Friday, 14 December 2007

About time

Yeah. I've been an impotent, lame, flaccid kind of fool for not blogging for so long. Irresponsible really. What with the increase in suicides, the people throwing themselves into the road just because life without my words seems so empty. I will no longer shirk my social responsibility and will once again entertain Ye through the medium of these 'ere pixels.

I still don't smoke. Na na na-na-na. Up yours Nay Sayers! You know who you are.

Anyhow I have been keeping busy. I know how to perform venipuncture now. Sleep soundly. If anyone is in the least bit interested in helping mankind (and more importantly me) by becoming a participant in my PhD project do not hesitate to contact me. I have designed a very informative email response in advance in case anyone wants to know about it. You can all get involved. I do want your blood though. Yes you.

Enough abuse of the blogging space to recruit people for my own ends.

But I don't have much else to talk about these days. Ah. Goes with the job you see, I'm becoming a socially awkward, reclusive PhD student. If I were in the room with you right now I'd probably be finding it hard to keep eye contact.

I have discovered a new joy in running. I never used to be able to do this. Now not only am I capable but I actually like it. Hmmmmm. What a topsy-turvy crazy world this is.

Ya know considering I haven't bothered writing anything for months it really feels like I'm scraping the bottom of the word barrel. So in the interest of keeping the standards up to my usual award winning*, benchmark setting, monumentally mind bogglingly high standards I'm going to stop. Now.

*May not actually have won awards.

Monday, 24 September 2007


How are things your end? I really hope you're ok. Thats right. I'm genuinely concerned for you; the reader. After all happiness is an important, if oft argued over concept. And thats the kind of service I provide. I'm at least 37% more sincere than the news reader who wishes you a good evening.

So whats this crazy, zany play on words title about? Huh? Well I've been drinking and reading about chaos theory. Thats all you need to know really. If some maths geeks want to nick the word to use as their funky maths forum web page they're welcome.

The last week, the build up to this random title selecting moment, has been interesting. Due to some intractable life errors I was forced into a corner to confront my lifestyle. I'd recently been uncharacteristically naughty/stupid. Very melodramatic. I felt dirty. A shower didn't help. What was one to do at a time like this? I looked into my repertoire of useful sayings. "If it aint broke don't fix it" presented itself. I looked deeper and found with some imagination another implication arose from the ashes; if it is broke fix it.

I was broke(n). I needed fixing. Gumption would be required. I decided that giving up smoking could provide a physical if not moral redemption for my misguided actions. I have been a heavy smoker. Quitting has involved sweat, sleep deprivation, temporary abstinence from booze, self fornication, illegal downloaded movies (not the greasy kind, just anything to distract me), cycling, running, mars bars, self doubt, blah, blah, blahhhhhhhhhhhh.

So far so good! I write this on day 10. I don't want to write much more here because I don't want to jinx it. Which is odd because until I wrote that I thought I didn't believe in luck.

I start a proper job in a few days. This is dominating my thoughts. I will be in a position of minor responsibility. In my research contract they have foolishly stated I have to lecture for 6 hours per week. Imagine that. Me. Teaching. Supervising. Advising! Ha. I'm absolutely petrified. At the same time I feel indifference to any institution who could assign me to such a role when I'm not ready! Arggggggggghhhhh. Anyway this is not the place to raise these concerns.

Brown are my trousers. Blue is the sea. Buck up old fellow. Pull those socks up, pull your thumb out, look lively, stiff upper lip, er........... when in Roam?


I still haven't got the hang of that one.

Who knows it might just work out.

Friday, 14 September 2007

Folk you, you folking folk

I have recently been given a vinyl deck with a USB output on the proviso that I copy the vinyls of its previous owners onto CDs for them. Awesome I thought. Now they've said I can keep the vinyl too. I got really drunk and thought about how touching this was because vinyls are personal things and so emailed them telling them it was too much, i'd feel bad etc etc. They didn't care as they're moving onto a house boat in a few months and are ridding themselves of all but the most essential of their posessions and they know i love old music. So thanks Elizabeth and Pete! Good things happen when people hear you playing Fairport Convention in the Star.

Anyhow I've been copying their old vinyls, at the rate of a out 2 or 3 a week. It is actually quite a labour intensive process. You have to play each vinyl in real time. Then you have to normalise the volume level. Then you have to chop the continuous audio into seperate tracks - so you have to find the beginnings/ends of all the songs. Then you have to export the tracks as WAV files and name them. Then you can burn the CD if you don't have arguments with windows media player. I've gotten faster at doing it after a few albums.

So I've been listening to old folk records and reading a book a few afternoons a week. Big whoop. But it gets interesting.... I have discovered one LP in particular that I love. It is an album entitled "Morris On" and is a sort of folk rock super group; Ashley Hutchings, Richard Thompson (knew I'd like it when I saw that name), Dave Mattacks, John Kirkpatrick and Barry Dransfeld (I'd never heard of him before). It features a song which has the privalage of being the only one ever to actually force me to laugh out loud on first and then repeated listens.

The song is "Cuckoo's Nest" and I shall try and find the lyrics and paste them into me blog. What is the folk song Cuckoo's Nest about? Huh? You want me to tell you. OK 'cos I hate that look on your face. Its about a vagina. The basic premiss of the song is boy meets girl, boys tells girl he wants to touch her up, girl says no, boys says don't be like that, girl relents, boy fingers girl, they like it, get married, have kids and boy can finger girl to his hearts content. Its got a haunting tune too.


As I was a walking one morning in May
I met a pretty fair maid and unto her did say
I'll tell you me mind, it's for love I am inclined
An me inclination lies in your cuckoo's nest

Me darling, says she, I am innocent and young
And I scarcely can believe your false deluding tongue
Yet I see it in your eyes and it fills me with surprise
That your inclination lies in me cuckoo's nest

Some like a girl who is pretty in the face
and some like a girl who is slender in the waist
But give me a girl who will wriggle and will twist
At the bottom of the belly lies the cuckoo's nest

Me darling, says me, if you can see it in me eyes
Then think of it as fondness and do not be surprised
For I live you me dear and I'll marry you I swear
If you'll let me clap my hand on your cuckoo's nest

Me darling, says she, I can do no such thing
For me mother often told me it was committing sin
Me maidenhead to lose and me sex to be abused
So have no more to do with me cuckoo's nest

Some like a girl who is pretty in the face
and some like a girl who is slender in the waist
But give me a girl who will wriggle and will twist
At the bottom of the belly lies the cuckoo's nest

Me darling, says me, it's not committing sin
But common sense should tell you it is a pleasing thing
For you were brought into this world to increase and do your best
And to help a man to heaven in your cuckoo's nest

Me darling, says she, I cannot you deny
For you've surely won my heart by the rolling of your eye
Yet I see it in your eyes that your courage is surprised
So gently lift your hand into me cuckoo's nest

Some like a girl who is pretty in the face
and some like a girl who is slender in the waist
But give me a girl who will wriggle and will twist
At the bottom of the belly lies the cuckoo's nest

This couple they got married and soon they went to bed
And now this pretty fair maid has lost her maidenhead
In a small country cottage they increase and do their best
And he often claps his hand on her cuckoo's nest

Some like a girl who is pretty in the face
and some like a girl who is slender in the waist
But give me a girl who will wriggle and will twist
At the bottom of the belly lies the cuckoo's nest


Sunday, 19 August 2007


Try typing swear words into itunes. Juvenile aren't I? Its funny. So far nobody in my pitiful 26.79GB of music has been fool hardy / man enough to use "cunt" as even part of a band/album/track/anything. (Sorry Pikey if you read this). Although I should bring to your attention the band Wank that have an album called "get a grip on yourself". Nuff said.

The same joys can be had from google earth.

