Tuesday, November 30, 2004
cheers to nutgroist for giving me the opportunity to vent my spleen. Actually, to vent my spleens all over the floor, scoop them up with last week's Observer Food Thricely, stuff them in a black bin liner and chuck it in the Thames.
I was sitting at work thinking about my local post office owner (who was shot in the chest last week by drug-addled nutters) when I got thinking about who I would like to shoot at point-blank range. In the chest. In a Post Office. Jeremy Clarkson or Christina Aguilera ? Then I realised: I want to shoot Dr Fox AND Christina Aguilera. Even better, shooting Aguilera in a Post Office while she's attempting to renew my Car Tax ("would you like 6 months or 12 Sir ? I'll have life BITCH! BOOM!!!! )
One conclusion I've concluded about Ol' Dirrrrrty Lips, having seen her new video for her excremental cover of a perfectly reasonable funk/soul/disco tune from the 70s is this: Christina Aguilera is a Nazi. Lets look at the evidence: the peroxide blonde hair, the black outfit, her Hitler-faced fanny-moustache - it's OBVIOUS to anyone. She's even got the (relatively) more talented black singer tied to the recording desk going along with the whole sorry affair with her 'you go white girl' gestures and occasionally chipping in with some sorry rap accompaniments. 'Car Wash' even sounds a bit like the Yiddish word 'Kahwasch' meaning 'Gas Chamber'. Purest evil.
Thought for the Day: Don't play with string. It's a mog's game.
My Favourite Poker Hands (an occasional series) : No. 173: Full House (Queens over 10s.)
Rugeley
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I was sitting at work thinking about my local post office owner (who was shot in the chest last week by drug-addled nutters) when I got thinking about who I would like to shoot at point-blank range. In the chest. In a Post Office. Jeremy Clarkson or Christina Aguilera ? Then I realised: I want to shoot Dr Fox AND Christina Aguilera. Even better, shooting Aguilera in a Post Office while she's attempting to renew my Car Tax ("would you like 6 months or 12 Sir ? I'll have life BITCH! BOOM!!!! )
One conclusion I've concluded about Ol' Dirrrrrty Lips, having seen her new video for her excremental cover of a perfectly reasonable funk/soul/disco tune from the 70s is this: Christina Aguilera is a Nazi. Lets look at the evidence: the peroxide blonde hair, the black outfit, her Hitler-faced fanny-moustache - it's OBVIOUS to anyone. She's even got the (relatively) more talented black singer tied to the recording desk going along with the whole sorry affair with her 'you go white girl' gestures and occasionally chipping in with some sorry rap accompaniments. 'Car Wash' even sounds a bit like the Yiddish word 'Kahwasch' meaning 'Gas Chamber'. Purest evil.
Thought for the Day: Don't play with string. It's a mog's game.
My Favourite Poker Hands (an occasional series) : No. 173: Full House (Queens over 10s.)
Rugeley
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unfortunately David Gest, the spoonfaced Judy Garland obsessive, worshipper at the Temple of Gayos and plasticy ex-whipping boy of Liza Minelli (all entirely alleged and unconnected im sure) has declined my novel 'GestBlogger' invitation, preferring instead to take a holiday in the Isle of Man. I wonder if the Klan get as confused about the Isle of White?
either way, it's time to welcome my first and best guest blogger so far, all the way from his bijou beachhut in blooming Britain's beautiful Isle of Dogs, he's here to disseminate his fun-memes all over your face so stick your tongue out, that's it, nice and wide - watch out, he's a gusher. I put us all into the soft and furry hands of Rugeley, Pope of Dulwich and dog-lover...
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either way, it's time to welcome my first and best guest blogger so far, all the way from his bijou beachhut in blooming Britain's beautiful Isle of Dogs, he's here to disseminate his fun-memes all over your face so stick your tongue out, that's it, nice and wide - watch out, he's a gusher. I put us all into the soft and furry hands of Rugeley, Pope of Dulwich and dog-lover...
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Monday, November 29, 2004
i am on an impromptu holiday in a generic french film. sure, the weather's nice, the soundtrack is good and the characters are mostly believable but the situation is just too ludicruous to really happen. and as with all my favourite films, you can't predict the ending.
so until the credits roll and the golden palm gets awarded to someone else im going to spend all my time artfully smoking, shrugging my shoulders and combating the Anglo-American global hegemony. i will also weep at Jazz. i may spend a bit of time and spill a few words at Dave Dobbler's World of Gay, it seems like the least complicated option sometimes (the lucky bugger) but im not posting here for a while.
maybe it's time for an obscene guesture (sic)?
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so until the credits roll and the golden palm gets awarded to someone else im going to spend all my time artfully smoking, shrugging my shoulders and combating the Anglo-American global hegemony. i will also weep at Jazz. i may spend a bit of time and spill a few words at Dave Dobbler's World of Gay, it seems like the least complicated option sometimes (the lucky bugger) but im not posting here for a while.
maybe it's time for an obscene guesture (sic)?
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Friday, November 26, 2004
It's 2am, im sitting up downloading Dido's new album Porn, msn-chatting to a couple of insomniacs and waiting, it must be said - friskily - for my girlfriend to get her 3-hole Golf Course-self home so i can stop looking lustily at the gap in my teeth. I'm already in pyjamas and have been since Wednesday, and when I hear the keyhole of our front door being scratched with a little drunken wail of girlitude come from without, i spring to attention in, um, both ways and rush to the door. I fling it open and stand before my love, proud. Except the girl i'm going to impale in about 6 seconds has become a tall, young Irish couple with a doorkey and no fucking clue where they live. All three of us jump back in shock and i've still got my hand on my chest as they launch into a big, loud and drunken explanation of what the fuck is going on. It seems they've been given a key to their friend's flat, in my block, while she's away on holiday. They don't know the number and only dimly remember being there a few minutes this morning. So they decided they'd better try every sticking the key into every door in the building! There are a good 18 of those.
They are, to their credit, HORRIFICALLY DRUNK, and somehow polite and quite charming. Seh peers inside and pronounces that the layout is exactly the same so they must be on this side of the block, just a different floor. He's pulling her back out and profusely apologising. I tell them really, they're not to worry, as im waiting up anyway. And then...and then...from nowhere they turn to eachother and go
"ah would you look at him, he's sitting up waiting for his date - you can see he's ready for a shag, look!"
and they do! down. i don't. I'm terrified, pretty sure im not poking out but i can sense i've got at least 'a semi'. I wished then, as i wish now, that i was drunk at the time so i could not give a shit. Then they apologise for disturbing me once again and wish me 'a goodnight and a good shag'!
half an hour later, there's a scratching at the door, another drunken whimper and another girder in my loins and the EXACT same episode is enacted all over again. Door flung, weapon loaded, fully cocked, same couple, same reaction, SAME fucking explanation. They were so pissed they forgot they'd tried my door already. And they go back into the 'he's waiting for a shag' routine. I tell them to just fucking come in, even though they want to try the key in my neighbours' doors (whom i know not to be their friend). They are somehow drunker than before and im starting to think it's a ruse. They've heard all about my bogey collection maybe. They take long pisses in my toilet as i show them round the flat and ask them clever questions about the flat they should be in. Questions like 'is it on the ground floor?', 'is the kitchen here, there or where?' and the clincher 'what do you see out of your balcony?'. Meanwhile, she protests that the real problem must be that 'the key is badly cut, look, see? it doesnt fit any of the doors'.
By a process of elimination and desperation, I figure out precisely which door they need to go to and tell them so. I'm not some kind of genius, no, im just not fucking drunk and i know the layout of the building. As they leave, i tell them i'm sticking the kettle on this time.
Half an hour later still, there is a fumbling at the door and a key scraping across. Before i even get to the door, and im ambling this time with no hint of a stork on, they ring the FUCKING DOORBELL! And I open it to find my poor dear girlfriend, drunk as a pig and all danced out from a night entertaining some saddo clients at Lillie's (a reference for my one Irish reader:).
And she is the very dictionary definition of that famous Dead Kennedy's tune
So i do it to her anyway
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They are, to their credit, HORRIFICALLY DRUNK, and somehow polite and quite charming. Seh peers inside and pronounces that the layout is exactly the same so they must be on this side of the block, just a different floor. He's pulling her back out and profusely apologising. I tell them really, they're not to worry, as im waiting up anyway. And then...and then...from nowhere they turn to eachother and go
"ah would you look at him, he's sitting up waiting for his date - you can see he's ready for a shag, look!"
and they do! down. i don't. I'm terrified, pretty sure im not poking out but i can sense i've got at least 'a semi'. I wished then, as i wish now, that i was drunk at the time so i could not give a shit. Then they apologise for disturbing me once again and wish me 'a goodnight and a good shag'!
half an hour later, there's a scratching at the door, another drunken whimper and another girder in my loins and the EXACT same episode is enacted all over again. Door flung, weapon loaded, fully cocked, same couple, same reaction, SAME fucking explanation. They were so pissed they forgot they'd tried my door already. And they go back into the 'he's waiting for a shag' routine. I tell them to just fucking come in, even though they want to try the key in my neighbours' doors (whom i know not to be their friend). They are somehow drunker than before and im starting to think it's a ruse. They've heard all about my bogey collection maybe. They take long pisses in my toilet as i show them round the flat and ask them clever questions about the flat they should be in. Questions like 'is it on the ground floor?', 'is the kitchen here, there or where?' and the clincher 'what do you see out of your balcony?'. Meanwhile, she protests that the real problem must be that 'the key is badly cut, look, see? it doesnt fit any of the doors'.
