Yay - the Fisting Crew were off to Slimelight, and what a night!
Downside - downstairs closed for a private partay, and so we were taunted on the stairs by the smell of unobtainable smokey noms :(
On the plus side - Trad Goth floor! Walked in, and the first song I hear is A Room With No View off the new March Violets album! Can this night get any better?
Oh my yes!
Bauhaus! Siouxsie! Sisters! Mission! Virgin Prunes! You name it - they played it...
...apart from the Neph (boo!).
Anyhew, not much in the way of Pretties this time - but many a wierdy. From the Jerry Sadowitz looky-likey, to Creepy Richard O'Brien In Matrix Shades Staring A Peoples And Creeping Them Out.
Not to mention Grandpa Joe, out dancing to celebrate his Golden Ticket win.
Although this time, he was not in a flimsy nightdress & slippers, prancing about. Instead, a top hat atop his white haired moustachio'd old face, as he repeated lifted his shirt exposing his breasticles for all the world to see.
And following us about, making the Mardy Otter somewhat paranoid!
And what them topless tosspieces were doing on the floor, I'll never know!
But then... we had to face The Bank Holiday Service Interruptions.
So, our train is at 8:14, with one change at Stratford. So, get the Tube for 7:10 in case it opens early. 7:25, we in. 7:30 on platform. Be at Liverpool Street by 10 to 8 - plenty of time!
Time passes...
7:50 - announcement - No Southbound Trains will be running on The Northern Line this morning.
FOOOK!
Dive over Northbound, leap on Kings Cross, race over to the Metropolitan Line, dive on the tube to Aldgate...
...which terminates at Moorgate... one stop before Liverpool Street!
Panic! Time's getting on. Race over to the Circle Line and dive on the tube.
Reach Liverpool Street at 8:09 - just enough time to... wait! There's no 8:14 on the boards!
Excuse me, Customer Services Man, the 8:14 to Norwich, changing at Stratford, which platform?
Cancelled! You'll need to get the Tube to Stratford and catch the 8:36 to Norwich!
FOOOK!
Race back into the Tube, and get the Central line to Stratford.
Panicy panicy... might just make it...
8:29 - 6 mins to get the train! Race up to the boards... which platform...
8:36 to Norwich: Cancelled.
FOOOK!
Excuse me, Customer Services Man - the 8:36 to Norwich, what's happening?
Not sure mate - all trains are cancelled. Go over to platform x and they can tell you more.
Race over to platform X.
Excuse me, Customer Services Pretty, the cancelled train to Norwich replaced by a train to Shenfield?
You'll need to get the train on Platform y. There'll be holding a train at Shenfield for you.
So, race back the way we came to get on the platform we just passed and dive on train.
Knackered! Shenfield can't be that far - let's stand.
17 stops later via the most longest, convoluted route, we arrive at Shenfield.
Excuse me, Customer Services Man - where's the Norwich Train
Sent it off 10 minutes ago. And there's no more trains to Norwich, as that was a one-off as engineering works have now finished.
Well what the feck are we supposed to do now?
You'll have to get the train to Clacton-On-Sea and change at Colchester.
Which leaves in 50 minutes.
FOOOK!
Right - drinks! An entire night clubbing in smokey venues, combined with much dashing about, hath left us somewhat dehydrated.
Ah. Sunday. A Bank Holiday Sunday. So the lone kiosk/shop is shut. And the vending machine will not accept any coins. And the Station Manager has run off and is hiding by the station entrance, rather than face the wrath of about 60 people dumped in Shenfield.
But, eventually, the train gets going... ...and people need a wee.
And, naturally, there's only one toilet on board.
And it's out of order.
So, we finally get to Colchester. Race over to the boards - yay! A Norwich train... in another 50 minutes.
FOOOK with added GRRRRRRR!
But the shop is open, and there are toilets! So time for drinks, pringles and muffins followed by a slash. Relief.
Time passes... 30 mins to go! 25! 20! And...
Apologies - the train has been delayed by 14 minutes!
Fuck off. Fuck. Right. Off. And then Fuck Off some more.
And then it finally arrives, and over the tannoy:
"This is the 11:02 service to Norwich. We're running about 15 minutes late due to an unscheduled stop at Shenfield..."
