Inept Orangutang

Dear Bishop, I am not the regal leader of the reformation but I do think divorce is a palpable bedfellow, can I be ex-communicated anyway?

2006-09-25T09:22:00.000-07:00

I recently wrote to my local Bishop David requesting ex-communication. I reminisced on reading a book about them days which detailed how a chap called Henry the viii had been chucked out of the church for getting divorced and setting up his own more betterer church. I explained that I was currently lacking in a marital partner and that setting up my own religion seemed both too much like hard work and disproportionate to my aims. Here follows the henchman of heaven's response. Amen:

Dear Mr. Johnson,

Your letter to the Bishop of Worcester has been passed on to me in my capacity as Bishop of Dudley, as Bishop Peter is on holiday at the moment.

The Henry VIII solution is, as you say, is neither fitting to your particular circumstances or proportionate to what you are trying to achieve.

From the information you present I am presuming that the service to which you allude took place when you were an infant, and that you have not been confirmed at a later (teenager or adult) age. As such I am therefore I suspect safe in presuming that you have never been a communicant member (received the bread and wine of Holy Communion) as a member of the Church of England and therefore there is nothing to ex-communicate you from.

The promises made by your parent and God parents on your behalf all those years ago were an indication of their intention to give you a grounding in the Christian faith in the hope that you might appropriate this for yourself as an older person at a later date. Clearly that has not (or not yet) happened. Hence again there is nothing that needs to be undone. A person who has once beenbaptizedd (to use the more technical name) we often give to what is commonly referred to as a christening cannot become un-baptised no matter what subsequently they do or fail to do. So, were you at some future date to wish to affirm yourself as a Christian it would not be possible for you to be re-baptised. This remains the situation even if you take up any number of other religions during the intervening period.

What matters is that for the present time you have, in your own heart, made the decision that you do not wish to follow the Christian way. And that is all you need to do. If you need any more formality may I suggest that the very fact of this correspondence provides that. You have written to an official representative of the Church of England to let them know that you no longer consider yourself to have any association with that church or the beliefs that it stands for. I hear and I understand that and accept it as your decision.

When any person takes such a decision I am of course saddened. I am saddened that it is a sign that we as a church have failed in this instance to communicate the sheer power of God's love to one of God's much loved children. And I guess I am also sorry for you because from where I stand you are missing out on something enormously life enriching. But whatever my regrets regarding the decision you have come to please be assured of my prayers and best wishes that you will find that which gives meaning and purpose to your life, that which brings you love and belonging, that which sustains you when things are tough.

Please do not hesitate to contact me again if I can be of any further help.

Yours sincerely

David Walker
Bishop of Dudley

....no, I actually am from Mongolia

2006-09-22T06:29:00.000-07:00

The Siamese may celebrate the passing of every lady boy with a military coup but at least they can use the word 'handicapped'. Why the Dickens can't we? Tony and his thought-police have now decreed that we are no longer permitted to use the word disabled as it's nasty and that. Instead, we are supposed to use the word 'spacker' which arguably is more demeaning...

Why I should never become Dad

2006-09-13T02:28:00.000-07:00

My flatulent friend’s loins are as fertile as the Nile Delta. Numerous hours ago I visited him and the fruits of his carnal labours. Child Hannah is a reproductive end product from a previous relationship whereas child Sophie has been de facto acquired along the highway of broken homes. Initially they wanted to play police, so we played vice squad. Child Sophie had been working the streets on The Game, so child Hannah was instructed to curb-crawl her in an imaginary D-reg Ford Sierra and then when she sought ‘business’ grab her for soliciting her vag. We were caught playing ‘pimping’ and informed that it was inappropriate. In our next game we played War on Terror. Child Hannah was told to be evil hook cleric Abu Hamza. Child Sophie and I were MI5 and we had to monitor child Hannah as she delivered her sermons of hate. The problems began once we had arrested child Hannah for glorifying terrorism. She had grown tired of the game and wanted to be released from our makeshift prison. Unfortunately, I explained to child Hannah/Hamza that under John Reid’s 90 day detention for those involved in terror she could be held until Christmas irrespective of any evidence myself and child Sophie had collected. This made child Hannah cry; again I was instructed to stop my game. For our final game child Sophie wanted her and me to be special friends like Daddy and his wife. I don’t want to talk about this game anymore…

What if God was one of us, just a gay like one of us? But he’s not because they made it up and other bad things

2006-09-13T02:27:00.000-07:00

A recent trip to Cardiff’s Mardi Gras (no pancakes but plenty of The Gays) was interrupted at the gate by God’s little helpers giving out leaflets on The Good Book’s perspective on same sex sexing.
I sought theological education from these wee scamps:
Me: “You know Jesus was a gay don’t you?”
God Botherer: “And where exactly did you learn that?”
Me: “Jerry Springer The Opera, they said he was a gay.”
G.B.: “They said a lot of terrible things…”
Me: “It was on in Cardiff the other week. I went and saw it. They performed it in the Bay and said Jesus was a gay.”
G.B.: “I know, we were there protesting. They said some bad things. Some nasty lies.”
Me: “What, you mean Jesus wasn’t a chutney ferret?”
G.B.: “Absolutely not.”
Me: “But they said it in the theatre.”
G.B.: “Yes, they lied.”
Me: “What, you mean they can just make stuff up about the baby Jesus and not be got by the police or the army?”
G.B.: “That’s right.”
Me: “That’s outrageous.”
G.B.: “I know. So you’re a believer in Jesus are you?”
Me: “Not even remotely. Byyeeee.”
Then I ran off like the mature individual I am.