I'll be back in a minute to explain. Unfortunately my mouse has decided to malfunction simultaniously with my intestine. So I'm going to have a poo and then subsequently use the arrows on the keyboard..........................

RIGHT. (Amount of space scrolled down does not reflect the amount of time i spent sitting).

If I've ever had a more invoragting shite I can't remember it. Yep. I'm going to describe the poo I just did. Not its shape and form but the emotional impact upon my good self.

What set it apart from the others (excluding time and distance travelled along pipes towards the Thames) was the accompanying feeling of freedom. My flat mates are away so I had the door open and my music up loud. And I took my sweet, sweet time. Run out of bog roll? I'll fetch some from my room with no trousers and no worries. So lets hear it for a really good pound of mashed up Dundee cake. Its a rare thing in my day, age and house to be able to have a poo like that.

And now my mouse works again. Best poo ever.

.................................There are four pages of places on my planet with "Fuck" in. Wank Nesselwang is in Germany. Dick is in Chippewa, Michigan, United States.... Fanny; Wyoming, West Virgina. Toss; Ton, Trento, Italy.

There is nowhere called Cunt.

Wednesday, 13 June 2007

Lager cheese.

Due to in-operable levels of self improvement i have lately been too up my own ass to blog. I now make the almost impossible stoop down to your level.


That smarts.

Seriously though I haven't read anyone's blog for about 3 months and having just read Han's I've remembered just how awesome blogs can be. So really don't expect too much from this as I'm drunk and it just took me 5 goes to write "anyones". ayneons?

What have I been doing?

Like you really care.

I got my uni results resluts which were excellent. (Stroke of the beard, sip of port). I got accepted onto a PhD course (glug of port, slippery nipple). And I decided i wouldn't get a "proper" job for the time being.

This situation was fine as I had nuts, berries and cash stock piled for the summer months. (Bad analogy I know because nuts and berries are a winter crop). Anyhoooooooooooow I went on holiday twice. Boat trip and Prague. Boat trip was so epoch makingly monumental that you will probably read about it in GCSE history books next year so there is no point documenting it here.

Prague. I went with my good friend Sarah who has family over there - we didn't visit whore houses and weren't on a stag do. We ate stew and dumplings and drank good lager. Obviously the architecture was great and it was steeped in history but I'm sure you'll be more comforted to know that the local speciality is fried cheese. Lager and fried cheese. I left there a stone heavier.

Oh yeah and my nuts, berries and spending money were all nicked out of my bag before I even arrived in Prague by some airport baggage handler who better hope there isn't an afterlife because if there is and I'm there I'll make 'em wish they'd never found it.

So now I'm trying to cycle off >1 stone of fried lager cheese, read articles so I'm suffieciently book learned for October and grift enough cash so I can eat at Cropready festival next weekend..... Richard Thompson with the Richard Thompson Band electric and also Fairport Convention perform Leige and Leaf.

Currently I'm looking forward to fishing with Darren and Mat Lewis and maybe babbing a few evil American Cray fish outta the river Cherwell. So you will probably gather I'm on cloud nine right now. Mmmmmmm summer.

Smell you later.

Saturday, 19 May 2007

Pub Crawl Massacre: Part Eight

Joss was driving quickly. She was angry at Michael, lying to her like that. She also knew that Michael could be dangerous when he stopped taking his pills. Impatiently she sounded her horn, the car in front failed to notice the green light.

"Fucks sake" she yelled at the dashboard and rubber squealed when she accelerated.


Drunk girl was undergoing an experience she hadn't had since being a toddler. Without warning, as she was preparing to dismount from the pool stool, she felt something warm flow down her leg. She noticed the expressions of the people in the pool room change. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion. She ran to the toilet, thankfully it was empty. She couldn't believe it. She felt slightly ashamed but also confused. Was she ill? She didn't know what was going on.

Drunkboy scratched his head. Surely rohypnol wasn't meant to do that. He wondered what state Drunk Girl was in and pondered going home.

The table erupted with conversation but nobody knew exactly what had happened. From their perspective the grinning Drunk Girl leapt from her stool and made a beeline for the toilet. Through the commotion Bunny rose from the table, some instinct made her realise that Drunk Girl's actions were probably connected with her recent experience. Bunny headed towards the toilet after Drunk Girl, determined to work out what was happening.

Drunk Girl was pulling herself together. Flat denial would be the only way to approach this. She pondered going comando style. There was a knock on the cubicle door.

"Its Bunny, er you OK?"

Saturday, 12 May 2007

Peppers burgers.

I heard a disturbing rumour t'other day. Grab hold of something sturdy and try to maintain control of primitive bodily functions. This is a biggy. Ready? You'll have to scroll down. (I've done this to a create an element of surprise).

Peppers burgers is going to close.

Rub your eyes. You can read that again. Yes. It still said the same thing.

If you eat meat and live in Oxford I shall give you another minute to let full impact of this monumental information sink in. Steadied? Smelling salts help? Try them, they might. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Oxford then I had better explain that Peppers Burgers is an institution. Look at the number reviews on the daily information website. The majority of local eateries nobody has bothered to review, with the exception of maybe the owner's brother or business partner. Peppers have got tonnes of fanatical fans. One guy says that he makes a special trip to Oxford when he comes to the UK just to go to there, another that its the best burger in Europe. I believe them. I've eaten there.

So you'll understand that I really hope the closure of Peppers is just malicious propaganda distributed by Islamic extremists to bring down the moral of our nation in an attempt to thwart the war on terror. That is the magnitude of the situation. Peppers is the only decent burger in town. They have a proper choice of sauces. (Blue cheese and white shark chili being my personal favourite combo). Fuck BK or Maccy D's and although delicious as Tootsies is, you need to remortgage your house to eat there. Peppers have got it right.

If anyone could provide evidence to substantiate or deny this ghastly rumour it would definitely settle my nerves. Which is good for moral. If it is proven then I suggest forming some sort of action group like "Save Our Burgers" (S.O.B.s) to fight the cause.

Stay classy Oxford and thanks for stopping by.

Saturday, 28 April 2007

Spider warning

I'll start with some disappointment. Due to the secret government work I've been assigned I will not be able to deliver the next installment of Pub Crawl Massacre until mid May. But its OK cos i writ this down for your arousment. And its sunny.

A tale of spiders.....

Some people are scarred of them. This is generally thought to be irrational in Britain because all our spiders are harmless. Yet some of our native spiders are wearing disguises. The ancestors of these special spiders were born in the misty waters of Lake Genesis a few days after the dawn of time. At about the time Neighbours would be on today. No! The evening episode not the lunch time one. Yes, I know this is irrelevant but it's these little details that suck you in. Sucker.

Anyhow they masquerade in frail little bodies day after day keeping up a pretence of living off flies by spinning webs and sometimes even eating the flies. They grow empty, bitter and weak off such a putrid diet. They lust for red meat and blood. They are perfectly capable of devouring a full grown man in as little as three minutes. These special spiders have learned amazing feats of stealth and subtlety that have been past from generation to generation. Therefore few people ever realise that the 'irrational' fear of spiders has some justification.

Very rarely does anyone ever escape from a murderous British house spider when it feels the lust for man-flesh. Victims generally die and therefore never get to tell anyone that they saw this innocuous looking arachnid swell up, spit venom then chow down on a lovely, juicy shoulder of man.

When spiders choose to show their true form they never do it if two or more people are present in the same place. If they did that their secret would be out. No. They attack only when one is alone. Only when the spider is sure they are alone with the victim does the transformation take place. First the legs begin to elongate, normally a few inches or so in a matter of seconds. If you ever see a spider with disproportionately long legs run. Run like the wind and don't look behind you.

