Invitation to private auction for Mother's Day (UK/IE)

Gasmpire Auctioneers and Wholesale Pilchard Distributors invite you to the private auction of Mother's Day in the UK and Ireland. In the United Kingdom and Ireland, Mothering Sunday, also called "Mother's Day", falls on the fourth Sunday of Lent (exactly three weeks before Easter Sunday).
This exclusive day in the calendar is now up for auction due to a stipulation in the contract held by the original owners that reverts the date to public (or private) auction in the case of extreme mink.
Don't miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to bid for and successfully purchase your own date in the calendars of the United Kingdom and Ireland.
Use it as a gift for a loved one, or perhaps to commemorate a particular event of significance to yourself, such as the death of a relative's pet or a court summons for buggery.
Bidding will start at £32.80. Delivery of Mother's Day will take up to 48 hours.

It is your duty.

(Contact us for more info. Have credit card and bank details ready. If we don't return your call within 30 days, it means your details haven't checked out and that almost certainly you have a bad credit record, in which case you practically owe US money. We hope you're satisfied with your new purchase, but if you don't like it, you can return it within one week. Any longer than that and you will be responsible for disposing of the item once no longer of use. Be safe.)

Lost: Belgium

I had it earlier...

If found, please return to that peevish looking ginger Tom under a bush over there. I don't want it any more. It said hurtful things about my crabs.

Reward: Smack in the chops with a paddle.

Looks a bit like this, although a bit more 3-D and a bit less beige.

Note: May be travelling in disguise.

The Serialised Diaries of Attila Z. Spasm: 12 Aug 2008

This week's research : Fucking poetry

I awoke today with a fish in my ear
A silver fish, indeed? How queer!
I asked the fish to stay to dinner
And we dined on scrotums in paint thinner.
"O fish" quoth I, "O fishy one",
Let's play a game now, just for fun -
climb into this forget-me-not
and if you fail I'll have you shot/
Well he ummed and he ahhed and he scratched his chin
and looking at me with a sickly grin
said "I accept your challenge, silly man"
as he sipped on diesel laced with jam.
So then in a trice, nay the blink of an eye
the fish blew his nose and he started to cry,
and the tears, as they fell from his fishy green eyes,
turned from water to octopi to my surprise,
and these octopi managed with their tenacles eight
to deposit said fish in the flower on my plate.
"Holy shit" cried yours truly, who'd just shat a brick
"your lacrimal sea-life has just done the trick".
Then the fish gave a shrug only fish can construct
as he looked at me smiling and said "Now you're fucked,"
"coz now it's my turn to come up with a task
and if you should fail you must do as I ask".
"You must dance and reel and build me a palace
made of pubes and spittle and a small dog called Alice.
So I ummed and I aghhed and conceded with class
as I silently shoved a grenade up his arse.
And I laid on the floor with one hand on my balls
as the fish guts were sprayed across doors, over walls.
And I thought to myself as I wallowed in fish
that I'm fucked if I'm playing these games as you wish.
So bollocks to you and your challenge and guts
I'd rather nod off with my hand on my nuts.

So may well you doze in my ear little fishy,
but know that Attila can make you go squishy.

Result: I suck at rhyming.

Orlando Baptiste Luxuskaas - the gentleman charlatan, philanthropist and amateur chemist, part two

“Rack 'em up!”

Orlando Baptiste van Luxuskaas - intrepid adventurer, Victorian entrepreneur, bona fide gentleman – had an unusually confident tonal swagger to his utterances on this particular evening in the Abacus Gentleman's Club and Luncheon Emporium. The game was skittles and the stakes were suitably high. It simply could not be otherwise.

Earlier that day, whilst hiding in a bush fingering a dead hedgehog, Orlando had made himself a promise, a promise so immense that the promise itself had set in motion an infinity of events that, all permitting, would culminate this evening, in the company of his most esteemed friends and peers. “Ah the glory! The philanthropic joy!” he yelped before discretely smelling his fingers and lurking off across the park, hunched over like a partially-sighted hawker bereft of wares.

