I can't dance, at The Talk...

Only thing about me is the epilepsy...

Goodness gracious, what a day/eve!

So, I enjoyed Cinderella, although I have yet to decide whether HBCs scant screen time vs corset constrained cleavage was worth the pervosity quotient.

Of course it was! Best Færie Gothmother ever!!

Although that could be the inebriating influence of a hipflask full of Maple Jim Beam and two cans of Morgan's Spiced Rum & Coke!

So, after depositing Polish Pretties with their Other Halves, I took meself off to The Fair in Chav'll Thieve Gardens!

Boring! All I won was a Steak Baguette.

So I took meself off to The White Lion for more Cider!

Hic!

Then I toddled off down to The Talk for pints of Amaretto and Cider cocktail.

And it was Mod Night, with Small Fæces tribute band The Small Fakers¹, supported by... um... The Small Fakers With The Lead Singer Out Of The Byrds From The Sixties.

And a very impolite crowd are Mods. Why, I could barely hear the band o'er their loud, incessant chatter. Which was quite embarassing when each song finished and there was a slight ripple of applause undercutting the stream of babble.

It must be soul destroying to be on stage, and be ignored throughout. He must've been desperate to scream "LISTEN TO ME! I USED TO BE FAMOUS! I RECORDED TURN, TURN, TURN, MR TAMBOURINE MAN, 8 MILES HIGH... WON'T YOU PLEASE SHUT YOUR FACE AND HEAR ME SING!"

At least I didn't get duffed up by the big burly skinhead and his equally big beefy missus for telling him to shift out of our view... he just moved aside, clearly acquiessing to someone of such superior awexymness & Presence who's hard to say No to!

Or is that a John West Tuna Snack Pot (no, that were his sweaty bird's flange. possibly)

But when the DJ span his platters... the dancing... OMG the dancing...

Now, I'm seen as something as legend in the realm of dancefloor entertainment, but I have never seen such a shocking display of lack of rhythm or style. 

Obviously, as a Goth, I am unfamiliar with the rules of Mod Dancing, I know not which are "Boy Only" dances, "Girl Only" Dances, or "Mixed" dances. Although some Hippy Chick was dancing to a Boys Only dance, which was frowned upon. And some poor chequerboard chick kept turning through 180°, meaning at times she was female, and others a boy (for in Mod circles, compass point orientation determines gender on the dancefloor).

But some people made Ian Curtis look like Louis Spence. Or Wayne Sleep. Or Lionel Blair. or something,

Never have so many danced so badly and so out of time with so little rhythm!

Yeah, one or two had rhythm. Heck, even Great Fat Crystal Tipps in the ill-fitting 60s dress still had rhythm AND all the authentic moves! Mrs Legs Akimbo Trying To Pull Twiggy had rhythm.. well, one, slow, wide-legged rhythm for ever song. But most...

...as pissed as I was, I could have danced better! Even not knowing 99% of the badly covered Hits Of The Sixties!

As opposed to the Hots In Their Sixties, which presumably most of the mod crew thought they were. Bad outfits, badly aged, and bad hair.

SO much bad hair! And narry a Pretty amongst 'em! Well, apart from maybe 4: BlueDress, Speccy Blonde, Samantha "The Only And Hottest Reason We Used To Go To Pizza Hut Was Because She Waitressed There" Biggs, and... um... there must have been more than them three...

It was that bad, we left at about 12. 12! On a club night! How shockingly bad must it have been to get a taxi home at 12!

Well, I say a taxi home. I had to bloody well walk it! We planned on getting a taxi, but somehow, between the cloakroom and exit, my Sister managed to find Other People to fill the taxi to capacity. 

Other People who weren't her brother!

Other People that would exceed the seating capacity of 1.

A number that corresponds to the excess baggage that is The Xym.

And even if I could squeeze into the at-capacity taxi (assuming the driver would allow it), I refer people to my previous blog and point #2: HAVING TO INTERACT WITH STRANGERS!!!

Oh well, means I got some extra exercise at least. If fate meant me to walk, then surely it means I'm meant to have a big fat takeaway tonight. Why else force me to lose all them calories walking home in the icy cold with no warm eateries open due to being Zombie Jesus day?