Note to self

2006-08-29T05:03:00.000-07:00

Just found the following list written in my own barely legible hand, addressed to myself:
Orangeboom.
Voodoo mind tricks.
Pretended to be their relatives- prison spokesperson: "they all look the same."
Maternity wards.
Abraham.

The curious incident with the dog and a man and another dog not in the nighttime and not involving a fork but poo does feature

2006-08-24T06:49:00.000-07:00

I had been walking Rodney The Dog. Rodney is a loving, but ultimately brown dog. I had allowed him to roam free - as is the way of the dog - when he came across one of his brethren. While the dogs performed the obligatory check for winkle and vag required by the canine social protocol, owner of non-Rodney dog states in a forceful manner whollly inappropriate for seaside dog walking: "It's a good idea to keep your dog on a lead when other dogs are about."
Trying to maintain that Brits At The Seaside joviality I reply: "Oh it's quite alright, Rodney's a well behaved dog." And to somehow further my point. "He lives on a farm."
Farm inhabitation does not phase him. "That's not the point, someone else's dog may not be."
"I cannot be held responsible for the conduct of other people's animals" - look at me go, I'm a de facto Dog Owner/Walker - "have you ever read any fucking Satre?" (Fucking is in italics because I didn't actually say it but it would have been bloody brilliant if I had. Pretend I did, it makes it sound rather more Grant Mitchell but without the domestic violence).
"What?!" says angry non-Rodney dog owner.
"It's like blaming the rape victim for being outside at night where there may have been a rapist. Your logic is perverse."
Just as we were about to put our dukes up in a cruel parody of the hypothetical dog fight that never occurred his mobile communication system rang a siren of retreat. Rodney and I saw our chance and ran with a combined leg total of six from The Man With The Non-Rodney Dog.

Then we saw a woman who was wailing and then Rodney did a poo and I had to clear it up because someone was watching.

H.O.B.O. (Homeless Of Beery Origins) Awards

2006-08-19T08:15:00.000-07:00

"Gis' a fag..."
"Got any meths..."
"I've wee weed all over meself..."
"Can I rape your dead mouth..."
Just a small sample of some of the social commentary/requests your average homeless may divulge as you meander through cardboard close. However, my new found love for all that are sans roof emerged just t'other day when these few lines of William Blake inspired prose emerged through a drunk-welsh hybrid dialect:
"Scuse me mate, I don't mean to be awkward or anything but my duck's just died, can I have ten pence?"

Human 'I know it's wrong but it feels so' Rights

2006-05-15T02:45:00.000-07:00

Twelve things we can do to David Cameron once he had repealed the 1998 Human Rights Act:
(1) kill him (but probably wait until you've done items 2-12 or they'll be considerably less pleasurable). If you really cannot wait bludgeon D.C. to death with a rolled up copy of the European Convention of Human Right, I think he'll appreciate the irony.

(2) Giggle uncontrollably as, following 137 hours of sleep deprivation and one very hot poker up his colon, Dave confesses to a lot more than some good old fashioned Etonian soggy biscuit.

(3) Acknowledge how Cameron does indeed 'go green' when you sell him into Eastern European sex slavery. Hang around long enough for D.C.'s first introduction with The Gimp.

(4) Imprison Dave in your shed... for the rest of his natural life... just for a laugh.

(5) Accuse Cameron of raping and killing disabled children. Relax while he desperately tries to prove his innocence. During his trial marvel at the new judiciary system which incorporates gibbons. A non-guilty verdict is indicated by the gibbons reciting Dostoevsky Crime and Punishment in its entirety.

(6) Invent a crime based upon a previous action performed by David (e.g. being a vacuous cunt) and then arrest him. Use gibbons (see point 5).

(7) Take lots of pictures of Dave with his dribbling disabled child. Follow him around his house with an army of paparazzi and wait for him to loose his temper after the child poos on his favourite Margaret Thatcher thong. Set up a live web cam next to the biscuit barrel, wait for George Osbourne to arrive and the fun to commence.

(8) Persecute D.C. for being a middle-England appeasing faux Christian. Stone him along with other such shite from the Bible. Tell him Scientology is the only true religion. Then stone him again.

(9) Wait for Dave to make a facial expression (even if he's only breaking wind and it's not a real smile). Then arrest him for it. See gibbons (5) and death (1).

(10) Accuse D.C. of organising a school assembly featuring cum bi ah and an animal man (see point 6 for onus of evidence). If he does find evidence of innocence (see point 2 and hot pokers). Put him to trial (see point 5), keep him in your cellar (see point 4) or just chop his brain off (see point 1).

(11) Highlight to Dave that he shouldn't have married his missus because (1) one of them has dodgy genes, increasing the risk of non-normal children (2) I don't like him (3) his repressed lust for George Osbourne makes him an unsuitable companion.

(12) Orchestrate a high profile anti Etonian discrimination campaign. Deport him to Iran/Burma/Syria/Iraq/Toxteth. Laugh like as drain.

Repeat.

Forever.

Free inside every pack

2006-05-15T00:59:00.000-07:00

BECAUSE IF YOUR CHILD HAS A PRETTY SMILE AND NICE TOES YOU NEED TO KNOW HOW MANY ARE LURKING NEAR THE SWEET SHOP

The day my world fell apart

2006-05-11T04:56:00.000-07:00

Day 17 - 'Amazing Bread That Won't Go Stale' not only have you let me down (your faithful keeper of non-staleness) but you've also let down those who followed your amazing exploits in bewildered awe. But more importantly 'Amazing Bread That Won't Go Stale' You've. Let. Yourself. Down.