In the confines of his home, quite some time later, Orlando washed his hands and rubbed his moustache with the lard from choice quails (gently cooked in a vat of cinnamon and gravel for two-thirds of a fortnight by Messrs Frank, Frank and Dave, purveyors of the finest grooming products for the discerning gentleman, of which Orlando was most certainly one).

Once satisfied that his facial hair had gained the shape and presence befitting a man of his social benevolence, Orlando proceeded to sit jauntily at the edge of a solid, dark oak desk that more than occasionally doubled up as a table. This was his favourite thinking pose, having previously provided him with the basis for such feats of cerebral omnipotence as the realisation that a hat may (and on occasion even does) take on the characteristics of a sulking deer; that dust settles (under ideal conditions); the notion that geese can never be, under any circumstances but one, a suitable anagram for 318.33; and the by now irrefutable conclusion that everything leads back to something, provided that something is distinct, by some margin, to something else.

As he sat there, rather jauntily as previously established, he let out a series of randomly spaced shrills, intended to entice his gloves onto his hands. Having failed in this endeavour, despite several attempts and a splendid (and, it must be said, entirely improvised) impersonation of an intoxicated maid being reprimanded for inappropriate gaiety, Orlando composed himself. This was no ordinary evening, after all. He was to amaze his contemporaries to such a degree that any number of them could be excused for temporarily losing control of their sanity and glands.

He stared at himself in a mirror, gently humming what would, eventually, become the middle eight to the B-side of Enola Gay by Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, a century and several decades later in a historical epoch that would be known, for the duration of the late twentieth and early twenty-first century, as the Eighties. Orlando was not best pleased with his appearance but could conclude that pink lipstick coarsely applied his eyelids did little to change this view.

Back in the Abacus, things where unfolding.

Absurd curve

A group of males (collectively: scientists) have stumbled upon what is believed to be a rare and somewhat malevolent absurd curve. The curve, said by a key witness to be “very weird, possibly odd and unquestionably absurd”, have had the team of scientists from Bracknell University (near Bracknell, or so we're told -) working frantically in their respective labs and bedsits, desperately trying to figure something out.

Professor Alban Flabvius, the head of the postgraduate department for obscene triangles and interactive clay, stumbled upon the first coordinates of the imaginary curve whilst doing routine lab stuff with his partially invisible, partially satanic research assistant Dave Id.

“I woke up like every other morning, as I do, being gently roused by the pre-recorded sound of a Vietnamese village being shelled by incessant grenade fire, narrated by Nigel Havers and produced for Children in Need. After ingesting a considerable, and may I add, deliciously healthy breakfast, consisting of nothing but the reddest meat, I was ready to be clothed. Mr Id got me dressed as usual, this being rather a predictable happening, fairly redundant of shock value! Nothing, however, not even the most crazy mad thing you can imagine, no, not even that, Dave [this last comment was directed to Mr Id, who was sitting a little bit nervously, trying to smoothen a small piece of broken concrete with some tissue] – nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to discover. No sir.... Dave! Stop crying! ..for God's sake man.. “.

After having uttered these words, Flabvius left the room, never to return. Mr Id fell asleep, and would later awake in a panic, suddenly unable to locate his partially invisible body.

Doctor Flabvius' colleague, Professor Jasper Nakataan, the head of Involuntary Geofinance and Hygiene, takes off were Flabvius left off. “What Alban, err Professor Flabvius, saw that morning on his fridge was nothing short of a miracle. He discovered an absurd curve! For us scientific guys, that is almost the Holy Grail. But it is absurd, of course. Highly absurd. And possibly lewd, - Professor Slaim of Snrk University, Spradeballe is currently looking in to the subject as a matter of the utmost urgency. All we can do now is wait”.

Despite these encouraging words, Nakataan believes there is a darker side to this particular curve, something inexplicable that most people can't explain. “I found a curve once”, Nakataan explains, “me and Zlad (Professor Zladivarius Egg, head of Mutual Mycology, Bracknell U.) found it, whilst walking in a ditch at the side of a busy road at night. Zlad fell over something and landed head first in the ditch. When he stood up his face was covered in yuck, but something made me insist he didn't wipe his head”.

