They call me the solderer...

Yeah, the solderer
I solder round and round and round and round

What makes a good leader?

Being able to be in non-stop back-to-back meetings, delegating all work, taking all the credit but blaming others for failure?

Having a gang to lead and a Silver glittery jumpsuits with mahoosive shoulderpads?

Or having the ability to smelt metals marked on Periodic Tables by the symbol Pb, and apply it to other surfaces, much as a painter applies paint, a leader applies lead.

Of course not! You don't call swimming pool cleaners chloriners do you! There's no such thing as a magnesiumer, mercuryer or ironer is there!

Although some would say the latter one is a wife.

Anyhoo, the proper term for a leader is presumably a welder. Or a solderer.

Mmmmm.... boiled runny egg and toasted solderers!

But not big butch beefcake solderers - oh no! Sexy soldering blacksmith babes, all toasty warm on the other hand...
 

Day, Day, go away...

Crunchment in darkened well.

Uncontactable, rescheduling, snail-crawling will sapment.

Auto-vehicular assassination attempt by speeding Wanted's Angelina Not-So-Jolly.

Fruit based whingery and then overcomplicatory installation of simplicity.

And then we're talking miniscule adaptment, insufficient to requirements!

And lo - am I coming Friday to summat I'm not that keen on. Go on. Go on. Go on go on go on go on go on, oh feck it, I'll think about it.

And tomorrow's multi-aminal based eventual regatherance for foreign cuisine is on the verge of scupperance! Screw dat - nothing's gonna put a halt to that after months of spicy longing!

Oh well,. relaxage - oh feckarry diddle-doo, everything is on everywhere all at once.

AND my outward image of jollificated frivolity is starting to slip, and the spiral of gloom threatening to break through.

Maintain outward persona of Mr Happy - distractage via foolish aeronauts, cookie queens with dreams of Actressy antics lacking dramatical talent, Blake's smoking fug and Space Monster rapage with Superman before he turned into Stephen Hawking.

Alas, nothing works.

Lose myself in the migration from The Fortress Of Doors into The Vale Of Tears.

Ah, back where I belong...

Leave me here forever, with the She, the landscape, outlandish scions and me hats!

Xym, The madder, fatter, Hatter...
 

I go downtown with my icepick - FREEZER PATROL...

Poor old Clarence!

There he is, sniffing at Katies fishy fragrance, offering prawnography to Holiday Romancers, fishing for compliments off've a Ridley Scott lookeylikey chef...

And who has competition for the polar bears domicile.

Only Mr Freeze out of Batman And Robin!

But woe betide the creepy Ursus Maritimus if he tries flirting with what he'd call Mr Mussells... he'd go from his nudie come-to-bed perve pose:

To being walked all over, like Arnold Schwarzenegger at a Trample Club (Or is it Nicole Scherzinger? I don't know Scherzinger/Schwarzenegger? Pussyflap Troll or Sperminator? One of the two, anyways).

Look at him - The Governator, all sat a-top his ice throne of suspiciously-jelly-like-ice-wrapped-in-fabric-protector-plasticy-stuff!

With feet clad in Eye-for-the-Birds Polar Bear (and not Birds Eye Fish Fingers... except where Katie has been playing Stinky Pinky and thus arousing the pervy polar bear from it's icebox stalkings).

I need your boots, your dressing down and your popsicle. Preferably boots from freshly skinned creepy Clarence of the chiller cabinet!

  

Je T'aime Le Gateaux...

Alors!

You've probably heard about Liqueur, the fantastic Cure tribute band (and you can see them next performing live this Hallowe'en at The Square in Harlow).

However, Liqueur sounds to me like LeClerc,  'Allo 'Allo's master of disguise of the "It is I, LeClerc" running gag.

Actually, when you think about it, Liqueur itself sounds a bit Frenchy. Le Cure, with the stripey blouse, baguettes, wine, the black scarf/trousers and twiddly poncey 'tashe and beard.

But without the bicycle.

Or the onions, coz the resultant tears would make his eyeliner run all down his face.

Can you imagine that - Le Cure's Robért Smith, ze pop-goth who cannot wear ze beret because of his bushy cheveux.

Sacre Noir!

J'ai attendu des heures ceci

je me suis fait ainsi malade*

je souhaite que je sois resté

en France aujourd'hui

* SI VOUS ÊTES MALADE, VOUS AVEZ BESOIN DU GUÉRIR FRANÇAIS
HAW HE HAW

Can't stop Sir Rock...

Gaaaahhh! Sudden flash of memories!

Alas, no flash of mammaries tho :(

Horrible visions of superhero ceroc upon ye dance floor returneth...

...which reminded me of heavy metal dancing of The Zumba!

Hippin' like Shakira and shakin' dem humps

Wotcha gonna do wit' all dem moobs

All dem moobs wit' lard sweat lube

Bootieshaker!

Shimmy dem busoms at me, buxom wench!

Zumba!

Me... more like Pumba the warthog.
   

And sprawling atop Xymon's face, a barnet of unmoveable grace...

Checking BaseFuck in the pub last night whilst awaiting dancing companions, once again I gets late notice that although it is "Alternative 90's", it is also Dress-Up-As-A-Superhero night.

Hmmmmm.

