Saturday, 26 December 2009

Good Cheer!

Wishing a Merry Boxing Day to all our readers!

And a Happy and Prosperous New Sputnik Fall! May the sky not fall on your head!

No scaffolding poles, grand pianos, ice-blocks from passing aircraft, the aforesaid aircraft themselves, batteries or any other sub-thermospheric item or items whatsoever either singularly or severally is or are included in this offer.

Sputnik 1 fell to Earth on January 4th, so anything could happen in the next 8 days. Sorry about that.

Monday, 21 December 2009

Anal Intercourse Reconsidered

I have kicked about this planet for over half a century - I am approaching my 52nd year - and I cannot honestly say that I see any much point in anal intercourse*.

Other insights to follow when, and - or if - I have any.

*[edit] I should have added - "any more". I was in my green days an aficionado.

Goodwill to All Men

This year I am not in a " festive" mood.

Quite the opposite in fact.

Saturday, 5 December 2009




...but that's enough about me.

Selling a russian-language artsy-voguesy hypheny-hypheny phoo phoo magazine in a box for £4.50 out of W H Smiths at Charing Cross Station is blackholeuarly way more fuck off than poor Jeremy Clarkson's pitiful doing puddles on your carpet. Using Cyrillic script as a marketing tool is... BUY THINGS YOU DON'T UNNERSTAN'

Which is hem hem th'zeitgeist innit no.

Yes I bought one but I know how to deal with substances. Also emanations - free tip here, if you are approached by an ectoplasm just hit it with your walking stick and watch it unfurl or snap back into the groin of the emanator. I have much wisdom but I can't afford to give everything away for free I am a poor man too, and if you won't pay for advice you won't act on it.

Friday, 13 November 2009


Heat in the flat -
Stink of white spirit
We will hide at the station
Where nobody asks.

Tuesday, 10 November 2009


It may not work.


I would have put a £10 on my card for the gas so I can warm myself. Also you need £10 on another card for the electricity to set fire to the gas.

They get you both ways.

Readers: Pity you drank it before you even got to the shop.

Self: Now I am cold.


sorry, just scraping some poo off my "w" key.

Readers: How sure are you that sea-going pterodactyls were coloured the same way as gulls?

Self: One of them fuckers ate my gas card.

Sunday, 18 October 2009

Us 51-Year-Old Alcoholics...

... do not give a shit about screamy white people who can't sing to save their ass and if Mr. S. Cowell wants to make money promoting them as screamy white people who could not and indeed do no (axtualllly that is rthe whole point S Cowell)
t sing to save their ass and everybody writhing in the lesbian snake-pit that is Radio 4 wants to promote them as girls who could or can or might sing to save their little tushies from the flames

I raise a glass to every body who has sailed around th'world all alone in tehrir yachy and who mhas then turned up on Desert island |Discs.

Pity about those screaming whiteys tho.

National Rail Enquiries
- be there or be square.

Thursday, 15 October 2009

National Rail Enquiries

There was I trying to look up a link on YouTube to a "Happy Song" but instead I clicked on the wrong thing on my bookmarks and got National Rail Enquiries instead.

Fire away, don't mind me.

Glad to have brought you this.

Oh No

The karaoke machine appears to have come from a far superior alien planet whose inhabitants are ahead of ours*** technichologhicallhy. We can only ask you to remain calm and listen alertly and yet humbly to their communications.

Listeners: Can't we go back to the sort of homely collation of 'facts' that Radio 4 is so good at presenting?

United Nations Emergency Talking Shop: Having a writerly lesbian present every single radio clip you've got about the moon landing stuff plus anything that has ever had the word 'moon' in it...

