Cymbals clashing everywhere...

Well, not so much cymbals, more gongs.

As ever, we came fourth in the final, last ever quiz (which may end in a month or three). However, it has been an evening of much oriental mirth.

The Fu Manchu moustchios!

The audio accompanyment to pop hits not only in "club singer" style, but also in new improved stereotypical chinafolk "Crub singer" style! Fu Xym Chu performs top ten tasteless tracks...

...although I'm not sure which is more tasteless. Xym being all flied lice and pwarnee clackers in musical styree, or the Quizmaster playing a triplicity of Glittery goodness, such as, Papa Oooh Mau-mau¹, Doing Alright With The Boys² and Hello Hello I'm Back Again³.

Anyhoo, more orientalism, as a quick stop for some Duck Fried Rice and Spring Roll's to curb my anxiety attack of potential job loss this week.

So, as I sit here, stuffing me great fat face full of Daffy^4, that "tomorrows headlines in the paper" feature is on the tellybox.

Apparently, unlike Bernard Nolan, Murray Walker overcame his F1 cancer and for the first time in 77 years, won the coveted Womble's Bum. Or was it the first time since 1977 a Womble was on the telly, let alone it's bum. Although it's bum probably wasn't left alone - I'll leave that one for Operation Eeeeew Tree.

And Murray won on the 7^th day of the 7^th month too! And with that "77" yeary thing floating about, it makes him either an Antichrist or a Messiah. Or a mechanic on a Marussia when he's not commentating. or something.

Point is, these headlines were claiming that Murray's fans are demanding he's given a gong!

Presumably so he can strip down to a loincloth, and give it a good Rank bashing to get the chinese to serve up his meal of things that the everyday folk left behind that the savvy chef's gathered up and bunged in the pot noodle.

Gongs my arse! I think they mean "awards". However, I've noted that a lot of people on the tellybox say "And such-and-such a twat is up for a gong at the Shits" or "That actor (who's female but we can't call an actress because it's politically incorrect) is up for a gong for their performance of Miss Congeniality 3: Pimarché (where ♥Sandra Bollock♥ plays an undercover cop who detects dodgy dealings, this time in tight leggings showing off her swipe card reader to full effect)".

NO!

A gong is not an award. The term comes from them talent shows in the Black & Whites (60s?) when instead of Simon Cowell whacking Danni Minogues button for a big fat X, they banged a gong to stop the act coz it was SHIT.

So, you get a gong for being UTTER SHITE! And now, these so-called "celebs" are eager to get their mitts on a gong! And now, someone's fans are demanding that some scotchman who whacks his balls over a fence at Womble's Bum has to get a gong for winning? Surely you have to be good to be a winner, so deserves an award?

Honestly, these young folk today, and their dissin'!

"Yeah, he won Womble Bum - but I'd've rang that gong in round #1 and stopped the match, coz he's shit. I don't care about his number one seed... unless he spills it me strawberries, then the missus can have his cream."

Gongs my best hat!

¹ HEY JEFF - TELL 'EM T'JOKE ABOUT MAU-MAU. PINEAPPLES! UP THE ARSE! DEATH BY MAU-MAU! ON A SIMILAR NOTE, IN THIS CONTEXT, THIS SONG TITLE IS VIETNAMESE FOR "WHO'S THE DADDY? OOOH! TAKE IT UP THE ARSE, YOU UNDERAGE TOURIST SEXTRAP!". POSSIBLY. 

² VIETNAMESE BOYS, IN ALL LIKELYHOOD. AND DOING ALRIGHT... UNTIL HE GOT CAUGHT BY THE PÆDO POLICE!

³ BACK AGAIN IN VIETNAM ON THE PROWL FOR JAILBAIT. ALLEGEDLY.

⁴ DUCK, AS IN DAFFY DUCK. NOT DAPPY OUT OF N-DUBZ. ALTHOUGH I WOULDN'T MIND HAVING ME FACE FULL OF TULISA! THEM TWO LISA'S BEING LISA RODGERS AND ... UM... SOME OTHER FAMOUS LISA. THERE MUST BE ANOTHER... URGH - NOT LISA TARBUCK. NOR LEFT-EYE LOPEZ, COZ SHE'D BE A BIT WORMY BY NOW. LISA STANSFIELD... MAYBE? PLEASE SEND SUGGESTIONS FOR FAMOUS LISA'S XYM CAN'T REMEMBER THE SURNAMES OF WHO HE WOULDN'T MIND HAVING A FACE FULL OF TO XYM'S EMAIL. WITH PHOTOSHOPPED IMAGES OF NUDIE LISA'S. OR SOMETHING. OOOH - LISA KUDROW! LISA FRANKEDELSTEIN! 

Garlic bre... plate?...

