Baz White and the Carpenter...

were walking hand in hand

"If only," said Ms Karen

"the law would understand"

My fame speads further and wider with each passing Pappa Ratsarse furtively photographicating me slurping my smoothie.

I'm now namechecked on telly! True to life, Xymon appears to be a great fat bloaty walrus too flabby to forage for food!

On the plus side, catalogical shoppery send penguins out to deliver fishies - although I'm not sure how fresh and tasty they'd be after languishing in the warehouse.

But a horde of penguins delivering net provisions! Cool!

Unless this is another neferious plan of Chesty Cobblepot, the notorious felonious maniacal monocle supervillan, out to nobble me in some icy crossover crystal Krypton palava with suicide bomber penguins.

Although I can't remember if penguins are in the Arctic, or Antarctic. Good job I'm bi-polar, coz I'll do both.

Especially if it's an Arctic Roll...

Daisy Dukes! Bikinis up top! Sunkist popcorn so hot...

..it'll melt yer Funny Feet, Mini-Milk, Fab and Knobbly Bobbly.

Or, as they call lollies in "The States", Songsmiths pukey cakeholes.

Anyhoo, the Kalifonya Gurlz is marryin' that Russel Brand. 'xcitin' innit!

So that makes her Katy Brand.

She looks so much different in her big ass show than when she's got creamy jugspurts going on in her poptastic videos.

It's all very well having trifley titties, gorging on melted lactatory desserts, and having a BBC3 show about your big ass, but don't come lumbering to me when Russell decides to boff Jane Goldman's daughter and brag about it on Wossies 1571.

[ERRATA] YESTERDAYS TALES OF ATTEMPTED MOTION FAILURE SHOULD, HAVE COURSE, NE'ER REFERRED TO WIDDERSHINS, FOR WIDDERSHINS PROVIDES MUCH EASE OF MOVEMENT. ONCE SHOULD, NATURALLY, HAVE REFERRED TO WINNALOT FLATS AND SPACE MONSTER AMBLING ABOUT THE CLOCKFACE, BUT, ALAS, ONLY LATER DO WE SEE THE ERROR OF OUR WHEYS.

Can I make it any more obvious...

Antipodean plughole reversal is most difficult in a northern hemisphere.

But neither is possible when not facing forth.

Either the gravity well is drawing the vast planetoid weigh of of gothboys and preventing rotational wheelage, or it is impossible.

I paid close attention to the methodology of the overshoulder slidings - wriggle wriggle wriggle Daniel Day Lewis.

No. Stationary Xym be the whore daves of the eve whilst overfrontaged becamelled Torville tarts soar past with mane strewn visage.

Nae widdershins nor F.E.A.R. for me!
   

Free love?... Anyone?...

In America, you can be insured against space monsters probing up yer bum. In fact, you can can get insurance for virtually anything! And the thought must be... 

...is there anything you can't be insured for? 

Well, yes there is, actually! The one thing that insurers would not touch is eternal infernal Hellfire insurance. 

I would assume that although anal probeage by ET is quite uncommon, the rectal insertion of flaming pichforks is quite a popular pastime. 

Not to mention the æons of torment listening to Dante Aguilera and the Go-Compare man via an iPod welded to the lugholes. 

Also, as everyone knows, all the lawyers are cast into the furthermost nether-regions of The Pit, so although the insurers could use them to wriggle out of paying out, the eternally damned would plague insurers by hiring dæmonic LucifersLawyersPitch4ku (or, more like Morningstar-Says-4k-u). 

I'm surprised insurers don't in Paradise insurance, as even if The Forgiven get whipped in the face and scarred by the snapping of a defective harpstring or break a limb toppling off a cloud, God will forgive and heal everything in Elyzian bliss. And because it's in heaven, everything's an act of God, so insurers never have to pay out! 

I think I'll pitch that to Dragon's Den - all the premiums and none of the payout! Risk free! Even that Deborah Cave-Troll trout would have to invest in that! 

Of course, I'd have to get by The lovechild of Gollum and Dobby the house-elf to gain access to the Cave Troll and the smarmy Smaugsters. 