Mould! Twatting mould! I can't even bring myself to look at you.

A culinary miracle living inside a small cupboard in Roath

2006-05-09T00:52:00.000-07:00

BEHOLD! Day 15 and 'The Amazing Bread That Won't Go Stale' doggedly remains unstale. David Blaine may be able to grow gills and stubble but 'The Amazing Bread That Won't Go Stale' eclipses his profound sorcery through sitting in a cupboard for a fortnight and obstinately declining the urge to become penicillin. If 'Amazing Bread That Won't Go Stale' were to become a a medicine it would laugh in the face of the mild pain relief supplied by its brethren and turn into chemotherapy.

"What is your secret of longevity?" I asked 'Amazing Bread That Won't Go Stale.
"It's a secret" it cunningly replied. No flies on 'Amazing Bread That Won't Go Stale.'

Yesterday (Day 14) some scientists from the MOD visited. Word had spread of the sheer power of 'Amazing Bread That Won't Go Stale' and they wanted to harness that power to kill Arabs. 'Amazing Bread That Won't Go Stale' refused to help as it is mostly philanthropic (except for wasps). The scientists did reveal that 'Amazing Bread That Won't Go Stale' is made of plutonic yeast - impervious to Cannisten or cunning.

Toady (Day 15) 'Amazing Bread That Won't Go Stale' did something even more amazing revealing on its eastern ridge the face of the Virgin Mary crying (if you look carefully you too can see her saintly weeping). News reached the Vatican and by lunchtime 'Amazing Bread That Won't Go Stale' and I had received a visit from some Nuns on a yeast based pilgrimage. I gave them some tea but said they couldn't take 'Amazing Bread That Won't Go Stale' back to see the Pope as he is my friend.

This afternoon (still Day 15) Dan Brown telephoned and wondered whether 'Amazing Bread That Won't Go Stale' would like to feature in his latest film as a direct descendent of Christ (from the Bible). 'Amazing Bread That Won't Go Stale' refused as he is camera shy and a little Sikh (I only managed to sneak a photograph after telling him that wasps were approaching in haste).

HOORAY

2006-05-06T11:02:00.000-07:00

Brit-Log Round Up

2006-03-15T02:21:00.000-08:00

Some interesting wood-based stories in this week's Brit Log round up. As ever, some intense felling has been going on in Fife; despite the snow, a lot of coniferous chopping up near Aviemore (if they're not culled they have a nasty habit of mucking about - something nobody wants to see in the height of the ski season).

A brown Austin Allegro was mistaken for a log in Norfolk on Sunday. The error was corrected before any lasting damaged occurred. Much embarrassment and a fair bit of hilarity ensued in the East Anglian lowlands.

In philosophical Enniskillen, a tree fell over in a deserted wood but no one was quite sure whether it made a noise. This is thought to be due to the gunshots.

That log in Llandudno is still being a twat.

When Jones et al flippantly remarked that it "only takes one tree to make a thousand matches", they could not have known how eerily close to reality they actually were, as on Friday a Lancastrian tree was made into one thousand and nine matches. Each capable, in their own special phosphorus tipped way, of burning down a thousand trees.

And finally, well done to the two trees in Wolverhampton who tied their knot last Thursday in the first asexual civil ceremony for large, perennial, woody plants. If the Box (Buxux sempervirens) and the Wild Cherry (Prunus avium) involved in the matrimonial union decide to cross-pollinate*, the happy couple will produce a Wild Box hybrid.

*Wicked tree whispers suggest that cross-pollination has already occurred, with the union something of a shotgun affair.

People-Whom-I-Am-Completely-Indifferent-Towards Reunited

2006-03-10T09:41:00.000-08:00

Friends Reunited, what a demonstrably pointless exercise. Incredibly, I have managed to stay in contact with those whom I liked from school through my own initiative. It's a form of social Darwinism. As for the others, if I've fallen out of contact with them, it must simply translate that they are not particularly good friends or more accurately I actively despise them. That seems a touch severe you might say but let me just provide three examples of the type individuals (who in all honesty should not have been in mainstream education) who inhabited my school: (1) The Phantom Shitter - that's right folks, there was a pupil who would somehow escape from class every lesson and defecate all over the toilet - I say all over the toilet but do of course mean anywhere but the toilet - the floor, sink, walls etc. The said individual was never named and shamed but is rumoured to be holding an exhibition in the Tate Modern (2) Sydney - Sydney was an odd fella who would always be pulling something out of his skin. At the age of 15 he found himself a lover. A fine old filly indeed. He would detail to me their sexual exploits. On one such occasion noting that they had performed unprotected sex on 33 separate occasions. "Oh" I noted, "once for every year of Christ's life". Each time the semen vestibule would stand up post-coital and they would laugh together as white wee wee trickled down her legs. (3) Penny Crayon - christened such not because of her artistic prowess but because she used to stick pencils up her faff during lessons.

