It's just a jump to the left...

I always KNEW I was out of place in the world!

Having one of them there new fruit based telecommunicative devices, it appears that I am not where I is!

GPS is so accurate... except I seem to be offset from my signal by a fair distance.

So, although it looks like I'm actually here, I'm not. I'm over there!

But, as many say - Xym's not all there anyway!

Although I'm visually & physically at home, that stalkery electonic movement positioner has me in the bedroom of the Polish Pretty down the road.

Or is the GPS some Nostradamian prophetic phone - telling me my future location is ploughed up to the plums in the furrow of foreign femme fatales?

Or it's just slightly out of positional synch?

Nah... it's the polish Pretty for certain!

Yay for precognitive media!

Hey! If you happen to see, the most terrible ad...

it's probably this...

What a wankshaft of a scampi scented crusty cludge that Dad is!

Chip chippery, chip chippery, no chips for you...

Ah, Great Yha-Nth'lei.

Populated with batrachian behemoths of ill-temper, bad attitudes and lack of manners. Shoving past in Martyn's walkaround store to get at the dildos and inflatable sheeps.

Frequented by the lumbering munterscent troll life in their camel-hooved leggings so sheer you can read the label upon their humongous lacey patterned pants.

Home of the Pretties whom stalk The Xym, calling him The Cool Dude as they repeatedly pass by with girly grins and wavey arms.

Town of the ill-stocked shopkeep, who 'only yesterday' sold the last of the fare that Fatboy Xym always partakes of for luncheon upon the seafront! Grrrrr!

Even Dagon of the Deep conspires to deny Xym a lunch of The Lard, as if hinting that even Fate thinks he's a great fat porker who could do with a few less suety dinners.

Oh well, a carvery it is then!

Well, a sliver of turkey awash with Paxo on an overlarge baguette appears to be the web-fingered denizens idea of a carvery.

Feed that Dusty Bin!

At least I got to sit on the seafront and perv at be admired by promenade Pretties, who fall under the spell of the purple plume of awesomeness!

But at least I returned back for Sexy Sewage-Curtailed to provide me with new telecommunicative device!

You wield your scythe, is it harder than mowing the lawn...

Pumped up with adrenaline after watching F1¹, it's time to get all Monty Don, Alan Titmarch and Ash Williams and assault that wisteria again and deheighten the grassy lawn of moss.

The same non-existent moss that obfuscates the MossMobile?

Perhaps so.

But post-decapitatory dismemberment powertool wieldage from ladderial precipices of a preposterous height, we turn to begin trimming the lawn.

And if you're "trimming the lawn" with a chainsaw, I ain't going near your Jumanji flangey missus!

BUT, whilst parading up and down pushing the mower, suddenly there's a clacketty clack clack from the blade area! Broken blade disaster!

Unless it's a gnome waving one of them clackery things about. You know - them clacky things. Onna stick. Like a rattle. A Rattle, probaly. Or some clackers - them two balls you toss up and down either side of a stick...

Anyhoo, upturnage of the zombie slicer-upper ("Singaia! Sumatran Rat Monkeys — Beware the bite!") revealed relief - undamaged bladery but curious wire presence...

No wire from the mower, no wire anywhere near! Except... the neighbours fence...

Since I trimmed her bush, I can now see her toplessly sunbathing² as her wirelink fence is exposed³... and that fancy fencing is non-to dissimilar to my mower mangled wireframery retrieved from my grassy knoll.

Am I under stalkage by The Neighbour? Has she been at the fencing with her wirecutters, availing herself of entry to my botanical bower and pleasuring herself whilst ogling me through me back window?

It certainly explains the suspiciously broken pot and knocked over gnome by the window!

It would also explain the bird outline on the window. Most people just get wings and a beaky head. I though it was odd that an own had a massive pair of 'hooters'...

¹ WELL, MORE 'SPOSE I'D BETTER GET ON WITH THE GARDENING NOW THAT'S OVWE. AS IT WERE.

² WELL, I WOULD IF SHE DID SUNBATHE TOPLESS. ASSUMING SHE EVEN SUNBATHES IN THE NORFOLK SUN. HOWEVER, WHEN BLUETOOTHING ONCE, IT PICKED UP HER PHONE AS "NAUGHTY NICKY", SO SHE PROBABLY DOES, THE DIRTY TROLLOP! FLASHING HER BAPS ABOUT ALL OVER HER BACK GARDEN INDEED - WHO'D'VE THUNK IT. I'D 'THUNK' THAT, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN (AND I'M SURE THAT YOU DO!).

³ I'M PRETTY SURE HER EXPOSED CHAINLINK FENCING IS A EUPHAMISM, BUT I CAN'T IMAGINE WHAT...

Before the door, the locked up door...

Go to Starbucks - great big feck off notice in the window: "TEMPORARILY CLOSED DUE TO  FLOODING. YOUR NEAREST STARBUCKS IS XXXX. SORRY BABES. LUV ME, THE PRETTY BARISTA BABE XXX MWAH MWAH¹".

And so, I temporarily went to HMV, then returned on the offchance they'd turned off the taps and finished mopping up.

No such lucks. However, hours of entertainment watching illiterate Gormsters getting confused by a locked door.