Then the body starts to swell too, bigger and bigger until at last it reaches the size of a clenched fist. Fangs form. Quickly. More quickly than scientists think bone can be formed. Razor sharp fangs like sharks teeth appear within a couple of minutes of the body swelling. These teeth are amazingly efficient in design. They posses the ability to tear flesh from bone with almost no effort. Behind these rows of incisors the venom glands materialise. Finally hairs sprout forth from the body and the legs. The hairs turn from black to yellow once the spider is fully developed into the ravenous, murderous predator.

The enlarged British house spider in it's special carnivorous phase is still not all that big. Full grown their bodies can be as small as a tennis ball but legend has it that the very biggest ones have bodies the size of a football. Either way a well timed stamp with a good walking boot produces spider soup.

There are several good reasons why nearly all people who are unfortunate enough to witness the transformation still manage to get themselves eaten. Speed and surprise are the main two. Spiders are fast. Enlarged hungry spiders are faster. Try running from one and you will almost certainly fail. They have eight legs, you have just two. Do the math.

Surprise certainly helps the special spiders. Having walked the Earth for a considerable number of years amongst lots of harmless spiders an average adult victim will not be expecting a spider to swell up right under their nose. They will also not expect them to then proceed to eat them. This definitely is most unexpected behaviour and "I'm surprised" is often the last thought of a person who sees the spurt of venom issuing from the deadly spider.

Disbelief, the denial of the fact that this could possibly be happening, delays your reactions and hampers any chance of escape. Initial surprise is often coupled with a sheer blind panic (this normally happens to people who are afraid of the everyday harmless spiders) and the victim becomes routed to the spot, too afraid to shout or cry. They get covered in venom with ease. Alternatively surprise can be accompanied with a curious fascination. This normally happens with those who do not suffer arachnophobia. These people get involuntarily drawn towards their own doom. Afterall, watching a spider transformation is a fascinating, if deadly process. A prospective zoologist type will actually put their face right next to the abnormally large, ney incredibly large spider, just to get a better look at the legs turning yellow. Yellow hair is always their final observation.

The main reason people are no match for these unusual creatures is the nature of the venom itself. It produces instant paralysis coupled with a powerful amnesia. Once the green sticky liquid touches your skin, no matter how small the amount, you will not remember a thing. You will be unable to warn your brother, your lover or your mother that peril is at hand. They could be spinning a web in the cupboard under the stairs of someone near and dear to you.

One thing at least we can be grateful for is that in the enlarged state spiders do not have (or at least ever seem to have used) a functioning web. I can only imagine how many more victims there would be if they could spin webs. However a quick reflection on this point and I realise that enormous spiders webs everywhere would certainly alert people that something was amiss. After all with sensible precautions (protective clothing and heavy boots for example) man is quite capable of exterminating them all. Lack of web is probably another factor that has contributed to their secret survival.

Also I believe the fact they hunt alone, not in packs* enables their continued secrecy and therefore survival. You see to complete their life cycle they must change back to their original form. Only once they've fed on the flesh of man and then changed back to appear small and harmless can they breed and reproduce.

The morph back into their smaller size usually takes place within an hour or so of feeding on a human, sometimes slightly quicker or sometimes times slightly slower. However spiders must remain hidden from people at all times once they have enlarged. This is why pack hunting is not a viable option. A simple premise; it is harder to remain hidden when there are more things to hide. A group of enlarged spiders covered with bright yellow hairs, blood dripping from their collective jaws would surely get a glance or two. One spider on the other hand, the lone warrior in the dead of night, one spider can get away with it. Spiders can climb walls and fit through gaps by folding their legs. Almost any hiding place imaginable is accessible to a clever spider in the prime of their youth.

Remember. You will always be alone with a spider when suddenly it turns on you. But there will only be one to contend with. Consider this an educational public service bulletin to give you due warning. Be on a state of heightened alert. Don't run. Be prepared to dodge venom, then be prepared to stamp.

*I think 'pack' would be the correct term to use for a bunch of deranged, salivating, man eating spiders on the rampage.

Thursday, 12 April 2007

Washing up

Is there a cool, relaxed way of asking someone to do their fair share?

I am bitter person, trapped within a resentful, hate filled tyrant, trapped within someone who smiles, shrugs and then cleans the only sharp knife and chopping board. Everyday.

What do you do?

I have an entire beehive within my proverbial bonnet but right now washing up is the notably vicious bee. And it just stung me with a swollen sack of poison.

Bob Dylan should have sung;

"How many times must a man clean a pint glass
Before he can drink some water"

The thing is if you complain you're a twat. But if you do the dishes it's not 'cool'.

Flies in the kitchen isn't cool. Eating nice food is.

Convenience is what I lust for. The ability to be able to explore my gastro potential without prior community service.

Why don't you get nice pot noodles?

Wednesday, 4 April 2007


This morning i found that last night I had been sick on the Guardian that was conveniently positioned next to my bed. If you don't believe that I live this sort of bohemian, white knuckle, pants down, socks up existence then think about it. Why would I make this up? In fact why should I write it hear? I'll tell you why. You don't have to clean the things I am going to have to clean after writing this. So this is postponing the inevitable. This is a fatalistic hangover.

Anyhow I had some interesting dreams recently. And not just the sex ones.

I dreamt about mythical creatures that were enslaved in the Burberry factory. Only this factory was different. It farmed and processed a tarten fruit - the burberry - and turned it into jam and pies and tarts. Inside machines were operated by strange things. Pheasants that had only one wing and flew in circles turning handles and wheels via wires attached to their feet.

Working alongside the mutilated poultry workers were spurting gherkins, falic small creatures. They looked like gherkins but could swim and had purple stripes down their sides. They fussed around in vinegar tanks, their whole lives spent driving turbines.

The evil owner, yes this dream even had an evil owner not just lots of random words that sound nice, was Lord Burberry Jam. He had a monicle and a sinister laugh. He was the one behind the battery farming to produce all those phesants. I don't know how he made the spurting gherkins.

Thats it. I probably need a world class psychologist/therapist/live in cleaner and janitor that cooks breakfast and makes a mean bloody mary. The sick is still there and I still don't want to clean it up so I'll tell you about last night.

I was in a pub (you choose, its irrelevant). I was obviously being very witty, coming at you like Oscar Wilde only faster and slimmer. I was talking to my friend (you choose, its fairly irrelevant) and hit apon the idea of opening a shop. Only I'm going to call mine a boutique so it can be more expensive. I'm going to call my boutique Wired deaf sex purves. It is going to sell coffee. Ground and in bean form. Not ready made into drinks 'cos that will mean more effort. And I hate the stupid names I'd have to give to coffee in order for the masses to part with lots of money; frothy-chav-in-chinos etc. It is also going to sell drum kits. And pornographic magazines.

All I need now is some financial backing. Any offers?.... You'll be in safe hands as I'm some what of an expert in the fields of coffee, drums and sssssssssh 'porn' - read it quietly. Its got a catchy, snappy name too. It will be more interesting than a Subway and my ideal replacement for the recently closed Comic Book Shop on St Clements. Show me the money.

Anyhow this sick won't clean itself.

Friday, 30 March 2007

Pub Crawl Massacre: Part Seven

Bunny sat on the toilet. She remebered the claim "Fast acting relief" from the box. Due to the finite capacity of her Louis Vuitton bag she'd only taken the blister pack. Could you take these in conjunction with alcohol? She couldn't remeber. Unfortunately she was already drunk and this presented her with little recourse.

As she pulled out the blister pack she was surprised to see that several tablets had already been taken out. She necked two herself.

"Not long to wait now I hope" she thought, gazing round at the graffitti. Maybe she could relax and enjoy herself later if she wasn't so backed up. After only about three minutes her bowels pulsated. She was most surprised. Far from reducing the tablets actions it seemed that alcohol had a positive excitatory effect. Within a few seconds powerfull contractions sent the contents of her colon shooting through her flacid sphincter.

