That's why the Lady is a vamp...

Wamphyri! The Ladies of the æries. The porphyric Pretties with the poisoned (parallel to premolar) proboscii preying on pleasant peasant Pretties. The fanged females feeding on flange. or something.

Anyhoo, last night, I hit upon converse as to a long studied ephemeral interpretation of Day, and the subject turned to vampirism. Now, the pre-amble went like this:
"I've come to the conclusion that it is Day."
"If there are 24 hours in a day, then there's no hours left for night. ergo, night doesn't exist"
"Wot about Vampires then? How can they come out in Day if there's no night?"
"Dumbass vampires - can't go out in the burny sun? Slap on some Ambre Cirque Du Soleil, factor Ginger Anemia+.  Problem solved, and you smell all coconutty and not of musty tombs - all the better to seduce virgins with."

At this point, a Vampiric Pretty pointed out they liked the scent of musty old tombs, to which it was pointed out that they had no choice, what with their nasal orifice being about 2 inches from the ground when hanging all upsidey-down by their taloned tootsies, and such a pose "does no good for your glamour in a dress"

Now, there is a triplicity of error with this.

Firstly, as all the wold knows, Vampires sleep in coffins and not all upsidey down, so there is little chance of their diaphanous dress dropping to reveal their racy lacy licentious labial linen¹.

Second, Ladyvamps don't sleep in coffins anyways. They tend to drape themselves alluringly in soft focus looking all invitingly mussy on a rumpled bed, wanton succubuses that they are!

Take The Lost Boys. Jack Bauer and Bill S. Preston Esq.² - Vampy blokes all hanging upsidey-down... but not Star. Where does Star sleep? On that sexually inviting messy bed, surrounded by soft focused lacy drapes in a steamy erotic 80s outfit. Does Michael walk in to the lair only to find himself face-to-flange with the kipper stench of Star's snatch? No, because for some reason, vamp women tend not to taunt their victims through seduction via the lure of inversion perversion.

And thirdly, No good for Glamour? I've heard of Glamour. Glamour Models and their Glamour Shots, brazenly baring their boobies for the camera! If anything, hanging all upsidey-down with your dress falling down to your face, presenting your pussy to all and sundry as your bared busoms bounce about is surely the epitome of Glamour!

In fact, I'm pretty sure most vampirettes are glammuh moduls. Apart from The Lost Boys, most wamphyri women once bit tend to end up in the aformentioned diaphanous gowns with no undercrackers. Gowns that tend to lack a frontispiece in which to encase their unfettered knockers. In other words; 99% of vampire Pretties are inevitably topless.

UNLESS, of course, that Vamp is one you really wanna see the norks of. Take Dracula with Sirius Black³. Every single bloody lady Vampire with their bountiful assets pounding the screen. A veritable cornucopia of unrestricted bouncing breastiture lezzing it up! Oooh, and finally Winona Ryder gets bit and becomes a vamp!

And do we gets to see Winona's wazzo pair of bang tidy wangers? Do we buggery fuck as like! I sat through the whole of that movie, waiting for Winona to whip her watermelons out, and it was a waste of tittytime. As usual, it's one rule for cheap tarts desperate to get into the movies, and another for celebs who don't want their baps papped!

And that's why it's glamourous for Pretties to pose upsidey-down in dresses...

...oh wait... oh my! Pretties posing upside down in dresses!

I think that has to be the new look for when Asylum starts! Goth Pretties, all dolled up in vampire dresses, dangling upsidey-down by the entrance to greet The Xym the Goth Elite!

Take note my Pretties, THIS is the new fashion...

¹ UNDEAD-ERGARMENTS? UNDEAD-ERWEAR (UNDEAD AWARE... UNDEAD, I WEAR...)?

² THE ONE WHO ISN'T KEANU REEVES IN BILL AND TED. TED, PROBABLY.

³ DAMMIT! WHY COULDN'T BELLATRIX LESTRANGE BE A VAMPIRE INSTEAD OF A DEATH EATER? PARADING AROUND THE MINISTY OF MAGIC, DANCING AS SHE SINGS "♪ I KILLED SIRIUS BLACK ♫" WITH HER NUDIE JUGS JIGGLING UNDER MESMERISING GRAVITATIONAL AND CENTRIFUGAL FORCES AND...
...SORRY, WHERE WAS I AGAIN...?

A-wah.. oh no! He's a Morris Dancer...

One of my Pretties today said they wanted some Morris Men.

Betcha don't find them on Uniform Dating Dot Cum!

Anyhoo - it got me thinking.

This time of year, Norwich tends to get infested with cider drinking dancing loons with scarves and bells...