: Yes but now we've got a serial about radishes throughout human history presented by a person of a darker but not necessarily worse persuasion at 11:30 on Wednesdays with an omnibus edition at 10:00 on Sundays and then there's the Archers and Falloon might have or be about to fuck somebody or eat them and on television Sir Richard Atenbo is got some pics of one animal eating enothe and fucking it which is Nature and they eat each other specially the penquins and th'bears and radishes were a form of currency in Early Hirsute Turkey but by the Medieval Ages the radish became a "salmagundy" which is the sort of salad grown in Anglia...

Aliens: That's really badass seals eating th'penquins.

***Listeners: Isn't an "ours" a sort of bear, they eat salmon you know. And they're hairy.

Saturday, 10 October 2009


After dinner, drinkies and an evening of passion with your lovely Jamaican girlfriend do you:

a) wait until she falls asleep, drink a bottle of Famous Grouse in the kitchen with the lights out; wish that the local offie was open all night so you could buy another bottle of Famous Grouse; greet the dawn with bogus enthusiasm when she awakes,


b) not a).

If you answered mostly a) you may well be a Wretch.

What the Fuck?

Readers: What the fuck.

Hostess Trolley: Move along now please. Nothing to see here etc move along now.

Readers: I wouldn't be surprised if you were to reveal your Infallible World Domination Plan in the post after this one.

Blogfeld: Less of the Infallible, please. It might not work.


BlogJamesBlog: Either way you won't feel a thing.

Wednesday, 7 October 2009

You Wanted to Vote for Something?

Enjoy your "voting experience".

"Journey", obviously I meant "journey".

Anyone can have an "experience".

Saturday, 3 October 2009


Perhaps we could have a word in my office.

Doors closed. Y'unnerstan'

Friday, 2 October 2009

Those Bloody Tenants


All is well with the world! Don't worry! Be happy!

Ceux qui ont avancé que tout est bien ont dit une sottise; il fallait dire que tout est au mieux.

Fat Bastard Makes $$$ Off Of Capitalism

You would cry tooo

if it happened to youooo

Friday, 25 September 2009


Mr. Potato Head (to the Potatoe Head Family): Sssssh will you shut the fuck up. I keep telling you, there's nothing to lose by trying. Here we go.

Am I not your Brother?

If you prick me, do I not bleed?

Blogista: No. And when stabbed you just leak potato juice.

Mr. Pototo Hod: So we can be on your blog then?

Blogista: You can have the second floor all to yourself and family, as long as you take your shoesies off and don't wear your hats indoors. Tenants are expected to shave regularly. We do not entertain guests of a less-than-latte persuasion.

Mr. Poteoteo Horde: So we will be reduced to being potatoes with big false plastic pink ears. Alors. You undertake not to bake us with cheese'n'benz or tuna mayoniosse?

Blogista: Your children are wearing yellow slag bands. In my book, that means I can eat them with a little chopped chive and a plain French dressing. Nom nom nom.

When you die thin k Accessories like man-dibles

Blogista: When I die I want to go suited and booted.
Death: This isn't a job application. You can wear what you like.
Blogista: Well shucks, anyhow I never really quite believed in in the Austin Reed navy-blue double-breasted. Good as it was.
Death: You should learn to play the jass cornet. Just joking. Try chess.
Blogista: You play chess?
Death: No.
Blogista: Many people find relief in Gararararedeners' Question Time. In Radio 4 generally...
Blogista: There's that Mr Humphreys and Sue and Sooty. And Sweep. WELSH PEOPLE and others of an ethnic origin. Their name is Legion, because they are many!
Death: ~

Thursday, 24 September 2009

Gentleman Rankers

To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned,
To my brethren in their sorrow overseas,
Sings a gentleman of England cleanly bred, machinely crammed,
And a trooper of the Empress, if you please.
Yea, a trooper of the forces who has run his own six horses,
And faith he went the pace and went it blind,
And the world was more than kin while he held the ready tin,
But to-day the Sergeant's something less than kind.

We're poor little lambs who've lost our way,
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We're little black sheep who've gone astray,
Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
Damned from here to Eternity,
God ha' mercy on such as we,
Baa! Yah! Bah!