¹ OR WAS IT THE SMALL FAKIRS. THEY WEREN'T MIDGETS THOUGH AND NON SPORTED A FEZ. I SUPPOSE THEY COULD BE CALLED MEN WITHOUT HATS... ALTHOUGH THERE WAS NO SAFETY IN THE DANCES THAT GURNING FOOL WAS FLAILING ABOUT WITH! YOU NEED A LOT OF ROOM TO MOD DANCE - MORE EVEN THAN ME!!!

No romance, no romance, no romance for Xym...

I keep my promises!

I promised to dress up like Cameo for 80s night.

I dressed up like Cameo from 80s night,

Unfortunately, I appear to look a million times gayer than Cameo!

"Ooooh, you'll rouse a lot of Pretties interest tonight Xym!Why, they won't be able to tear their eyes away from your genital adornment!"

Did I get rouse a lot of Pretties interest?

Did I feck as like :(. No. What I appear to have roused is the slumbering soldiers of men who prefer to their gardening upon a plane that has a degree of declinated anglature upon it.

Yes, once again, instead of lovely ladies, it's Men Who Prefer To Smoke Another Gentleman's Personal Pipe who are in adoration of The Xym. Word Up? No, it's a Cock Up they're after, and it's my ass they want to ensconce it within! Run, Forrest Xym, Run!

Mind you, in such a getup, I really should have expected it. Combine the look, with my labia lubricating gyratory manoeuvres as I rhythmically strut my svelte self on the dance floor... well, who could resist!

So feast your eyes ladies - this is the first, last and only time you'll see me like this. Skin tight pvc leggings, bare arms with upper chest exposure... please, don't have nightmares! (Have sexy dreams of this sexy hunk sexing you. or something)

And I wonder why people think I'm a raving queen, old, obscene, only 17 (stone). or something.

All you suck a DJs unzip their flies...

Oh my Christ...

I did it.

Marc Almond meets Larry Black Man.

Full story tomorrow.

Assuming I'm not twatted over betwixt home & bus stop, on the bus, loitering on Castle Meadow, or in The Wildman/Owl Sanctuary/WhatACunt.

I look fucking AWESOME, and some people ain't gonna like it!

Make way people, Xym's making an ENTRANCE!

And he will entrance you.

Well, something will...

"you purdy thang" my man says "but i bought you beautiful dresses"...

There's a popliar MEME of that SimpsonyFuturamaryFamilyguyary bloke waving wads of cash about shouting "Shut Up And Take My Money!"

I can't even give money away, me!

And today is the final insult!

So, recently a few friends have been somewhat strapped for cash. I had a tax rebate off my redundancy. I offered to help some people out.  People won't accept the help.

But then one of my Prettiest Ultimate Pretties saw a dress she was after. A mighty fine dress reduced in a sale. A dress ideal for her, but she had no monies. So I offered to get for her as a belated birthday present. 

And once more, I was not allowed to lavish my cash on a lovely lady!

And it wasn't even a pervy dress, like a French Maids outfit or anything! A gorgeous, sensible dress she'd look absolutely stunning in!

Now, everyone knows how useless Xym is with Teh Pretties - I thought it was bad enough before, but oh, the shame and embarassment.

I can't even get a woman into a dress, let alone out of one...

Oh woe and wail and misery!

Alice presses down on Wall's...

♪ "...With her spatula

In case the spitting sausages

Fall out the pan and on the floor

Alice serves up sausages

She cooks them in her frying pan

She serves them with some eggs and bacon

Cure her pounding hangover

Today..." ♫

Right, ranty times once more!

Wall's make sausages and ice-cream. Funny Feet, Sparkles, Cider Lollies, Feast and succulent sausages. They are NOT, I repeat, NOT manufactures of fashion disasters.

Like the onesie. Unless you're about 3yrs old, you shouldn't be poncing about Primarché in a romper suit.

But that is not my main issue today. Oh dear me, no.

It's the advert and the following competition.

It's not just the dumbed-down-for-fucktards mode of speech by the twatarse with the irritating voice: "Introducing the wall'sie, onesies you can wear down the shopsies" (which makes one want to punch the odious narrator right in the tits), but then goes on to claim: "One for the Goths - cheer up mate!"