By a process of elimination and desperation, I figure out precisely which door they need to go to and tell them so. I'm not some kind of genius, no, im just not fucking drunk and i know the layout of the building. As they leave, i tell them i'm sticking the kettle on this time.
Half an hour later still, there is a fumbling at the door and a key scraping across. Before i even get to the door, and im ambling this time with no hint of a stork on, they ring the FUCKING DOORBELL! And I open it to find my poor dear girlfriend, drunk as a pig and all danced out from a night entertaining some saddo clients at Lillie's (a reference for my one Irish reader:).
And she is the very dictionary definition of that famous Dead Kennedy's tune
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Aha! Ok! You are my most advanced class. I teach two class a day. All kinds of people, young, old, every kind! But I don't let no old people or no young people in this class. It slow things down. Old people are just TOO OLD! Aha! They cant keep up, aha! Young people, I like. Some of you are young. But I don't like little children. Not that young. My student he say to me "I got some young people I gonna bring, ok?" And I think they are THIS high, but they are not, they are down here. They are 5 or 6 or whatever. That is too young. There is one boy. He is like a little monkey or something. He must go to Special School! Aha! I'm telling you, he is not a normal kid, he is OUT OF CONTROL! Aha! I have to stop him throwing things. It is no good at all. He is boy who play football in my street and kick ball at my window. But he is alright now. But still like monkey. I am looking for young pupil. I need good pupil to train so I can retire. 22 years I have been here, I am tired. I wanna go relax. I learn English but I no care how to speak it. I say what I think, you see? I just think it and say it. I don't care about no grammar. I'm not educated in that. I don't care. I just tell you things I want to say. You understand? I send my money for my sons' education. They speak better English than they do Chinese! They speak better IRISH than they do Chinese!
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i'm still getting those 'one weird thing a day' experiences that are god's gift to blogging, stand-up comedy and keeping your faith in reality wrongfooting you. The only problem is, try as i may, i can't write them up properly. I'm gonna have another go at my Tai Chi teacher's monologue from the other day but i think i'm just going to have to put in bare factual terms what happened to me last night. Coming soon
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Thursday, November 25, 2004
As a leading player in the great global game of international business, it’s often assumed that I must know nothing of the Cultural. I believe I have once before disproved this right with my presentation upon the soul of flamenco, and not just any old flamenco, but the best, most top quality flamenco that money can buy. As I sit here in the Horst Tappert suite at the Radisson deep in the heart of the Black Forest, I can report to you, my loyal cadres of young, hungry business tigers for the 22nd Century, that after every business deal it is completely necessary to celebrate in style. Let the world know you’ve just hooked a big Blemmy on your business line. Nothing over the top, nothing showy, nothing inappropriate – usually no more than cigars, brandy and hookers down the Lodge will suffice.
But when you seal a deal like I’ve just done, selling the Schwarzwaldvolkskomittee 100,000 New Forest Dutch Elm Saplings and 5 years supply of antibiotics, you can be sure that I am going to mark this clincher with my own special brand of executive entertainment. So I’m staying on here for Oktoberfest, which the concierge assures me is just around the corner. I have been to a little tailors I know down here and had a fitting for lederhosen but it seemed silly and uncomfortable for an Englishman to wear, so I made it worth the little man’s while and he’s redesigning it for me – a navy blue, pinstripe lederhosen . I may yet fund a little venture into manufacturing these for the discerning business traveller.
But I digress.
I am here to say that there is another world out there. It’s not all big gypsy men with earrings and shrieking ‘ai ai ai’ round a campfire in Algeciras, no. There is the enticing, entrancing, endancing world of the genuine Bavarian Oompah band. No other musical unit in this world has the soul, the spirit, and the ruthless musicality of these fine stout men. I remember telling Bob Bischoff, our regional director and a good man, a solid man, never just a yes-man, that it was truly the ‘heart and soul of The Black Forest’ and that was before I’d even seen some. I hadn’t even heard any and yet he absolutely agreed. Turns out we were both right. These guys put your Beatleses and your Brotherhoods of Man firmly into history’s musical dustbin. Office shredder, even. The harump, the papump, the phararumpapum of the tuba, the honking polyphony of the other tuba, the jaunting, haunting rhythm of yet another tuba, and the base brass bass bastardy of one more tuba. There’s nothing quite like it. It is truly ‘the heart and soul of The Black Forest’. To spend a night in one of Bavaria’s best business kellers with three leading industrialists and good men, stout men, all to the soundtrack of the heart-wrenching lyricism of Oompah, the zeit and the zein of the land, if you will. For a minute there, I felt we were not the mortal enemies that we have always been. Together we could forge an empire the like of which the world has only seen twice before. The secret was in the Oompah, the golden brown, reddish black and leafy green white starch kaleidoscope of musical colours which is the very heart, the very soul of this good land. And mein host assured me that it was the very best that money could buy.
It always amazes me that these are the same people that did the Holocaust. I’m starting to wonder if those revisionists haven’t got a point after all. Note to Sophie: get me that David Irving book, no better still, give it to the kids in R & D and get a report on my desk Mittwoch.
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But when you seal a deal like I’ve just done, selling the Schwarzwaldvolkskomittee 100,000 New Forest Dutch Elm Saplings and 5 years supply of antibiotics, you can be sure that I am going to mark this clincher with my own special brand of executive entertainment. So I’m staying on here for Oktoberfest, which the concierge assures me is just around the corner. I have been to a little tailors I know down here and had a fitting for lederhosen but it seemed silly and uncomfortable for an Englishman to wear, so I made it worth the little man’s while and he’s redesigning it for me – a navy blue, pinstripe lederhosen . I may yet fund a little venture into manufacturing these for the discerning business traveller.
But I digress.
I am here to say that there is another world out there. It’s not all big gypsy men with earrings and shrieking ‘ai ai ai’ round a campfire in Algeciras, no. There is the enticing, entrancing, endancing world of the genuine Bavarian Oompah band. No other musical unit in this world has the soul, the spirit, and the ruthless musicality of these fine stout men. I remember telling Bob Bischoff, our regional director and a good man, a solid man, never just a yes-man, that it was truly the ‘heart and soul of The Black Forest’ and that was before I’d even seen some. I hadn’t even heard any and yet he absolutely agreed. Turns out we were both right. These guys put your Beatleses and your Brotherhoods of Man firmly into history’s musical dustbin. Office shredder, even. The harump, the papump, the phararumpapum of the tuba, the honking polyphony of the other tuba, the jaunting, haunting rhythm of yet another tuba, and the base brass bass bastardy of one more tuba. There’s nothing quite like it. It is truly ‘the heart and soul of The Black Forest’. To spend a night in one of Bavaria’s best business kellers with three leading industrialists and good men, stout men, all to the soundtrack of the heart-wrenching lyricism of Oompah, the zeit and the zein of the land, if you will. For a minute there, I felt we were not the mortal enemies that we have always been. Together we could forge an empire the like of which the world has only seen twice before. The secret was in the Oompah, the golden brown, reddish black and leafy green white starch kaleidoscope of musical colours which is the very heart, the very soul of this good land. And mein host assured me that it was the very best that money could buy.
It always amazes me that these are the same people that did the Holocaust. I’m starting to wonder if those revisionists haven’t got a point after all. Note to Sophie: get me that David Irving book, no better still, give it to the kids in R & D and get a report on my desk Mittwoch.
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Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Busy day i had yesterday...
i: i imagine the devil's probably got a nice one
A2: mmm
A2: prob small tho
i: although once it's in, it probably aint coming out again
A2: hence all his anger
i: it'd be barbed
A2: mmm
A2: interesting
i: naah, it'll be long
i: you'll think it's his tail at first
A2: what about girth?
i: probably not that wide
A2: thats important too
A2: *damn*
i: damn right it is
i: but it's so long he can fold it over and make a thick one
A2: mmmmmmmmmmmm
i: although obviously he'll be shooting 'out' again
A2: hey
A2: :-)
A2: stop it
i: which is good
i: i mean
A2: not fair
i: you dont want to be impregnanted by The Devil
A2: haha
A2: I'd make him wear a condom
A2: that had 'barb' sections in it
i: itd have to be made of God-metal to withstand his mighty blast
A2: to fir him properly
A2: haha
A2: blast me from here to eternity
A2: imagine a 3 way with god and the devil
A2: DP even
A2: mmm
i: who';d be in the middle?
i: you?
i: mary?
A2: yes
A2: me
i: jordan?
A2: of course
A2: haha
A2: no
i: the river jordan, i mean
A2: hahahahhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaa
i: which in a funny kind of way, is exactly what some people think IS going on today
i: but fuck that shit
i: i wanna talk about the devil's barbed condoms
A2: haha
A2: (TM coming soon)
A2: easy to put on
i: i imagine his cock is something like a giant tickleback eel
A2: difficult to remove
i: stickleback, that should be
A2: because his spunk is like glue
i: although the missing s didnt hurt the meaning
A2: and the barbs stick to the condom
i: isnt ALL spunk?
i: i wouldve thought it was far more like chili sauce
i: in taste and colour
i: like hababero sauce, im pretty sure
A2: but consistency of devil spunk is more like glue
i: yes, i think it's quite likely
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i: i imagine the devil's probably got a nice one
A2: mmm
A2: prob small tho
i: although once it's in, it probably aint coming out again
A2: hence all his anger
i: it'd be barbed
A2: mmm
A2: interesting
i: naah, it'll be long
i: you'll think it's his tail at first
A2: what about girth?
i: probably not that wide
A2: thats important too
A2: *damn*
i: damn right it is
i: but it's so long he can fold it over and make a thick one
A2: mmmmmmmmmmmm
i: although obviously he'll be shooting 'out' again
A2: hey
A2: :-)
A2: stop it
i: which is good
i: i mean
A2: not fair
i: you dont want to be impregnanted by The Devil
A2: haha
A2: I'd make him wear a condom
A2: that had 'barb' sections in it
i: itd have to be made of God-metal to withstand his mighty blast
A2: to fir him properly
A2: haha
A2: blast me from here to eternity
A2: imagine a 3 way with god and the devil
A2: DP even
A2: mmm
i: who';d be in the middle?
i: you?
i: mary?
