Digitally mastered anagram of the word Hits!*
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The anagram of Hits! comes in three standard fonts
Verdana Bold, Comic Sans MS - and now Wingdings 1 and 3!
Presented in a beatufilly crafted plastic case
Carefully designed by Anne Widdecombe!**
The CD-rom will fit in to most personal stereos
Using only the best quality your anagram is safe FOREVER***
You will grow to appreciate this constant and true source of knowledge
Improve your crossword skills, by as much as 23%!****
Send only $32.26 to get more info on this and other anagram solutions
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Send bank details and pin numbers to JFF@Gasmpire.com NOW!
Thank you,
God bless
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*product currently not in production
**pending approval
***not guaranteed. Do not use in personal computers, near humans or in distress/anger. Can cause extreme mutilation and a sudden development of bird features, such as a growing of a peculiar beak and the laying of eggs. Product currently banned in 46 countries.
****strictly not true. Figure based on average taken from sample population of 2.5. May lead to loss of life.
*****actual anagram not guaranteed. Product may contain faults leading to extreme bad vibes. Company currently not trading.
Wednesday, 28 November 2007
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
The Serialised Diaries of Attila Z. Spasm: 20 Nov 2007
Dearest diary,
Please forgive my lassitude. It is late and I am out of gin, but I feel compelled to report on the status of my latest research investigation.
To set the scene, I must first recount the startling revelation of 3 nights ago...
Addled by an evening supping cooking bleach and thrashing a discarded left slipper at imaginary top trumps, the Sand Man found me, in a rubber ring suspended from a lamp post outside Peckham library, at an hour approaching 3.
Spirits aroused by the caustic alkaline and giddied by the slipper's incessant screaming, my dreams took me back to my Nanna's house in Denmark Hill. She was there, absent-mindedly strumming a pubic harp, Grampapy was in his chair, barking quietly, peeling an elderly badger. Auntie Clive was there too. Not visible, but you could hear him enthusiastically violating the shrubbery outside, as Cousin Chip-Fat lashed a piglet roped to a barrel in the cellar with gusto. Amidst it all, there I sat. Hog-tied and fidgeting as the baby eels knawed at my piles, through the sobbing and the holes in the sack I could just make out the television next-door.
I remember it as if it were yesterday, as that, dear hearts, was my first introduction to the poetic pant-soiling masterpiece that is: Jayce and the Wheeled Warriors.
I awoke with a bump the next morning in the boot of a 1987 Datsun Cherry on the way to the bottom of the Thames. Struggling free, the gases in the rubber knickers rendering me bouyant, a hansom group of youths had the good grace to beat the ropes from me with crowbars. I thanked them at length.
And then, as the stars evaporated from my vision, it struck me. Surely the greatest achievement I could make would be to recreate Jayce and his mighty half-plant, half-vehicle companions in REAL LIFE. But not in a sordid way, grafting leaf on to metal or rubber on to bark (..that IS a thought though). But naturally. Lovingly. Slowly. Hence, my latest research project that has consumed my most recent 72 hours.
Today's Research: Bionics
Aim: To create a "wheeled warrior" half organic, half metal, all pant-throbbingly, bed-wettingly amazing. WOOF.
Step one: Locate a metal "partner" with which to mate.
Result: A slow start. After a gentle let down by a wheelbarrow, and a brusque refusal from the number 78 bus I finally located a yellow children's racing bike amenable to my approaches.
Step two: A bike by name, if not by nature.
Result: I am getting sick. I have spent over £13 on this sodding bike. I've taken her to dinner, a "clever" film with that Clooney man in it and the Dirty Dancing Musical, and the little pedally yellow fuck hasn't shown the first sign of putting out. I haven't even got to first base. I am starting to suspect she is a gold-digger. Or a gay.
Result - update: The sly little minx. 4 litres of White Ace and my own vocal rendition of the mating call of Jeremy Clarkson and she gave in.
Tragically though, the scale an vigour of our relations was such that Private Tinkle became firmly lodged in the saddle shaft. One of the more creative explanations I've had to give at A&E - but such is the nature of young love.
Step three: Procreate.
Result:... Heartbreak. OH WOE WOE AND THRICE WOE. As the nettle of love blossomed within my buttocks so did it sting me on the balls.
I caught... that... yellow two-tyred (YES 2 FATTY FAT BITCH) "Fraternising" with a bicycle pump in the garage. I am disconsolate.
Research abandoned.
Solace shall be sought in kettle descaler and mindless belching. Sleep well, sweet reader. The time is for crying... but not until I've sewn Uncle Z to the curtains.
Dormez bien...
Attila.
Please forgive my lassitude. It is late and I am out of gin, but I feel compelled to report on the status of my latest research investigation.
To set the scene, I must first recount the startling revelation of 3 nights ago...
Addled by an evening supping cooking bleach and thrashing a discarded left slipper at imaginary top trumps, the Sand Man found me, in a rubber ring suspended from a lamp post outside Peckham library, at an hour approaching 3.
Spirits aroused by the caustic alkaline and giddied by the slipper's incessant screaming, my dreams took me back to my Nanna's house in Denmark Hill. She was there, absent-mindedly strumming a pubic harp, Grampapy was in his chair, barking quietly, peeling an elderly badger. Auntie Clive was there too. Not visible, but you could hear him enthusiastically violating the shrubbery outside, as Cousin Chip-Fat lashed a piglet roped to a barrel in the cellar with gusto. Amidst it all, there I sat. Hog-tied and fidgeting as the baby eels knawed at my piles, through the sobbing and the holes in the sack I could just make out the television next-door.
I remember it as if it were yesterday, as that, dear hearts, was my first introduction to the poetic pant-soiling masterpiece that is: Jayce and the Wheeled Warriors.
I awoke with a bump the next morning in the boot of a 1987 Datsun Cherry on the way to the bottom of the Thames. Struggling free, the gases in the rubber knickers rendering me bouyant, a hansom group of youths had the good grace to beat the ropes from me with crowbars. I thanked them at length.
And then, as the stars evaporated from my vision, it struck me. Surely the greatest achievement I could make would be to recreate Jayce and his mighty half-plant, half-vehicle companions in REAL LIFE. But not in a sordid way, grafting leaf on to metal or rubber on to bark (..that IS a thought though). But naturally. Lovingly. Slowly. Hence, my latest research project that has consumed my most recent 72 hours.
Today's Research: Bionics
Aim: To create a "wheeled warrior" half organic, half metal, all pant-throbbingly, bed-wettingly amazing. WOOF.
Step one: Locate a metal "partner" with which to mate.
Result: A slow start. After a gentle let down by a wheelbarrow, and a brusque refusal from the number 78 bus I finally located a yellow children's racing bike amenable to my approaches.
Step two: A bike by name, if not by nature.
Result: I am getting sick. I have spent over £13 on this sodding bike. I've taken her to dinner, a "clever" film with that Clooney man in it and the Dirty Dancing Musical, and the little pedally yellow fuck hasn't shown the first sign of putting out. I haven't even got to first base. I am starting to suspect she is a gold-digger. Or a gay.