Oh, it's sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty kitchen slops,
And it's sweet to hear the tales the troopers tell,
To dance with blowzy housemaids at the regimental hops
And thrash the cad who says you waltz too well.
Yes, it makes you cock-a-hoop to be "Rider" to your troop,
And branded with a blasted worsted spur,
When you envy, O how keenly, one poor Tommy being cleanly
Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you "Sir".

If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep,
And all we know most distant and most dear,
Across the snoring barrack-room return to break our sleep,
Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer?
When the drunken comrade mutters and the great guard-lantern gutters
And the horror of our fall is written plain,
Every secret, self-revealing on the aching white-washed ceiling,
Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain?

We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and Truth,
We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung,
And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth.
God help us, for we knew the worst too young!
Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that brought the sentence,
Our pride it is to know no spur of pride,
And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds us
And we die, and none can tell Them where we died.

We're poor little lambs who've lost our way,
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We're little black sheep who've gone astray,
Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
Damned from here to Eternity,
God ha' mercy on such as we,
Baa! Yah! Bah!

Blogista (sings): "We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and Truth".

Roadsters: You haven't got laid recently then.

Blogshaw: I am not an Egg.


Blus 280 from Mitcham 'Fair Green' to Sutton-'Times Square': Point is, I write all this shit. Except for the bits I cut'n'paste, obviously. Either way I can't lose.

Friday, 18 September 2009

Organ Donatgion

Saint Thérèse of Lisieux died of tuberculosis in 1897, age 24.

Her 'relics' have just completed a tour from London to Southampton.

Readers: Quoi?

I quote from the Telegraph...

St Thérèse's body was divided into three after her death, and the relics on display here comprise portions of her thigh and foot bones. The remainder are in France.

Just need a Saint and a saw, and you're in business.

Wednesday, 16 September 2009

Tramp Stamp

For me, this does'nt work as a tramp stamp.

Well, wha'td work for you you ask..?

1 And they came over unto the other side of the sea, into the
country of the Gad'arenes.
2 And when he was come out of the ship, immediately there
met him out of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit,
3 who had his dwelling among the tombs; and no man could
bind him, no, not with chains:
4 because that he had been often bound with fetters and
chains, and the chains had been plucked asunder by him,
and the fetters broken in pieces: neither could any man
tame him.
5 And always, night and day, he was in the mountains, and in
the tombs, crying, and cutting himself with stones.
6 But when he saw Jesus afar off, he ran and worshipped him,
7 and cried with a loud voice, and said, What have I to do with
thee, Jesus, thou Son of the most high God? I adjure thee by
God, that thou torment me not.
8 For he said unto him, Come out of the man, thou unclean
9 And he asked him, What is thy name? And he answered,
saying, My name is Legion: for we are many.
10 And he besought him much that he would not send them
away out of the country.
11 Now there was there nigh unto the mountains a great herd of
swine feeding.
12 And all the devils besought him, saying, Send us into the
swine, that we may enter into them.
13 And forthwith Jesus gave them leave. And the unclean
spirits went out, and entered into the swine; and the herd
ran violently down a steep place into the sea, (they were
about two thousand,) and were choked in the sea.

Least you've got something to read.

Saturday, 5 September 2009

I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Grararargharargharrrrh

Seventy years on and at last those of us who were conceived at the exact moment that Britain declared war upon Germany have had our own parade, through Mitcham town centre.

Friday, 28 August 2009

What Me?

Dear Diary: Spent most of today feeling ill and incapacitated by a hangover as ever.

Jammed a stapler with the wrong size of staple. Removed staple with key pinched from colleague's desk. 1/2 hr. There is nothing that can go wrong in an office that cannot be solved by things you can find in the office, which somehow amounts to a futile and circular argument*.

Went 'home' to the local Weatherspoons for the usual gallon of medicinal Wifebeater.

Went home v. hungry and nothing in the larder but a small pot of honey, which ate.

