Suppose he's got a pointed stick...

"Now, it's quite simple to defend yourself against a man armed with a banana. First of all you force him to drop the banana; then, second, you eat the banana, thus disarming him. You have now rendered him 'elpless!"

Naturally, the spotty gormster manning picking his nose in the garage shed dispensing Ginsters pasties and Condoms is not familiar with the perils of the fruit. 

Raised on a diet of Pizza, Coke, McBurgers and 'fries', no wonder the straight-A graduate of the School of Chav can be taken in by drop out chavscum threatening them with their herbaceous dessert treatery.

And once the cash is pocketed, the 'armed robber' consumes his pistol, leaving no trace of the 'firearm'.

Good job he didn't do a Dirty Harry, and hold up the teller with a Magnum. All that Aztec Ecuador Dark melting in the sun is a sure giveaway!

And if they're giving away Magnums, I wants one!!!
   

Peas in our thyme...

Secret ingredient?

In mushy peas????

It's PEAS!

All mushed up!!

Unless the secret ingredient is the addition of PIE, but then it's not mushy peas - it's Pie & Peas, and any glimmer of secrecy of pie based introduction has failed miserably!

Secret Ingredient, my best hat! Who does Reg think he is? Colonel Sanders with his secret recipe?

For peas...

For phucks sake...

You spell Graph, I say Graf...

You spell Photo, I say Foto...

You spell Physics, I say Physics...

So, why do people think I'm a Gormster when I see the word Scrapheap Challenge and call it Scrafeap Challenge?

"Because, you poor deluded foolish fat fool, it's two words. Scrap and Heap. Duhrr!" decrie the readers.

Well, you ignoramii, it's not two words. If it were two words, it would be called Scrap Heap Challenge. And is it called Scrap Heap Challenge? No. It's called Scrapheap Challenge, and therefore should be pronounced Scafeap challenge.

After all, you don't call Stephanie "Step-Hanie", do you? No. You call her Stefanie.

You don't call The Sterophonics "The Stereop-Honics" do you? No, you call them gravelly voiced whiney welsh wankers, on a level with Travis. Just above the talent vacuum known as Coldsore.

Scrap-Heap Challenge indeed!
  

Eggs! Eggs! He said eggs...

Bang, bang, bang on the door Wakey!

Huh, what? I was all sleepyfied...was I imangininge a request for entry??

Bang, bang, bang on the door Wakey!

Huh, what? I'd almost nodded off again... knock a little louder Tate & Lyle...

No sound. Surely they would've used the Doorbell? But in the morning, I finds out that bell button depression is somewhat silent!

Hmmm... who would come a-calling in the Darkness of Night, without textual or telephonic warning, and faced with the serenity of chime failure, resort to tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamberpot door (ya dig mutthalicker)?

Have I missed out on some identity shy Pretty who has somehow become enamoured of me, and in a drunken stupour sought me out for rampant shaggery behing their partners back, avoiding any phone records that may give them away?

Or is that philately fairy, moving on from the concealment of symbolic monetary adhesives in favor of taunting me in the dead of night with dorr knockage awakenings?

Who knows?

The Shadow knows!

And he's too busy fighing the descendants of Chakka Khan to be rousing me from my slumbers.

So it's a mystery. Miss Tree! Like a tree! Like a birds tree! Oh, if only I could turn back time (but not in a mankini astride a colossal cannon)...

As the crow flies...
   

Oh what a tangled web we weave...

...When darning spiders on tapestries...
   

It's not that easy being green...

Indeedy not. 

For you have to stay one step ahead of the Pepperoni, keeping your anger in check, whilst increasing the size of your carbon footprints by bombarding yourself with more radioactive material than Thor can shake his mighty hammer at.

Carbon Footprint my best hat! Since when have gormsters being attireing themselves with replacatory stationary about their lower limbs and leaving big blue pawprints all over the place for the Council to clean up?

And they dare to claim that we're going all Icey Age just because of pre-photocopier secretaries taking down dictation whilst walking on the bosses back in carbon paper Richards.

See, these enviro-mentals have it all wrong. Yes, there is an Ice Age coming, and yes, it is Man Made.

Made by Men wot work at Pixar.

Ice Age 3.

Oh dear...
  

Where the wormholes are...

So much for frat party ocular blastage paradoxicality!

Far from being a Harbinger of Doom though space monster TURDIS based reconfigurer of Artifacts, he's just been snatched from poncing about the forests with a load of hairy Hagrids!

And all because he was chasing the dog with a fork, and making wolfish growlment at Mom in his bunny suit.

Not that his mum was in his bunny suit, like some Hugh Heffalump Playtart trollop. Unless she was, and that's what sent him screaming from his bedroom into the arms of wild thingies before being thrust into the past to warn Flash Gordon he's only got 28 days, Six hours, 42 minutes and 12 seconds to save the Earth.

