I would go out tonight...

...but I haven't got a Stich to wear.

And I aint gonna hollow out a blue space monster into an Edgar-Suit just for going clubbing!

I'll be blue enough, chattering in the frozzen wastes of Norfolk in the terrible, terrible artic winds.

It's them beans...

Oh what an aquasphere...

Much has been said about the hedgehog and it's non-Earthbound properties, but it appears that other creatures are resident within the same skyward plain.

Of course, despite the protestations of the Tonghua Zhenguo Farmer's Suit Eek Cull Company, we already know about the Rods - diving about the skies, pretending to be Chupacabras (or Two Pack Shacker in English) and groping the erogenous zones of womenfolk with birded hands. Irrefutible proof came when one such fell out of the aquasphere to an untimely death, which was covered up on the lame excuse that "he fell from the roof adjusting the arial".

Anyhoo, The Government of the day have discovered a new species, in which to cover up all the sightings of intergalactic space rockets invading our airspace and photoshopped imagery.

The latest excuse for UFOs not being UFOs are that these images are not spacecraft. Nor rain on the lens. Not even a weevil lobbed into the air by a fellow conspiritor. No, the new evidence is that these are images of larger aquacious sentient beings... spindle shaped entities, giant amoebic blobs and huge bladder shaped objects. 

Nothing less than 100ft long giant sky jellyfish!

Of course, this is put forth by the young unbearded greybeards of the future, and is designed to annul our fear of laser equipped battlecruises from a distant galaxy anal probing us to death.

But surely, it's much more terrifying to be on a jetplane, when the electric tendrils of giant killer sky jellyfish hungry for man-flesh envelop the plane and shuck you out like a clam out of it's shell! Tourist sushi for the Portuguese Manowar Of The Gods, dragging you out of the fuselage with a slimy tentacle of Doom!

I'm all for Mother Nature fighting back, but this is political correctness gone mad!

Or something...

Having a bit of a "blonde moment"...

I'm in the phone booth

It's the one across the hall

If you don't answer

I'll just ring it off the wall!!

Hold on - why's she ringing him up from t'other side of the hall? Surely it would be easier to knock on the door or natter through the keyhole? 

And it's not as if his mum's there to embarass him - she's gorn to work (or to the store).

Unless, of course, she lives across the hall from some late night Priest Chat type 0898 phoneporn bloke. Mayhap she prefers his dulcet tones giving her a strange sensation, tipping the velvet as he recites a frantastic Shipping Forcast as she thrashes about in the throes of orgasmic pleasure.

Which can be a tad embarassing in the hallway when his mum suddenly comes home with his tea.

Oh, I can't control myself!

Oh! Oh! I can't control myself!

Oh! Oh! Oooooh! I can't control myself!

Don't leave me panting on the telephone...

Watchoo talkin' 'bout Willis...

Vexation!

There be treacherous footpads about, thwarting our attempts at gaining ye olde booty!

Some unchivalrous knave hath unscrupulously swindled me & my team out of a heaving sack of gold, by nefariously nobbling the 'net and sabotaging source code!

We could have done with Hermione Granger whipping her pearl necklace out and stalling time to avoid the conniving codester's surprise (and yet inevitable) betrayal!

Rig the competition so no-one can win, apart from he wot wrote it!

SKULLDUGGERY!!!!

Make him walk the plank and haul him round the keel and make him dance on a rope under St Stephens Chronograph.

Them 400 dubloons should be linin' OUR purses!!
   

But I see he's feeling itchy...

Whilst travering through the city centre, a pungent odour pervades the air...

Of course - it's the drunken flirty harlot shop!

And what temptatory advertisement is chalked up on the sarnie board to get you inside to exchange cash for bath bombs?

"GRAB OUR FUN BAGS"!!!

Now, maybe it's just me, but surely enticing men off the street with the proposition of the mammarial massagement of the serving wench's lush puppies is somewhat extreme!!

It may well be that the scented salesbird behind the counter has a fullsome pair of funbags, but if I marched in and started delving into her over the shoulder boulder holders and grabbing their gahoonies, I'm pretty certain I would not exit with a raft of sweet smelling showery stuff.

Much face slappage would be the order of the day, with the additional calling upon of burly policefolk to set about my person with betruncheonings galore.

I know sex sells, but really...

WARNING! This blog contains absolute bollocks...

Did you know that Dairy Milk chocolate, being milk chocolate, and containing a pint and a half of milk contains milk?

