It's deffo the hat.
The hat that inspires twats to be like that
Now, you know the trouble I used to get into down The WhatACunt whenever I wore a hat.
Hassle hassle hassle off fighty gayboy chavscum wanting to duff me up.
Well, on Sat, one of my compadrés wore a hat similar to mine, The big black hat with the phenomenally huge plumage with the skeletal centerpiece and gogglery.
And he recieved a summary punch to the gob.
One can only assume that the pissed up pugilist mistook my erstwhile compatriot for me, and tried to give him a kicking, under the misapprehension that he was me, and was after me for a previous millinery-based altercation in the past.
Or it could be that the cranial adorned one took the wanker to task for waving his wang about and widdling under a street light, like a micturating faun by the Narnian gateway to Spare-Oom. An illuminated plonker proudly presenting his pissing penis to the passing public, and took exception to someone requesting the cessation of this cesspitiful display of public pubic indencency.
But I do rather expect that my friend "took one for the team" and recieved the blow due to mistaken identity due to hattage, for many people thought he was me, and were most disappointed not to find me below my unmistakeable hat, seemingly no longer unmistakeable.
Showing posts with label Chavs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chavs. Show all posts
Monday, 1 September 2014
Saturday, 1 February 2014
Thoroughly enjoying pepper...
But not Pepper Potts. probably.
'twas not my day today.
'twas not my day today.
Scabby scabsters five-finger discounters purloining my purchases resulting in much trekking about the city in search of elusive western heroes.
Barista bingo win - three on a row, but any erudite genitalmanly conduct of impressiveness was ruined by Starbucks spectres spilling my Gingybread latté all over me trews, and having to present myself to serving wenches all dampened about the trouserial area with caffeinated combats.
Jeremy Kyle Family At War on the omnibus. Great fat screeching fishwife with her obnoxious skinny shagpartner and brood of 8 feral offspring. All who have to have a pair of seats to each creature thing person and spread about the bus. Bellowing to each other as the brats rampage up and down and climb the poles 'accidentally' ringing the bells as the chimps run riot. Mother and son having a sweary fistfight at the back before having a kiss and make up, with Mother bragging about her pædo incest.
Honestly, if I had my way, the parents would be thrown off the bus. Whilst moving. On a narrow bridge over a gorge. With weights attached in case they hit a river. And the kids sold off for bacon.
Sunday, 10 March 2013
Mouth, mouth, let it flow out...
These are the things Xym could do without
saying
When yobs are threatening Xym
He plows on
In violent times, Xym should learn some voice control
It's black and white for yobs who really ought to know (better)
They mock Xym's voice, and take him for an Eton boy!1
Wave them goodbye2, Xym shouldn't have to stand for this.
Xym really shouldn't...
Speak! Speak!
Keep it discreet!
Xym's gob runs on like Usain Bolt's feet!
Shut up!
He's listening to you!
So shut up!
He picked a fight, and in return Xym rang verbal rings
This wound yobs up, but still Xym lived to tell the tale
The ignoramus tells the tale!
Xym! Xym! Ignorant Xym!
So said the gobshite defending his Quim!
Come on!
As if Xym's a threat!
Come on!
And when Xym's taken down his guard,
He'll attack from behind - because he thinks he's fookin' hard!
As if I broke his 'tarded heart!
'tashe! 'tashe!
Frothing the gash!
This must be why Xym is singled out!
In case
their missus runs off with Xym
as if!
Yes, another altercation down The Whatacunt at ShitPloppin' from a yobbo spoiling for a fight. And in record time too - not even 15 mins in and a laughable loon is trying to berate The Xym for their retardery!
Seems passing on the opposite side of the corridor creates such a breeze, it swayed him a bit when using the cash machine (Wot a retard! Fancy coming out to the Whatacunt with no cash in the first place!).
Later, on a return passing - you know when you can sense what's going to happen? Gobshite is deliberately blocking the door - and you just know as you pass by he's going to deliberately step back. And he did - spilling my sticky drink all over me hand and sleeve. But did I complain? Nah - just met up with other.
And then, he went all ninja cat.
We're sat in the smoking area at the far end. Suddenly - he's standing the door. Out of the corner of they eye, you see him step, step, freeze. Look around shiftily. Creepy, creepy. Eventually mouthing off something. Much of the demand "look at me! Look at me! Ya fookin' ignoramus! Oi! ya bastid!".
I tried to keep quiet, but I kept conversing with my companion... unfortunately bewailing my lot of having cockends badger me, t which he took further exception, concluding with that he "wouldn't fuck off unless you make me, and I'll fookin' have ya, ya ignorant fucker. Come on then!"
To which we pointed out we'd just have him ejected. So we just pointed him out to the doorman, and went back in, leaving him having a tantrum about how Xym should be watched.
Yeah. Right.
Laters, we're upstairs, when the creep sidles up again and starts up again with his yelling. Luckily, his missus was there and pushed him away. Then, he went into full rant mode about me doing something with his missus and how he'd take me on again. Muscling forward with outstretched arms in "come on hit me" mode. Then his missus stepped in again and dragged him off kicking and screaming like a petulant child.
Ah. THAT seems to be the problem. His missus wasn't an ex of mine. I hadn't spoken to her. I hadn't ogled her up, or even performed any comedic lecherous finger wriggling3. And yet he's paranoid about me doing something with her!