A pattern of gormless gormsterness appears:
1. Gormster approaches the door.
2. Unlike me, who's intelligent, gormster fails to see the notice in front of their face.
3. Gormster tugs on door that fails to open. Multiple tuggage ensues as the dumbass thinks that perhaps the door is stuck.
4. Suddenly, the gormster sees the notice (or someone points it out).
5. Gormsters attempt to read the notice.
6. Gormsters stand back in confusion.
7. Gormsters re-try the door.
8. Gormsters attempt to re-read the notice.
9. Much discussion about how it's locked. And on a Saturday too! It's ridiculous, having to walk to Haymarket!
10. Gormsters re-attempt another door opening.
11. Gormster mill about in confusion - confounded by a locked door! What to do! Mill aboout giving the storefront suspicious glances, before ambling off.

And what's worse is when one Gormster has tugged, read and re-tugged, when another gormster steps in to have a go at the door, presumably under the impression that the current gormster is too enfeebled to open a door.

Even worse when an approaching Gormster has been told, "It's closed", then proceeds to gormsterly attempt to enter as previously mentioned.

Still, I wasn't surprised, when returning from HMV to Chapelfield Mall entrance, there was a long queue of gormsters waiting for the automatic door to open, and no-one using the normal doors.

It does make you feel somewhat superior when you breeze through a door, and then auto-door-queueing gormsters suddenly realise you can actually open doors manually!

As I have made mention of before.

¹ SIGNOFF WORDING BY THE BARISTA BABE MAY NOT BE 100% ACCURATE .

Psychokiller, Qu'est-ce que c'est? Vous avez un mal de tête...

Shock! Consternation! Uproar!

Nurofen aren't headache tablets after all! They're anti-loony pills!

It would appear that someone has discovered that far from removing that headachey feeling and pre-minstrel¹ tension, it's actually suppressing schizophrenia, mania and bi-polar depression.

This is apparently a bad thing.

Now, I'm not one to shout CONSPIRACY! but this has the faint air biscuit tang of a freshly blasted dutch oven escaping the coverlet through a small overlooked crevice.

This is clearly a cover-story after being caught out supressing The Mentals from slicing us up in our beds, raping our dead mouths and burning our bottoms to hide the evidence before popping round to Gazzas for a roast chicken and a can of lager.

I, for one, praise the manufacturers of the Ibuprovenguilty & Convict dual action tablets. If it weren't for them sneakily dosing sociopaths and serial killers with slaughterous suppressants in the guise of headache tablets to clear away the voices headache, we'd be overrun with Dennis Neilsons & Harold Shipmans.

And Stephen Fry would keep running off to Belgium, and we wouldn't get any more QI.

Apart from on Dave.

Don't bow to pressure, Mr Pharmacist. Keeps these murderous tendancies at bay by doping up these maniacal mad(wo)men when they get the urge to kill pounding headache.

During them Londinium & ManChestHair riots, did they loot up any Nurofen? No! I blame that Whorelicksdick medicine - if people had been passively suppressed by headache tablets instead of trepanning their bonces and sticking needles up their bum in the name of acupuncture, it would never have happened!

Packaging "mix-up" my best hat! Next, The Federation Coalition will be adding the same suppressants to our grub and booze, and then where will we be?

Sent to Cygnus Alpha on trumped up charges of pædophilia, that's where!

¹ BEFORE CHOCOLATE. THEM WOMENS GET REALLY ARSEY IF THEY DON'T GET CHOCOLATE, AND A PACKET OF THE HARD COCOA SHELL BASED TREATERY GOES DOWN A... WELL, TREAT, REALLY, AND CALMS THEM RIGHT DOWN INTO ORGASMIC EUPHORIC BLISS.

Hareem, they likes it! Rocks, does Xymhair...

Yay!

My Lakeland Pretty likes my hair! Crivens - we exchanged more than just a "hi, how are you!"

More appreciative smiles at The Xym than you can shake a shitty stick at!

The ladies love a good, stiff, upright purple head, apparently!

Should have done this ages ago.

Pretties are starting to like The Xym! Even if if is just for the magnificent mohawkishness of the plum barnet.

Perhaps I need to purplize my pubes into a matching 'brazilian' tower of pretty pulling attraction.

Or something...

I am Roman, hear me roar...

So spake them Centurions and the like.

However, just one, had a speech impediment, and now it's the motto for angry whoremoanal ladies everywhere.

"Yes, we are vewy tuff!"
"Well, Ceasar, you sound like a right puff with that Jonathan Ross speech impediment!"
"Who's this Jonathan Woss?"
"Um... some future bloke scried by The Oracle at Delphi on her TV Of The Future"
"No. No - I sound stwong. I am the webel MC¹, and I'm stweet tuff!"
"Huhr huhr huhr - you think you're sweet stuff, you great toga-lifter!"
"No. I am pwoud. I am Woman! Hear me roar!"
"Sorry? What?!?!"
"I am Woman! Hear me roar"
"No, no, no. You are ROMAN. Hear us roar. The mighty force of Italia bellowing it's battle cry across the land and soiling the loincloths of our enemies - not girly screeches. Oooh, I'm a woman, hear me roar. Eek."
"What do you think Bo-Der-See-a?"
"I likes it. And it's pronounced Boo Dick Her."
"Huhr huhr huhr - I'll 'dick her' fnarr fnarr!"

An thus angry birds got a catchphrase.

Just say what you see, Woy Wanker and Mr Shits.

¹ THAT'S REBEL 1100, IN THEM ROMAN NUMERAL TIMES. PROBABLY.