SCREAM!!!!!! We could've waited at Shenfield after all - and all sat together round a table.
Fucksehnamen!
We finally get into Norwich about 12:40 instead of 10:31.
"We apologize for arriving about 35 mins late"
35 mins? Over 2 hours you mathematically challenged shitbox!
Not happy.
Not happy at all.
Showing posts with label Holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Holidays. Show all posts
Sunday, 5 May 2013
Saturday, 29 December 2012
The only, living boys, who are Goths...
And we surfaced in the Valley Of The Vajazzles!
Yes, we in Essexland, on the Alcatrazian rock known as Canvey Island!
Well, we were, but were are currently traversing towards the Essex Triangle... which is not a euphemism (although Vag/Flange Creak almost certainly is!). It's that mystical fugue of incorporeal displacement where several places merge and overlay each other. Namely Southend-On-Sea, Westcliff-On-Sea & Leigh-On-Sea.
Leigh-On-Sea, Xym?
Leigh-On-Sea!
And did we see any Master Butchers?
Did we buggery fuck as like!
Xym's 5'6 and 100 stones, the undisputed King of the Tums, no alias (unlike Klaus Barbie - the unseen butcher in Leigh-On-Sea), the one and once - Hold The Front Page...
[EDIT: SOME TIME LATER THE FOLLOWING DAY:]
Upon returning to Norwich, further lyrical amendments required thusly:
The King of the Goths got himself a Star Trek Enterprize Box Set for pleasuring the missus on Viagra and Amphetemine. Xym never got to second base thanks to that Ryan wotsisface, Xym's 5'6 and 100 stones, the undisputed King of the Tums, no alias (unlike Klaus Barbie - the unseen butcher in Leigh-On-Sea), the one and once - Hold The Front Page... Fat Xym's got somewhere to stay, where there's guests and there's boyfriends, at the Hepworth Hotel, making Xym feel quite awkward, where Xym lives life in style, confined to the sofa, where he wakes up at seven (no-one else till 11), Xym's fat and unhealthy, and John is possessed, Jo's toilets ain't healthy (John's not toilet trained), we just chuckle & smile, and laugh like some madmen, 2 born again Gothboys, here comes Xym The Fat Man. or something.
Yes, we in Essexland, on the Alcatrazian rock known as Canvey Island!
Well, we were, but were are currently traversing towards the Essex Triangle... which is not a euphemism (although Vag/Flange Creak almost certainly is!). It's that mystical fugue of incorporeal displacement where several places merge and overlay each other. Namely Southend-On-Sea, Westcliff-On-Sea & Leigh-On-Sea.
Leigh-On-Sea, Xym?
Leigh-On-Sea!
And did we see any Master Butchers?
Did we buggery fuck as like!
Xym's 5'6 and 100 stones, the undisputed King of the Tums, no alias (unlike Klaus Barbie - the unseen butcher in Leigh-On-Sea), the one and once - Hold The Front Page...
[EDIT: SOME TIME LATER THE FOLLOWING DAY:]
Upon returning to Norwich, further lyrical amendments required thusly:
The King of the Goths got himself a Star Trek Enterprize Box Set for pleasuring the missus on Viagra and Amphetemine. Xym never got to second base thanks to that Ryan wotsisface, Xym's 5'6 and 100 stones, the undisputed King of the Tums, no alias (unlike Klaus Barbie - the unseen butcher in Leigh-On-Sea), the one and once - Hold The Front Page... Fat Xym's got somewhere to stay, where there's guests and there's boyfriends, at the Hepworth Hotel, making Xym feel quite awkward, where Xym lives life in style, confined to the sofa, where he wakes up at seven (no-one else till 11), Xym's fat and unhealthy, and John is possessed, Jo's toilets ain't healthy (John's not toilet trained), we just chuckle & smile, and laugh like some madmen, 2 born again Gothboys, here comes Xym The Fat Man. or something.
Wednesday, 4 July 2012
Oh say can you see...
...by the Dawn's early light...
That's no dawn...
Gaaaah! It's the headlamps of invading spacemonsters hell bent on exterminating mankind!
On the 4th of July, no less!
So it's up to the Americans to save us all!