Surely not! I hear you cry! 'tis only a marketing ploy!

But no - indeed there actually is milk in it! So much so, that they now have to put a warning on for people who are allergic to milk that Dairy Milk Choccie may contain milk!!

Ah, but it be a fair warnin', for this milk seems to be the milky sap of the cactus. The peyote cactii in particular - for it has strange after effects!

For if you so much as eat a small chunk of the tasty treat, then you need to avoid Pappa Ratseye - for the combo of choc & camera creates a cranial stimulus, resulting in the involuntary dancing of eyebrows.

Which can be quite embarassing - especially in those undiscovered Amazonian civillizations where they communicate by eyebrow alone. You'd be trekking through the undergrowth when you come across a cargo culted pygmy blowdarter, unaware of John Frum. You offer him a piece of choccie - he refused at the deities dainties. So you pop a chunk in to show it's harmless. Then you take a Soul Capturing photo with him...

Before you know it, your eyelids are tellling him "Roger me to death* and pop me in the boiling pot with a chilli up the bum for flavouring".

The dentist keeps telling me to drink more milk...

He's not x-raying my chops again...

* REMEMBER - CHOCOLATE IS AN BIG, FRIZZY HAIRED, SOMEWHAT UNSTEADY TIBETAN COW. ALTHOUGH, WHAT AN AFRO'ED DIZZY YAK HAS TO DO WITH SEX & CHOCOLATE, I'M YET TO LEARN...

Will they sing happy Noel (Edmunds)...

There be a fair amount of squit over the Gaza strip at the moment.

Seems that the TellyFolks are refusing to broadcast an appeal for it.

Bloody good job, if you ask me!

Who wants to see some portly weeping dopoed up drunken sportsman peeling of his football kit on t'telly?

Certainly not I!! 

You look older, time stalls...

Me & me great big gob - I talked up all that time travelling malarky dint I!!

Seems that rather than experiment on Diplodocuses and Pteranadons, it's a case of metamorphising the omnibus into a TURDIS and wending me back an hour into a parallel dimension, where everything is the same, but with subtle differences...

I checked me chronometer - yikes! 10 past 2!! I'm running late - best get home quicksharp so I can watch another episode of Firefly before beging the long haul on makin' meself look halfway presentable for Hades.

Fucknuts!! Missed the bus by 30 sex. Grrrrr. Have to wait for the 14:43.

Then I gets a phone call! Me! On me mobile! Yay! Someone loves me today! Oh, jizzknickers. It's only the Odeon, blah, blah, blah, WHAT?!?! Hah! Seems the tenner the half-inching harpy snaffled off me has turned up! Apologies, sir, apologies...

Typical - wait till I'm on the bus and half way home before ringing me up to tell me to come and get it! Have I tame to go back? Must be 10 past 3 now.

Crivens! It's 2pm again!! Have I jumped forward 23 hours? Nope, phone still sez it's Sat 24th.

So, it appears that the Odeon can turn back time. If they could find a way to take back all the words that hurt me, they'd make me stay. Or something. Anyhew, Rather than taking me back to a time before I got home, perhaps they should have taken me back to before I got on the bus!

Then at least I'd have an extra tenner for tonight!

If you could see what I have seen with your eyes...

Blimey! I'm glad I got me eyes tested when I did!

Seems that the new eye tests are a bit extreme for my tastes. Rather than have you look at a screen and read weeny letters, they take your eyes out to examine them!!

And to ensure that they're up to scratch, they sure put them through their paces.

And how do they check that your visual organs are healthy? They bung stick them on the necks of teeny cybertronic 118-118 type emaciated robots, and put them in a minature gym.

And to ensure your eyes aren't cheating by sneakily scoffing a scone instead of working out, the optician can whip his eyes out and bung them on the necks of a pair of minature beefcakes, beaming back the action to his ocular obits!!

I wouldn't mind, but I refuse to lob out me pupils, so that some pervy whitecoat can bung them on the bodies of nubile leotarded oiled up gyratory strumpets and have them re-enact Eric Prydz's "Call On Me" video!

I don't know - one opticians abducts ocular deficient attendees for Hostel torture porn amusement, and now another uses your eyes for their own nefarious pervosity!!

I dread to think what I'll be subjected to in 2 years time...
  

Scythe of an elephant...

Apparently, one man went to mow.

    Went to mow a meadow.