Here comes Lorraine...

Hot, sticky, steamed

With almond for me

But no chelsea bun

With lots of cream¹

I've been sat in

Starbucks

For so long

Glance up at girls

and watch 'em go by...

Ooooh!

Putrescent porker with purple plumage I may be, but it would seem The Drizzle is obfuscsting the view of Pretties as they pass, and thus mistaking the malformed XymTroll in the comfy chair² for some suave coffee shop intellectual adonis.

For today I had a triplicity of smiles and waves from passing Pretties!

I unplug me ears from 7/11, glance up, and a NEW pretty is looking back at me smiling and waving!
I glance up from Banquets provided for Corvidaæ, to find NEW young Nursey pretty, giving me The Big Shy Smile.

And then along comes Blondie Braceface, who is no longer Braceface, giving me one of them great big huge smiles! Probably due to the lack of bracefacey disfiguring her teeths.

It would seem that precipitation negates the usual inherent revulsion for The Xym that is naturally built into all Ladies genetic make-up³, and for once, the unpopular fat git is the subject of swooning admirations.

Either that, or they're just smiling because their ego is boosted at being found attractive enough to be leered at by early morning porcine pervers of Pretties.

Or something.

¹ COZ I'S TRYIN' TO LOSE GUTBLUBBER, INNIT BRUV.

² NOT... THE COMFY CHAIR!!! G'AAAH! POKEAGE WITH THE SOFT CUSHIONS!! WELL, THE MANKY MILKY STAINED SEATAGE. AT LEAST, ONE HOPES IT'S LATTE SPILLAGE, AND NOT LATE NIGHT STARBUCKS SWINGER SECRETIONS FROM THEIR CAFFEINE FUELLED ORGIES.

³ MAX FUCKEDHER? RIMHOLE LONDON? ETC.

What's that sound, making me depresseder...

Dagnammit!

Having discovered that my new phone (currently "on it's way") has them there apps, I looked into what there be!

Ooooh! Earthworm Jim, Myst AND Riven! And... THE 7TH GUEST (with The 11th Hour on the way!)

Ah memories! So I got the new remastered soundtrack, then thought to recreate my old tape with the opening audio.

Firstly - the poem. Can I find an audio clip anywhere? Can I buggery sod as like! I'm sure I had it before... I can even hear Henry Stauf reciting it!

So, on to YouTube for the main opening narration. Ah, I forgot the hilarity of "she was coming home from choir practice" segment. But the sound - truly dreadful. The music is too loud for the narration.

And my laptop doesn't have an internal soundcard, so it records by mic, so the telly overlapped the recording. Re-record again...

A-ha! The CD-i version is pure audio! Simple - overlay that voice track with the one with music, and get a damn good section.

Mergey mergey... sounds fab! Hold on...

Damn it - the 2 versions have different frame rates, so they start to get out of synch.

Cut, reposition, cut, resposition, reposition, zoom in, resposition, zoom in, resposition...

Feck it! I'll just overlay the audio onto the CD tracks!

Dammit - the Dolls Of Doom is too short!

This is only 7 minutes long... and it's taken 3hrs to get 2min done :( I dread to thinks how my War Of The orlds revamp (with the complete Richard Burton audio and addition FX/sections) will take!

E.T.'s not gonna use mah telephone...

So, the Loch Ness Camel is not just the Loch Ness Camel

IT'S A POD UNGLULATE FROM THE PLANET MARS!!!

It would seem that sightings of the Loch Ness Camel (from outer space) have been in short supply as it's been away on holiday to distant galaxies¹ visiting relatives.

As ever, it returned from it's Summer hols on Saturday night, via it's Flying Saucer which was unfortunately seen by them there witnesses tanked up on whiskey and haggis.

Naturally, when space monsters invade, everyone comes out - Police, Coastguard, Lifeboats and the RAF in their Search and Destroy Rescue black ops helichopter.

Of course, they put out the now obligatory "It were a balloon. Or a hang-glider. Or a microlite. But not a pleasure you saw us from the Pleiades star system. 'onest, Guv!"

And quelle Febreeze - not a trace of balloon, hang-gliding microliters. No sign of "anything untoward" due to the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic antimatter (precipitating a flexi-tagenital spatial interflux within the symbiotic parameters) invoking the Kingony cloacking device.

Still, if they can't spot a great big feck off pod plesiosaur from the planet Mars in a large expanse of scotchland watery depths, what chance have they of locating an invasionary force of dromedaries of the deep in big blue spacecraft that become invisibubble in the deep blue waters of the Loch?

¹ WHICH ONE OF THEM WAS IT THIS TIME? i'M GLAD THEY DON'T KNOW ABOUT THIS PLACE, THE GREEDY FAT CHOCOLATE THIEVING FUCKERS!

Come fly with pee, (un)zip fly, zip fly open...

I am me

And you are you

And you are I

And I am too

But somebody obscures my view of you

Really, who?

Gerard Depardieu!

Waving his wang on the plane and golden showering the trolly dollies with his Odour Toilet before being tossed off¹ by the air hostess with the mostest. 

Or was it the air hostess with the most moistness? I've heard about them French Blokes who, by accent alone, maketh the females froth at the flange... despite being a snail fed tub o' lard with a face like a mountain of discarded shammy leathers in a bucket of grey silt moppage.