Tomorrow another day working on my Project, "X---- Primary Care Trust: Mental Health Strategy for 2015".

Well, it is now 0130 and I am not sure I am feeling any better.

* except in the US postal service where a colleague might "go postal" at any moment. But they have cool stuff like guns.

Wednesday, 26 August 2009

True Love

Tap tap tap-tap-tap-tap-tap

Everybody loves my baby and everybody loves my baby except me.

She don't want my penis (honest) on this island Greek
No-one loves the penis, she's my genius, I'm a cheek.

Buttock. Pause for excitiing trumpet break.

You can see how well the Temperance 7 are expressing why not to holiday in Greece. One up to the jass legends.

I have never been nearer to th'Aegean than the Isle of Wight (aficionados will remember the Ventnor paddig pool as it was in the early 1960s) but this is a just-in-case I ever go to Greece.

Readrers: Don't you mean, "paddling pool"? Did you have a cold or something?

Blogista: No, last time I was on the Isle of Wight I got the shits. But I could still communicate.

adaers: I bet.

Blogista: "Hey I'm still in here". And I was only six.

Thursday, 6 August 2009

Buzzzy Bankerzzzz Bonusezzzzzzz

So what did you expect?

Sweating: put a few gold coins in a bag and rattle them around a bit until some dust has got rattled off. Collect the dust.

Clipping: shave the unwanted edges off inaccurately-minted gold coins, just to even up the coins. Keep the shavings.

She was poor but she was honest
Though she came of humble stock
And an honest heart was beating

Underneath her tattered frock
Oh you poor takspayers, oh oh oh.

Phwoooar. And all for the price of a small ('otel) port wine. And the 'otel room, obviously.

What, you wouldn't????

What is she a'doing of?

Monday, 20 July 2009

A Small Step For A Man

I must be about the only person on the planet who did not witness Mr. Neil Armstrong take his (and Our! and OUR! Our?????) first step onto the moon.

I was only 11 and cannot remember precisely why I refused to watch the Great Event, and instead went up to my bedroom. Certainly I was too young (by a year or so) for Masturbation: it cannot have been a More Pressing Priority. And I did not have an Airfix Kit to finish. Yet.

As I remember it was because the whole circus was presented on a grainy b&w AuntyBBC TV set by the gruesome James Burke*, a kind of pre-Celebrity celebrity.

Readers: Just get with the flow, Johnson. Push that broom.

* and Patrick Moore and Cliff Michelmore... Jesus H. Christ no wonder I bridled. But J. Burke was the frontman for the Landing, I am certain.

Saturday, 11 July 2009


I chose her for her Daniel Boone eyes
Tense, but sharp at something beyond the dust.
Her wide strong mouth turned down
Too strong for bitterness.

Her blond children standing
One at each shoulder, hiding
Their faces in their hands
Like angels weeping on a marble statue.
Contrast of straight and curly hair.

Her frayed blouse,
Her check shirt,
I made an emblem of the time and people

An American woman
Dispossessed, and travelling westward.

Strange Saturday

Thursday, 9 July 2009

The Blogfinder General

Finds - two beautifully designed blogs at

Crónicas da Peste
O Bar do Ossian

from which I have pinched this picture (a diorama of the Seige of Leningrad).



Final Frontier

Robert Osband, Computerist, and the Asbo Twink Collective.

This post would not have been possible without Buckets of Glitter.

Tip of th'tiplo.


Let the lower lights be burning
Send a gleam across the wave...

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

Stevie Smith 1957

Monday, 6 July 2009

Profound Speculations

There are quite a few pubs around England called "The Man in the Moon" and I always thought this was just a... well, as good enough a name for a pub as any.

I have found in Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable:

Man in the moon. The nameless person at one time employed in elections to negotiate bribes. Thus the rumour was set flying among the electors that “the Man in the Moon had arrived.”

So I have passed a placid Monday morning speculating that this might be the origin of the pub name.

