Diggin' the dancin' Xym...

Yay! Just got back from greet your muff after seeing the legendary Doctor And The Medics!

So, we arrives at the bizarre venue - a converted theatre, with an highly elevated stage and a dancefloor that is about 40° to the horizontal, and within moments, much praise is heaped upon one's legendary barnet!

Bitches love Xymhair!

But there is only a triplicity of Pretties in the scarcely populated venue - two well hot barbabes, and Amber - a young Pretty we acquainted ourselves with.

First, we had to be subjected to The Support - a dreadful 80's Wedding Singer, an ungodly blend of Ricky Gervais, David Guest, George Michael, and assorted other horrors. 45 mins of awful awfulness.

And then on come The Band! And typically, only two people were on the slopey dancefloor. No prizes for guessing who!

Absolutely brilliant - and The Xym, being all slim and exercised thanks to Adrenalize, danced non-stop! Even whipping his jacket off for the best cover of She Sells Sanctuary I've ever heard!

So, after the gig, we stay to meet the band, as the evening becomes Club Night.

Oh, eldritch nightmare! Great Y'ha-nthlei at night! Under a gibbous moon venture out the cream of clubbing totty.

The lumbering loathsomness. The bulbous batrachian behemoths. The squat, toady terrors of amphibious abiguity. The deformed degenerate denizens of the deep. The misshapen, foul, barely human lurkers from below. The...

Well, you get the picture. 

No Pretties for Xym here! Never before have I seen Stereotypical Norfolkness in the what-passes-for-scaly-webbed flesh. Why, I veritably feared for our return home, in case of waylayment by cultists bearing clubs carved with bas-relief of their fish-god, Dagon.

Much prefer The Whatacunt - where the grass is green and the Pretties are pretty.

Take.
Me.
Home!

Fuck you, Shima...

So, that Fukushima blowed up, filling the Japanese seas with radioactive monster mutation essence, so it was only a matter of time before Gojira arose once more!

And slowly, but surely, unspeakable things are emerging from the deep to expire on the Fukushima shores.

First, we got Fukuppy,  some kind of mutant Pokémon adopted as a mascot.

Then, recently, a great big fuck-off Whorefish washed up. Nothing new about that - Whorefish are fucking massive anyway, and believed by many to be the origin of the sea serpent "myth". But these are GIANT oarfishies! 

And just a month ago, a kraken washed up. 160lb of giant chthonic colossal killer cephalopod, all suckery tentacles snatching up Japanese sunbathers and gobbling them up with it's terrible gnashing beak.

And today, the Fukushima folk are trying to convince us it's all a hoax, and their genetic behemoths that would trample us all under-tentacle are just made up scaremongering.

As if! The power plant leaked nuclear abnormality accelerant into the oceans, and we're all going to be overrun by supersized psychotic sushi!

Did they never learn from the Tagruato incident? Mining for milfshake sludge, they awoke a monstrosity that swam over to New York, ripped the bonce off the Statue Of Liberty, and then buggered up Central Park.

And unless they stop this cover-up and tell us the truth, we'll be woefully underprepared when a killer clam and pissed off puffer fish of ginormous size invade Castle Mall Gardens and rip the bonce off the Lion Statue outside City Hall!

If I had a photograph of views...

...just something to remind me what to spend my many millions upon.

Cast your critical eye of this photograhical wonderment:

A fine holiday snap, you may say.

But how fine?

A fine of £2,7000,000.

Yep - that very photo (snapped by Andreas Gursky on his holiday to Great Y'ha-Nthlei to pick up cyclopean sex toys from Dagon's Dildos adult stall on the left hand side of Martyn's Wankaround Store on Regents Road) just sold to one of them cash strapped "we're all in it together" austerity fleeced bods for 2.7million squids!

Just what makes that shot worth 2.7m? There's certainly no pretties in trouser arousing attire, alien big cats, space monster driven dirigibles or sea serpents in it to make it rare and unique!

Hold on - perhaps that's it! It's Loch Ness, and definitive proof of the existence of batrachian behemoths who've been munching on the scottich fisherfolk! Cheap at twice the Price!

But not Katie Price. Cheap AS Katie Price perhaps. But do I price the Price at £2.7m? Well, the Price Is Right, so I guess we should ask her. But she's as thick as pigshit, so it's probably not worth the bother. Loch Ness Camel? Lot less cameltoe, preferably!

Naturally, Nessie isn't actually in the shot - but isn't that always the way? By the time you get to press the shutter, the saurian deep dino-diver of the deep has dived below, leaving naught but a streamlined stream bereft of humps.