Let me tell them where I'M at...
   

Providing it's with dignity...

You may recall my return to blogging with a post on the nature of dear little white haired old grandmothers guzzling garbaged felines.

Now, there was much furore over this event. But everyone seems strangely silent on previous matters of such abuse! Where were these complainants when Hannah Barbara dumped Top Cat in a bin and filmed it in homage to Sgt Bilko?

Once again, it's mob rule for miserable old pussy hatin' harridans, and another for beloved animated classics.

It's about time we took Big Bird to task as well, for keeping Oscar The Grouch imprisioned in the Open Sesame Street Garbage bins. Although, to be fair, he isn't starved or degydrated, due to Cookie Monster feeding him biscuits, and Snuffleupagus hosing him down with water from his mammoth trunk. Nor is he a cat. But don't Muppets deserve dignity too?

Free the fun-furred one, says I, and de-feather Big Bird and serve him up to Bert and Ernie for tea.
    

Your Tauntaun will freeze before you reach the first marker...

Her mammary lives on.

After marrying Juan "Shit Does Plenty", Ryvita was supported by "desk cam is a dos" (presumably the pre-Windows based operating system with table based soul capturing machinery). 

This 1950s "Steampunk" webcammery was operated by so-called "Shirtless ones", shirtless due to the hot Argentine weather (or, more likely, for norkal perusal for certain Credit Card Payments over their steamy punk websites).

A tradition which still holds firm today (especially by the peruser).

So, in modern times, imprisioned topless tealeafs breaks out of a maxumin security prision. Now, if this was Hamble, Faeces, Be a Maracas and "Dandy Lion" Burdock, they would have embarked on mercenary escapades whilst fleeing The Colonels (Mouthdream, James Corden and Single Father). 

But not these chaps.

They evaded justice by the hollowing out of Shorn and Timmy, donning their fleecey suits and blending in with Ovis Aries* and living among the Artiodactyla so successfully that they fool even the most experenced practisers of "Sheep Husbandry" in their wellies at night.

Jason and his Argos Night became quite successful. But then, he was greek, so that kind of thing is right up their back alley.  

"Hey Dolly! You sure got a purty mouth. Sque... um... Baa, Sheepy! Don't cry for me, Argy Bargy! Cry fo' yo' sore ass"

Still, at least we gave them Argies what for. Maggie Thatcher (MILF's Snatch Hair) duffed 'em up and we got back the Peter Falk Lands. Hoorah! Columbo for all!

Or Cobumbo, for those encased in muttonflesh, away from the prying eyes of justice.

* 'E WERE A GRAND BAKER, OUR DAD. WHOLEMEAL LAMB SANDWICHES, OFTEN WITH DISGUISED LONG PIG.
     

Bob Marley and the Oneiromancers...

OK, so he claimed that in the future, it would be all metal in the last human city - but he clearly got one thing wrong.

His ganja filled future fugue featured Aslan.

In fact, the only aminals appear to be humans (and even in the tabletured XL spreadsheet, there are only great fat pigeons and crows).

These rastamen should desist from mashing-up Christian Indoctrination Material and Squidward Worldwide Domination....

UNLESS...

He's confusing Ripleyesque exoskellingtons with Savannah hunting Predators.

Which would explain his dreads at least!
   

Affair weld two arms....

Post "Workshed"!

No-one is laughing now, for BOTH appendages are required to operate groovy deforestation equipment.

Which is a bit of a moot point anyhoo, as palm feastage by deceased GFs resulting in much cranial crockery crashing has a rather more urgent timeline when you have to wait for a 3-5 hour chargement.

But you DO get 40 mins of total bodily dismemberment to lay about the foliage with...

...alas, 40mins is insufficient topiary time, and I'm left with a partially trimmed front bush.

Let's just hope that the remaining tendrils of terror don't rise up in rapey revenge - I don't fancy coming home to find that passing ladies have been ensnared by vag seeking vines and are all entwined in the shrubbery with the grapevine gropeage whilst whipping wisteria branches beat their bare bots.

Ooooh! My very own ladygarden 13! I'll have to dig a slight hole for 'em to drop into at the end of their Ride For A Ride...
    