A2: yes
A2: me
i: jordan?
A2: of course
A2: haha
A2: no
i: the river jordan, i mean
A2: hahahahhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaa
i: which in a funny kind of way, is exactly what some people think IS going on today
i: but fuck that shit
i: i wanna talk about the devil's barbed condoms
A2: haha
A2: (TM coming soon)
A2: easy to put on
i: i imagine his cock is something like a giant tickleback eel
A2: difficult to remove
i: stickleback, that should be
A2: because his spunk is like glue
i: although the missing s didnt hurt the meaning
A2: and the barbs stick to the condom
i: isnt ALL spunk?
i: i wouldve thought it was far more like chili sauce
i: in taste and colour
i: like hababero sauce, im pretty sure
A2: but consistency of devil spunk is more like glue
i: yes, i think it's quite likely
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i: what would you do if they dug up a lost antique painting of Dante's Nine Circles of Hell and right in the middle was another circle within all the others and you heard some throbbing bass coming out of it and as you got closer it became more and more annoying until you could clearly make out someone singing 'a long, a lolololo long, a lolololo long longy long long long' and suddenly you realised that THAT was what had happened to shit reggae one-hit wonders 'Inner Circle' after all these years (and when you thought about it, you agreed it was a most fitting punishment)?
J1: you bastard - its all come flooding back
J1: what would you do if they dug up etc.... and it was a painting of loads of gremlins on a tour bus going round and round a shitty-looking shipping town. Then they realised they’d dug up Joe Dante's Nine Circles of Hull
FIVE MINUTES PASS
J1: stunned silence - understandable
i: ha
i: yeah, i was still reeling from my own one!
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J1: you bastard - its all come flooding back
J1: what would you do if they dug up etc.... and it was a painting of loads of gremlins on a tour bus going round and round a shitty-looking shipping town. Then they realised they’d dug up Joe Dante's Nine Circles of Hull
FIVE MINUTES PASS
J1: stunned silence - understandable
i: ha
i: yeah, i was still reeling from my own one!
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a selection of amusements from yesterday's work avoidance schedule:
i: you should do a blog
i: its not right that only me and the friar do ones
i: i know you have a life and we dont
i: but still
f2: don't have the time
f2: well remember www.(classified information im afraid – ED).com
f2: which is long-dead
i: yeah
f2: that WAS the original concept
f2: until i think i can be original
f2: i won't do it
i: just post photos
i: and crap gags
i: THAT'S IT
f2: of?
i: that's it
i: THAT'S IT
i: do a blog
i: which only deals with your crap gags
i: you dont make them up for the blog
i: but when you do one
i: in a real life situation
i: you stick it in
i: and the beauty of it is
i: that people will come to you to hear them
i: and you'll finally have some fans for your sense of humour
and it was only this morning, reading it over that i realised that amidst my condescending attitude to my friend's universally acknowledged woeful sense of humour, what i was saying applied equally well to myself, if not more so.
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i: you should do a blog
i: its not right that only me and the friar do ones
i: i know you have a life and we dont
i: but still
f2: don't have the time
f2: well remember www.(classified information im afraid – ED).com
f2: which is long-dead
i: yeah
f2: that WAS the original concept
f2: until i think i can be original
f2: i won't do it
i: just post photos
i: and crap gags
i: THAT'S IT
f2: of?
i: that's it
i: THAT'S IT
i: do a blog
i: which only deals with your crap gags
i: you dont make them up for the blog
i: but when you do one
i: in a real life situation
i: you stick it in
i: and the beauty of it is
i: that people will come to you to hear them
i: and you'll finally have some fans for your sense of humour
and it was only this morning, reading it over that i realised that amidst my condescending attitude to my friend's universally acknowledged woeful sense of humour, what i was saying applied equally well to myself, if not more so.
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Tuesday, November 23, 2004
shall we say a farthing for a hug, tuppence for hand, tuppence ha'penny for half 'n' half, a shilling for a straight, 2/6 for the special, and half a crown for a hot bugger.
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i'm feeling pretty frisky, so if anyone would like to have sex with me today, come and meet me by the duck pond in Herbert Park, 2pm and i'll do it to you right there in the bushes. we'll have a good old 70's british sex romp so please wear a fresh innuendo. i can arrange for the parkie to chase us away after half-an-hour of quality slap-and-tickle and a kazoo orchestra to soundtrack it for us. i anticipate neither of us actually getting our rocks of until the end of the, er, film
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Monday, November 22, 2004
learn a lesson from me - don't try to defrost the film cannister of cum in a microwave. it totally screws up the texture. i would recommend letting the cum thaw out at room temperature instead. good luck!
the thought of someone enjoying a BLT sandwich with millions of small packages of my DNA is a real turn on!
Sauté the bacon, onions, celery and leeks, then add thyme, potatoes and the stock. Simmer untill the potatoes are cooked. Add the cream and semen and a little salt and pepper. Don't let it boil after adding the cream and semen. Go easy on the thyme or you will not taste the semen
And so on...
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the thought of someone enjoying a BLT sandwich with millions of small packages of my DNA is a real turn on!
Sauté the bacon, onions, celery and leeks, then add thyme, potatoes and the stock. Simmer untill the potatoes are cooked. Add the cream and semen and a little salt and pepper. Don't let it boil after adding the cream and semen. Go easy on the thyme or you will not taste the semen
And so on...
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No of COURSE we're all above it here...
VOTE NUTGROIST!
No, don't. Better we try and rig it, spoil it even, by all nominating someone entirely undeserving
any of these below will do
http://ivanbrown8223.blogspot.com
http://silentmoments.blogspot.com/
http://pjhuang.net/index.html
http://i-lurvee-yoo.blogspot.com/
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VOTE NUTGROIST!
No, don't. Better we try and rig it, spoil it even, by all nominating someone entirely undeserving
any of these below will do
http://ivanbrown8223.blogspot.com
http://silentmoments.blogspot.com/
http://pjhuang.net/index.html
http://i-lurvee-yoo.blogspot.com/
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And so to The Village, saturday night, to see Horace Andy and the Mad Professor. All of Dublin's reggaerati were there, split evenly between 19 year-old kids with their first dreadlock and those of us who were there cos we liked the music. going with a french friend of mine, we entered and met up with a french friend of his, whom i shall call Julien because i have no reason to doubt his sincerity upon our introduction. we spoke, in english, for all of 2 minutes and then my friend and i wandered off and didnt see him again until halfway through the gig. not even a chat this time - we just shared a little head-bob (gotta be careful with my punctuation there, bob)
Just to dispense with the music part - the gig itself was ROCKING. I was much impressed by the sound in The Village (on Wexford Street, next to Whelan's - used to be the Mean Fiddler). Better than in any other Dublin venue i've attended so far. The great thing about reggae is that whilst you have a few kids thinking they can dance like Bob Marley, the majority of people simply stood there and bobbed up and down and side to side. Quite a lovely sight from the back. And that night, perhaps more than any other single event on the social calendar since March, Ireland's smoking ban came to be sorely tested. Imagine 600 people in a room listening to dub reggae - hang on, what's that funny smell? Of course, you just can't hold a thing like this without a lot of weed being smoked, no? Well, apparently you can. Although, towards the end, when the Mad Professor was really doing his thing live-mixing Horace Andy, the bass was throbbing through the floor nicely and a sea of bobbing heads had become a little bit choppy, someone near us just couldnt hold out any longer and sparked up - and EVERYBODY turned round where we were standing. 30 seconds later the smell had gone...
blahdy blah blah. now the reason i tell this story....
as we walked out after the gig, my friend had to wait to collect his coat so i arranged to meet him otuside. i step out and there's already about a hundred people outside madly puffing away in the pissing cold and the freezing rain. I see this guy Julien so i go up to him and, because i'm drunk, i speak to him in french. i shall spare the accurate transcript but here is a flavour in english...
-Hi
"Hi"
-that was fucking wicked!
"yeah?"
-didn't you enjoy it?
"no. i missed it"
-you missed it? but ...but...i saw you inside during the gig"
"no, you can't have. i've only just got here"
-wait a second. you're Julien, right?
"no"
-what?! you're not the french bloke i was introduced to inside, but you look like him and you are french?
"im not french"
-oh. where are you from?
"ireland. you?"
-england.
pause as i take this in.
-shall we speak in english then?