As long as they get lasered up first - the only reason we're under attack by betentacled beasties from the outer rim is because them damn Yanks kidnapped stranded crashees and repeatedly play 5 musical notes at them. Still, could be worse, could be playing the music of 5ive at them! Or worse, breach the Geneva Convention with torture by the playing of the alleged "music" of C******y. Imprisoning the intergalatic castaways in some Roswellian POOS (prisoner of outer space) camp, it's up to some Rampaging Rambos from beyond the stars to rescue their comrades in multiple arms.
And by arms, I mean tentacles, what all proper space beasties have.
It's Rambo II all over again.
"Ag ak ak ag! Ag ag ag AAAARK!" [go to Earth. Find any missing POOS]
"Ag ag. Ak ag aga! Ak ag ak $^XL34E ag Zorbak ag ag" [There's a big jobbie in the bogs. Just wont flush. I blame $^XL34E and that Zorbian curry he has last night.]
"Ag. Ag. Akkak Ag. Ak ag ag ak." ["ha. ha. fucking ha. Fuck off and don't get caught"]
Finds missing POOS, recovery craft flies off, Space Rambo is caught!
"Yo, alien dude! I say we nuke your planet, yeah? Contact your ship, you space terrorist"
"ak ak ak ak" [Captain, you fucker]
"Ag, ak ag ag ak! Ak aggggg - Ag ak ak" [Hey, you weren't supposed to find anything! But nooooo - you had to find them, and try and bring one back"]
"Ak. Ag ak ak AG" [Captain. I'm coming for you!]
Cue theft of UFA from Hangar 19. Space Rambo shooting up Vietnamese American soldiers. Rocket lasers blowing up bridges1. Space Rambo enters Area 51 - his comrades tortured and vivisectioned! He finds a cell of skeletal aliens, and leads them back to his aircraft.
"Agak AKAAAAAAAAAAAAAAG!" [Space ADRIANNE!]
Blowings up of Wright Patterson Air-Force. Cue Major Martian, Space Rambo's SAS (Space Alien Squad) Instructor
"Ak ag akkag Johnny. Ag ak ak ak" [Give it up Space Johnny. You can't win.]
"Ag ak ag ak". [Don't push me, Sir]
"Boys, while them Muslim Monsters from Outer Space are arguin', nuke their ship. And get me a Burger and Fries. And a Coke. And go Large on it, or I'll go large on your ass. You hear me private! Fire up that cannon, and blow their Islamic Invadin' asses to Hell. Gahd Bless Amerikah"
♫It's a long Road♪Well, not so much a road♫More a wormhole♪That tears your ship apart♫
Or something...
1JEFF BRIDGES. PROBABLY.
That's no dawn...
Gaaaah! It's the headlamps of invading spacemonsters hell bent on exterminating mankind!
On the 4th of July, no less!
So it's up to the Americans to save us all!
As long as they get lasered up first - the only reason we're under attack by betentacled beasties from the outer rim is because them damn Yanks kidnapped stranded crashees and repeatedly play 5 musical notes at them. Still, could be worse, could be playing the music of 5ive at them! Or worse, breach the Geneva Convention with torture by the playing of the alleged "music" of C******y. Imprisoning the intergalatic castaways in some Roswellian POOS (prisoner of outer space) camp, it's up to some Rampaging Rambos from beyond the stars to rescue their comrades in multiple arms.
And by arms, I mean tentacles, what all proper space beasties have.
It's Rambo II all over again.
"Ag ak ak ag! Ag ag ag AAAARK!" [go to Earth. Find any missing POOS]
"Ag ag. Ak ag aga! Ak ag ak $^XL34E ag Zorbak ag ag" [There's a big jobbie in the bogs. Just wont flush. I blame $^XL34E and that Zorbian curry he has last night.]
"Ag. Ag. Akkak Ag. Ak ag ag ak." ["ha. ha. fucking ha. Fuck off and don't get caught"]
Finds missing POOS, recovery craft flies off, Space Rambo is caught!
"Yo, alien dude! I say we nuke your planet, yeah? Contact your ship, you space terrorist"
"ak ak ak ak" [Captain, you fucker]
"Ag, ak ag ag ak! Ak aggggg - Ag ak ak" [Hey, you weren't supposed to find anything! But nooooo - you had to find them, and try and bring one back"]
"Ak. Ag ak ak AG" [Captain. I'm coming for you!]
