P'tah!
I got some of that Indy's Truck Table gel to get a High Barnett, as I wanted to jump on the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull bandwagon and keep my hair all flared out & spikey. So, I puts it in me mop, and does it stay in place?
Does it buggery sod as like! Flop all over the shop it do!
So much for dancing on me noggin, and pulling the hood of me hoodie up and down and me hair springing back into place COZ IT DON'T!
Shame, coz if I decide to go to 80s night on Friday, I was gonna gel it all up in a Follicle Seagull stylee.
Shan't bother now!
Clearly, It's because Xym ain't worth it.
Wednesday, 14 May 2008
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
Je vous parie ne peut pas mettre un 'Fruit Pastilles' dans votre bouche sans le mâche...
Today, within our hallowed halls, there echoed the sounds of a Small Soft Hamish trumpeting away, and we recalled one of the best reasons work working out of them city.
The M&S Scotchman outside M&S!
There is a time and place for bagpipes – primarily on the Mull of Kintyre album which should never be let near a gramophone (although my phone's quite heavy at several grams).
Failing to be restricted to avoidable Wings collections, the time is Joolz Holland's Hootananny – although I'd prefer a Shootananny, preferably that trollop out of How You Solve A Problem Like Maria, easily solved by a driveby shootoin from a speedily passing goat.
Anyhoo, the only place bagpipes should be played is in a great big castle in the middle of some deserted highland, before a great roaring fire with a couple of crossed claymores above it. And an moose head on the wall. And dresssed in full regalia – A William O'Shatner on the noggin, a benedictine monk in your sock, Kilt and sporran (with full array of silver twiddly bits).
Such a combo inevitable leads to a impromptu Hogmanay to the tune of "Hoots Mon, There's Joose loose aboot this hoose" and much partaking of the Wine Gum (as The Scotch are well famed for excessive wine about the gums. And Whiskey.)
But it's not all Och Aye The Noo in the sweetie division. Oh no, Le Francais are well into their sugary treats, for they have devoted a whole commemoration to it, when Rowntree had a revolution against Basset (Frenchly pronounced Bassay).
Seems the french revolution was an uprising against the consumption of Jelly Babies in favour of the Fruit Pastille, and La Guillotine was used to behead jelly babies bonces (which leads to our current tradition of biting the heads off Jelly Babies). This overthrow of power is now celebrated as the Fête de la Fédération, or as we English say, Pastille Day.
Revolutionary biscuits of Italy, and now Revolutionary sweeties of France!
The M&S Scotchman outside M&S!
There is a time and place for bagpipes – primarily on the Mull of Kintyre album which should never be let near a gramophone (although my phone's quite heavy at several grams).
Failing to be restricted to avoidable Wings collections, the time is Joolz Holland's Hootananny – although I'd prefer a Shootananny, preferably that trollop out of How You Solve A Problem Like Maria, easily solved by a driveby shootoin from a speedily passing goat.
Anyhoo, the only place bagpipes should be played is in a great big castle in the middle of some deserted highland, before a great roaring fire with a couple of crossed claymores above it. And an moose head on the wall. And dresssed in full regalia – A William O'Shatner on the noggin, a benedictine monk in your sock, Kilt and sporran (with full array of silver twiddly bits).
Such a combo inevitable leads to a impromptu Hogmanay to the tune of "Hoots Mon, There's Joose loose aboot this hoose" and much partaking of the Wine Gum (as The Scotch are well famed for excessive wine about the gums. And Whiskey.)
But it's not all Och Aye The Noo in the sweetie division. Oh no, Le Francais are well into their sugary treats, for they have devoted a whole commemoration to it, when Rowntree had a revolution against Basset (Frenchly pronounced Bassay).
Seems the french revolution was an uprising against the consumption of Jelly Babies in favour of the Fruit Pastille, and La Guillotine was used to behead jelly babies bonces (which leads to our current tradition of biting the heads off Jelly Babies). This overthrow of power is now celebrated as the Fête de la Fédération, or as we English say, Pastille Day.
Revolutionary biscuits of Italy, and now Revolutionary sweeties of France!
Monday, 12 May 2008
Put yer lurve to the test...
Oft I have said about them there Fates having it on for me, and once again Dame Fortuna had lifted her skirts and golden showered within her Big Knickers and ensured she has go-faster skid streaks to make the felonous faeries deflate my fun and ruin all my exuberant bubble.
Thought I'd book The Train so I can go and buy my Heat magazine on 12th July - So, let's try National Express for ticketyboo.
Oooh, train there for £6 quid, return for £6 quid! Hurrah - best just check compardres don't want tickets. Aha, they do - recheck! Damn, just sold out of £6 tickets - it's £12 to come home now.
Recheck times - feck on a whistle, It's now £12 there and £12 back!
Oh, I'll get the earlier train there - feckariddle! It's still £12 there but it's £24 quid back now!
I don't think it's wise to recheck prices, it'll be like, a million squids next! I'll have to get a quote off've confused.com and win that star prize!