Well, By The Power Of Numbskull, I Got The Power, for I be adorned with the Snap-py Specs Of Skeletor Superness and the Fantastic Follices of Bouffant Boy.

In short (as in short, fat, ugly Gothboy) I am already a Superhero! SuperXym and his lecherous fingers of pervositical power!

And bang on cue, here arrives the Justice League of Norfolk! We have...

• Carly as Fearne Cotton's alternative ego Super Firm Bottom
• Kelly as Betty Rubble (well, she was a Superhero to Barney. Betty, that is. Not Kelly.)
• Dave as one of them Misfits (well, he had an orange shirt on, like them heroes do in Misfits. The TV show, that is, not the popular 1980s Curiosity Killed The Cat chart topper. Although Ben wore more of a beret and not a topper.)
• Dan as... um... SuperDan?
• And a new (Polish) Pretty of the moniker Monica*, who could only be SuperPretty, on account of being SuperHot!

And after a most excellent humourosity concerning Tennis, Films, Table Dancing (well, seated gyrating with dextrous digits writhing in musical accord) and Earrings tossed about by Polterghoosts, it's a case of delivering SuperPretty to her matrimoaning partner at WankYerMamma's, before off to The WhatACunt and more Superhero shennanigans.

Ah, here we have Sally "Silk Spectre" Jupiter, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, The Mighty Thor (complete with Mjölnír), Frank "Punisher" Black, Elwood Blues, Juan Sheet (Although It could be Zorro, which is spanish for Fox. And a fox she certainly was! Nah - deffo Juan Sheet, she did plenty for me, I must say!). More WonderWomen than you can shake a stick at, and... WTF?

Is that SuperGirl? Surely not - must be SuperSizeMeGirl! And is that Catwoman over there - nah, must be Fatwoman in skin(waaaaay too)tight PVC.

But what this catching my lecherous eye - OMG it's only Pam "Poison Ivy" Isley and a pair of Dr Harley Quinns!

And what a cracking pair of Harley Quinns she had too!

Of course, I jest of her chest - there were a pair of actual Harley Quinns. One in a skimpy nurses outfit, and t'other in a pair of pink pants. Why, you could almost see her Harley Quim!

Anyhoo - tuneage was a bit dull, with the lowest point being a depressing durge of Massage In A Bottle, but we did bop along to heavy metal headbanging classic Enter Sandman in the classic way.

Air Guitar a-la John Denver. Perched on a stool, one foot on t'floor, t'other on the rung. One hand thrust high in the Devil Hornéd fist, before fretting over the frets of your spanish air guitar before the headbanging chorus, to which my magnificent mane remains impervious to!

Despite being light, fluffly and soft, and again attracting creepy gay guys who sneak up behind for a quick caress of my cranial forestry, my heroic hairdo withstood even the most severe headbanging action.

Even to Ace Of Base.

It don't flop down

It stays up all t'time

You ain't never gonna droop me hair!

* BONUS POINTS IF YOU HAD A "BOTTOM" MOMENT AND SIGHED "HAHHH, MONICA" WISTFULLY, THEN DID A "DEEDLIE DEE, DEEDLIE DOO" PRETEND BLOW OF A HARMONICA. DOUBLE BONUS POINTS IF YOU THEN ASKED "YOU FRANK?" AND PRETENDED TO BE CHARLES BRONSON BEFORE HUMMING NEPHILIM COVERED ENNIO MORRICONE TUNES.
    

Simple psimon says...

There's thems what believe they are psychic, and thems what pretend by doing that there "cold calling". Ringing people up and telling them their fortune down the phone.

Alas, there's no such thing as cold callers any more. They used to call it a cold, but now they calls it "Man-Flu".

Man-Flu is named after psychotic mandarin madman Flu Manflu, fraudulent psychic who used hypnotism, magic, misdirection and suggestion (with no stooges involved - they went on to support Iggy Pop and his diving on glass career) to convince people of his telepathatory mental prowess and thence to dominate the world.

However, he escaped the justice of James Randi, cut off his droopy 'tasche and trimmed his beard into a weeny tuft, called himself Derren and Clouded Mens Minds into thinking he was a British debunker.

Fraud (HUHR!)

What it is good for?

Scamming grieving widows

Say it again, Ah said

Fraud (HUHR!)

What it is good for?

Not foreseing the credit crunch and relieving gormsters of their hard earned inheritance pennies, thus rendering them more vulnerable to austerity measures.

"Ok Xym, " spake certain others, "so maybe baby mind reading is a little too far, but what about pet mind reading? Surely you can make a quick buck doing that! Or is that what the dog whisperer does? ManBearFlu possibly?"

ManBearFlu? Ewww!  I'm not one for having bare men give me Suffocatory Tightening Influenza with their bear hugs! Crushing me ribs with their ursine strength and deading me. I's rather get one of them STIs off've BareMaidens.

Or something.

Besides, a quick buck on pet whisperage would be StagFlu (stage 3 of StagFlu being imprisoned in a WWII POW camp run by The Luftwaffe, which is Boris Johnson speak for Ping Pong). That said, I don't think you can catch StagFlu, because a fast buck is well, fast. Especially them gazelles and Antenatalopes.

Of course, you can protect yourself from psychic scaremongery by the construction of the tinfoil hat, which foils (you see what I did there!) the evil machinations of them telepathetics and air-loom operators.