"if you like"
so it turns out that i had simply approached a random stranger in a backstreet of Dublin and started speaking to him in drunken french, thinking i knew him. Yet without missing a beat, he responded in perfect french (i know it when i hear it, honest) and didnt get at all flustered that i thought i knew him. simply played along. two minutes later my friend comes out, i explain the situation, and then
his friend, the real Julien comes out. This Irish guy looks at him for a couple of seconds, turns to me, arches his brows, and just says 'yeah, fair enough'
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Just to dispense with the music part - the gig itself was ROCKING. I was much impressed by the sound in The Village (on Wexford Street, next to Whelan's - used to be the Mean Fiddler). Better than in any other Dublin venue i've attended so far. The great thing about reggae is that whilst you have a few kids thinking they can dance like Bob Marley, the majority of people simply stood there and bobbed up and down and side to side. Quite a lovely sight from the back. And that night, perhaps more than any other single event on the social calendar since March, Ireland's smoking ban came to be sorely tested. Imagine 600 people in a room listening to dub reggae - hang on, what's that funny smell? Of course, you just can't hold a thing like this without a lot of weed being smoked, no? Well, apparently you can. Although, towards the end, when the Mad Professor was really doing his thing live-mixing Horace Andy, the bass was throbbing through the floor nicely and a sea of bobbing heads had become a little bit choppy, someone near us just couldnt hold out any longer and sparked up - and EVERYBODY turned round where we were standing. 30 seconds later the smell had gone...
blahdy blah blah. now the reason i tell this story....
as we walked out after the gig, my friend had to wait to collect his coat so i arranged to meet him otuside. i step out and there's already about a hundred people outside madly puffing away in the pissing cold and the freezing rain. I see this guy Julien so i go up to him and, because i'm drunk, i speak to him in french. i shall spare the accurate transcript but here is a flavour in english...
-Hi
"Hi"
-that was fucking wicked!
"yeah?"
-didn't you enjoy it?
"no. i missed it"
-you missed it? but ...but...i saw you inside during the gig"
"no, you can't have. i've only just got here"
-wait a second. you're Julien, right?
"no"
-what?! you're not the french bloke i was introduced to inside, but you look like him and you are french?
"im not french"
-oh. where are you from?
"ireland. you?"
-england.
pause as i take this in.
-shall we speak in english then?
"if you like"
so it turns out that i had simply approached a random stranger in a backstreet of Dublin and started speaking to him in drunken french, thinking i knew him. Yet without missing a beat, he responded in perfect french (i know it when i hear it, honest) and didnt get at all flustered that i thought i knew him. simply played along. two minutes later my friend comes out, i explain the situation, and then
his friend, the real Julien comes out. This Irish guy looks at him for a couple of seconds, turns to me, arches his brows, and just says 'yeah, fair enough'
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Friday, November 19, 2004
This won't make complete sense to non-British readers I shouldn't think, but some of you foreigners might find it funtastic, if you'll recognise and then pardon the pun, so do have a go
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oh dear.
i had a bottle of wine for supper last night with a side-order of roast chicken. then i went out to a friend's birthday to help welcome the new Beaujolais edition. To my much-abused palette, it had a slightly sulphorous smell and quite an alcoholic, almost petroleum taste to start with. And that was the best bit. There follows a strangely unsuccessful combination of pineapple and strawberry - you'd think that'd be nice but it wasn't - and nutrasweet. As it hits the back of the throat and goes down, i was reminded mainly of battery acid. And the thing is, i was told this was the best it's been in years. So we all drank loads
i then go home to my still not recovered MM and open up a bottle of Mirabelle Eau-de-vie, just to make sure I stay drunk through til today (which i am) and accidentally tell her about how i was going to blog the end of our trip.
And she hit the roof. She did not start any arm twisting, any blackmail, ball-clamping or spitting at me (i got all those later in bed). No, she simply lay on the settee, put her head to my ear and screamed 'PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! except for a good 5 minutes until she wore me down and i promised her.
so i can't say what really happened in our last two hours in Vienna. It involved both moral, spiritual and bodily disaster. We did crimes. Not big ones and not completely intentionally. But we committed bad acts and we're both very sorry for them.
Well she is.
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i had a bottle of wine for supper last night with a side-order of roast chicken. then i went out to a friend's birthday to help welcome the new Beaujolais edition. To my much-abused palette, it had a slightly sulphorous smell and quite an alcoholic, almost petroleum taste to start with. And that was the best bit. There follows a strangely unsuccessful combination of pineapple and strawberry - you'd think that'd be nice but it wasn't - and nutrasweet. As it hits the back of the throat and goes down, i was reminded mainly of battery acid. And the thing is, i was told this was the best it's been in years. So we all drank loads
i then go home to my still not recovered MM and open up a bottle of Mirabelle Eau-de-vie, just to make sure I stay drunk through til today (which i am) and accidentally tell her about how i was going to blog the end of our trip.
And she hit the roof. She did not start any arm twisting, any blackmail, ball-clamping or spitting at me (i got all those later in bed). No, she simply lay on the settee, put her head to my ear and screamed 'PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! PROMISE ME! except for a good 5 minutes until she wore me down and i promised her.
so i can't say what really happened in our last two hours in Vienna. It involved both moral, spiritual and bodily disaster. We did crimes. Not big ones and not completely intentionally. But we committed bad acts and we're both very sorry for them.
Well she is.
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Thursday, November 18, 2004
Since the journey there was such a fucker, tomorrow I was considering writing what happened on the journey back from our weekend break. The only problem is it involves massive embarassment and probable criminality. I wish i were joking but im not. So first everyone has to promise not to tell...
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Day 3 of avoiding hearing Do They Know Its Christmas and things are going swimmingly well. As long as i don't leave the house or turn on the radio or tv, i may well get through this difficult period in my life.
As it happens, we went to a karaoke event last night in town. it was a fundraiser for a splendid cause and nobody was taking things too seriously, but that STILL doesn't excuse my girlfriend and her girlfriend (american usage, although we all have suspicions) thought it would be funny to get up in front of everyone and literally murder 'I Believe I Can Fly'. As if the song wasnt a pile of old tits already, they took it to new depths. Neither girl can sing, and neither can sing together. So both in different keys to the backing track, both holding pints and drunkely hugging eachother and literally screaming, SCREAMING into the microphone their heartfelt belief that they could indeed touch the sky. And they were pleased as punch with the reaction they got - which was shocked, stunned, jaw-dropping applause.
unfortunately, an hour or so later, the room much more crowded, they tried it again. Much drunker, much louder and according to eyewitness accounts, much much worse. I wouldnt know as i had left the room to go for a fag with the organiser 1 second before they started and walked in 3 minutes later to see the microphones being yanked from their hands by the compere. And they loved it. The girls that is. I was in a state of shock so i didnt register what the room's reaction was. But i'm drafting an apology text message to the guys who organised it anyway.
30 minutes later, lying on the edge of the bed, mrs 'i'm a bit drunk' expelled pure lager into the bin. I have never seen anything like it. Her mouth was literally like a beer tap behind a bar - unadulterated fizzy lager, Warsteiner i seem to recall, came flowing out of her mouth at a steady rate COMPLETE WITH FROTH! It was magical. It was beautiful. It was karma.
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As it happens, we went to a karaoke event last night in town. it was a fundraiser for a splendid cause and nobody was taking things too seriously, but that STILL doesn't excuse my girlfriend and her girlfriend (american usage, although we all have suspicions) thought it would be funny to get up in front of everyone and literally murder 'I Believe I Can Fly'. As if the song wasnt a pile of old tits already, they took it to new depths. Neither girl can sing, and neither can sing together. So both in different keys to the backing track, both holding pints and drunkely hugging eachother and literally screaming, SCREAMING into the microphone their heartfelt belief that they could indeed touch the sky. And they were pleased as punch with the reaction they got - which was shocked, stunned, jaw-dropping applause.
unfortunately, an hour or so later, the room much more crowded, they tried it again. Much drunker, much louder and according to eyewitness accounts, much much worse. I wouldnt know as i had left the room to go for a fag with the organiser 1 second before they started and walked in 3 minutes later to see the microphones being yanked from their hands by the compere. And they loved it. The girls that is. I was in a state of shock so i didnt register what the room's reaction was. But i'm drafting an apology text message to the guys who organised it anyway.
30 minutes later, lying on the edge of the bed, mrs 'i'm a bit drunk' expelled pure lager into the bin. I have never seen anything like it. Her mouth was literally like a beer tap behind a bar - unadulterated fizzy lager, Warsteiner i seem to recall, came flowing out of her mouth at a steady rate COMPLETE WITH FROTH! It was magical. It was beautiful. It was karma.
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Worth reading all the way through, this is not just a run of the mill, badly written 419 scam letter. It's a world-exclusive political scandal. That juicy turn of phrase in the last paragraph belies its true author, a Mr G.W.Bush of Pennsylvania Av, DC. Is this the newest way to balance the federal budget?
I am Jim Ovia an administrative officer of a financial firm,
I am writing this letter to solicit for support and assistance
from you to carry out a business of mutual benefit and concern.
I know you would be wondering why I am writing you with a
request such as these but I only urge you to read on.
Pending in our vault is a numbered time fixed deposit of belonging
to Mr. Flody Calvert of Triple G limited. Valued presently at
$26.5 Million dollars, Mr. Floyd Calvert lost his life in an armed
robbery attack in his personal home, which left the entire community
in a state of shock and 11 people dead.
I am sorry if this news is too traumatic for you but I was only
trying to paint the picture to you. His time deposit has been re-run
twice and inline with the contractual agreement entered with him,
we cannot re-run it again, efforts has since been exhaustively
made to source out his kin but to no avail.
Information reached me that the bank wants to return the account
as dormant thereby paving way for the fund to be remitted into
the governments confine for arms purchase, at this juncture I
had to stampede that possibility by writing to debunk all efforts
for the government to seize the funds, hence I am asking you to
stand in as the next of Kin to Mr. Floyd Calvert and the funds
shall be transmitted to you, we shall share the funds in the ratio
of 60-30, while 10% will be for unprecedented expenses incurred
by both parties in the course of this transfer.
If you assist in this transaction kindly send your response and also
provide me with your telephone phone number for easy oral clearification.
I anticipate having a wonderful working relationship with you.
Regards,
Jim Ovia.
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I am Jim Ovia an administrative officer of a financial firm,
I am writing this letter to solicit for support and assistance
from you to carry out a business of mutual benefit and concern.