So, stationary hygiene issues aside, I hopped on 'Friends' Reunited in order to investigate the escapades of my former educational comrades. Have any made it onto the sex offenders register? How many have died? Who married a yak? Sadly, nowt exciting had occurred in the lives of these individuals over the past few years, further vindicating my decision not to know them. Nevertheless, I decided to leave the wee scamps the detailed tale of woe and heartbreak that is my life. It read as follows:

“Following expulsion from school, I think you can all remember the incident with the monkey, I ran away from home and lived rough on the streets of Walsall. It's not a bad life but I soon fell in with an unsavoury crowd. To cut a clichéd tale short I joined the game becoming a rent boy (although the champions of Freedom of Expression - Friends Reunited- censored 'rent boy'). As I'm sure you can appreciate it's pretty unpleasant to begin with but you soon shut off emotionally and become quite indifferent to the whole experience. It's just money at the end of the day and you need the money to feed (your habit). It begins with a spot of dope but you soon move on to harder substances and before you know it you're intravenously injecting class A drugs into your little man. I could see I was on a downward trajectory becoming a Dickensian sex slave with a taste for opium.

“It was soon after this self acknowledgment that one of my 'clients', Cyrille, revealed that he was a ring master in the travelling Mongolian State Circus. He informed me that their bearded woman had just died of bowel cancer and that they needed a replacement. I pointed out the rather crucial fact that although I could grow a beard (just) I certainly was not a woman. He said that wasn't a problem; all I had to do was put my little man between my legs - do a 'Demi Moore' in the name of family entertainment. I accepted and the arrangement worked well for over a year. However, during our home -coming show in Ulabaataar my cover came crashing down as a chance thought of Billie Piper led to what is described in the entertainment business as a 'costume malfunction.' The crowd soon noticed the rogue member and turned ugly (the Mongolians are generous people but traditionally intolerant of fraudulent bearded ladies). I was arrested and spent the next two years eating Mongolian porridge.

“Prison is not a pleasant place, especially at shower time. I think I would have done something stupid it is wasn't for my cellmate Vladimir. He kept me sane. Vladimir was doing time for mass-genocide during the Stalinist purges of the mid 1900s but he had a right good sense of humour. We became romantically involved. He looked after me and I looked after his needs. When I was released it was a very emotional experience. Vladamir wasn't up for parole for another 400years but I said I'd wait for him. I was heartbroken and embarked on a spiritual hike throughout Siberia. It was in the arctic conditions of northern Siberia that my fortunes began to change. Food was scarce and I had fallen below 8 stone. Whilst digging for a Siberian Badger to eat I thought I had hit their set when oil began shooting up from the ground. I couldn't believe my luck. Knowing full well that I lacked the geological expertise to extract the oil, I contacted one of my former clients from America. Mr Cheney was happy to take the site from me and offered a lucrative deal. With the money I bought a sandwich shop in Swansea where I still reside to this day. I make a mean tuna and sweet corn sarnie I can tell you. I'm content there but I still dream that one day Vladamir will pop in and buy a ploughman's. Hope everyone else is well. Andy”

Cardiff: The City of Idiosyncracy

2006-03-07T07:47:00.000-08:00

Today I have:
(1) been burped at by a Chinese girl (Chairman Mao would be turning in his Tiananmen Square) (2) discovered a used sanitary towel outside our place of residence (not especially sanitary) and (3) experienced someone in the department release a poo that smelt of Gregg's bakery (not to be confused with Gyno Greg my sister's boyfriend - christened such because he keeps saying words like "ovaries," "uterus," "vulva" etc - of course he does nothing of the sort but is too shy to deny it when I confront him over the dinner table).

My two pennies (400,000 Iraqi Dinars) worth

2006-02-09T00:37:00.000-08:00

The Danes remind us that they still exist... there is a mature response but sadly not in this world... bacon sales drop... a baby wears a semtex nappy as a protest... the row spreads to the Welsh capital (no, not 'W', pay attention)... our beloved student rag publishes a bit of a rubbish cartoon... three people are suspended... one Union Executive experiences a power erection... one housemate is scarred for life after wrongly being attacked by a hypothetical Jihad...

It would be remiss of me not to do something as an observer from the periphery of this storm.

010011001010011100100101001010010101010010010
1010010100101001010110100011101010101010111001
0010100100101011100101010101010101010101010101
0101001111001010101000101010101010011100001011
1010100101010101010101010101010101010101010100
0010111101001010100101011100010101010101010101
1010101010111100010101010101010101010101010101
0101010110101010101010101010100101010101010101
10101001011101010101010101010101010101010101011
0010101010101110010001010100100101010010101111
0101011100101010101010101010101000101010111100
0101010101010101010101001010001000111100010111
11001011010101000101110010101010100101010101111
0101000111101010101010101010101010100010101001
1010101010110010010101010100010101011110000110
1101001110010101010101010001010010101010100011
10101010111100010101010101010101010101010101011
10101010101010111100010101010101001011100101010
11010101011101010101010101001101010101010101010
11101010101010101010101010101010101011101001011
110101010010101011101010101110010101010101110101
01011101010101010101001010100101011101001010100
11010100010101110100100101101010101011010101011
10101001010101001000111101010101010101110101011
010101011001110011100110011001001010110110101111
10101010001010101011101100101010001111000111110
10101010010111001001010101010101010101010101011
10101010101000101010101010101010100011110011101
00111101001010001010101010101010010101011110110
01010101010101010101110010101010101010101010001
110101110101111010101101010100100001111111001101
11001100101010101010101010111100010101010100001

Do you find it as offensive in binary code? I think I got the beard a bit wonky.