However, you'll still be at the mercy of them Remote Viewers. They'll still be able to beam horrendous visions into your peepers and force you to commit outrageous acts against thy will. And on top of that, they can take control of yer oculars to give people Evils - and YOU'LL get punched in the face for THEIR witchy-woman sorceries!

There's only one way around it - make a foil hat by all means... but make it a PIRATE HAT! Not only that, make yourself a tin-foil eyepatch and you are fully protected by thems what will try and manipulate your mind and bend you to their will.

And being dressed as a pirate is cool. Especially pirate wenches.

Mmmmmmm... pirate wenches...

On the other hand, forget psychics - let's have more hot chic psychicks:

Take me into insanity, Yeah, cream fishing, yeah...

Maritime maruaders off the cornish coast munching their way through pastie and cream tea filled fisherfolk!

It would seem that an Oceanic Whitetip Shark has returned from it's pop tour of Sharm-El-Sheik*, where it's stuffed it's great fat belly fully of belly dancing babes, Arabian Knights and Boots Mayonnaise slavvered strumpets on holiday.

And being used to devouring the drugged up kidnapped white harems of them Turkish Delight scimitar slicers, it's gone to the British equivalent.

St Ives! Where men have seven wives (each bearing seven sacks, each containing seven pussies. Which is more of an Ed Gein thing if you ask me. Snipped up scrotepurses filled with flanges - bet they also have seven belts with seven nipples too! Which is probably more of a Scaramanga thing. Although I thought Manga was all Japanesey cartoons. Although I have heard it's all tentacle porn and panty flashing schoolgirls, and not triple nipple people).

Anyhoo, the ancient anglers of Cornwall are finding themselves being rammed right up the poop deck by aquatic aggressors hell-bent on chomping them to death for tea.

Naturally, them Hooper type marine biologists are pooh-poohing the idea.

In which case, they should cease their defacatory actions, wipe their bot, flush the pooh-pooh away and get one with catching the killer shark.

Of course, they could be right, and it may not be the consumer of human eastern promise they think. I saw on of the documentaries on the tellybox last night, and there was something ramming the boats in a Louisiana swamp.

Turned out to be a cloned reptilian plesiosaurus run amok, after the genetic experiments of the mad scientist and the three local yokels went awry.

And them gals weren't "pleased he saw us" - especially as it was on the munch for manflesh. Not to mention the bloke from Scary Movie .

So I won't.

There's Camelegg banging on about how The Military know nothing, and should do as he says, yet when there's monstrous prehistoric beasties feeding on Tourists about the Cornish coast - he's all mouth and no trousers.

You'd think he could blag a pair on the old expenses! I for one don't want our PM addressing the nation in his undercrackers.

Caroline Flint, maybe.

But not Dianne Abbott

♫ ♪ SHARM-EL-SHEIK
SHARM-EL-SHEIK
SHEIK YOUR BOOTEH
SHEIK YOUR BOOTEH!  ♪♫
 

Not searchin' for the Ants Invasion...

Tonight, I should be in Saaaaarf Laaaahndahhn, Standing by the Xerox machine and delivering a kick to a goody two-shoes as they strip for me.

Or something.

"Ohhh, tickety-boo availabubble!"
"Lemme see - OK I'll book meself a ticket!"
"Hold on - I may be able to get 'em cheaper by phone!"
"You sure?"
"Yep. Don't buy any yet"
...
"Right, tickets are cheaper and still availabubble. You still up for it?"
"Deffo."
"OK I'll ring 'em tomorrow".
...
"They've sold out"
"Dagnammit!!"
...
"Hi! I'm the Prettiest of your Harem, and I've just got my man a ticket for 55 squids on The eBay. There's another up - shall I bid for you"
"Yeah! How much?"
"18 squids at moment - what's yer top price?"
"70 squids. Or if you, my pretty, are also attending, £7,777,777 squids"
"Sorted. We'll let;s you know"
...
"Went for 72 squids"

Outbid by 2 tentacular aquaterries!

So instead, I'm sat alone, pondering new follicle arrangement, as on 1st Aug The Preposterous Hair is being dramatically topiaried down into something short, spiky and purple!

And to please the majority of pretties who prefer my ugly visage to be as obscured from view as much as possible, I'm sat straining my chin to force out another soupcatcher!

I may have to get the poster paint out, and daub one one for now, until I get a proper ZZ-Top beard!

I'm losing on the swings, I'm losing on the roundabouts...

...losing limbs, that is!

It's the first day of Summer, so I guess it's silly season in The Press. Surely on a summery solstice day, there has to be more news than:

PRIME MINISTERS CAT CATCHES MICE!

FERAL BRATS RUN AMOK IN PLAYGROUND AND FALL OVER!

Shock horror!

Cats! Catching Mice! Well, this is news to me, and I am outraged! Call out the RSPCA and charge these feline munchers of mouses!

Scummy mummies too busy gossiping whilst having a fag to supervise their brood, whilst their screaming kids tearing about the place with wild abandon fall over. I've never heard the like!

And one of them brats seems a tad too old to be playing in a childs playground to me. Teen EMO pædo, or just a big girls blouse with a plaster on his knee?