Maybe I'll do a Martin Kemp and prance all the way from Norwich to Londinium...
Thought I'd book The Train so I can go and buy my Heat magazine on 12th July - So, let's try National Express for ticketyboo.
Oooh, train there for £6 quid, return for £6 quid! Hurrah - best just check compardres don't want tickets. Aha, they do - recheck! Damn, just sold out of £6 tickets - it's £12 to come home now.
Recheck times - feck on a whistle, It's now £12 there and £12 back!
Oh, I'll get the earlier train there - feckariddle! It's still £12 there but it's £24 quid back now!
I don't think it's wise to recheck prices, it'll be like, a million squids next! I'll have to get a quote off've confused.com and win that star prize!
Maybe I'll do a Martin Kemp and prance all the way from Norwich to Londinium...
Sunday, 11 May 2008
Look into my eyes...
Clearly, I'm a bit thick!
Trick or Treat:
Trick = Something Nasty
Treat = Something Nice
I must be missing something when a treat is making you perform electrickery on a puddy tat!
Someone's been catching Cat's Eye a bit too much... or someone's got cat shit in their eyes.
A treat is a treat, in other words something good.
You know I...
Bzzzzzzz - Miaow - goin' on up to the kitty in the sky...
Bloody Shark...
Trick or Treat:
Trick = Something Nasty
Treat = Something Nice
I must be missing something when a treat is making you perform electrickery on a puddy tat!
Someone's been catching Cat's Eye a bit too much... or someone's got cat shit in their eyes.
A treat is a treat, in other words something good.
You know I...
You know I...
You know I...
You know I-e-I...
You know I just know you're gonna go and kill a pussy
Utah Saints
Utah Saints
Utah Saints
U-U-U-Utah Saints, etc
Bzzzzzzz - Miaow - goin' on up to the kitty in the sky...
Bloody Shark...
Saturday, 10 May 2008
Holes in the poles...
...is not, as you would initially think, some erotic movie concerning the insertion of polished poles into the orifices of polish folk, but the entrance points to the Hollow Earth.
As you are probably aware, dear reader, there is an underground city known as Shamballah, and the entrances to this mystical realm are found by cavernous holes in both the north and south poles.
Now, legend has it that it is from this mystical city that the world is run by bipedal lizards in Edgar suits, and the Tibetans (ousted by the Chinese) are forced to burrow throught the Earths mantle, creating a network of tunnels allowing the Illuminatii to listen in on various world leaders secret plans.
Unfortunately, Satnav isn't available in the underworld, so sometimes the tibetan tunnelers go astray. Seems that one has ended up poking his spade too far and breached The World Above. Typically, his error wasn't in some secluded field, or australian cellar/prison, but Newmarket Road, causing consternation to the automotive populace!
It's all the Daily Llama's fault - he likes a good laugh, sitting there in his milk bottle goggles giggling like a schoolgirl, rather than putting an end to his brethren's subterranean antics!
Taoist Tunnellers and Bhuddist Burrowers - It's only a matter of time afore they cross paths with Shudde M'ell - and you don't want tentacled beasties on your trail if you have state secrets to secrete in Shamballah!
Although, I thought Shamballah was some jamacan spicy ricey dish...
As you are probably aware, dear reader, there is an underground city known as Shamballah, and the entrances to this mystical realm are found by cavernous holes in both the north and south poles.
Now, legend has it that it is from this mystical city that the world is run by bipedal lizards in Edgar suits, and the Tibetans (ousted by the Chinese) are forced to burrow throught the Earths mantle, creating a network of tunnels allowing the Illuminatii to listen in on various world leaders secret plans.
Unfortunately, Satnav isn't available in the underworld, so sometimes the tibetan tunnelers go astray. Seems that one has ended up poking his spade too far and breached The World Above. Typically, his error wasn't in some secluded field, or australian cellar/prison, but Newmarket Road, causing consternation to the automotive populace!
It's all the Daily Llama's fault - he likes a good laugh, sitting there in his milk bottle goggles giggling like a schoolgirl, rather than putting an end to his brethren's subterranean antics!
Taoist Tunnellers and Bhuddist Burrowers - It's only a matter of time afore they cross paths with Shudde M'ell - and you don't want tentacled beasties on your trail if you have state secrets to secrete in Shamballah!
Although, I thought Shamballah was some jamacan spicy ricey dish...
Friday, 9 May 2008
rrrrrrrrrrRATBURGERS...
This isn't Xymon, your blogger, friends...
This is something that looks like Xymon...
Acts like Xymon..
Smells like Xymon...
Even talks bollocks like Xymon...
But in reality, it's a martian..
You mean...?
Yes...
Our Xymon is a pod person from the planet Mars!
Gaaah! I've been pricked with a ring and turning into a giant green turd to emit tendril vines out me belly to turn the living room into woodland shrubbery!
Ninmma nimma neh
Quick! Get the horn (whey-hey!)