I suspect it's the 'tashe - men get all jealous that their women will all run off with me because of the melodramatic moustache of twiddly Victorian villany. or something.
Still, makes a change from obsessed gayboys pestering me coz I won't bum 'em, I guess!
1 HA HA HA! THE KNUCKLE DRAGGING NEANDERTHAL'S VERSION OF STARTING A FIGHT WAS TO REFUTE XYMS DISMISSAL OF HIS POSTURING BY REPEATING EVERYTHING XYM SAID IN A POSH VOICE. BOTH MANCS QUERIED WHY HE WAS SPEAKING A NORTHERN ACCENT IN A POSHO FASHION - IT REPLIED...
"THAT'S HOW YOU SPEAK, THAT IS!"
OH MY WORD! SOMEONE'S BEEN WATCHING HISTORY TODAY ON NEWMAN AND BADDIEL! ABOUT 15 YEARS TOO LATE...
2 *AHEM* SEEMS WHEN XYM THOUGHT HE SAID "JUST WALK AWAY. GO AWAY. JUST... GO AWAY.", ACCORDING TO ONE PRESENT, THEY HEARD IT COME OUT AS "OH, JUST FUCK OFF, YA COCK. FUCK OFF. JUST... FUCK OFF." SEEMS SOME PEOPLE NEED THEIR EARS WAXING OUT!
3 SOMETHING I HAVEN'T DONE IN A LOOOONG TIME! I HAVEN'T DONE THE RICK MAYALL COMEDY PERVE THING FOR AGES - THINK I SHALL HAVE TO SAVE IT UP AND BRING IT OUT WITH THE BIG GUNS FOR FEARME BOTTOM'S POST WEDDING WEEKEND AT RESISTANZ!
Thursday, 12 April 2012
Hot sticky jeans, a T-Shirt that mings...
... on a chavscum yob with many chins
We' ve been waitin'
for him
to shift arse
Open the door,
and let us get out!
We' ve been waitin'
for him
to shift arse
Open the door,
and let us get out!
Yes, here comes The Rain!
But not upon selfish work-shy greasy haired Jeremy Kyle job-dodger types!
Oh no Sirree!!
You know, I think The Xym is going to have to shed his quiet, polite, chivalrous demeanour and become one of them there self-centred scumbags who despoil the City Centre with their unmannerly presense!
Seems if you're a rude, arrogant, cuntfuck of a benefit cheat, then it gives you free reign to be as obnoxious as possible and not only bag yerself shabby chic chav chicks, but also to take the Moral High Ground as a paragon of virtue deriding the etiquette of others as being either Gay or "just fookin' rood yer fookin' shit".
Why is it that a tiny bit of spray from the skies makes neanderthal yobs afear'd? OK, judging by the lack of Lynx allowing the fœtid stend to rise from their 'pits to assail the nostrils and return to curl around their lank, lard drenched hair of tangled greasy fronds, I guess the lack of soapy scent indicates aquaphobia.
Hence the huddling from God's Piss From Above.
So, a-quaking in their decaying boots from the possibility of water washing off their ingrained pheremonial BO, do these gormsters go indoors and look around the shops?
No. They stand right in the shop entrance/exits.
Right in front of the door.
Blocking it with their great fat fairy-arsed vast gut so no-one can get in or out.
Gawping into the sky. Probably because they've never seen a shower before.
And then, when someone inside opens the door to come out, the podgy portal preventer berates the exitees for lacking good manners and decency!
These cretins won't allow people in or out, causing a fire hazard, and then assault the populace citing a lack of poor politeness!
Exsqueegy me! I thought it was bad manners to stand in front of a closed door, refusing to move so people inside can't open it, let alone berating them for trying get out of a shop by opening a door that some selfish dole scrounger has deliberately blocked!
So, no more Chivalrous Xym genteely escorting home Ladies In Distress in gentlemanly conduct. No more Please, Thank You or Excuse Me's. No more holding doors open for Pretties to pass through first.
No - it's gonna be Fuck You Bitch! Shift Yo' Fat Ass, Ho! Git The Fuck Outta My Way, Cuntfucker! I'm going to walk on the RIGHT instead of the etiquettorially correct left, and anyone who walks towards me can just get THE FUCK out of my way!
Then, maybe, The Xym will fit in, and not only avoid knifings up, but also pull loads of them Pretties. Because, as all the worlds knows, womens only like bastards.
Right fucking bastards!
Right fucking ignorant arrogant rude obnoxious bastards at that!
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
Keep off my crotch, swipe my hat so, you fool...
Xym's synopsis of the events of Exile - three clips captured on CCTV! Hard evidence of chavs abusing Xym accurately caught on camera (with subtitles¹ for the herd of herrings)!
Video clip #1: Xym walks into The City
Video clip #2: Thieving gay chavs in the smoking area
Video clip #3: Discovering the absence of Xym
¹ APOLOGIES FOR THE MISSPELLING OF 'ALLEVIATE' IN THE SUBTITLES OF CLIP #2
Video clip #1: Xym walks into The City
Video clip #2: Thieving gay chavs in the smoking area
Video clip #3: Discovering the absence of Xym
¹ APOLOGIES FOR THE MISSPELLING OF 'ALLEVIATE' IN THE SUBTITLES OF CLIP #2
Sunday, 25 March 2012
Color me chubby chequerboard...