I can't see the problem - they lock the loos and strap you in (not on) before takeoff, therefore instead of disgracing your trousers with wine induced urinatory excreta, why not transfer l'eau d'bladder into a bottle via penile piddling?

It's not like he opened a window and aimed from his seat, out through the window, spraying his internally recycled widdle stream into the gulf stream over the heads of old biddies, is it! 

And even if it was, old gimmers reek of wee anyway, so it'd make no difference.

Or should that be stench of Oui?

EasyJet? Peesy jet... jet of piss, more like!

¹THE PLANE

They're too short shorts, hush hush - loot not bought...

So much for cracking down on them there crims!

Or bumcracked camel-toed quims.

Although I've nothing against camel toed quims... I know what I'd like against them though!

Anyhoo, during them riots, some harlot sent her mate out to loot her some designer JD sports-short chavwear. However, Crime doesn't pay, and she was susbsequently jailed for 5 months for wearing The Stolen Shorts of Chavviness. Not for recieving stolen goods, but for crimes of fashion.

However, some people want it both ways, and not in a spit-roasting sense either.

"Ooooh, these crims must pay. Crack down on them - set an egg sample! Thwow the book at 'em! Severe, harsh penalties, that's what we wants...
...but not too harsh. Jail's a bit excessive for crime, innit. Can't we just slap them on the wrist and send 'em home?"

So the tartlet has been sprung from Joliet and given 75 hours unpaid work to do instead.

Disgraceful! What kind of punishment is that!

Divest the dame of her shorts, say I! Parade her through the town all underdressed down below.

And just to be on the safe side, it's better to assume she's also shoplifted her shirt, burgled her bra and nicked her knickers. Yeah! Get all these "fashionista" lady looters and strip them of their rainment and make 'em walk the streets in shame whilst people toss their plums at 'em.

That's what they did in them there Medieval Tymes. And they put them in The Stocks. Or was it stockings? With thigh high PVC leather boots.

Actually, make them run in slo-mo like that there Baywatch, as I capture their ordeal for future perusal later (to remind me never to thieve TopShop).

Nudie nubile burglarettes in kinky leather boots and studded collars, besplattered with plum juice as they jiggle about in slo-mo down the street.

Too harsh a punishment my polished helmet...

Guess who's back, back again, Shadey's back, Dodgy, shadey televisualisations are unfortunately back...

"What's that you say Jeffrey?"

"Celebrity Pig Botherer's back on our screens tonight..."

"OH NO!!!!"

Oi am a coider roider...

Strewth!¹

Yet another mad Bruce has a fantastic idea and only gone and converted a scooter into an ice-cream beer truck!

Alas, the driving of modified scooters with handy beer coolbox is frowned upon by them there policeymen, and he got given a Brucie Bonus of a 10 month driving ban.

Which has to be better than being given a Brucie Boner.

Or not, if you're a lady who likes a bit of celebrititty geriatric sausaging with your strictdisciplinely cum horizontal dancing. Nice to seed you, to seed you, nice! Here they are, their clothes revealing, come on Dollies, start your peeling (off of the skimpy outfits and waggling your funbags at the audience). Nothing for a pair, not in this g... Phwoar! I'll give that norkage 10/10!. Tonight's the night, if the prozzies price is right!

And so on.

I think I'll nip down the Castle Mall, and hire one of them Mobility Scooters. Slap a coolbox on the back filled with Jaques, Scrumpy Jack and Old Felchers Gusset Sucker, and it's off booze cruisin'!

And if The Rozzers try and do me for being Under The Influenza, well, they can't pick on The Disabled, can they! That would be discrimination!

But Xym - you're not disabled. You're just mentally unstable and preposterously lecherous², that's not disabled!

Ah, you're forgetting my troll-like visage and Elephant Man physique! Any judiciary based adjudicators of justice would take one look at me and flee in terror, screaming such phraseology as "Aaaarrrggh! It's the chimeran love-child of John Joseph Merrick and Michael 'Pluto' Berryman out of Hills Have Eyes come to eat my face off! I'd be off my tits on coider if I had to face THAT in the mirror every morning! Case dismissed!"

I'm in mah CripMobile wit' da cider cure fo' cancer, and youse can't do nuffink coz I's disableds, innit blud!

¹ BLOG NOT IN UPSIDEY DOWN AUSTRALIAN THIS TIME, AS NO-ONE REMEMBERS TO CTRL+ALT+↓ and CTRL+ALT+↑ AND WRECK THEIR NECK CRANING ALL UPSIDEY DOWN TRYING TO READ IT. NOT THAY ANYONE EVER ACTUALLY READS THIS BOLLOCKS!

² I BET SHE LIKES THINGS IN CIDER. IN CIDER? INSIDE HER? NO? WELL, PLEASE YOURSELF THEN! AND WHEN YOU'VE FINISHED PLEASING YOURSELF, PLEASE WIPE YOUR LOVEJUICE UP AFTER. THANKS.

Black Whores and The Cherry Tree...

Whoo-ho!*

I am so great!
I am so great!
I am so marvellous,
I am so great!

Go Xym!

Return of the Attack of the Solitary Fluffy Bunny Part II in 3D rose to the dizzy heights of 2nd place, and 8 free pints of booze!

All on me own!

2 points behind first plaice.

One being my fault for confusing a back-to-front Tiffany "I think we're Alone Now" Mega-Pirahna with Tracey "Sunglasses" Ullman.

