Aaaarrrgggh! I do. Don't. DON'T...

The inbred deformite denizens of Great Y'ha-Nthlei have once again arised from the depths, and taken to ye local market (for ye local yokels).

Last year, they tried to break the world record for the number of Wallies in one gathering.

A record you would think they would win hands down, gormsters that they are.

But they failed.

This year, the Lord Mayor of the watery deep has decided that his batrachian bathysphere brethren will once again dance their midnight rite in order to conquer the world.

And who be their Lord of the Dance?

None other than Black Lace!

Indeedy - no longer the hellish guttural chants of "Aï! Dagon!", it's "Aï Gadoo"! Pushing Pineapples and shaking trees with their bewebbed finlike fingers.

Clearly this is all in preparation for the 2012 Olympigs, when the melted icecaps flood Britain, and the mereyobs and merechavs of Great Y'ha-Nthlei will capitialize on the now-underwater stadium in the 100m Agadoo dash to the wedding reception disco floor to perform their record breaking moves of coffee grinding to the left (to the right, up and down and to the scales mid way down the tailfin).

Still - 375 amphibious townsfolk all shuffling to 80s novelty pop singles by flaming torchlight has to be a world record.

Shame Roy Sandcastle isn't on the beach blowing his own trumpet, tap-dancing with Ross & Norris McWhirter over a pint of Guinness.

Well, scaly fishfolk of Great Y'ha-Nthlei, you're only a step away from Anglian Railways and the other Black Lace hit "Chew, chew ,chew, c'mon and chew my conger*"

And no-one wants that - great fat blokes in gold leoturds, giving it the groin thrustage and the vast belly bounce. Urgh. * shudders *

Hot becamelled Pretties in skimpy lycra PVC leather teddies on the other hand...

"Chew Chew!!"**

* CONGER EEL, FRESH CAUGHT OFF CROMER PIER. NOT A EUPHEMISM FOR COCK. YOU DON'T WANT SOMEONE CHEWING YER COCK, GIVING IT THE MASTICATION AND LEAVING IT ALL MANGLED WITH TOOTHMARKS ALL OVER IT.

** WHICH IS ONLY EFFECTIVE WHEN SPOKEN BY A HOT PRETTY IN A SILKEN, SULTRY VOICE. PREFERABLY WHEN ABOUT TO EMBARK ON A WHITE KNUCKLE RIDE. WHICH IS ALSO A EUPHEMISM FOR A HAND SHANDY, WHICH IS ALSO PREFERABLE FROM HOT SULTRY SIRENS IN SILKY UNDERGARMENTS. OR SOMETHING.
 

Fraud! Huh! What is it good for (ASBO looting boffin)...

Well, no wonder insurance premiums are so high!

Or course, there are fraudsters ramming each other up the bum to get their grubby mitts on cash they don't deserve, but I never thought I'd see an Insurance company so brazenly promoting thievery.

Hiring men in tights to mug wealthy types! 

And after relieving innocent hikers of their pennies by purloining the policyholders purse, they bung him in a cheapass Courtesy Cart! And after a quick sing-song about having to take comparative measures, the insurance instigator cops off with the hippie hottie tarted up as a tousled, dishevelled Maid Marion Pretty. 

So, after raking in their roadside booty to swell their own personal Fat Cat coffers, they gets to bump up our premiums on the basis of having to pay out more in burglary cases and hiring out courtesy cars! AND the sneaky insurance guy gets a shagging! 

Talk about company perks!

And we know exactly what perks Gio Compario was interested in!

It's literally Highway Robbery!!

Well, leafy forest nature trail robbery.

I work in insurance - send me out creating premium inflating claims and seducing my criminal accomplices - I have a list of Pretties all ready, and can get my paws on several costumes. I'm thinking Alice (from Wonderland), Bellatrix, Mrs Lovett, Pirate Wench, Hot Goth Chick...

When those big breasted Cucurbitaceæ go to the feast...

...and take their tops off!

Attack! Return! Striking back and consuming France - all implicated the Daucus carota as the wily veg of danger, but according to BBC News it's Cucumis sativus that be raising The Fear in Europe.

It would seen that Professor Gangreen has relocated to Spain, and in Post-Great Tomato Wars suspicion of the killer fruit-cum-vegetable, he's genetically modifying queue-cum-bears as his latest bio-weapon.

The relentless march of the watery vine based salady snack (also in the androgynous fruit/veg confusitory definition) has already slaughtered 1,000s in Germany. Well, 100s. More like 10s.

Actually, 10 victims in total.

The Czech Republic believe the invading produce have infiltrated Hungary and Luxembourg, news of which has so put the windup Austria that they've outlawed aubergines... and tomatoes!

Ah - remember the broadcast:
Not so sure about the rapeage, but if vegetable based self pleasurement if your thing, best stick to Antonio Banned-Hair-Arse bananas.

Or something.

Shit! I have salad in the fridge - best dispose of it quick-smart in case it uses a spaghetti garotte to strangle me in the night!
  

And everything you do, Yeah they were all giallo...

Urgh. Need to disinfect me laptop after using that lyric!

Anyhoo, after much in the way of accolades, and cheapage in clearance,  I purchased what many claim to be a worthy successor and celebratory study of the Giallo genre.

Giallo, my best hat! Arty-Farty nonsensical bobbins more like! Tributey homage - most deffo!

But no Giallo.

Part 1 - This just screams "I wanna be Dario!". Lots of close up eye shots, phantasmagorical lighting, object panning, troubled child, scary witchy types, water, Goblin/Carpenter soundtrack. But no Giallo. Or actual plot, for that matter.