See below

2006-02-08T01:46:00.000-08:00

I'M SO BORED OF THE WAR ON TERROR

Chantelle in tabloid breast exposure shock

2006-01-30T09:35:00.000-08:00

It is with little surprise that I discovered non-celebrity Celebrity Big Brother winner Chantelle got her top bollocks out for The New of the World. I have seen breasts before on the television and in books and these appear to be a decent representation of them. It is not the 'getting them out for the lads' (or lasses - I learnt about Lebenons at school) that saddens me but the total adherence to stereotypes. She's from Essex, she's blond, she works in PR, she's a Jew short of a holocaust and low and behold she poses topless (in fact I would be enormously shocked if she didn't worry about the plight of whales and dolphins). I scolded myself initially for predicting this outcome but then I realised that stereotypes are there for a reason; they serve as a cognitive heuristic, allowing efficient encoding of information. I just wished she could have proven me wrong - left the house and joined The Foreign Legion or something. Why don't you ever see Gypsies doing recycling? Why are bouncers never camp? It is with this fear of stereotype conformism that I have decided to take up armed robbery.

Peter the Blacksmith

2006-01-20T03:43:00.000-08:00

My friend Peter is a blacksmith - he's not a coloured gentleman with a popular British name but in fact a chap who earns an honest crust through forging and shaping iron with a hammer and anvil. It is therefore with great sadness that I report one of Peter's tools behaving in an execusably deviant manner. It is alleged that last tuesday a hardened steel tool (belonging to Peter) with cutting ridges for forming, smoothing, or reducing metallic surfaces, entered a school in Plymouth and taught a class of 11 year olds History. The tool is said to have focussed upon Tudor England, specifically the tragic death of Mary Queen of Scots. So, having named and shamed this despicable tool in the press we BURNT HIS BUSINESS TO THE GROUND.

Five-finger finger-painting

2006-01-15T02:33:00.000-08:00

On a recent trip to the Austrian city of Graz (or "you goin' to Gr-as?" as the thinly-challenged receptionist at the airport car park enquired) I decided to venture into one of those new fangled modern art museums. I've always been rather keen on this modern art malarky, especially surrealism. I for one was particularly pleased when Damien Hurst pickled a Jewish bonobo monkey and won an Ivor Novello for his troubles. So it was with this in mind that I merrily skipped off to die Art Museumstadtshinkekasetase. I was walking around the exhibits, nodding knowingly as these pretentious art types do, when I came across a space on the wall with what can only be described as 'a bit of a bloomin' mess'. Again, I stood nodding, trying to understand this deep social satire of evil capitalism, when it occurred to me that I couldn't see a name/label for the item. It then dawned on me that this could indeed be just a bloomin' mess on the wall and I had succumb to a lethal dose of 'The Emperor's New Clothes syndrome'.
It was with this deflated enthusiasm and embarrassment that I moved on to the next picture. Immediately my faith in this modern art shite was restored. In an Edvard Munch swirly colours stylee, the picture featured a woman being anally fisted by another gentlemen.
Faith restored, I left and had a wurst.

The Iron Lady

2006-01-06T01:26:00.000-08:00

I fantasise about making love to Lady Thatcher. Half way through our physiological union I flip her over and begin sodomising the former Prime Minister, yelling throughout "who said the lady's not for turning!?"

Fun with Mormans

2006-01-03T03:14:00.000-08:00

Mormans appear at door interrupting Final Score (but it was the stupid Welsh one with reports from Wrexham and LLandiddlepontypoopants so it didn't really matter) and theological converse ensues...
Morman: "And Jesus appeared in North America to let his American sheep know that he loved them too."
Talkative Wanky Academic Trainee: "As far as my limited knowledge of God and all that religious shite goes, I am unaware of any documentation of Jesus appearing in Wales. Does this mean he does not love his Welsh sheep?"
Morman: "No he loves all his sheep and although there is currently no evidence of him appearing in Wales I believe he has visited Wales and Great Britain and documentation will eventually appear of his visit."
T.W.A.T.: "What about Rhyll?"
Morman: "Don't know. Ask in your prayer and he will let you know."
T.W.A.T.: "So you're saying Jesus loves his Welsh sheep?"
Morman: "Jesus loves all his sheep."
T.W.A.T.: "But he does love Welsh sheep?"
Morman: "Yes."
T.W.A.T.: "Jesus loves Welsh sheep?"
Morman: "Yes."

Chinese cervix, llamas and ethnic cleansing

2006-01-01T03:36:00.000-08:00

As we end the yuletide festivities and enter the Chinese New Year of the Cervix I ask 'did anyone else receive a llama trek through the Forest of Dean for their Chrimbo present?' I thought not. But, how many others have a mullet sporting father who wanted them called Elvis; almost certainty evoking years of school based torment cumulating in a rather fetching solvent sniffing dependency.

Encouraged through my rather successful prohibition of opium last year, I have decided to give up ethnic cleansing for 2006. Well if we all try and do our little bit...