Another being a passing flufferel popping by with questionage of Granny Smith mobility lockage preventative measures via SIM (not Xym) to fauns & Satyrs, making me change my mind on them there En Vogues.

And if I hadn't mixed up Dave Lee Roth with David Coverdale, I'd've trounced the lot of 'em and won a free feast to feed upon.

But still - I wons! Well, runner-upped! All by myself...

Don't wanna be... all by myself.

Like Celine Dion (whom I may have put down as the lead singer, if the question was about Dio and not Whitesnake).

Probably.

* NOT FUNKYPIGEON.COM WHOO-HOO, KATIE TURNSTILE WHO-HOO AS SHE PUTS HER EYE TO THE TELLYSCOPE AND SUDDENLY SHE SEES SIXPACKED NEIGHBOURS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD (OR STREET) FROM HER BEDROOM AS SHE PLAYS WITH HER GLAMOURPUSS.

OR SOMETHING.

The Twat In The Hat...

A bit of a sleepy, a dash to the City for lottery and cash, home after forgetting to get milk & grub, dive into the shower, shave, stuff The Barnet - it'll go all hat hair, for I be in Purple Check!

First stop - Karen's 30th!

Ah, I be the only one I know here! Where's everyone else who said they'd be attending on the BaseFuck page?

Oooh Xym - thanks for coming! Your card reading slut is stil available if you wanna! Have a sausagey roll and an onion Bhaji.

Mmmmmmmm! Thank'ee, Pretty Medieval MiLady!

Ah, card time - oh, she be running 10 mins late...

40mins later...

...oh well, now is the time one need to leave the medieval banquet.

Farewell, sweet maiden, for having availed myself of thy repast and quaffage within this tavern, one must sadly now depart for pastures anew. Verily, though thine beauty doth dazzle mine eye, one must divest oneself from indulging in maiden admiration, for one's knightly presence is required at ye court of Project, where ye minstrels Liqueur be supporting ye bards Pout at the Devil, and thus, regretfully, I must take my leave upon this early hour, for they be taking up their lyres and lutes at 9:30pm.

Or I would have said my goodbyes and best birthday wishes, if the triple-decaded lovely wasn't engrossed in quizzery and discourse with erstwhile other rabble, courtiers, jesters and the like.

And so it's off to Project, and the climbing of many, many, MANY flights of steps for overpriced drinkeries, and the discovery that the 9:30 performance is now at 10. Well, by 10, actually 11.

And with cranial plumage being hidden by hattery, The Xym is adequately disguised so that nay-one, not even those that know the legendary spectacles of starry cosmic comicallity, recognises the porker lurking in the corner!

Until the great fat fool whispers in the ears of comrades in arms, who suddenly recognise the troll-like visage hidden under the brim, as The Xym does a Jessie J and "Grab my crotch, swing my hat low like you".

However, once the beat kicks in, and the hideous deformity begins to lumber about in pranciful dancifcations in a flouncy stylee more akin to having "an eppy" under the strobe, only then do people realise who the porker in the purple pork-pie hat is!

Well, one Pretty did at least, who caught my eye (no mean feat from behind them darkened shades in a darkened club) who slung her arm around me, pulled me in, and...

...said "You're dancing Xymon! Go Xymon!".

Still, I pulled! Even if it was only being physically pulled down to Pretty level for my presence to be acknowledge by a hot pretty. And that's a result!

There's hope for me yet!*

Anyhoo, on that high, instead of traipsing down The Whatacunt for beach party, I stayed for Pout At The Devil. I must be mad - Pretties in skimpy bikinis in favour of cock rock? Ah, it was the thought of bloated fatboy beached whales in mankinis that put me off! 

And then it was off home to be told by Taxi serving Wenches that the glasses are good... but the purple - bleurgh.

The miserable old trout of a troll!

And in memoriam of the sad old baggage, I watched Troll Hunter when I got in!

Now for another early morning sleepy...

* NO. THERE'S NOT.

He's a defacated follower of Pacha...

So,

Yesterday morning, I texts anniversarial congratulations to my chumblies. and they responds with suprise trip to Londinium (to loot Heat Magazine!).

And attend the ravey gravey dancey trancy blippy bloppy glo-stick waving whistle blowing' clubland that is Ibiza in Das Kapital of Löndøn. £5 entry, 10p,-5am, and it's Smart Casual dress.

So, a quick get-out-of-work-early clause, a bit of tartage uppery, and off we go!

Driving through the blackened, burnt out streets of London to find Victoria Station (prefer to be hunting down Victoria Coren for the raping and pillaging amidst the rioting crowd, but you can't have everything!) and running afoul of the one-way system, but still arriving 2 hours early, so off to be ripped off by toilet attendants in Maccy D's for pee-payments! 30p!

And then you turns up on the door at 10pm and...

...they don't open till 11.

And when they do open and you've been scanned into their database, you're scammed on the drinkage - £3.70 for a weeny can of Red Bull that costs 99p in a normal shop!

And the clientelle - not much in the way of wall-to-wall pretties whose back doors I'd smash in during a riot, but even with new  hair, I'm some form of man-magnet!

After only 2 songs of grooving away to David Nutella & Fried Eggs (or some such), there's burly beefcakers begging Lady C for an introduction to the most fabulous man with the fantastic hair, before trying to change the shaking of hands into one of them man-cuddles before making unsolicited strokings of my beard!

