A Storm Is Coming

Can you smell it?

Before waving bye bye to the Ecuadorian Monkey Fiddler, a successful CD audit was hastily completed just in time to welcome the expected avalanche of new arrivals in pressie form by the end of this week. For it is so, the most important and audacious social event of your calendar is fast approaching. Stars of stage & screen (i.e. Panto & Big Brother) have had their pewter-embossed invitations despatched by carrier-pig, whilst the clamouring proletariat have has to make do with lovingly hand-crafted text messages.

Shirley Bassey & Jay Aston have agreed to mime to the hits of Alma Cogan, Demis Roussos has donated his Kaftan for use as a marquee, the finger buffet has been provided by the NHS waste body parts department and the Hangover Fairy has been employed to ensure that the hosts feel every month of their burgeoning age. Rough Trade are celebrating by opening a branch in London's fashionable Brick Lane, so that both newfangled indie music and goo-spangled Hindi music can be enjoyed in the same afternoon. Sidmouth will be marking the event by reopening Branscombe beach for a fresh spot of recreational looting and simultaneously holding a folky festival of folk for folk who like folk. Threshers also refused to rain on the parade, despite their better judgement, by feeding Poulner to the Rabid Rabbit, whilst leaving Ringwood to its decadent freedom.

As a wise woman (more than) once said, "Bring it on! 'Ave it! You're all phat bastards! Deal with it! Pressies!"


Currently listening: Hatful of Hollow by The Smiths

The Worm Flails, Gurgles & Drowns In Its Own Juices

It's now so cold and generally damp in the worm that I have seriously thought about returning to a state of mouldy hibernation, but then I would have missed out on these highlights of an elbow straightening week:
1. Calling the hotline to Scotland in order to hold back the torrent of incoherent drunkenness of the local chavlets, then going out and achieving a higher level of spiritual drunkenness to rub their yellow tongues in!
2. Holding a real life baby. They made me hold a baby! Waaaah waaaaah waaaaah!
3. No tasty fishy treats, no ukulele and no Larmer Tree Festival. But on the bright side I managed to miss the non event that was the Ringwood Festival, which has apparently managed to exist ten years without anyone noticing.
4. Crying over spilt Nicky.
5. Frequenting the friendly neighbourhood Harry Potter party, with some orange cider-addled freaks in wigs, as the insipid rat face watches on in shame.
Roll on Summer (I think the next one's due in about 50 years)!


Currently listening: Twilight Of The Innocents by Ash

What Face Do You Pull When You Epilate?

It has been a year since I commenced my newly blogged-up lifestyle, so to celebrate I shall tell you a little story of blood and fear.

It was a dark and stormy night. Just that afternoon
Hairy Frotter (not his real name, but an online pseudonym he had taken to using) had looked up into the sky and sighed moodily to his pet weasel Ronald, "A storm is coming!"

"Not that old chestnut" wheezed the weasel, as he nibbled on a chestnut, before releasing his magical droppings in the corner of Hairy's bedroom with a self-satisfied oink. The hairy hairs on the back of Hairy's neck began to bristle with lustful disdain as robotic breakdancer Hermi-1-G burst though the door in a flush of eyebrows, bleeding from both ends. "Whussup?" she wiggled.

"Whussup with you, more like?" squirmed Ronald. "Oh this?" said Hermi, wiping the blood from her fingers onto her evergreen forest of eyebrows, "I've been doing my witchly duties by
giving my blood away to the needy, but I also have the most amazing piles!" And with that she took up a stationary buffalo stance, the only discernible movement coming from above her eyes.

"Lovely" said Hairy, as his spider-sense began to tingle, "Oh no! My spider-sense has begun to tingle!"

"Oh cocking hell" exclaimed Ronald, "Here we go again."

"Yes we do" screamed Hairy, excitedly. "It can only mean one thing. Gigantor has risen again to suckle at the earth's teat!"

"Bugger" said Ronald.


Currently listening: Our Love To Admire by Interpol

Knickerless (Nick'll be)

In a bought of virtual spring (summer? Winter? Somebody remind me which season it is, the weather is obviously having a tantrum, and is thusly most confusing and unhelpful) cleaning, I was perusing the plethora of unfinished and discarded blog drafts that are cluttering up my Blogger Dashboard™. It seems that exactly this time last month I was to regale you with tales of Cherie Blair, my old chemistry teacher and the secret of collective nouns, all from the pages of our dear ex-Prime Minister's least favourite compact news-rag. But I didn't, or maybe I did, but you weren't listening, or I forgot, who knows? I forget.

Anyway, on to less important matters. Watch out automobilophiles, after an absence of nearly a decade I'm back on your roads, yes yours. I've almost learned to undo the handbrake and fiddle with the window swipers, I even went backwards the other day. I did went and go forwards too, at upwards of 30 miles per hour, with the wind whistling through the holes in my go-faster stripe enhanced trousers. I am indeed a speed demon. I shall vow to walk no more, not that I did went and do much of that anyway. I hereby pass my pedestrian mantle onto the next generation in the person of my driving instructor's brand new sproglet (once he's learned to walk). Take cover, for Gigantor stalks the Earth!


Currently listening: Cansei De Ser Sexy by CSS