Result - update: The sly little minx. 4 litres of White Ace and my own vocal rendition of the mating call of Jeremy Clarkson and she gave in.
Tragically though, the scale an vigour of our relations was such that Private Tinkle became firmly lodged in the saddle shaft. One of the more creative explanations I've had to give at A&E - but such is the nature of young love.
Step three: Procreate.
Result:... Heartbreak. OH WOE WOE AND THRICE WOE. As the nettle of love blossomed within my buttocks so did it sting me on the balls.
I caught... that... yellow two-tyred (YES 2 FATTY FAT BITCH) "Fraternising" with a bicycle pump in the garage. I am disconsolate.
Research abandoned.
Solace shall be sought in kettle descaler and mindless belching. Sleep well, sweet reader. The time is for crying... but not until I've sewn Uncle Z to the curtains.
Dormez bien...
Attila.
Wednesday, 14 November 2007
Conceptual flat possibly in W1 possibly available
A lovely, possibly detached conceptual flat available in W1. Offer no longer applies! Situated near the amenities of Ilford or the West End, this flat is possibly the perfect pied-a-terre for a young couple or perhaps a single, elderly lady possibly with a couple of deaf cats.
Note: not suitable for deer rearing or disillusioned submariners from Minsk – different rates apply.
Conceptually split over two floors, this one or six bedroom studio flat spread over the third and possibly fourth floor of a genuine period building oozes character or possibly the smell of rotten eggs.
Different rates apply depending on the precise position of Jupiter and the existence of unicorns – please consult with someone using electric appliances.
Fully furnished (although that all depends on the philosophical stance of the occupant, possibly), the flat possibly features some of the most modern and cutting edge appliances, and has in the past been a Georgian maisonette, Kansas Fried Chicken restaurant and possibly a wonky but endearing billiard table.
Different rates apply depending on the Renaissance, psychosomatic discourse and the availability (perceived or not) of ripe Haas avocado.
The iron-wrought staircase connecting the office to the earlier works of Hegel offers ample opportunity for downwards motion and possibly sporadic nihilism.
Note: nihilism optional; an extra charge may apply for Kierkegaard or title case quotations and possibly things of a sporadic nature – please check with your local health service.
Must be perceived in order to be believed, the mock-stucco ceiling possibly doubles up as kitsch wood burner and/or American life coach.
Different rates apply to idioms, abandoned PhDs and qualitative market research.
Despite being no longer available, we frequently expect this home to go quickly so please conceive of it early to avoid possible disappointment.
Different rates apply depending on the age of the sun, the suppression of isosceles triangles and the current whereabouts of Lord Lucan (or derivatives thereof – please consult your local Citizen's Advice Bureau or God).
This conceptual offer is possibly an ideal investment opportunity for anyone wishing to get on the conceptual or possibly perceived property ladder.
Different rates apply pending patent (conceptual or otherwise) and Rhododendron rearing in Skegness – please confer with your local trading standards branch or experts present at the nearest conceptual horticulturist expo.
Despite its possible location, this flat is reasonably priced at a possibly affordable fee not totalling more than £1.334 million per conceptual calendar month.
Different rates apply depending on season, multiverse and progressive Zen Buddhism.
The bathroom needs a makeover.
Don't miss out – flat presumably (but not definitely) not available until late 1873!
Note: not suitable for deer rearing or disillusioned submariners from Minsk – different rates apply.
Conceptually split over two floors, this one or six bedroom studio flat spread over the third and possibly fourth floor of a genuine period building oozes character or possibly the smell of rotten eggs.
Different rates apply depending on the precise position of Jupiter and the existence of unicorns – please consult with someone using electric appliances.
Fully furnished (although that all depends on the philosophical stance of the occupant, possibly), the flat possibly features some of the most modern and cutting edge appliances, and has in the past been a Georgian maisonette, Kansas Fried Chicken restaurant and possibly a wonky but endearing billiard table.
Different rates apply depending on the Renaissance, psychosomatic discourse and the availability (perceived or not) of ripe Haas avocado.
The iron-wrought staircase connecting the office to the earlier works of Hegel offers ample opportunity for downwards motion and possibly sporadic nihilism.
Note: nihilism optional; an extra charge may apply for Kierkegaard or title case quotations and possibly things of a sporadic nature – please check with your local health service.
Must be perceived in order to be believed, the mock-stucco ceiling possibly doubles up as kitsch wood burner and/or American life coach.
Different rates apply to idioms, abandoned PhDs and qualitative market research.
Despite being no longer available, we frequently expect this home to go quickly so please conceive of it early to avoid possible disappointment.
Different rates apply depending on the age of the sun, the suppression of isosceles triangles and the current whereabouts of Lord Lucan (or derivatives thereof – please consult your local Citizen's Advice Bureau or God).
This conceptual offer is possibly an ideal investment opportunity for anyone wishing to get on the conceptual or possibly perceived property ladder.
Different rates apply pending patent (conceptual or otherwise) and Rhododendron rearing in Skegness – please confer with your local trading standards branch or experts present at the nearest conceptual horticulturist expo.
Despite its possible location, this flat is reasonably priced at a possibly affordable fee not totalling more than £1.334 million per conceptual calendar month.
Different rates apply depending on season, multiverse and progressive Zen Buddhism.
The bathroom needs a makeover.
Don't miss out – flat presumably (but not definitely) not available until late 1873!
Monday, 12 November 2007
The Serialised Diaries of Attila Z. Spasm: 12 Nov 2007
Woke with a start to find Zebediah gorging himself on the "sharp matter" in my "bits and pieces". It would seem that one of them had hatched. Having run out of rubber knickers, Uncle Z (I can't be bothered to write all of his name out again because I HATE HIM) saw something wriggling and declared open season on the flora, and more specifically the fauna, of my nether regions. Came over all queasy for a moment.
Was forced to put an abrupt end to Uncle Zebediah's midnight lice feast with a cricket bat, a good deal of pinching, some scratching and one of my finest ever Chinese burns. Took it upon myself to chastise him thoroughly by reading aloud from the the book of Numbers in a high-pitched Hungarian accent with one half of my scrotum visible through a strategically torn gap in my leotard (baby blue, naturally).
Such an onslaught threw him into disarray and he spent the subsequent 7 hours sobbing disconsolately into a bucket and copiously soiling himself every 15 minutes. This left me free to undertake Today's Research Investigation.
(Aside: If you thought I got it wrong by saying I wasn't going to write Uncle Zebediah out again, and then typing it out again then you are a LOSER because I copied and pasted. Yeah. So fuck off.)
Today's Research: Anatomy/Aerodynamics
Last evening, whilst hunting for change in the gutter to purchase Razzle (which, in hindsight, I STRONGLY advise against. It is RUBBISH), I had the good fortune to happen upon a recently deceased octogenarian outside Halal Fried Chicken in Dalston. The body was slumped under a pathetic collection of ADSA bags, and no small amount of canine faecal matter.
