Aaaarrrgggh! I do. Don't. DON'T...

The inbred deformite denizens of Great Y'ha-Nthlei have once again arised from the depths, and taken to ye local market (for ye local yokels).

Last year, they tried to break the world record for the number of Wallies in one gathering.

A record you would think they would win hands down, gormsters that they are.

But they failed.

This year, the Lord Mayor of the watery deep has decided that his batrachian bathysphere brethren will once again dance their midnight rite in order to conquer the world.

And who be their Lord of the Dance?

None other than Black Lace!

Indeedy - no longer the hellish guttural chants of "Aï! Dagon!", it's "Aï Gadoo"! Pushing Pineapples and shaking trees with their bewebbed finlike fingers.

Clearly this is all in preparation for the 2012 Olympigs, when the melted icecaps flood Britain, and the mereyobs and merechavs of Great Y'ha-Nthlei will capitialize on the now-underwater stadium in the 100m Agadoo dash to the wedding reception disco floor to perform their record breaking moves of coffee grinding to the left (to the right, up and down and to the scales mid way down the tailfin).

Still - 375 amphibious townsfolk all shuffling to 80s novelty pop singles by flaming torchlight has to be a world record.

Shame Roy Sandcastle isn't on the beach blowing his own trumpet, tap-dancing with Ross & Norris McWhirter over a pint of Guinness.

Well, scaly fishfolk of Great Y'ha-Nthlei, you're only a step away from Anglian Railways and the other Black Lace hit "Chew, chew ,chew, c'mon and chew my conger*"

And no-one wants that - great fat blokes in gold leoturds, giving it the groin thrustage and the vast belly bounce. Urgh. * shudders *

Hot becamelled Pretties in skimpy lycra PVC leather teddies on the other hand...

"Chew Chew!!"**

* CONGER EEL, FRESH CAUGHT OFF CROMER PIER. NOT A EUPHEMISM FOR COCK. YOU DON'T WANT SOMEONE CHEWING YER COCK, GIVING IT THE MASTICATION AND LEAVING IT ALL MANGLED WITH TOOTHMARKS ALL OVER IT.

** WHICH IS ONLY EFFECTIVE WHEN SPOKEN BY A HOT PRETTY IN A SILKEN, SULTRY VOICE. PREFERABLY WHEN ABOUT TO EMBARK ON A WHITE KNUCKLE RIDE. WHICH IS ALSO A EUPHEMISM FOR A HAND SHANDY, WHICH IS ALSO PREFERABLE FROM HOT SULTRY SIRENS IN SILKY UNDERGARMENTS. OR SOMETHING.
 

Fraud! Huh! What is it good for (ASBO looting boffin)...

Well, no wonder insurance premiums are so high!

Or course, there are fraudsters ramming each other up the bum to get their grubby mitts on cash they don't deserve, but I never thought I'd see an Insurance company so brazenly promoting thievery.

Hiring men in tights to mug wealthy types! 

And after relieving innocent hikers of their pennies by purloining the policyholders purse, they bung him in a cheapass Courtesy Cart! And after a quick sing-song about having to take comparative measures, the insurance instigator cops off with the hippie hottie tarted up as a tousled, dishevelled Maid Marion Pretty. 

So, after raking in their roadside booty to swell their own personal Fat Cat coffers, they gets to bump up our premiums on the basis of having to pay out more in burglary cases and hiring out courtesy cars! AND the sneaky insurance guy gets a shagging! 

Talk about company perks!

And we know exactly what perks Gio Compario was interested in!

It's literally Highway Robbery!!

Well, leafy forest nature trail robbery.

I work in insurance - send me out creating premium inflating claims and seducing my criminal accomplices - I have a list of Pretties all ready, and can get my paws on several costumes. I'm thinking Alice (from Wonderland), Bellatrix, Mrs Lovett, Pirate Wench, Hot Goth Chick...

When those big breasted Cucurbitaceæ go to the feast...

...and take their tops off!

Attack! Return! Striking back and consuming France - all implicated the Daucus carota as the wily veg of danger, but according to BBC News it's Cucumis sativus that be raising The Fear in Europe.