Well, there aren't any jobs to apply for that I can find, so I might as well have done this as gone back to bed.

Sunday, 5 July 2009

English How She Is Spoke

Millions of pikey Britons with a can of Wifebeater clutched in one paw and a few quid they begged off passers-by "to get the bus fare home to his/her daughter because his/her baby-father/mother gone and got him/her self locked out of the flat" were gutted yesterday that Mr. A. Murray, a tennis player, only got to the semi-finals at Wimbledon this year.

Teacher: Tell me, Alegria, what do you think is meant by pikey in this context?

Alegria: It har they mean world class sportsmen are all gone into Final themselve, so one only Briton har let the whole side down.


Wickedred judges it so, and so it must be. Time for some heavy-duty alliteratin' -

SIÞEN þe sege and þe assaut watz sesed at Troye,
Þe borȝ brittened and brent to brondeȝ and askez,
Þe tulk þat þe trammes of tresoun þer wroȝt
Watz tried for his tricherie, þe trewest on erthe:
Hit watz Ennias þe athel, and his highe kynde,
Þat siþen depreced prouinces, and patrounes bicome
Welneȝe of al þe wele in þe west iles.
Fro riche Romulus to Rome ricchis hym swyþe,
With gret bobbaunce þat burȝe he biges vpon fyrst,
And neuenes hit his aune nome, as hit now hat;
Tirius to Tuskan and teldes bigynnes,
Langaberde in Lumbardie lyftes vp homes,
And fer ouer þe French flod Felix Brutus
On mony bonkkes ful brode Bretayn he settez
wyth wynne,
Where werre and wrake and wonder
Bi syþez hatz wont þerinne,
And oft boþe blysse and blunder
Ful skete hatz skyfted synne.
Ande quen þis Bretayn watz bigged bi þis burn rych,
Bolde bredden þerinne, baret þat lofden,
In mony turned tyme tene þat wroȝten.
Mo ferlyes on þis folde han fallen here oft
Þen in any oþer þat I wot, syn þat ilk tyme.
Bot of alle þat here bult, of Bretaygne kynges,
Ay watz Arthur þe hendest, as I haf herde telle.

"Gawain and the Green Knight", anonymous, late C14th.
(Warning: NSFW if you have no script blocker to stop the website making an unexpected "medieval"-style tootly-tootling)

Joy for Sunday Morning

Sing along; just follow the bouncing ball.

If you are getting a "progresión al ratos" instead it is time to lay off the mezcal and drink a vitamin-rich cold beer.

Saturday, 27 June 2009

The Day the Music Died

Here is William Ewart Gladstone speaking into a phonograph, 1888.

And here is Ezra Pound reciting the Usura canto

When did that music die? I have heard recordings of EP reciting his poetry which sound like arias. Recorded in St Elizabeth's in the 1950s and maybe the students making the recordings thought him mad. Now we must all learn to speak in monotone and not wave our hands around except as Health'n'Safety guidelines allow.

In meiner Heimat

where the dead walked

and the living were made of cardboard.

Thursday, 25 June 2009

Don't Be Afraid of the Bailiffs

Bailiff #1: Mister Ivan O. Barnett?

Self: No, and here is the evidence.

Bailiff #2: Miss...

Self: Decide for youself. I can get my tits out if you like.

They are awfully polite, these bailiffs. It will be another eight months or so before they have any reason to persue me.


Official: And why exactly have you come here, Sir.

Sir Tristram: To wielderfight my penisolate war.

Official: I am not convinced that these are good grounds for an...

Blogista: What else is Cornwall about? Do you intend to build a nation on drinking stale bitter and singing "Goodnight Irene" late into the night? For God's sake, man.

Official: Even so, he has come here to be penisolate.

Blogista: So that is mostly penis, plus disconsolate. With a dash of peninsular, sole, late and other trimmings.

Sir Tristram: I have come here to wielderfight my penisolate war.