What next - President's dog chases cat? Chavscum mum shops at the 99p shop, coz Poundland is for That Posh Snooty Bitch in the flat opposite? Adult drinks a bottle of wine and gets inebriated?

"I fink it's wrong they sell booze an' that" said 23yr old Cantelle outside Lidl's this afternoon. "I drank the whole bottle, and was so drunk, I slightly bumped a shelf and got a bruise on me hip. The government should be doing their job properly. I had to go to A&E to pick up some Germolene. Now my babies fathers won't give me oral coz I stink of Dettol."

I know they must struggle for news now and then, but, really?

Read orl abaaahhht it! It's 'elf and safety and PC gorn maaaaaad, I tell thee!

A style pig sty is the site we're in...

As if my abhorrent troll visage wasn't enough to make the Pretties "run for Hell like hair and hide", it looks like even them match.cum type datey thingies are clamping down on The Ugly.

Yep - Dating websites are not allowing those that are less visually appealing.

Although, judging by recent promo photographical representation of their preferred pretties, visually appalling is more the norm, featuring, as it does, a gerenicity of munterescent mingers.

But what's this - hulking humpty-backed heroes, vile of visage have hacked the beautiful people site, and flooded it with everyday Uruk-Hai and goblins, all ready to date the allegedly 'pretty' princesses.

But alas for me, the Adonis and Affrotiedyes of The Fashionista have fought back, banning the gorgeously challenged, and casting us out to Desolation Reef.

And they had the cheek to apologize to the feral kobols! "Sorry you were accepted onto our dating site, but U-G-L-Y, you ain't got no alibi - YOU UGLY! Now feck off - you're banished into the wilderness of eternal solitude, where no Pretty can gaze upon your visage and be repelled into sickness by the rancid features you possess."

Of course, what can one expect from such a shallow website - do they not like old movies, like Godfaver Three?

No, they probably like X-Factor, Friends, Made In Essex and Geordie Whore. Any mind-numbingly dumbed-down show bereft of any intelligence and originality.

I'm sure there must be a discrimination law against allowing us lardy, squallid ruins of humanity to be tossed off dating sites based on our visual disability.

Oh well, not that I've ever used a dating site - but I sure won't now. As long as I have my friends, some shades to hide behind, and a bevvy of beauties parading before my lecherous gaze and agitating my extremities, I'm happy!

Be happier if the parading Pretties had a penchant for short, fat, ugly Gothgits with preposterous hair, ludicrous shades, flickering fingers and the candyfloss scent of Thierry Mugler A*Men arising from his globulous, sweaty, flouncy dancing bod.

But you can't have everything!

What sort of people live about here...

"In ƬЋ∆Ƭ direction," the Ƈat said, waving it's right paw round, "lives a Ħatter, and in ƬЋ∆Ƭ direction," waving the other paw, "lives a Ӎarch Ħare. Ѷisit either you like: they're botɦ ɱдԂ."

"But I don't want to go among ɱдԂ people," ᵰᶅᴉƈᶓ remarked.

"Ѻɦ, you can't ɦelp that," said the Ƈat: "we're all ɱдԂ here. I'm ɱдԂ. You're ɱдԂ."

"How do you know I'm ɱдԂ?" said ᵰᶅᴉƈᶓ.

"Ɣou must be, " said the Ƈat, "or you wouldn't ɦave come here."

Father Pissedmass do not touch me...

There was a really creepy guy down The Whatacunt last night...

...and for once, it wasn't me!

Oh, hold on...

...yeah...

...there were TWO really creepy guys down The Whatacunt last night!

But at least I only ogle pretties, all un-noticable from behind me starry spex*, nor run about groping anything that moves and making lewd perverticals into the ears of all and sundry.

* ONLY NOT THAT UNNOTICABLY. AND NOT REALLY OGLE, DUE TO BEING VIRTUALLY BLIND WITH DARK SPEX IN A DARK CLUB. WHICH HAD THE ADDED BENEFIT OF NOT BEING ABLE TO SEE THE LAUGHING MOCKERY OF MY BESPECTACLED VISAGE & VOLUMINOUS BARNET, BUT THE DOWNSIDE OF NOT SEEING CREEPY BLOKES CREEPING UP ON ME FOR THE ATTEMPTED CEROC AND MAN-HUGGAGE.

Oh yes it's ladies fight...

Apparently it was Ladies Day at that Royal Assbot racingy thing.

And naturally, there was a bit of a punch-up in the champagne bar.

Ooooh - the Battle of Pearl Harbour, re-enacted for us now by the women of Barley Townswomen's Guild, perhaps?

No, it's a full-scale brawl of five blokes!

Hold on - Full scale brawl with only 5 yahoo yobbos?

Hold on once more- blokes? on Ladies Day? Surely Ladies Day is for Ladies, not burly beefcake boozed-up buffoons.

Or have Them Chippendales gone all mental.

Seems the fellas went wild at the sight of a blonde Pretty, and being neanderthal numptys, fought for the right to drag her off by the hair and ravish her in a cave whilst gorging on barbeque EmilyBronte'sSoreArse steaks.

Sporting toffs demanding fisticuffs and Queensbury rules, with the sneaky use of unsportsmanlike tools such as £98 bottles of Laurent Perrier Rose Champage to glass their opponent with, and chair legs.