It would seen that Professor Gangreen has relocated to Spain, and in Post-Great Tomato Wars suspicion of the killer fruit-cum-vegetable, he's genetically modifying queue-cum-bears as his latest bio-weapon.

The relentless march of the watery vine based salady snack (also in the androgynous fruit/veg confusitory definition) has already slaughtered 1,000s in Germany. Well, 100s. More like 10s.

Actually, 10 victims in total.

The Czech Republic believe the invading produce have infiltrated Hungary and Luxembourg, news of which has so put the windup Austria that they've outlawed aubergines... and tomatoes!

Ah - remember the broadcast:
Not so sure about the rapeage, but if vegetable based self pleasurement if your thing, best stick to Antonio Banned-Hair-Arse bananas.

Or something.

Shit! I have salad in the fridge - best dispose of it quick-smart in case it uses a spaghetti garotte to strangle me in the night!
  

And everything you do, Yeah they were all giallo...

Urgh. Need to disinfect me laptop after using that lyric!

Anyhoo, after much in the way of accolades, and cheapage in clearance,  I purchased what many claim to be a worthy successor and celebratory study of the Giallo genre.

Giallo, my best hat! Arty-Farty nonsensical bobbins more like! Tributey homage - most deffo!

But no Giallo.

Part 1 - This just screams "I wanna be Dario!". Lots of close up eye shots, phantasmagorical lighting, object panning, troubled child, scary witchy types, water, Goblin/Carpenter soundtrack. But no Giallo. Or actual plot, for that matter.

Part 2 - WTF?? This is just poncey French arthouse arse! Lots of close-ups of lips chewing hair, women in light summer frocks walking, meaningless looks, sun shining through dresses, hats held 'significantly', close ups of hair stirred by breeze. But no Giallo. Or actual plot. Or even dialogue for that matter.

Part 3 - Ah, she returns home to the mansion in disrepair. At last a teeny bit of Giallo - black gloved handage, straight razor, chasery stuff, and incomprehensible twistage at the end.

Oh well, lovely looking film (in part), but not a patch on a proper Giallo.

Only in Amer... France!
   

I be an incredibly sensitive man, who inspires joy-joy feelings in all those around me...

Hah!

Joy-Joy feelings, my best barnet. I don't know any Joys, let alone feelin' 'em up!

And I've not been feelin'g Em up either.

I know a Jo or two, but like Joy and Em(ma), they too are free from gropeage.

What I do inspire, is a sudden desire amongst others to have Pressing Business Elsewhere when my attendance is assured! I'm like Ephialtes - a disfigured, short misshapen dwarf, revolting all those around him by my very presence.

Just because they prefer oiled up muscular macho Spartan hunkage!

King Leon Hardass? Xerxes? Lena Headache? Lovely Queen Lenina Huxley, more like!

Thermopylae? Thermo = Heat (We're off to Per-sia, to buy Heat Magazine!), Pylae = Pile of (probably). Thermopylae = Pile of heat to thaw you out of the Cryo-Prison!

And they're all having a punch up on the beach! Well, at least they had a plentiful supply of seashells.

Hah! Them Persians don't know how to use the three seashells!

On the plus side... Rrrrrrrrrratburgerz!

Oh, we're back to Troll again.

Will this Percy queue shun never end?

THIS. IS. SPARTAN!

John Spartan!

Wall to wall, People Rohypnoltized...

So, The Rapture returneth!

Mental God-Bother Harold Camping has now revised the Date Of the Apocalypse.

After a bit of fannying about with his abacus, he's calculated that he was only 5 months out, and The Rapture is actually due on October 21st 2011.

Shit buggery jizzbattered flangepaste! That means...

...I'll miss The Mission, Fields of the Nephilim and Gene Loves Jezabel gig on 22nd October at Brixton Academy!

I'm not having that! No way is angelic abduction going to disrupting my gothgeek concert plans!

I've read His Dark Materials - I'm launching a Lord Asriel style revolt against The Authority! Mother - Fetch me a screaming mob and a collection of Olympian Torches, we're off to storm the pearly gates!!

Wearing some Lynx Exite so we can give them seraphim hotties a pearly necklace on the way.