Cue theft of UFA from Hangar 19. Space Rambo shooting up Vietnamese American soldiers. Rocket lasers blowing up bridges1. Space Rambo enters Area 51 - his comrades tortured and vivisectioned! He finds a cell of skeletal aliens, and leads them back to his aircraft.
"Agak AKAAAAAAAAAAAAAAG!" [Space ADRIANNE!]
Blowings up of Wright Patterson Air-Force. Cue Major Martian, Space Rambo's SAS (Space Alien Squad) Instructor
"Ak ag akkag Johnny. Ag ak ak ak" [Give it up Space Johnny. You can't win.]
"Ag ak ag ak". [Don't push me, Sir]
"Boys, while them Muslim Monsters from Outer Space are arguin', nuke their ship. And get me a Burger and Fries. And a Coke. And go Large on it, or I'll go large on your ass. You hear me private! Fire up that cannon, and blow their Islamic Invadin' asses to Hell. Gahd Bless Amerikah"
♫It's a long Road♪Well, not so much a road♫More a wormhole♪That tears your ship apart♫
Or something...
1JEFF BRIDGES. PROBABLY.
Friday, 8 June 2012
Sunday, 8 April 2012
Dawn of the egg...
Happy Zombie Saviour day!
And in celebration of the work-shy carpenter being reanimated in ressurrection to have his hole fingered by Thomas (who is somewhat doubtful about the whole Fingering Jesus thing), I shall be cracking open crème egg craniums and feasting on the fondant 'brains' within.
As you do!
Alas, Norfolk is bereft of tombs with diminutive entry points the size of crème eggs, let alone the aforementioned crème eggs being heavy enough to impede the exit of a shambling saviour lurching forth, as they will easily roll aside.
Unless, of course, the yummy fondant filling is weighted at the base, like a weeble wobbling bit never falling down! Then, as they try to rise from the crypt, they'd push the stone/egg aside, but it would instantly right itself. Returning to it's upright position and giving any undead menace a good biff in the face, tumbling them back into their tomb and savign our brains from being et.
Take it away Rebecca Black!
Fried Eggs!
¹ BUT NOT IN THE ORIGINAL PAGAN ÉOSTRE FERTILITY RITE SHAGGAGE SENSE, BEFORE THEM CHRISTIANS TRIED TO SMOTHER IT WITH 'EASTER' - THE FESTIVAL OF REAMINATORY UNDEAD MURDERED MENACE, WHERE CHRISTIANS DON'T EAT YOUR BRAINS, THEY JUST REMOVE THEM IN SOME SORT OF CULTISH BRAINWASHING.
And in celebration of the work-shy carpenter being reanimated in ressurrection to have his hole fingered by Thomas (who is somewhat doubtful about the whole Fingering Jesus thing), I shall be cracking open crème egg craniums and feasting on the fondant 'brains' within.
As you do!
Alas, Norfolk is bereft of tombs with diminutive entry points the size of crème eggs, let alone the aforementioned crème eggs being heavy enough to impede the exit of a shambling saviour lurching forth, as they will easily roll aside.
Unless, of course, the yummy fondant filling is weighted at the base, like a weeble wobbling bit never falling down! Then, as they try to rise from the crypt, they'd push the stone/egg aside, but it would instantly right itself. Returning to it's upright position and giving any undead menace a good biff in the face, tumbling them back into their tomb and savign our brains from being et.
Take it away Rebecca Black!
Fried Eggs!
Fried Eggs!
Sausage, Bacon and fried eggs!
Everybody wants a fryup at the weekend, weekend
Boiled Eggs!
Boiled Eggs!
Painted faces on boiled eggs!
Oh fuck you Becky Black¹ and just give me a load of chocolate eggy goodness!
¹ BUT NOT IN THE ORIGINAL PAGAN ÉOSTRE FERTILITY RITE SHAGGAGE SENSE, BEFORE THEM CHRISTIANS TRIED TO SMOTHER IT WITH 'EASTER' - THE FESTIVAL OF REAMINATORY UNDEAD MURDERED MENACE, WHERE CHRISTIANS DON'T EAT YOUR BRAINS, THEY JUST REMOVE THEM IN SOME SORT OF CULTISH BRAINWASHING.