I did briefly entertain the possibility that the lady may simply have been sleeping, but by the time she had finished screaming I'd burnt off most of the plastic bags and I'd used up practically all of my kerosene - rendering the matter largely academic. The young chap operating the chicken fryers seemed to take some exception to this, and fled shouting something incomprehensible in Arabic or some such. Poor fellow. Clearly unhinged. Shot him.
Contemplating the cadaver, later on, I was disappointed to discover that any area of the body that had not been savaged by the flames had been abraded right off by the cobbles as I dragged her back to my lab. A pity, indeed, but I had a lot of chicken to get through with my other hand.
Essentially, was left with nothing more than a pair of elderly and none-too-sightly buttocks with which to experiment.
Still, Necessity is the Mother of Invention, Great Uncle of Thursdays and former Room-mate of Anne Widdecombe (Oh, sexy little Anne... how I long to plumb the depths of your earwax-treacle mine...) Sorry. Point is I made frisbees out of her arse cheeks.
Stapling Zebediah firmly to the doorframe to make him sorrier, I hastened to the park to perform today's test.
Test: Which of the two buttocks reclaimed from an old lady's botty will achieve greater distance when flung?
Location: The Park around the Corner.
Time: Day-time. Don't know. Pawned watch for three ounces of chip-fat and Betamax video of "Dutty Goggins: Postman Pat goes Porno". For the record, Jess is a dirty dirty pussy cat.
Result 1 - The Left Buttock-Frisbee: A good chuck. 15 yards, 3 inches. Landed in a tree. Dislodged a football. Will flog it on E-Bay.
Result 2 - The Right Buttock-Frisbee: I'm afraid things all went rather sour at this point. An over-excited Yorkshire Terrier clamped its hateful little yapper about the arse-piece mid-flight and scampered off with it... to the playground. I'll have you know that an irate single mother packs a mighty punch. Bloody sovereign rings. Fortunately I was able to distract her with half a melon Bacardi Breezer and a Lambert and Butler. By this point her fearful sprog had attempted to eat the buttock and was vomiting freely into its Burberry pushchair. I made good my escape, but not before I'd nicked her Giro. Children, it transpires, do have some uses.
So, in summary, it is the RIGHT ARSE CHEEK that flies the furthest - dependent rather on the attendant ASBO wielders.
Evening spent passing short bursts of mains electricity through a sparrow in a glass bell jar and popping the Johnnies in Bootswith a pin.
Tomorrow I shall write to Mother and sniff glue. I close with a Christmassy poem:
Christmas is coming,
The geese are getting fat.
Which is good, it makes them easier to catch and infinitely more combustible.
Was forced to put an abrupt end to Uncle Zebediah's midnight lice feast with a cricket bat, a good deal of pinching, some scratching and one of my finest ever Chinese burns. Took it upon myself to chastise him thoroughly by reading aloud from the the book of Numbers in a high-pitched Hungarian accent with one half of my scrotum visible through a strategically torn gap in my leotard (baby blue, naturally).
Such an onslaught threw him into disarray and he spent the subsequent 7 hours sobbing disconsolately into a bucket and copiously soiling himself every 15 minutes. This left me free to undertake Today's Research Investigation.
(Aside: If you thought I got it wrong by saying I wasn't going to write Uncle Zebediah out again, and then typing it out again then you are a LOSER because I copied and pasted. Yeah. So fuck off.)
Today's Research: Anatomy/Aerodynamics
Last evening, whilst hunting for change in the gutter to purchase Razzle (which, in hindsight, I STRONGLY advise against. It is RUBBISH), I had the good fortune to happen upon a recently deceased octogenarian outside Halal Fried Chicken in Dalston. The body was slumped under a pathetic collection of ADSA bags, and no small amount of canine faecal matter.
I did briefly entertain the possibility that the lady may simply have been sleeping, but by the time she had finished screaming I'd burnt off most of the plastic bags and I'd used up practically all of my kerosene - rendering the matter largely academic. The young chap operating the chicken fryers seemed to take some exception to this, and fled shouting something incomprehensible in Arabic or some such. Poor fellow. Clearly unhinged. Shot him.
Contemplating the cadaver, later on, I was disappointed to discover that any area of the body that had not been savaged by the flames had been abraded right off by the cobbles as I dragged her back to my lab. A pity, indeed, but I had a lot of chicken to get through with my other hand.
Essentially, was left with nothing more than a pair of elderly and none-too-sightly buttocks with which to experiment.
Still, Necessity is the Mother of Invention, Great Uncle of Thursdays and former Room-mate of Anne Widdecombe (Oh, sexy little Anne... how I long to plumb the depths of your earwax-treacle mine...) Sorry. Point is I made frisbees out of her arse cheeks.
Stapling Zebediah firmly to the doorframe to make him sorrier, I hastened to the park to perform today's test.
Test: Which of the two buttocks reclaimed from an old lady's botty will achieve greater distance when flung?
Location: The Park around the Corner.
Time: Day-time. Don't know. Pawned watch for three ounces of chip-fat and Betamax video of "Dutty Goggins: Postman Pat goes Porno". For the record, Jess is a dirty dirty pussy cat.
Result 1 - The Left Buttock-Frisbee: A good chuck. 15 yards, 3 inches. Landed in a tree. Dislodged a football. Will flog it on E-Bay.
Result 2 - The Right Buttock-Frisbee: I'm afraid things all went rather sour at this point. An over-excited Yorkshire Terrier clamped its hateful little yapper about the arse-piece mid-flight and scampered off with it... to the playground. I'll have you know that an irate single mother packs a mighty punch. Bloody sovereign rings. Fortunately I was able to distract her with half a melon Bacardi Breezer and a Lambert and Butler. By this point her fearful sprog had attempted to eat the buttock and was vomiting freely into its Burberry pushchair. I made good my escape, but not before I'd nicked her Giro. Children, it transpires, do have some uses.
So, in summary, it is the RIGHT ARSE CHEEK that flies the furthest - dependent rather on the attendant ASBO wielders.
Evening spent passing short bursts of mains electricity through a sparrow in a glass bell jar and popping the Johnnies in Bootswith a pin.
Tomorrow I shall write to Mother and sniff glue. I close with a Christmassy poem:
Christmas is coming,
The geese are getting fat.
Which is good, it makes them easier to catch and infinitely more combustible.
Wednesday, 7 November 2007
The Serialised Diaries of Attila Z. Spasm: 07 Nov 2007
I begin to grow weary of the ever-present slurry pool in which I find myself bathed each morning. As you may have gathered, the "sharp matter" has once again perforated the rubber knickers. It seems that regardless of the number of pairs I wear, or the amount of ill-fated earthworms I use to pad them, the confounded things perforate and I wake up tit deep in my own goo. A new approach is clearly required.