A little taken aback by the suddeness of this normally carefully controlled proceedure she shook herself, cleaned up and got up to join the others.

The first thing Bunny noticed was Penny and Felix carefully coming through the front door, Felix simultaneously feeling Penny's bottom.

"Where have you two been?" she asked, beginning to feel better and wanting more drink.

"What'av you been doing in there?" interupted Benedict before anyone could answer.

She blushed.

Drunk Girl kindly explained that they were playing truth or dare.

She heard a boastful but concise account of the successful assault on the road sign by Penny and Felix. When pressed for further details they'd got back to tongueing eachother.

Bunny now gleaned that Drunk Girl was about to flash her ass through the pool room windows as a forfeit.

"Hey has anyone taken any, er, tablets out of my handbag?" Bunny enquired of the table.

This time it was Toby's time to blush. Only briefly though. He was a master of maintaining a straight face. He wondered what he had dropped into Drunk Girl's glass. The guilt arrived fractionally too late; he was on the verge of asking Bunny when everyone errupted into laughter.

Matt and Lex looked at eachother as the particularly loud peels of laughter cut through the room. Then from the bar they followed the direction of almost all eyes in the pub.

Through the pool room window Drunk Girl was mounted on a pool stool. Her peachy, young posterior was barely hidden by a luminous pink thong, displayed for all to see. Being a natural extrovert and further fuelled by the booze she was having quite a good time.

Then it started to happen. Something ominous suddenly stirred deep within her bowls....


Wednesday, 28 March 2007

Pub Crawl Massacre: Part Six

Well Meaning Flatmate was getting sweaty palms. He had run out of tobacco. A combination of stomach acid and crap television had prompted him to hunt this bounty at whatever cost. He was going to get a cigarette. Michael smoked. Well Meaning Flatmate quite logically reasoned that there would be tobbacco in Michael's room.

Nicotine withdrawals made him feel edgey as he oberseved Michael going down the road to the shop.

"Now's my chance" he thought to himself.

He considered himself to be Michael's mate. He had spotted Michael numerous cigarettes and reasoned that Michael shouldn't really be that bothered.

This was true but he was aware he was breaking and entering. Afterall your room is private. Nonetheless he opened Michael's door. Stale tobacco odour met his nose.

He scanned all obvious surfaces. No tobacco in eyeshot. Being a sparse room he reasoned that there couldn't be many hiding places for the desired to be stashed. Ignoring the wardrobe and the desk he instictively made for the top draw of the bedside table. He opened it. A laminated spread eagled princess greeted him.


He wasn't expecting the porn stash. Still, nevermind, he could drops subtle hints later and maybe borrow one.

No tobacco. Damn. He was about to open the next draw when he noticed them.



The implications of not taking medication could be enormous. That was why Michael was living there anyway. Well Meaning Flatmate had heard about the last time. Astonishment was replaced by panic when he heard a key in the lock of the front door.

Quickly he slunk out of Michael's room, bending his knees to absorb sound, tip toeing over the carpet. He quietly shut his bedroom door. He thought quickly. He should inform Joss but without Michael knowing.

What if Michael found out? He grimaced. Concentrate on the matter in hand. Surprising himself with his acting abilities he called out from his room;

"Oi Michael! Have you got a fag? I'm screwing."

"You what?" came the reply from the hallway. Footsteps and a few seconds later Michael's head poked round his door.

Casually "Bruv, you got any tobacco? I've run out."

Michael rolled his eyes, grinned and said "Aright you pikey!" and fished some out of his pocket.

Well Meaning Flatmate nervously laughed and took the rollie being offered.

"Fanks bruv. Er, I gotta shoot. Meeting a mate in town." He left abrubtly without looking at Michael. He ran down the stairs and slammed the front door.

Michael shook his head. Slightly bemused by the aggitated behaviour of Well Meaning Flatmate he began to make himself a cigarette. Cheerily he remebered that he had just bought milk and so tea was imminent. Mmmmmm.

Then absent mindedly he looked out of the window at the Star. He could see that the 'Sloan' student girls from the taxi were sat right there in the window. What the hell. Tea could wait. As he caressed himself his eyes glazed.

Well Meaning Flatmate had jogged down the street and collected his thoughts. He jabbed at his mobile. He swore. He jabbed more carefully and correctly dialled Joss.

"Hi yer. Yeah it's me. Ummmm.... Look there's something you need to know. I've just looked in Michael's room.... No, no.... I know I shouldn't be in there. Look this is important; I found a load of his pills. Yeah tonnes of them...."

Monday, 26 March 2007

Thought spagetti.

A sexual act between two men.
Morris dancing dwarfs.
A pirate ship with a cargo of exotic spices.
Terry Wogan.*
The long drawn out death rattle of a Yak with terminal flatulence.
Vast stretches of oaken forrests found in pre industrialised Britain.
The M25.
The M1.
And Simpson's beloved Griffter bicycle (rest it's soul).

Will not be mentioned in this.

* Exception. It is true that if you mouth "Wogan" whilst being photographed you appear at least 3 times as sexy. Fact. (I think the woman on the BT adverts must say Wogan to the camera constantly because she is stupidly sexy. You know the one, with kids from a previous relationship but now has a younger man with greasy hair who is the perfect dad. She likes to use the phone book to do everything and he likes to over come the difficulties of not being thier biological father by smiling a lot).

Thats right "spagetti". My mind is such a whirlwind, such a hot bed of creativity that threre simply isn't time for things like correct spellings. Actually someone told me last night that spaghetti has a H. Woops. I mean whoops.

Right. I've started reading "The Rik Mayall: Bigger than Hitler, Better than Christ". Cos I'm a fan of his. He is ludicrustly funny. The book itself is very much like the start of this blog. A bit random with many pointless asterisks and footnotes. It is full of pointless sexual references, like the rest of this blog. However once I picture him reading the words with his animated voice/facial expressions I find myself laughing like a 15 year boy and love it.

"You lurrrrrve him" I hear you cry.

"Why don't you get a room with him?" I hear Cakeyvoice jeer.

Well its cos I'm not a straight girl or a gay man. But I tell you now if I was I'd dooooooooooo it with Rick Mayall. (I assure you its not due to his tactic of using a cucumbers and pool balls for "trouser enhancement").

Anyway enough of that kind of thing. I need to thank Lex and Han for respectively recommending and lending to me the Wickerman. You were right. It was awesome. Awesome folk music sound track. Brit Eckland's side boob. And front boob. And sillouette of her front bottom. Wow. I don't just like it because of the boob aspect. But they didn't hurt. And that scene in the pub must have been inspiration for the pub in the "Old Greg" episode of the Boosch.

Now to darker tidings. My brown jumper was filched from the Star. This may have been done maliciously. A person or persons who will collectively remain unnamed have since promised to return the much missed garment. Apparantly she had one that was identical. Which is why he/she/they told Matt that my one was hers. (Ok it was She clearly). But I'm not at all bitter. Actually I won't lie to you. Lieing is bad. I am bitter.

I left the pub in a mood so dark that I temporarilly became a black hole. I began to suck matter into myself whilst thunder storms spontaneously formed around my head. Anyone else walking home may have chanced to hear me scatting in the fashion of Captain Beefheart just to vent spleen;

"Turgid porpoise, tears, spite oven".


Who am i kidding. I cannot scat like Beefheart. Nobody can nomore. Not even him. He paints pictures in the desert now.

Anyhow. Who wants to know where you can gets yer grubby paws on a good ole fashion hooker? Oh you do? Well OK, allow me. This next section reads like the diary of a village gossip but I've gone to the effort of scanning a newspaper cutting so I'm damn well including it now.....

You may or may not be aquainted with Jaquai and Curly who drink in the Star and are stand up, awesome and often drunk. Well Jaquai answered a newspaper advert for a receptionist job. Turned out the premises were at "X" Cherwell Drive. And the buisness was a brothel.

