A sexual act between two men.
Morris dancing dwarfs.
A pirate ship with a cargo of exotic spices.
The long drawn out death rattle of a Yak with terminal flatulence.
Vast stretches of oaken forrests found in pre industrialised Britain.
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?"
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.