Mr Grumpy Lives Right Here...

No blog today coz I can't be arsed!

Revelations yesterday put a downer on things somewhat on the employment front, so Xym's as miserable as.

It would have been either a pervy pastiché on The Owl And The Pussycat¹, a rant about the Stamp Gnome², or even The Xym pimping himself out under his own escort agency.

See, we're downsizing our already too-small and overstretched team. So the likelihood is that The Xym will be gutterbound come Christmas. Oh waily woe and misery!

However, it did dawn on The Xym that he could form... his own Escort Agency!

Having had The Fear put into me by seeing Frank Sidebottom Simulcra Alex on The Apprentice preview of the Advert for the Dating Agency task, it occurred to me that there may be a gap in the market for short fat gothboys with preposterous hair and ridiculous moustacios who just about scrub up to almost acceptable appearance.

Most of the current whorehouses, I mean Agencies, tend to pimp out these smart, buff blokes to attend galleries, opening nights, networking events, posh dinners and general shaggery. What about the Alternative Pretties - they don't want some suave posho alongside their PVC lacy hairfalled booted beauty!

Take a look at The Xym (if you can stomach it!) - there's no way anyone's going to believe a Pretty paid to hire such a loathsome accompanyment as their Escort (Best Court!), so they look like they've pulled, rather than looking like a desperate saddo that had to resort to hiring a hunk to dance with them down The WhatACunt!

How cool would that be - the opportunity to hire The Xym! Surely some of my Goffik Princesses would be up for that - and I'd cum at reasonable rates too (a Pedros meal, perhaps. An atrocious cinnamony cocktail. Heck - Xym'll probably take you out for free, just for the pleasure of pleasuring a Pretty. or something).

I'm pretty sure I can get a portfolio together of other Gothboys to pimp out... although that would mean they get picked before Xym, so he has to sit in the office waiting for his bitches to return laden with profits from their prostituting themselves out to Pretties.

And then I'd be even closer to being like Pops from The League Of Gentlemen... 

"Hhhhey, Pretty ladis - why you no a-like-a my boys, huh? Here, Pops give you video camera. Film your date, huh? For the memories, and if things get a little sexytime - ahhh! You know what Pops is sayin'! You want Maverick Bars ? I give you Maverick Bars -  just like Marianne Faithfull! C'mon - come to Pops. He a-treat a-you right!"

Anyhoo, as I'm all sad and depressed at having to Go Through A Selection Process, there'll be no blog today.

:(

¹ THE GIRL WITH THE PUSSYFLAPS FELL ASLEEP
ROHYPNOLLED BY A SCROTE
HE TOOK HER VIBE BUNNY
AND PLEASURED HER CUNNY
AND SHE CHOKED ON A COCK DOWN HER THROAT
etc, etc...

² IT'S MY NON-LOCAL SISTER'S BIRTHDAY ON MONDAY. BOUGHT A CARD THIS MORNING. GUESS WHAT... THAT BOOK OF STAMPS I BOUGHT LAST TIME AND USED ONE... GONE!

He's no good, he's no good, he's EbAviva Scrooge...

Thievery!

This fair morrow, I was expecting my Dividend from my Shares Awared In Lieu Of Bonus so I could afford the horrendous expense of The Cult, The Damned and Hazel O'Connor, which (including booking & postage fees) came to about a million squids.

Now, first of all, how can they UEA justify a booking fee per ticket? I'm purchasing three tickets in one go - one postage charge, one booking. It can't cost £6 just to shove 3 bits of paper into an envelope!

Why not be honest - just include the booking fee in the ticket price!  £20 + £2 fee... just say £22 a ticket ffs!

Grrrr....

Anyhoo, hoping to recoup the thousands of pennies spent, I looked for my meagre dividend. Yay - doesn't cover the cost, but goes some way to... wait a minute... it's not in my account! It's been "reinvested"!

Since 2001, I have had an annual deposit - and suddenly, that bastard Stamp Gnome has inveigled it's way into the accounting system and is embezzling my financial rewards to fund his own private investment scheme in cobbling. Or is that elves? yeah, elves and showmakers...

Actually, what do gnomes do, apart from sit in gardens, thieve stamps and right royally bugger up Xym's life?