Oh, the perils of over-elevated millinery!
I get to the Coats & Saucies¹, and the bar area is of insufficient height to accomodate my elaborately costumed cranuim, resulting in having to affect a Quasimodo lumbering stoop to get to the seatage.
And then comes the arrival of fellow compatriots for inebriating quaffage. And each expresses surprise at the extent of the extensive height of the hat. I TOLD them how big it was. I illustrated quite precisely previously the exact height.
Seems no-one believed me.
But now you know, when Xym says how big it is, you know it IS literally that big!
No fibber Xym!
"But Xym, " quoth the gatherance, "surely you will most prominent down The WhatACunt. Feral yobbos will nick your hat!"
"Ha! " laughs off The Xym, "anyone tries to nick my hat, they'll get a punch in the face!". For I am an exponent of Dimac, the deadliest form of martial art known to mankind, that can instantly disable any foe, should I so wish. My hands and feet are deadly weapons that can kill, maim, mutilate, disfigure, tear, rend and cripple. They are registered with the police, and when not in use need to be placed under lock & key at all times.
Of course, I cannot use my deadly arts upon my chums, but I was given a hands on lesson by a polish Pretty in the ancient art of Dimmock, being the art of norkitudinal caressment. And a very welcome lesson it was too!
So, we get to The WhatACunt, and The Xym is much admired for the doric column upon his coiffure.
And a chav nicks the hat, and in a flash, seemingly without movement, the hat is back in one hand and the other is outstretched in pose #27 (The Dragon Breaks Wind On His Enemies) and the thieving lout staggers back from The Previously Promised Punch In The Face.
Apparently self-defense in the retrieval of personal posessions is frowned upon by purloiners of stove pipe simulcra and much remonstration ensued afore the tealeaf tosser Fled The Scene.
Only to return later to serve a barrage of unwarranted abuse upon The Ladies. From behind a door. Opening it to spout a childish belittling of alternative types, before legging it once more.
Only to return later to apologize for his pissheaded plunderage and smooth things over.
Only to return later to profusely apologize again.
Only to return later to warn me not to go downstairs, as his mates are out to 'sort me out'.
Only to return later in something of a panic to apologize as he can't find them.
Only to return later to apologize he's only found one... and his other mate, well, his boyfriend is enraged. He's got a knife, and like the Color Me Badd hit: "He wants to stab me up".
Only to return later - he now wants to be my bodyguard, as he can't find his mates wifey with knifey. Then runs off, returning to inform it's all sorted.
But later... SUBTERFUGE! Seems like the cessation of stabbage only related to whist indoors under the scrutiny of bouncers and my army of defenders. Now there's new rumblings that once outside, they're gonna give it to me.
And I have no intention of being stabbed up the back alley by some (pork) sword wielding homochav behind the buger bar.
Burger bar? Bugger bar, more like! Bum burgler bar. Quarter pounded to death. With cheese. Nob cheese, more than likely.
And after all that, I realised the swiping of the hat had concealed further filchings. He'd only gone and snaffled away my mojo, the half-inching chavscum.
So I fled into the night, bewailing the lot of the behatted.
Oh well, so much for impressing the Pretties with oversized hat. Guess next time I'll have "chav up" before I go out.
Innit!
¹ FUR COATS, AND NO KNICKERS - WHICH IS PRETTY SAUCY.
I get to the Coats & Saucies¹, and the bar area is of insufficient height to accomodate my elaborately costumed cranuim, resulting in having to affect a Quasimodo lumbering stoop to get to the seatage.
And then comes the arrival of fellow compatriots for inebriating quaffage. And each expresses surprise at the extent of the extensive height of the hat. I TOLD them how big it was. I illustrated quite precisely previously the exact height.
Seems no-one believed me.
But now you know, when Xym says how big it is, you know it IS literally that big!
No fibber Xym!
"But Xym, " quoth the gatherance, "surely you will most prominent down The WhatACunt. Feral yobbos will nick your hat!"
"Ha! " laughs off The Xym, "anyone tries to nick my hat, they'll get a punch in the face!". For I am an exponent of Dimac, the deadliest form of martial art known to mankind, that can instantly disable any foe, should I so wish. My hands and feet are deadly weapons that can kill, maim, mutilate, disfigure, tear, rend and cripple. They are registered with the police, and when not in use need to be placed under lock & key at all times.
Of course, I cannot use my deadly arts upon my chums, but I was given a hands on lesson by a polish Pretty in the ancient art of Dimmock, being the art of norkitudinal caressment. And a very welcome lesson it was too!
So, we get to The WhatACunt, and The Xym is much admired for the doric column upon his coiffure.
And a chav nicks the hat, and in a flash, seemingly without movement, the hat is back in one hand and the other is outstretched in pose #27 (The Dragon Breaks Wind On His Enemies) and the thieving lout staggers back from The Previously Promised Punch In The Face.
Apparently self-defense in the retrieval of personal posessions is frowned upon by purloiners of stove pipe simulcra and much remonstration ensued afore the tealeaf tosser Fled The Scene.
Only to return later to serve a barrage of unwarranted abuse upon The Ladies. From behind a door. Opening it to spout a childish belittling of alternative types, before legging it once more.
Only to return later to apologize for his pissheaded plunderage and smooth things over.
Only to return later to profusely apologize again.
Only to return later to warn me not to go downstairs, as his mates are out to 'sort me out'.