Unsatisfac-tory

2005-12-19T14:04:00.000-08:00

It has not failed to esacpe my notice that a nation wide popularity contest has recently reached a climatically climatic climax. The X-Factor was won by Shayne, a rather dashing young Mancunian from a "close-knit" family whose father is a convicted rapist and whose mother was recently arrested for assault. This modern day rags-to-riches tale (with an ASBO twist) somewhat overshadowed the recent crowning of David 'Where'd I Put That Frightful Coloured Slave' Cameron as the new Conservative leader. Irrespective of the indifference I was as perplexed as the proverbial yeast infection to read that the Tories were ahead in the (Henley) opinion polls. This, despite the incredible feat of both Davis and Cameron managing five weeks on the campaign trail without actually saying anything at all.
For those of you who spent this period in a complex network of Afghan caves, here is an extract from a real interview with Cameron which has been completely fabricated:
Menstrual Blowback (Interviewer): "So Mr Cameron, how would a Conservative Party under your leadership differ to that of Mr Davis?"
Cameron: "Well I would modernise The Party."
Blowback: "And how exactly do you propose to do that?"
Cameron: "Well we would have to modernise The Party. In short; make it more modern."
Blowback: "And how would you achieve this exactly?"
Cameron: "Well look Menstrual, people are tired of the old Consertvative Party. It is no longer the Fifteenth Century. As a Party we need to reflect that by embracing the 21st Century. We will do this through modernisation."
Blowback: "So you don't really know."
Cameron: "For heaven's sake Menstrual I've just explained how. Look, the British people are tired of these juvenile political point scoring games you and your colleagues enjoy. It's about time we respected the public and all modernised."
Blowback: "David Cameron, thank you very much."
Cameron: "Did I mention my son was disabled?"
Davis (having run in and heavily out of breath): "Yeah well I grew up in a council estate, don't forget that."
Cameron: "He dribbles and everything. I mop it up. Proper disabled like."
Davis: "COUNCIL ESTATE!!! We were so poor we ate my mother's miscarriage, you coke snorting Etonian twat."
Etc...

Debate date but not rape

2005-11-23T02:40:00.000-08:00

Regular my-blog-enthusiasts (which at the last head count members of this elitist group numbered bugger all) will be aware that my PhD consists of giving a load of odours to bemused undergraduates in a vague impression of real science. On Tuesday I received an email from one of the young maidens subjected to the aforementioned smells inviting me on what can only be surmised as a date. A period then ensued whereby I had to reply in the negative but through the nicest possible manner (of course I checked her picture out first in the administration office). How did I respond? That's right, I did what any other responsible suitor-rejecter would do, I sent the lass an email listing all the odours I have in my selection (i.e. sweaty feet, flatulence, Egyptian Mummy, vomit, fish market, beef, factory etc). This is merely just a footnote in the history of my ineptitude with the more hole-ier sex. I find it really difficult to turn down girls in a conventional manner, perhaps due to a dislike of rejection myself. Such a character flaw led to a string of girlfriends at school who can only be described as aesthetically challenged. At a recent house party the token drunk leaned in for the snog. Did I stop the lass through mentioning my lady friend? Of course not, I told her I was a convicted rapist, detailing the 'grief' that I received whilst at her majesty's pleasure. I even provided neurological evidence, detailing damage to my frontal lobe which increases inhibition and impulsivity. Is there a moral to this monologue? Nope, I've just received another email from the smell girl undeterred through the rather abstract listing of olfactory stimuli...

Mr Tunmus, The Beavers and Women: just NO

2005-11-19T06:35:00.000-08:00

Do not misinterpretstand me, I am very fond on my current squeeze, but the one thing I would change/alter/surgically remove with a rusty axe would be her propensity to vent her vexation on me when unhappy/cross/something bad has happened/worried/bleeding. Only last Wednesday we were conversing through that new fangled device which allows cross settlement talking. She was being rather hostile towards me, cumulating in her announcing "well if you want a more filthy girlfriend you should go and find one". Why? Had I slept with a sailor? Nope. Had I molested Hermione under the intoxicating influence of Jesus Juice? Not for lack of trying. What the Dickens had my heinous crime been? That's right, the lass had lost her Chronicles of Narnia books and because of the loss of Aslan, the embodiment of all that is good and just in the land of Narnia, had concluded that I desire a partner whom I can bum finger.

Remembrance Sunday II

2005-11-18T07:40:00.000-08:00

Last weekend I somehow managed to obtain entry to an establishment providing me with free drink; that is, all you can drink, and for free. The yeast based beverage provided was Cobra - that's right, the posh beer that you have at the curry house which is usually so expensive that you only have one and that rarely lasts beyond the poppadom stage of your curry experience. I digress. Needless to say it was free and I was guzzling them down before the event organsiers changed their mind and demanded my kidneys in recompense. At 7:05pm (that is, at a relatively early juncture in the evening even by Geoge Best standards), my Jjihad-loving flatmate turned to me and (rather rhetorically) asked "how drunk are you?". The reason for enquiry?... Moments earlier my poppy had fallen from the jacket of my DJ (suit, not spinner of vinyl) and some young scally wag had (unknowingly) trodden on said poppy. In response I literally screamed "BATTLE OF THE SOMME". He looked perplexed. The point was made so I opted against use of the bayonet.

Remembrance Sunday I

2005-11-14T13:34:00.000-08:00

What do amnesiacs do on Remembrance Sunday?

Ivory and llama trekking round Monmouthshire

2005-10-11T09:17:00.000-07:00

Whilst discussing how 'ivory is the new fur' along with my yuletide plans to llama trek through the Forest of Dean, a fellow postgraduate lass looked at me and paused before noting "you're really rather silly aren't you?" Unsure whether or not this was a rhetorical question I soldiered on to debate (in retrospect with myself) whether or not one could mope on a moped or whether one would require 'special suspension'.

In hindsight, I believe I may have been the victim of a subtle mature put-down.