This is not a task for today though, I shall simply have to double the count of sandbags at the foot of the bed, for this morning I await the arrival of the "Bulldog Engineer" to sort out my connection to the dutty web.
As such, I intend to skip breakfast and while away the minutes (for surely there can be but few remaining before HIS arrival) in quiet meditation...
9:20 am. Meditiation is rubbish. Opted for a cheeky five-knuckle shuffle instead.
9:20:30 am. Still no sign of this magic internet man. I grow weary.
10:07 am. Shit. Nodded off. No sign of the Engineer though. Phew. Check the jelly in the fridge. Not set. I pass a few delicious minutes confusing a passing starling with my incisive comments on 14th Century cardigan appreciation.
10:42 am. Caught a whiff of my bed sheets and damn near asphyxiated myself. Note: Bed sheets taking on new role. Could save money on sedatives.
11:01 am. Uncle Zebediah is sat in the corner licking the back of a wooden chair and laughing like a little tosser when he gets splinters in his tongue. He's getting blood everywhere. I HATE him. Note to self: Drown Uncle Zebediah if at all possible. You hate him.
12:00:01 PM. Yes. PEE FUCKING EM. No "engineer" and it is now officially the afternoon. Even the bloke on telly says so. Call "Bulldog" to complain. I am told to check the web for updates. Consider me unamused.
Today's research: Ballistics
You see, this is the thing. I've been collecting shrapnel to fire from the blunderbuss. I was going to shoot it at stray dogs at a range of 200 yards and then challenge them to a race at solving a Rubix cube. I just tried it in the flat. Blew a hole in a drugged Jack Russel the size of a bowling ball, and now I've got to put filler in the sodding plaster. You see, Bulldog? Uncle Zebediah has just shat in my shoe. I hate him. Oh don't eat it you sick sick thing.
He ate it. Grim.
14:41 pm. Doorbell...
15:09 pm. That was the Bulldog guy. He was over 2 hours late, offered no apology and then told me he had the wrong part...
I'm disappointed to admit that I got rather cross. I was mean to him. Except that for "was mean to him" read "sedated him with the stench of my bed, tore out his kneecaps with a rusty trowel and then bricked him into a wall".
It's getting pretty crowded in that wall. Still at least the Jehovah's Witness has stopped that fucking infernal sobbing now. He's kicking up one hell of a stench - the engineer man is going to get a shock when he wakes up... Question is, what to do with these two patellae (Latin plural. God I fancy me.) now I've cut them from that chap.
I know...
Today's research:Ballistics Dentistry
Having dried the kneecaps in the oven I have ground them up into dust.
Test One
I shall endeavour to remove some small amount of staining from my tooth to gently abrading it with a mixture of bone matter and butter.
Result
Bone dust mixed with butter is no match for Arm and Hammer. Although Uncle Zebediah has taken to it. He's spreading it under his arms. Liberally. I feel nauseous.
The engineer in the wall seems to have roused himself and it attempting to summon help. I stand another puppy in front of him and fire into it. That shut him up.
17:49 pm. Dinner. 2 puppy dogs tails in a bun. Today has been rubbish.
Will try again tomorrow.
This is not a task for today though, I shall simply have to double the count of sandbags at the foot of the bed, for this morning I await the arrival of the "Bulldog Engineer" to sort out my connection to the dutty web.
As such, I intend to skip breakfast and while away the minutes (for surely there can be but few remaining before HIS arrival) in quiet meditation...
9:20 am. Meditiation is rubbish. Opted for a cheeky five-knuckle shuffle instead.
9:20:30 am. Still no sign of this magic internet man. I grow weary.
10:07 am. Shit. Nodded off. No sign of the Engineer though. Phew. Check the jelly in the fridge. Not set. I pass a few delicious minutes confusing a passing starling with my incisive comments on 14th Century cardigan appreciation.
10:42 am. Caught a whiff of my bed sheets and damn near asphyxiated myself. Note: Bed sheets taking on new role. Could save money on sedatives.
11:01 am. Uncle Zebediah is sat in the corner licking the back of a wooden chair and laughing like a little tosser when he gets splinters in his tongue. He's getting blood everywhere. I HATE him. Note to self: Drown Uncle Zebediah if at all possible. You hate him.
12:00:01 PM. Yes. PEE FUCKING EM. No "engineer" and it is now officially the afternoon. Even the bloke on telly says so. Call "Bulldog" to complain. I am told to check the web for updates. Consider me unamused.
Today's research: Ballistics
You see, this is the thing. I've been collecting shrapnel to fire from the blunderbuss. I was going to shoot it at stray dogs at a range of 200 yards and then challenge them to a race at solving a Rubix cube. I just tried it in the flat. Blew a hole in a drugged Jack Russel the size of a bowling ball, and now I've got to put filler in the sodding plaster. You see, Bulldog? Uncle Zebediah has just shat in my shoe. I hate him. Oh don't eat it you sick sick thing.
He ate it. Grim.
14:41 pm. Doorbell...
15:09 pm. That was the Bulldog guy. He was over 2 hours late, offered no apology and then told me he had the wrong part...
I'm disappointed to admit that I got rather cross. I was mean to him. Except that for "was mean to him" read "sedated him with the stench of my bed, tore out his kneecaps with a rusty trowel and then bricked him into a wall".
It's getting pretty crowded in that wall. Still at least the Jehovah's Witness has stopped that fucking infernal sobbing now. He's kicking up one hell of a stench - the engineer man is going to get a shock when he wakes up... Question is, what to do with these two patellae (Latin plural. God I fancy me.) now I've cut them from that chap.
I know...
Today's research:
Having dried the kneecaps in the oven I have ground them up into dust.
Test One
I shall endeavour to remove some small amount of staining from my tooth to gently abrading it with a mixture of bone matter and butter.
Result
Bone dust mixed with butter is no match for Arm and Hammer. Although Uncle Zebediah has taken to it. He's spreading it under his arms. Liberally. I feel nauseous.
The engineer in the wall seems to have roused himself and it attempting to summon help. I stand another puppy in front of him and fire into it. That shut him up.
17:49 pm. Dinner. 2 puppy dogs tails in a bun. Today has been rubbish.
Will try again tomorrow.
Tales from Shacklewelle and musings thereof 7/11/07
On Winter and the absence of monies
And thus it came to pass, that as true as the autumn is nigh, and that it follows such that winter shall arrive, bringing both cold and darkness, monies went astray and debtors were engaged. And given such status quo, and indeed the present circumstances thereof, movements were thus initiated so as to alleviate such absence of monies, and the presence of debtors hence.
But alas!
No respite was to be had, for no monies were there, nor indeed anywhere, and henceforth no relief could be sought, for it is the plight of the financially emaciated, and logically their dears, few or many as they may be, that once indebted, the mire is steep, and oft bottomlesse.
Great debate, great pontification, great panicke! – they all led to nowt. And behold, as the winter does cometh, the joy shall be scarce, for no food shall fill the tables with their culinary perfume, nor the children with sustenance, and presents of a Christmas nature shall be forgone for there is no cashe.