Only to return later in something of a panic to apologize as he can't find them.
Only to return later to apologize he's only found one... and his other mate, well, his boyfriend is enraged. He's got a knife, and like the Color Me Badd hit: "He wants to stab me up".
Only to return later - he now wants to be my bodyguard, as he can't find his mates wifey with knifey. Then runs off, returning to inform it's all sorted.
But later... SUBTERFUGE! Seems like the cessation of stabbage only related to whist indoors under the scrutiny of bouncers and my army of defenders. Now there's new rumblings that once outside, they're gonna give it to me.
And I have no intention of being stabbed up the back alley by some (pork) sword wielding homochav behind the buger bar.
Burger bar? Bugger bar, more like! Bum burgler bar. Quarter pounded to death. With cheese. Nob cheese, more than likely.
And after all that, I realised the swiping of the hat had concealed further filchings. He'd only gone and snaffled away my mojo, the half-inching chavscum.
So I fled into the night, bewailing the lot of the behatted.
Oh well, so much for impressing the Pretties with oversized hat. Guess next time I'll have "chav up" before I go out.
Innit!
¹ FUR COATS, AND NO KNICKERS - WHICH IS PRETTY SAUCY.
Friday, 27 January 2012
Free Willy...
Many people are up in arms about the redistribution of wealth
Then they forget about their arms, and move up to the bonce, and want to put a cap on benefits.
Probably a flat cap, with a whippet on top.
"It's not fair that Scummy Mummies get £1m per child on benefits!" they say.
"It's not fair that Asylum seekers get given a £10m mansion to house their pet cat!" they say.
"It's not fair that a wealthy Banker can get a tax-free Brucie Bonus and hide it in their wife's Caymans to avoid tax" they say.
And when they say Caymans, they probably mean her ample busom. Because as all men know, when women get a wad of cash, they stuff it into their bra.
Which is probably a better chestfiller than them exploding jugsacks they're moaning about having implanted.
Anyhoo, I don't give a toss about the redistribution of wealth - I'm more for Pretties giving me a toss in the redistribution of sex.
Now, I'm no oil painting. True, Pretties flee before my troll-like visage and behemoth belly, but I would like to think¹ I was marginally more attractive than the average facially repellant fodder on the Jeremy Kyle show.
An endless parade of gap-toothed, manky haired, beautifically disadvangated ogres & gnomes ravaged by time and fags. Ancient druggie hag crones and abusive drunken inbred knuckle dragging illiterate gorilla gormsters. And what do they all have in common?
I'll tell you what they all have in common!
A life of non-stop shaggery that they're bragging about on the telly, that's what!!
Even to the point that they get through so many promiscuous slagbuckets, by a process of elimination they eventually end up accidentally nobbing their brother².
It's not fair! There's me, abhorrent to look upon, with no Pretty daring to touch my bargepole with their... well, any part of their anatomy, really. And then there's these deformed gargoyles with more sexual partners you can shake a shitty cock at!
Goddamn thieving sterotypical chavscum - no wonder I can't bag meself a Pretty - they've all been nicked by these kobolds living off the council and getting paid benefits to have The Sex! It's DNA test here, lie detector there, all humping each other on The FaceBukakke.
Redistribute the sex, I say! Limit these uglyfied dwelllers of the dark with a face for radio to 1 Pretty apiece, and free up some of these rampant Pretties³ for the rest of us!
Quick - where's my can of vocal emissions of orgasmic pleasure from Egyptian ruler Two Wank Cum Oon (or was it Wankh Xym or Nuun. Probably Never Titty, in my case...)? I think I need to douse my self in that there Pharaoh Moan before I goes out next...
¹ WELL, XYM. YOU MAY LIKE TO THINK THAT - DOESN'T MAKE IT TRUE THOUGH, YOU FAT UGLY PORKBUCKET!
² THE JEREMY KYLE SHOW, 24TH JAN 2012, 9:30AM ITV1. "I'M IN A GAY SEXUAL RELATIONSHIP... BUT AM I SLEEPING WITH MY BROTHER?"
(SPOILER: DNA TEST SHOWED YES, HE WAS BUMMING HIS LONG-LOST HALF-BROTHER HE DIDN'T KNOW HE HAD.)
³ ALTHOUGH 'PRETTIES' IS NOT THE WORD FOR MOST OF THESE KYLE SHOW SHAGABOUTS - BUT HEY, BEGGARS CAN'T BE CHOOSERS.
AND I'M BEGGING...
Then they forget about their arms, and move up to the bonce, and want to put a cap on benefits.
Probably a flat cap, with a whippet on top.
"It's not fair that Scummy Mummies get £1m per child on benefits!" they say.
"It's not fair that Asylum seekers get given a £10m mansion to house their pet cat!" they say.
"It's not fair that a wealthy Banker can get a tax-free Brucie Bonus and hide it in their wife's Caymans to avoid tax" they say.
And when they say Caymans, they probably mean her ample busom. Because as all men know, when women get a wad of cash, they stuff it into their bra.
Which is probably a better chestfiller than them exploding jugsacks they're moaning about having implanted.
Anyhoo, I don't give a toss about the redistribution of wealth - I'm more for Pretties giving me a toss in the redistribution of sex.