I note that Harold has decided to hide away from this furore with his missus, and is holed up in a hotel, getting in 5 months worth of dirty weekends before his ascent.

What the senile old gormster failed to realise, is that The Rapture DID happen on May 21st - it's just that no-one was worthy enough to be taken into heavenly glory.

After all, the combination of commandments and deadly sins are designed to exclude everyone from glorious good times. Proud to be a Christian? Ha! Pride is one of the seven deadly sins, so no heaven for you! It's down below to the furnace and the pitchfork up the bum!

Or having to continue to live everyday, toiling away for pennies in a hot stuffy office with a rooftop view when the sun is shining and there's lots of pretties outside about in light summer frocks, eating ice creams that drip onto their neck and slowly slide teasingly down their kle'varge...

I'm so going to the Special Hell...
  

Hey, there's a fag bank out there...

Now, by rights I should regail you with tales of last night. Of hot pretties in pajamas, of unspeakable porridge that doth insidiously speak, of walking, breathing walls, of Stateside sweeties, of a plentitude of norkage and sapphic shower snoggery, of demon shaggery, and converse of much mirthitude.

Instead, the talk of the town is that NYC has banned smoking in parks, beaches and golf courses.

Presumably that Mayor has been told off* by his dental nurse for his yellowing teeths, and took the now legenday Extreme Measures.

Ahyhoo, smokers are all up in arms, and their fags all up in flames (at one end) at being unable to smoke as they stand around watching the incessant rapeage that Central Pork is famed for.

Of course, everyone's arguing over libery and rights, so you've got to find a happy medium.

Not Doris Stokes, though, the miserable old trout!

Non-Smokers want their fresh air, Smokers want to pollute the fresh air! And so a new, more viable solution has been put forward:

New York's a city made of islands, so why not just have smoke free islands and one smoker's island? Like a colony.

Trouble is, they already tried that. I saw a John Carpenter documentary on it.

The Founding Fathers sent Blake and his leperous smokers off to a colony, then lured them off the rocks so that Blakes gold could be melted down into a cross and buried alive in a church wall.

Now, every 100yrs, Blake and his cancer coughing coffin dodging impotent seamen return in a plume of fag smoke that covers the township and they have at the descentants with various archaic maritime tools.

I, for one, won't advocate giving them Fag Island and drowning them en-route, for fear of their return and opening up my cryonic chamber and using it as a freezer for their fisheries as they fillet me up in revenge.

Or something.

* OR, MORE LIKELY, TOLLED OFF. NO WONDER HE HAD TO SEE THAT GUYKNACKEROLOGIST ON NEW YEARS DAY IF HE'S GETTING THE AIDES OFF SOME CAMPANOLOGICAL CRUMPET GIVING HIS BELL ROPE A GOOG TUGGING!

A little more mad in the retrognome..

Ah, mammary lane!

How well I remember thee, past rememberences of escapadery!

I had forgotten that Puppet Man was an android - so much for recent concepts of puppet mastery of the deceased reanimatory puppeteer!

Alas, archival retrieval and repostage isn't as quick as one would hope.

So bear with me.

And if you're a pretty, bare with me.

Yay! Let's get nuddy in the afterglow of the rapture of the lack of raptural absconding into the afterlife!
 

Reanimator, reanimate 'em now...

* notices redesign *

* peruses *

* oooh! Ressurection of long, thought lost bloggage *

* gives the "we belong dead" lever a good old yank *

* tranference ensues *

It lives! At last, we lives again!

The walls of branch, now they've bopped me on the head...

A day of Charlie Dimmock moobage and foliage deforestation be the order of the day.

Alas, herbacious borders being as high as a house, the trimming of tall timbers results in concussive cranial cloutage of much ouchability.

And once the felling of firewood is complete, manageable chunkment must ensue, for the disposing and drying out thereof.

And, naturally, them sawteeth loves the taste of Xymflesh, and bit me most severely. It's M.Night Shitearse all over again - The Happening has begun! Nature farts back!

Oh well, all done and dusty. Now for a relax in front of the telly.

Dammit! Now I've missed F1 and Columbo :(

Battered, bloody, bruised and bescratched, with added disappointment of televisual entertainment.