Now, here is a pictorial representation of the aforementioned "Goth", and a prize of the so-called "Goth Onesie":

Hold up a minute..

Where's the Goth demonstrating the gothic onesie prize?

Nowhere to be seen!

What we do have is a bloody chavvy EMO in a Heavy/Death Metal onesie, embarrassing the Goth scene with their miserable mopings!

This is like saying "Win a Hip-Hop Hoodie" and having a Onesie decorated with images of One Direction worn by a 12yr old girl. 

Wall's should stick to dogs in their adverts. Dogs that talk about sausages humourously, rather than delving into the world of fashion and getting their musical genre's all incorrect.

In fact, I do believe that Hate Crime was expanded to include us Goths - surely telling us to "cheer up" is abuse! Just because Wall's are incompetent at distinguishing Goths from morose muppety EMOS, it shouldn't mean we should be tarred with the same brush! 

Sue Wall's, says I, and feed me compensation in the form a lifetime's supply of fried sausages for tea!

I am, however, intrigued by the blurred out onesies in the background. If misrepresenting Goths wasn't bad enough, it appears that the other 4 options are Stephanie Off Of Lazytown Onesie, Sad Golfer Onesie, Bearded Tranny In Tights And Padded Bra Onesie, and some form of Yellow Caped Crusader Crossly Crossing Arms Onesie.

Well, now I'm not sure which I'm more enraged about! Melancholic EMO miseries masquerading as Goffs, or the fact that the Stephanie Off Of Lazytown Onesie does have the pink hair alongside Rotten Robbie the golfer...

...I think that Batbloke's yellow cape has a blue collor may edge it in the annoyance stakes, as it's too much We wanted Batman & Bananaman, but can't afford the rights, so combined the two to make Batanaman, which has no rights attached. probably.

I don't have a problem with the bearded tranny one though - it is, after all, quite accurate and would blend in quite well in the City Centre.

But claiming that outfit is a "goth" onesie... well, that grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous EMO of yore was ne'er a goth. Nevermind nevermore...

Bloody EMOs, coming over here, stealing our genre title, supplanting our music with their metallic noise, imposing their foreign rituals of self harm and taking over the space outside The Forum, bringing the atmosphere down with their sullen silence in solitary isolation in their groups, being all youthful and have never even heard any actual Goth music. 

Goth onesie my best hat.

I am the end of reproduction...

♪ Given no direction

Every care is taken

In my rejection

Cock in the eye... ♫

And so David J did slew Goliath by tossing his balls out of his sling at him.

And lo, some twattersack took the idea of balls in a sling and created the single sided g-string thong brief for men.

David's ball throwing sling - get yours here

No. Just... no! Wrong on EVERY level! I mean.... it's just WRONG!

I mean, can you see me, out down The Whatacunt, clad only in a UV half-thong as I flounce about the dance floor? Urgh.

I know Teh Pretties like a sex-pack, but seriously - this is just plain... wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong! And wronger yet!

Oooh, what's this in the glow in the dark roads news...

"Mr Roosegaarde's projects aim to help people and technology to interact. His past projects have included a dance floor with built-in disco lights powered by dancers' foot movements, and a dress that becomes see-through when the wearer is aroused."

Forget these sackbags - speak to me more of nudification dresses!!

After all, The Xym isn't very good at recognising Pretties interest in him - this should make it slightly more obvious, even to him!

Xym's got legs, he knows how to use 'em...

Shock! Horror! Consternation! Uproar! 

Xym is heading out... 

WITHOUT his dangly Antflags

WITHOUT his jingle-jangle waistbells

and WITHOUT his Jervis Tetch/Twat Hatter millinery! 

Lawks-a-mercy - slim (slum?) Xym is trying boots-on-the-outside skinny jeans for a laugh... I mean... for a change. or something...

[Early morning edit] Whoo-Hoo! Svelte long-legged tight-panted Xym went down a STORM with Teh Pretties! Well... the glowing boots did at least! Sylvie wanted a selfie with the shiny shoes... although she ended up just photogratificating the impressive boots of fame! For Xym is not only THE Xym, He's also The Famous Xym! 