I know you would be wondering why I am writing you with a
request such as these but I only urge you to read on.
Pending in our vault is a numbered time fixed deposit of belonging
to Mr. Flody Calvert of Triple G limited. Valued presently at
$26.5 Million dollars, Mr. Floyd Calvert lost his life in an armed
robbery attack in his personal home, which left the entire community
in a state of shock and 11 people dead.
I am sorry if this news is too traumatic for you but I was only
trying to paint the picture to you. His time deposit has been re-run
twice and inline with the contractual agreement entered with him,
we cannot re-run it again, efforts has since been exhaustively
made to source out his kin but to no avail.
Information reached me that the bank wants to return the account
as dormant thereby paving way for the fund to be remitted into
the governments confine for arms purchase, at this juncture I
had to stampede that possibility by writing to debunk all efforts
for the government to seize the funds, hence I am asking you to
stand in as the next of Kin to Mr. Floyd Calvert and the funds
shall be transmitted to you, we shall share the funds in the ratio
of 60-30, while 10% will be for unprecedented expenses incurred
by both parties in the course of this transfer.
If you assist in this transaction kindly send your response and also
provide me with your telephone phone number for easy oral clearification.
I anticipate having a wonderful working relationship with you.
Regards,
Jim Ovia.
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Does anyone know the best way to get a copy of security footage from an international airport?
I'll tell you why. Last friday afternoon when I took the Jungfrau to the Eastern Kingdom, we were so amazed at how smoothly the preparation for this trip had gone that when it came time to actually get to the skyport, it came as no surprise that we were running late. Dublin traffic is world-class shite, especially around Pearse Street which is a vital city centre one-way road of 4 lanes that often resembles a car park. You just drive up, join the queue, put it in neutral and watch the world turn around you. That's how you get through it. You just wait for the planet to spin on its axis a bit and suddenly you've trundled along to the edge of the Liffey and are ready to cross into the 'scary' northside. But our taxi did a fine job and got us there with almost an hour to spare so we checked in, wandered round and got some food before going through security (taking the jackets off, leaving the wallet and phone in the tray provided etc) and finally ambling towards our gate. We arrived with 10 minutes to spare and thought we might amble back a bit to the bookshop and get a few newspapers. We were, i must point out here, at the far end of the airport gates. Dublin airport is massive because there's only one terminal, so potentially you have a very long walk from any given point A to point B in your journey. For this reason alone I would support the calls for a second terminal. It'd also mean all the Ryanair passengers on their way to countryside municipal airfields mockingly titled 'Paris', 'Brussels' etc, can be shunted off to another bulding entirely leaving space for international business travellers like myself to pretend to forget what country im in, conspicuously read the IHT and wear panama hats and slacks in peace.
So back round the corner, up the stairs and round another corner we're at the bookshop. Gate is opening in maybe 7 minutes by now? Ooh look, it's the new edition of Fuck and Cunt, i'll just check how much change i've got in my wallet....which....is....where?
OH FOCK
Mobile?
NO.
OF COURSE NOT.
That'd be too easy. I've lost my method of payment for a four day holiday and my means of communication once im there. Some cheapo-airline land-pirate chavver must have filthed the very heart and lungs of my careful Operation and i'm boarding in, ooh look, just 5 minutes. Can i do without them, living on the Module's money for the weekend? Sure I can, it wouldn't be the first time.
But my credit card is in there. It's the only means of collecting the tickets for the concert for which the entire trip has been planned. We realise that no, it's not been nicked. Probably not, anyway. I must have left it in the tray at security. We call my phone. 3 times we get no reply. Fuck, maybe it has been nicked? Security would answer, surely? We go back almost to the gate. I give her my hand luggage.
My last words:
'Go to Vienna'.
Her face is reminiscent of the time when the vet told us her dog had to be put down. Immediately.
There is one flight a day. It costs loads. If i don't get my wallet back, i cant even afford to get home from the skystation.
I run like the fucking wind although it probably resemble more a hurricane blowing some wildly moving gigantic object, like a trailer with a burger-heavy American being shunted around inside it. I bolt down the corridor, up the stairs, round the bend, jumping past, over and through groups of people who god quickly chucked in my way to make the task just that little bit more fucking cinematic. Down the looooooooong corridor with the flat-escalator and then out of the bit we came in and...oh...hang on, i didnt see that before. Oh FUCK it's PASSPORT CONTROL. Of course. On the way in you walk through it and dont see it, like a road sign on the other side not designed for your eyes. But this is arrivals as well as departures and i'm now having to jump a queue of prying eyes and explain to the man with the twisted-up features that i lost my wallet and phone in security and could i run thru please cos im boarding literally now. The nasty-faced old git turns out to be a a really beautiful guy and lets me through immediately. Doesnt even look at the passport (remember this one next time you're geniunely trying to pull a transnational crime - act like a flustered englishman with a trouser full of snakes and mongeese). I suddenly find myself not back at the duty-free bit which is just by security. oh no. i'm going towards the baggage hall, of course.
Fucky bollos.
I run the full length and then go thru the green channel (how weird that mustve looked - a bloke steaming through the Nothing To Declare signal looking for all the world like he's got something very, very important to declare). I run out of Arrivals, half expecting cheers from the waiting crowd and run to the escalator down the hall and up to Departures once more which is on the floor above. Are you still with me?
Then I just have to go straight past a 5-line queue snaking slowly through to security, so I run straight to the bloke at the entrance who checks the passports and explain my situation. He's not having ANY of it. Doesn't believe i've checked in, even
'Where's yer boarding cord, den?'
-It's, um, here (fumbling in my pocket, pulling out receipts and bogie-crusts).
I finally pull it out. But it's only the ticket. The all-important stub has become detached. More fumbling, more bogies (i must get a stash-box for them or something) and finally the stub comes out too. He directs me over to the staff at the x-ray machine where i left them. I hope. One lady directs me to her colleauge, who directs me to the lost property office just on the other side past the second x-ray machine, where i attempt to go but am halted by an upset security guy who again, isnt having any of it. I explain my situation. He tells me to calm down and not be in a hurry. My explanation that my plane is leaving now seems not to be hurry-worthy in his eyes. I love the Irish for their relaxed attitude but there's a time and a place for it. And when you think about it, a major international airport during working hours is, outside of a Grand Prix meeting, perhaps the least appropriate time or place to tell someone to 'slow down and wait yer furigging torn'.
He takes me through to Lost Property, although I have to go thru the machine again, and he makes me stand outside while he discusses in painful length with the bloke inside what's come in today. I can hear my phone RINGING in his hand. It's the Module having another go. He comes out with my wallet and phone in his hands and asks me, very simply:
'What make is your mobile phone?'
I have no idea
actually, i DO know but id forget my own legs at a time like this if they weren't wobbling and burning from the run.
suddenly, from deep within the filthiest confines of my short term memory, the word ERICSSON leaps out and fucks him in the face. He's forced to hand them over, no doubt upset that he couldnt nick them for himself, spending his evening playing Q-Bert on my phone and masturbating over the pictures of me and the m.m. looking lovely in my wallet. No, tonight it is I that shall have that pleasure.
If only I could get back to the fucking gate in time. I call the little lady and explain, she only has the one word for me - 'HURRY'. I set off again, in serious breathing difficulties this time as the previous exertion catches up with me. But something urges me on, even as I clutch my guts in pain. Is it the thrill of the chase? Is it the wish to see my beloved's face light up again at the sight of her heroic boyfriend not stranding her in Sausage City for a night and a day? Or is it the 600 euro i spent on the flights which I won't be getting back? You be the judge. But I would urge you to consider the third option most carefully before passing verdict.
Back through all the corridors, bends and escalators, brushing past tonnes of amblers as if it were that old Arcade game where you have to hit the things on their sides to score points. The best bit was when I was bombing down a long corridor in front of loads of people and my wallet, still in my hands, spontaneously explodes in a hail of coinage and although i dont even contemplate stopping to pick them all up i notice that a juicy two-euro coin is rolling along the ground at the same speed and direction as me so with one courageous dip i bend down, whilst stll running full pelt, and scoop it up in my greedy little jew-paw. I then sit down and lick it, talking to it in all sorts of Yiddish love words and then, forgetting all about my flight i pull out some blood-libel crackers and spread some pate of young Christian girl on them. My fangs are dripping with anticipation.
No i don't. i was merely possessed by the spirit of my old schoolfriends and their infinitely subtle parodic skills for a second.
Instead, I scoop it up and continue on my way, to the sound of some amused and approving, whooping voices from the passengers behind me who just witnessed my wicked skills TO THE MAX. At some point, I will draw a diagram or perhaps re-eanct it on film to see if it stands up to the legendary physics-defying levitation trick that was performed unintentionally by myself and the Friar a long time ago. We shall see.
Down the stairs, round the bend and down the corridor to the gate, I make it, spluttering and wretching to find just the long-suffering Module and a uniformed lady standing there to separate my ticket from its stub. Everybody else is on the plane.
And to top it all, my ticket has already be destubbed, thus effectively denying this lady a chance to lead a productive cameo role in the story of my life. I would still like to pay tribute to her, however, for holding up the plane for me, thus throwing take-off and arrival schedules worldwide in complete disarray. Although I have no idea if this is true but i believe it to be so.
And as i walked through the little box corridor and collapsed into my seat at the front of the plane, wretched and knicknacked as i was, i couldn't help feeling that no matter how it felt at the time, no mind that it almost spunked my entire life up, when all is said and done my spastic dash across the Dublin International Airport must've looked the fucking BUSINESS.