That's it - I'm off for a shower (expecting to slip on the soap and drown) then sort out a salady tea (expect to slice me fingers as I slice me cucumber)

Who'd be me, eh!

Toe to toe, dancing very close. Barely breathing (too much men's aftershave)...

"And the dead in Christ shall rise first.
 Then, we which are alive and remain, shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air.
 And so shall we ever be with the Lord."

Well, them Old End-timers believe that today is The Rapture.

At first, I misheard, and thought that the name of todays apocalyptic annihilation was The Raptor, and we were all about to be devoured by rampaging Jurassic Pork type dinoclones.

But, sadly, it's not saurian shennanigans - it's either the abduction of humanity by Space Monsters to be feasted upon by invading interplanetary interlopers, or the Hosts Of Heaven will descend and take us up into Heaven/Nirvana/Enlightened Sphere/Valhalla, or whichever religious paradise meets your favoured form of faith.

And you gotta have faith (Well, I guess it would be nice if I could touch your body. I know not everybody has got a body like you, my pretty! xxx)

Anyhoo, it seems like today is totally uninterrupted by the trumpeting of trumpets, and the sounds of harpers harping with their harps. So it looks like no divine divinity is coming to take me up into her boudoir bower of paradise for a lifetime of rapturous rogering any time soon.

Hold on - Rapture... that's one of them portmanteau words, isn't it? Rape + Torture = Rapture.

No wonder there's no angelic beauties raising up all up to the celestial domain of eternal joy - it's that bloody Lynx Excite! "Even Angels Will Fall". One whiff of that, it it's the tossing off of the halo, and the tossing off of the hero with the perfumed 'pits!

There's us, all waiting to be enraptured, and these winged women are too busy tumbling into crowded foreign streets, and rising up like Arnie Terminators before rape-torturing undeserving muppets on mopeds based on their deodorantal preferences!

Right. That's it. Sod everlasting happiness in the afterlife - I'm off to boots to buy Lads stuff - Nuts, Loaded, For His Masturbation* magazines, and a stackload of Lynx.

Then I'm guaranteed a bit of "Rapture" from gorgeous goddesses.

Although it's going to be a bugger hoovering up all them feathers after all that rapturous shaggery.

* THERE ARE THEMS WHAT THINK THAT "FHM" IN FHM MAGAZINE STANDS FOR "FOR HIM MAGAZINE". THAT'S BECAUSE THEY'RE GORMSTERS, BECAUSE THAT MAKES IT "FOR HIM MAGAZINE MAGAZINE". IT'S QUITE CLEARLY "FOR HIS MASTURBATION" MAGAZINE, BEING FILLED WITH NAUGHT BUT PHOTOS OF FEMALE CHILDRENS TV PRESENTERS PORNING IT UP, AND HIGH STREET (NUBILE NEIGHBOURS THAT READERS ARE CREEPILY PERVING OVER) HONEYS.
IT'S A BIT LIKE SMARTARSES WHO MOAN ABOUT PIN NUMBERS, WHO THINK THEY'RE SO CLEVER BY POINTING OUT THE "N" IN PIN STANDS FOR "NUMBER", SO PIN NUMBER = PERSONAL IDENTIFICATION NUMBER NUMBER. IT HAS TO BE PIN NUMBER, YOU CRETINOUS TWONK, FOR IF SOMEONE ASKED YOU TO KEY IN  YOUR PI NUMBER, PEOPLE WOULD BE KEYING IN THE PHONE NUMBERS OF THEIR MAGNUM STYLE INVESTIGATORY TYPES BY MISTAKE.

And they said Elvis was dead! Pay attention, 9 seconds into the video evidence for the above mentioned lack of rapture. A great fatarse old Elvis is there, masquerading as one of them old italian momma in a big black dress. Rule #1 of Faking Your Own Death - stay away from cameras, especially video ones for televisiual transmission:

I WOULD go out tonight, but I haven't got a stitch to wear...

And then I thought, A-ha! There's always Lilo.

And then I remembered I have a lack of short, dumpy hawaiian strumpets to clothe meself with.