Want to lend us £1,000?
Thought not. Oh well.
Shit (again).
And thus it came to pass, that as true as the autumn is nigh, and that it follows such that winter shall arrive, bringing both cold and darkness, monies went astray and debtors were engaged. And given such status quo, and indeed the present circumstances thereof, movements were thus initiated so as to alleviate such absence of monies, and the presence of debtors hence.
But alas!
No respite was to be had, for no monies were there, nor indeed anywhere, and henceforth no relief could be sought, for it is the plight of the financially emaciated, and logically their dears, few or many as they may be, that once indebted, the mire is steep, and oft bottomlesse.
Great debate, great pontification, great panicke! – they all led to nowt. And behold, as the winter does cometh, the joy shall be scarce, for no food shall fill the tables with their culinary perfume, nor the children with sustenance, and presents of a Christmas nature shall be forgone for there is no cashe.
Want to lend us £1,000?
Thought not. Oh well.
Shit (again).
Monday, 5 November 2007
The Serialised Diaries of Attila Z. Spasm: 05 Nov 2007
Woke early in a tepid pool of my own filth. The build-up of sharp matter around my "bits and pieces" seems to have led to a group of minor perforations in the rubber knickers. They still need work, evidently. Note to self: purchase another cycle repair kit. Also soap.
Broke the fast frugally on a suspicious white substance lurking in the beard. It provided little resistance, hence I can suspect that it may have died in the night. Out of booze... Bleach it transpires is no real alternative to gin. Will write a letter to Mother warning her of as much. Uncle Zebediah can bloody well find out for himself.
Today's research: Ballistics.
Located one dead tramp. Stripped and dressed in the classic blue leotard and nappy (disposable, I refuse to be responsible for another fracas in the launderette). Bandaged face and hands, his, not mine.
Test one: The effects of using a cadaver as a ballistic missile.
Dropped cadaver off top story of multi-story car park on to passing old lady. Missed. She was quicker than she looked - also probably deaf as the God-awful squelch and minor spattering seemed to pass her by somewhat. Noise definitely made: Traffic warden vomiting freely. Had to be sedated.
Test two: The effects of using a cadaver as a ballistic missile - revisited.
Candidate targets scarce, tramp starting to give off potent whiff (Note: The aroma of rotting tramp brings about unforseen bouts ofdiarro dhiarrh .. the shits.) Decamped to bridge. SUCCESS!!
Result: A decaying tramp, when dressed in a leotard and nappy and flung from a bridge generates enough downward force upon impact to dislodge a child of schooling age from a canoe.
Corollary: Retrieving the nappy and leotard is tricky - particularly given increased police presence. There goes another flaming leotard.
Lunched on the packed sandwiches of a small child being resuscitated on the bank of river by over-reacting teacher/social worker. Spam. No wonder the nation's youth can't see their collective feet without the "mirror on a stick" approach.
Passed a most pleasant afternoon haranguing single mothers from a bush outside ASDA, before heading home to fashion a replica human thigh from lime flavoured jelly. Intention to fling a clutch of nestling sparrows into it tomorrow, and then interview them post-event. Still musing on flinging device, proposals include a sling fashioned from cat gut (cat will not be impressed, however), or the blunderbuss, if I can get it working without spending yet another fortnight in intensive care. Maybe I could ask them about the "Sharp Matter" (see first paragraph) while I'm there.
Custard for dinner this evening, I think, provided the eel I have been drowning in it has finally given up the ghost.
Attila out.
Broke the fast frugally on a suspicious white substance lurking in the beard. It provided little resistance, hence I can suspect that it may have died in the night. Out of booze... Bleach it transpires is no real alternative to gin. Will write a letter to Mother warning her of as much. Uncle Zebediah can bloody well find out for himself.
Today's research: Ballistics.
Located one dead tramp. Stripped and dressed in the classic blue leotard and nappy (disposable, I refuse to be responsible for another fracas in the launderette). Bandaged face and hands, his, not mine.
Test one: The effects of using a cadaver as a ballistic missile.
Dropped cadaver off top story of multi-story car park on to passing old lady. Missed. She was quicker than she looked - also probably deaf as the God-awful squelch and minor spattering seemed to pass her by somewhat. Noise definitely made: Traffic warden vomiting freely. Had to be sedated.
Test two: The effects of using a cadaver as a ballistic missile - revisited.
Candidate targets scarce, tramp starting to give off potent whiff (Note: The aroma of rotting tramp brings about unforseen bouts of
Result: A decaying tramp, when dressed in a leotard and nappy and flung from a bridge generates enough downward force upon impact to dislodge a child of schooling age from a canoe.
Corollary: Retrieving the nappy and leotard is tricky - particularly given increased police presence. There goes another flaming leotard.
Lunched on the packed sandwiches of a small child being resuscitated on the bank of river by over-reacting teacher/social worker. Spam. No wonder the nation's youth can't see their collective feet without the "mirror on a stick" approach.
Passed a most pleasant afternoon haranguing single mothers from a bush outside ASDA, before heading home to fashion a replica human thigh from lime flavoured jelly. Intention to fling a clutch of nestling sparrows into it tomorrow, and then interview them post-event. Still musing on flinging device, proposals include a sling fashioned from cat gut (cat will not be impressed, however), or the blunderbuss, if I can get it working without spending yet another fortnight in intensive care. Maybe I could ask them about the "Sharp Matter" (see first paragraph) while I'm there.
Custard for dinner this evening, I think, provided the eel I have been drowning in it has finally given up the ghost.
Attila out.
Monday, 13 August 2007
Thanks alot
I had a great scoop on how two, non-high profile US scientists first met. It is a romantic story of calypso, E. coli and armed guards. The perfect recipe for love.
But Steve won't let me post it.
So I'll just leave you the links:
Hunting viruses, training future scientists
An encompassing view of the world
...and
The story does not, in any way, concern this guy:
I don't know what he is doing here, quite frankly.
But Steve won't let me post it.
So I'll just leave you the links:
Hunting viruses, training future scientists
An encompassing view of the world
...and
The story does not, in any way, concern this guy:
I don't know what he is doing here, quite frankly.
Sunday, 6 May 2007
Public announcement #L.330
who: Marquis Songer
what: President & Chairman Membership Development Committee
where: Hoverclub of America
why ?: “Marquis has been hovering for 12 years and has been active in the HCA for 12 years (3 years as a high school student).”
News: 4/11/07 - Smithsonian Channel to Film at Hoverally 2007 (PDF)
Other news: Life will change, scientists warn
Monday, 30 April 2007
Public Notice #666
The Carlsson Scale - A measurement of how little Carlsson cares about any given subject except the procurement and consumption of liquor and classified drugs.
The scale goes from -7 to "whatever, I don't give a fuck really."
Use sparingly.
The scale goes from -7 to "whatever, I don't give a fuck really."
Use sparingly.