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I'll tell you why. Last friday afternoon when I took the Jungfrau to the Eastern Kingdom, we were so amazed at how smoothly the preparation for this trip had gone that when it came time to actually get to the skyport, it came as no surprise that we were running late. Dublin traffic is world-class shite, especially around Pearse Street which is a vital city centre one-way road of 4 lanes that often resembles a car park. You just drive up, join the queue, put it in neutral and watch the world turn around you. That's how you get through it. You just wait for the planet to spin on its axis a bit and suddenly you've trundled along to the edge of the Liffey and are ready to cross into the 'scary' northside. But our taxi did a fine job and got us there with almost an hour to spare so we checked in, wandered round and got some food before going through security (taking the jackets off, leaving the wallet and phone in the tray provided etc) and finally ambling towards our gate. We arrived with 10 minutes to spare and thought we might amble back a bit to the bookshop and get a few newspapers. We were, i must point out here, at the far end of the airport gates. Dublin airport is massive because there's only one terminal, so potentially you have a very long walk from any given point A to point B in your journey. For this reason alone I would support the calls for a second terminal. It'd also mean all the Ryanair passengers on their way to countryside municipal airfields mockingly titled 'Paris', 'Brussels' etc, can be shunted off to another bulding entirely leaving space for international business travellers like myself to pretend to forget what country im in, conspicuously read the IHT and wear panama hats and slacks in peace.
So back round the corner, up the stairs and round another corner we're at the bookshop. Gate is opening in maybe 7 minutes by now? Ooh look, it's the new edition of Fuck and Cunt, i'll just check how much change i've got in my wallet....which....is....where?
OH FOCK
Mobile?
NO.
OF COURSE NOT.
That'd be too easy. I've lost my method of payment for a four day holiday and my means of communication once im there. Some cheapo-airline land-pirate chavver must have filthed the very heart and lungs of my careful Operation and i'm boarding in, ooh look, just 5 minutes. Can i do without them, living on the Module's money for the weekend? Sure I can, it wouldn't be the first time.
But my credit card is in there. It's the only means of collecting the tickets for the concert for which the entire trip has been planned. We realise that no, it's not been nicked. Probably not, anyway. I must have left it in the tray at security. We call my phone. 3 times we get no reply. Fuck, maybe it has been nicked? Security would answer, surely? We go back almost to the gate. I give her my hand luggage.
My last words:
'Go to Vienna'.
Her face is reminiscent of the time when the vet told us her dog had to be put down. Immediately.
There is one flight a day. It costs loads. If i don't get my wallet back, i cant even afford to get home from the skystation.
I run like the fucking wind although it probably resemble more a hurricane blowing some wildly moving gigantic object, like a trailer with a burger-heavy American being shunted around inside it. I bolt down the corridor, up the stairs, round the bend, jumping past, over and through groups of people who god quickly chucked in my way to make the task just that little bit more fucking cinematic. Down the looooooooong corridor with the flat-escalator and then out of the bit we came in and...oh...hang on, i didnt see that before. Oh FUCK it's PASSPORT CONTROL. Of course. On the way in you walk through it and dont see it, like a road sign on the other side not designed for your eyes. But this is arrivals as well as departures and i'm now having to jump a queue of prying eyes and explain to the man with the twisted-up features that i lost my wallet and phone in security and could i run thru please cos im boarding literally now. The nasty-faced old git turns out to be a a really beautiful guy and lets me through immediately. Doesnt even look at the passport (remember this one next time you're geniunely trying to pull a transnational crime - act like a flustered englishman with a trouser full of snakes and mongeese). I suddenly find myself not back at the duty-free bit which is just by security. oh no. i'm going towards the baggage hall, of course.
Fucky bollos.
I run the full length and then go thru the green channel (how weird that mustve looked - a bloke steaming through the Nothing To Declare signal looking for all the world like he's got something very, very important to declare). I run out of Arrivals, half expecting cheers from the waiting crowd and run to the escalator down the hall and up to Departures once more which is on the floor above. Are you still with me?
Then I just have to go straight past a 5-line queue snaking slowly through to security, so I run straight to the bloke at the entrance who checks the passports and explain my situation. He's not having ANY of it. Doesn't believe i've checked in, even
'Where's yer boarding cord, den?'
-It's, um, here (fumbling in my pocket, pulling out receipts and bogie-crusts).
I finally pull it out. But it's only the ticket. The all-important stub has become detached. More fumbling, more bogies (i must get a stash-box for them or something) and finally the stub comes out too. He directs me over to the staff at the x-ray machine where i left them. I hope. One lady directs me to her colleauge, who directs me to the lost property office just on the other side past the second x-ray machine, where i attempt to go but am halted by an upset security guy who again, isnt having any of it. I explain my situation. He tells me to calm down and not be in a hurry. My explanation that my plane is leaving now seems not to be hurry-worthy in his eyes. I love the Irish for their relaxed attitude but there's a time and a place for it. And when you think about it, a major international airport during working hours is, outside of a Grand Prix meeting, perhaps the least appropriate time or place to tell someone to 'slow down and wait yer furigging torn'.
He takes me through to Lost Property, although I have to go thru the machine again, and he makes me stand outside while he discusses in painful length with the bloke inside what's come in today. I can hear my phone RINGING in his hand. It's the Module having another go. He comes out with my wallet and phone in his hands and asks me, very simply:
'What make is your mobile phone?'
I have no idea
actually, i DO know but id forget my own legs at a time like this if they weren't wobbling and burning from the run.
suddenly, from deep within the filthiest confines of my short term memory, the word ERICSSON leaps out and fucks him in the face. He's forced to hand them over, no doubt upset that he couldnt nick them for himself, spending his evening playing Q-Bert on my phone and masturbating over the pictures of me and the m.m. looking lovely in my wallet. No, tonight it is I that shall have that pleasure.
If only I could get back to the fucking gate in time. I call the little lady and explain, she only has the one word for me - 'HURRY'. I set off again, in serious breathing difficulties this time as the previous exertion catches up with me. But something urges me on, even as I clutch my guts in pain. Is it the thrill of the chase? Is it the wish to see my beloved's face light up again at the sight of her heroic boyfriend not stranding her in Sausage City for a night and a day? Or is it the 600 euro i spent on the flights which I won't be getting back? You be the judge. But I would urge you to consider the third option most carefully before passing verdict.
Back through all the corridors, bends and escalators, brushing past tonnes of amblers as if it were that old Arcade game where you have to hit the things on their sides to score points. The best bit was when I was bombing down a long corridor in front of loads of people and my wallet, still in my hands, spontaneously explodes in a hail of coinage and although i dont even contemplate stopping to pick them all up i notice that a juicy two-euro coin is rolling along the ground at the same speed and direction as me so with one courageous dip i bend down, whilst stll running full pelt, and scoop it up in my greedy little jew-paw. I then sit down and lick it, talking to it in all sorts of Yiddish love words and then, forgetting all about my flight i pull out some blood-libel crackers and spread some pate of young Christian girl on them. My fangs are dripping with anticipation.
No i don't. i was merely possessed by the spirit of my old schoolfriends and their infinitely subtle parodic skills for a second.
Instead, I scoop it up and continue on my way, to the sound of some amused and approving, whooping voices from the passengers behind me who just witnessed my wicked skills TO THE MAX. At some point, I will draw a diagram or perhaps re-eanct it on film to see if it stands up to the legendary physics-defying levitation trick that was performed unintentionally by myself and the Friar a long time ago. We shall see.
Down the stairs, round the bend and down the corridor to the gate, I make it, spluttering and wretching to find just the long-suffering Module and a uniformed lady standing there to separate my ticket from its stub. Everybody else is on the plane.
And to top it all, my ticket has already be destubbed, thus effectively denying this lady a chance to lead a productive cameo role in the story of my life. I would still like to pay tribute to her, however, for holding up the plane for me, thus throwing take-off and arrival schedules worldwide in complete disarray. Although I have no idea if this is true but i believe it to be so.
And as i walked through the little box corridor and collapsed into my seat at the front of the plane, wretched and knicknacked as i was, i couldn't help feeling that no matter how it felt at the time, no mind that it almost spunked my entire life up, when all is said and done my spastic dash across the Dublin International Airport must've looked the fucking BUSINESS.
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Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Day 2 and im pretty sure I have still not found out if it's Christmas time, let alone if there's a need to be afraid yet. Long may it continue.
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from the venomous shitrag that is the Sun, a succession of torturous-to-illegal puns on the subject of indian food...
2 for 1 curry and a free Kingfisher beer
DON’T be a vinda-looser - cash in on our fab curry offer.
The Sun is celebrating Kingfisher World Curry Week by spicing up your life with a two-for-one curry meal deal.
From Wednesday your red-hot Sun is inviting readers to korma along for a half-price curry.
We’ve got together with some of Britain’s finest Indian restaurants for this tasty bargain, which lets you and up to five pals eat for half price - plus you all get a free Kingfisher beer!
Just buy one main meal and/or a starter and get another of equivalent or lesser value free.
You can then claim a free pint or 330ml bottle of tasty Kingfisher.
Wash down your curry ... with a free Kingfisher beer
More than 430 restaurants are taking part across the UK so there’s bound to be one not too phaal away.
To cash-mir in on Britain’s best meal deal, just collect four differently numbered tokens from the six we will be printing in The Sun newspaper.
To get hold of Token 1 go out and buy Saturday's Sun newspaper. Once you have all your tokens, attach them to the voucher which we will print on Wednesday in The Sun, along with a special four page pullout with full restaurant listings.
Then poppadom to your local participating Indian restaurant to book a table (offer subject to table availability) or give them a call.
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2 for 1 curry and a free Kingfisher beer
DON’T be a vinda-looser - cash in on our fab curry offer.