And THEN I had an inkling I could get away with a few steel hemisphere's to cover the key areas with.

But that would look like a Lady Gaga bra, or something. And apparently a kloche is a huge jelly mould which, when not busy setting jelly in the shape of a pair of chesticles, is bunged o'er a hot meal to keep it warm.

All this time I thought cloth was just people talking about Kloche, but lithped it, becauthe they thpeak thtupid

Oh well, nuddy dancing it is then!

I'm your Silent Dancer...

Ahead of tonights mayhem, I still can't get over this from last week.

I no longer care about being a bi-polar maniac depressive, for this is the antidote. Some peoples prefer ponchos, or favour a sombrero. Me - 16 seconds into this and I'm helplessly writhing on the floor crippled with mirth. 

All that she wants is an Arnie baby, she's gone tomorrow...

...but she'll be back!

The Governator once famously announced "Eating is not cheating" when he got caught gash gobbling beaver pie. However, looks like in private ole Dutch has been bellowing "Get to me chopper" to the hired help!

Ah, shagging up the servants and casting the slattern out of the domicile for succumbing to impregnation - who sez Victorian values are dead!

Of course, this is The Sperminator we're talking about - but who's to say this new Upstairs Downstairs Sarah Connor actually had Arnie as The Inseminator? Them Cyberdyne Systems model 101s don't half look suspiciously like Conan The LargeHairy'un.

Shame his chrononautical quest for retro rumpy-pumpy didn't include the phrase "I need your lube, your holes and your motorised vibrator. And a packet of spunkcatchers to be on the safe side."

Maybe Judgement Day ain't so long off - what, John Connor-Schwartzenegger must be 10 now. 3 or 4 more years before another Gallifreyan cyborg tries to chase him through the arcades whilst listening to Axlotl singing about Sweet Childs O' Mine In The Cold November Rain (a T.A.T.U. sapphic snoggage song video).

And then it's off to stop Miles Dyson, and his cyclone cyborg ball technology that never loses suction.

Or was that how the chambermaid started?

  

I want to drink my pineapple, I want to ease my spine...

Well, despite yon grazeage, my equatorial belt has not reduced in line with the lack of consumption.

As before, one has to put this down to other slimming types who are telepathically teleporting their lard from themselves unto me, via the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter (and thus clearly precipitating a flexi-tangenital spatial interflux within the symbiotic parameters of existential functionalism).

Or something.

Well, I'm sick of their dietary displacement! In addition to the lack of Cake Pie, I may have to turn to the taking of tapewormy tablets without the wormy bit.

In other words, get the Adios effect!

However, a pill to thin me down is all well and good, but I'm a tad wary of them there side-FX.

A propensity to prance past postblokes in my pants*, and also to purchase a pair of pink sparkly sequinned hotpants with an intent to meet up with other pink sparkly sequinned hotpanted harlots at bus stops.

As if my current visual repulsion to all wasn't enough to scare a troll into fits, can you imagine me down The Whatacunt with preposterous hair, ludicrous shades, a Nephilim shirt and tightly fitting pink sparkly sequinned hotpants.

Although actually, they may match the purple flamey bits of me NudeCocks. Some gals have matching shoes and handbags, I have boots and hotpants.

Camel toe? Peter Griffin chin with a fibbed up Pinnochio, more like!

* NOT POSTBLOKES IN MY PANTS. ME, IN MY PANTS, DANCING AROUND ROYAL MAIL'S POOR DELIVERERS FROM EVIL.