Laugh it up fuzzball - you got a paternity suit...

Those all important DNA results, coming up later in the show, but first...

You may recall my guests from previous shows "Star Whores" and "LabiaBint", when a young Ewok "Wicket Junior" revealed that his mother had been "taking Boba Fett's helmet deep into the Sarlac pit" with both a Wookie and a denizen of The Labyrinth that surrounds the Gobbling City.

Chewbacca refused to appear on the show, and sent a note with Han Solo denying he was the father, saying simply "arrrrrrrrrrrr".

Ludo hinted that he could be the father, answering every one of my questions with "Jeremy, friend! Ewok, friend! Sarah, friend! Ludo... get... brother?"

King Jareth pointed out that the child had no horns, unlike Ludo. Therefore it must the son of a wookie.

Han retorted by saying that Jareth had removed the horns and was flogging them on the ivory market. He further accused Jareth of being a paedophile who kidnapped babbies and lured 16yr old babysitters to his castle so that he wear extremely tight tights at them, enhancing his little red courgette whilst rolling his balls over his hands.

The show was stopped when the brawl began (it is believed Han threw the first punch, the sneak, but it's unclear from the footage. George Lucas will re-edit the show later for clarification).

Anyhow, after all that, both parties agreed to the DNA test. Hopefully, we can set this young childs mind at rest, and reveal who her father truly is. I truthfully do not know - I can't tell if she's a dog or a cat, or if dat's a cog.

Let's meet her, a very brave lady, welcome Wicket Junior to the show!

The City WILL rise again when the starfishs are right...

Clearly the End Times have come! 

I first had an inkling that certain cyclopean slumbers were being awakened by the prodding of celestial partners disturbed by the Snoring of the Sleeper during that planetary kicky sphere trophy tournament. 

There was much reportage of the aquatic Nostradamus of the sea* and how it's psychic call was lining the pockets of Cthonic cultists with it's competitive predictiveness, as well as sending people insane. 

(Although it made no difference to unimaginative potato-faced 'sportsmen', who are as thick as porcine excrement, and are all too willing to follow the instructions of the Elder Gods. Especially if cult rituals involves roasting a ceremonial virgin or two) 

I believe that the Miskatonic University tried to aquire it, with a view to silencing the cephalapodic threat and indoctrination of gullible types into dancing about in their bare scuddies atop a moonlit mountain with spaghetti dangling out the gob to represent a tentacular facial eidolon of their Lord and Master. 

But them Brussels Sprouts stepped in claiming aminal rights, and they weren't even allowed to lob it into a wheelie bin so the lid could prevent it's telepathic terror haunting the psyche of local folk. Instead, it's now in a zoo, pervading the dreams of all who view it, and swelling the intake at Oakdeene. 

Anyhoo, there is now further proof that "That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange æons even death may die.". 

The Invasion of the Killer Calamari from Beyond The Deep!!! 

Roused by The Call Of Paul, his kraken cousins have been driven from the deep and dining on divers discovering Dagon's dwelling. 

Bloody coalition government and their austerity measures - too expensive to interstellar star-spawn invoking Cthulhu to rule over his minions and enslaving mankind for much feasting upon. So make a cheapo Channel Five documentary to "make people aware" so that their "Big Society" can find some volunteers to save mankind without costing the government a penny! 

Humbug? Humbolt, if you ask me! 

*AQUATIC NOSTRADAMUS OF THE SEA
AQUATIC NOSTRADAMUS OF THE SEA
AQUATIC NOSTRADAMUS OF THE SEA
PREDICTS A WIN FOR GER-MAN-EE
TEE HEE HEE HEE
  - FROM CAP'N FUCKING TWATARSE OF THE SUNKEN WRECK OF JAILBAIT REEF
   

It's 6 o'clock - half of Cyberdyne's online...

So...

The people have voted.

In the future, the BT Broadband Home Hub becomes the English equivalent of Skynet.

The Resistance send back Kyle Reese to impregnate Jane whist Adam is "working away" on his "new job"*

Meanwhile, an Arnie style BT (British Terminator) is also sent back, with a mission to kill the Jane's unborn brood.