Wowsers!

Xym! I gotta tell you it's a gay 'tashe...

♬...I gotta tell you it's a gay 'tashe

I gotta tell you it's a gay 'tashe

It's a Gay 'tashe, gay 'tashe, gay 'tashe

Waaaaaah ☹ ♬

Right, now I finally know why everyone down The Whatacunt thinks I's gay,

It's the 'tashe.

We wuz sitting in the smoking area, when some drunken Strumpet collapsed onto the bench of our table: "Yer doansht mindsh if ai shitsh here, doesh ya mate?"

So, I get introduced, and it's become de-rigeuer to state sexuality: "This is my friend Xymon who isn't gay!"

And, naturally, we had to explain that everyone gets the impression I'm a rampant gayboy, and we don't know why, as everyone is too close to me & can't see why people think that.

And the trollied trollop raised a knowing finger. She knew exactly what it was.

The twiddle in the twiddly 'tashe.

So, experimental straightenings were attempted, stretching out the Machiavellian moustache unto horizontally.

And lo, apparently I suddenly became a macho hunk, awakening desires within heaving busoms and glueing gussets to gashes. or something.

So it looks like I'll be forever alone, eternally mistaken for a man mounter due to moustachioes of extreme bentness. 

'snot fair ☹

I see a bad moon risin'...

Leggings.

Once again.

Now, them Modern Women's have a universal penchant for the leggings (or jeggings). Or even just plain tights. 

But why oh why oh why can't they wear skirts or shorts over the top?

These womens probably think they look all lithe and hot, with their taut buttocks, long legs and camel-hoofed CGI Toblerone triangle. Something pert and purty.

So, where the dream is this:

THIS is the reality in Norwich City Centre:

Aaaarrrggh, pass the eye bleach!

It's like - why did you bother even wearing leggings? You may as well have just gone out in just yer pants. 

And naturally, they have to draw attention to their posterial area by performing the Maximum Stretch Dance. 

You know the one. The one where you stand, bend over, re-stand, then hoik up the wasteband of your leggings whilst doing a Knees-Up-Mahvah-Brahn type jig, before going into a frog squat to dig the gusset out of your swipe card reader.

Leggings indeed! VPL¹? CVPHEBAHAPSBDCAC&SAC², more like. Putting me off my PSL³.

And they think this looks attractive?

COVER IT UP, WOMAN!

Advice for The Pretties. When wearing leggings, wear a skirt over it. Or at least, when admiring yourself in the mirror before you head out, check over your shoulder at the rear view to avoid any embarassing pants and buttocks exposure as above. 

¹ VISIBLE PANTY LINE
² CLEARLY VISIBLE; PANTS HALF-EATEN BY A HUNGRY ARSE, PAST SELL-BY-DATE CELLULITE, ASS CRACK & SAGGY ARSE CHEEKS
³ PUMPKIN SPICE LATTE

Why Paul McCartney had Wings...

Now, I only just remembereded something.

Down The Whatacunt, they have them there posters in the toilets.

And there's nowt more offputting than having a chaps crotch thrust into yer face above a urinal!

Yes, they have bulging briefs at eye level. And for what? To promote...

Tena men? I though the Tenor Man was Gio Compario off've the Go Cumpair adverts! And perfectly engineered? It's just a quim absorbium for a cock'n'balls!

Why advertise what are basically fannypads for blokes in a club? Presumably for Laddy Lad type Lads on a lads night out are lads being lads, being pissheads who presumably end up pissing themselves in their incontinent inebriation, but still... 

Imagine of you're out On The Pull, and manage to cop off with a Pretty. Last thing she wants when delving about within your boxers is to plunge her petite palms into a penile pisscatcher!

I mean - what next? An Ooops advert, where instead of some slattern having her dress ripped off in a lift, or flashing her gusset when falling out of a taxi, we have some burly beefcake stripper having his pants ripped off by hen-night harlots and accidentally revealing a purple posing pouch all a-bulge with urine-bloated absorbent tissue? A hunk pushing a lawnmower and some trollops throw coke cans at him, and as he bends over, his jeans split and out burst a purple thong with copious amounts of yellow stained cotton wool spider legging out of his flossed cheeks? A variation of that "Premature Perspiration" advert, where tarts bite their lips at boys in librarys, who prompty fill their Tena Men pad with Tippex?