˙˙˙ǝʎ ʇunɐɥ ןן,I pɹɐoq ,uıɟɹns ɐ ǝʞıן 'ɐǝs ʇɐ ǝɯ ʎɹnq

˙˙˙ǝʞıן ǝɹoɯ 'pǝssıd ǝɥʇ ɟɟo ǝuO ¿ƃuıʞuɐןԀ

˙(sʞunɹ⊥ uI sʞunH ɥɔunW ʇɐɥM sןɐɯɯɐW ɹoℲ) ɐʇıʌʎɹ ɟo ʇuǝןɐʌınbǝ ǝuıɹɐɯ ǝɥʇ s,ʇı s,ʇɐɥʇ ʎʞɹɐɥS ɹW ƃuıןןǝʇ ʎq ǝdɐɔsǝ ɹnoʎ ǝʞɐɯ oʇ ɹǝʞuoןd ƃuıʞuɐןd pǝıɟıɹʇǝd ɹnoʎ ǝsn 'ƃuoןɐ sǝɯoɔ sʍɐſ ǝןo ɟı puɐ 'ǝʌɐʍ ʇɔǝɟɹǝd ǝɥʇ ɥɔʇɐɔ oʇ ɯɹoɟʇɐןd pıןos 'ǝɔıu ∀ ˙spɹɐoqɟɹns ǝןqɐpɐɹƃǝpoıq sɐ ɯǝɥʇ ǝsn 'ʎsıʇɹoɯ ɹoƃıɹ ןןɐ ʇǝƃ ʇsɹıɟ ʎǝɥʇ uǝɥM ˙ʇɐɥʇ qnɹɔs 'ʎןןɐnʇɔ∀

˙ןɐpǝɯ pןoƃ ɐ suıʍ ɯɐǝq ǝɔuɐןɐq ɹıǝɥʇ ɟɟo doɹp ʎןpǝsodɯoɔǝp puɐ ʎʇʇoƃɐɯ ןןɐ ʇǝƃ oʇ ǝuo ʇsɐן ˙uı sʇǝs sıʇɹoɯ ɹoƃıɹ ǝɔuo ƃuıʞuɐןԀ ɔıdɯʎןO uı ǝƃɐƃuǝ ʍou uɐɔ sǝssɐqɯnp pǝsɐǝɔǝp ǝsǝɥʇ 'ǝsɹnoɔ ɟO

˙ǝsıɯǝp ɹıǝɥʇ oʇ ǝıɹæ ʎʞuɐןd ɹıǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ǝןqɯnʇ oɥʍ 'suoɟɟnq pǝɔuɐןɐqun ǝsǝɥʇ ɟo ןɐıɹnq ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ sɹǝuıɐʇuoɔ pǝdɐɥs uıɟɟoɔ oʇuı pǝɯɹoɟ pooʍ ɟo sʞuɐןd ɥʇıʍ pǝsɐɔuǝ dn puǝ sɹɥɥɥɐɐɐɐɐן,ƃ ,uıɯɐןɟ ǝsǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɯos 'ʎןןɐɹnʇɐu

˙ʎqqoɥ sıɥʇ ɟo sǝǝʇoʌǝp ɹǝɥʇo ɟo ʇuǝɯǝsnɯɐ ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ qǝʍɹǝʇuı ǝɥʇ oʇuo ʇı ʇsod puɐ ǝsod ɹnoʎ ǝʇɐɔıɥdɐɹƃoʇoɥd oʇ ɹǝʇsɯɹoƃ ʍoןןǝɟ ɹnoʎ ʇǝƃ uǝɥ⊥ ˙ɹǝʇʇǝq ǝɥʇ 'ǝɔɐɟɹns snoɹǝƃuɐp puɐ snoıɹɐɔǝɹd ǝɹoɯ ǝɥ⊥ ˙pǝǝʍ ɟo ʞuɐןd pǝɔuɐןɐq ɐ ƃuıʞɔıɯıɯ 'ǝɔɐɟɹns ɐ uodn ǝıן oʇ sı ʎqqoɥ sıɥʇ ɟo ʇɔǝɾqo ǝɥ⊥

zʇǝuɹǝʇuı uɐ pu∀ ●

ʞuıɹp uoɯǝן ʞɐǝʍ ɟo ʞsɐןɟ ∀ ●

ɐɹǝɯɐɔ ɐ ɥʇıʍ ɹǝʇsɯɹoƃ ʍoןןǝɟ ∀ ●

ɹǝʇsɯɹoƃ ∀ ●

ɹǝʇsɯɹoƃ ɐ ɟo ɥʇƃuǝן ǝɥʇ ǝɔɐןd ∀ ●

:ʎqqoɥ sʞǝǝʍ sıɥʇ ɹoɟ pǝǝu ןןıʍ noʎ ʇɐɥM

˙ʎqqoɥ sıɥʇ uı ǝƃɐƃuǝ oʇ ʞuɐןd ʇɥƃıɹ ɐ ǝq oʇ ǝʌɐɥ noʎ pu∀

˙ƃuıʞuɐןԀ :spɹɐʍ∀ uıʍɹɐp ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ ƃuıpuǝʇuoɔ sı ǝzɐɹɔ ʍǝu ɐ 'sǝʎ