Still, it's not Andreas's fault¹ that the bashful Pleasure-You-Saw-Us is camera shy. At the very least, it stands as a historical monument to the moment a momemtous moment a monster was missed because Andreas didn't whip it out in time.

Same goes for his camera.

¹ NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH SAN ANDREAS FAULT, THE TECTONIC ACTION OF WHICH CAUSED THE GREAT 1906 SAN FRANCISO EARTHQUAKE THAT RELEASED BOTH GODZILLA AND THE LOCH NESS CAMEL FROM THEIR SUBAQUARIAN SLUMBERS. ONE TO WREAK HAVOC UPON TOKYO, AND ONE TO MILDY PEEP OUT THE WATER AT KILT CLAD DRINKERS OF GLENMORANGIE AND PUT THE WIND UP THEIR SPORRAN.

Wrist & razor bow string violence...

Apologies for the continuance of the blog hiatus, for The Xym hath been busy catching up on work, projects and televisual treats.

And now the fat boy is ill.

Oh, so very ill.

Cough! Splutter! (Cor, an exploding front door!)

So futher bloglitude may be delayed as I snuggle up on the sofa in my Jack Skellington fleecey throw with a mug of milky coffee and a box of tissues, ploughing through flameybummed insecture, easily mistaken for mountain hooterage, 5 wobbly headed warblers, simian seekers of enlightenment and the reign of bovine munchery.

However, time must be taken to marvel at Norfolk Nazi's of Third Reich Yarmouth, terrorizing people in their string vests with electro-dildos in the gob as they parade round in their pants and tights.

Whart the facking heoulll? Give me the Spear Of Vaginas ewe cawksuhkahr! Get that fahking thing oot moy face, ewe pervahrt!

And that was just Saturday! Further visual carnage lacking thesbian ability is the delight of Sunday Night!

Filth based preposterous rock nonsense! A pretext for boobifications of the highest order and the lezzing up thereof. Truly, 10 minutes of Goth Porn is enough for anyone - betentacled rapage by cartoon gothicles due to self-Rohypnolization, and more juggage than a jugged up juggler juggling jugs in jiggling jugfest of jugs.

Not to mention the most gratuitous of Obligatory Nudie Shower Scene.

But the creme de la gateaux is yet to come! The finest trailer in the world! A kid by a door... A face of an him-out-of-supernatural-resemblance... a slamming door... then... a single tap of a nail into the wall.

Oh, the terror! The terrible, terrible, terror!

And of course, being in a shuttered living room, it had to be watched. G'aaah! Trans-dimensional window displacement and the playing of Ye Olde Musick Of Ye Spheres through a french tarts arms. Not to mention Le Harry Potteur getting nobbage from Ye Olde French Serving Wench as some French trollop dissolves into spunky concrete for a young French lad to dip his balls into (who's actually her French husband when he grows up)

And back home to watch some Old Skool 80s classics - Ah, Angela's dance to Stigofthedump Martyr . Gloriously atrocious acting, wonderfully appalling script, Spectacularly bad FX! Oh, the joys of so bad it's brilliant!

"I'd rather take Stooge."
"What? You gotta be kidding!"
"You heard the lady! She wants a REAL man guarding her charms!"
"But... Stooge is a fat pig!"
"Maybe I'm in the mood for pork tonight!"
"OINK! OINK!"

And now, The Xym is all woeful in the snuffles and headaches and coughage that is The Plague. And (I got the poison, I got) the remedy to be ready for Nephage on Sat is to infect the workers during the day, and spend the evenings up at The Great Northern & Packards Saw Mill.

Norwich really needs a One Eyed Jacques, with all my Pretties contained therein.

Maybe I'll have to have a word with Starbucks... get my St Stephens perving perch converted to a brothelesque boudoir for my harem to frequent in as little dress as possible.

Or just a little dress.

With big black leather boots.

Or something...

The sun always dried, tomatoes...

...or another Xym Turns The World Against Him Blog!

Perhaps I can finally get something pulled off facebook without resorting to spud jugs and tassled tits!

Just getting pulled off would be a start!

Oh dear... start as you mean to go on...

Anyhoo, there has been much vilification of Aimz upon ye work forums. Mainly along the lines of "Why should some skank-ho crack whore dominate The News when 93 people died in Norwegianland?"

Hold on - Ameh was a worldwide appreciated talented musician and lyricist of reknown, whereas 93 people no one's ever heard of were shot by a Christian nutjob. It's not like Morten Harket, Magne Furuholmen & Pål Waaktaar got dead, is it!

Yeah, it's a tragedy, but it's hardly surprising news - chap who believes in an imaginary, judgemental, giant beardy bloke in the clouds who let his illegitimate offspring be tortured to death turns out to be a bit mental.