"I do have to tell you that we're a brothel" (Quoting Jaquai quoting them here; this is not primary journalistic evidence but I'm getting to that).

"We're the Kitten Club. The position has been filled but are you interested in doing any escort work?"

She wasn't.

This story was of direct interest to me because I live next door to the, er house of burlesque. It did indeed fit in with various observations. Lots of taxis there at night. Windows always wide open (even when its snowing like Siberia outside). Lots of sad looking, unappealing men that leave with glowing, beaming grins. And there was that large black and white note posted through our door. It said "You've got a brothel at number "X" Cherwell Drive".

I've never been there because I've never seen any pretty girls going in there. And I'm exceptionally skilled at masterbation and really don't think anyone could do it as well as me. I won't put the actual address because I realise this isn't very good press and don't want the Estonian mafia murdering me. If anyone does get murdered or deported because of this then sorry. I was born in 1982 under Thatcher and so I'll suggest the maxim "Any press is good press"! You seem pretty open about it anyway.

I still didn't want to believe it even in the face of over whelming evidence then my flatmates' girlfriend brought this round today....

One last thing.... how do you do those links to other blogs that work when you click on a word? I assume its some kind of HTML thang. Anyway they look cool and if Emma can do them then it can't be that hard.

Thursday, 22 March 2007

Pub Crawl Massacre: Part Five

Bunny wasn't really enjoying herself. Her toes had been sprayed by that disgusting bloke. She tried to join in the conversation with Drunk Girl, Penny and Lolly. She couldn't concentrate. The bitchin music that had just been cranked on was not suitable for her oral palette.

Accross the room she spotted that awful man from the gents. For a brief second he made eye contact and scowled. Then she thought the whole piss on toes incident wasn't an accident. She wanted to leave. To compound her misery she had been suffering from acute constipation for the last couple of days. She began untying herself from Jonty and Lolly.

"Where you going?" Demanded Jonty.

"I need to go to the Ladies" and she snatched up her brown and gold Louis Vuitton bag from under the table.

"That time of the month?" queried Benedict, demonstrating his razor sharp brand of wit.

Unnoticed, the expression of Toby's face flickered as Bunny scooped up her bag. It was the same bag he'd got the tablets from. It wasn't Drunk Girl's bag. Those tablets weren't Rhohypnol.

In the middle of this train of thought Drunk Boy came back from having his slash. He singled out Toby and sat nex to him.

"D'you do it?" he whispered to Toby.

"Yeah... but I think I...", he was interrupted by Benedict; "What are you two gay boys chattin about?"

"Er nothing. I wonder whats taking Bunny so long in there?" said Drunk Boy.

"Rivers flowing red?" responded Benedict, looking really pleased. He couldn't normally reply that quickly to questions.

"I'm bored" said Toby, "How about truth or dare?". He forcefully nudged Felix who was tonguing Penny, ignoring him.

To Toby's suprise all the participants expressed their desire to play.

"Oi Oi" shouted Bendict (affirmative), Lolly and Drunk Girl giggled, Toby and Drunk Boy winked at eachother. The conversation successfully steered away from their suspicious conduct.

Due to their resumed tongue action Penny and Felix were unaware they were being nominated to go first.

"Have you guys ever shagged eachother?" inquired Drunk Girl, prodding them and grinning.

"Is that the question?" asked Felix, a little coy.

"Duh?" responded Drunk Girl sarcasticly.

"We're not answering that" said Penny, rescuing Felix. "We'll take the dare instead."

Toby laid down the gauntlet; "Start small. Go kick over that road works sign at the top of the road."

They all cheered wildly as Felix and Penny got up, cumbersomely hobbled out the door, their ankles and wrists still bound.

At the bar Lex turned to Matt "Shall I ask them to keep it down?"....

Pub Crawl Massacre: Part Four

At the bar most of our participants were waiting. Mat and Lex were doing their best to keep up with the various demands. Penny had removed her Brookes hoody to reveal a grunge style T shirt. Matt wondered if Lex had been a bit hasty to hand out judgement when he had said

"Can you come and help me? There's a bunch of posh twats downstairs."

Penny and Felix (tied at the feet and wrists) replaced Benedict and Esther at the front of the queue. Suddenly Matt saw that in fact Penny was sporting a James Blunt T Shirt. Lex was vindicated.

After some pathetic hand gesturing, presumably to attract the bar staff's attention, Felix barked;

"Gin and Tonics."

Matt had almost reached the Bombay Sapphire when;

"Oi mate. D'you do Hendricks?"

"Nah, sorry."

"What about Tanquery 10?"

Matt looked blank.

"No. Sorry."

Eventually Matt and Lex managed to serve all of them.

"They piss you off too?"

"Yeah" answered Lex. "They all wanted to pay by card even though I explained to the first ones they couldn't - S.O.B.s."

Unaware of the petty gripes and insults being thrown around our participants had all gotten various large drinks and taken up residence on one of the sort after window tables. The table's previous occupants for some reason had taken leave when Benedict sat near them. Between telling Esther to drink faster he was proving his alpha male status by drinking two shots to her every one.

Blue Collar Workingman leant over and said something to Lex at the bar. Lex approached their table.

"Er, is it OK if you don't have ladies tied to you in the gents toilets? We've had complaints."

Drunk Boy replied "What-evs" and began unwinding the wire used to bind himself to Drunk Girl. "I need a slash", he explained to nobody in particular. Lex had already walked off in disgust. As Drunk Boy walked off towards the loo he gave a wink to Toby.

Toby was Drunk Boy's wing man and had been aware of the Rohypnol when the annonymous blisterpack had arrived in the post a few days earlier. He turned to Drunk Girl. After being temporarily freed she was conversing incessantly with Penny and Lolly. Toby realised that now would be a perfect opportunity to slip it into Drunk Girl's drink. Where had Drunk Boy put them?

None of their 'hilarious' pastel golf trousers had pockets. Despite the mess the last tequila had left between his ears he remebered they'd given their wallets and phones to their respective golf partners. Drunk Boy was with Drunk Girl. Surreptitiously he looked under the table for Drunk Girl's bag. The tablets must be in there. He spied two identical brown and gold Louis Vuitton handbags. He knew that one of them was Drunk Girl's.

He started rooting through the first one. In the dim light he used his fingertips to try and feel for the tablets. To his surprise he found what he was after reletively quickly. Within a few seconds he managed to squeeze two or three into his hand. He looked round. As he let them drop into Drunk Girl's glass nobody was playing the slightest bit of attention to what he was doing....


Tuesday, 20 March 2007

Pub Crawl Massacre: Part Three

The night was a mish mash of a 'golf' pub crawl and a 'three legged' pub crawl. That is to say the participants were tied to their partner(s) with some of the boys wearing psudeo golf gear. Well rugby shirts actually. But they did have a score sheet. And lots of money. Lots. Courtesty of the student loans company. Well daddy.

Each drink in each bar was a "hole". All the outward organisation was to mask the fact that by the end of the night there should be vomit or sex (or both in Drunk Boy's evil machinations). Our participants had been hard at it for about four hours.

They were pissed. And vocal. Vocal in the way that only rich students given their first taste of unsupervision can be. Pricks. Serious pricks. Another chorus of "Hey baby, Ooo Ah!, I wanna know wow wow wow, will you be my guy?" sporned from their table. Still 'singing' they took a large people carrier taxi to the Star. Judging from the expression of the driver's face they boisterously 'sung' all the way there.

Accross the road from the pub a pair of eyes flashed and curtains twitched as they got out of the cab.

The party managed to get inside the pub. This proceedure was hampered by the way they were tied to eachother for the purpose of hilarity. Their own hilarity presumed Blue Collar Workingman. Blue Collar Workingman was trying to take a slash in a very cramped urinal alongside Jonty attached to Lolly & Bunny.