        One man!

            And his super sonic sausage dog

                (with rubber wellies on his feet

                    in which he kept the legs of sheep

                        so he could shag & make 'em bleat)

                            called Spot.

                                Went to mow a meadow!
  

You get too much you get too high...

The Greybeards of our time believe that if you Time-Travelled a Dinah soar into the present day, he'd just die on the spot, as he'd be unable to cope with the present day climate.

But how can this be true? On the face of it, it certainly sounds believable - and kicks the climate change preventative hippie in his yellow loon'd ass!!

But, surely the events of Jurassic Pork refute this. There were dino's a-plenty, munching on foliage and the femurs of feckless foreigners without a care in the world.

Apart from the wheezy ass stegosorearse.

Naturally, friend Greybeard will blind you with science. He'll talk toot about "being born naturally in the modern environment" and "reptillian genetic sequencing" and "hyrid of dino DNA and RADA DNA".

(Further scientific technobabble will then claim that "RADA DNA" is, in fact Frog DNA. THIS IS A LIE!! RADA is thhe Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, famed for it's Shakesperian luvvies. Jurassic Pork actually proves this as well - "Well Timmy, when there's a lot of females about, sometimes they fancy a shag and spontaneously change sex.". Sound familiar? BALLET! Loads of dancing women, where one has grown a large protuberance in 'her' tights! More proof - they cloned a T-Rex!! The now legendary Pewter Suitor, getting it on and banging his gong as he terrorises tourists with his feather boa constrictor!!)

This is all total arse - the basic premise is wrong. A time travelling dino (or a cloned one) will survive just fine. The climate may be different, so it'll just have slightly different effects.

As can be seen in the movie - The stego laboriously wheezes (unlike the heartfelt sigh when Emily Brönte saw us). Clearly, his lungs have trouble with modern air. But he'll adapt. Others, like them Thingummysaurus's cope just fine.

But to some, the increased oxygen is like laughing gas, and sends them into a frenzy. Indeedy, modern air is basically...

Velociraptor catnip!!!!

No wonder they're leaping about everywhere, darting left right & centre at top speed and savaging peoples!
    

Neil, your bedroom's on fire…

Beware!  Reichstag roasting revolutionary rodents be on the prowl!!!

But this is no mere Pyro(dent)maniacs Proletariat People’s Poet, bewailing the conversion of their boudoir into a Roller Disco. No, it be Sciuridæ, rebelling against bourgoisie toffs.

The gray squirrel is tossing his nuts aside, and taking up lighter fluid and petrol bombs!

In his now legendary “Rivers Of Blood” speech Squirrel Nutkin was blacklisted for his views on The Race Issue, and the immigration of foreign Gray Squirrels to our shores. Naturally, Peter Rabbit, Benjamin Bunny, Jemima Puddle-Duck & Johnny Townmouse all thought he was a bit of a racist, and gave him a good kicking.

And as no woman can resist a politician, Mrs. Tug-His-Winkle comforted him later but was caught up  in a later scandal (involving treehouses of ill repute, where winkle tugging in exchange for nut vouchers was all the rage amongst political perverts).

Anyhoo, time proved him right, and England was overrun with the gray menace, and to keep numbers down, the Lords and Ladies of England came up with a unique proposition to quell the tide.

"Save a red, eat a gray!”

And as squirrel surprise in now a staple of the upper class diet (along with bigfoot noses, owl beaks and kangaroo cocks), the Grays have formed a resistance party, and are torching out Kentish scoffers of squirrels! Probably in the hope of barbequing a Baron and dining upon his flesh, as he once feasten on their brethren.

Their first victim was Lord Mayhew, whose two-storey cottage in Goudhurst, near Cranbrook was arsonised by the little devils lurking behind an airing cupboard.

I was going to have a duck-based chinese tonight… I daren’t now, in case the water resistant tasty treat swims up the plumbing and pecks me to death in the night!

Nature bites back indeed…
 

I said Captain, I said WTF...

Somewhat-out-of-the-blue questions do put you off your stride sometimes (but never pull yer strides off, unless you're one of them blessedly lucky people!).

Tippetty tap type type you go on your pewter, when up pops a message box.

Colllegue: "Can you sort this datafile out?" Xymon: "No probs. Give me a minute."Xymon: "OK, all done. You can resubmit it now"Collegue: "When you edited it, did you have preserve on?"