Nakataan discovered an absurd curve on Egg's forehand, created by the curvature of Egg's forehead and a small piece of black rubbish that lay stuck to Egg's head. “I took a picture of course, several in fact. I insisted that Zlad shouldn't touch his forehead, and should lean his head back at all times so as to ensure that the rubbish wouldn't come loose, of course. I also forbade him to go to sleep, as again not to dislodge the curve. He didn't seem to understand. I explained the value of the discovery and that we had protect it at all costs until we could get it to a lab. Anyway, Egg didn't seem to agree, so I had to kind of cajole him into taking my orders for the good of science, by brandishing a small revolver in a vaguely threatening manner. I allowed him to sleep, as long as he sat right up in front of me so I could wake him were he about to fall or perhaps in some other way cause the curve to come loose”.

Up until this moment, in what is slowly (!) becoming a long, patently absurd tale, Nakataan had not had proper time to look at the curve. But as Egg sat there, perched uncomfortably against a pole in front of Nakataan, he started to examine the curve. Apart from the obvious absurdity, there was more. “I see in Flabvius' curve what I saw in mine, - pure evil and hell. And utter absurdity, naturally”. Nakataan's curve itself saw an untimely demise. Egg had refused to take commands from Nakataan after which Nakataan, being 5 feet taller than Egg, tied him down to a chair and shot his kneecaps off. Unfortunately, the impact of the bullets was such as to dislodge the piece of rubbish and destroy the curve. “When I realised what had happened, I was angry, I felt betrayed. I shoot Zlad a few more times and subsequently discharged a round once in the floor. I'm not entirely sure why I fired a bullet in the floor – perhaps I was in a mild state of hysteria” Nakataan says before he rolls two dice, shuts his eyes and puts a hand to his forehead as if devastated by the result, takes a deep breath, stands up, starts speaking Spanish whilst getting undressed, then runs down stairs naked unto the streets, laughing and crying (in Spanish, somehow) at the same time.

The curve, believed to be the most absurd of its kind ever to be discovered near Bracknell, is now on display throughout public libraries and museums in Berkshire in the following months: April, June, September, May (in no particular order). Contact months just mentioned to find out where and when the curve will be on show near you (provided you live in or around Berkshire, and pay tax).

The Serialised Diaries of Attila Z. Spasm: 17 March 2008

Hello. I'm back.

Sorry.

I've been busy.

Well, I say "busy".

For "busy" read: "relentlessly sodomised by three dozen lady-boy triads in a dank back-water prison somewhere in New South Wales". I suppose that's what one gets for over-doing it on the toilet-duck spritzers, falling in with a gang of web-footed cheese-makers from Penge and ultimately being trussed up and lobbed unceremoniously in a ditch just off junction 12 of the M11.

That in itself won't end you up in New South Wales, but being spotted naked in a ditch by a passing Executive Salmon Herder, adopted as a love slave for his over-endowed Dachshund, poached in a vat of lime cordial for 3 days and sold to a burly seaman bound for the Antipodes to prevent scurvy, will.

It won't get you incarcerated, however. For that you're going to have to break free of your bonds (it's easier if they're made of vegetarian geletin), administer a corking atomic wedgie to the aforesaid sailor before sprinting, bare-arsed, around Sydney harbour.

If you then steal a bike and try to cycle naked to the set of Neighbours you'll probably be arrested. Not for cycling naked, but for failing to wear a helmet.

Note: Pointing to the end of your penis and making lewd remarks about the "other kind of helmet" is unlikely to win you the sympathy of Australian Police Constables. Calling them a bunch of ninnies won't curry you much favour either, as it transpires, but it will get you "intimately searched" by an unusually enthusiastic side-armed baton and spanked raw.

All of this goes some way to explaining why there is a man in my fridge.

Thing is, I had rather assumed that he'd have died by now. But he remains. Whimpering a bit and muttering some gibberish about "Daddy's little soldier", but very much alive.

For a time I half suspected that Uncle Zebediah may have been feeding him. Then I reconsidered. Zebediah is stupid, has herpes and I think his bum-hole's starting to fall inside out, so it's probably past him.

So what to do?

I have to admit to having become rather taken with the plucky little so-and-so. He seems to be able to survive by licking the scum off the back wall of the fridge and hasn't yet been bested by the thing that at last count (in late October 2003) was a yoghurt.