However, faced with the lack of phone booths with phone books, he has to rely on the moustachio'd sportsmen of 118 to get Sarah-Jane Connors home address.

Still, at least as part of my BT package, they'll be installing a trans-dimensional portal to supply me with my very own unholstered Cameron Terminator/Slave. Epic WIN!

* CHECKING OUT KEYBOARD CAT PORN - BUT NOT ON HIS STAG NIGHT COZ JANE WILL KILL HIM. NAH - GET THE PORN ON THE GO. IT'S A STAG! "WE'RE SUPER MAGIC MEN, WE STAY UP TILL 5AM. ALTHOUGH WE'RE BOUND BY SHAMEN LORE, WHAT GOES ON TOUR STAYS ON TOUR!"

   

King dong Sin, Pussy’s in the bin…

As we all know, old gimmers love to plague the hard-pressed GP with their tales of woe after getting ill because they rely on traditional, natural, homeopathetic old wives tale based remedies (which although organic and increase global warming due to the side effects of increased flatulence, tend not to be as efficient as a shot from a NHS nursie who joins you in the shower with her nursie mates caressing your hair).

However, is practicing natural remedy such a crime that some wizened old crone has to be taken into protective custardy?

Seems the old lady found herself with a bit of IBS* caused the inadvertent swallowing of a fly (that wriggled and wriggled and tickled inside her). Thinking her demise may be imminent, further consumption of arachnids was thought to solve the issue.

Alas, this failed, and it fell to feasting on feathered friends, which fell foul and failed to cease  further faecal fingernail stainage and stench. So, following the Old Wives Tale, she had no choice but to get a pussy to eat out her bird.

Now, an unhungry feline will not dine, so she bunged it in a bin for a couple of hours to ensure that when she retrieved it, it would munch it’s way through bird, spider and fly, thus alleviate her tummy conundrum.

Unfortunately, Pig Botherer was watching her, and now everyone wants to hang her, just for practicing traditional olde wurlde folke medicine on herself!

OK, she was stopped before the final two** stages (Canine consumption with a Bovine chaser), but come on! How do you think Old Wives got to be Old Wives? By Old Wives practical application of carnivorous healing!

As usual, it’s one rule for modern day technologically advanced healthcare types, and another for new-age hippies with a penchant for traditional medicine and dancing nudie on the hill in the light of the Moon.

* ITCHY BUM SYNDROME.
** ALTHOUGH SOME MAY CLAIM THREE, AS THERE IS SOME ISSUE AS TO WHETHER A HORSE COMES BETWEEN A DOG AND A COW. OR WAS IT A WHORE WHO'S A DOG AND A COW? SOMETHING LIKE THAT.
   

Hands off my Hammond...

It seems them medical greybeards of today are no longer content to breed anatomical functionality on the spines of mouse’s, they are now pondering on how to get their grubby mitts on my blubber coated bits!

It would appear that a lot of people do not carry Donor cards, so to get round it, they want to make it compulsory for them to pilfer your guts upon death, unless you ‘opt-out’.

Surgeony types have no right to interfere with my bod once I'm dead! I'm my own person and I want to remain intact. If they want to rummage around my innards to rob me of my internals, they can jolly well wait until I'll gets a donor card.

I don’t want to spend the afterlife all incomplete and haunting multiple operatees like some Voldemorty Horcrux, and I shouldn't have to carry a card that sez I don’t want to.

There's only one organ I want in another person, and I don't want to be dead when it happens. Unless it's one of them naughty nurses in the Head & Shoulders ad with a fetish for necrophilia, in which case I'll happily sign up to a "nob me after death" card.

It's another of this ludicrous coalition* propositions. Next we'll all have to agree to be burglarized, unless we opt-out of being robbed by Thieves Guild licenced maurauders appointed by some quango**.

Anyhoo, why should we have to donate organs anyway? Apparently, there’s this “Stem cell research” policy, about investing in genetic manipulation so they can grow larger organs (typical medical students! Trying to grow a huge cock for themselves!). I wholeheartedly agree! Forget trying to stem the tide, if they spent more time stemming wasteful research into the habitat of incarcerated felons, they could spend the savings creating body parts for Universal Soldiers, Terminators and Daleks to put our brains in!