Now, perhaps it's just me, but why would anyone be smearing themselve in jam just to take a line out of a dataset? And why ask me - in the middle of an office? I'm not going to be all nudie on the first floor by the window sending Chivers down my spine!

That said, the collegue in question was "working from home". Which means, she's probably sat at home in her pants, lathered up in marmalade with chutney up her chuff awaiting the attentions of some picallillied postman with a mustarded member.

Or something.

Of course, I di(jest), for you can't slather yourself in preserve. Jam you can, coz it comes in a can (or a jar if you prefer non rhymery based containership), but not preserve.

'Preserve' is American for "Jam in a reallly weeny plastic 'jigger' that won't cover a quarter of a slice of toast, that you nick from the coffee shop and bung in the fridge where they slide to the back and remain there for eternity."

And remember, you must never heat up your preserve, for then you have take your insect based boss for a stroll with some lice & gravel in your preserve, whilst listening to the boy from the big, bad city telling you that the jam is a tad on the overly warm side.

Anyhoo, I thought a preserve was tossing yer balls before whacking them...
  

90.3?!?!?!

Up .2?!?!

No way!

I'm gonna have to start downing shots of Helium - that'll lighten the load! Although, there is the dreaded drawback of Joe Paquale squeakage!

I can't eat, I can't sleep,
There's no doubt, he's a pig
...
I'm gonna have to face it
I'm a fat ugly git!

So much for healthy eating & exercise!
   

Pearl's a swinger...

Who, has to stand up when she plays the piano. Presumably due to some obscure medical condition whereby a pearl being all a-swinging about the nethers can cause some discomfort when tinkling upon the ivories in a seated position.

Good job she didn't have a 12in pianist!

But what was this piano piece being played at the time? Only Wagner's now legendary long lost first attempt at Der Ring Des Niberlungen: The Lovecircle Dance of the Ladyoyster.

Originally a satirical piece about man's inability to locate the elusive Ladyoyster, let alone the Ladypearl ("and the least said about Pearl Jam, the better!" spaketh Jeremy in class today), it concerned the HP Saucy tales of Philip Eno, brother of Brian, a Pearl Diver who can hold his breath for a very long time, and goes on a quest to find the ladypearl amongst the Water Nymphos.

When presented to Adolf Hitler, although he liked the choral section entitled Confessions of Mr Sulu in the Archipelagoes, it wasn't mystical enough for his tastes, and it didn't sound all that menacing when it came out of the hidden speakers in his chopper.

And so, the pearl diver became a dwarf searching for the gold amongst the water nymphs so he could forge it into a cock ring. Or something.

Tchaikovski was rather taken with the original pervy piece, that he teamed up with Wagner to re-develop Lovecircle Dance of the Ladyoyster into Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, about a ball busting harridan nicknamed The Nut Cracker. Hitler, however, vastly insulted, already having one nut cracked and placed upon display in the Albert Hall. It also struck fear into his very heart at the thought of the loss of his one remaining knacker.

Tchaikovski wussed out and rewrote the music for a more toylike appeal, but Wagner simply renamed it Ride of the Valkyries and hey presto! When this comes out of a chopper, Charlie ran in fear of lovespud destruction from goddamn sexual tyrannosaurus's of "The Body" persuasion.

Don't touch me...
     

Better cut down on yer Porklife, mate...

There's an upcoming hour long documentary on the tellybox soon called "What aren't thin people fat?"

Well, it's bloody obvious to me!

Thin people aren't fat, because they're thin! 

If they were fat, they'd be fat people!

Maybe I'm missing some huge scientific revelation here, but surely you don't need to explain that thin people aren't fat because they're thin. Once they cease being thin, they're no longer thin. They're fat!

What's next?
Why aren't short people tall?
Why aren't circles square?
Why aren't cars bissexuals?

Of course - may the title's wrong? May be it's "Why don't thin people get fat" - which is even worse. You can't be fat without starting off thin.

Unless your mum raised you on ginsters pasties since birth.

I used to be a svelte 28" waisted stickboy when I moved to Norwich, now I'm a vast mountain of gelatine repulsive to they eyes of Norfolk ladyfolk.

Proof enough that thin people can get fat!

I'm gonna have to get a job with The Media, as you can make up any old shite and get a documentary out of it!

Pan(ts)orama...
  

Tea... Sponge... Fondant Fancy...

Nooooooo!

Not TWO of them!