Now, I'm no oil painting. True, Pretties flee before my troll-like visage and behemoth belly, but I would like to think¹ I was marginally more attractive than the average facially repellant fodder on the Jeremy Kyle show.
An endless parade of gap-toothed, manky haired, beautifically disadvangated ogres & gnomes ravaged by time and fags. Ancient druggie hag crones and abusive drunken inbred knuckle dragging illiterate gorilla gormsters. And what do they all have in common?
I'll tell you what they all have in common!
A life of non-stop shaggery that they're bragging about on the telly, that's what!!
Even to the point that they get through so many promiscuous slagbuckets, by a process of elimination they eventually end up accidentally nobbing their brother².
It's not fair! There's me, abhorrent to look upon, with no Pretty daring to touch my bargepole with their... well, any part of their anatomy, really. And then there's these deformed gargoyles with more sexual partners you can shake a shitty cock at!
Goddamn thieving sterotypical chavscum - no wonder I can't bag meself a Pretty - they've all been nicked by these kobolds living off the council and getting paid benefits to have The Sex! It's DNA test here, lie detector there, all humping each other on The FaceBukakke.
Redistribute the sex, I say! Limit these uglyfied dwelllers of the dark with a face for radio to 1 Pretty apiece, and free up some of these rampant Pretties³ for the rest of us!
Quick - where's my can of vocal emissions of orgasmic pleasure from Egyptian ruler Two Wank Cum Oon (or was it Wankh Xym or Nuun. Probably Never Titty, in my case...)? I think I need to douse my self in that there Pharaoh Moan before I goes out next...
¹ WELL, XYM. YOU MAY LIKE TO THINK THAT - DOESN'T MAKE IT TRUE THOUGH, YOU FAT UGLY PORKBUCKET!
² THE JEREMY KYLE SHOW, 24TH JAN 2012, 9:30AM ITV1. "I'M IN A GAY SEXUAL RELATIONSHIP... BUT AM I SLEEPING WITH MY BROTHER?"
(SPOILER: DNA TEST SHOWED YES, HE WAS BUMMING HIS LONG-LOST HALF-BROTHER HE DIDN'T KNOW HE HAD.)
³ ALTHOUGH 'PRETTIES' IS NOT THE WORD FOR MOST OF THESE KYLE SHOW SHAGABOUTS - BUT HEY, BEGGARS CAN'T BE CHOOSERS.
AND I'M BEGGING...
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Reach! For the choir...
Now, i'm no pervy pædo priest, but lately Those Who Don't Want Me To Reveal The Truth are slandering my name so that people will not listen to me revealing all about their nefarious works.
I was down at The Whatacunt on Saturday, and some chavscum accused me of being Gary Glitter!
I know I had endless numbers of drunken strumpets stroking my bountiful mane, and wondering in wonder at the cute crimpiness of my lush locks flowing in full follicle forestry about me bonce.
However, I didn't recognize any from JailBait Reef (Arrrrr!).
Then, today, someone commented that There's no party - like an S-Club Party!
To which I replied that surely, an S-Club Juniors party would be just like an S-Club Party.
And once again, I'm suddenly cast as a pædy perver of underage tribute acts!
I thought the squeaky clean S-Club were all twee and Jelly 'n' ice-Cream types, playing their bland banal hits, and therefore the minature version would be, to all in tents and porpoises, identical.
No so! Seems that an S-Club Party is somewhat different! Maybe S-Club Juniors were not formed as S-Club 8, but S-Club Ate Her Out!
Or something.
Did I miss something back then - what was the S in S-Club for? Sex Club? S&M Club? Sodomy Club? Why was there S-Club Search on telly, recruiting (trafficking?) underage innocents to replicate the sexual shennanigans of their older dogging counterparts?
Not a follower of manufactured poop idols, I assumed S-Club Juniors were there to capitalize on S-Club 7, and therefore blindly compared the two as being virtually the same. If I'd've known that such comparison of S-Club 7 & S-Club Juniors parties would lead to pædophillic accusations of pervature, I wouldn't have mentioned it!
Although thinking about it:
"S-Club, Gonna show you how..." - How to what, exactly?
"Reach for the stars... " - in orgasm?
"Ain't no party like an S-Club party..." - obviously not when the party's held in some torture garden with the fistings and the whippage (not to mention the whippets!).
It's a national disgrace! Why, it's almost a revisit to the 70s and Top Of The Tots and MiniPops!
Oops - better dash. Time for LazyTown...
Hello Stephanie...
I was down at The Whatacunt on Saturday, and some chavscum accused me of being Gary Glitter!
I know I had endless numbers of drunken strumpets stroking my bountiful mane, and wondering in wonder at the cute crimpiness of my lush locks flowing in full follicle forestry about me bonce.
However, I didn't recognize any from JailBait Reef (Arrrrr!).
Then, today, someone commented that There's no party - like an S-Club Party!
To which I replied that surely, an S-Club Juniors party would be just like an S-Club Party.
And once again, I'm suddenly cast as a pædy perver of underage tribute acts!
I thought the squeaky clean S-Club were all twee and Jelly 'n' ice-Cream types, playing their bland banal hits, and therefore the minature version would be, to all in tents and porpoises, identical.
No so! Seems that an S-Club Party is somewhat different! Maybe S-Club Juniors were not formed as S-Club 8, but S-Club Ate Her Out!
Or something.
