to be wise enough to let said feline go so deep that drillment is impossible, so it's peg pullment city.

Although, it seems that to get at this wisest of gnashers, they have to flay half me face off to get at it, being in such a feck awkward place!

And if becoming a gummy bear ain't enough, now I have to learn braille!

Which is great, coz when yer blind, you get to 'accidentally' grope Pretties protuberances as you feel your way forward! And if I recall, isn't there a game called Blind Man's In The Buff... or was that a Skinny Emma song?

Xym's bin framed...
  

Laurel's bare...

How come when English gormsters storm airports and hold up sun-seeking holidymakers holidays, the press regard them as Protestors, Demonstrators, or activists?

Yet when Johhny Foreigner has a pop at Scottish airports, they're suddenly Terrorists and Fundamentalists?

One rule for the evil jyhaddi, and another for English folk! Demonstrators, my arse! They're no different to any other terroroneoffthewrists! Demon's Traitors, more like!

And isn't it uncanny how 'Eco-Warrior' sounds suspiciously like 'Al-Quaeda'. Or that the Rainbow Warriorettes are actually haggard old (rainbow) trouts!

With some exceptions - some are quite hot!

Just because they block some porkbucket from getting to Ibiza for their full English brekkie by sitting on the runway sipping weak lemon tea, it doesn't make them no different to some rabid Rabbi invoking the wrath of Yaweh upon the airline, or a hook handed Mutja HadHim (out of The Veiled Sugababes) suicide shoebombing RyanAir with a rucksack.

Cart the lot off to Guano TiVo Bay, and have done with it...
  

A rack? No, Phobia!

Dammit!

After all that, and it's black market organ theftage, and not a giant spider in sight.

And how come, in a temple of venemous bitey arachnids, does everyone feel the need to strip down to a flimsy strappy vest and shorts? Surely, a long sleeved top and jeans would prevent fangular injectory antics, whereas a ladies flimsy white top, freshly dampened by a fall into The Convenient Pool, clearly has some form of preventative measures built into it.

Presumably, all the nippy insects are so enamoured of the nip definition on the wet t-shirt, they Go Tharn and are rendered incapable of biting bare flesh.

Nypnosis - the new way to save yer skin...
  

I’m a market stall wierdo...

gathering a storm of spew

I'm a market stall wierdo

feeding me face with the mixed pulse

Are you following me?

Oh, are you following me!

I wouldn't if I were you, in case of pavement pizza plungement to ground level, in a sickly slippery slide of creamy gingerbread milky goodness and all day brekkie.

Thank heaven for the shoring up by Steak, chips and dark rose stem pointy pricks!

Cereals and pulses, my best hat! I know they're supposed to make yer heart healthy, but Rice Crispy Broth?

Biff, Baff, Broth.

*cough*

*vom*
   

Kirk’s floater near the land of Nod...

Most certainly!

Forget M Knight Charlatan and his Hippy Happening with the killer grass - seems that in the {future} we subjugate killer trees and get all the leccy from it's roots!

And Killer Trees don't like being made into battery hedges (free-range trees deffo not on the menu), and so the Sap Of Mutation comes to the fore.

Of course, when everyone's being mutated into murderous monstrosities, you send in The One to sort it all out... who promptly loses his memory until the Final Revelation, and The Process is reversed and then all the energy is fed back into rootage, causing foliage expansion.

And the loss of all the leccy!

So the poor old future sailors can't watch the telly.

These messianic saviours - selfish, selfish, selfish, the lot of 'em!
   

It’s that time of year again...

With new annual last line changeage!

Christmas is coming, and my belly's getting fat

Please spend a penny in an old man's hat

If you can't spend a penny

Then a Number Two will do

If you can't do a number two

You need less sprouts and more prunes.

Alec’s not in the Netherlands...

The trouble with having The Plumber in for a week, is you have to have a week off work.

And you can't stand over them all day, ferrying cups of tea about!

So, that leaves you with staple diet of ChavScum TV!

Clearly, I must live in some parallel universe. Not being not the most visually appealing to LadyFolk, I'm at a loss to as how I'm passed over by Pretties, when you see the vast, loathsome shoggoths that befould Jeremy Jyle's studio!