The eunuchification of old gimmers is all very well (less to poke yer eyes out in Club Antichrist), but really...

Sexy woman with an itchy chicken...

I wanna move to Macho Picachu!

The Peruvian rainforest is a breathtaking place, home to vast rainforesty vistas, immense ziggurats, polished blue beadery and very fat, heavy, nudie (padded tonne bare) Mayans munching marmalade/marmite bread based snackery.

But it's not just tanning yourself before the Sun Gate as typesetters (also known as Inkers, due to writing with cephalopod ink, as there's no 'leccy for the pewters) waft fronds of rainforest about your person to cool you down.

Even better - you're allowed to be as pissed as an olmec alchoholic partaking of chilli chocolate liquer!

Yup - no teetotalling toltects here, and that's the law! As long as you don't offend or hurt anyone, you can be hard at work sweeping crisps off the Nazcan lines whist downing Mayan moonshine like there's no tomorrow, and you can't be sacked!

And if they DO sack you, a judge orders them to give you your job back!

I think I'll propose this as a 'morale booster' at work...

Now, that IS workin'
That's the way to do it!
A drunken Madeley smiting Finnigan!

Rum! Punch & Judy...
  

Easy for you to say with the benefit of hind legs..

Cast away thy peyote and medicine bag, thou wonder-worker of the Plains, for there be an easier way than engaging in psychonautic practices to call up Gitche Manitou and induce entry into the spirit world.

All you need to become a wind-walking medicine man these days is to guzzle 8 cups of Nescafé!

According to the BBC, drink more than 7 cups of coffee and you end up floating amonsgt the Spheres in some altered state due to the healing rhythmic synergy of a Shamanistic Starbucks blend!

Of course, sitting in Starbucks quaffing LDS Latte isn't quite the same as sitting on a Cheyanne reservation in a wolfskin by a campfire, drawing down the moon, chanting into the night and metamorphosing into an eagle.

And you don't have to perform the Sun Dance ceremony in Starbucks (unless they have a back room for it - an array of hooks dangling from the ceiling, sporting a range of muffins and biscotti, and the odd Shaman's apprentice in his Y-Fronts, a-swinging in mystical trance as he soars o'er Norwich, ferrting out secrets and healing the sick).

Well, you never know!

I think I'll set up a WigWamBam in the Castley Mall, Where Starbucks have an outside inside - that's trippy enough that after 8 gingybread latte's, I'll be performing fertility rites and placing curses on ne'er-do-well's in exchange for tribal tokens before you can say "Techno Tribal Positively Primal Shamanic Anarchistic Archaic Revival!"

Or something...
  

Eat them up, YUM...

Recall Al-Quaeda's recent giant fish breeding terror tactic? Well, they've upped sticks from plaguing the pygmies, and are now assaulting the Ozzies!!

And the latest weapon on the infidel is the conjoined cod!

Australia is under attack by bi-cranial bass - two heads of vicious needle sharp teeth to drag Bruce's into the surf and feast upon their unbelieving BBQ filled bellies!

And how, exactly, are they breeding this multi-bonced menace of the seas? Apparently, it's because of 'Macadamia nuts'!

Contrary to popular belief, Macadamia is not that thing out of The Midnight Garden - That's PackAMac, the popular pocket anorak. This Macadamia is some Islamic fundamentalist with a thing for trying to get fish into his nuts.

Now, there's always an unlikely explanation for visits to doctors - Vicars have spuds extracted from their bum after falling onto kitchen tables whist nudily putting up some curtains, for example. But this Jyhaddi lad is a bit suspect.

Whilst nudily cleaning the aquarium, he visited the lavatory with a fish in his hand. As you do. Somehow, when filling the font with weak tea, the fish accidentally "swam up his cock".

Bollocks - he was trying to shag a fish in the bogs, like some angling George Michael! And in the process, it found it's way into his nutsack, and got preggers.

And now he's fathered a spawning of double headed fish-folk, and Ozzies are paying the price!

Those pesky terrorists will stoop at nothing to bring down Western civillization...
  

90.1!

Who's the daddy!!

Well, not me - I can't even get a date, let alone impregnate a pretty!

Anyhoo - that's down 4 in a week!!!

An' I'm feelin' gooooood - this New Year New Me is going great!

Just 15 more to go (or 24 to Slim Xym Phantom Menace!)

Go Xymni!
 

Cthonic Smiяnoff shoяrtaяses...