Tena Men my best hat. Whatever next? Manpons? Some imaginary male period suppository allowing menfolk to roller skate in loose white trousers whilst remaining discreetly fresh all day? A moon cup (in the sense of men mooning their arses) to stick up the bum to catch some discharge that can be washed in the sink by the coffee machine?

The mind veritably boggles!

I would say Tena Men my arse, but that would be somewhat awkward. So...

Tena Men indeed!

Sadako's ring crawling out at Xym...

Yay! New acoutrément!

My 3D specs have finally arrived! Should've been here weeks ago with them purple ones I sported down the Whatacunt 3 weeks or so ago, but it seems some Postie filched them out of the system.

Or got delivered to the wrong address.

But more likely a thievey postie on the rob for Xmas presents.

Anyhoo, guess what Xym's out in tonight!

3D Specs! 3D Specs! 3D Specs! 3D Specs! 3D Specs!

Ooh, I put 'em on, and it's like real life! Things literally look like they're coming out at you. Whoa - waggle me fingers afore me eyes - it's like they're really there!

Looking forward to tonight now - imagine a beautiful babes bounteous busom looming right out and into yer face! And all coz of anaglyphtic specs!

Hold on, isn't that shock from eating Penis Buttuck after leaving a minge sponge in too long...?

Here come de HotXymon (turn it in)...

Well I'll be vajazzled and bollock waxed! Everyone's (least) favourite short fat gothboy with preposterous hair and outlandish 'tashe apparently cut quite a dashing figure down The WhatACunt last night!

Quite popliar was he indeed!

Why, many a veritable vixen, fashionista fox and chavved up gayboys were fighting for one's attention this weekend!

It started off down The Playhouse, which was packed out by arty-farty-party types, where barbabes were most complimentary on various Xym adornments.

And then, when we were seated, the Pretty element of the couple in the vicinity kept on eyeing up The Xym whenever her man's focus was focussed elsewhere. So obvious it was, that even The Xym noticed it - and you know how blind The Xym is to that kind o' stuffs!

Then, on to The WhatAC... oh noes. We're stopping off at the loathed Marquee first. So Xym stood outside in a huff. Bad enough I has to goes there next weekend for the Asylum social event, but I wants to get to The WhatACunt. Boo!

But eventually we gets there, and Xym is showered with compliment upon compliment as regards his myriad of accoutréments. 

Blimey - The Xym is noticibly Turning Heads!

Well bugger me!

It seems The Boots With The Motion Sensitive Flashy Bits are a big draw. As is The 'tashe. Remarkably, so is the barnet and the silver glitter spray. Heck, the whole package presents proffers of admiration!

T'other week, I just got me cranial mop ruffled by a passing Pretty - this week, hit on galore!

I reckon I could have pulled that bird who was most admirous of me feathery dangler.

Of that gaggle of girlies impressed with me flashings.

Even the barbloke had to comment: "It's really hard to pull off a Look with glittery hair - you're just about the only person who can. Every week you put in a tremendous effort and look amazing!"

And The Xym is even arousing jealousy in repressed Chavboys, who find The Xym so fundamentally cool, they want to be just like The Xym. Alas, they fear to do so, for they'll get a duffing up off their Chacscum mates. They love that The Xym has the confidence (ha ha ha!) to tart up however he likes, and look so amazing... yet can't bring themselves to follow his fashion due to being brainwashed into conformism and having to fit in with their mates.

So there you have it.

I am THE Xym.

And I am fucking amazing.

I am the dog's bollocks, the donkey's dangler, the badger's nadgers and involuntary dampener of Pretties pants.

The Xym is a fucking LEGEND!

If u wanna be mah lurvah, u gotta lick out mah friends...

One is most confused.

Apparently, that there talentless waste of matchstick Victor Beckham has been crownded Woman Of The Decade at the Glamour Wimmin Of The Year Awards.