Ah, that's where the chippendale came into it!

Still, it would appear that one hulking gorilla managed to get his knuckle-dragging way with the blonde strumpet during the tourney, for according to Sky News "Police revealed that one man ended up with a 50mm head gash during the melee.".

In other words, whilst his cro-magnon mates were duffing each other up, he got to give oral to the sluts 5cm swipe card slot! Far from that chippendale chaise longue, it's chip'n'pie shares tongue!

I'm anti-Racing for the cruelty to horses, but if there's a chance of Posh Bird Gash In The Attic action...

Horse racing? Racey whores, more like!

Whore not, as the case may be!

or something.
  

Kolonkraft for slumbers...

Due to Chineseland being extra speedy upon deliverance, I had the special impromptu pleasure of adorning Pretties with fancy fashionista accoutrements.

However, Sleeping Beauty subjected us to narcoleptic visual entertainment of preposterous nonsense.

Shuffling shamblers of the resuscitated deceased is normally one of them Entertainments you hear about, but following the endless tedium of Colon meandering about for ages with nowt happening makes 94mins seem like 94years!

After 55mins of slow dullness, we stuck it on Fast Forward at 2x speed... and even at twice the speed it's painfully, painfully slow.

And what is it with reanimatory hordes? Gormsters let them into parties, and yet they can be held at bay at the bottom of the stairs by holding a couple of milk pans in front of you!

I know fairies are afeared of Iron, but I was unaware that Zombies suffered from Panophobia!

Although Panophobia is not a fear of pans. It's a fear of everything. As is pantophobia, which is neither a fear of pants or the cry of "it's behind you". That's Paranoia. There really should be a technical term for an irrational fear of pans wielded by a porker gormster. But if there is, I don't know what it is, and I'm dead clever I am.

Anyhoo, bereft of pans, slight flailing of the arms appears to keep the brainmunchers at bay. Unfortunately not at Michael Bay, who's had his brain et by Zombies ages ago (how else do you explain Transformers II?).

And after keeping them at bay with some ludicrous waving, naturally the only way to get et is to try and storm through the horde... and inevitable fall slowly backwards as they descend over you to gobble yer guts.

And don't even get me started on ye olde Catapult Of Doom (with currency based ammunition.  Ah, that's where the £45 spent on the movie went!)

And then there's the mahoosive plot hole... unless there's deleted scenes of temporal displacement with the chronological traversement and paradoxial infection.

The Dragosani effect! Sister infects missus who infects her colon, who in turn later meets his uninfected missus (who's thrown into a zombie sex cellar to become a new necropheliac pleasurecorpse), and his uninfected sister whom he bites, until she turns all dead and groany.

And then he goes home, and somehow, the zombie sister goes into the past to begin the cycle again (at the
same time the pre-zombie missus presumably jumps into the future for a bit). 

All that for a pair of Respect My Authoritah shades with damn girlie patterning upon the frame.
 

He drinks a cider drink, He drinks a cider drink, He drinks a cider drink, He has a plate o' chips...

Alas, the Prince of Stories gummed up me ocular orbits with a tad to much Sahara carpeting, and as a result...

Oversleepage

No time to wash the stagnant green swamp muck of rapids and flumes out me luscious locks, time to - oh, missed bus by 5 mins. Oh well, just sort a couple of things out afore I leave.... Dagnammit, the next bus was 5min early!

Pootle on down to omnibusial port of stoppage... yep, it's late.

So, as we ride to the city, I recall with fondness the offerance of matrimonal partners for photographical memories of felt up mammaries in place of Madame Boobage, and indignation of replicative ballsed up imagery, where substitute coffins could have been replaced with foliage for the draping over thereof with siblings stuffed in the bin for good measure.

Good, good thymes!

But now I's in the SpecSavers, surrounded by sexy speccy sirens! Ah, thank you, ye monster-cocked chewer of spectacles, for placing me in a bower of beauties who service me for free!

But who cares for such trifles, for lunchtime brings a pair of right trouser-arousers!

And then it's Team Reward night, and free beer... in a pub that lacks for the presence of Pretties, where talk turns to Image Copies, preposterous hats, and that The Xym has angled his monitor so he can see the to and fro of Pretties (especially the one with the white hair and dark eyeliner <3)

As if I would position my person to perve at pretties when engaging in office work!
  

So please turn on your magic theme..

Alas, awakeful hours at the crack of dawn means that Lord Morpheus is reaching into his bottomless pouch and casting handfuls of onieromatic dust into mine eyes, thus one is straining to remain in watchful wakedness as killer axes trundle across my late night tellybox.

And thus I is too sleepy to entertain you with todays escapades. Of ballads of simian onanism, of electro-musicians literally being bummed, of lacklustre lactating of moobage, of naughty sexy pleasure sandwiches, and of Space Monsters masquerading as radiator thermostats with ray guns.

And that's before we gots there!

Suffice to say, an ace time was had by all!

And now, I lay me down to sleeps

The only one-eyed gnome..

Has come to take me away...

Well, The Charlatans were almost right, for the Stamp Gnome oftens comes and takes my things away - usually right before I need 'em.

But not me - not even a misshapen dwaven lady won't take such a repulsive troll such as myself.