Part 2 - WTF?? This is just poncey French arthouse arse! Lots of close-ups of lips chewing hair, women in light summer frocks walking, meaningless looks, sun shining through dresses, hats held 'significantly', close ups of hair stirred by breeze. But no Giallo. Or actual plot. Or even dialogue for that matter.

Part 3 - Ah, she returns home to the mansion in disrepair. At last a teeny bit of Giallo - black gloved handage, straight razor, chasery stuff, and incomprehensible twistage at the end.

Oh well, lovely looking film (in part), but not a patch on a proper Giallo.

Only in Amer... France!
   

I be an incredibly sensitive man, who inspires joy-joy feelings in all those around me...

Hah!

Joy-Joy feelings, my best barnet. I don't know any Joys, let alone feelin' 'em up!

And I've not been feelin'g Em up either.

I know a Jo or two, but like Joy and Em(ma), they too are free from gropeage.

What I do inspire, is a sudden desire amongst others to have Pressing Business Elsewhere when my attendance is assured! I'm like Ephialtes - a disfigured, short misshapen dwarf, revolting all those around him by my very presence.

Just because they prefer oiled up muscular macho Spartan hunkage!

King Leon Hardass? Xerxes? Lena Headache? Lovely Queen Lenina Huxley, more like!

Thermopylae? Thermo = Heat (We're off to Per-sia, to buy Heat Magazine!), Pylae = Pile of (probably). Thermopylae = Pile of heat to thaw you out of the Cryo-Prison!

And they're all having a punch up on the beach! Well, at least they had a plentiful supply of seashells.

Hah! Them Persians don't know how to use the three seashells!

On the plus side... Rrrrrrrrrratburgerz!

Oh, we're back to Troll again.

Will this Percy queue shun never end?

THIS. IS. SPARTAN!

John Spartan!

Wall to wall, People Rohypnoltized...

So, The Rapture returneth!

Mental God-Bother Harold Camping has now revised the Date Of the Apocalypse.

After a bit of fannying about with his abacus, he's calculated that he was only 5 months out, and The Rapture is actually due on October 21st 2011.

Shit buggery jizzbattered flangepaste! That means...

...I'll miss The Mission, Fields of the Nephilim and Gene Loves Jezabel gig on 22nd October at Brixton Academy!

I'm not having that! No way is angelic abduction going to disrupting my gothgeek concert plans!

I've read His Dark Materials - I'm launching a Lord Asriel style revolt against The Authority! Mother - Fetch me a screaming mob and a collection of Olympian Torches, we're off to storm the pearly gates!!

Wearing some Lynx Exite so we can give them seraphim hotties a pearly necklace on the way.

I note that Harold has decided to hide away from this furore with his missus, and is holed up in a hotel, getting in 5 months worth of dirty weekends before his ascent.

What the senile old gormster failed to realise, is that The Rapture DID happen on May 21st - it's just that no-one was worthy enough to be taken into heavenly glory.

After all, the combination of commandments and deadly sins are designed to exclude everyone from glorious good times. Proud to be a Christian? Ha! Pride is one of the seven deadly sins, so no heaven for you! It's down below to the furnace and the pitchfork up the bum!

Or having to continue to live everyday, toiling away for pennies in a hot stuffy office with a rooftop view when the sun is shining and there's lots of pretties outside about in light summer frocks, eating ice creams that drip onto their neck and slowly slide teasingly down their kle'varge...

I'm so going to the Special Hell...
  

Hey, there's a fag bank out there...

Now, by rights I should regail you with tales of last night. Of hot pretties in pajamas, of unspeakable porridge that doth insidiously speak, of walking, breathing walls, of Stateside sweeties, of a plentitude of norkage and sapphic shower snoggery, of demon shaggery, and converse of much mirthitude.

Instead, the talk of the town is that NYC has banned smoking in parks, beaches and golf courses.

Presumably that Mayor has been told off* by his dental nurse for his yellowing teeths, and took the now legenday Extreme Measures.

Ahyhoo, smokers are all up in arms, and their fags all up in flames (at one end) at being unable to smoke as they stand around watching the incessant rapeage that Central Pork is famed for.

Of course, everyone's arguing over libery and rights, so you've got to find a happy medium.

Not Doris Stokes, though, the miserable old trout!

Non-Smokers want their fresh air, Smokers want to pollute the fresh air! And so a new, more viable solution has been put forward:

New York's a city made of islands, so why not just have smoke free islands and one smoker's island? Like a colony.

Trouble is, they already tried that. I saw a John Carpenter documentary on it.

The Founding Fathers sent Blake and his leperous smokers off to a colony, then lured them off the rocks so that Blakes gold could be melted down into a cross and buried alive in a church wall.

Now, every 100yrs, Blake and his cancer coughing coffin dodging impotent seamen return in a plume of fag smoke that covers the township and they have at the descentants with various archaic maritime tools.

I, for one, won't advocate giving them Fag Island and drowning them en-route, for fear of their return and opening up my cryonic chamber and using it as a freezer for their fisheries as they fillet me up in revenge.

Or something.

* OR, MORE LIKELY, TOLLED OFF. NO WONDER HE HAD TO SEE THAT GUYKNACKEROLOGIST ON NEW YEARS DAY IF HE'S GETTING THE AIDES OFF SOME CAMPANOLOGICAL CRUMPET GIVING HIS BELL ROPE A GOOG TUGGING!