...no, wait... that's just me going out on a Saturday night!

But there does tend to have an overabundance of men & women blighting various points in the City with their tomfoolery. And then it hit me.

Not clobbered by a bladder onna stick - exactly why we have so many Maurice Dancers. And it's all down to that agéd legend outside Primark: The Puppet Man.

Old and wizend beyong time and measure and sadly reduced to pawing at the air with a sock whilst singing along to Return my flashermac  by Our Kelly, in his younger days he lived in Foreign Parts.

Namely Hamélin!

And prior to pop and puppets, it was piccolo's and puppets! Yes - The Puppet man once was Ye Olde Piéd Piper! And Morris Men are the long lost children he led away to be groomed for a life of imprisonment and cellar sex slave seduction dancing in the street and masochismically bopping each other on the bonce with a stout stick to satisy the satyr's sadistical lust fulfill his street entertainment legacy.

Apparently, some got away from him. One rebel rebelled, and instead of More Reece-Pieces Dancing, turned his oral ordeal into something even more horrendous.

Took up the bagpipes and took up residence by M&S to inflict his screechy bladdersack upon ye City.

Other More Rice Dancers formed Tribes outside the City, and split into The Manics and The Men Of Kent.

Apparently, The Manics design for life was to black out their faces, whilst The Men Of Kent went for white shirts and Bowler Hats. It would therefore appear that The Piéd Puppeteer Outside Primark has been brainwashing them on a diet of The Black And White Minstrel Show and A Clockwork Orange.

Still, I'm told that Morris Dancers are so wonderfully British when they jingle. 

Although I believe Operation YouTree take a different view to mandems of drunken British blokes with their jingle jangle..

"Now then now then, what have we here? I have, on my hand, a young lady, who says "Dear Jimmeh, could you fix it for me, to become a Morris dancer?". Well, goodness gracious, would you believe it, I just so happen to have a bell right here about my person. Now then, grab hold of the bell end, and give that stick a damn good bashing about the head. That's it - sing it bitch! ♪ You're my Morris Dancer / a dancer for money / I'll what you want me to do ♫! Oh yes! Jingle Jangle Jewellery!  Me bladder-onna-stick's about to burst and bukkake your face. Uh-huhr-uh-huhr-uh-huhr!"

or something...

A-wah-oh-wow! He's the campest dancer...

Now, those of you that've been out with me know how I "dance".

Apparently, I'm a really good dancer. A man with rhythm. A veritable whirlwind of flouncy-ass arm waving preposterousness. One who has the moobs like Jabba.

I also vary my stylee according to the musicality on offer. For examplature:
● Stone Roses - double over, lurch about like an ape ¹
● Happity Mondays - paw about like Bez. And pretend you have a pair of maracas.²
● Oh Arses - Clasp arms about base of back, bend forwards, crane neck upward, tilt head to one side and bellow ³
● The Mission - lots of gothy arm waving
● Adnams pissed his pants - lots of knee kicks and twirling about like a Red Indian doing a rain dance.
● Saturday Night - prescribes set of moves as laid down by Whiggers
● B52's - Lots of 60s style moves, and pretending your hands are lobsterial pincers. Nip! Nip! Nip!

You know the type of thing.

Anyhoo, last night saw the return to The WhatACunt of The Gay Dancer.

You've been to The WhatACunt - you know who I mean. Him, In the extremely tight denim jeans with the pointy brown boots. The blue bandana. The long sandy hair.

The same camp dance for every song that makes him look like a right girly girl in a big girl's blouse!.

Every dance the same, like a tart in a cage on The Hitman And Her. Quick, Travolta-y stomach clasps and arm thrusts, the shuffly quick-step, The Jackson Twirl. All he's missing is doing the splits.

Still, his dancing may be a bent as a paperclip that's been origami'd to buggery, but not as sexual as The Strumpet Blonde's Dance.

Remember the Lambada? Strewth - ratchet it up a few notches! There was practically intercourse on the dance floor! Not so much flexible as contortionistary! She was almost doubled over, thrusting her groin into his upper leg, one hand desperately tring to hold her skirt to cover her arse.

And failing.

And there's me, dancing to The Charlatans, one hand clasped over my eye as I take the form of Bowie's celebrated gnomic dance to their Britpoptastic hit The Only One-Eyed Gnome.

I don't know - some people just.
Can't.
Dance!

¹ AS OPPOSED TO:
   STONE ROSES - DANCE LIKE A HORSE
   STONE ROSES - DANCE LIKE A HORSE
   LOOK AT HIM GO
   LOOK AT HIM DANCE
   STONE ROSES - DANCE.
   LIKE.
  A HORSE.