The Sun is celebrating Kingfisher World Curry Week by spicing up your life with a two-for-one curry meal deal.
From Wednesday your red-hot Sun is inviting readers to korma along for a half-price curry.
We’ve got together with some of Britain’s finest Indian restaurants for this tasty bargain, which lets you and up to five pals eat for half price - plus you all get a free Kingfisher beer!
Just buy one main meal and/or a starter and get another of equivalent or lesser value free.
You can then claim a free pint or 330ml bottle of tasty Kingfisher.
Wash down your curry ... with a free Kingfisher beer
More than 430 restaurants are taking part across the UK so there’s bound to be one not too phaal away.
To cash-mir in on Britain’s best meal deal, just collect four differently numbered tokens from the six we will be printing in The Sun newspaper.
To get hold of Token 1 go out and buy Saturday's Sun newspaper. Once you have all your tokens, attach them to the voucher which we will print on Wednesday in The Sun, along with a special four page pullout with full restaurant listings.
Then poppadom to your local participating Indian restaurant to book a table (offer subject to table availability) or give them a call.
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Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Today is Day 1 of me not hearing the Band-Aid single. If i can hold out til xmas day i will personally donate half of all the money i stole from the last one
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in the midst of our little Viennese sortie came this highly appropriate Freudian Slip of such gargantuan proportions that i am duty bound to get my own back in a later post when i can work out how to do it without getting the shit kicked out of me and then, more painfully, back in again by the little lady in question.
anyways, whilst teaching her the german numbers from 1 to 12 she suddenly comes out with her system for remembering them. See if you can spot the little seepage of how she really feels.
"Eins" - that's first
"Zwei" - that's like Two
"Drei" - that's like Dry
"Fier" - that's like Fear
"Funf" - I like that one
"Sieben" - that's like Siemens
"Acht" - that's like Achtung Baby
"Neun" - that's like Nine, but 'aNeuing'
"Zehn" - that's Sane
"Elf" - that's like a little elf
"Zwolf" - that's like 'it's a wolf!'
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anyways, whilst teaching her the german numbers from 1 to 12 she suddenly comes out with her system for remembering them. See if you can spot the little seepage of how she really feels.
"Eins" - that's first
"Zwei" - that's like Two
"Drei" - that's like Dry
"Fier" - that's like Fear
"Funf" - I like that one
"SECHS" - THAT'S BORING!
"Sieben" - that's like Siemens
"Acht" - that's like Achtung Baby
"Neun" - that's like Nine, but 'aNeuing'
"Zehn" - that's Sane
"Elf" - that's like a little elf
"Zwolf" - that's like 'it's a wolf!'
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the undoubted winner in the unofficial 'send me horrific picture of an animal advertising animal products' sweep steaks, courtesy of a New Kid on the Blog DJ Councillor Gyro Kredit, where wisdom meets words and they agree to disagree
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I've just had the trip of a lifetime to Austria's capital city and would love to tell all about it but, from 'out of the voice' of the The Friar last week,
thanks for telling me about Vienna but to be honest it means nothing to me.
Ure so right, Friar...
And, monastic man you are, no doubt you'd not be jealous at all if I say that truly, I saw GOD while I was there.
(And I met his wife again!)
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thanks for telling me about Vienna but to be honest it means nothing to me.
Ure so right, Friar...
And, monastic man you are, no doubt you'd not be jealous at all if I say that truly, I saw GOD while I was there.
(And I met his wife again!)
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Friday, November 12, 2004
"Couldn't send the real thing but maybe this will do instead! If not we had a whip round so you can buy yourself a bun"
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"My ex-husband beat me and took my children away from me. I'd rather die than be without them. On the day I was going to hang myself, I saw an ad for the UCKG HelpCentre and come on a Tuesday to see what was going on and through their help and prayer, I've been reunited with my children and have completely forgiven my ex. Life is worth living!"
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I'm sure her Noni tastes wonderful but i'd have more confidence if they could decide on a consistent spelling of 'Tahitian'
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Thursday, November 11, 2004
time to clear your throat and brush up on your phlegmish
more Cowboy Henk.
http://www.humo.be/Henk/2004/45/1.asp
keep clicking through, there's some loopy stuff in there
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more Cowboy Henk.
http://www.humo.be/Henk/2004/45/1.asp
keep clicking through, there's some loopy stuff in there
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Everytime i start taking this country for granted, maybe thinking i'm in England again, something happens to remind me that this can be a very different place underneath the surface. Today at the watchmakers, I went to get some batteries fitted for some old watches of mine. The conversation went like this:
"That'll be 16 euro please"
Oh, i think i've got just enough, hang on
(Picking out 15 in notes, then rifling through my wallet for loose change)
"Ah, i don't want to leave you short now. Just give me what you can"
No, no - here it is, look. I've got 16.
"Are you sure now?"
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"That'll be 16 euro please"
Oh, i think i've got just enough, hang on
(Picking out 15 in notes, then rifling through my wallet for loose change)
"Ah, i don't want to leave you short now. Just give me what you can"
No, no - here it is, look. I've got 16.
"Are you sure now?"
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So, farewell then, Yosser 'Gissa State' Arafat, head of the (Kids! Say no to the...) PLO (or 'Sand Nazis' as we could have been taught in Shul) and Palestine's own Menachem Begin.
What?
Controversial?
Me?
Ok, they only shared one or two little similarities. Like being International Statesmen. Winning the Nobel Peace Prize. Being deceived by Ariel Sharon. And, er, being the head of a ruthless terrorist organisation.
(And they both, against the odds, died of natural causes.)
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What?
Controversial?
Me?
Ok, they only shared one or two little similarities. Like being International Statesmen. Winning the Nobel Peace Prize. Being deceived by Ariel Sharon. And, er, being the head of a ruthless terrorist organisation.
(And they both, against the odds, died of natural causes.)
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from my favourite website Found Photos
I'd always thought 'Mad as a Box of Frogs' a slightly silly metaphor but it's spot on, isn't it?
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I'd always thought 'Mad as a Box of Frogs' a slightly silly metaphor but it's spot on, isn't it?
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Tuesday, November 09, 2004
1. this is not me
2. or any other blogger i know
3. it is very likely a joke
4. i don't care because
5. it is gloriously, obsessively British
The Wank Blog: a masturbation diary
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2. or any other blogger i know
3. it is very likely a joke
4. i don't care because
5. it is gloriously, obsessively British
The Wank Blog: a masturbation diary
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im in the middle of making my supper, baby octopus curry, and a thought just came to me which won't let go:
If Octopus has roughly the same intelligence as a Cat, as biologists now say, doesn't that mean i'm making a Kitten Curry?
I looked down at the pan to see these strange grey aliens sizzling away but in my mind I saw kittens, cute furry kittens, covered in the hot sloppy gravy.
I'm not that pleased with myself to be honest. I've always made guesses at what the level of consciousness is of any particular organism - it had long been my contention that fish have the same awareness as celery so it was fine to eat them, but of course they don't. I used to think that any animal that can't walk, swim or fly backwards is fair game for the pot. And of course, anything with a really tasty bum, anything from a nice King Prawn all the way up to the Brazilian Women's Football Team, all of them could easily find themselves on my griddle.
But these sea-kittens are starting to really change my belief-system. Perhaps i should try eating Catfish, as they do or did in the Deep South, so that I'm more accustomed to the idea?
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If Octopus has roughly the same intelligence as a Cat, as biologists now say, doesn't that mean i'm making a Kitten Curry?
I looked down at the pan to see these strange grey aliens sizzling away but in my mind I saw kittens, cute furry kittens, covered in the hot sloppy gravy.
I'm not that pleased with myself to be honest. I've always made guesses at what the level of consciousness is of any particular organism - it had long been my contention that fish have the same awareness as celery so it was fine to eat them, but of course they don't. I used to think that any animal that can't walk, swim or fly backwards is fair game for the pot. And of course, anything with a really tasty bum, anything from a nice King Prawn all the way up to the Brazilian Women's Football Team, all of them could easily find themselves on my griddle.
But these sea-kittens are starting to really change my belief-system. Perhaps i should try eating Catfish, as they do or did in the Deep South, so that I'm more accustomed to the idea?
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Monday, November 08, 2004
King Carsten the II ruled Grift (latterly the Royal and Ruhussian Kingdom of Grift and Grimp) with, they say, a Rod of Love. Wherever he went, seeing good deeds taking place in the cities and in the countryside, he would summon the dogooders to his carriage and, taking no heed for his own personal safety, anoint them with his Rod of Love. But woe betide the baddoers, those malificious entities of not niceness, for when he caught them, he would summon them to his carriage and, taking no heed for his own personal safety, anoint them with his Rod of Love
and if you don't believe me, check out this excellent piece of second-hand history on his popular father, King Carsten the III, also of Grift
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and if you don't believe me, check out this excellent piece of second-hand history on his popular father, King Carsten the III, also of Grift
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Checklist of things to do last week:
Myself, twice daily:
CHECK
Work, lots of it:
CHECK
See Femi Kuti rock Dublin to its knees.
CHECK
Go out with complete strangers to an all-night restaurant and end up as friends, nay collaborators
CHECK
Spend more money than i actually have and more than i ever have on something i couldnt hold in my hands, keep, drive or fuck - all to go see a musician who doesnt often play and when he does, he decides to play in frigging Vienna
CHECK
Get offered and decline a five-minute stand-up spot as an impromptu warm-up in front of 800 discerning comedy punters
OOPS! CHECK
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Myself, twice daily:
CHECK
Work, lots of it:
CHECK
See Femi Kuti rock Dublin to its knees.