That's it - I'm writing to Matt Allwrong, Ann Robinsonsjam and Nigel Shaver to get Watchdog on their Rogue Trading asses!

Kein Plastik-Geld mehr, der Gnom ist gegen Xym...

Thwarted!

Oh, that Stamp Gnome has upped the ante in retaliation!

See, for me mum's birthday, I needed a stamp for her card. So I went for the book of stamps I bought t'other week for that other card wot I had to post.

And what a surprise - after one stamp, the remaining 5 had disappeared into the ether (and he's probably nicked me mum's card with the hundreds of squids in¹, as I've heard nowt to say if it arrived or any thanks for the cash...)

So I bought a stamp. ONE stamp!

Ha!

However, not long after, it's mah Niece's birthday. Oh, if only I'd bought a book of stamps! But then, as you never get past using one stamp, the Stamp Gnome would've made off with the other 5 in between.

So, I reluctantly buy another book of stamps. Use 1 for my niece, and securely tuck away the remaining 5 stamps in me wallet.

Daily check - o-ho! The following day, the stamps have mysteriously moved out of the pocket of my wallet, and into me jacket pocket! Caught in the act!

So, restore them into wallet, and check on a daily basis!

And thus far, I have managed to retain a book of stamps in my possession for over a week!

However, the Stamp Gnome has taken exception to this added security.

On Wednesday evening, I took out my Debit Card to pay for a Dominos Pizza online. Then put my card back in my wallet. Or so I thought.

My card has not been seen since.

Got to work yesterday - oh shit! My card's gone! Bugger. I must've left it on the sofa after ordering the pizza.

So, gets home. No card on the sofa arm. Fallen on the floor? Nope. Perhaps I put it on the back of the sofa?

Pull out sofa away from the wall.

Nothing.

Cushions and seats are taken off. Hands down back/sides. Check wallet, bags, shirt/jeams pockets. Tables, shelves, upstairs, downstairs, every concievable place I may have wandered with a card in my hand and placed it down.

Not a sausage.

Coat pocket, wallet again, bags again, re-sofa, open the laptop - not on the keyboard. Lift the laptop - underneath? Ah! Oh - a debit card shape of nothingness. Dropped in the pizza box? Bollocks - no sign.

So, the evil sprite has upped his game. He can't get his grubby mitts on me stamps, so he's after me funds!

But I has the last laugh - I put a stop on it this morning!

Hold on... that means any pre-orders due, and online orders are up the spout for a few days, as expiry dates and card number now blocked...

Cuntsickles.

And to top it all - I've just noticed he's thieved me nose stud out me nose! Honestly, you can't leave anything lying about, not even your nasal passages.

Damn you, Stamp Gnome!

¹ AND HE'S MADE OFF WITH MY PSP CHARGING CABLE! I KNOW EXACTLY WHERE THAT WAS - ALONGSIDE THE PSP ON THE CABINET UNDER THE WINDOW. AND IT'S GONE. HONESTLY, THE LITTLE FUCKER'LL THIEVE ANYTHING!

Gnome, Gnome on the range...

Ranging forth!

I think the little bugger may have caught on to my withering disparagement of his thieveries, and wreaking his rewengay!

For suddenly, the mat in the car seems to inexplicable ruck up at the most inconvenient of moments.

Never happened before, and out of nowhere - bang! Pedal impedement and shoe entanglement in the midst of short tempered motorists!

I swear - now the l'il bugger is after me insurance monies.

Oh, it'll all seem like an accident... but soon as it's put me in the hospickle, he'll be off down the car boot with all me possessions!

Right, that's it!

I'm a-hiring the Most Haunted, Finding Bigfoot and Fact Or Faked teams to come in an exercise my house!

And perhaps them ladies can sexercise The Xym while they're at it!

But maybe not Ranæ, as she's certainly no Yvette Fielding.

Or something...

Cheque? Czech? Check? Cheque Checking...

Where the feck's my bank-ing books?

Damn you, Stamp Gnome!
a) I need to pay in a cheque tomorrow
b) I need to pay someone a multitude of monies

And I know EXACTLY where my paying in book is. And my cheque book.

Right there.

THERE!

But they're not there.

So turn the house upside down.