² SEE ¹ AND REPLACE STONE ROSES WITH HAPPITY MONDAYS

³ SEE ¹ AND REPLACE STONE ROSES WITH... YOU GET THE PICTURE. SAME FOR ALL THE OTHERS.

At The Marquee, grade zero, gathering a chavscum crew...

Lament.

Repaint.

No more venue.

So sad. So sad.

Hollow of atmosfear be The Marquee.

Oh, whatever happened. It used to be such a fine place. An alternative venue that looked alternative, sounded alternative, and stank of piss.

In fact, the only thing that marred The Maquee was the aroma of ammonia.

But since the revamp... nasty!

Ok, the reek of stale urine is gone, and that's nice. But that's the only improvement.

Painted up like a wine bar, poor service, a lack of drinks, and the clientele...

...no more the goths, punks, EMOs, alternatives. In with the Chavscum and their Chavettes, who get in early and shove many a £2 into the jukebox to play ear blisteringly loud tunage of the Fisty Scent, Awful 69 bobbins.

"I'm blue, da ba dee dab a gag gag gag urgh!"
Yeah, you're blue coz my strangulatory fingers be putting you out of my misery...

...Oi! You! Take your fingers away from that One Direction button. And don't you even think about that Bieber option!

I hate this place.

And I'm on me own. For 20-odd minutes being defeaned by music of the Busted variety - why not stick bloody Stephanie from Lazytown on?

"Bing bang biddy biddy bong!" - fit right in with this craptacular cacophony!

Lucky - finally, here comes my saviour Sister - a brace of brethren to inject some alternativeness into an alleged alternative pub.

Alternative pub my arse.

You won't find me in dis pub,
Drinkin' lots o' Schlöer
Come give me a hug
Coz it gettin' on me nerves

And we hateses it, doesn't we Precious?

Hakuna Qatada...

Well, according to that there News type stuff, alleged radical Islamist terrorist preacher of hate Oh My Mothman-Prophecies, he'll voluntarily go back to Jordan if a "no torture treaty" is ratified.

Now, I don't know about you, but even Peter André wouldn't go back to Jordan!

And by No Torture Treaty, I assume they mean a promise of never having to hear her sing.

I remember her dirge of a lament A Whore's Nude World what she did with the aforementioned star of incessant ITV2 staple video diaries that never bloody end. Peter André: My Shite or something.

Then again, I never knew Katie Price and Abu Qatada were together, let alone split up, nor that he even wanted to get back with the salacious seductress of the West.

First it's Captain Hook, aka Abu Hamsandwich Al-Misery, and now Theresa May wants to play matchmaker and get him sent back to Jordan!

Why palm him off (oo-er missus!) on his ex? Why not get a ton of vestal vigins on Take Me Out? Let the terrorist see the bomb-vest. Let the beard see the burkha. Let the bingo wings see the Mecca.

Hold on... that Theresa May... she keeps having him locked up under house arrest.

I don't know, all this outcry over Hispanic schoolbus drivers keeping abducted sex slaves in their basement, yet Theresa is happy to imprison the islamic infidel in his own home. Probably returning every night to ride his muslim manhood on film for opposition member Jacqui Smith's husband. She claims he's a danger to society... yet wants him sent back to Jordan. Probably so she can have a threeway and lezz up with Katie Price.

Danger to society my arse - she just wants his Monster Cock all to herself, sharing it only with big titted former models. MPs - pervs the lot of 'em! If it's not gay rape, affairs or brothel running, it's incarcerating insurgents for their sexual deviancy in their own home dungeons!

Stinky winkie. Dipshit. Lard Arse. (Master) Po...

Before joining them there Telletubbies, Master Po was a Shaolin priest, teaching Kwai Chang Caine the ancient art of Kung-Fu: walking on rice paper without creasing it, lifting boiling oversized pots of scalding green tea to scar your burny arms as you lift them, etc.

And, indoctrinated into masochistic meditative techniques, ended up a pervy git who ended up dying in a wardrobe in some nudie autoerotic asphyxiation masurbatory accident.

"Master, if I shall love others, how can I be sure that they in return will love me in return?"
"Do you seek love or barter?"
"But, if I love others and they do not love me, I shall feel great pain."
"That is what you risk grasshopper great pain, or great joy. Just don't seek an amalgamation of the two all nudie in a wardrobe with a bag over your head and a noose round your neck whilst having a wank"

Anyhoo, according to the news, he's up and about again. Frottaging what's left of The Beatles.