More to the point he was astonishingly receptive to being castrated with 15 rubber bands and and an ice pick, and barely winced when I circumcised him with a brick. I suppose he must have gone to boarding school...

Today's research: Food science

I have succeeded in lassoing a small portion of Zebediah's prolapsed rectum with a wire noose. I'm going to feed it to the man in the fridge.

Result: Nope. That killed him.

The Pike Conundrum

We all know the scenario – you wake up only hours into Boxing Day to find yourself completely immersed (in what can only be described as pure mayhem) as you slowly realise you are awake, but inexplicably in the home of someone who keeps hundreds and hundreds, maybe even thousands, of live, flapping pike who can breathe out of water but otherwise seem uncomfortable in their newfangled domestic abode (or abodes, - Ed.). The traditional method of solving this rather unpleasant, unnecessary and wholly impossible conundrum has been to douse your new (or if you're lucky and make it back to your own universe/reality, which few, if any, rarely do - temporary) home in petrol and then methodically put fire to every room in turn. Despite the effectiveness of such a measure, it has more often than not lead to the loss of property, family and a somewhat noticeably different, rather bizarre, level of respect in the community, be it your original community or the one wherever you currently are, voluntarily or not. Verbosity aside, here's ten guaranteed methods for safely (not true) dealing with the above scenario, dubbed the “metaphysical pike improbability” by our staff (well no, by me. Ed. Note: metaphysical pike improbability is an impossibility. I honestly believe that, -Ed. ).

Instructions: follow sequence of commands from one to ten. Or in your favourite order, if you like – the key here is to be relaxed.