Did I miss something back then - what was the S in S-Club for? Sex Club? S&M Club? Sodomy Club? Why was there S-Club Search on telly, recruiting (trafficking?) underage innocents to replicate the sexual shennanigans of their older dogging counterparts?
Not a follower of manufactured poop idols, I assumed S-Club Juniors were there to capitalize on S-Club 7, and therefore blindly compared the two as being virtually the same. If I'd've known that such comparison of S-Club 7 & S-Club Juniors parties would lead to pædophillic accusations of pervature, I wouldn't have mentioned it!
Although thinking about it:
"S-Club, Gonna show you how..." - How to what, exactly?
"Reach for the stars... " - in orgasm?
"Ain't no party like an S-Club party..." - obviously not when the party's held in some torture garden with the fistings and the whippage (not to mention the whippets!).
It's a national disgrace! Why, it's almost a revisit to the 70s and Top Of The Tots and MiniPops!
Oops - better dash. Time for LazyTown...
Hello Stephanie...
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Aldi, Aldi, Aldi! Coz if it's not love, it's up the bum that'll bring us together...
Filth!
Televisual promotions of soccer team rapeage!!
I've heard of these soccery types in The Press, and they are reknown for roasting underage drunken WoG wannabees.
And now, budget supermarkets are blatantly offering a three bird roast!
Now, I'm all for rampant shaggery*, but I've no intention of paying for a triplicity of Larkman lovelies & Marlpit mingers with a quintitude of soccer scum, when the last thing I want when selecting battered fish for tea is a selection of black & blue frozen rohypnolled students and trollied footballers in me trolly, let alone in me trollies.
Although I'm 2 minds about debauched drugged and drunken dames.
"But Xym", I hear no-one cry, "Beggers can't be choosers". Or I could be deaf, and they're saying they can't bugger and chew Cher's hairs. But it doesn't change the fact I've got half of Delia Smiths unwilling pie fillings** nobbing strumpets in the living room, getting the carpet all gummy with beaver batter and soccer stars sausage spurtage.
And I'm not having Delia banging against me front door bellowing "I need a 12th man out here! Where are you? I wants to be having you! Come on... up me snatch!" like some insatiable chef succubus who'll suckyouoff in her Carrow Road spit roasting den of vice.
or something.
* CHANCE'D BE A FINE THING!!!
** AND I DON'T JUST MEAN HER CANNIBALISTIC PORK PIES EITHER. IT'S IN THE CANARY CONTRACT - HER SELECTION OF MANFLESH UNWILLINGLY HAVE TO PORK HER PIE TO STAY IN THE BEAUTIFUL GAME.
Televisual promotions of soccer team rapeage!!
I've heard of these soccery types in The Press, and they are reknown for roasting underage drunken WoG wannabees.
And now, budget supermarkets are blatantly offering a three bird roast!
Now, I'm all for rampant shaggery*, but I've no intention of paying for a triplicity of Larkman lovelies & Marlpit mingers with a quintitude of soccer scum, when the last thing I want when selecting battered fish for tea is a selection of black & blue frozen rohypnolled students and trollied footballers in me trolly, let alone in me trollies.
Although I'm 2 minds about debauched drugged and drunken dames.
"But Xym", I hear no-one cry, "Beggers can't be choosers". Or I could be deaf, and they're saying they can't bugger and chew Cher's hairs. But it doesn't change the fact I've got half of Delia Smiths unwilling pie fillings** nobbing strumpets in the living room, getting the carpet all gummy with beaver batter and soccer stars sausage spurtage.
And I'm not having Delia banging against me front door bellowing "I need a 12th man out here! Where are you? I wants to be having you! Come on... up me snatch!" like some insatiable chef succubus who'll suckyouoff in her Carrow Road spit roasting den of vice.
or something.
* CHANCE'D BE A FINE THING!!!
** AND I DON'T JUST MEAN HER CANNIBALISTIC PORK PIES EITHER. IT'S IN THE CANARY CONTRACT - HER SELECTION OF MANFLESH UNWILLINGLY HAVE TO PORK HER PIE TO STAY IN THE BEAUTIFUL GAME.
Friday, 11 March 2011
Doors! (hungh!) What are they good for…
I’m sure you are all aware of porticos and their functionality. They are the bits of wall that allow ingress or egress by way of a large gap filled with a barrier that moves once pressure is applied to it, or tugged upon.
Take your average Mall entrance - a multitude of doors, providing several exit/entrance points. Some of these doors even swing both ways, like bi-sexual barriers. For those in Davrosmobiles, there is a panel you can ‘happy slap’, and the door will open automatically!
On the face of it… not that difficult an obstacle to overcome.
But wait! Like something out of George A. Romero movie, the shambolic shuffling shoppers approach the doors. Now, a Normal Person would go up to a door, open and it, and walk through. Alas, this is a concept beyond modern folk.
First, they will gather at the one currently open door that someone had the brains to open, and wait patiently to file through it. Unfortunately, modern folk have lost the ability to queue*, and therefore mass around the door, thus blocking the other doors. When suddenly, there is anger – one of the doors they’re blocking has opened! Right into them and pushing them back! The anger turns into wonderous amazement – another portal has opened! And the throng now diverts into two lumbering groups (as it still hasn’t dawned on the braindead that they can open another door themselves).