The insect kindgom is one red in tooth and claw... well, mandibles and raspy rubby legs, and feeding off other species is well documented. And now we has Glasshopper nomming on Beetles.

Poor Macca, so senile that the only thing left in his bonce is the ability to play nothing but Hey Jude on the piano, whist getting the lyrics wrong. And now he has to contend with a clone army of a horde of Grasshoppers mobbing him onstage.

Saffron robes a-twirling as they clobber him with their oversized flutes with their mantra of "For Buddha's Saké, please play something other than fucking Hey Jude, and fucking learn when to fucking stop instead of fucking repeating "naaa naaa na na-na-na-naaaa, na-na-na-naaa He Juuude" for fucking 20 minutes in a fucking incessant loop! Play We All Stand Together for a change - we loves The Frog Chorus, y'bastid"

Ah, grasshopper...

"Close your eyes. What do you hear?"

"I hear the water, I hear the birds."

"Do you hear your own heartbeat?"

"No."

"Do you hear the grasshopper which is at your feet?"

"Old man, how is it that you hear these things?"

"Young man, how is it that you do not?"

"Because, Master, all I can hear is Paul Fucking M^cCartney playing fucking Hey Jude again for the Daily Llama in the Tibetean Temple for some Taoist Benefit gig to recoup the millions that Heather Mills got in compensation for him gnawing her leg off after being denied meat by Linda M^cCartney for so long. Can't you teach me the Five Finger Death Punch like Pai Mei so I can free the world from Hey Jude instead of all this metaphysical mystical philosophical bobbins?"

"You are young, grasshopper. Remember: Motivating rhythm of life with a cultural revival, this is survival. Natural magical patterns of percussion is the discussion, so listen up close. Let it connect you to the powers that be with healing rhythmic synergy. Techno tribal and positively primal, shamanic, anarchistic, archaic revival."

"eh, whut?"

"Activate the rhythm. The rhythm that has always been within... you!"

"Fuck that shit. Tighten these knots and point me to the nearest closet, for I think I'll forgo Shaolinism in favour of Onanism this afternoon - I've certainly got a rhythm for that!"

They wants him here, they wants him there...

They wants that Xymni everywhere!

So, there I is, busily beavering away to redeem myself and keep me job, when a Staufian bleepery emits from my jellybone. Farcebook Notification!

"Yo, Xym! You going to Shitploppin' down The WhatACunt on Sat?"
"Why of course I am! Meet in the Marquee at 8 - already disgust wit t'others!"

And mid-reply, another bleepery emits from my jellybone. Textual harassment!

"Yo, Xym! Do you fancy going to that there Round House thingy in Brixton? It's got Gary Numan, John Foxx, and Wolfganf Flur out of Krafwerk?"

Ooooh! Better check me diary!

Oh, Fucksake! It's on 8th June... and it seems that I've been pre-booked to attend a gatherance of transvestitive others for The Rocky Balboa Show or something. Buggery fucksticks.

"Right, I has a clash! I might be able to shift my Theatre Royal Tickets, but how much is Numan, etc"
"£35"

eeep! Back to WhatACuntery converse:
"Right, IF I don't go to Rocky Horror, do you wants me ticket (seeing as you were left out in favour of other, less deserving ticket thieving trollops)"
"Well, I can't afford it now. I could then, but not now. And you do realise it's ShatPoopin' the same night?"

Arse gravy with floaty bits of uncrumbled OXO cubes!

So not only would I have to bail on Rocky (no big deal - at least I'd have a valid excuse for not turning up in a basque & leather knickers), my Local sister would be most upset if I was not there for ShitPloppin'. And "The Giraffe" would be left in the lurch sans Marquee... although there wouldn't be any tension nor fear as there would be no Xym to attract gayboy chavscum who disguise their enamourment of The Xym with a desire to get into a fight as a lame excuse to engage in wrestling...

...wrestling Xym to the ground in an poorly veiled attempt to sodomize The Xym, more likely!

On the other hand, if I stick to what I agreed to do in the first place, I miss out on a trimvirate of top electropoppin'... although I have seen Numan quite recently, John Foxx last week, and it's only ¼ of Kraftwerk. But Pogoboy would probably end up missing his special line up, and it'd be ALL XYM'S FAULT! On the other hand, I would be saving him £35 (plus autovehicular fuleage costs on top).

Decisions, decisions.

Decision made - I did agree to the date last year, and already puchased a ticket for Rocky & Bullwinkle, and BritPoppin' won't be the same without The Xym. So, I shall save my cash strapped friends some money and get meself down The Theatre Royal and The WhatACunt.

I'll make up for it - I'll take The Curtii to see Star Trek: Into Darkness instead!