Saturday, 28 April 2007
Report #2: Unusual mutation?: Strange New Tree Growth
Scientists have recently found a new tree growth that has not been discovered before anywhere on Earth. It is unknown if this mutation formed as a part of the tree itself or if it is a viral growth but researches are conducting research to verify which it is. Updates will be published as soon as we receive further information.
Public Notice #-11: RelaxNSmack 2000
William Otterson was one of the first people to volunteer to test out the CIA's latest weapon to counteract terrorism. He has been stuck in the system for 2 years due to technical glitch caused by a Deja Vu that the programmer experienced. Due to the fact that inflicting torture on captives can be a gruelling and sometimes traumatic process for the torturer, the RelaxNSmack 2000 has been created to ease the burden. This is the ideal for any country supporting and pioneering freedom, that wants to promote its ideals on non-conforming opposition. Utilising technologies such as Virtual Reality, Taser and sensory (and sometimes sensual) deprivation, it is an ideal tool for any dictator's mercenaries. All pioneers of Freedom would be proud to use this tool, once the technical difficulties are resolved. As for William, he will be returned to his parents farm once the programmers resolve the issues faced.
Found: 1 Illicit Pygmy Tepee
Found: one wooden Pygmy tepee.
Would the owners of this construction please come forward, as it has been erected on a private allotment? Bernard Stiffeldfoot is getting most irate as it has been placed upon his brussels sprout seedlings, which he has desperately needed for his fibre intake over the last three months. Bernard is chiefly worried that there is going to be a real impact on his stools due the lack of sprouts. It is also feared that he may stage protests against the Pygmy peoples in the near future, which could tarnish the reputation of many innocent law abiding Pygmy's worldwide (and possibiy undo centuries of diplomatic wrangling, appeasement and stuff like that).
Report #1: The Lost Water
Thames water has finally identified the source of what is thought to be the source of many of the droughts in Surrey. This body of water (pictured) has been labelled the "Lost Water" – although quite clearly it has now been located. Through some mysterious means, this body of water has escaped from many reservoirs throughout the Southeast and has ended up lounging near old Weybridge Town Lock. Thanks to Thames Water, this body of water has been ring fenced, in preparation for incarceration back to the estuaries where it came from. It is suspected that this water evaporated in the early spring heat wave, then turned into that strange rain that caused delays in the rail network and then seeped into its final loitering point in Weybridge. Once this water is restored to the reservoirs, Thames Water have guaranteed that it will not return to cause a menace to the upper-middle class residents of Weybridge.
(Report filed by our roving corrrespondent Kazemik, "because Steve and Carl can't be bothered").
Wednesday, 18 April 2007
Research Update: #4019
Shocking new research from the University of Pennsyldykia is suggesting a direct link between global kitten mortality rates, and the proportion of US citizens failing to exercise their right to bear arms.
The in-depth study, released only one hour ago, doesn’t stop there, however. It goes on to conclude that for every day that a citizen of any of the 52 states spends more than 12 yards from a semi or fully automatic fire-arm, Satan brutally murders a new born kitten with a 2 pound lump hammer, before dousing it in axel grease, igniting the corpse and firing directly into the sun – increasing global warming (which has NOTHING TO DO with burning fossil fuels. At all.).
The American anti-gun lobby, horrified, is currently forming an orderly queue outside their local arsenals, ready to purchase enough munitions to eradicate the entire population of Belgium (this is no coincidence. Belgium, be warned).
Delighted with their work, the newly honoured research team are now looking to confirm the link between not smoking and Satan’s little pixies masturbating over pictures of your Grandma, and then intend to prove, once and for all, that unless you drive a 2 ton pick-up truck then you have “cooties” and could very well have a tiny tiny penis. We await their findings with baited breath…
The in-depth study, released only one hour ago, doesn’t stop there, however. It goes on to conclude that for every day that a citizen of any of the 52 states spends more than 12 yards from a semi or fully automatic fire-arm, Satan brutally murders a new born kitten with a 2 pound lump hammer, before dousing it in axel grease, igniting the corpse and firing directly into the sun – increasing global warming (which has NOTHING TO DO with burning fossil fuels. At all.).
The American anti-gun lobby, horrified, is currently forming an orderly queue outside their local arsenals, ready to purchase enough munitions to eradicate the entire population of Belgium (this is no coincidence. Belgium, be warned).
Delighted with their work, the newly honoured research team are now looking to confirm the link between not smoking and Satan’s little pixies masturbating over pictures of your Grandma, and then intend to prove, once and for all, that unless you drive a 2 ton pick-up truck then you have “cooties” and could very well have a tiny tiny penis. We await their findings with baited breath…
Friendly Fire: A Young Boy’s Handy-Dandy Massacre Guide
Hi kids!
Did someone pick on you in the schoolyard? Did a bigger (possibly ethnic minority or foreign) kid say you had cooties? Does that make you sad?
Hey there, little guy, wipe away those tears! Captain Colt Magnum is here to help.
What do you mean you don’t know where to look? Why not take a peek under Daddy’s bed? Don’t look at the dirty books. If you see boobies before you are 10, God will make your dick fall off. It says so in the Bible – right after the mistranslated part on why fags are evil. Just take the big shiny gun, slip it in your school bag.
Next time the strange boy with a prayer mat picks on you, simply point your gun at him and pull the trigger. Daddy’s a fuckwit, so it’ll be loaded, and there sure as fuck is no automatic safety.
There. The bad man is all gone. You feel better now, don’t you?
Congratulations, you are now a patriot, and living proof that the 2nd amendment works. Hey, now you’re a REAL MAN, why not take a look at your next leaflet “Cowboys Smoke, and So Should You.” If you don’t, Mommy will fall in a well full of spikes.
Did someone pick on you in the schoolyard? Did a bigger (possibly ethnic minority or foreign) kid say you had cooties? Does that make you sad?
Hey there, little guy, wipe away those tears! Captain Colt Magnum is here to help.
What do you mean you don’t know where to look? Why not take a peek under Daddy’s bed? Don’t look at the dirty books. If you see boobies before you are 10, God will make your dick fall off. It says so in the Bible – right after the mistranslated part on why fags are evil. Just take the big shiny gun, slip it in your school bag.
Next time the strange boy with a prayer mat picks on you, simply point your gun at him and pull the trigger. Daddy’s a fuckwit, so it’ll be loaded, and there sure as fuck is no automatic safety.
There. The bad man is all gone. You feel better now, don’t you?
Congratulations, you are now a patriot, and living proof that the 2nd amendment works. Hey, now you’re a REAL MAN, why not take a look at your next leaflet “Cowboys Smoke, and So Should You.” If you don’t, Mommy will fall in a well full of spikes.
Tuesday, 17 April 2007
Public Notice #2
Single white male with a love for butter seeks naked ape (must be wholly naked) for companionship; preparation of light refreshments; assistance with writing PhD on obesity in the ape universe.