Anyhoo, 'they' say to beware of men whose eyebrows meet in the middle, coz they're either crooks or werewolves.

Judging by the thievery of the Stamp Gnome, quite clearly ye olde adage of ye olde baggage is correct - for he's a kleptomaniac crook!

But not a werewolf. For a unibrow, quite clearly is a single brow - and the one creature that legitimately sports a unibrow is the Cyclops!

Which makes the Stamp Gnome a dwarven Scott Summers, nicking me laser pointer and wraparound shades, and pretending to shoots lasers at un-unibrow'd wolverines.

So, far from the monobrow indicating a modicum of lycanthropy, it's more a vindictive, short, grudge-bearing, thieving, wee one-eyed bastard, with a fetish for X-men costumery and zapping werewolves with his laser eyes.

Only a man who's tall of height

And shaves his brows at night

Won't become a wolf when the wolfsbane blooms

Because eyebrow topiary is a pretty ridiculous identification method for identifying transmorphing shapeshifters if you ask me! 

Cheesey Wanks...

Quoth challengers of monikers: "Simons are where it used to be at. It's Xymons now.  He is the one and only..."

Whoo-hoo! I'm the new Chesney Hawks! Nobody I'D rather be (and you can't Take That away from me, because I have no Boy Bang records in my iPoo'd collective).

Hey, all my Pretties out there:

Call me!

Call me by my name

or call me by number

You put me through it

I'll still be doing it the way I do it

And yet, you try to make me forget who I really am!

Don't tell me I know best

I'm not the same as all the rest!

I am the Xym-on O-wain!

Apologies, this thread should have been writ when everyone were thanking Crunchies and had That Friday Feeling.

I, on the other hand, had that Fried Egg feeling.

• Full English brekkie
• (almost) Full brekkie (with chips) for lunch
• Fried eggies for tea, whilst listening to Dr & The Medics singing Fried Egg Bad Monday (off've their album Laughing At The Pieces).

Oh yes, indeedly doo, I have that Fried Egg feeling, bunging up my poo*!

But he's gone!

And his hair, and teeth, and face

Have grown to long!

So we'll cut his face and see

If he will be a movie star

Fried Egg Bad Monday Blues!

* CONSTAPATION, 

HNRRRGH-HNRRRGH CONSTAPATION,

HNRRRGH-HNRRRGH, CONSTAPTION!

THAT'S WHAT YOU NEED

IF  YOU WANNA BE THE BEST

IF YOU WANNA BEAT THE REST

WHOAH-HA-HO CONSTAPATIONS WHATCHA NEED

IF YOU WANNA BE A RECORD BREAKER... for egg consumptive constipation.

YEAHHHH

Hand In Ovenglove...

Empty BBQ by the main stage, Desolate

They haven't lit a charcoal briquette

Watch from the beer-tent bar

that Salford twat

Why pamper whims of Morrissey

When a chef's not allowed his packet of meat

I'd go and see his show

But I cannot buy a bacon roll

Now I know how Jean D'Arc felt when the smoke rose to her roman nose and it lacked that burgery scent. 

Desperate to bag a top-name, the Lokerse Feesten festival in Belgium had banned meat for one day.

Yes, depressive lyricist of The Smiths,and soloist performer of the voice behind Bob The Builder (can we fist it?) has persuaded the organisers to enforce 24hr  vegetarianism on the festival goers.

Hold on... this fezzie is in Belgium - you know Belgium... where all them eColi killer veg are!

Typical aminal rights activists - look after the cute aminals, but maim and murder humans! And with poisonous veg too! Bio-illogical Warfare!!

But wait - where did this idea that Morrissey is a militant vegetablist come from, when it's clear he's one of them there cannibals.

At the 2009 Coachella Festival, he famously lost control at the mouth-watering aroma, and ranted "I can smell burning flesh, and I hope to God it's human!"

Ha! So much for his vaunted Meat Is Murder stance, when he's publicly slavering, drooling and hoping for BBQ haunch of Long Pig after his performance!

Godlike Mancunian genius he might be, but I'm not having eColi cucumbers rammed up me bum whilst the two faced singer dines on grilled groupie gash, laughing at us denied the pleasures of the flesh.

Spit-roasted BBQ'd flesh, that is!

"Oh well, what difference does it make when there panic 'bout the meat at festivals."

"Sweetness - I was only joking when I said I'd like to ram a beefsteak down your neck"
"Oh, shut yer gob, how can you say I barbecue ribs the wrong way*?"
"Girlfiend - in the kitchen! Sheila, take a bap (and shove a quarter-pounder in it)"
"There is a light that never goes out"
"You dozy mare - the light goes off automatically once the sausage rolls are done and you turn the oven off"
  
* I'M GARY NUMAN AND I NEED TO BE LOVED. JUST LIKE AMY WINEHOUSE DOES

Lovin' a draft excluder, stiffen it up, it ain't going down...

There are those who are into rubber (killer tyres!)

There are those who are into bondage.

Then there's thems what are into the rapey shagging of snakelike zephyr stoppers.

But it would seem that someone has been waving their wand at wangs and chanting Chihuahua Chopper: Canine Cockus Engorgio!

For King Dong, Long John Alfie "The Tripod", suddenly revealed his mutant member, frightening the womenfolk and putting the boys to shame.