Yay! It's the Lord Mayor's Thingy!

However, being all miserable again, as it's getting close to Notification If Employed Or Not Day (likely Tuesday), I wasn't in the mood for it.

But it's world market - foreign sweeties! Fudges! Bratwürst! Kartoffel (or something)!

Oh.

Pork Pies and Pork scratchings.

But they dids have the Kartoffel thingy. Although it wasn't the milky creamy cheesy thing they used to have.

Now it's some peppery spicy oh-blimey concoction called pieczone Kartofelki. Which is probably something different. Although instead of potato, bacon and onion and the milky creamy cheesy sauce, it was potato, boiled bacon and sausages in the peppery gloop.

And what else apart from Lancashire cheese & Picallili pork pies did they have.

Whisks.

Whisks and...

Garlic plates!

Plates you rub garlic on.

I know people are gullible, but a plate you rub garlic on?

Just use some sandpaper! 

No entrepreneurial enterprise, some peoples.

Oh well, best get me bestest top hat on, and get ready for fun times down Chav'll thieve guard's pens afore heading to The WhatACunt...

...assuming the DJs handing out free wristbands give me one, and it's not in the hands of that there humourless bag of misery that went crying to him mum because he's a right nob-end!

The King Of Sausage Rolls...

Hot Dog!

Jumping for Albuquerque?

Jumping into bed for a rampant bout of mutual oral arousal, more like!

Of course, yesterday was the 4th of July when them Americans celebrate Will Smith punching a space monster in the face and dragging it to Area 51, before taking The Fly into space to put his Molecular Teleporter code into the mothership and saving all of humanity. 

It's also the day them chunksters stuff their greedy fat hamburger fed faces full of food in eating competitions.

Because nothing says "Fuck you, betentacled space beasties" more than shoving 69 bangers in buns down yer cakehole in 10 minutes.

10 Minutes! Typical Americans. Brag brag brag. However, We Brits have Sting - and he can do 69 for days and days and days on end! 

But not for days on end on the end of David Van Day's end. or something.

And unlike Jeff Goldbum, Sting won't kick over a prop bin, or smoke a fag against all his eco-principles just because he managed to download Angry Birds into an intergalactic menace's mainframe via a most convenient and compatible USB port.

Spielberg should make a porno of ET: Sting: The Extra-Testicle Tantric Something-or-other.

Only he'd have to photoshop out all the cocks and fannies and replace them with mobile phones like he did with ET. Not that ET had cocks and fannies - it had guns and gash. But without the gash. The film, that is - not ET himself. He had neither cock nor fanny. And bloody good job too, coz for most of the film he was all nudie.

Bloody intergalactic doggers - comin' over here, flashin' our wimmin' with their lack of genitalia and thieving off with our foliage. Not to mention forming symbiotic relationships with small boys, and falling in streams with their diseased grey flesh sloughing off into the creek to poison the reservoirs.

Them space monsters had better not think about forming a Xymbiotic relationship with me!  The only biotic relationship Xym wants is a huge tub of Rachel's yoghurt...

...feel free to insert whichever definition of Rachel's yoghurt you deem (in)appropriate!

Eggs Bendydick CumInSnatch! Not. or something...

Yay! Team Breakfast was this morning!

However, I seems the usual 9:30 scoffing session needs to be delayed by about half an hour or so.

So. We gets there, and orders up our grubs. Full English Brekkies more-or-less all round.

Only without them 'orrible organic home-made beans we had last time. Yuck! Give us some mushrooms instead (well, mushrooms in the sense that one mushroom has been sliced in half, giving the impression of a pluralcy of sporocarp sidedish)

So you orders, and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

As familial types waffle on about their various offsprings and shizzle.

Anyhoo, after half an hour... in walks a serving wench. A right Pretty of a serving wench!

And where's Xym sat? With his back to the counter so he can't ogle up the Breakfast babe. :(

But brekkie is served! And some Full Englishes have poachedy eggs, and some have fried. And to save time, the original waitress just says "Poached?" rather than "Full English with poached".

And then comes along the Pretty bearing breakfast, and spreading her arms wide to proffer plates of provender, proclaiming:

"Fried eggs?"

Now, you know The Xym, so what's the first thing that immediately came to mind.

Why, it was all I could do to hold back, and not make comment about her impressive frontage being totally imcomparable to the friedest of fried eggs.

And on top of that (the breakfasting, that is - not on top of the Pretty and breastfeeding. or something), when we left ANOTHER Pretty had arrived!

See - if we'd arrived 30 mins later, and Xym sat on the opposite side o' t'table) Xym would have had a whole breakfast of interrupted oglement!