˙ןood ǝuǝƃ ǝɥʇ ɟo ƃuısuɐǝןɔ-ɐ s,ʇı ǝɯıʇ sıɥʇ ʇnq 'uıɐƃɐ ʇı ʇɐ ǝɹɐ sǝdʎʇ ɹǝpun uʍop sɯǝɥ⊥

(ıı ʇɹɐd) ɥʇʍǝɹʇS

Good boys never win, they all run away...

Alas, social ineptitude is one again enforcing The Fear upon everyone's most unpopular gormster!

Get to zee chopper, be the order of the day, for it was not too hot for extraction.

The welcome relief at the loss of fifth wheel presence may well be tempered by wails of loss at the extrication of the ever-popular ludicrous shades (not to mention the shedding of tears at the sudden absence of ridiculous headwear).

However, an ever increasing sense of apprehension overcame the desire to remain and engage in lecherous fingering Skills, and exits of the sharpened end of the vacatory variety had to be made.

So, I apologize to those desirous of my presence (0), those who gained not the chance for millinary adorment (1), those who desired further shades skills (1) and thems happy to see the back of me hastily racing from the venue (100s upon 100s).

But I did put in an appearance and helped the fundraising effort (despite an attack by a table, a gallant helpful gesture resulting in a drenching,  and general embarassment by my very appearance.)

Of circlatures of social gatherment, I am but an orbiting satellite of asteroidal barren-ness.
   

The more I pester the nation, the more I'm tip-typin' away....

Thou shalt silence me not!

First the internetz locksmith denies me entrance to my portal of knowledge, then the net goblin has made thievery of my revelatory Oz based barnet shennanigans!

Yesterday would have been a Smaug hiss board of the bweailing of lots, from Dame Fortuna's golden showers of doom, thru iced up ice age sharkage, a jaunt though animatory splendour and laughing at the lot of scummy scammers getting more than they bargained for.

There would be piracy and arsteroids, with a side order of defactory nonsense.

Instead, I gots silenced by thems what gypped Garth Marenghi.

So gimme me blog back, ye bar stewards!

˙˙˙pǝןıɹ ʇǝƃ uǝɯ puɐ 'pןıʍ sopɹıɐɥ ɥʇıʍ 'ɹǝpun uʍop puɐן ɐ ɯoɹɟ ǝɯoɔ I

¡ɯǝןqoɹd ǝɥʇ s,ʇɐɥʇ ˙˙˙ɥƃnoɥʇ 'suǝpıɐɯ ɯǝɥʇ ƃuıpuıℲ

˙dɐן ɹıǝɥʇ uı sʎɐן ʇı sɐ pɐǝɥ ʎɯ ǝʞoɹʇs puɐ ǝuɐɯ snouıɐʇunoɯ ʎɯ oʇuı sɹǝƃuıɟ ɹıǝɥʇ ǝʌןǝp oʇ ǝʌoן pןnoʍ oɥʍ uǝpıɐɯ ɐ ʎuɐɯ sı ǝɹǝɥʇ ɹoℲ ˙sǝɔuǝɹǝןoʇuı uɐıןɐɹʇsn∀ ɹoɟ I ǝɹɐɔ ʇɐɥʍ - ɐH

˙sʞɔoן ןɐɥʇǝן ʎɯ ʎɯ s,ǝɔnɹq ƃuıʇɐʇıdɐɔǝp puɐ s,ɐןıǝɥS ǝɥʇ ƃuıuǝʇɥƃıɹɟ 'ɹıɐɥ snoɹǝʇsodǝɹd pǝɹǝʇʇǝɟun ɥʇıʍ ʇnoqɐ ƃuıɔunoןɟ ɹoɟ pǝıuǝp ɐsıʌ s,ɯʎX ¡ǝɯ ɹoɟ sʎɐpıןoɥ pǝsɐq-zO ou