Donnie Arden and Minge the Merciless in The 747 Engine of Terror.

An' suchlike...
   

JELLY! I lurrrve it! I want to marry it...

What's this?!

Dromaius novæhollandiæ, dashing about the place free from it's symbiotic existance?!?!

Seems that taking a tumble when fiddling with washing powder recievery apparatus due to simultaneously fisting a blig blue bird led not only to the demise of molesters of popular presenters, but also the extraction of the frottaging arm from the emu's waste disposal unit!

And now the bird is back on our screens! But now able to act indepently of rectal probage

Which begs the question - why did Rodney have to keep putting his arm up some australian birds arse?

Well, as all know it was an excuse to grope young kids! "Sorry, it's his bitey beak! He really wants to bite yer bum. Cor, don't get many of those to the pound, do you missus!"

And now, bereft of disguise to cover the Hand Of Gropeage, he stalks the spirit realm like some astral eidolon. Haunting the corridors of the EBC and the Pink Oboe, like some spectral Emu..., nay, Emo Paedo! Giving Naiomi Wilkinson a proper Milkshake & FingerTits in the 5ive broom cupboard and slapping a cream pie in the face of Anna Williamson off of ToonAttik.

But not Kirsten O'Brien in a lads mag...
    

Where the black rocks stand guard against the cold sea...

For an anniversary?!?!

Seems a pretty odd request to me! 
"What do you want for your anniversary, Dear?"
"Spam up!"

And bless him, the old duffer gets her a tin of the tasty snackette, rather than the annual shagathon she was euphanisming about!

"oooh, I don't half fancy a bit of Spam Up... me snatch! N'yah n'yah N'yah!!!"

Bad enough being drilled with an OAPs pork sword on yer anniversary, but a double dose of pigplague is in the tasty treat - being Spiced HAM and PORK, resulting in STDs a-plenty (Swine Transmitted Delicacy).

But Hogfever isn't the worst of it... according to one of these Spam Up ad, the genetically modified staple* diet of the Vikings is arising out of the tin like some Martian invasionary force!

Next morning, a crowd gathered on the breakfast table, hypnotised by the peeling back of the can..."

"Spam up! And get out the can!
Spam up! Just to feed your man"
Two inches of ringpull projected, when suddenly, the lid fell back...

"Spam up! Coz it's great outdoors!
Spam up! When you could eat a whore's..."
Two luminous, disc like eyes appeared above the rim...

"Spam up! For the specialty!
Spam up! For an anniversary..."
A huge, pinkly bulk, larger than a pear, rose up slowly, glistening like wet gelatine..."

"Spam up! For the taste of it!
Spam up! For the taste..."
It's lipless mouth quivered and slathered, and snake like arms writhed as the clumsy body heaved and pulsated, like a minature Mr Stay-Puft on the rampage!"

* STAPLE DIET? WHO THE FECK IS TRYING TO LOSE WEIGHT BY SCOFFING OFFICE STATIONARY OF PAPER ADJOINMENT FAME? I SUPPOSE YOU COULD SWALLOW A PACK, AND HOPE THAT THE GAVISCON FIREMEN REMAINING IN YER BELLY HAVE A HANDY STAPLER, AND GIVE YOU A QUICK TUMMYTUCK.

I'm a genius in a bottle...

...but you got to rub her the right way!

Now, there is a popular entertainment much beloved by those of a historical bent, who are oft found encased within waterproof Midnight Garden anorakage.

Now, this hobby consists of triapsing around museums and churches with tracing paper and a pencil, where they place the paper onto a embossed surface and give it a damn good rubbing.

They call this "Brass Rubbing".

Seems to me that it's no wonder these nerdy types are bereft of birds, for who'd want to join them on an evening scribbling on a piece of paper over some brass.

Surely someone simply made a typo somewhere over the rainbow, and it should really be Bras Rubbing. Now there's an opportunity for pulling! An evening of persuading Pretties to lift up their blouses and give them bras a thoughough going over. With the lead in yer pencil.

And it's not pervy, or anything. It keeps a record of how bras evolve, and the range and sizes, and how they are filled by the contents as the subject ages over time. That makes it of historical importance.

Not only that, but it's paper and charcoal illustration - and therfore Art. After all, there was that documentary on the tellybox with her off scrapheap challenge about ugly hairymarys, and there's a bloke out there taking plastercasts of pissflaps.

And if some baldy gayboy is allowed to sluice pollyfiller all over young harlots minges and have a fannywall, surely I should be allowed to lightly rub my crayon over some well filled Pretties bap hangers!
    

Help! Help! Here comes the boars...

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