It was like the Black Books episode Manny Come Home with Omid Djalili fingering the facial foliage of Bill Bailey!

Except he didn't put me in a dress to model for Big & Beardy.

Still, apart from the unfortunate incident of the ignorant texting shover passer thieving our seat of getting girly slapped and thwown to the fwoor vewy woughly (whilst maintaining a Dignitas silence and continuing to text without noticing the slapping and the tumbling to the ground).

A nice clean floor, as no-one can afford the drinks, so no spillage!

Still, a fine time was had by all.

A very fine time!

And instead of Londinium shoppage, we headed back early. So now I'm free the the one million and seven events that are planned for tonight... if I gets enough sleepies in...

Riverside, Motherfukka!

Ernie's milk cart brings all the Berts to the yard...

So.

Bert and Ernie aren't getting married because "They remain puppets and do not have a sexual orientation."

Surely that's sexual discrimination - denying puppets the right to chose their own sexual deviancy.

OK, so certain finger(ing) puppet yellow bears named Sooty have a sexual-sadism streak with a fondness for slapping magicians around the face with pizza like some form of burrito bukkake. Yeah, Daniels, take that Meat Feast in the face! You'll like it - not a lot, but you like it you whore! As for you, The Lovely Debbie McGee, when's your Dolmio day, eh? If the painters are in and painting your rosebud red with your special internal Ragu sauce, I'll slap you with my spicy salami as Sue and Sweep beat your busoms with a garlic baguette. Izzy Wizzy let's get jizzy!

But I digress.

Apparently, there is an online petition calling for a Same-Sex Union of the two bachelors.

I don't see why they're so adverse to getting married - after all, they've been living together for 40+ years. And it's not like they need to come Out Of The Closet, as (being puppets) they've had Jim Henson's hand up their puppety posterior for years.

And that's FISTING, that is!

I reckon the real reason Ernie won't marry Bert is because of Bert's Psychopathical tendancies.

Check out the evidence here.

Whispering in the ear of Bin Laden. Goading Gadaffi Duck. Turning Elmo EMO.

And people want Ernie to marry that evil tyrant?

Sure, Bert looks like the long suffering downtrodden put-upon housemate... but we all know who really wears the trousers of the Nazi uniform in that relationship!

Have a Bream... Have a koi carp...

Fish are friends - not food!

And what do you give your friends (particularly the friends who are Pretties?)

That's right - CHOCOLATE!

Gary the gourmand gourami has been donated to the London Sea Life Aquarium, and has been hand reared on a diet of Kit Kats.

Mmmmm... chocolate sushi!

Guess we should be thankful it's not a chocolate starfish!

Poor old Gary is now being fed chocolate filled grapes to get his lardy arse flotation belly down.

How come I don't get chocolate filled grapes - THEN I'd start having my 5-a-day.

Although I already do have 5-a-day. 5 cakes a day.

Anyhoo, them Aquariumariners have put this malformed dweller of the deep into some aquamarine loonybin. Apparently, his fellow inmates are a cat-fish that believes it's a cat, and a punk pufferfish who goes around headbutting the other fish like some scaly ska skinhead out for a scrap.

Oh, if only I had renewed my Merlin card, so I could go and laugh at the mental fish for free.

Then again, I guess I can count my blessings I didn't have a fishy merkin discount card.

Discount trout twat topiary by the bins behind Lidls.

Not good.

Stop the 'wock, Can't stop the 'wock, You can't stop the 'wock...

Not even Brian Can't.

Gimme a P (please Bob)
Gimme a L
Gimme a A
Gimme a Y
What does that spell?

Ah, you're a brain-donor rioting looting yoof, therefore spelling is beyond your capabilites. See, it really doesn't matter if it's raining or it's fine, just as long as you've got time to R.I.O.T. Unless it's raining, then it's time to stay in with yer mum, drinking malty whorelicks with the 3Ds, a good kindled book, and P.L.A.Y., Play, Play away, play away (station), play (away) station, Playstation, PS3...

After getting past some electrified jelly monster and getting hacked off with Navi the fairy's fecking irritating "Hey! Lissen!", we return to the looking glass.

I took my VORPAL sword in hand, long time musical child stars of the golden age I sought, who'd fecked off back into the mirror and left an innocent blonde haired lad to be chopped up by grandmama (and not Judy Moran, The Godfather Granny of Oz), culminating in Ole Cloven hoof bringing about Ye Apocalypʃe by forcing posho gormsters to watch musicality of film. The Fame remake, or Glee.

Or something.

Anyhew, Back through the water, over the cogs, through the maze... why, this is getting to be a piece of piss!

Ah, here come's the 'wock!

Feck, feck, shitteryarse feck!

There's 4 modes - Easy, Normal, Hard, Nightmare. I'm on Normal, and the fecker's impossible! 

One! Two! And through and I'm fecking burnt to death again!

The Meta is miles off, so you can't get to it before he flies over and breathes burny breath on ya! Whatever direction, he's on top of you, burny burny burny!

It's as bad as when Rick Taylor had to battle off The Corrupted to keep Jennifer Willis on the sacrificial altar safe from the approaching In The Hills, The Cities style giant Corrupted made up out of The Corrupted. But at least you got somewhere.

This - start, up it goes, blast it with the 'wock's eye wand, you burned to deathery.