Nowhere.

But I keep them RIGHT THERE!

I go back there.

But they're not there.

So turn the house upside down.

Again.

Nowhere.

But I keep them RIGHT THERE! I DO!

Third time lucky... I go back there.

But they're not there.

But I ALWAYS keep them RIGHT THERE! I FUCKING BLOODY WELL DO! Just in case of emergencies!

Right. Turn out every drawer, cupboard, cushion, bookcase, file and folder.

Again.

Nowhere.

Right, back to the beginning.

But I ALWAYS keep them THERE! They must be there - they can't just...

oh...

...there they are...

...right in the first place I looked.

On their own.

    In plain sight.

        Unable to be missed.

So how the feck did I miss them again and again and again and ag-aaaaarrrrggghh!

Oh, so now you're playing mind-games with me, you philatelist færie!

This mean war!

I'll find you, you devious dybbuk!

Even if I have to hire a Private Investigate to find you!

Now, where's that number for Sherlock Gnomes...

Gimme all your money, all your pounds and shillings too...

* shakes fist at sky *

"Damn you, Stamp Gnome!"

Yes, I had to post a card recently, and once more fell afoul of the sly sprite. However, looks like he's delved his impish fingers into my finances!

I made the mistake of checking me balance this morning.

And promptly fell over.

Then I made the mistake of checking my account... EEP! Severe depletion of funds! Surely my account has been hacked by Nigerian Princes cloning my card details and syphoning off my spending monies! I can't have spent that much this month so far!

Get a printed balance and pour over the details...

Let's see...

Ah, Tickets, food, fuel, souveniers from Paralympic athletic trip...

That night out down Rawkus...

That night out down the Coats & Whore's Ears...

That Brickies gig and the ShitPloppin'...

Road Tax disc...

Car service...

AA Breakdown cover renewal...

Motor Insurance Renewal...

Tickets, food, fuel, souveniers from Paralympic closing ceremony trip...

Tickets, food, entry to Slimes...

Did all that really cost THAT much? Feck me, it did!  

Oh wail, oh misery, oh... Oooooh! Shiny objects on eBay, in HMV, on Amazon, and Apple Store...  

...do I really need an iPhone5 on Monday? And the new iPod touch? Might as well get the new iPad whilst I'm at it, have the full set, seeing as I ain't got an iPad yet...  

And oooh, Avengers Assemble is out on Blu-Ray Monday, and Stallone's Judge Dredd, and...

The only one-eyed gnome..

Has come to take me away...

Well, The Charlatans were almost right, for the Stamp Gnome oftens comes and takes my things away - usually right before I need 'em.

But not me - not even a misshapen dwaven lady won't take such a repulsive troll such as myself.

Anyhoo, 'they' say to beware of men whose eyebrows meet in the middle, coz they're either crooks or werewolves.

Judging by the thievery of the Stamp Gnome, quite clearly ye olde adage of ye olde baggage is correct - for he's a kleptomaniac crook!

But not a werewolf. For a unibrow, quite clearly is a single brow - and the one creature that legitimately sports a unibrow is the Cyclops!

Which makes the Stamp Gnome a dwarven Scott Summers, nicking me laser pointer and wraparound shades, and pretending to shoots lasers at un-unibrow'd wolverines.

So, far from the monobrow indicating a modicum of lycanthropy, it's more a vindictive, short, grudge-bearing, thieving, wee one-eyed bastard, with a fetish for X-men costumery and zapping werewolves with his laser eyes.

Only a man who's tall of height

And shaves his brows at night

Won't become a wolf when the wolfsbane blooms

Because eyebrow topiary is a pretty ridiculous identification method for identifying transmorphing shapeshifters if you ask me! 

Whispers ain't doin' it for meself...

Not content with nicking essential items, that gorram Stamp Gnome has gone one step further with his thievery.

He's only gone and nicked me larynx!

A relief to all and sundry, all my vocal chords can emit is a guttural wheeze, more suited to chanting at esoteric rituals invoking ye olde ones whilst being subjected to the rites of cthonic irrigation. Or like that big fat black bloke in Live And Let Die.

"Your champagne, sir!"

Maybe a healthy diet can rectify it!