¡ʇno ǝʎǝ s,ǝuoʎɹǝʌǝ sɐɥ puɐ 'sǝɥsooʍs „pǝɥsɐʍ ʇsnɾ„ ɯǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo ɹıɐɥ ǝɯ ǝʌıƃ I ɹO ˙ʎqɹɐǝu sɹǝןןǝʌǝɹ ƃuıʇɹoʌɐɔ ǝɥʇ sǝןddıɹɔ dɯıɹɔ ʎɐɹʇs ɐ ǝsɐɔ uı 'sʇɥƃıu s08˙ʇןɐ ɹo snʞʍɐɹ uo ʇunɔɐʇɐɥM ǝɥ⊥ uʍop pǝʍoןןɐ ǝq uǝʌǝ ǝq ʇ,uoʍ I 'ʍouʞ noʎ ƃuıɥʇ ʇxǝu

¡ɟı s∀

˙ǝƃɐdɯɐɹ ǝɥʇ uo ouıɥɹ ʎʇnɐuɹǝƃƃnɾ ǝɯos ǝʞıן sǝʞıds sıɥ uo sɹǝʎɐןd ƃuıןɐdɯı 'ɯɐǝʇ ƃuısoddo ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ǝpɐʍ ʇɥƃıɯ ǝɥ ʇɥƃnoɥʇ (ǝɹıdɯ∩ ʎɹɹos) ɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ sɯǝǝS ˙oƃɐ sdǝǝןs ʎuɐɯ ʇɹods oʇ pǝsn I sɐ ɥɔns 'ʞʍɐɥoɯ pǝddıʇ ǝpuoןq ɐ s,ʇı os 'ʞO

¡ɹıɐɥ snoɹǝƃuɐp ƃuıʌɐɥ ɹoɟ ɟɟo ʇuǝs ʇoƃ dɐɥɔ ɹood sıɥʇ 'ooɥʎu∀

¡ʇǝʞɔıɹɔ s,ʇı sʞuıɥʇ ʎǝɥ⊥ ¡ɐH ˙sǝɹıdɯn ǝʌɐɥ ʎǝɥ⊥ ˙sǝǝɹǝɟǝɹ ǝʌɐɥ ʇ,uop ʎǝɥʇ 'ʞɔɐqʇno ǝɥʇ uı sɹǝʞɔɐdʞɔɐq pǝssıɯun 'ǝuoן puɐ sǝıqɹɐq uʍɐɹd 'sɹǝʇsoɟ ɟo ʇǝıp ɐ oʇ ǝnp 'pǝʇʇıʍ-ʍoןs ʇɐɥʍǝɯos ǝɹɐ sǝɔnɹq ǝɹǝɥʇ ɯǝɥʇ s∀

˙uǝɹǝɯos uɐʌ uɐɥʇɐu ɹǝןןɐqsʇooɟ „sǝןnɹ ǝıssnɐ„ sɐ ɥɔnS

˙dןɐɔs ǝɥʇ ƃuıuɹopɐ sǝssǝɹʇ pǝıɹɐıdoʇ ǝɥʇ ǝʇɐıɔǝɹddɐun oɥʍ ǝsoɥʇ ɟo ןnoɟɐ ƃuıןןɐɟ sɹǝןןɐqʇooɟ pǝƃɐıןoɟ ʎǝןɔıןןoɟ uı pǝʇןnsǝɹ sɐɥ ǝɹnʇdןnɔs ןɐıuɐɹɔ ɹoɟ pǝɹʇɐɥ ɥɔnS

˙ʇǝuɹɐq ןnɟıʇunoq ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔuɐɹǝןoʇuı uɐ ǝʌɐɥ sǝıpןɐq ǝıqɹɐq ɯǝɥʇ sɯǝǝs ʇı ʇnq 'ɐıןɐɹʇsn∀ oʇ ƃuıʇɐɹƃıɯǝ ʇnoqɐ ʇɥƃnoɥʇ ǝɔuo I

¡ɥʇʍǝɹʇS