Nostalgia

2005-10-06T12:01:00.000-07:00

One one the best aspects of being a young boy was pulling your pants right down to have a wee. I sometimes replicate those golden (shower) days when I'm feeling a bit krazy.

Hello Sir, may I penetrate you?

2005-10-02T14:40:00.000-07:00

I'm so horny I could dig up a badger and bugger it.

H.G. Wells is inconsistent with anti-terror legislation

2005-10-02T14:08:00.000-07:00

Last evening, I and some select members of my demographic, travelled to a remote Shropshire town for a curry and some yeast based beverages. Somewhere amongst the shenanigans a plastic effigy of a Penguin became intrinsically embroiled in events.

The penguin is a red herring.

As we departed the sleepy castle possessing settlement, our chosen driver decided that we should attempt some boy racing whilst listening to Jeff Wayne's musical adaptation of War of the Worlds. The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one... But still they come. Consistent with the anti-young-males-in-a-car legislation we were of course pulled over by the local Constabulary and the driver was subjected to a "random" breathaliser test. [This is of course complete tripe and based on stereotypes concerning the contents of the automobile (which incidentally included one employee of Price Waterhouse Cooper, a chap working in Actuaries and a PhD student).]

The important take-home message from this event is two-fold. Firstly, the driver had consumed 2 and a half pints of the good stuff and scored a staggeringly sober 6 on the pissed-ometer. A score of 35 is necessitated for non-driving license type situation to ensue. On my reckoning then, this chap, who admittedly possess' a disproportionately large head, could have consumed another 10 pints and still been tickety-boo on the legal driving stakes. Wahey gays and gayettes - pass me the meths, I'm going for ride. Secondly, and I think rather more importantly, I do not believe it to be coincidental that The Police pulled over a car which contained a man that had, that very evening, eaten (in the aforementioned curry house) a chicken muslam. The chap in question is still being held under anti-terror legislation.

Linguistic inaccuracies make me hard

2005-10-02T13:46:00.000-07:00

Thursday evening, whilst enjoying the mesmeric tones of ex-Minogue-shafter Jason Donovan, I was approached by a young scholar of the law.
"Hello" says aforementioned academic of The Rules. "My friend has been making eyes at you all evening, and we just wondered whether you were single".
Now let's just reaffirm ourselves with the general tenet of my continual monologues; my unrivalled inability to communicate with the masses outside the medium of dance. 'How the Dickens could you have managed to avoid a scenario incorporating carnal knowledge?' I hear you cry. Dam Skippy I did. In the interests of health and safety this course of action is whole-hearted not recommended...
"Hold on, let's just back up a minute." Not too bad so far I must concede. "Let's just grammatically analyse what you just said." Admittedly things are drastically going a lighter shape of pear now. "Making eyes at me? Does that actually mean anything? Making eyes at me, out of what? Plastacine? Papier-mache? It's just nonsense. Isn't it!? Nonsense".
Yes it's gonna be a cold, lonely summer...

Moral Dilemma

2005-09-26T09:23:00.000-07:00

I know a real life bona fide paedophile but I'm reluctant to 'shop-a-nonce' as I find his stories really funny.

A Tale Of Two Shitties

2005-09-26T07:00:00.000-07:00

"She's losing valuable seconds... She's stopping... What's going on?" asks a perplexed commentator as Paula Radcliffe crouches down mid-marathon and appears to crimp off one of Bungle's fingers through her specially patented poo release lycra. I must admit that a wry smile arose when the 2005 London Marathon became famed for the release of something akin to a former confectionery product of the same name.

In keeping with the running theme, I ventured on a long run with my woman-friend yesterday. During the excursion, our relationship hit an all time low when I was unable to keep up with the aforementioned no-tail and had to allow her to run on ahead. With my Twin Tower male ego metaphorical hit by two girly pink planes, I trudged on unsure whether to jump from the top floor towards the debris strewn streets of New Amsterdam. As I jogged on a monologue ensued as to my woeful inadequacy. Sure, I would be first to admit that I can't run for toffee but I've never been unable to keep up with the Good Lady Wife before. Then a moment of epiphany struck. It's in the departure lounge... That's why I've been "losing valuable seconds". From that point on I knew that if I wanted to catch her up and salvage some male pride I would have to 'do a Radcliffe'. So, I found my spot in the foliage and did the dirty deed mindful of the amateur cameraman who may have popped out to video a rape. And then, quicker than you could say "did Paula Radcliffe just take a dump?", I was back running again. Anal-ogous to our Marathon heroine I was sure that my pace quickened and a suddenly felt an altogether more accomplished runner. From that point forward I vowed never to mock an excreting athlete again.

Incidentally, I failed to catch up the missus; proving that you can take the shit out of a shit runner but they will ultimately remain shit.

They're really little people, like jockeys...

2005-09-24T09:14:00.000-07:00

Yesterday a DHL man arrived with a package for one of my co-habitees.
"Is it those dwarves I ordered?" I politely asked the delivery man.
"Sorry?" responds aforementioned transporter of goods.
"The dwarves I ordered off the internet, is this them?"
"No idea mate" said the human carrier pigeon, as he passed over a package looking suspiciously like a book and massively inconsistent in shape and size to Bashful, Sleepy, Willow et al.
"Oh, well thanks for your assistance anyway".