The successful primate (pictured) must be clean, wholly or at least fully naked, capable of preparing light refreshments (this may at times involve both canapés AND bucks fizz), and have an intermediate grasp of colloquial Kyrgyz.
I will provide naked ape pit, a limited selection of ingredients for light refreshments, amusing anecdotes about digging for clay, and access to a retro lava lamp.
I am a caring, youthful dementia sufferer with a love for light refreshments (pictured), naked apes and light refreshments.
You will be wholly naked, with strong ape-like features, and good at preparing light refreshments.
If this ad entices you, please don't hesitate to contact me on pantgasm@gmail.com.
Leif Bollevik-Gallileo (pictured)
(Note: This is a public service announcement. We are not responsible for any injuries as a result of being naked, an ape, or good at preparing light refreshments. Please consult the official Naked Ape Guidelines before attempting to prepare light refreshments)
Friday, 13 April 2007
Lost: 1 brain
Reward: 3 pickled herring, and a biscuit named JoeLast seen: Smoking and making a disconcerting humming noise, just North of my nose.
Answers to "Timmy".
Thursday, 12 April 2007
Public Notice #1
Labia-McSingh seek albatross
Non-smoking albatross sought for fun, loving and partially meaningful relationship with dysfunctional family. Must like children and small humans. The family, certified safe for bird-rearing and consumption (once by Worchester City Council and several times by themselves) enjoy relationship breakdowns, pneumatic drills and Belarussian scrabble. The albatross will be required to do some warm cleaning and must be able to guarantee discretion during lent and on every third Wednesday in September 2007.
Contact any of the guys in the photo for more details (except the guy with the beard, who may or may currently be alive).
Will you fill the Labia-McSinghs home with the warm cackle of your beak?
(Note: are you an albatross? Did you find the above announcement helpful? Are you easily offended by repeated attempts on your life? Do you currently live in Barnsley? Email us at pantgasm@gmail.com to receive more questions pertaining to this and other matters. Include photo of a nude elk for the opportunity to enter last year's “fingers” competition).
For Sale: A picture of an abacus (jpeg format)
This astounding low-resolution image of an ageing abacus is being offered for a most agreeable price. Has a multitude of purposes:
•put it on your desktop.
You may impress friends with your intellectual choice of screensaver, whilst allowing yourself the eternal opportunity of staring vacantly at a low-resolution image of an ageing abacus
•print it out, laminate it and use it as a placemat.
You can just wipe off any nutritional debris
The low-resolution jpeg image contains some of the finest bytes available in its size.
No mess – No fuss – Just an Abacus!
Become the envy of your contemporaries by casually adding the low-resolution image as a signature to your email.
Burn it to CD – Save it on your harddrive – Delete it! (note: deleting the image will remove it from your computer).
Comes with low-resolution jpeg of an ageing abacus. Buy now and get a second, low-resolution image of an ageing abacus for half price. That's right! Halfprice!
That is almost two jpegs for the price of one!
Available from $0.31, this offer will go fast so be quick. Please email your order to pantgasm@gmail.com, then wait for a while.
May contain nuts. Other abacus-based products also available upon request, including the ever-popular conceptual abacus now selling at $100,034 including postage and packaging.
Abacus 'R' Us Ltd.
(not a real company. Not registered as a real company in any real countries. Not even a real name, apart from Abacus, but then that is more of a word, really. Image taken from the internet and resold at profit.)
Tuesday, 10 April 2007
Fowl play
The Confederation of Uzbek Necrophilia Tractates (incorporating the Philandering Institute of Scientific Sciences) is currently offering funding for research into crane-related eating disorders 1907-1907. The successful applicant will be required to live a quasi-nomadic lifestyle with a pack of cranes for up to three hours over a period of three years. The topic for 2007 is “Crane vs Cormorant: A study of edible fowl delinquency” and the expected outcome is a 10 page report (double spaced) written in a known language that will form the basis of larger, possible more comprehensive study, possibly single spaced. The grant, essentially worthless, will provide travel to and from Walthamstow, accomodation and up to 0.5% or £0.076 towards a salary, whichever one works out cheaper. The successful applicant will also receive a free lifetime membership to the Lichtenstein Women's Lawn Bowls Association, entitling the bearer to discounts on staplers and other assorted office goods at selected stores throughout the principality. There are no set deadlines except for human applicants. Please consult with your local human organisation for more info.
Monday, 2 April 2007
Dear Dr. Carlsson,
I write as an interested observer of your lecture last Thursday on “Ridiculous Chickens of the Lower Indus”, and, to be frank, I was amazed at your research suggesting that their relentless persecution, and subsequent annihilation of every left-handed dung beetle that refused to denounce Catholicism, was a direct result of the invention of the synchro-mesh gearbox.
I myself was personally savaged by a chicken just outside Sainburys not 9 days ago, and cannot help but wonder if my shiny carapace, “Anything Left-handed” shopping bag, and Special Edition Porsche Cayenne - which bears more than a passing resemblance to a 6 foot sphere of manipulated faecal matter - might have something to do with it. Imagine my consternation, however, when the beaky little so-and-so did not even attempt to bring my faith group into question before pecking me, really very hard, in the ankle, before clucking what I can only assume to be a string of obscenities, and laying an egg on a dog poo that was minding its own business thereabouts.
I am pleased to report however, that the incident was quickly resolved, as Jenkins, my butler, took matters into his own teeth and swiftly nibbled one of the chicken’s legs off, putting it off balance, and forcing it to retire from International Cricket altogether.
Although the peck really hurt, I was a big boy and didn’t cry – then Jenkins gave me a strawberry lolly (they are the nicest kind) and a lovely big cuddle, and told me I was a very special little pixie. And I am. Nanny says so too. So there.
And so Dr. Carlsson, in summary, I am forced to ask the following about your research:
Have you seen my car keys? I think the chicken might have eaten them.
Yours truly,
Love and kisses,
Jeremy, aged 47 and a half.
I myself was personally savaged by a chicken just outside Sainburys not 9 days ago, and cannot help but wonder if my shiny carapace, “Anything Left-handed” shopping bag, and Special Edition Porsche Cayenne - which bears more than a passing resemblance to a 6 foot sphere of manipulated faecal matter - might have something to do with it. Imagine my consternation, however, when the beaky little so-and-so did not even attempt to bring my faith group into question before pecking me, really very hard, in the ankle, before clucking what I can only assume to be a string of obscenities, and laying an egg on a dog poo that was minding its own business thereabouts.
I am pleased to report however, that the incident was quickly resolved, as Jenkins, my butler, took matters into his own teeth and swiftly nibbled one of the chicken’s legs off, putting it off balance, and forcing it to retire from International Cricket altogether.
Although the peck really hurt, I was a big boy and didn’t cry – then Jenkins gave me a strawberry lolly (they are the nicest kind) and a lovely big cuddle, and told me I was a very special little pixie. And I am. Nanny says so too. So there.
And so Dr. Carlsson, in summary, I am forced to ask the following about your research:
Have you seen my car keys? I think the chicken might have eaten them.