Blue Collar Workingman had no compunction in unfurling his manhood and thought to himself;

"Take a look at what you'll never get bitch",

and deftly dribbled the last few golden drops over Bunny's toes. Blue Collar Workingman promtly left without attempting to wash his hands, leaving Bunny regreting her choice of flip flops and generally hating such lower class drinking establishments.

At the bar Lex was working. He was finishing a pint of Guinness for Guy With Deadlocks as Lambchop's mellow, melancholy vibes drifed through the smoke. Suddenly the door had burst open and instantly the volume in the room raised by a factor of 20. Our participants had arrived. Lex noted a guy tied to two ladies heading straight to the gents.

The others piled into the bar, each trying to shout over the other. Guy With Dreadlocks at the bar turned pale as he was jostled out of the way by a half cut Benedict.

"Ow" said Esther. Benedict had suddenly dragged her to the bar. The thin wire that bound their ankles and wrists together was proving uncomfortable. Now he was waving a golf score sheet in Lex's face.


"Oi Mate"


Lex was standing roughly six inches away. There really was no need to shout.

"Oi. Do you do cocktails?"

Lex thought "Fuck off mate, this isn't London" and said mildy "No."

"I'll av a shtella then. Oi Esther what d'you wan?.... An a double vodka redbull mate."

Lex obliged. His teeth ground together. Then he smiled serenely as a vision came to him.... all of them tied togther being sprayed with bleach. Ahhhh. Thats right they wish they weren't tied together now don't they? They tried to escape but were too slow and lumbering.

He came back to reality and frowned.

"Thats Eight pounds please mate."

Benedict put an american express in his hand.

"Don't take cards."

"What do you mean you don't take cards?" Asked Benedict incredulously; his face flushed red, the blood flowing through capillaries under high pressure. The drink seemed to make him unable to grasp this premis.

"Er. Don't have a card machine. We don't take cards." Stated Lex simply. The bar was now really busy and really noisy. He dashed off upstairs to ask Matt to lend him a hand....


Pub Crawl Massacre: Part Two

Drunk Girl was happy. She was always happy. She was always self assured. She was feeling particularly smug this evening. She had just purchased the latest Jack Wills joggers and knew that the others would be jealous. Having just showered she checked herself out in the mirror. Pretty blonde hair (she knew it was pretty) and the new joggers were nicely complemented by her suede boots. She gave herself a youthful smile.

The doorbell rang.

"Hi eeeeeeeee"

They had all turned up at once. She hadn't expected them quite so early. Bunny, Lolly and Esther had shared the taxi and all turned up together. Her halls were nicer than their's.

"I'll get the Bolly"

They weren't listening. The O.C. was on. She gave them all a glass of champagne and lay back into her black leather sofa.

"What time we meeting the boys?" Someone asked.

"Harts. About 7 o'clock I think."

"Alright I'll just do my hair" said Lolly. She dissapeared into the bathroom to emerge 15 minutes later. Each strand of hair having been painstakingly arranged for that just got up look.

In a room directly below them Drunk Boy was also feeling smug. He had recently procured some Rohypnol. He looked at the bottle "Flunitrazepam". Yep. Thats the shit. Tonight Drunk Girl would be his.

His sly mind was ticking over, deceptive cogs turned cunning little wheels....

Pub golf. Everyones gonna be wasted. Loads of chances for me to drop it into her glass. Giggaddy.

Suddenly there was a commotion outside his front door. Easy! They must be here and had a few bevees on the way over. Drunk Boy plastered on his fake smile.

"Oi Oi" greated him as he lifted the latch.

It was Benedict, his collar on his rugby shirt was turned up and spittle was flying from his gob. Jonty and Toby in similar attire followed close behind. Benedict was shouting. He was a big guy and Drunk Boy was worried he was gonna break something as he stumbled into the lounge. His big foot landed worringly close to Drunk Boy's new Kaiser Chiefs CD case. Toby tripped over his pink baggy golf trousers so that his 80s tennis sun visor plopped onto the sofa. Benedict promptly sat on it.

"Easy does it Dick".

"Lighten up dude, have some of this". He passed Toby and Drunk Boy each a can of ready mixed gin and tonic.

"Wheres mine you bastard?" demanded Jonty.

"Where are my manners?" said Benedict


Benedict opened another can of G & T, cleared his throat loudly and spat into it before passing it to Jonty.

"Wanker" said Jonty and looking Benedict in the eye downed it anyway. All of them pissed themselves with laughter.

"Best go and meet the girls in a bit."

They called a taxi to Harts bar.

Pub Crawl Massacre: Part One

Joss was having an off day. She was feeling a little philosophical and started questioning why she got into the profession in the first place.

"Its fucking ridiculous. How can I possibly care for people when i can only spend a few minutes a day with them?" She was thinking out loud. It was a bad habit of hers.

"So you're about to go are ya?" shouted Michael from upstairs. He could hear her. The walls and ceiling were paper thin.

"Yeah sorry. Have you taken your medication yet?" She tried to sound cheerful. She hadn't realised that she had been talking to herself. Even if she had she wouldn't have expected him to be able to hear her all the way upstairs.

"Yes." Michael tried to sound bored. He chuckled to himself very quietly as he placed both tablets into a draw by his bed. They rattled about next to his considerable teen porn stash.

Stressed and overworked as she was Joss cared about her patients. Michael had been making her uneasy recently. She marched upstairs to check on him before she had to leave.

"Mike you promise you've taken them?"


"Sorry Mike I'm going to have to count them. I got in trouble last time remember?"

"Whatever. Alright."

Joss tipped out the yellow tablets and the smaller white ones. The correct number were there and although a little sceptical of his expression she trusted that Micheal wasn't lying.

"Fair enough Mike. Alright well I better be off - I gotta see Cynthia in Headington at half past and I'm late as it is. You gonna be good? A couple of my friends mentioned you've been curtain twitching again."

For a split second she thought that his eyes narrowed.

"I'll be good." He replied calmly.

She didn't feel too bad leaving him. He had switched to newer medication recently. Although she was no pharmacologist she new that they had had a miraculous effect on other patients with his condition. Most people stopped having the delusions within a few weeks of switching and he had been taking them for three months. Anyway she was a professional and there were many others who were worthy of her care.

Michael watched Joss climb into her car and drive off. He noticed two pretty young student girls walking slowly down the road. He closed the blind, tore off a strip of toilet roll and reached for the draw next to his bed. He convinced himself that the new young post woman had been giving him love letters. He must have lost them. He lay down on his bed and thought about her. He decided to watch for her behind the curtain tomorrow.

Then he thought about the two student girls he had just seen out the window. Mmmm thats the one. Jack Wills joggers, pretty blond hair, suede boots and that smile of rich youth. His eyes glazed over.

Monday, 19 March 2007

Grinds my gears


Champagne is expensive.

It tastes like fizzy tramp piss. I imagine. I mean I know what champagne tastes like but I've never asked a tramp to urinate for me and then taken the trouble to carbonate it in a soda stream.

It gives you a strange, evil hangover.

It is usually only drunk by people who make me nauseous before I empty the glass.

I am running out of reasons to slag it off.... er the cork.... might go in ya eye - health and saftey?....

Its the summer and you attend a friend of a friend's garden party. The sun is out. You already feel a little uneasy as most guests
have turned up in big 4x4s planning to drive home later. Many of the guests are young people who have taken a shine to Jack Wills clothing. Boys in pink shirts bellow their blonde sticking up hairdos. The girls are in baggy, thin tracksuit bottoms (that have never seen a track). Standard footware is flip flops. Everyone is drinking free Champagne. Lots of it.

There is an outdoor swimming pool. More Libation. The strange effects of champagne takes over. The conversation is so purile that it makes the Daily Mail seem informative. Everything is so great becase.... er... well look at us; we're drinking champagne.
They've got a pool too! I don't mind missing the O.C. afterall because this is great.