Яecently яeleased Secяet Files of an official Goveяnmental natuяe have яevealed anotheя thяeat. In addition to tunnelling Tibetans wanting to abduct my soяяy ass down into the undeяwüяlde kingdom of Shamballah to face tяial by theiя Evil Oveяloяds, The Illuminati aяe hiяing an even gяeateя molesque teяяoя...

Subteяяanean dwelling Яussian gnomes!

Cobbleяs, I heaя you cяy! And you would be quite coяяect, foя theяe has been much suspicious tampeяage going on with my booties! Sawing thяough my laces, sepaяating the soles, яipping off my heels, etc.

Now, you'd think these Яuskie dwaяvish types live oveя in Moss Cow, and suchlike, as accoяding to the files, they tend to pяey on Soviet skiing campeяs, duffing them up and injecting them with plutonium to confuse the H.Я.Geigeя counteяs and blaming it all on Abdominal Snowmen.

Eveя wondeя why Яussia cut off the 'gas supply'? It's so the pipes aяe the Oompa-Loompa equivalent of the Euяotunnel - a soяt of Spяead the Яed invasion!

So it wasn't just any oяdainaяy Stamp Gnome I had in me domicile - it was a bloody spy! Teaming up with his Easteяn Bloc counteяpaяt up by the lake, plotting Xymonial яemoval whilst feeding the ducks!

And on the way home fяom The WhatACunt, the silveяy bit on the back of me New Яocks came loose - so now they'яe яesoяting to making it look like an accident by causing me to catch the metallic fall off, and tяip into the path of an oncoming taxi!

And it was dead cold outside, just like Xibeяia, so it's theiя ideal climate!

But I shall not be silenced...
  

Velocipedes of the Gods...

Ah, the Norman Wisdom teeth of the wandering minstrel.

Today, I learned that there be an infinte amout of numbers. None of which exist.

Apart from a single, all emcompassing numeric. And that's the number 1.

And that solitary number van mean anything. In particular, your sexuality.

It also means that you can impregnate yourself via your bum to give birth to a sprout (of the wily veg variety).

And due to the existential nature of this number 1, you can be locked in a Möbius continuum, whereby your flatulence is repeated in a never ending cycle. Each blast emitting a new sprout with a simple 'pop', rather than the usual trumpety cacophony.

I was invited to contribute my theorems to the nature of the impact of cranial forestry upon the fictional and factual output of scribes, both modern & in days gone by.

I disavowed myself of such illectual discussion, in favour of blogging on it at a later date.

Along with clearly significant part drop off that not only has no impact, but it's origin cannot be traced.

So, beware of bicycling bisexual prophets in Arcades bewailing their intelligble accent...
    

I just can't get it outta my head...

Through the ether it glides, streaming into my consciousness like unwelcome flatulence in a lift.

It's THAT bloody song!

Exactly whay there's a call centre in the middle of a shop floor being ransacked by scummy mummies, I'm yet to learn.

But when the ginger minger leaps upon the table to caterwaul out the now legendary classic by Steps, those badly substitutes lines that DON'T FIT THE BEAT OF THE SONG stick in me bonce.

It's all I can hear.

Getting higher & higher pitched with ever line.

Of course, this will be taken by the Chavvites as a fine quality ad, as many a bingo-wingéd harridan will replicate it down The Karaoke (before racing home to read up on the keep fit fanatic and his 32st wife).
Well, I say 'read'. More like look at the pretty pictures, saying "Phoar, he's dead fit" and "Ewwww. She's a right fatarse minger". An' suchlike.

And then there's token fat gaybloke leaping into the air like Shirley Bassethound, instead of answering the phone.

Now wonder call centre's are crap, if all they got is bloody drag queens on the phones, poncing about emitting castrati high notes instead of doing the jobs they gets paid for!

There's not one redeeming feature about this ad*. I mean, Moonpig is bad (I say, old chap. Do you know where I might find a totally spiffing greetings card?), but this is so fucking atrocious.

And it's stuck there. In my cranium. And I can't get it out.

Take a break!
This is all to much
Could everyone stop
Take a break!
Let's chill for a minute
And put our feet up
It's what we need
With a nice cup of tea
And a chocolate biccie
Take a break!

GAAAAH FECK RIGHT OFF!!!

I refuse to suffer alone. Click here to get wound up.