Think I’m joking, they’ve already begun:

* ALTHOUGH WHAT WELSH MINED FOSSIL FUELS HAS TO DO WITH GOVERNING GOVERNMENT PARLIAMENTARY PARTIES, I DON’T KNOW. APART FROM GROWING GIANT MAGGOTS IN GREEN TOXIC WASTE THAT CAN ONLY BE CURED BY SERENDIPITOUS FUNGI. AND THEY SHOULDN’T BE HAVING PARLIAMENTARY PARTIES ANYWAY, IF THEY’RE TRYING TO SORT OUT THIS DEFICIT. ALTHOUGH IF THEY INVITE ME, I’LL GLADLY PARTAKE OF THE JELLY AND ICE CREAM THEY’VE BOUGHT FROM ICELAND ON EXPENSES.

**WHICH I BELIEVE IS A QUINCE AND MANGO CAN OF FIZZY POP***. YOU KNOW WHEN YOU'VE BEEN QUANGO'D.

***POP! POP! POP MUZIK! DOWNLOAD THE NEW FUZZBOX SINGLE OFF’VE ITUNES: BUY POP*MUSIK
  

Leather sphere kicky apparel removal machine…

Outrage! Consternation! Uproar! And expansion upon Ms Royal’s FaceBook status commentary!

Gullible types believe that The Filth have been appointed powers to strip people of their In-guh-luhnd shirts if they are in a pub or a club because the wearing of the St George cross is being racist.

Well, I’m proud to be a racist, me! 100m, 200m, Hurdles, Marathon – hate the lot of ‘em. And as for relays – passing the shaft of some phallic symbol from hand to hand is just bordering on obscene. Although I’ll make an exception for Race For Life, coz that’s for charidee, just to prove I’m not some white sheet wearing cross country burning racetrack supremacist.

All this fuss coz some bloke glued some pigeon wings to an iguana then cut its bonce off in the name of Good King Harry. Or Good King Wenceslas. Or someone. If I stick a beak on a dog, stick a snake up it's bum and sellotape some feathers on it's back, then knife it, do I get canonized as St Xym, Slayer of Griffins and Patron saint of Brentford with a flag inspired by the colors of me badger striped barnet?

Do I ‘eck as like! I get done for Aminal Cruelty, that’s what!!

How dare CamelEgg pass laws to enforce the extraction of English emblems off our backs! I mean, is this a Christian country or not?

No Sir, verily it is not!!

This be a Pagan country, and we are proud of our druidic nature! From Stonehenge to the Green Man, and the combusting of police folk in wicker baskets.

These ruddy Roman furriners, coming over here and stealing our sacred groves with their new found religion. They'll be havin' Christian faith schools next, and littering our green and pleasant land with their cathedrals, churches and paedophile priests!

At least with pagans, the women won't get all het up about removing their football shirts, as they all dance about in bare scuddies beneath a fat gibbous moon anyway, so any excuse to whip their kit off in a pub.

Tell you what Herne, it'll be poetic justice if them Muslims try the same thing with Christians like they're doing to us Pagans! Building mosques and being all fundamental and full of religious righteousness, fervour and heretic conflagration... totally unlike these Christians at all! Christians are all peace on love and Jesus dying for the absolvement of sins, not usurping our religious heritage with some made up set of gospels from Jerusalem's Lot with some Jyhaddywaddy style Crusade to strike down and convert the infidels. You'll see, it's just a passing fad. Come 2010, no-one will remember the Christians (or their Harvest For The World charity single). Send 'em back to Rome where they came from! That'll learn 'em! Gullible Italians and their priestly pizzas and spiritual spaghetti. Away with ye afore I draw down the moon and wreak Diana's vengeance upon thee!

Let these coppers come in and tear the England shirts off these ladyfolk! And as they’ve burnt their over the shoulder boulder holders in order to be emancipated to vote, pole dance and be Escorts, they’ll be all nudie about the chesticles. Can’t see why people are complaining really!