But no mental phantasmagoria is going to beat me - I'll twat that bar steward if it kills me! Then, I shall gallumph to t'bottom of our stairs and bellow "Calloo, Callay" in chortling joy.

You see if I don't!

Through The Barricades...

It would seem I've misheard the talk of these so-called lootings that The Press and The News keep blathering on about.

All this time I assumed that there were hooded yobs rampaging through Londinium, looting left right and centre and terrorizing the populace.

But oh, the misinterpretation of aural inconsistencies!

The terror was the natural born terror of that infestation of ye Village Green known as Morris Dancers!

And far from looting, they were luting, causing much distress to the ole ear'ole with their preposterously shaped guitars and Hey Nonny Nonnying.

I suppose it's natural progression. Prior to all this lutical busking putting the wind up Woolwich, ye medieval Morrisers just banged stout sticks together and bopped each other on the bonce with a pig's bladder onna stout stick. William Kemp (out of Spandau Ballet) famously performed his 9 day wonder where he danced from Norwich To London, then got his lute out and performed An Ode To Ye Contentʃ Of Mine Purʃe - Dubloonʃ Of Gold (Gold!) Alwayʃ Believeth In Your ʃoul.

Look at this twangly plinky-plongly twankyarse rapscallion luter, all decked out in his thieved up JD Sportswear with his filched flagon of Cidre (not Cider).

Shudder at the evil menace in his eyes! Surely those are the shifty peepers of a shop window smasher intent on availing himself of a shellsuit. Damn you, ye evil Morris Dancing danger to society!

I just bet he's an untruthful lyre an' all!

They say you should hug a hoodie. Well, I'm not putting my arms around that mincing musical moron, thank you very much!

I'm perfectly happy, on the other hand, to get me arms round some ladylutist who's content to strum my banjo.

Or something.

If it weren't for chip fat, they'd be looting...

...lots more JD Sports shops!

For the lardier looting lout is too stout to filch Pilch's sportswear, let alone JD Sports.

Then again, these inebriated buffoons probably thought the JD stood for Jack Daniels.

On the downside though, looks like The Riots are spreading outside Das Kapital and into our green and pleasant land (Green in the face from being sick on too much JD!)

Hair! I wanna take you to a Gay Bar...

One's new coiffure made much impressive impressions upon the populace of popular pop quiz popquizzers!

It seems universally approved as being sooooooo much better.

And I thought my previous magnificent mane was fabulous and loved by all (Well, by gay blokes down The WhatACunt and drunken strumpets envious of my luscious locks at least).

But it now seems that I need one final improvement - I need some plum directions on me barnet.

Or was it directions to High Barnet? Nah - my plumage is no longer so tall. It could've been directions on me plums... but surely I shouldn't have to direct any Prettiers there, and I'm not dying my scrotality just so collars and cuffs match.

Or is it coiffures and muffs that are supposed to match?

I don't know - I got distracted when a Cleaving Heavage started shining my torch down her top and offering to photographicate her heaving cleavage for my own personal pervy persual.

That's the power of purple plumage combined with an offer of rampant shaggery!

But the follicle gaydar has minced out from The WhatACunt and into the Black Whores.

Round 1 - We're in 2nd place! Oooooooh!

Round 2 - Back into our usual just-losing-out 4th place

Round 3 - Chappy comes to collect scores
          Blokey: "What's your score"
          Me: "52"
          Blokey "62"
          Paul: "Yeah - 62!"
          Me: "no, 52!"
          Blokey: "OK - 62"

Round 4 - Blokey: "Score please"
          Me: "59"
          Blokey "69"
          Paul: "Oh, 69! Whey-hey"
          Me: "No - 59!"
          Blokey: "I'll put  you down for 69"

So, 2 rounds, he's giving me a total of 20 extra points. Am I ennunciating clearly? Yep - he's just giving you an extra 10 points. You're in there Xym! Feck orf - I ain'n't gay!

Blokey comes round for Round 5 points... he ups my total by 10 points again! We're still 4th, but By The Power Of Colored Cranial Forestry, I've earned our team an undeserved 30 extra points!

Round 6. Right, Miss Foxatronic, YOU tell him the scores. See if he gives you an extra portion of points. 
          Blokey: "Score please"
          Foxicle: "37"
          Blokey: "37 then"

So there you have it. The pulling power of the purple pompadour. Now, I only I can make it work on Pretties...

...but I think I need purple plums for that.

Or something.

Wax on, wax off...

Wax ham!

Mmmmmm... ham in a waxy coating, just like the backwards cheese*

Camping on the beach is all very well, but you do tend to end up with lots of midge bites.

Alas, not lovebites from Missus Midge the hairdresser in her gimp or see-thru apron, unfortunately.

Which would be much more preferable than this damn itchyness!

20 mozzies at least find me irresistable with me new barnet, and have tried feasting on my flesh and have given me the lumpy hands of bitey  bloodsnackery - I need Witch Hazel ASAP!

But not Hazel McWitch, out of RentAGhost.

It's bad enough listening to a limp wristed mincing concentrating-on-being camp Nazi espousing their desire to "kiss my poop, ya, eat mein hairy bratwüst, ya I spank ze Max Moseley in the dungeon with the schnitzel", let alone having to listen to maniacal scotchhags cackling such oratory as "Och, there's been a murder with a purple curly-wurly".