At this point Drunk Girl is making her way past the pool to refill the glasses of the guests at the bottom of the garden. She is thinking to herself "Strange nobody remembered their swimming costumes. I mean, everyone knows I have a pool!"

Her flip flops have been chosen to complement her Jack Wills tracksuit bottoms. Fashion over function. She slips a little too near the edge of the pool. At the deep end. She falls but her reactions are impaired and hits her head. Badly. There is blood on the concrete at the side of the pool. There is blood seeping from a head wound, diffusing into the chlorinated water. She's unconscious and face down. A state of affairs that should not be maintained for a long period of time. A red halo starts to grow about her head.

Drunk Boy is loudly boasting about the size of the engine in his shiny new 4x4. He is planning to offer to take Drunk Girl skiing in it in the hope that she will have sex with him. He will then retract his skiing offer and boast about having had sex with Drunk Girl. And about the size of his engine.

Drunk Boy raises his sun glasses. Is that red in the pool? Its hard to tell with these custom red lenses in.


He fishes her out. Shes twitching, still bleeding. "Are you ok?" No response. Through his champagne euphoria he panicks with fear. He remebers basic CPR. This is attempted. She stops twitching.

Many people had gathered round by the time the local GP pronounced Drunk Girl officially expired.

A mighty shame. Those white Jack Wills trousers will be tough to clean. The pool water should really be replaced now. Which is a hassle. And strangely nobody seems in the mood to finish off the opened champagne.

Disclaimer: If you don't like this story because you feel "its a bit nasty" then sit in Oxford Brookes University cafeteria over lunch. I just have. I'm not in a charitable frame of mind.

Thursday, 15 March 2007

Look What Society Has Done To Us (By Paula & Kate)

Oooo new Paula & Kate.....

Climate change, kiss my arse
News at ten, what a farce
Another tax that we can charge
To stuff your income up your arese
Gas and oil is what we need
Have some solar and some wind
While we burn more than we need
Then we deny that we have sinned.
Call thecouncil and have a moan
Tony's disciples on the end of the phone
Drink too much and 'turtle head'
Shit my pants and wet the bed
Don't wash for days and dread my pubes
Caneston cream somes in tubes
Forty years out of my head
In a sandwich made of chessey spread
I knew I should have cleaned my sheets
'n' not looked like I live on the streets
Cardboard pants, they're nerves changed
My cunt has got the doggy mange
Dirty pants and unwashed hands
On every cleavage unleash my glands
I can't wait till Vorderman hour
Then I can release my special shower
A new look snatch from changing rooms
Looks like 2 rashers of bacon & a button mushroom
Smells like steak and kidney pie
Would make a grown man puke and cry
His knob is like a cheese bake
Parmasan Sprinkle 'the Italian shake'
A masterchef feast for scary Blair
He likes his meat lean & rare
He'll bend over for a cut of rump side
Give him firm meet, watch him oblige
He likes it rammed right up his hole
Careful: There's a conjestion toll.
His dirty cum stains on my shirt
Ole Blair has got the Clinton curse.

Serves him right.

Thursday, 8 March 2007


What kind of cereal defines you? I am approaching 25 and I feel i'm turning into muesli. I fit this (newly created) stereo type. I'm wearing a brown jumper. I watch countdown. Supertramp's "Breafast In America"?... like it! I'm single. (Maybe this is connected with the previous sentence). I'm not even Alpen. I'm a no added sugar museli.

I used to love Weetos and Metallica. I remeber the adverts for Weetos when they first came out. They made it look like you were going to get massive chocolate hoops. From the cartoon perspective of the advert one weeto should have filled your whole bowl. Ah the disappointment. It was like getting that "Cadbury's Creme Egg" easter egg only to discover it was hollow. I WANTED FONDANT GOD DAMMIT!

Sorry. This stems from the fact I know I'm going to have muesli for breakfast tomorrow. It is nourishing and dependable. Its the kind of cereal that you could take home to meet your parents and they would approove. Pop Tarts? It will end in tears. They will have a fling with a croissante and probably ask some Lucky Charms to watch. Dirty pop tarts; the breakfast swinger.

Wonder who I'm compatable with? Could go eitherway I suppose.... I could graduate and settle down with some All Bran. A fiberous pairing that would see my heart healthy as "The Logical Song" plays accross the breakfast table. If this happened I would almost certainly have a midlife crisis as a young upstart like "Optivita" catches my eye. I think I'm on the lookout for some crunchy nut corn flakes. Crunchy nut cornflakes are essentially a kids cereal packaged for adults. That would keep me young and I wouldn't look twice at the Optivita then. Mmmmm.

Monday, 5 March 2007

Super Scrabble

Today I purchased "Super Scrabble"!!!.... It should be called "The War On A Rack".

It is like normal scrabble but with a bigger board. It includes quadruple letter and word scores. My only dissapointment is that there are no score sheets like you used to get. They merely print one in the middle of the rule book with the words "please photocopy" innocently inscribed underneath. I feel this is a bit cheap considering it cost £35. (Money I probably saved from being on the wagon)!

I will warn anyone who is thinking of paying this game that it is not for the faint hearted. It should come with a supply of pro plus tablets and redbull. I have only tried playing it with two players - me and Darren had a crack at it this evening. Daunting. There are a bewildering array of choices available. You can score quadruple words with reletive ease by going accross two double word scores. After a couple of hours playing we still had what seemed like a full bag of letters. Then we decided to end early by playing first to 500. He won. He knows lots of long words does Darren. I got the scrabble blindness and my IQ plummeted as the game progressed, ending at about 30. (The same IQ as 30 Fall Out Boy fans).

I think this game will be awesome with 3 or more players. (You can play with six - but it only comes with racks for four. Again I think this is a bit cheap - the instructions say you can use racks from an existing scrabble set - how cheeky is that)??!!

If anyone wants a game just let me know but make sure you have a good breakfast first.

Friday, 2 March 2007

Too lame to name ashamed pain

The latest poetic installment from the literary wizards Paula & Kate..........

Another dose of valium
Doctor I'm depressed
Can't get out of bed
Or entertain my guest

My little vag is sad
And how it gently weeps
"Trisha" say the fanny blues
Will only last a week

Sign off my prescription
What! £6.45??
Is it worth the price
To keep the love garden alive?

Its overgrown, dishevelled
Looks like the Yorkshire moors
It looks a damn site worse, love
When I'm kneeling on all fours.

Heathcliffe would love this Kate Bush
How its nettles sting
A howling night did pass
It echoed in my ring

Doctor doctor help me
Still got minge fatigue
Its a hungry little snapper
It needs an urgent feed

Lip nip 'n' tuck required
Can I get it on the NHS?
Gusset ring is tiring
A bike well oiled is BEST

My noo-noo is so depleated
Back on suicide watch
Even David Blunkett
Wouldn't go down on this crotch

But there is light at the end of the tunnel
As i trim th eprivets back
It seems that old John Prescott
Wants to dabble with my twat

His dirty sausage fingers
Brought it back to life
How were we to know
The fat cunt had a wife?

Pussy cries
Then dies
not amused
Oh James
You are to blame
Prescott shame
Topic lame.

Wednesday, 28 February 2007

Booze, bakes and board games.

Well. I have stopped drinking. For a month (8 days as I write this). I haven't posted in a while which is a pity because I've been going kinda nuts and it might have made interesting reading.


I am not doing it for lent! I am doing it out of a combination of frustration and curiosity. Frustration at how board I am at constantly being wasted and feeling ill. Curiosity because I have no idea how I'm going to feel in a month.