“oh, just the women then, is it Xym?” I hear you cry!

Well, I for one have no wish to see curry filled beer bellied hairy lairy menfolk with their ponderous sweaty moobs jiggling about when they see someone score a goal. Puts me right off my intoxicating beverages, that does!
  

If you go down to the woods today, you're gonna get raped by trees...

*** One-off bloggery by Special Request! ***

*** Director's Cut to follow once I'm reminded of what I forgot to mention! ***

Captain's Log: Stardate 19.03.2010

Decisions, decisions... Mixtapes or Mondo, or a bit of both??? But that's this textual tension intruding itself? 

Fancy a bit of brand new Hentai tentacle porn betwixt the Mordorian Two Towers of Staffordshire on the first day of the new Season? How to choose between the fishlike Ewok release by the inducement of Evil Dead tree rapeage or the mulletty funsterness of Cock Rot? 

Sexual assault by Ents it is then! 

But why wait until the morrow - why not go NOW! Yay! No time for campanological pubbery or WhatACunt, we be on our way!

"I'm hungry. There's a KFC"
"I wanna drive a bit futher yet before I stop"
"I'm hungry. There's a Maccy D's"
"I wanna drive a bit futher yet before I stop"
"I'm hungry. There's a KFC AND Maccy D's"
"I wanna drive a bit futher yet before I stop"
"I'm really hungry. Can we stop at the next KFC/Maccy D's?"
"There are none left on the way now"

Stomachey growlage! But at least Every Little Helps to save the day (if only from revelations of matriarchal pantaloon gusset suckage!)

And here were are. Our room number... 1408. 1408?!?! I thought no-one lasted more than an hour in room 1408? And did they give us $800 bottles of cognac and a free upgrade to Penthouse magazine? Did they buggery sod as like! It's off to the Evil Fucking Room to be drownded!

And just who was in 1408 - only that bloke from Thirthirteenen Ghosts!

And what's the temperature in the room? 13°!

And we're here for the new ride called.... 13 (allegedly called 13, but they've done that twatty thing by bunging irrelenvent numbers in the middle of the name like right twatting twatarse wankshafts do)

And last Friday was Friday the 13th!!! (according to those who can't remember their wives birthdate after only 1 week!)

Despite the snoreage accompanied by the tippy tap of electro-pop musicians on laptops, Carpenters Radio supernatural switch-ons, reversing chronographs, nobs falling off, sprinklers shorting out laptops, ice cage temperature plungement, severe floodage, beach transporation, hangings, dead daughters and flambé of the room, Room 1408 was quite pleasant to stay in.

Anyhoo, it's time for breakfast (the Ladies taking certain kitchen utensils off the gates to apply to Derren Brown, Graham Norton & Dale Winton), missing out on jelly bean transportation but engaging in a 3 against 1 disagreement on the attractiveness of particularly cute pretties.

And here comes Lorraine   Purple poncho purchasement? Not at those prices. Besides, it's only a light shower!

And thanks to Arthurian Mages, we in early... amidst a throng of foul smelling unwashed selfish vermin with no concept of queueage. In fact, such a lack of concept that they followed the immensely long queue, barging to the very front before realising there's a barrier and people are queueing...

And now, the twatarsedly spelt Ththirteenteen... what! No gropeage by roots or Overfiends? Just a long wait in the Cans of Piss garden for 1 steep drop, 2 steep angled turns, and a slight droppage of the undercarriage before a hair-do distressing reverse maneuveure. Is that it? After all the hype and the threat of root rogerment, all you get is Rhohypnolled donuts and a fairly tame coast about? Ah, al least there's the Rapey Wraith! Lumbering in his dripping hessian robes after unsuspecting maidens on the offchance that said maidens have a fetish for faceless humpty-backed Jedi rejects (well, anything's possible).