Prior to funerary travelature, I ordered one of them graze boxes. True to form, on my return, it had been slipped through the letterbox, and I tripped over it and grazed me knee.

Losing weight by the scraping off of bits of the outer layer of skin does seem a bit of a long haul to reduce the vast tonnage about the larditude and porkitude of my stomachey circumference!

Sim Salabin! Lets combine it with Xym's Salad Din(ner), for I have much to live for (such as you, my pretty blog reading goddess of beauty), instead of eating meself to death! For whilst in the sunny climes of Northern Engerlund, I discovered that my calculatory precision was out of whack. For rather than my demise being due on 1 March 2012, it was actually 2 March 2011!

So either I'm one of them reanimated brain munching zombified wanking dead, or I have cheated The Reaper!

He was probably mightily impressed (as most often are) by my mighty barnet (despite it being unkempt and wildly windblown) when we saw him on his Boxing Day holiday in Great Y'ha-Nthlei. 

It's nice when your bountiful boufant impresses even Death and thus grants you extended life. 

Shame I weren't in me shades, coz he'd've been so bowled over, he'd've granted me immortality!

Imagine that - me blogging bollocks forever! Perpetual perving at pretties...

...and unable to chat them up coz that gnomic git has me voice in a bag,
   

In the midnight hour, he packed more, more, more...

Packing after a trip is a strange business.

You packs for your trip, including items to take back to your family, and you get it all packed into a case. Simples.

So, come the time to return, divested of all returnable items, how is it that you apparently have MORE stuff to pack, even without borrowing anything from your brother nor making any purchases?

Even after your mum insists on this strange archaic practice of "ironing" all yer rumpled clothes so it's a thin as a thin piece of thinness that could not possibly be thinner due to being at maximum flatness, either your case has shrunk in the heat, or your clothes have expanded.

My case is full, I've less stuff to pack, yet I've only managed to fit in half the stuff I brought!

I reckon that bane of my life, that damn Stamp Gnome, has decided to follow me on vacation, and instead of his usual thievery, whilst I sleep he's adding extra T-shirts and replacing me chargers with improbably longer and thicker leads, so that there is twice as much volume that no longer fits in the case!

   

A daring crime so bold, retrieve the Deadites notes...

Following on from yesterdays celebration of International Women* and batter, today is the day to honor the black breath of the firemountain, and give up pancakes for 364 days and nights.

Of course, I jest. It’s not about volcanic residue spewed forth to prevent big black blingfolk getting on altitude reliant transportation! It’s when we celebrate the trials and tribulations of celebrity chin.

Today marks the wilderness days, where Our Saviour traversed the haunted forests, fought the mini-mirrored monstrosities amid the crucifixial windmill, was tempted thrice by leathery literature, and thence mis-spoke the Words Of Klaatu and released Legion before ultimately defeating the possessed and his own demonic doppelgänger.

And to replicate his suffering, for the next 40 dazed knights, we must give up something we Lent.

I lent someone my signed copy of Ten Years In An Open Necked Shirt by John Cooper-Clarke, what I got when we was in a play together, and this of sentimental value (or, more accurately, of no value but I’m just being mental). Today, I give up that item I lent you. Mainly coz I can’t remember who I lent it to. If I did lend it that is. It’s highly likely that the Stamp Gnome** has that in his horde of treasure, along with my birthday chocolates, .

Hail to the King, Baby!

*Not all women, mind – specifically, International Women. They're probably like a female version of International Resue, living on Traci Island (next to San Island) and rescuing people in their Baywatch bikinis.

T'was a time to celebrate the work they do, what with all that running about with their flotation devices acting as weapons of mass distraction keeping the fisherblokes near to shore and out of shark infested waters.

** For non-readers from when blog was on MySpace: You can purchase Royal Ron & Russel stamps in packs of 6 or 12. You then use 1 stamp to post a letter. Every now and then you remember a birthday, and check your stamps – yay! Still 5 (or 11) left. Come the day to post, the Stamp Gnome will have crept in the previous evening and half-inched your book of stamps, requiring further purchasement of philately products (not to be confused with philoakey products) to necessitate delivery of communicative messages, and bewailing the loss of a number of stamps. If you don’t buy stamps for a while, he turns his claws to other kleptomanic collections.