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.

It's boats I'm talkin' Billybob (II)...

Finally!

After all the hassle of Grope-on, and being pissed about with scheduling, we FINALLY gets to got speedbootin' off lowestahhhhft pier!

Thrills! Excitement! A veritable orgasmatron of speed o'er the waves!

Especially belted up in Christian Grey bondage strappy stuff. All belts, buckles, crotch buckles (lifejackets).

Oh my!

And then, the theftage by winds of my feathery earpiece! Lost forever :(

Not so! A handy ninja on the back of the speedboat snatched it out of the air at the speed of lightning! A deft retrieval from the skies of one of my iconic signatures, and I'm whole again! Even Ithaqua, the Walker on the Winds, passing through the Icy Wastes of Lowestoft can't thieve off with my look!

Ha! Take that deity from Beyond the Spheres!!

So, after a hot, sunny voyage upon ye high seas (arrrrr!) and finding Fanny Merkin in WH Smith, it's off for a BBQ in the sweltering heat!

And, naturally, soon as we get to the venue, up open the heavens. Clearly, Ithaqua, in a pique of Jealousy, has nipped over to his mate Tlaloc's house and asked him to whip up a drenching of the Xym. Just because I have a fab earring!!

And so we're huddled in a tiny hut, with waterlogged burgers, soggy sausage and flooded chicken whilst being assaulted with Hentai tentacles.

Well, 60 metre straws.

Or something.

But how to occupy your time during a deluge?

Allow yourself to be pasted in glitter and copydex.

And by copydex, for once I actually do mean copydex, and not jizz!

And, naturally, as soon as the BBQ is over... Ithaqua gives Tlaloc a nudge, who stops wringing out his bath sponge and kicks Ra out of bed and get him to turn his torch on and put the thermostat up.

Which makes a change from a Rampant Rabbit I guess.

Which explains why it's been so cold. Too busy putting up the penii, rather than putting up the thermostat and getting it a bit warmer!

And then back to Costessey for prevention of ogling the Beach Volleyball, a sneaky perve at the TNA womens lezz-up wrestling whilst the Ladies wrap themselves in Spongebob duvets and throw themselves down the stairs in despair at the impossibility of acquiring 2 olympic tickets within the 4 minute allotted window.

Eventually, I trudge back home to watch the grand prix! 00:30? Ah - I can watch Cloverfield rip-off Monster on Sy-fy till it starts and then zzzzzzzzzzz...

...zzzzzzzz....

...wuzzat, eh, whut... oh, bugger! Fell asleep and woked up just as the Grand Prix credits roll...

I's been to Ipswiiich, where hot babes seen...

Ok - yesterday we's walking through Ipshit, having a general walkabout, eyeing up the AntBabes parading round the promenade. When all of a sudden, our view is obscured by the approach of a billboarded bus.

And what was on this hoarding?

Only some sexy strumpet ina skin tight leather catsuit!

So, more of a Whore-ding, then!

"So, Xym, are you going to see The Dark Knight Rises then?"

"Are you kidding? Of COURSE I am! Catwoman in skin tight leather catsuit? Obviously I'm going to see it.

In IMAX.

In 3D."

"Xym - you really need to get out more"

"What do you mean? I AM getting out more. I'm getting out to the cinema more - Kate Beckinsale in skin tight PVC in IMAX 3D, and now to see Anne Hathaway in a skin tight leather catsuit in IMAX 3D. Need to get out more indeed!"

*cue much shakings of head in despair*

He was a gay stripper...

One way ticket, yeah!
It took us soooooooo long
To get there
But did we care...

No.

Most emphatically, NO!

After kicking The Midwitch out of bed, who was still all a-bubboze thinking it was narry but a jocularious jape, we went to Hell.

A ghost town of emptyness with the occasional humanoid.

Fucktards of munterescent trollage lumbering down the roads.

15yr old grannies pushing perambulators.

Window licking inbred deformities shambling in the road.

Cyclits displaying their general cuntyness.

And then The Town. The Terrible Town. The desolate wastes of The North, with naught but 6 doughnuts for £1.50 for sustainance, with a palette cleanser of candyfloss.

And buggery sod all else.

And then, after wasting most of the day getting to The Shithole Where Nowt Is Going On Or Barely Open, it's off to Skegness!

Just in time to find out Subway has closed down, and the market is closing up.

And, back to the pleasing climes of Norfolk, and Potter number 5.

3 to go.

Bella Bella Bella Boobs, show me more, show me more...

(almost) Summer Lovin', but having a blast at Leavesden Studios.

And not the Levison Inquiry!

Lots of sets to walkthrough, props to see, costumes to ogle up.

Note to self: Exclamations of "See that corset? Helena Bonham-Carter's tits were bursting out of that! And her arse and flange grazed that skirt!" do not go down well with young mums with feral offspring.

Honestly, are some people born cunts, or do they just get cunty kicked into them?

There be loads of people stood with cameras, about to take a shot of The Potter's Cottage or something. The perfect shot lined up... and some gobshite walks right in front. And stops. Looking at something behind YOU. Or just stands there, Motionless. For hours. Transfixed by a wig or hypnotised by a petticoat.

And it's always the same folk - no matter whereabouts you are in the venue. About to take a shot and it's the bloody same trollop/brat/vacuous twat blocking yer shot!

Still, WE had fun! For we had butterbeers, flew brooms, and bought every flavour beans and chocolate frogs.

With a great big poster of Trixie, as well as her wand!

And finished off with a KFC Family Fuckit served by incompentent staff who stock not the BBQ beans, and forget quaffage requires cups, and edible fayre requires plates.

Still, the cleaning wench made up for any disappointments!

Chip chippery, chip chippery, no chips for you...

Ah, Great Yha-Nth'lei.

Populated with batrachian behemoths of ill-temper, bad attitudes and lack of manners. Shoving past in Martyn's walkaround store to get at the dildos and inflatable sheeps.

Frequented by the lumbering munterscent troll life in their camel-hooved leggings so sheer you can read the label upon their humongous lacey patterned pants.

Home of the Pretties whom stalk The Xym, calling him The Cool Dude as they repeatedly pass by with girly grins and wavey arms.

Town of the ill-stocked shopkeep, who 'only yesterday' sold the last of the fare that Fatboy Xym always partakes of for luncheon upon the seafront! Grrrrr!

Even Dagon of the Deep conspires to deny Xym a lunch of The Lard, as if hinting that even Fate thinks he's a great fat porker who could do with a few less suety dinners.

Oh well, a carvery it is then!

Well, a sliver of turkey awash with Paxo on an overlarge baguette appears to be the web-fingered denizens idea of a carvery.

Feed that Dusty Bin!

At least I got to sit on the seafront and perv at be admired by promenade Pretties, who fall under the spell of the purple plume of awesomeness!

But at least I returned back for Sexy Sewage-Curtailed to provide me with new telecommunicative device!

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