Anglo-Saxon Relations

2005-09-21T12:42:00.000-07:00

Stereotypes; Some might say (in a Mancunian accent no doubt) that these heuristics breed discrimination and division. I took the aforementioned collective 'Some' (who might on occasions say things) on a research trip in order to obtain a Goth who liked daisies and skipping. After 18 hours the sociological experiment was abandoned with the 'Some' forced to concede that stereotypes are there for adaptive cognitive processing reasons. That is, they are more often than not correct, thus saving yourself the bother of conversing with the Nirvana-listening, devil-worshipping twit.

On a similar vein, I once believed it to be a fallacy that Germans were void of humour; a cruel rumour festered through our own realization of national ineptitude. That is, until I took part in a Ghanaian volunteer project. My roommate was a female resident of the motherland that, for the purposes of stereotyping, was called Helga. One day Helga happened to mention that there was an animal market on the outskirts of the nearest settlement. I then casually mentioned my desire to own a monkey. Here is an extract of the ensuing conversation:
Helga: "You cannot have a monkey, it is cruel".
Andy: "Ich mochter einen Affan, bitte" (for those not versed in the mother tongue: "I would like a monkey, please". Note the use of good manners - I would train said primate with politeness).
Helga: "You cannot have a monkey, monkeys need to be with other monkeys"
Andy: ""Ich mochter zwei Affan, bitte" (Two monkeys - you get the gist)
Helga: "No monkeys cannot be with people, you are too different".
Andy: "But the seminal works of Darwin tells us that we evolved from the same ancestry. The monkey and I are one'; we are like brothers".
Helga: "No you are too different. Monkey has short legs, people have long. Monkey has long arms, people have short".
Andy: "So can I have a monkey?"
Helga: "No, stop it. You are talking nonsense. Think of the monkey".
Andy: ""Ich mochter einen Affan, bitte".

I don't think even a Jackson jury would reject this proposition.

If...

2005-09-21T12:35:00.000-07:00

"If there's one thing in this world I despise more than bigotry it's darkies".

If this was really happening, what would you think?

Work Experience: The Revenge Thereof

2005-09-20T09:34:00.000-07:00

It's my first day on yet another work experience placement. Of course I want to make a good impression but I also wish to appear confident and keen to 'have a bit a of laugh' in the office. One of the women enters the office following their lunch break, she's clutching a HMV bag. "Here's my opportunity" I thought, "to inject some humour into the office". Strap yourself in. "Oh" I said loud enough for all to hear. "You really shouldn't have, it's only my first day. It really is too much. Is it Billie Piper? How'd you know that was my favourite?" Pause. "No it's not for you" she said rather sternly. "My best friend just died of cancer. She asked me to have this played at her funeral". "Oh, right 0".

BACK OFF! I'M A SCIENTIST!

2005-09-20T09:16:00.000-07:00

As a scientist, I often find myself feeling all sciencey. So when the urge is sufficiently irrepressible, I head into the lab and release a whole Chessington World of Adventure of Science onto some unsuspecting student. My business is smells; not any old smells mind, but smells in a box and last summer I obtained a Spanish lass to undergo a series of experiments which involved smelling my box. The girl in question was a friendly sort of Iberian and I was unperturbed by her continued smiling. "Ah," I thought, "here is a girl who thoroughly enjoys her smelling. How delightful". However, to paraphrase Michael Burke and the 999 team, trouble was just around the corner. Mid-olfacting she stopped and in heavily accented English announced: "I'm sorry, I'm not usually this forward but I really like you". (Stop; Hammer-time! I should intercede at this juncture and explain that this was no Penelope Cruz/Billie Piper.) "Hmm" I thought, in blind panic. "How can I diffuse this potentially volatile scenario?" Certain guidelines provided by the Board of Ethics prohibited any obtaining of carnal knowledge, therefore another tack was required. "She's Spanish" I mused sub-vocally, "what can I possibly say..." "BULL FIGHTING" I blurted, "do you like bull fighting?" Good work sailor, this clearly knocked the stuffing out of her. "Er, not really" said the perplexed looking senorita, "I think it's a bit cruel". Unperturbed, I decided to press ahead. "Yeah, but what if the bull had killed your parents? What would you do then?" Again, buggered by confusion she responded: "er, I've never really thought about it". Situation diffused. I remain thoroughly carnal knowledge dyslexic.

Work Experience: The Bane of the Unemployable

2005-09-15T15:00:00.000-07:00

The irrepressible irony of getting a job is that you cannot get aforementioned job unless you have experience. However, in order to gain said experience you have to get a job (or more sensibly lie). It is indeed one of those slightly ferocious round things. More than often the good intentioned job seeker is resigned into slavery (or, as it is colloquially referred, work experience).

Fully buying into this principle, I recently undertook the activity in (yes, you've guessed it) an eating disorder clinic. Now before I proceed I feel I must reiterate the absolute necessity for making a good impression in social situations such as these. You are, after all, solely there in order to obtain a job-getting reference. There is no scope whatsoever (especially in such a delicate clinical environment) for even the most benign of paedophilia gags. My role in this whole debacle was to design a booklet for patients suffering from the very debilitating disorder of bulimia. For those unaccustomed with the illness, one will often binge on thrice the daily calorific intake, and then, overcome by self loathing, purge themselves either through excessive exercise, laxatives or praying to the great porcelain Buddha. The self-help booklet concerned 'body image' and how the client may be able to cease obsessing over their size and (falsely) viewing themselves as a porker. I was also instructed to add illustrations to the booklet. Now... when the first draft was returned to me I was politely asked why I had included a picture of the Hungarian national flag. "Well" I replied, "they're hungry aren't they... you know, like the country..."

I still await a career.