1. To start things off, as in, firstly, or, the first thing on the agenda is, agenda here being the ten points, something something and then. Any way to keep things brief, here is the first of the ten points discussed above, or the prior sentence, to be precise. Precision is a fairly good thing, sort of essential, and surely almost vital. Precision. So, point one: avoid, consciously or unconsciously, to somehow wake up in a different universe inhabited with people who keep mutated pike as pets. Apparently the food there is rather bad and then there's the whole pike thing, of course. One must not forget about that particular dreadful business. So to keep things nice and tidy, let's call that end copy for point one, end copy meaning end copy, as in the end of copy. Copy is of course referring to the text, a group to which I guess end belongs - all rather handy seeing as the copy comes after end, thus allowing both words to appear before the actual, in the real sort of sense, copy ends. It does warrant noting, by the way, on this the first of ten inspirational and slightly sinister commands, that when followed in order, these instructions may bring to a swift resolution the Metaphysical Pike Improbability(tm) so as to restore order and Christmas, provided you somehow miraculously make it back to your own universe. Which you won't, to be honest. It's simply impossible. Quite impossible, I assure you. Ah the words, the words...
2. I must admit I have just found the above musings positively disturbing. There will be no point two as I gather my strength and eat a small snack.
3. Once you've recovered in much the same fashion as I suspect I did (just now - see point 2 for reference, but do try to imagine the scene as it may have, and indeed did, unfold just some time before the actual realisation of point 2 and all that did entail), proceed to the next order, by which I mean command, or a rule to follow, like you might have an order of things, by which I mean an order of objects, concepts or perhaps an order of blind but heroic French cats, so as to suggest that an order of things can be an order of indeed anything (as long as it is not impossible, of course. We must not go there). Douse new (or temporary, if you are, unlike me, prone to optimism) home in petrol and put each room on fire, one by one, making sure all pike succumb.
They're going to be surly so “mind the pike!”.
(Ring a bell??? Well then perhaps you, like me, remember with unusual fondness listening to Sugovikamaan (1924, GBC) on Gasmpiradio Wednesday evenings, a programme so amusing it was only topped by its own catchphrase, - “mind the pike!”. Oh how I chuckle, even now, after all these years, even now I chuckle. Like an old git).
4. As the abode is firmly entrenched in flames, as you have duly recovered from the emotional wound of point 2 and, as previously discussed, possibly and in my own case definitely, some time prior to point 2, proceed to point 4, as in this particular point, it being the fourth one. Now commit a heinous, unforgivable sort of crime on or before the night before Boxing Day, making quite sure that you get arrested and severely incarcerated. When you finally get released, as in freed, from the shackles of confinement and rape that sits resolutely like a cul-de-sac at the wrong end of the prison service highway, Boxing Day will be a long gone memory of another life spent collecting soap for fags. And categorically no pike, metaphysical or otherwise.
5. You may now have noticed that point 1, 3, 4 and indeed 2 are one-stop solutions, each providing an opportunity for one, unique method with which to completely eradicate the Metaphysical Pike Improbability, thus making the exercise of following all steps in chronological order somewhat defunct, presuming each command works, which it does (I am very confident on this issue - ask me anything). So it stands to relative reason that by the time you're ready to carry out point, say 3, there are no pikes or house left with which to carry out the current and subsequent commands, by which I mean subsequent as in the points of order, or command, if you prefer that term, in which the orders (or commands, - Ed.) appear, so as to suggest that the action of carrying out the various commands (or orders, - Ed.) in order from one to ten is imperative for the success of the overall plan, by which I mean a strategy that provides the basis if not the entirety of any desired, and planned, action, such as the erecting of a small garden shed, for example, or the clubbing of seal pups.
This is good, and bad. It is good, because, if you had or is having a similar sentiment to the one expressed above, either prior to or during the reading of this paragraph, it means you have been paying attention. It is bad, because of evil, by which I mean evil as in something not very nice.
6. Wear a tye-dye t-shirt and stamp aggressively in a bucket whilst pretending to have a go at social services. Nothing upsets pike more, apparently.
7. Once you've given the petrified pike-swines migraines from all the upset emotions caused by the method in point 6, obviously as preceded by the points that has gone before, such as 2, 6 and 1 (I must declare that the set of three numbers just mentioned, by which I mean made apparent, discussed or stated, are in no particular order whatsoever, apart obviously from the the right order, in which they are decidedly not - although the order is simple, by which I mean it goes in chronological order from one to ten, so to illustrate using the sample population presented above, the correct order of commands (or orders, - Ed.) would be 1, 2 and 6). I completely understand what is going on, so I am only to pleased to clarify things for my readership, by which I mean the people who read my articles, by which I mean people who read what I write, by which I mean just fuck off will you?!?! Now proceed to tie a par of beige briefs to a string and suspend them from the ceiling. The colour beige, combined with a sudden Zeitgeist of bold, gravitational defiance, triggers a neurotic pseudo chemical reaction in the pike's brain, forcing it to grow a wrist and swallow its own brain. Apparently it looks rather nasty, and is not for the faint-hearted, ie those of a faint heart, as in their heart faints easily, or does it mean as in their heart is faint, as in faint hearted? I'll leave it there.
8. Pour 50 litres of wet moss (or dry kelp – same effect, different availability depending on current whereabouts or locations of planned excursions or choices of base) on to a dual carriageway between the hours of four and six on the morning of a hip crescent moon. Make sure no one can see you then curl up for twelve hours in a foetal position and sip lukewarm lard from a leaky cup made of leaves. This particular order of the plan (by which I mean plan as in an order of commands and so forth, see above (or previous, I think, -Ed.) points for a concise presentation of what I am currently referring to, complete, I believe, with examples) requires some commitment. It is said, by which I mean retold, as in told many times possibly to many people, that the bonding with the moss (or kelp, -Ed.) on a dual carriageway, between the hours of four and six, for twelve hours, whilst drinking, nay, sipping, lukewarm lard from a cup made of leaves, much as is described above, brings a rather spiritual twist to the Metaphysical Pike Improbability. Some people have mysteriously reported being run over during this particular task, so caution, as in a type of warning, is advised, and by that I mean advised as in merely suggested but with interests of the recipients at heart.
9. Adopt an orphan ninja.
10. Point 1 is fairly good, as well as point 2 and now 5. Point number 8 is debatable in terms of proven efficiency, but scores extra for spirituality and after hours entertainment. 9 is good. A nice healthy choice with the option of free ninja pre-school for a year, as long as the pre-school is located in Crewe and the orphan ninja is located in Glennvile. Essentially, keep it brief. Brief and concise.