Well I purchased and borrowed many board games, tobbacco and fruit tea. I figured these would be a fun (if a little cliched & geeky) set of distractions. I particularly enjoyed playing a game made by the Oxford dictionary people where you have to guess the meanings or spellings of obsqure words. I played that with Rob, Mat, Han and Ryannon until half past five in the morning. By which point we were so tired and baked that it became an enormous mental task just to work out if the number on the dice was odd or even. This brings me to perhaps the biggest hurdle. Sleeping.

Sleeping has never been a strong point of mine. At least if I'm pissed up I can achieve a comatose state with reletive ease. Day 1 I didn't achieve any form of sleep at all. Day 2 I was increadably tired and slept the normal 8 hours. Day three didn't sleep at all again and was really pissed off. Previously when dealing with insomnia I had had the bright idea of visiting the local pharmacy to procure some sleeping tablets. The highly morally responsible girl at the desk would only give me a herbal remedy. Fair enough. I supposed I should try them first as sedetives have a bit of a rep. However my scepticism (rightly) grew as on closer inspection the label revealled "may cause drowsiness". Only if you're lucky. On day 4 I went to Boots who prooved to have far fewer qualms in giving me real sleeping tablets. Just out of interest these didn't do much either.


This board game definately needs a mention. It was Lenny's dad's and is from the 1970s. As such the instructions are written in the form "when
he rolls the dice...". I took an instant liking to the un-PC nature of this game. The idea is to move up the social ladder scoffing at those below you as you go. The game is similar in appearance to Monopoly and a lot more fun. You can blow money at the racetrack, invest in shares, marry into higher classes and dump your friends at the social club behind. Then you can loose it all to a divorce or the tax "man". Brilliant.

Anyhow apart from this theres nothing much to say. As a consequence of being sober I've found myself doing strange and wonderful things that are actually connected with my degree like reading from textbooks and journals. Unfortunately I can't see you guys being interested in experiments on sea slugs (Aplysia) that provide a genetic and and biochemical basis for the mechanisms of learnig and memory. I'm right aren't I?

I will end on one more potentially useful nugget of information. Any of you looking for a strong herbal tea that actually tastes as good as it smells......

Twinings lemon and ginger. You heard it here first. Now you think i'm a hippy.

Saturday, 17 February 2007

Topic turkey poem

I've had quite an uninspiring week but thankfully Paula, Kate and Lemmy have have taken some inspiration from the news.

James, You Came Too Quickly, It Was Over Too Soon.
(By Paula, Kate and Lemmy)

Wipe off my mud flaps, clear off the mess
Will I ever get your cum stains off my dress?
Long, dangly and dirty & I don't mean your cock
Have a posh wank, heres a clean sock

Wet your middle finger, play some strokes
Use your anal beads if your one of "them" blokes
9.35 Still choking your turkey
Didn't realise your mum brought you tea at 9.30

Bernard Mathews says sorry but what will you do?
How were you to know you'd give me turkey flu?
Serve up sunday lunch and all the little critters
I've got a whole epidemic going on in my knickers

Nagatha Krusti? Well, I had to peel it off.
5 mile exclusion zone, my pussy got a cough
No gobble gobble, no sucky 10 dollar
Singe of your pubes and watch you holla

A finger in the arse is worth two in the bush
A full paxo stuffing can make a girl blush
Luckily for you we are not that shy
But a stew of your giblets would be an offal suprise

You turkey wobble wotsit going in for the kill
Vago spasmosis cuz it made me feel ill
So its up to the J.R. to prise us apart
At the point of dislodge, I emit a lady fart

Oh James you only care about breast and leg
Take your eye off the bird, concentrate on the keg.

Sunday, 11 February 2007


I've given this some thought. I originally mentioned what i did yesterday to Axel whilst at work. I have been feeling a little guilty about how I had been wasting my time by being unproductive, unhealthy and generally wasting the worlds resources. After a quick chat with Axel and I could see it from a different perspective; namely that it was quite cool. I did so very little yesterday that I can tell you in great deal about the whole day in one paragraph. And a paragraph is quite small.

In response to the innocuous question "How was your day?".....

Well I exited the old REM sleep and entered the strange realm of conciousness. I stayed in bed. Scratched an itch (not meant as a euphamism) and pondered taking care of personal hygenine. I lay in bed some more. I reached to over to the computer and went to a web site for streaming free films. I watched half of Terry Pratchet's "Hogfather". (As a quick tangent I will state here that the film was fucking awful. I only watched it because it was listed in the "fantasy" genre and I generally like these. I now feel no guilt that I have ripped off anyone who had anything to do with it because it sucked like a Dyson on heat).

Damn I broke my one paragraph promise after a slight rant. Sorry. Anyhow I pondered the prospect of breakfast. My choice of breakfast was the result of millions of years of evolution.... our bodies and taste buds crave fat because in more hostile times it was a precious resource.... anyhow I reached over to the computer again and ordered Dominos pizzasss. There was an offer on that enabled you to purcase 3 customised, delicous culinary discs of pleasure at a reduced price. "Yes". I figured that this was a minimal outlay of effort resulting in the maximal carorific reward. I bet Ray Mears would have approoved; making the best of the natural resources available to me. You can probably tell I feel a little guilty about simultaneously ordering 3 Dominos pizzas for myself because of the length I've gone to justify it.

I was still in last nights teeshirt and boxers so I decided to expend some effort and shower after all. I didn't want the pizza man to view the kind of life i was living by answering the door, half dressed at 2pm, in order to receive 3 pizzas. The pizzas arrived and my external dignity was in tact. I carried them up to my bed. I pressed play, resumed the Hogfather and began eating. This arrangement - eating in bed with a film - had an added benefit of not allowing me to concentrate fully on the afformentioned piece of shit movie. After the film (and my days of low blood pressure/cholesterol) were over I had a snooze. An alarm I thoughtfully set for 5pm woke me up in time for me to walk to work and regale Axel with this tale of slovenly glutton. As Axel looked mildly envious rather than disgusted I realised this was not something to be ashamed of but should be celebrated. I bet if i told him about the day I found myself drinking wine, browsing porn sites in one window, playing internet poker in another window and this at 3pm he would have been borderline disgusted. And I would have been condemned to hell by all major religions.

Friday, 9 February 2007

One kind act

Today i went for a walk because it was snowing. I had a hangover so i really wasn't feeling sociable. I walked into town in kind of a daze, as i'm prone to doing. I found myself on a busyish road near the university museum of natural histrory. Plenty of academic types toing and froing with their minds focused on cures for cancer, rocket science and at that time of day probably lunch too. I started getting a bit grumpy, as i'm prone to doing. As I say I was hung over and by now lots of happy couples sporting pasminas and smug smiles started making eye contact with me. Their eyes were saying: Ha! I'm sober. So is my beautiful rich lady here. Shes reading medicine, don't you know? Last night we discussed quantum theory before sushi and orgasms. You didn't! You just worked in the Star and got pissed didn't you? Ha! Knew it! You sad, pathetic, lonely wanker! I probably read too much meaning into these half arsed glimpses from innocent passers by. But hey! I'm prone to doing that. Anyhow for whatever reason I was actually in quite a bad mood.

What happened next really cheered me up. I guess I looked quite dishevelled. I already explained that it was snowing. I was not dressed appropriately. I was wearing cords and a hoodie. These are materials not renowned for there water repelling properties. I was wearing a scarf. It was black when i set out but by now was speckled with highly contrasting white. You know, the colour of snow. My dazed amblings were interupted by a pedestrian crossing. The very people I had overtly ignored and briskly passed by moments earlier drew level with me.

A woman turned to me. She was well dressed, sucessful looking. Probably not thinking about rocket science but about how she was going to invest in junk bonds right after watching "Working lunch". Capitalist bitch! She turned to me....

"Do you want my umbrella, you must be freezing?" she said.

I inwardly smiled and politely declined; I was quite warm.