* TELL A LIE... THERE'S A LOVELY LONG HAIRED PRETTY CARRYING THE TEA TRAY. WOULDN'T MIND A STAB AT HER "CHOCOLATE BICCIE"'...

Going "Keanu barada nikto" on the stairs...

...and reanimating the Deadites into warmongery!

Seems them Space Monsters have been watching Michael Rennie (who was ill, but told us where we stand), and taken a leaf out of his book, and tried to bring all the worlds electrical power to an end.

Hey presto - no resistance to the tripods and the death rays and the Slim Whitman tracks.

So, what was the extratesticle entities method to disable all our nukes and wotnots? An EMP burst? Dissolving power stations?

No, it's taking out the Posh Spice of the windmill world and source of all the worlds energy - the Wind Turban.

Apparently, some local yokels from Lincolnshire took time out to enjoy the icy weather, and vowed to "Keep watching the ski's". Sure enough, as they were on the pissed and partaking of sausages & yoghurt, they saw hundreds of extratenticled saucerfolk soaring through the night and kamikaze diving their interplanetary (most extraordainary) craft into the waify windmills, ripping out a blade and putting a dent in another (Personally, I'd prefer to put my "blade" in a Dent. That one off've Countdown. Or Pig Botherer Pig Snout. Or something.).

The insurers of these Wind Turbans refute this on the basis that the "blade will sometimes just come off a machine for one reason or another. We don't normally see things like aircraft - or UFOs - hitting them."

A-ha! Don't normally!! So, by his own admission, occasionally space monsters suicide bomb them, and these insurance companies bloody well cover it all up!

I'd say get Mulder and Scully up there, but she'd probably get nobbed in the English Cuntryside in some preposterous paedophile prevention diversion, whilse Denise Bryson nobs everything in sight before checking into the Sex Addict* clinic for poking his lincolnshire sausage where the sun don't shine.

More like XXX-Files, these days.

oooWEEEoohWEEEoooWooooooooooh...

* A QUIZ SHOW DECLINED BY NOEL EDMUNDS, UNTIL THEY RETHUNK IT AND MADE IT ABOUT TV

Weeds are everywhere...

But it's SNOWING!

Time to uproot all the paths and grass and bung in some more trees!

And make a Snowman!

Such I shame I can't go to the City.

Just have to go Innuit and fish in the ice instead!

After some roachy stampage.

Oh, the maintenance...
  

Nice girls, not one with a defect...

In yet another terrorist attack, Al Quaeda have taken a murder of crows to the limit and genetically engineered a race of psychotic pigeons!

Taking a leaf out of Daphne Du Marier and Alf Hitchcock (famed for constantly lifting his reproductive organ), they've only gone and bread a race of super strength suicide fowl to swoop down and pick up western unbelievers, to be carried off to their hidden lair to feast upon infiden entrails.

Luckily, ole Arsehola Bin-Liner didn't have any Brits to train them on, so he had to use monitor lizards.

And, due to an Arabic-to-Pigeon-English translation error, the result was that the jyhaddi aeronauts just kept nicking pewter screens.

Unfortunately, this played into Arsehola's hands, and he set up a website so that gullible gormsters would log onto to a site to access their PC anywhere in the world, so he could pop in the back door and bring down Western Civilisation through some ecomonic credit crunchy virus. And indulge in a bit of Identitty Theft (nicking some birds name and turning his djebella into a dress).

But the fool forgot that without their pewter screen, they wouldn't be able to see the web.

And those that did have screens, didn't have keyboards, as the pigeons forgot about them.

Especially the policing ones, as they preferred guitars...
       

94.1...

94.1!

Crivens! That is not good AT ALL!!!

I's been given T minus 19

But I wants T minus 28.

Laugh.

We shall see what Maggie brings...
   

Beaver patrol...

Well, you learn something new every day!

Well all know some people can't stay dead, and now aminals are at it!

As I had time off over Xmas, being a fat, sad, lonely git, I had to sit through {shudder} DAYTIME TELLY!

And apparently, next week, Jeremy Beadle is appearing on Dickinson's Real Deal...

...who I though died ages ago (Beadle, that is, not the orange faced mincefarmer), yet he's appearing on up-to-date telly shows like Elvis hiding in Priscilla's boudoir all these years!

And coz Sunday is the morst boring day in existence, I ended up seeing {huge shudder} Last Of The Summer Whine, where the majority of the cast have been pronounced dead previously!

And now, I hear of a beaver rampage in Devon!