And there was me thinking there were at least 7 more years till the end of the decade to allow actual talented wimmins to get voted. But clearly, a decade has been decimated and redecimalised into just a triplicity of annual occurances.

Anyhoo, her "design line" is so atrociously bad, she won't wear her own clothes (coz they're shite), and turned up in a fashion faux pas of visual unappeal.

And her message: "My mum is my woman of the year. I really love women. Dress appropriately."

Well,
a) You Mum didn't win the award you dumbass bint! Nor was she even in the running you gormstress!
b) You great fat skinny lezza, loving women! Getting it on down Geri's Hairy Well, and sucking up Melanie Jizzum's flange leakage, more like!
c) Dress appropriately says one of the gash flash five - and turns up in some ill-fitting jumpsuit affair, which at least mainly covered up her usual semblance of Skeletor (resulting in a bin bag rattling with bones look).

Woman of the decade? Woman of the decayed, more like!

So, what else was awarded to other non-entitties to make them feel all empowered?

Nicole Shirtsinger was named Best TV Personality for... um... being on X-Factor, like, ages ago, and appearing in cutaways during F1 watching Lewis Hamilton driving.

Best TV Personality my arse!

Jessie J won The Editors Special Award... exactly what for, I dunno. Sitting in a revolving chair and cutting her barnet off probably.

And Myleene Klass got an Entrepreneur award for promoting camel hoofed nipple defining bikinis in waterfalls. Thrusting your young pert breasts directly into camera whilst lathering yer labia is hardly an entrepreneurial venture!

Honestly, they give out awards for any old crap these days!

Where's my award for this blog, eh? That's what I wanna know! I wants a big ceremonial presentation with hot chicks and groupies throwing themselves at me because of my humongously big Award award for awarding awards to the award winning blog award, and I wants it now!

Like a gusset with a string...

... as Sandi Shaw once bare-footedly sang.

There appears to be a new fashion among them there clubbing womens. That of the Party Popper.

Not the confetti spraying exposive treat, but the ripcord for the mouse hunting for nob cheese in the unkempt mouse hole and finding only strawberry jamrags.

This mode of attire is presented to full effect by the skank ho tart on the right here. Leg hoisted on high to display her mentrual accoutrément. Ha! So much for consensual "no-strings attached" nobbery here!

Rather than shriek in disgust (disgusset?) at her wanton tampon danglement, I think I may have a New Business Venture for Dragon's Den.

Quim Pulls! The ceramic pussy plug puller!

Decorative fixtures that adorn ye mingemouse tail and give it some bling. Just like a shower cord or bathroom light. Although the point of the light/shower pull is to avoid getting your fingers all wet and getting a shock off the socket, which is somewhat moot if the lubricated lush is frothing at the gash.

Anyhoo, I think I'll start off with this range:

Here, we have:

The Clef
Ideal for clubbers who love music when on the blob.

The Fishy Fanny
For those ladies who need a can of FeBreeze up their chuff after a good nights clubbin' and grindin' and snoggin'. and fingerin'. And the fishes may end up covered in batter too!

The Pussy
A ceramic pussy... for your pussy!

The Jeremy Kyle
Bog standard poundland special for the lovely chavettes who sit at home all day long having unprotected sex with the occasional break for drink and drugs.

Yep - think I'm on to a winner here! Xym the Entrepeneur! Don't know if Alan Sugar will go for it - have to try that Square Shouldered Man-Thing what looked like Jessie J crossed with Kosh and a smack in the face with a brick that was on the last series.

Why is a shaven like a writhing pest...

Extortion!

The avaricious fingers of merchants aboundeth!

The Xym requireth one of them there straightjackets, for partaking of the tannin whilst wearing a towering topper.

And where can one get one's grubby mitts on such an incapacitor of insanity?

Well, you'd think with it being ME, log, they'd be all to willing to encase me in said restraintive bondageries and lock me in the padded cell to await Matron with the hot milk and biscuits.

But Nooooooo - they'd rather have me watching Will Farrell instead of in mental apparel¹.

Anyhoo, whilst passing the old biddie's tea shoppe, I popped into the Cock Rolex On² on the offchance. And they hads them! Size XL - (which, as all know, in Cock Rolex On terms is a smidgeon³ above a size zero).