Friday, 6 April 2012
Wanna Penny - 2 eared Penny...
Happy Nail Up A Messiah Day!
And in celebration of that dirty great Centurion Longinus poking preachers with his oversized weapon whilst the illegitimate son of Mary &Joseph God the Adulterer hangs immobilized like a pin-up prophet in his underpants, I shall be a-feasting on fruity buns embossed with emblems of symbolic torture.
As you do!
Alas, Norfolk is as flat as one of them Pancake Tuesdays, so lacking a Golgotha mount, I'll have to trek to the top of Mousehold Heath where that plaque overlooks the city, and consume my curranty crucifictional representation from On High.
Take it away, Rebecca Black!
Friday!
And in celebration of that dirty great Centurion Longinus poking preachers with his oversized weapon whilst the illegitimate son of Mary &
As you do!
Alas, Norfolk is as flat as one of them Pancake Tuesdays, so lacking a Golgotha mount, I'll have to trek to the top of Mousehold Heath where that plaque overlooks the city, and consume my curranty crucifictional representation from On High.
Take it away, Rebecca Black!
Friday!
Friday!
Crucify Christ on Friday!
Everybody's looking forward to the weekend, weekend
Sunday!
Sunday!
Gonna rise up on Sunday!
Everybody's looking forward to the weekend!
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
He drinks a cider drink, He drinks a cider drink, He drinks a cider drink, He has a plate o' chips...
Alas, the Prince of Stories gummed up me ocular orbits with a tad to much Sahara carpeting, and as a result...
Oversleepage
No time to wash the stagnant green swamp muck of rapids and flumes out me luscious locks, time to - oh, missed bus by 5 mins. Oh well, just sort a couple of things out afore I leave.... Dagnammit, the next bus was 5min early!
Pootle on down to omnibusial port of stoppage... yep, it's late.
So, as we ride to the city, I recall with fondness the offerance of matrimonal partners for photographical memories of felt up mammaries in place of Madame Boobage, and indignation of replicative ballsed up imagery, where substitute coffins could have been replaced with foliage for the draping over thereof with siblings stuffed in the bin for good measure.
Good, good thymes!
But now I's in the SpecSavers, surrounded by sexy speccy sirens! Ah, thank you, ye monster-cocked chewer of spectacles, for placing me in a bower of beauties who service me for free!
But who cares for such trifles, for lunchtime brings a pair of right trouser-arousers!
And then it's Team Reward night, and free beer... in a pub that lacks for the presence of Pretties, where talk turns to Image Copies, preposterous hats, and that The Xym has angled his monitor so he can see the to and fro of Pretties (especially the one with the white hair and dark eyeliner <3)
As if I would position my person to perve at pretties when engaging in office work!
Oversleepage
No time to wash the stagnant green swamp muck of rapids and flumes out me luscious locks, time to - oh, missed bus by 5 mins. Oh well, just sort a couple of things out afore I leave.... Dagnammit, the next bus was 5min early!
Pootle on down to omnibusial port of stoppage... yep, it's late.
So, as we ride to the city, I recall with fondness the offerance of matrimonal partners for photographical memories of felt up mammaries in place of Madame Boobage, and indignation of replicative ballsed up imagery, where substitute coffins could have been replaced with foliage for the draping over thereof with siblings stuffed in the bin for good measure.
Good, good thymes!
But now I's in the SpecSavers, surrounded by sexy speccy sirens! Ah, thank you, ye monster-cocked chewer of spectacles, for placing me in a bower of beauties who service me for free!
But who cares for such trifles, for lunchtime brings a pair of right trouser-arousers!
And then it's Team Reward night, and free beer... in a pub that lacks for the presence of Pretties, where talk turns to Image Copies, preposterous hats, and that The Xym has angled his monitor so he can see the to and fro of Pretties (especially the one with the white hair and dark eyeliner <3)
As if I would position my person to perve at pretties when engaging in office work!
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
So please turn on your magic theme..
Alas, awakeful hours at the crack of dawn means that Lord Morpheus is reaching into his bottomless pouch and casting handfuls of onieromatic dust into mine eyes, thus one is straining to remain in watchful wakedness as killer axes trundle across my late night tellybox.