Seems to be an endless parade of gene pool, nay, Gene Barrel and the scrapeage thereof!

There's horrendous harridans, lank of locks, wide of waist, foul of a mouth of limited toothipegs, all braying for DNA and lie detector tests, with a queue of violent thugs all wanting to be with it!

There's bloated walrus's, greasy haired, inebriated about the chops, back end bus faced male munter shagabouts, with an array of pretties fighting over them!

I reckon it's all down to Paula Abdul and her  December 1989 hit single "Opposites Attract". Now, in the video, it's all about a woman fancying pussy*. Or at least, a songwriter dancing with cats.

Unfortunately, this 'celebration' of mingers copping off with numerous partners lead to divorce. Shortly after the single release, a certain songwriter with accentuated Ugly who boffed a dancing Pretty from Cats ended their 6 year marriage. And then pulled another bird and got married the next year!

Seems to me, not just to get on Jeremy Kyle, but if you want a string of lovers, all who want to fight just to be with you, you have to be a munter from Hell! Forget Pussycat Dolls - it's Pussyflap Trolls they want these days!

Clearly, although no oil-painting meself, I'm still not visually unpleasant enough to pull! Need to catch Serious Ugly to get a girlfriend, methinks!

Face lift? Wonder if I can get a face drop...

* WHICH IS CONFUSING, AS ABDUL TENDS TO BE AN ARABIAN NAME, WHICH MEANS IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN A GOAT. OR, WITH THEIR OIL FIELD FORTUNES, 1001 LADYBOY KNIGHTS. OR SOMETHING.

That one’s broken...

No wonder I can't find any grub in the Supermarket, if all the staff are nicking it off the shelves and guzzling the lot in the warehouse!

It's a good job these places are so huge, and the shelf stackers get lots of exercise from trekking round the store. Otherwise, their cereal snatching might result in portly pushers of palletts, and management might catch on to their pinchage.

Not only that, they nick it right out of your mitts! Or hide amongst the Hovis and whip stuff out your trolly when you're not looking!

I'll give 'em crunchy nuts if they try and con me out of my brekkie on the lame excuse that my Frosties are on the wonk!

I just hope they don't want to check out my cream...

...on second thoughts, though... that depends on the checker...

Preferably not a Chubby...
   

I’m a celebrity...

...get me on an Iceland commercial!

Seems that one of these alleged 'celebrities' is a glamma modul, and true to form, is as thick as the cak from a kangaroos colon.

She claims that she works hard for her money. Call me olde fashioned, but forgetting to put on a bra in front of a camera, copping off with a wealthy footballer and becoming a brood mare isn't exactly "working hard" - fecking lazy it what it is!

And to try and further your career by having a couple of Space Hoppers shoved up yer chest, then whinge about backache and wanting to get even bigger zeppelins...

...although, it would appear her surgery went all 'tits up', as it's quite apparent that not only is she a right tit, her right tit itself appears to be a Lead Zeppelin! Check out the Bush Telegraph - everyone else sits up straight. Not so Madame Mammaries - the weight of her unequally balanced bazookas tilts her between 10° and 50° to the right (viewers left)!

Check it out, see if I'm right!

Of course, the plan is to get the readers of the Daily Jugs and the Sunday Spurt to vote on the basis that thick chavbirds reckon "the girl's done gud" and chavblokes think "Tits. Must. Vote. Tits".

And the evil trout moans when she finds other contestants on the game show are playing a game! Shock! Horror! Outrage! How dare they usurp her gameplan!

I'm A Celebrity... Leave 'em in the jungle.

Along with the H!IACGMOOHN Now 'audience'... or rather, the Jeremy Kyle rejects that pass from reality spin-off show to reality spin-off show. It's the same bloody Rent-A-Retard crowd on H!IACGMOOHN as was on Pig Botherers Pig Snout etc...

"Yeah, like, I fink Simon Webbe shud win, coz, like, although he ain't done nowt, like, but he's got a great six-pack, innee. He's well fit, so he deserves to win, innit."