And what do they do the second they pass through? Immediately stop, as if there is an invisible barrier right outside the doorway, for it seems essential that having waited to get through that one opening, that’s it’s only fair to block the way through by searching in your handbag, or pondering where to go next, or have a row with the Other Half.
But what if NO door is open? What then?
Well, this is such an unsolvable conundrum, that when faced with a bank of unopened doors, the only solution is to freeze near to where you think a possible door may be opened. To cover the embarassement, it is de rigeur to fumble about in a bag, and when a door opens, take your chances! Accepted practice is to be laden with shopping with your arm still rummaging in a bag, affecting a Quasimodoesque lumbering skippety run to catch the door with your shoulder to get through before it closes.
Or course, some of these gormsters think of themselves as chivalrous, but turn out to be cretinous. For some will be polite enough to hold the door open for someone… but naturally, given their ineptitude in the skill of actually opening a door, the concept of holding a door open for a Pretty falls equally afoul of their limited intelligence. For rather than standing by the door and holding it open, they will often stand opposite the door, holding the door open with their arm across the opening, thus preventing passage. The Solution? After a bit of awkwardness re unable to pass through (or unwillingness to duck under) some odious oily oik’s BO stenched ‘pits, shove the door wider, allow Pretty #1 to pass, catch the door as it swings past, shove it open again, allow Pretty #2 to pass, then dive out before it closes (and before the husband of bf gets through, so you can leg it if he threatens to duff you over accusations for holding the door open as an excuse to get a good gozz down his missus’s blouse).
If they had a pram, or a trolly, I could understand it, as given something with wheels, all their brains fall out. Scummy Mummies with double buggies of their rancid brood, trying to squeeze down too-narrow market aisles, then clobbering their brats to stop them screaming because some shoppers heavy bag of goods has smashed their squalid spawn in the face. Why can't the broodmare wait with her kids in a clear space, whilst underage dad nips to the required stall?
And don't get me started on Old Gimmers who think just because they're old, they can just walk to the front of a queue**, filling up their pull-along ankle-biter trolleys with their shopping, and pulling out a select few to be scanned at the till so they can escape with a decent five finger discount. Or when you're looking at stuff on the shelf, and they ask if they can "just squeeze past" (despite having a whole corridor to walk around) and instead of continuing past, they stop right were you were and decide to peruse the very shelves you were tying to look at! Then get all arsey if you sigh heavily and walk back in front of them to carry on with your shopping.
* More queueage in a later blog.
** That wasn’t the more queueage I was talking about. That’s still to come. Unless, like the now legendary Chronological Cheese, the opportunity never re-arises.
Take your average Mall entrance - a multitude of doors, providing several exit/entrance points. Some of these doors even swing both ways, like bi-sexual barriers. For those in Davrosmobiles, there is a panel you can ‘happy slap’, and the door will open automatically!
On the face of it… not that difficult an obstacle to overcome.
But wait! Like something out of George A. Romero movie, the shambolic shuffling shoppers approach the doors. Now, a Normal Person would go up to a door, open and it, and walk through. Alas, this is a concept beyond modern folk.
First, they will gather at the one currently open door that someone had the brains to open, and wait patiently to file through it. Unfortunately, modern folk have lost the ability to queue*, and therefore mass around the door, thus blocking the other doors. When suddenly, there is anger – one of the doors they’re blocking has opened! Right into them and pushing them back! The anger turns into wonderous amazement – another portal has opened! And the throng now diverts into two lumbering groups (as it still hasn’t dawned on the braindead that they can open another door themselves).
And what do they do the second they pass through? Immediately stop, as if there is an invisible barrier right outside the doorway, for it seems essential that having waited to get through that one opening, that’s it’s only fair to block the way through by searching in your handbag, or pondering where to go next, or have a row with the Other Half.
But what if NO door is open? What then?
Well, this is such an unsolvable conundrum, that when faced with a bank of unopened doors, the only solution is to freeze near to where you think a possible door may be opened. To cover the embarassement, it is de rigeur to fumble about in a bag, and when a door opens, take your chances! Accepted practice is to be laden with shopping with your arm still rummaging in a bag, affecting a Quasimodoesque lumbering skippety run to catch the door with your shoulder to get through before it closes.
Or course, some of these gormsters think of themselves as chivalrous, but turn out to be cretinous. For some will be polite enough to hold the door open for someone… but naturally, given their ineptitude in the skill of actually opening a door, the concept of holding a door open for a Pretty falls equally afoul of their limited intelligence. For rather than standing by the door and holding it open, they will often stand opposite the door, holding the door open with their arm across the opening, thus preventing passage. The Solution? After a bit of awkwardness re unable to pass through (or unwillingness to duck under) some odious oily oik’s BO stenched ‘pits, shove the door wider, allow Pretty #1 to pass, catch the door as it swings past, shove it open again, allow Pretty #2 to pass, then dive out before it closes (and before the husband of bf gets through, so you can leg it if he threatens to duff you over accusations for holding the door open as an excuse to get a good gozz down his missus’s blouse).
If they had a pram, or a trolly, I could understand it, as given something with wheels, all their brains fall out. Scummy Mummies with double buggies of their rancid brood, trying to squeeze down too-narrow market aisles, then clobbering their brats to stop them screaming because some shoppers heavy bag of goods has smashed their squalid spawn in the face. Why can't the broodmare wait with her kids in a clear space, whilst underage dad nips to the required stall?