And thus I is too sleepy to entertain you with todays escapades. Of ballads of simian onanism, of electro-musicians literally being bummed, of lacklustre lactating of moobage, of naughty sexy pleasure sandwiches, and of Space Monsters masquerading as radiator thermostats with ray guns.
And that's before we gots there!
Suffice to say, an ace time was had by all!
And now, I lay me down to sleeps
And thus I is too sleepy to entertain you with todays escapades. Of ballads of simian onanism, of electro-musicians literally being bummed, of lacklustre lactating of moobage, of naughty sexy pleasure sandwiches, and of Space Monsters masquerading as radiator thermostats with ray guns.
And that's before we gots there!
Suffice to say, an ace time was had by all!
And now, I lay me down to sleeps
Friday, 6 May 2011
Caught in a lap romance...
Clearly I's be getsing old, for I clean forgot my recent brush with celebrity!
And it's not Basil.
Or Hellboy's dad.
No, it's Davros himself... only without his exterminatory carapace!
When returning from Peterkaysville, I had to stop at the train station to purchase ticketyboo papers of passage. Alas, I forgot about The Fry Up Inspector's post of Boltonian Brekkie and neglected to lard up and partake of the Worlds Biggest Breakfast.
Anyhoo, I gets to the counter, and whose there to issue me with a permissible travel slip? None other than STEPHEN HAWKING himself!
Now, many of you will picture a drooling mechanical soundbox in a davrosmobile with pop tartlet Stefani Midwitch writhing about on his lap, with a laptop on top of her lap laden with Londinium lookylikies of Boris Johnson licking her labial swipe card reader.
Or something.
Not so! For he was of a most ambulatory persuasion! Well, not so much dashing here and there, but enough to stand and move his robotic arm to pick up the cash and thence to the ticket machine...
Hold up a minute! Of course! He's not got multiple sclerosis at all (not even a single sclerosis) - he's just been skiving like Roy in The It Crowd! He's just nicked someone's wheelchair, curled up in it, put his ticket machine on the side and pretends it a talkybox!
Right - I'm ringing that benefits cheats helpline - there he is, hiring strumpets in skimpy nurses uniforms to "look after him" and getting a free council house and stuff on The Benefits, and when no-one's looking, he's off conducting on buses and trains. Strolling up and down carriages, typing destinations into his 'text-to-speech' keypad, and of his 'voicebox' printer comes a ticket!
The cheek of it!
And when he's not dispensing tickets, he's writing about wormholes and quantum physics tablets for his dishwasher! It's a right old disgrace.
Once again, It's one rule for academic crippleprofs, and another for agadoo chavscum!
And it's not Basil.
Or Hellboy's dad.
No, it's Davros himself... only without his exterminatory carapace!
When returning from Peterkaysville, I had to stop at the train station to purchase ticketyboo papers of passage. Alas, I forgot about The Fry Up Inspector's post of Boltonian Brekkie and neglected to lard up and partake of the Worlds Biggest Breakfast.
Anyhoo, I gets to the counter, and whose there to issue me with a permissible travel slip? None other than STEPHEN HAWKING himself!
Now, many of you will picture a drooling mechanical soundbox in a davrosmobile with pop tartlet Stefani Midwitch writhing about on his lap, with a laptop on top of her lap laden with Londinium lookylikies of Boris Johnson licking her labial swipe card reader.
Or something.
Not so! For he was of a most ambulatory persuasion! Well, not so much dashing here and there, but enough to stand and move his robotic arm to pick up the cash and thence to the ticket machine...
Hold up a minute! Of course! He's not got multiple sclerosis at all (not even a single sclerosis) - he's just been skiving like Roy in The It Crowd! He's just nicked someone's wheelchair, curled up in it, put his ticket machine on the side and pretends it a talkybox!
Right - I'm ringing that benefits cheats helpline - there he is, hiring strumpets in skimpy nurses uniforms to "look after him" and getting a free council house and stuff on The Benefits, and when no-one's looking, he's off conducting on buses and trains. Strolling up and down carriages, typing destinations into his 'text-to-speech' keypad, and of his 'voicebox' printer comes a ticket!
The cheek of it!
And when he's not dispensing tickets, he's writing about wormholes and quantum physics tablets for his dishwasher! It's a right old disgrace.
Once again, It's one rule for academic crippleprofs, and another for agadoo chavscum!
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