"Blimey Xym! Do you want the moon onna stick too? Do you need more Pretties? Don't you have at least one Office Pretty to leer at? One in the squeakiest of sneaky shoes of sultry silence rather then the usual thunderous clomping footsteps of the stillettoe'd thigh high shiny leathery boots of the Oh My hotness persuasion?"

Well, yes, but it's not deemed polite to perve over cute collegues in close quarters when stuffing yer face full of bacon! Why, that would certainly make things a tad awkward... not to mention overtly obvious!

"No, Pretty Lady, Xym's not ogling you up. He's just admiring your firm, pert poached eggs...

...and your breakfast looks good too!"

Wah wah wah waaaaaaah....

Did you ever see the fæces of the children they get so excited...

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Eee by gum writer...

"Dear Sir or Madam

would you read my blog

It took 5 mins to write

would you take a look?

It's based on the ramblings of a bloke called Xym

Coz he'll need a job

so he's gonna be a media writer

Without a typewriter!"

Last night I missed both Elektra and Tenebræ due to late night converse with one of the Prettiest of my Pretties.

Which was nice. Perked me right up that has! No longer the self-pitying woe-is-me I's losing me job depressional miseryness - someone's put a huge smile on Xym's face! 

Anyhoo, the topic turned to probability of Xym being turfed out on his ear from IT insurancing, and having to go and sex all them unemployed chavsluts like what's profiled on Jeremy Kyle.

(apparently, I need to Bang A Slaaaag, and then all the other slaaaags will come a-running to The Xym, and I'll be knee-deep in minge in no time!)

But no - Escorting be not the career for Xym. Oh no. Professional writing!

Crikey o'Trousers! You would not believe how many people tell me this.

"Xym - you should be a professional writer. You're dead good at writing words and stuff. You should start writing astrological horriblescopes as part of your blog." etc etc.

And now one of my hottest of hotties suggests the same. Except rather than inform about lunar conjunctions in trine with Pluto as cancer rises on the cusp of uranus causing someone to have a tall, dark stanger spill some coffee down their blouse, I should try somewhere like Archant.

And they do that there Norwich Evening Nudes! I could be the next Stacia Briggs!!

"Ooooh, that Nobby Styles out of 1D - I'd cougar his cock and rape him to death, so his spirit can go all Incubus on Yvette Fielding's ass (coz the busty Ghostbuster is scared he'll nob her when they 'go green' with his phantasmagorical penis and fill her v'jayjay with ectoplasmic ejaculate and impregnate her with a poultrygoose baby)!"

(That's Stacia Briggs latest article, that is!)

Although my style of writing may not go down with that there readership of those who favour factual Daily News of holes in roads and oompa-loompas denying duffing up partygoers.

"Xym - cover them there Go Go Gorillas"

Righty-ho then! I suspect it would start off somewhere along these lines...:

I am most disapponted with these so-called go-go gorillas. As I remember The Go-Go's, it was Belinda Carlisle making piss-flavoured ice cubes, and I've yet to see one of these painted gorillas micturating into a freezer.

But even worse than that, is that none of these go-go gorillas are go-go dancing!

Where are the dancing girls gorillas? All frenchly doing the can-can. Hairy yeti's gawping at the audience.

And that's just during the high kicks, if you know what I mean, and I'm sure that you do! And if you don't, obviously I mean the unshaven havens of furry flanged simian statuettes gashflashing left, right and centre.

No wonder them yobbos in Chav'llThieve Ladygardens have been drawing cocks on the heads of motionless monkeys.

Ah - so that's what they meant by cover the gorillas - cover them in sheets to hide cranial phallic representation, in case it attracts them Morrissey Men, waving about their flowers as part of their fertility rites, before bopping charming men on the head before retiring to the hostelry to quaff copious amounts of cider, which is a depressant, so heaven knows they're miserable cunts.

or something.

Has that given me a column (fnarr fnarr)? I know Stacia Piggs certainly hasn't.

Journalism? JournaliXym, more like!

There is no eye in team...

Not even Jessica All-Bran's.

But if you look closely (just a littel bit longer), there is only me.

Well, and meat. And tame. And meta. And...

Point is, "moderation" has been rescoring The Xym for his job, and he got docked another point for Teamwork.

Teamwork! One of my best attributes, and someone has marked me down? Why? We know not. Who? Some manager who knows Xyn not.

Grrrrr.

As if I wasn't worring meself to death enough, now my chances of employment have been arbitrarily devalued.

Better start hunting for a prime gutter in which to dwell. Can't be in Chapelfield Garden's though, as apparently them there Yoofs scrawn blue ink on your forehead. Graffiti-ing gorillas, and The Xym isn't much more than an abdominal snowbloke. Let alone after months living in Fiddlewood Woods, fiddling with backpackers before shooting them for being backpacking babes with no decorum.

or summat.