Oh well, it's damp out. Lets try the log flume! Shitnuts! Shit Nuggets! Fuck my Bollocks! Porker Xym is in the front, and his vast tonnage has caused a lowering of the bow. Due to the previous night's monsoon, the track is somewhat fuller than usual, resulting in a triplicity of Tsumani over the front, causing severe drenchment in foul smelling dank water about the rainments of Fat Boy Xym. A poor bedraggled fat sadsack of dripping (dripping as in LARD) and dripping with swamp water emerges with Xymon LeBon follicle rearrangement.

And seeing as Xym's all wet, we might as well do the rapids. Who's gonna get wet first???

No guess necessary! Lady Fortune takes a dive away from the icy prong of Neptune's golden shower, allowing his salty brine to cascade all down Xym's back for total 360° aqua coverage.

And so we shlup, shlup, shlup over to Sonic The Hedgery Hog, where Xym can Spin Dry... or would, if there was a decent waiting time. So, Blitzspear time! And up the launch pad we go, and the seats tip back... and the water pours off the machinery and all over Xym for yet another drenching! And what's this... extra speed and swingment? Whatever lubrication was in that acid rain has certainly loosened up Nemisis for one much wilder ride than normal!

Let's see if Air has broken down again. Oh, it has. That I did not expect! So, off for a bit of Leslie Phillips "Chew Chew" from a mining maiden instead, before a bit of half hearted Ghostbustin'

New Moania is setting in, so let's get Xym into a fetching purple poncho. Nice! Let's get Xym all toasty in Jailbait Reef. Ghosts of the Sea! Ghosts of the Sea! Ghosts of the Sea! Ghosts of the fucking Sea! If he was corporeal and I was Eric Theodore Cartman, I would kick him in the nuts!

And now onto Hex, where the Big Butch Lads are all "This is only a wussy tour!", before crying like big girls blouses because they don't like the scary ride, and wetting their knickers at getting told off for using their cameras.

Alas, shivery xym is now in deep hypothermia and post-Beastie regrettably has to sit out being spun dry on Sonic Spinball, but once the Ladies have finished their raping of Hedgehogs, Squirrels and Teddies, it's off to the Shit-Your-Pants scary Squirrel Nutsack, which is much better when you have your own nuts to doze in.

And finally, it's off for the first meal since brekkie! Ah, a nice affordable hot meal to warm up the fever ridden gormster, and bring him back from the brink of icy death! Oh, Tesco's chilled section! Sod that, this ole plague carrier will get a nice warming drink from Costa. Well, a warming drink anyways. Actually, a foul, fag ash fondue of foulness. Oh, shit the bed and roll about in it because you've been tucked in too tight. The malodourous minger on the counter is taking a million years to prepare a cup to begin the first queuers beverage! Sod it, I'll just suffer in silence in an over-melodramatical strop for the lack of a proper hot meal for an ill patient!

Good times!!
   

Hot Spuds, Consecrate fish, Put some gerbil on...

Clearly, 2009 was the year of wanton shite due to the presence of the malevolent moulet that was proudly presented from the very bowels of Hades unto the dizzying heights of Baremingeham upon the pate of a short fat old goth git.

It would appear that since the beloved cranial adornment became more of a flowing mane of luscious locks, Xym is no longer shunned by the populace, and the fashionable follicles have a fanbase all of their own!

Indeedy - gone is the unfathomable pariah status invoked by revival revilers of that great 80s stylee, and compliment upon compliment is paid to me in the street by many a barnet approving personage... with a somewhat consistent comment.

And what is this constant comment, I hear you not bothering to ask? The constant comment of confusion that was presented again today on St Stephens, after much makings of the fabulousness of the preposterous follicle stylings? Well...

Apparently, I have Rocky Horror hair.

And this not even when I'm tarted up in me guyliner and male varnish!

But what exactly is Rocky Horror hair, and why does it gain so much approval? Certainly, none of them there lead characters have anything like my hair... but wait! Who's that bloke stuffing his foolish fat face inbetween steps of the Time Warp? That can only be Xym...

Christopher Bigguns!

Or should that be Christ of Hair Bigguns!

And if I'm the Christ of Hair, then is it any wonder I'm being swamped with complimentary commentary! I am the messiah of the once-moulet... 

But, I would hope, without the mammarial vastness of the popluar pantomime doom's moobs.