Fifty squids!

Not to mention having to chop it all about, for an over-elaborate cog-based construction to be attached. The cost of Meccano these days!

So off to the the fancy dress shoppe - twenty squids! Outrageous! And narry a buckle or strap amonst it!

So I bought another monocle instead.

There must be somewhere I can find a cheap-ass straightjacket for the steampunking up thereof? If I've paid umpteen of pounds for an outrageous hat, only to be denuded of dozend of demoninations of dollars for a glorified long-sleeved blouse, I won't be happy!

Not to mention finding a teapot onna stick...

Honestly - how hard can it be? I just want a cane with a teapot on the top. But noooo - it's all golden balls, fiddly twiddly bits, horses heads, skeletal fingering and the like. Nothing NORMAL like a teapot. We're British - a nation of tea drinkers! Our national emblem is the teapot*, so why is there such a lack of teapot based trinketry?

I blame them Hairball Tease - like Lamps And Sue's Schlong, or Breakfast Tea.

Breakfast Tea! I had that once, and it tasted nowt like a full-on fry-up, let alone soggy cornflakes. Not a hint of the Sugar Puff, Rice Krispy or Special K. Apart from the milk. Coco Pops may turn the milk a sort of shitty mud color, but Breakfast Tea just turns it a dishwashery grey after all the Furry Lick Quid has de-bubbled it's bubbles through the grease of the (Stephen?) Fry-up.

And I'm not licking a furry quid just to get me mitts on some asylum wear.

Unless it's the Cock Rolex On Pretty's quid.

And by Quid, obviously I mean Quim.

LOL!

¹ ONE OF THEM AMERICAN ALLEGED 'COMEDIANS'. ENOUGH TO DRIVE ANYONE TO THE UNFUNNY FARM. OR SOMETHING.

² CHRONOLOGICAL TODGER ADORNMENTS , MAYHAP?

³ MORE THAN A TAD, BUT LESS THAN AN EENTSY BIT.

* CAN I SAY STEPHEN FRY IS A TEAPOT, OR IS THAT POLITICALLY INCORRECT? AFTER ALL, IF DERREN BROWN CAN CALL HIMSELF A 'MASSIVE GAYER', WHAT'S WRONG WITH ALLUSIONS OF LIMP-WRISTED SPOUTNESS WHILST HAND ON HIP IN GIRLY POSE? IT'S RELIGIOUS HEALTH AND SAFETY INTOLERANCE GONE MAD!

Of loos & piss & time elapsed, of moustaches and minge...

All for one, and none for Xym!

Suit Allures! le Roi Charles was invited to a surprise partay in the Take That Crypt!

But what's this? Last minute telecommunicatory advices of locatory confusion - not that The Crypt, it's t'other The Crypt! Die Krüpps? Nein! The Xym must fjord yon slumber apparatus for ye quaffage!

Ah, but it seems The Xym is more suited for queefage, due to the trimness of facial foliage! For Pretties adviseth that the 'tache is ideally suited for quim based stimulation¹. Admittedly, the young, innocent rock chick was unaware of precisely what quim is, and I doubt an offer of putting the 'tache to the test wouldn't go down too well.

Which rather disproves the point (if you know what I mean, and I'm sure that you do!)...

Anyhoo,  more Pretties to perve leer ogle talk at!

Discourse now squeaks around combining WKD core and Goldschläger becoming Apple Pie. Naturally, I'm informed by the inebriated lady that her flange feels nothing like pie de pomme. Although I guess it depends on pie in question. 

What if it's a Maccy D's Apple Pie? All hot and covered in crispy batter... not to mention shaped like a 'Brazillian' merkin, not dissimilar to the velcro-esque strip of chinwig I now sport under my twiddly 'tache twat tickler!

Or am I thinking of the filet o' fish (with obligatory 4 minute wait for that Sir, an NO! We don't sell onion rings)?

Whatever - all I know is that eventually there was a comPEEtition² for the fastest golden shower in the somewhat 'green' toilets, monitored by young fellow-me-lads through the windows.