And don't get me started on Old Gimmers who think just because they're old, they can just walk to the front of a queue**, filling up their pull-along ankle-biter trolleys with their shopping, and pulling out a select few to be scanned at the till so they can escape with a decent five finger discount. Or when you're looking at stuff on the shelf, and they ask if they can "just squeeze past" (despite having a whole corridor to walk around) and instead of continuing past, they stop right were you were and decide to peruse the very shelves you were tying to look at! Then get all arsey if you sigh heavily and walk back in front of them to carry on with your shopping.
* More queueage in a later blog.
** That wasn’t the more queueage I was talking about. That’s still to come. Unless, like the now legendary Chronological Cheese, the opportunity never re-arises.
Thursday, 10 March 2011
I belong to me, don’t Call Me Pikey! #2
Well, drape me in a bedsheet, put me pillowcase over me bonce, and avail meself of torches bourne by the nearby mob on route to fortification flambément and the hunting down of maniacal monstrosities manufactured by madmen and their humpty-backed accomplices for the toasting of toes thereof!
Due to challengement of chronographical perusal and accusatory digitary pointage (as opposed to my usual appendage wragglement of leerage), I’m lifting and revising my test pile of bloggocks, for which my Farceberk Fiends were the testees.
About a week or so ago, I was watching the box with the magic animatory display, when I managed to accidentally catch about 3 minutes of some show called My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding
Firstly, I was appalled at the misleading title - yeah, there were a few verging on the chunky monkey end of the svelte spectrometer, but no actual Big Fat Gypsies. Not that I wanted to watch vast bulbous lardmountains of munterescent troll tying the knot, but when promised Big Fat Gypsies, I expect Big fat Gypsies.
Second – there weren’t even any gypsies in it! Ne'er a sign of a colourful wagon, a roaring campfire or a lanky Gyspy King singing “Nel blu dipinto di blu” offering his 12yr old daughter (born in the wagon of a travellin' show, whose mama used to dance for the money they'd throw) to the king of a relative tribe.
Instead of the promised curse-hexing, heather-selling, peg-thieving Romany/Szgany/Gypsy thralls of lore, we gets them 'Travellers' - Thems what use up all our petrol in caravans instead of traditional horse drawn curtain-door’d wagons like proper gypsies!
But what confused me most of all, was the voice over stating "Like most modern travellers, Xxxxxx lives in a house instead of a caravan". Now, I was under the impression that Travellers were, well, Travellers! Traversing the length and breadth of Britain
Further to this, I questioned the definition of A Traveller, and I’ve since been informed that most “Travellers” have adapted to life in the 20th century by settling down with a job/own business, a house and a mortgage! That’s not a Traveller – that’s Normal Folk! It's like me saying I'm a roving minstrel. Except I don't roam, don't play the lute, nor sing in taverns or royal courts coz I lives in a house and has a job because I’d adapted to life in the 21st century. And I’m no fox!
Further to this, I questioned the definition of A Traveller, and I’ve since been informed that most “Travellers” have adapted to life in the 20th century by settling down with a job/own business, a house and a mortgage! That’s not a Traveller – that’s Normal Folk! It's like me saying I'm a roving minstrel. Except I don't roam, don't play the lute, nor sing in taverns or royal courts coz I lives in a house and has a job because I’d adapted to life in the 21st century. And I’m no fox!
I reckons this show should be called "My Bog Standard Chavscum Wedding", as I couldn't see the difference between these alleged "Free As A Bird Gypsies" and stereotypical chavyobs of the Shameless variety.
Maybe I can get a telly documentary also! My Big Fat Roaming Minstrel Weeding*, showing the ancient art of singing for my supper from town to town, by working in IT afore returning home to play on the PS3.
Now, since then, some Gormsters have been bemused as to how I could gather all that information in just three minutes, without even seeing a single driveway being monoblocked.
Well, unlike my less intellectually bequeathed brethren, to me, the key phrase “Like most modern travellers, Xxxxxx lives in a house instead of a caravan” doesn’t warrant an hour long tortuous viewing to ascertain that most modern Travellers live in domiciles instead of wheeled vehicular conveyances. And that the stick figures getting wed ain’t reversed-lipsuctioned salad-dodgers with cake and bun crumbs all over their voluminous “shelf above the toy shop”.
It would seem that excessive viewage over and above the 3.75 seconds (plus the time to see a real life visual portrayal of the Guide and Broom) is insufficient to confirm this statement of fact, nor the girth of the matrimonial subjects. It would further seem that light hearted humourescent reference to the lack of portly pikeys and stereotypical gypsy prejudice instead of a po-faced insult-fest on the Travelling community is, in fact, a flagrant all-out racist attack against the evil gyppos!!
Apparantly, the P- word is as bad as the N- word… unless you’re a travelling bare knuckle dragging fighter, and then you’re allowed to use it in your Gaelic Rap vidz, innit. And now I’m a racist, and them hex wielding tarot readers have unleashed The Morrigan upon me. Yikes! I can hear the scream of the Bain Sidhe foretelling my doom at the hands of a rampaging pikey mob right now!
D’oh! My mistake! It was only Sue (of the Sioux) on me iPod. Phew, that was close!
D’oh! My mistake! It was only Sue (of the Sioux) on me iPod. Phew, that was close!
* Although I can't be bothered with gardening. I might run a hoover over the grass once in a while though!
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