Official: I am sorry, Sir, you will have to return to Brittany on the next ferry.

Saturday, 20 June 2009


здесь был я.

I was here.

мы пебблдашировали?
нам пебблдашировалоcь?

"Well then, we are both pebbledashed"... I have asked for the correct translation on the very excellent WordReference forum and expect an answer from a hopeless Russian-speaking stoner soon.

Нас отпебблдешили.

Tuesday, 16 June 2009

O God

Where is my taxpayer-funded gun and bottle of whisky?

How come only Prime Ministers get this kind of deal from the soi-disant "public" services?

Sigh. Back to th'old gin'n'paracetomol trick then.

Labels for this post kindly suggested by "e.g. scooters, holidays, autumn".

That works.

Saturday, 13 June 2009

Sigh Again

Thank you British Telecom for arseing up the order so that I won't actually have broadband until Saturday 20th June.

That's a mere 28 days to get services transferred from one address to another.

Thursday, 4 June 2009


Thank you BT for leaving me without internet access between 23 May and 12 June.

Just, thx.

Why, it only took a few days to get gas and electricity supplies up and running, and only a couple dozen phone calls.

Saturday, 23 May 2009

Immaculate Kitchen Surfaces

Moving from one place somewhere to another somewhere else, eh?

The only way to do this, in my experience, is to get as drunk as possible provided you can still carry bin bags from Point A (flat) to Point B (bins).

Don't worry about the swarms of insects impeding your path: they are either an hallucination, or a problem which the next occupant will have to live with.

Take some time to reflect upon the monstrous amounts of garbage that have accumulated during your occupancy.

Throw away the cards from family and friends you got when you were fifty - you were only fifty once!

Ignore the foreign language students who are having a party next door and who are younger and happier then you are.

'Part from that, remember to turn up where you are supposed to be tomorrow morning. You only have to "drag th'bag" once. For a while.

Friday, 22 May 2009

Normal Service

Thanks to the incompetence of my telephoon supplier I will be without an internet connection for the next three weeks.

Norman service will be resumed as late as possible, if ever.

Thursday, 21 May 2009

Blue Lotion

Hi Everyone,

I am given a spray bottle with blue liquid in it to use for cleaning purposes. If the table top is dirty I spray the blue liquid on it and then wipe it off. Now I am out of the blue liquid, how do you I request for more? Do I say (1) I need more "blue liquid"?; (2) I need more spray blue liquid?; (3) I need more blue liquid cleaner? I pick choice number 3, what do you think? Thanks in advance.

Tuesday, 19 May 2009

In th'Stone Age (Early)

Æ®iç: I am a sausage.

ÐåãðøÞ: Wha?

Æ®iç: I walk upon one leg in the morning, upon one leg in the afternoon and upon one leg in the evening. What am I.

ÐåãðøÞ: A sausage?


ÐåãðøÞ: Great concept, but this "riddle" thing of yours needs a bit of tiddlying up.

Saturday, 16 May 2009

Legend of the Wholly Drinker

Lose the "W"
And one of the "L"s
For "Drinker" read "Fool"
And my fourth is in

Readers: Your fourth?

Blottista: I never really understood how this parlour game works, which is maybe the point of parlour games.

Readers: Simple! - and we don't mean you of course.
Try this one ---

My first is in Constantinople but not in Reykjavik;
My second is loading my pistol with ball;
My third is better theen but not third;
And my whole is a doughnut without a synthetic custard or jam filling.
What am I?

Mine Host: Is the jam filling synthetic too?

Readers: Tee hee hee. He can't even get the punctuation right.

Blister: Hokay, my turn...

My first is in feeble but not in demented,
My second's surrendered but hasn't relented,
My third is my hat but it's not in my hut
And my all would be all if it only were not.
What am I?