Yours truly,
Love and kisses,
Jeremy, aged 47 and a half.
Monday, 26 March 2007
Sweat pant rant
OK what is the deal with all the people wearing sweat pants or tracksuit bottoms?
Are they on their way back from the gym? Are they ill?
A tracksuit bottom is an infinitely half-assed item of clothing.
You're practically announcing to the world that, a) you can't be arsed to wear clothes that take more than two seconds to put on, and b) you delude yourself thinking that wearing sweatpants makes you look sporty (well as sporty as Sporty Spice). What is going wrong with the British populace?
The worst of the lot are those who wear sweatpants and dress shoes. A more retarded mismatch of styles and self-consciousness cannot be produced in the British Isles.
Having said that, given the social class among whom the tracksuit bottom is most prevalent, I can understand its more practical side. You see, wearing tracksuit bottoms significantly decreases the time necessary to make future dole-scrounging babies with an under age slapper in a shitty council estate in Newham. On that point the sweatpants must be seen as victorious.
The procedure goes something like this:
*One bottle of Bacardi Breezer (preferably 'watermelon' flavour - drives the slags crazy and makes them feel classy);
*A few well-placed "you're allright Sharon, fancy a shag?" followed by "listen yeah", "innit", "is it?" and "when is your dad released?";
*Slip off;
*Slip in;
*Slip of the one-eyed soldier;
*Slip out;
*Slip on;
*Wait for 9 months;
*Beat up you kid and its mother for having the audacity to hold you to account.
*Repeat at will.
Not really much of a rant, but the message should be clear. Now fuck off.
Are they on their way back from the gym? Are they ill?
A tracksuit bottom is an infinitely half-assed item of clothing.
You're practically announcing to the world that, a) you can't be arsed to wear clothes that take more than two seconds to put on, and b) you delude yourself thinking that wearing sweatpants makes you look sporty (well as sporty as Sporty Spice). What is going wrong with the British populace?
The worst of the lot are those who wear sweatpants and dress shoes. A more retarded mismatch of styles and self-consciousness cannot be produced in the British Isles.
Having said that, given the social class among whom the tracksuit bottom is most prevalent, I can understand its more practical side. You see, wearing tracksuit bottoms significantly decreases the time necessary to make future dole-scrounging babies with an under age slapper in a shitty council estate in Newham. On that point the sweatpants must be seen as victorious.
The procedure goes something like this:
*One bottle of Bacardi Breezer (preferably 'watermelon' flavour - drives the slags crazy and makes them feel classy);
*A few well-placed "you're allright Sharon, fancy a shag?" followed by "listen yeah", "innit", "is it?" and "when is your dad released?";
*Slip off;
*Slip in;
*Slip of the one-eyed soldier;
*Slip out;
*Slip on;
*Wait for 9 months;
*Beat up you kid and its mother for having the audacity to hold you to account.
*Repeat at will.
Not really much of a rant, but the message should be clear. Now fuck off.
Welcome
Hello to one and all, and welcome to the home of vitriol and bile that is SpasmGasm.
This is the place for naughty thoughts to breed and grow, feeding the heaving, throbbing heart of British national discontent. Also, for flights of fancy, and unbridled bouts of small-mindedness and pettiness of spirit.
So, by means of kicking it all off, so as to speak, please find below a first foray into the world of all that is backward and wrong in the world, and, more specifically, on the number 15 bus from Holborn to Tower Hill.
I like my mobile phone. It rings. I can speak to people. Plus it has an awesome golf game on it which gives me something to do when I find myself on the crapper with nothing to read. It even has a timer so I can note how long I've spent in there, then use the calculator to estimate how much David Beckham gets paid for taking a number 2. Lots. For the record.
However, mobile phones and users thereof on the number 15 have recently driven me to bouts of psychotic whimsy. In short, if I wanted to listen to your stupid tinny R and Fucking B on the bus I'd have asked to you inconsiderate little arseholes.
You know who you are. Irritating little bastards all of you. If I were about 15 times more muscular, a foot taller and less of a total coward and confrontation avoider I would:
1: Take your tinny little blower and drop it, gently, out of the window into oncoming traffic.
2: Stamp on your telephone until it shut the fuck up.
3: Drop you gently out of the window into oncoming traffic.
4: Stamp on you until you shut the fuck up.
5: All of the above, although not in that order as it would be easier to follow a 4, 2, 1, 3 approach.
I'd like to avoid, if at all possible, having to dash out into traffic to stamp on anyone or anything - despite the enormous satisfaction it would provide.
There is, as with all things however, an exception to the rule. This, gentle reader, came in the form of an enormously muscular man, not one week since. Just as one particularly abhorrent bunch of our nation's future captains of the dole queue had left taking with them their shitty, tinny little Akon rip-off, the chap at the back of the bus let rip with his miniature boom box.
No Akon for him, nor indeed any Mariah Carey sound-alike. But Aqua. Barbie Girl, or similar.
Thank you massive man at the back of the bus. You have made me hate the world a little less.
This is the place for naughty thoughts to breed and grow, feeding the heaving, throbbing heart of British national discontent. Also, for flights of fancy, and unbridled bouts of small-mindedness and pettiness of spirit.
So, by means of kicking it all off, so as to speak, please find below a first foray into the world of all that is backward and wrong in the world, and, more specifically, on the number 15 bus from Holborn to Tower Hill.
I like my mobile phone. It rings. I can speak to people. Plus it has an awesome golf game on it which gives me something to do when I find myself on the crapper with nothing to read. It even has a timer so I can note how long I've spent in there, then use the calculator to estimate how much David Beckham gets paid for taking a number 2. Lots. For the record.
However, mobile phones and users thereof on the number 15 have recently driven me to bouts of psychotic whimsy. In short, if I wanted to listen to your stupid tinny R and Fucking B on the bus I'd have asked to you inconsiderate little arseholes.
You know who you are. Irritating little bastards all of you. If I were about 15 times more muscular, a foot taller and less of a total coward and confrontation avoider I would:
1: Take your tinny little blower and drop it, gently, out of the window into oncoming traffic.
2: Stamp on your telephone until it shut the fuck up.
3: Drop you gently out of the window into oncoming traffic.
4: Stamp on you until you shut the fuck up.
5: All of the above, although not in that order as it would be easier to follow a 4, 2, 1, 3 approach.
I'd like to avoid, if at all possible, having to dash out into traffic to stamp on anyone or anything - despite the enormous satisfaction it would provide.
There is, as with all things however, an exception to the rule. This, gentle reader, came in the form of an enormously muscular man, not one week since. Just as one particularly abhorrent bunch of our nation's future captains of the dole queue had left taking with them their shitty, tinny little Akon rip-off, the chap at the back of the bus let rip with his miniature boom box.
No Akon for him, nor indeed any Mariah Carey sound-alike. But Aqua. Barbie Girl, or similar.
Thank you massive man at the back of the bus. You have made me hate the world a little less.
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