Shock! Horror! Mentally unstable bloke goes on mad rampage!

See, you don't get this in MY religion. As all know, I'm a pastafarian, Having been an former acolyte of the Cthulhu cult, I was enlightened when I realised the cephalopodic tentacles of Cthulhu were actually the tagliatelli-esque tendrils of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. 

No jyhadhi gnocchi for our lot... unless you count the cRAGUsades, where the Knights Tempura tried to convert sushi sinners by the holy sword.

Well, the holey ladle of pasta drainage, at least.

Not to mention the Italian Inquisition!

No-one expects the Italian Inquisition, with the solidified cream sauce Carbonara Boots, drowning unbelievers in pools of pomodoro puree.

I'm gonna make you a brushetta you cannot refuse!

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

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

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

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

But they failed.

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

And who be their Lord of the Dance?

None other than Black Lace!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Chew Chew!!"**

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

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

Coffee and veggies...

Scandal!

It seems our coffee machines are using whitener with 'Hardened Vegetable fat'.

Yikes! This is apparently bad for you, causing corpsifyable complications by imposing a deceasedness about your daily routine.

But hold on...

We need more hardened fat!

With the onslaught of Climate Change, I for one welcome the blubber ring aroung my waist, insulating me from the frosty fingers of Ithaqua as he tickes my belly with his Ice Age foxes and their glacier mints carving crevasses across the land.

We should "Man up" and suck up that milky lard, lest we perish in the arctic wastes of the realm of the abdominable snowblokes.

"Ah, but Xym," say Gormsters, "you are not supposed to wear whales!" and thus cretinously confusing complete cetacean compositure with the fatty internal insulation layer.

A-ha! replies I in an educatory fashion. I wear not the mammally diver of the deep, but hath accumulated large quantities of their stomach widening lardjuice about my own tummy.

I blame the parents, me. Copulating with Dagon's denizens of the deep by Innsmouth harbour, and thus breeding my batrachian belly of blubberous bulbousness, plump with them hardened fats of lardy lore.

But not hardened vegetable fats. I thought vegetables were supposed to be healthy! Now I discover they're full of hard-as-nails fat, making them worse than a bin full of bacon!

I would like to liken my layer of lard to that of a svelte seal. However, I've heard of them Naval Seals, and I looked at my belly button and could not find any waxy signet-ring embossed stamp.

Although why anyone have a young swans chocolate starfish as their sigil I don't know!
  

Come and get some, in My Tapah Catfish...

There be deep water bitery afoot near Great Y'ha-Nthlei!

Not content with flogging Norwich beef stock-cubes, Turkey Twizzlers and purchasing dance-aroundable fertility symbol hostelry, it would seem Marco Pierre White could no longer stand the heat of Hells' Kitchen, and descended down into the deep depths of coolness around the eqquine based seafrontage.

I'm all for his exotic cookeries, but going all Hester Bloomin' Maul and poaching up porpoises for sushi isn't gonna be one on MY menu!

To be fair, it might not be the prodigy of Albert & Michel Jawsingly terrifying the local yokels. According to Ken Collings, the clever carcharodon carcharias consultant, it may be his Chef sibling - Shortfin Mako Pierre White.

So that's my coastal trip to ungulate mammal town scuppered. No way am I being bit by submarinaded restaurateurs on the beach!

Still, there's a seal colony nearby, so there will me much serenading of sous-chefs, No Doubt incorporating Rain-Dances and comparing to kisses from Roses.

But not kisses from Axl Rose.

Kisses from Gwen Stefani, on the other hand...

                    

Insane in the membrane (insane in the esophagus)...

The guzzling down of freezy Frappage* of a morn is oft accompanied by the following statement:

"OOOOH! BRAIN FREEZE!"

I'm no biological greybeard, but I'm faily certain of the location of my internals, and the way various bits and bobs are positioned. So when I have partaken of blizzardy beverages, I'm pretty certain the sipped slush slips slowly stomachwards like a norfolk tractor down me trachea.

At no point has any icebergy fluid diverted from my digestive system to chill cranial content.

If it did somehow defy gravity, these gormsters would not exclaim thus, for their superconductive supercooled cerebellum would process information at superspeed, and such statements stuffed! Instead, they turn into superfool cerebellends!

All that fluidal talk has made me rather thirsty. I'll just take a sip of me Mango And Passionfruit Frappe...

Gaaaah! Glacialment of encephelon!!

* the icy flavoursome treatage for those enamoured of the caffeine breathed upon by Ithaqua, not the rapeage of Basefuck status.