Grizabella Flobadob...

I always thought that Bill & Ben were marionettes, just like John Wayne after his transgender operation, but noooo - they are living creatures, and the ’string’ were put in puppetry post-production using 1960s CGI technology on Babbage difference engines.

The reason I believe this, is that whilst giving the bush a good trimming and mowing the lawn (2 euphemisms for the price of one!), I noticed a preponderance of plant pot reproduction.

Yes, it seems like some beige plant pots have snuck into the garden, and begun  to spawn (although curiously, there was one lone black pot , so inter-racial nobbing is the order of the day).

Now, there are those that would think that these plant pots may have been blown into the garden, rather than blown off in the garden (and if they’ve been blowing off, it explains the stench of catch it). However, this is not a possibility due to the towering fortress of foliage and fencing.

Which explains the foil in the garden.

Not to mention the shady character who’ll "take it off yer ’ands guv’nor". He’s a cool cat, and no mistake...

...not like them felines that are fouling the flowers and bonking in the borders. It’s like The Birds, but with pussies instead of avian types. I goes out to get the scythe machine, and there’s a batallion of Bagpii - on roofs, on fences, in trees and bushes... and they all freeze and fix you with a steely glare.

Which is a shame, coz seeing as they’re headlining the Theatre Royal shortly, they could have at least done a floor show of Magical Mister Mistoffelees (who can’t bloody spell his name right), or MyCavity the orthodontal cat.

Not to mention Mungo Jerry and Rump Hole Teaser, giving the Rum Tum Tugger something to tug about in the summertime - an invite to his Jelly Filled Balls, if you wish.

I still think Lloyd-Webbed-Finger should have put in a neutering scene - Brian Blessed wouldn’t be half as shouty now!

The naming of cats is a serious matter....

...like "Gerroffoutoityershittingbastard"

An’ suchlike.

Midnight

Not a sound from the pavement

Apart from a pussy on heat

Screeching into the night

And knocking over the bins

BASTARD!

Only the grumbliest, flakiest songstress...

Disgraceful!

First, they make The Milky Bar kid a bird, then take away his pisols, and now even the legendary catchphrase has gone! It’s just some kind meandering through a field - at the very least we should get "milky bars are on me".

On second thoughts, maybe melted choccie bars poured onto children is a tad pervy.

But that does NOT excuse the lasklustre performance of Josstick Stoned. Sitting there warbling on about her dreary ass music, then plods over to the sink to mumble "only the crumbliest..." - and she doesn’t do the "tastes like choklit never tasted before" bit.

AND she doesn’t fellate the flake!

Outrageous!

If you want to compete with a drumming gorilla, a moody muppet does not suffice!

Oh well, at least Mars have got rid of the "pleasure you can’t measure" and put the old one back: "A Mars a day eventually makes you a big fat porker".

Or something.

And how come choccie bars are being blacklisted as "indulgent snacks" by these so called "heathy" snacks?

NY snack is an indulgent snack! "Swap your indulgent snack for a great tasting snack bar" - like arse! What they actually mean is:

Swap your indulgent snacks for another indulgent snack
Prefereably one with less lard in

Not to mention the cheek of bloody Rice Crispies! Everyone knows how to make a rice crispy cake. But nooooooo - obviously todays thickarse teens are incapable of melting chocolate, adding Rice Cripsies and leaving it to set.

Snap, crackle and choc indeed!

I can't git no sleep...

Alas, there was a shortage of CDB presence. and I was all confidenced up an’ all! Oh well...

But at least we had Lucy in Leather, with the most fabulous trousers. Not to mention the clee-vadge* of certain ladies.

But you learn something new every day, as Gunny pointed out when The Mission’s Like a Hurricane played - women are like hurricanes. They’re all wet & wild and give you a good blow, but the following morning they leave you with devastation and no home.

Or something.

There was something else about Touchcloth and lezzing up and bumsex, but I can’t quite recall the discussions, due to distraction by too short skirts.

But now, to bed! Even though some selfish chronological kobold has nabbed one of me hours, so I’ve no time to sleep!

And no tights to rip off with me teeth.

And I ain’t got a ledger (no accountant me!)

* [EDIT 01.04] LATE KUDOS GOES TO JOOLZ FOR THE NAMING OF THE CLEE-VADGE, ALTHOUGH EXTRA KUDOS MUST GO TO THE LADIES SPORTING SAID MIGHTILY IMPRESSIVE CLEE-VADGE.

BUT WHICH LOVELY LADY PROVIDED THE MOST IMPRESSIVE CLEE-VADGE? THERE’S ONLY ONE WAY TO FIND OUT!

FIGHT!!!**

** MUD PIT OPTIONAL.

Land of the free, home of the dense...

They’re great, Americans! Bush is clearly a role model for the young intelligensia of modern day US.

One of ’em came up with a great money making scheme. His premise was simple:

Approach friends & family members, and tell them that your wife is a CIA operative. For a large fee, she will be able to train satellites upon you. These special satellites lock on and scan you, and see what illnesses you have. Then, as you sleep, CIA operatives will sneak into your house and inject you with remedies to get rid of cancerous grouths or whatnot.

The beauty of it is that it’s so unintrusive - the satellites scan from space, and you’re drugged up in yer sleep, so you go on as if nothing ever happens, safe in the knowledge that your health is kept in trim by the CIA.