Now, according to Sky News, Beavers became extinct in the 16th century, after hunters trapped them for fur. So how the hell can an 400+ year old extint aminal be on the prowl?

Now, the extinct beastie is often pictured as gnawing down trees, building dams, and serving up taters and trout to interdimensional travellers.

But secretly, in Devon, someone has built their own version of Jurassic Beaver Park, and managed to recreate 24 of the beasties.

Although, it seems they're more like velociraptors. And just like in the movie, there's been a shut-off of the electric fences, and one has escaped and on the prowl - stomping down trees like a bronto sore arse (or is it a diplody curse?).

Of course, this beast has to be brought down - otherwise we'll have man eating beavers on the prowl (and I'm not talking Chicago's or Mercy on a Saturday night, dance, I like the way you move, pretty baby), so they've set a honeytrap.

Now, I thought a honeytrap was for bears that live in 12 Achey-Breaky Wood, but it's apparently they've nicked and idea from Jurassic Park 2. Instead of baby scent, they're luring the behemoth beaver via a females scent.

So, a honeytrap is where they entrap the subject with the smell of a female beaver.

Like Colin Stagg.

Although I'd've thought they'd've used dough for him.

Buck their ideas up, Merli...
  

Nip yer breasts, arrest by penis...

I'm not a girl
Not yet a woman
All I need is time
A moment that is mine
While I'm in between
I'm not a girl

Hah!

If Britney's Pears ain't a girl, she must be a boy.

And if he ain't yet a woman, then he must be a pre-op trannie!

I further assume, that if he's 'in between' then he's had the camel toe implanted, but not had his wanger and sack snipped off at that point.

Which makes him an He-She hermaphrodite Aphrodite when belting out "Oops! I did it again!" in tight red lycra, with 'his' nob sellotaped up his bum, like in Silence Of The Limbs.

But clearly, the final op was a great success, which explains why 'she' was so keen to keep flashing her brand new minge all over "most outrageous celebrity moments", before shaving her bonce to match it.

Or something...

Hit the North (and hit the arcades)...

Forget Ibiza. Forget the Ministry Of Sound. Stuff yer Astoria and bypass The Hacienda and pop down to that centre of musical excellence.

Wigan.

And not only that, just like Cromer and Great Y'ha-nthlei, it's got it's own pier (and you know what end-of-the-pier shows are like!).

Obviously, Lancastrian music won't sell very well, so they've had to rebrand it. No more Dance, Trance, House, Rave, Techno, Drum & Bass, and all that bollocks. By 'eck, it's "Bounce And Donk" now, our kid!

Bounce and donk? Clearly thoughts shift to fabric styled tumble dryer sheets, and the bopping on the bonce by Wiganite thugs. But no, this is the new name for lancastrian music.

Presumably, this music being being the vaguely-popping-up-and-down-on-the-spot sort of bounce 'dance' popularised by George Formby, with the 'donk' of the slap of some coal on a washboard.

Bounce and donk, my best flat cap!

Whippet! Whippet good!

Before t'cream sets aht too long...
     

Old K.D. Lang sign...

Should old aquaintace be forgot
and never brought to mind?
We'll drink a cup
of milky tea
For the sake of auld lang syne

Written by Robert Burns, host of The Krypton Factor, we're supposed to sing this at midnight whilst holding hands with people the wrong way round.

Which goes to show how pissed The Scotch are when devising dances!

Shid ald akwentans bee firgot,
an nivir brocht ti mynd?
Shid ald akwentans bee firgot,
an ald lang syn?

CHORUS: Fir ald lang syn, ma deer,
fir ald lang syn,
Wil tak a cup o kyndnes yet,
fir ald lang syn.

An sheerly yil bee yur pynt-staup!
an sheerly al bee myn!
An will tak a cup o kyndnes yet,
fir ald lang syn.

We twa hay rin aboot the braes,
an pood the gowans fyn;
Bit weev wandert monae a weery fet,
sin ald lang syn.

* CHORUS *

We twa hay pedilt in the burn,
fray mornin sun til dyn;
But seas between us bred hay roard
sin ald lang syn.

* CHORUS *

An thers a han, my trustee feer!
an gees a han o thyn!
And we'll tak a right gude-willie-waught,
fir ald lang syn.

* CHORUS *

There's been a muhdohr in the street
Coz yeez spilt mah pynt
Mah purple curly whirly's heer
fir ald lang syn