Cast into the chill of night, in hope that the cold may return him to non-Buster Gonad like proportions, dragging his donkey dangler in the dirt, to no avail.

Such a state of shock at supersize schlong and behemoth ballsack ensued, that I handed over my debit card and allowed a major Pretty to make fashionista purchases at my expense!

Mind you, she looked good in raybands.

I have felt him, my master...

C-3PO: It sounds dangerous.

Princess Leia: Who have they found to pull that off?

Apparently, Ewoks on the 7:55 London to Sheffied train!

It would seem that a diminutive LucasArse lecher got on the train, and sat next to a 17yr old Pretty.

Star Whores in the wrong place AT:AT the wrong time.

Not being sat opposite, ideas of being short enough to get a glimpse of a Sharon Stone style "Chewbacca Yawn" from up her eye-level commandoed micro-skirt were thwarted... However, being alongside and being of gnomic stature, his head was about the level of her double Death Stars (admired by booty hunter Boobie Felt).

Dreaming of being a dyslexic dwarf that walks into a bra on the pretext of HowToFeelSue with XXX-Ray vision of her SeeThruPeeHole/Dark Vulva/Grand Muff Tarkin, he had ideas of a bit of wookie, and the little Luke Shywanker decided to have a bit of a Han(d) Solo and GoodOle CalOneOffTheWrisstian under his Jedi Juggling hat.

Presumably ending in a sticky Wicket.

For 30mins, the poor girl was trapped against the window, as the dark side diddler put her in fear of being ravished up her forest moon as he got his Endor away whilst grunting 'yub yub!' in orgasmic pleasure.

Or something.

30 mins! He didn't even speak to the lady - no engaging in harmless bantha for this tiny todger tosser! She should have given him a Wedgie Until-he's tossed off. Tossed off the train, that is, by the burly Stormtrooper ticket conductors.

And what was his excuse for frottaging his furry lightsabre just under the helmet, like some undersized OB WankOnBoobie?

He was too small to reach the luggage rack!

But the masturbatory midget's defence failed, and he'll be sentenced next week. The Judge is not without a sense of irony though, for he has announced that the Ewok could face a suspended sentence, or...

...a "short" jail term.

I suspect this has put him into a miserable mood, so he's probably feeling grumpy.

Which is even worse. Especially if Grumpy is groping Snow White at the time.

All my days, am I moulding your clay...

In order to gets me grubby mitts on a potential £50, I did one of them there Surveys work about transportation into the office, where I had to justify my refusal to car pool.

So I thought I'd double check my condition. 

It's more than just aggro-phobia, it's actually xenophobia, with strong Caligynephobia.

So that's me fucked.

Actually, not fucked at all, on account of the Caligynephobia. 

Anyhoo, realising I has xenophobia made me realise James Cameroon's Aliens was wrong with it's depictions of H.R.Gigery genital-based grotesqueries.

"All we know is that there's still no contact with the colony, and that a xenomorph may be involved"

So, naturally, you would think xenomorphobia is a fear of space monsters. But think about it... if phobia is a fear of something, and xeno is strangers, then xenomorphobia is a fear of strange stop-motion terracotta colored plasticine blokes.

Which is nonsensical, as Morph was quite a nice chappie. It was the creamy colored Chas that caused all the havoc.

Ripley Foiley and Hicks Morph, going up against the Alien queen Grandmorph in the Sulaco Pencil Case, surrounded by multiple alien warriors plasticine Chas's!

Somewhere, in the dark and nasty regions, where nobody goes, stands a terraforming colony. Arriving in this dank & uninviting place comes Carter Burke ("Adiós, muchachos"), overworked servant of the Weyland-Yutani Corporation. ("BURKE! Bring back a specimen!"). But that's nothing, compared to the horror that's powerloaded out the airlock. For there is always something out there. In the dark. Waiting to get in!   ♪♫  Don't you open that airlock (you're a fool if you dare!)  ♫♪  Don't you open that airlock (Coz there's something out there!)  ♪♫

Oooh, globbits! 
  

Trapped under rocks (not by a cockernee nutjob)...

Apparently, there's this new film out on the Home Entertainments called 127 hours.

Running time: 94minutes.

What a gyp! That's 125hrs 26min of red hot trapped-under-a-rock-doing-nothing action we're being deprived of!

These new-fangled Blu-Rays are supposed to hold a million years worth of data on just one side, yet they can only get a paltry 94mins of footage on it.

Each episode of Lord of the Rings is about 10 hours long, yet they condense 127 hours of limb-based entrapment into 94 mins.

Actually, a lot less, as the trailer has lots of trekking about, and obligatory nudie shower scene (by cunning use of a handy passing waterfall).

127 hrs? False Advertising, more like!
  

Don't point that bone at me....

Crowbaby

    Children On Stun
        Radiant Boys
            Grooving In Green
                Dress For You
                    It's Hot
                        Undertow        
                            A Little Punk Thing
                                Steam
                                    Road of Bones
                                        Strangehead
                                            Slow Drip Lizard
                                                1 2 I Love You
                                                    Walk Into The Sun
* Encore *
Dandelion King
    Snakedance

Relocated to Arkwrights Social Club, as The Marquee got condemned by the council coz The Marquee reeked of piss!