Who’d pay to be scanned as they go about their daily business, and let strangers creep in and inject you in your blissful ignorant slumbers?

Lots of Americans, that’s who! They seemed a tad outraged when they found out that he’d been ever so slightly fibbing.

I really do think I’ll have to go to America and make my fortune! I’m sure I can come up with some equally bizarre idea to part a Yankee from his Dollars.

Only in America...

There’s no rhyme nor reason...

Strange indeed be the thoughts that clamber into one’s cranium whilst cleaning the tombstones:

As I was walking down the street
I met a man with seven feet
It seemed so odd I do confess
I wish he had just five feet less

That’s it - I’ve lost it. My mind, that is, not the extra 5 feet, coz then I’d only be 6in and get trodden on by big booted babes - although some people would pay good money for that! Isn’t there a Trample Club in Norwich...

And we’re not talking about a trample-een, what you bounce up and down on (not to be confused with tramp ho Lynnes - IE skanky chavvy shagabouts, all of whom are coincidentally named Lynne)

I would play Devils Advocaat here, and put forth an opposing view to the sexual stereotyping* of chavettes, but as the DAs office is all about tush shakin’ topless trollops writhing about on poles, I shan’t bother (although I wouldnt mind a bit of writhing on some pretties from Poland). And Horny Hannah in what used to be Manhattan’s (not to mention Primeval) is just as bad!

"Aharr - be there any dubloons in da house? Dis shout’s for you big dog!" (that was a booty call - I hear they’re quite popular these days)...

...or something!

* WHAT’S ALL THE FUSS ABOUT STEREOTYPING? IF BE DEAD CHUFFED IF I COULD TYPE WITH BOTH HANDS AT THE SAME TIME. LEFT HAND COULD BE UPDATING MY RIDICULOUS BLOG, AND THE RIGHT HAND PONCING ABOUT ON FACEBOOK APPS. I’D BE A TAD WORRIED ABOUT 5.1 SURROUND TYPING THOUGH, AS YOU’D HAVE TO LEARN TO TYPE WITH NOT ONLY BOTH HANDS, BUT YOUR TOES ON BOTH FEET. AND YOUR NOSE. THAT LEAVES THE .1, WHICH YOU’D HAVE TO FIND ANOTHER EXTREMITY FOR - MAYBE YOU’R NOB, OR A ’STRAP-ON’ FOR THE LADIES.

AH, BUT IF I HAD THOSE SEVEN FEET, THERE’D BE NO PROBLEM.

APART FROM GETTING TROUSERS.

Alimentary, my dear. What’s on...

Apparently, I’ve only had 4 days off sick in the past 10 years! Once for food poisoning, once for cough/cold/flu, and twice with Alimentary.

I don’t recall ever catching Alimentary, nor telling work I had it! After a quick google, it appears to be a canal, which means I must have been off with trouble with me waterworks.

Which is news to me!

But not, apparently to our manager Lottie, who swished by and said I was the top performing member in the team! Exactly how she got to see my member, let alone assess its performance is another mystery! I’m pretty sure I wasn’t that drunk yesterday - I certainly don’t recall servicing the Boss Lady over the photocopier!

Aha! The ladies won’t touch me with a 9ft barge pole! And barges go on canals! And if you’re barging through a canal, then your progress will be much slowed - good job I have the WaterWaist for boyancy - until I get bonked on the bonce by boozed up broads on The Broads with their argy-bargy on their barges.

Oh to be bonked by boozed up broads...

Whore town? Here’s a ho...

It’s raining

it’s pouring

the old gimmer’s snoring

Now, there are lots of cures for the nasal interruptions of a partners breathy grunting, such as the application of a stout stick about their bonce, but I have to say that the latest item is much more practical!

I was watching the tagliatelly nudes last night, and they did a feature on CPAPs, which must be an acronym for Cut Partners Airflow Pachidermally.

Forget them rip-off, overpriced cut down plasters you bung over the bridge of your hooter (and not your hooters - although if you wish to plaster your paps a-la parisienne, who am I to complain! Just send me a moulding, if you will). Clearly a strip of band-aid (or sellotape) doesn’t bring in the moolah, so the CPAP comes in!

And just what is a CPAP?

Well, it’s not gawking at girlie golden globes, that’s for sure! It’s a big black box that sits on your bedside table. From that extrudes a hose, none to dissimilar to one from the back of a tumbly drier. On t’other end of this tubular balls is a gas mask that goes over your beak. Thus atttired like some some lumbering silentnight elephant, you crawl into your pit to sleep without snores.

It wasn’t exactly made clear what the black box does - does it suck the snore out your nostrils, and store them in the box where they can be emptied upon the morrow, or does it gas you to death so you never snore again?

All of which makes little difference, as you’re all entangled with some hosial trunk twixt bed & bedside table. As you toss and turn throught the night, you’ll end up being suffocated as you’re slowly crushed as the hosey bit encircles you, like there’s some python in the bed.

Which makes it worse as you start to choke, and your partner reaches over and feels the girth of your ’python’ and mistakes it for nobbery business and it all goes tits up.

If you’re going to invent such ludicrous bedware, at least make it decorative - they could’ve easily make it into an elefrumps mask, complete with trunk, and turned it into some Ann Summers sex fantasy epic, rather than some One-Legged Dennis in sky colored velvet.

Still, won’t be the first time birds wake up next to Dumbo...