Well, let me give it to you straight. You see, I am a single, unattached guy. And I live upstairs, right above you. Now, I'm into swinging, and children having pillow fights at all hours of the night while I'm trying to score, may cause a few strikeouts, you get me!
Oooh, must get some pancake mix in the kitchen to go with the cock shaped singing toadstool.
Must learn the dance to Summertime Blues before my next boogie...
But beware...
YOUR CANARY IS A POD PERSON FROM THE PLANET MARS!!!!!
This is something that looks like Xymon...
Acts like Xymon..
Smells like Xymon...
Even talks bollocks like Xymon...
But in reality, it's a martian..
You mean...?
Yes...
Our Xymon is a pod person from the planet Mars!
Gaaah! I've been pricked with a ring and turning into a giant green turd to emit tendril vines out me belly to turn the living room into woodland shrubbery!
Ninmma nimma neh
Ninmma nimma nimma neh
La la
Quick! Get the horn (whey-hey!)
Well, let me give it to you straight. You see, I am a single, unattached guy. And I live upstairs, right above you. Now, I'm into swinging, and children having pillow fights at all hours of the night while I'm trying to score, may cause a few strikeouts, you get me!
Oooh, must get some pancake mix in the kitchen to go with the cock shaped singing toadstool.
Must learn the dance to Summertime Blues before my next boogie...
But beware...
YOUR CANARY IS A POD PERSON FROM THE PLANET MARS!!!!!
Thursday, 8 May 2008
Put a ’wurr’ after W, and a ’wurr’ after O...
I knew that hot Irish bird off've The Apprentice looked familiar...
...it's bloody Aunt Sally from Scatterbrain Farm! A Una Stubbs for the noughties (and who didn't want to get naughty with the painted doll in a haystack, back in the day!).
I suppose that would make Sir Alan a kind of Crowman, but although he may have the grizzled look, I can't see him shuffling about a field pulling a wheelbarrow, all bedecked in feathered millinery products.
Forget "You're Fired", it'd be like "You're Stuffed (full of hay)!)
It'd be dead ace to be able to switch heads though! I'm fed up of boufifng up me barnet, but for it to deflate and flop after travelling through wind & rain to my destination. At least with a spare head I could get to a dance hall, a quick switch, and I'm all impressively follicled again!
And you could be out on the dance floor, strutting your funky stuff, while your other head is buried in some young maidens muff (or, in my case, being kicked whilst it spouts bollocks about stamp thieving gnomes, loch ness camels, and general random shite that no-one can find the wavelength to).
Ooooh - and if you dropped your spare head on the floor, it could sprout legs, like the one in The Thing, and go scuttling about like some aerobic arachnid.
Or something.
Double ooooh - what would be better would be having a spare body! Then, I could have my At Home body, feeding on Roulade and Ragout, but come Hades Night - pop on my svelte Bird Pulling body and I'll be well in there! No more repulsive sweaty mass of wobbling lard sending gorgeous gothettes into a frenzy of fornication avoidance! Let me apply a slim, toned, Humpmeister Generale bod to get hot EMO chicks into rampant rabbits wrigging on my rod!
No more Pheromones for me - fed up with Two Ton (Nick) Kamen bewailing his loss of pop chart buffoonery and soiling his undercrackers on filthy launderette seats.
I hear he groped Jeremy Vine...
...it's bloody Aunt Sally from Scatterbrain Farm! A Una Stubbs for the noughties (and who didn't want to get naughty with the painted doll in a haystack, back in the day!).
I suppose that would make Sir Alan a kind of Crowman, but although he may have the grizzled look, I can't see him shuffling about a field pulling a wheelbarrow, all bedecked in feathered millinery products.
Forget "You're Fired", it'd be like "You're Stuffed (full of hay)!)
It'd be dead ace to be able to switch heads though! I'm fed up of boufifng up me barnet, but for it to deflate and flop after travelling through wind & rain to my destination. At least with a spare head I could get to a dance hall, a quick switch, and I'm all impressively follicled again!
And you could be out on the dance floor, strutting your funky stuff, while your other head is buried in some young maidens muff (or, in my case, being kicked whilst it spouts bollocks about stamp thieving gnomes, loch ness camels, and general random shite that no-one can find the wavelength to).
Ooooh - and if you dropped your spare head on the floor, it could sprout legs, like the one in The Thing, and go scuttling about like some aerobic arachnid.
Or something.
Double ooooh - what would be better would be having a spare body! Then, I could have my At Home body, feeding on Roulade and Ragout, but come Hades Night - pop on my svelte Bird Pulling body and I'll be well in there! No more repulsive sweaty mass of wobbling lard sending gorgeous gothettes into a frenzy of fornication avoidance! Let me apply a slim, toned, Humpmeister Generale bod to get hot EMO chicks into rampant rabbits wrigging on my rod!
No more Pheromones for me - fed up with Two Ton (Nick) Kamen bewailing his loss of pop chart buffoonery and soiling his undercrackers on filthy launderette seats.
I hear he groped Jeremy Vine...
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