Hand job, pumping forth, Albert's kinky...

Forget prefabity - it's depravity again, for Ye sprout hath revealed it's source of evil!

The source of the killer cucumbers, infecting ladygardens with their vibratory viruses of the eColi clitoral variety, has been traced to...

Nazi Bean-Sprouts!

The wok-based final solution - an ungodly hybrid of ground nut oil, bean sprouts and STDs*.

Ken Hom? Hen Heil Hitler, more like!!

The sooner we put a stop to this modern Mengele's WhoreTittyCuntUrinal horticultural holocaust, the better. I blame that Dr Goebbels... or should that be Herr Gobbles - his fondness for gobbling jewish vajayjay thwarted by legume-based phallic substitution, he weeked his wewengay by mutating that most hated of veg, the Sprout, into a bean version.

And what is another term for bean? Think bean flicking? A-ha! The instigating steps of pandemic produce! eColiflowered cucumbers bred on ye sprouts of the bean!

Except them what are into beastiality, whats having their labial ladylips licked out by lizard lezzas, like that serving maid and her Miss Whiplash-tongued dragony dominatix in Dogturd Poo this week. They probably end up with Silurian sapphic salmonella instead.

Or something.

* AND FOR SMART ARSES WHO SAY ECOLI IS NOT A SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASE, IT IS WHEN YOUR RAMMING ONE OF THESE ECOLI RIDDLED MARROWS UP YER SNATCH. ANYHOO ECOLI IS ON THEM VIBRATORS WHAT ARE DISGUISED AS LUBRICATED LEGUMES. YOU KNOW. ECOLI. ELECTRONIC COLI. LIKE THEM EMAILS.

Hey hey, waddaya say, had me a woman, she ran away...

"I think I've got  tinnitus"
"I dunno - they look quite a fulsome pair to me!"

Oh, how we laughed!
Well, I did.

Laughed like a drain, I did.

"Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle", I went, whilst rotating in a clockwise manner and disappearing into a hole in the floor...

You've munched too much, too much for lunch...

Dinner dinner dinner dinner
Dinner dinner dinner dinner
FATMAN!

To pretend no one can find, the phalluses of morning dine...

"Wot they eye can't see, the chef gets away with!" quoth Terry the Chef in Fawlty Towers.

And more true is The poncier something sounds, the more you can palm off on the gullible gourmet.

The 2 prime examples of this are Steak Tartare (= Couldn't be arsed to cook it) and Al Dente pasta-kutchie-on-de-left-hand-side (= Couldn't be arsed to wait long enough for it to cook properly).

Not to mention dried up vomit compressed into wedge shapes and calling it Parmesan Cheese.

But the worse example of this cookery conspiracy is the "crème fraîche".

Crème fraîche my best hat! What does crème fraîche sound like? Suspiciously like Fresh cream. Looks it up in the Oohlalaxford English dick shun Harry. Yep - crème fraîche is indeed Fresh Cream.

But it ain't fresh cream, at all. It's sour cream.

In other words, cream what's gone off. Urgh.

And gullible gastrognomes lap it up!

Like kittens from a bowl. Probably.

I think I may have spotted a gap in the marketplace! I'm gonna bung a pint of milk and a loaf of bread on the kitchen counter. Then, when it goes off - hey presto! Lait fraîche and Pain fraîche!

Sour milk and mouldy bread - and Greg Wallace and Gromit Torode will love it, coz it's got a poncey french name!

"Mmmm! Cracking pudding de pain fraîche et de beurre fraîche, eh Gromit! Pass me some of that Crème Anglais. Nowt like a nice bit of Englishman's cream with yer pud. Let's hope it's custard, and not some pud-pullers smegma fraîche helmet cheese. Although we do like a bit of cheese, don't we, old pal."
  

There's a (t)App for that...

Not exactly iCandy, but from the iCloud comes this iSore...

NB:  iClick on the iPic to iRead it properly...

He turned around and he did see, cucumbers up his missus' minge...

Latest news on the rise of the slaughterous salad from the BBC.

Apparently, women are more at risk from what they're calling the 'sexist' veg.

Well, what do you expect from a self pleasuring phallic substitute.

And whilst Europe cowers from cucumber carnage, who's in charge of stopping the garden guerilla insurgents?

Only Berliner Dr Ulf Goebel!

And wasn't he one of them SS Nazi Third Reich medical experimentary types? A-ha! Concentration camp killer chimeras of cucumber and carrot!

As The Green rampages through World Veg War II:

Germany
Consumers told not to eat cucumbers, lettuces and raw tomatoes.

Sweden
One death and 36 wounded, linked to travel in northern Germany.

Spain
Top European cucumber producers threaten to seek compensation from the European Union for lost vegetables sales. 

Russia
Bans all cucumbers, tomatoes and fresh salad

Czech Republic & France
Cucumbers removed from sale

Austria
Bans sale of cucumbers, tomatoes and aubergines

Belgium
Bans cucumber imports

Netherlands
Halted all cucumber shipments 

Denmark
Testing cucumbers for mutant contamination strains

Great Britain
No action. Damn you Camelegg for complacency in the face of The March Of The Killer Cucumbers*. 

* A JOVIL JSPHT EARLY REJECT