But, alas, today is the tumbling of toothpaste, for according to sexy sirens of Polish prettyness, although Pretties like to admire impressive 'tache's upon the menfolk, they won't not kiss 'em due to 'tache rash & itchiness induced by stubble snoggage

On the other hand (probably the hand not caressing her beautiful busoms with her five palce due to lack of a kchuk) - if Pretties prefer the tingle of 'tache on their twinkle, is entwining tongue all that important? Perhaps I need to extract my 'tache, so I can put it on to pull, whip it off to snog, then stick it back on at fish supper time!

Not to be confused with penis buttock jelly time, involving Brian in a banana suit. Probably. 

Still - she says that now. Just wait till it gets long enough to tease into a Go Cumpare stylee³ - Pretties will be queueing up to ravish me then, coz all women want a Gio Cumpario!
 

Go Compaaaaarrrre!

Go Compaaaaarrrre!

A joy so rare

with Xym's lip hair

on your 'down there'

With just a few licks

and clitoral flicks

and you'll thank your stars that your quim met Xym's lip hair!

Go Compaaaaarrrre!

Or something...

¹ V FOR VAG-EATER, AND INTO THE (LURVE) GRAVEE! OR FANNY BATTER, TO BE MORE PRECISE. OR JUST DOWNRIGHT OBSCENE.

² SEE WHAT I DID THERE!

³ AND IF MY 'TACHE GET'S LONG ENOUGH, I CAN DO THAT TOO!
BA'DUM TISH!
I'M HERE ALL WEEK.
THANK YOU, AND GOODNIGHT!

Jean Genies have now become slacks...

Treggings?

Seriousleh?

I thought them there jeggings were bad enough - leggings designed to look like jeans and decapitate photographers of prescient imagery of demise.

But no - camel-hoofing it in jeanswear ain't enough.

Now it's leggings designed to look like trousers! Essential Office Wear!

Well, more orifice wear, judging by the tightness of the trews aroung the groinal regions.

Treggings indeed!

Why don't they just call them Peggings. Pants and leggings, as that's basically all they are. Just coz some pervo had the great idea to flog The Women below-wear that is so tight, you may as well be out in yer pants.

Not that I'm complaining.

Well, I am, because all too often, they're donned by stereotypical butterball scummy mummies off The Council Estate, spending their days guzzling pork pie burgers from Maccy D's in front of Jeremy Kyle and staunchly agreeing with the sexits man-hating harrridans of Loose Witches. No muffin top for these - Hiroshima mushroom cloud spilling out over the top of their treggings, with their voluminous bare equator bulging below their crop-tops which their grey, misshapen bra hangs out the bottom of, and the crest of their mammoth mammaries bulge out the top of.

Giving them a quadrology of bike parking spots.

Hot Pretties who've "gone commando" - Oh yes! Great fat munterescent trollbeasts? Urgh - no - cover 'em up! No Diggety, Mr Blackstreet? No Giggety (giggety goo) for these lumbering tregging'd behemoths! 

Treggings, my best hat!

Bring on the Geggings - Gimp Leggings, all zips and leather and chains and studs...

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.

God gave croc and roll to us...

Crocs!

Crocs with socks!

A sight to see is crocs with socks
Upon a fox from down the docks
who's caught the pox upon her box
when the cure, say docs, is eat some cox*

And if The Public's shocked and mocks

a fox who rocks in socks and crocs

Shave off their locks! Kick their buttocks!

Them cocks that mocks a fox in crocs.

But what about crocs upon Burt Kwouk?
Take the glock out of your pock'**

Beat the clock! Shoot off his block!
That's what you do with crocs on Kwouk.

Crocs with socks - it's all bollocks
I prefer a fox with big New Rocks
A great big shock of tousled locks
And not a fox in crocs with socks.

*APPLES, OF COURSE. NOT THE GORMSTER YELLING IN A ROWING BOAT. OR EATING COCKS - THAT'S HOW SHE GOT INTO TRUB IN THE FIRST PLACE...

** ABBREVIATION OF POCKET.

Not searchin' for the Ants Invasion...

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

Or something.

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

Outbid by 2 tentacular aquaterries!

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

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

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