Still, a fun time was had by all. And none of us managed to dig an 8ft pit and get buried in it, cox we're not stupid 15yr old blonde bimbos who don't have the sense to stop digging when the pit they're in is taller than themselves and prone to collapsing in on you.

Now time to de-stench the smokey Xym and head to the City for a Starbucks pick-me-up.

And if any passing pretties want to pick me up, feel free!

* ONE DAY I WILL RETURN TO THE SUBJECT OF CHRONOGRAPHICAL CHEESE!

Stuck in Prøf Quirrell's igløø...

Nøw, I håve nø sympåthy før Etøniån pøshbøys høøråy henrying up intø Sveden (They're Nørwegiån Måc!) ånd cåmping øut in beår cøuntry, whø then gets måuled tø deåth by beårs.

Whåt did yøu expect in beår cøuntry!

Nøw, depending which "eyewitness" yøu believe øn the tellybøx, Høråtiø (Høråtiø? Whåt kind øf nåme is thåt?, Wås he øn hølidåy with Tårquin, Percivål, Cedric ånd Pønsønby-Smythe-Incenstuøus III?) wås either fåst åsleep ør tåunting the Urså Måjør øf the Nørth.

Ånd NØT tåuntåuning it, ås in Høth båsed emergency sleeping båg Duke Øf Endingbugger survivålism.

Whåt's Cåptåin Turds Eye gønnå dø nøw - everyøne's fåvøurite creepy pervy pølår båre øf the icy wåstes, shøt in the fåce før wåking up Cårruthers ånd seductively øffering him fishy fingers (nø døubt belønging tø søme self pleåsuring innuit trølløp).

Ånyhøø - it's åll å cøver up. Clårence hås been såcrificed tø cøver up the truth in søme årctic cønspiråcy øf the Jåws persuåsiøn.

Whåt døcumentåry film is cøming øut shørtly - TRØLL HUNTER! Whåt's the pøster - Å TRØLL IN THE NØRWEGIÅN SNØW!

Åttåcked by å Pølår Beår in Nørwegiånlånd my best håt. He wås duffed up by øne øf them there icy Jøtne!

Trøll! Trøll! In the Dungeøn! Thøugh yøu øught tø knøw!

A penis, a penis, the greatest stiff that I possess...

Filth!

Man-filth! For the Ladies! 

On the telly between the two halves of Takeshi's Castle at teatime!

Men, in pants, gyrating their hips, as ancient sex-starved strumpets on holiday ogle up these poor men's lunchboxes!

Women who like to check out packages at IceLolly.com indeed. 

Ice lolly?

Horny old crone crumpet off to Spain for a sucking of Miguel The Waiter's Mini-Milk as she pleasures herself with a Nobbly Bobbly, more like!

I don't want to be put off me tea by holidaying harlots with a Feast up her flange, a Cider Barrel up her cludge, and an Equadorian* mint Magnum up her minge.

Not to mention a Strawberry Mivvi** up her snatch when she's On The Blob.

At least MoneySupermarket has fatboy Epic Jeff surfin' birdin', without resorting to comparing his trunksnake to chocolate coated frozen Ben & Jizz's ice-mancream.

Ban this filth! Down with this sort of thing!

* EQUADOR! NOT ENCORE UNE FOIS! BUT BOTH BY SASH!

** OR STRAWBERRY SPLIT, IF YER A SOUTHERN JESSIE

Maybe tomorrow, I'll just keep shooting guns...

Aw, bless.

The Littlest Homo with a shotgun was tonights bill of fare.

Even better, it came with a Troll Hunting guide.

As if I need one - my Troll Hunting guide is simple.
1. Xym looks in mirror
2. Xym visits Great Y'ha-nthlei seafront by the burger bars
3. Hunt successful

Anyhoo, homicidal homeless bears and teachers.

Clearly a Teacher In The Arts That Amuse Men, the skank-ho slattern.

How come these double-barrelled shotguns come with an unlimited supply of shells? Yes, our Hero came by a shotgun... but no shells. Yet he's able to blow away bad guy after bad guy without either reloading or stopping off at Lidl for more ammo!

Awesome fim though!

I got something to blog about...

"Oh boy, am I gonna have fun in me blog with THAT!"

Thus spake the purple porkster.

But canst I remember what I's supposed to be bloggering?

Can I jizzwipes!

I recall getting blown by The Lady C in the pub, but it weren't that. Nor was it Twelvety and the card. I think Je T'aime came into it somewhere, a 500 squid trip to Laura (Palma), and the rohypnolling of  Lady C by dodgy doggers to satisfy their lecherous libido whilst perusing Peruvian paedo porn of Paddington Bare.

Or something.

But I forgets, so no blog today.

I whip me hair back and... yikes! Where's me barnet...

Three hours of maniacal hysteria, and we now have a purple plumed preposterousness crowning me cranium!

Complete with tramlines!

Not only tramlined sidelines, but Aunty B went mad with razor power and went on to tramline me 'brow to devastating Fail!

Before dunking me beard in strawberry milkshakey substitute of a purpling nature!

Midge's milkshake brings all the boys to the yard!

Especially when she's in her gimp apron.

Alas and bewail, the loss of the long locks of the bushy bouffanty Don King skunkbadger has left the ring, and the purple mohawk reigns supreme.

Hold on Xym... that there mohawky plumage is not too dissimilar to the Feather McGraw style marigold upon the chickeny bonce!

All unhail The Xym.

Fuckin' cock!