CHECK
Go out with complete strangers to an all-night restaurant and end up as friends, nay collaborators
CHECK
Spend more money than i actually have and more than i ever have on something i couldnt hold in my hands, keep, drive or fuck - all to go see a musician who doesnt often play and when he does, he decides to play in frigging Vienna
CHECK
Get offered and decline a five-minute stand-up spot as an impromptu warm-up in front of 800 discerning comedy punters
OOPS! CHECK
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Sunday, November 07, 2004
true to my word...
f2: did you hear about the guy who got shot in the head by a shotgun
me: i didnt but i fear im going to
f2: bearings in mind
f2: !!!
me: congratulations
me: you know how some clever jokes work on several levels at once?
me: you've just created the opposite
f2: no
me: it doesnt work on several levels ALL AT THE SAME TIME
f2: did you hear about the communist fish that was of no relevance whatsoever?
me: you write the anti-matter of jokes
me: no, go on
f2: red herring
me: blimey
me: fish goes into a bar
f2: !
f2: yes
me: 'barman, id like a drink please'
f2: yes
me: barman: certainly, sir, what's your poisson?
f2: fuck
f2: did you know that superman's middle name was bryan?
f2: Christopher B.Reeve
me: thought it was Gary
f2: his wife is B.Reeved
me: christopher g.reeve
f2: he was actually half italian, with a double barrelled surname
f2: Christopher Reeve Mialone
me: he was actually australian
me: christiopher barrier reeve
f2: fuck
f2: he was part russian
f2: but it was not to be
f2: Christopher Reeve Ival
me: that is the worst joke that ever failed
f2: i think its brilliant
me: you've just earned yourself a place on my blog with that last comment!
f2: barrier reeve boy
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f2: did you hear about the guy who got shot in the head by a shotgun
me: i didnt but i fear im going to
f2: bearings in mind
f2: !!!
me: congratulations
me: you know how some clever jokes work on several levels at once?
me: you've just created the opposite
f2: no
me: it doesnt work on several levels ALL AT THE SAME TIME
f2: did you hear about the communist fish that was of no relevance whatsoever?
me: you write the anti-matter of jokes
me: no, go on
f2: red herring
me: blimey
me: fish goes into a bar
f2: !
f2: yes
me: 'barman, id like a drink please'
f2: yes
me: barman: certainly, sir, what's your poisson?
f2: fuck
f2: did you know that superman's middle name was bryan?
f2: Christopher B.Reeve
me: thought it was Gary
f2: his wife is B.Reeved
me: christopher g.reeve
f2: he was actually half italian, with a double barrelled surname
f2: Christopher Reeve Mialone
me: he was actually australian
me: christiopher barrier reeve
f2: fuck
f2: he was part russian
f2: but it was not to be
f2: Christopher Reeve Ival
me: that is the worst joke that ever failed
f2: i think its brilliant
me: you've just earned yourself a place on my blog with that last comment!
f2: barrier reeve boy
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Please form an orderly queue...
Perfect Partner : SeXy TaNnEd MuScLeY FoOkA WhOz PrOpA MiNT iN bEd!
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Perfect Partner : SeXy TaNnEd MuScLeY FoOkA WhOz PrOpA MiNT iN bEd!
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Thursday, November 04, 2004
it's a day later and the disappointment hasn't worn off for lots of people. the pubs last night were pretty subdued. i imagine all throughout europe and much of the rest of the alcoholic world, people were ready to break world drinking records, anticipating a big night out getting wasted to celebrate the end of a shit quadra-year period. kind of like the mood round our house when the Queen Mother died. But instead, we didn't.
and it gets me thinking, surely with all the goodwill just under half the US voting populace have for John Kerry, and the same from many who live in the outside world, couldn't we just go off and establish an alternative America with him as President? He came so close doesn't he deserve something? if there's not a suitable land mass available (although i suggest we, the british, invade australia again. and when we discover there are already people living there, with their funny big faces, unusually querelous language and strange mystical thinking we just disenfranchise them all over again. they can be 'our' American Indians) then simply divide america up into roughly Civil War-era battle lines, leaving the West wild, and decide which side each voter will live on. north of the line (mason-dixon is it?) is county Kerry. South of that you're living out in the Bush. That'd take all of, what, 10 minutes the state of division the federation is in at the moment? In a true democracy, you'd vote for your leader and you'd get him. Your neighbour would vote for their leader, and they'd get her. democracy reductio ad absurdemned isnt something that's pondered too often such are the bizarre, contrary conclusions. and as i reread this nonsensical post i can see that the nano-squadron of CIA brain monkeys have finally chewed through one too many spongy lumps in my skullhole, stopping for good my critical faculties. damn you to hell and babylon george double v fuckhead, aieeeeeeeeeee!
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and it gets me thinking, surely with all the goodwill just under half the US voting populace have for John Kerry, and the same from many who live in the outside world, couldn't we just go off and establish an alternative America with him as President? He came so close doesn't he deserve something? if there's not a suitable land mass available (although i suggest we, the british, invade australia again. and when we discover there are already people living there, with their funny big faces, unusually querelous language and strange mystical thinking we just disenfranchise them all over again. they can be 'our' American Indians) then simply divide america up into roughly Civil War-era battle lines, leaving the West wild, and decide which side each voter will live on. north of the line (mason-dixon is it?) is county Kerry. South of that you're living out in the Bush. That'd take all of, what, 10 minutes the state of division the federation is in at the moment? In a true democracy, you'd vote for your leader and you'd get him. Your neighbour would vote for their leader, and they'd get her. democracy reductio ad absurdemned isnt something that's pondered too often such are the bizarre, contrary conclusions. and as i reread this nonsensical post i can see that the nano-squadron of CIA brain monkeys have finally chewed through one too many spongy lumps in my skullhole, stopping for good my critical faculties. damn you to hell and babylon george double v fuckhead, aieeeeeeeeeee!
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cheer up everybody, let's go camp out and order an Indian ,get the beers in and drown our hopes, along with our the unwanted kittens of our post-election sorrows. Then when it's time to go home, we can look up http://www.nationalrailenquiries.com to find a suitable station and at the same time put to rest any lingering doubts that american governance has impinged upon public life at all.
thanks to me for the first link and, just as bafflingly, my new pal abby for the second one
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thanks to me for the first link and, just as bafflingly, my new pal abby for the second one
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Wednesday, November 03, 2004
ah, the sun is out, it's a beautiful day, i'm in love with a wonderful person, there's a bit of money in my bank account, my country is at peace, good cheer spreads through this magical land, life is good, la vie est belle, la vita e bella, life is sweet, birds sing out, bees hold their stings, dogs are kissing cats, pandas are copulating, fish are pre-frying themselves for convenience, tramps are winning lotteries, criminals are stealing nothing but loving glances, good morning everybody i love you all and want to tell you what a wonderful world this is. i'll just take a look at the news headlines...
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OH FUCK MY TITS WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE!?!
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Tuesday, November 02, 2004
how do you exclude convicted felons from voting in elections in Saudi Arabia?
...call for a show of hands
TAXI!
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...call for a show of hands
TAXI!
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'Vote or Die' says Puff Daddy. An honourable attempt to get his constituency to join in this time, but i can't help thinking how great it would be if we could stop HIM from voting, then sit back and watch him practice what he preaches
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and another thing - regardless of whether you want Bush or Kerry to win, wouldnt it be better for the whole world if the vote ends in deadlock and it takes four years to sort out. That way they can all fight amongst themselves and leave the rest of the world alone. not much may get done in four years, but wouldn't that be better than what HAS been done in the previous four?
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Last minute Voting thoughts:
if Kerry is elected, he'll be the first president/killer in a good 150 years . He killed a bunch of Vietkong back when he was in some war. I suspect he's worked it thru his system and won't be so eager to up his tally. Bush, however, started late and consequently he's got at least 100,000 on his scorecard. i don't think he'll stop there. So the pollsters are right - it's all a numbers game.
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if Kerry is elected, he'll be the first president/killer in a good 150 years . He killed a bunch of Vietkong back when he was in some war. I suspect he's worked it thru his system and won't be so eager to up his tally. Bush, however, started late and consequently he's got at least 100,000 on his scorecard. i don't think he'll stop there. So the pollsters are right - it's all a numbers game.
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Monday, November 01, 2004
funny thing here in Ireland though, they don't celebrate Bonfire Night. Sure, it's illegal to buy and sell fireworks but that didnt stop the city exploding in the stuff last night. The air when i stepped outside at 9pm was distinctly gunpowdery. I'd have thought they'd have kept up a nice british tradition of penny for the Guy, remember remember the 5th of november and all that, monarchists, catholics, puritan rebels, a plot to blow up the houses of parliament foiled at the last minute, Oliver Cromw...ah...never mind
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Last night was Halloween and my poor little lovely, who'd been denied an opportunity to celebrate it in the proper way every single year of her childhood by her wicked 'parents', was flying home after a week away of dastardly business deals and gruesome family duties. It was an oddly moving moment to see her discover the grinning Jack O'Lantern i'd spent the afternoon carving (and did you know it is traditionally a turnip?! i stuck with a pumpkin), sitting out on the balcony, in the darkness and cursing us with his glowing spiky mouth while we ate spicy soup made largely from his stringy, fleshy innards.
I think it's important to make up for disappointments in childhood. Not actually recreate and rectify them, just to do what you can.
It's why she hung out a stocking for me one xmas and filled it with presents the next morning. Just because.
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I think it's important to make up for disappointments in childhood. Not actually recreate and rectify them, just to do what you can.
It's why she hung out a stocking for me one xmas and filled it with presents the next morning. Just because.
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