Friday, 15 May 2009

Very Funny

Mr Suicide the bathplug. Perhaps not the exact model some semi-sentient Minister of State or other claimed for on th'Expensives, but it is a bathplug all the same. And what of it?

Take the worst totally outrageously expensively-claimey OUTRAGEOUS amount of money claimed on expenses by an MP for something hatefully bourgeouis like a patio heater, a fitted kitchen (with just to add to the fear and loathing POLISHED ITALIAN GRANITE WORKING SURFACES)... I want you to keep thinking of that number, k?

Now move the decimal point one place to the right.

At this moment 99.9recurring% of my potential readers (not my 1/2 doz. actual readers, who are supremely intelligent, I mean the British population at large) are fucked. Either they don't know what I am talking about or they have no idea how much 10x a number they didn't comprehend in the first place, actually is.

Or how it compares to the broad and placid river of EU peculation, or to the costo-benefito of building a lorra lorra luvly windmills (don't even try to mention th'megawatty stuff here) or to anything else at all. Or whether it matters or how things should be done or...

Give me your dopes, your dupes
Your huddled morons yearning to be heard,
The wretched refuse of your teeming fools...

If only the Ruritanians had accidentally carved that on a statue in 1886, or five years ago for that matter...

60000000th cretin: Hey, last person to leave Britain turn out the lights hur hur.
Readers: Yeah yeah a great and original jest, have fun in Ruritania, won't you.
Devil's Kitchen, Guido etc: Look, I fucking said that joke before you did you bastards.

What will this mindless petulance about MPs' expenses actually achieve or change, that matters a lot?


Now, concentrate on the decimal point...

Tuesday, 12 May 2009

Ask the Hedgehog

Edze Og Edze Og
Eh M Edze Og
What is an easily available and reasonably effective oven cleaner?

Hedgehog: You could do worse than a can of Mr. Muscle.

Edze Og Edze Og
Eh M Edze Og
Would combining Domestos, Harpic and Cilit Bang one bottle each totally get fuzz off of the bath? And limescale out of the lavatory pan? That's six bottles.

Hedgehog: You may only ask one question at a time on these forums. But I point out that this is a dangerous thing to do because of the chlorinous gases that would be created by such a combination of cleaning agents. Keep a window open.

Edze Og Edze Og
Eh M Edze Og
Would it be a good plan to remove all my moveables before dusting, and then hoover? But then how do I get my hoover out (red Kenwood bagless 1600w).

Hedgehog: That is a fine bagless vacuum cleaner for the nøøb or "aspiring semi-pro", may I say. Yes, once your moveable property has been removed, you can dust all relevant surfaces and then dispose of the duster. And then hoover all surfaces onto which the dust has fallen. That achieved, it only remains to have at hand a suitcase which is larger than your hoover, so that you can fit your hoover into the suitcase. Remember that the snorkelly attachments are bigger than you think. Alternatively you can simply abandon the suitcase and travel by rail or aeroplane with your hoover in hand, but be careful about the sentimental bondings which may occur, including upskirts.

Edze Og Edze Og
Eh M Edze Og
What is the Russian for "vacuum cleaner"?

Hedgehog: пылесос, literally "suckdust". One might extrapolate from this the entirely bogus verb пылесосировать. It is clearly an "аппарат для очистки от пыли помещений, одежды, мебели и т.п. посредством всасывания ее струей воздуха". And yet one might as well say гувер or xувер: guver or khuver. What you will.

Edze Og Edze Og
Eh M Edze Og
Do cleaning products have a part in the olden-times Lays, Ballads, Eddas, Folk Myths, Legends, Songs and Tales of Yore..? I'm talking «comparative» here.

Hedgehog: I am only a hedgehog. I cannot and will not answer this question about cleaning products and /or or mechanisms.

Monday, 11 May 2009


1) Trouser it.

2) Remember you have a clientèle.

3a) Squander it on your clientèle, who will trouser it.
3b) Squander it. You can't ever have enough clients.

4) There is no such thing as getting caught.