That pure Cane Spirit since 1848.
What must be the best result ever? Are you talking about MU v Barca? And are you angry about Rangers? And what are you drinking?
Sorry Clarissa.Yes the Barca result. And I'm drinking Domestos it will help with all the crap I'm talking.
Oh Hi Scarls. We crossed. Top o the mornin' to ya. I don't like Rangers I'm afraid. Fancy a snifter? I've got some Draino left. (Sent to me by a dangerous young poppet disguised as a Bacardi Breezer)Bottom's up!Ax
Bon Jovi???? What's all this about???? What has become of you, Roonie????SxApologies, I'll have it large.
Ah, yes, it was the song title only, Scarls my lovely. A message of hope to Celtic fans the world over. It's a football thing. It's like the offside rule, you either get it or you don't (no offence Scarlet my lover) I am back from the corporate fleshpots of the Emirates and feeling as sick and guilty as my old dog Bruno (he of white fang fame) who would return after a week of shagging, stinking and looking very sorry for himself. It cut no ice with me [he slept on my bed] but my mother God bless her would spoil him rotten and let him sleep it off. She got knockout pills for him from the vet whenever there was a lady dog in heat in the neighbourhood. It was safer, it stopped all the phonecalls. Anyway that's how I am feeling right now - Where are all the clean people? Christ show me a wide eyed innocent cos there ain't none out here. I need a tetnus shot. Sorry, where are my manners? What'll you take? I've got hooch or hooch. I know, have a hooch and muslim coke. I dunno the fact it's muslim makes it taste like shit for me ( no oofence).Ax.
Home, Maroon? Well, thanks for telling me. Thanks a buffalo. Repat visit? Compassionate leave? Or something beastlier?
Oh god Clarissa, we went over the sea for two days corporate. It was Gamorrah. The poor Polish hospitality girls were bemoaning the credit crunch and how they were reduced to entertaining Arabs and Chinese (who are here in big numbers btw) it kinda put a dampener on things. Highlight! The English chippy is still there; two blocks from the Petronas tower or whatever the fuck it's called. I had an extra savaloy and two pickled onions. It's possible that iv'e picked up the slightest, hardly worth mentioning nsu and I don't mean the motorbike.Ax,
No not home Clarissa. Back across the sea to shitsville. It was R&R. although that should be called retch and return.I hate my lack of provision and all this LABOUR. I wish Mamma had married the Duke of Buckinghamshire when she had the chance. She missed a trick there. She really did.Listen fancy a drink? Here's one I made earlier. It's a taste sensation.Bottoms up!Ax.
Hmm, I see. And are you feeling guilty after a week of shagging, like your poor deceased dog? Appalling. And what time is it there, anyway? This evening I sucked several White Russians through a transparent straw in the heat of a glorious Thames Valley evening.
Who's the footballer? It's never Tom Finney is it?
Yes, who is this man, Maroon? Is it Hugh Janus?
No you are both wrong it it the wonderful Henrik Larssson. A player who played for Barca and Man U as it happens and the wonderful celtic of course but it was all a long time ago.
Hugh J played right back for Queen of the South. Kim's team (no offence)
Anyway, I lost my air ticket back and had to work my passage to Port Said. A digustin development I can tell you.
I have checked the time, and it's a quarter to three for you! Your turn to sing One For the Road, like I did last weekend.
how long will this commission take, sugar? y'all certainly don't seem to be handling this well. bless your heart! xooxoxoox
Fucking hell sarah another change of your puicture. I canna keep up. I'm on "brandy" It's cid with a dash o grape juice. I was born for better things. My school motto as it happens. How wrong were they? Any hoo, the wind has changed source. It's in from Africa now. It is damper, it's more kind, forgiving, evocative. The Arabs hate it because they have no souls or because they do have souls. I forget which. Either way, now is the time for Israel to strike, and strike hard, wipe them out, the hospitable, agreeable, friendly, noble, medieval, fascist, latent homosexual, mysoginist, bastards. Falconry? Fuck off! I can get that on the M90 with 10 gallons of unleaded.It's a gas venting station Savannah. 6 Concorde engines pointing up into the already too hot and poluted sky. I ask you, what the fuck am I doing here????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
Hello Maroon.Twas in the year nineteen hundred and ninety fiveWhen they discovered that Baillie Vass was no longer alive.You're welcome.Cx
i swear, sugar, in this horrid economy we're all grateful for employment, but on the other hand, y'all need some relief from such misery. sadly, the MITM leaves soon for deepestdarkestafrica. *sigh*anyway, darling, chin up, things will get better! xoxoxo
I'm glad Sarah has lost the green.Oh Doccie - TE Lawrence must be rolling in his grave.
Quiet evening in, Maroon? Can I recommend the latest Petrina Coke? It is a true page-turner. Each chapter ends with a cliff-hanger, and there are several false starts and an unhappy ending. I know you have read everything she's written so far, but this one really takes the biscuit. Readers who like Petrina also enjoy Anne Thrassyte. And have you ever heard of Sue Barkers-Egg?
It's one of the few books to get past the mad mullahs' felt tips [sic].The latest is called Faeces and it's a gripper right enough. How a family's dreams of centre left Utopia are shattered by betrayal over the invasion of Iraq and is forced to fight for a foothold in the violent dystopia of the underbelly of drug fuelled broken Britain with sex and violence and some scenes of working class sex too. The word orbit comes up a lot.It's in that wonderful gritty genre of Knut E. Slack and N.E.Old-Ross. Sue Barkers-Egg now she wrote "Sidewalks are Minefields" did she not?
Savannah you are right! My chin is UP! Things will get better, I'm sure of it. ;) xxooxxoPat was he buried astride his BSA? I heard he was. It was probably what he would have wanted.
Dear Maroon,Twas in the year two thousand and nineWhen it was discovered that Susan Boyle was not in lineTo win the final of Britain's Got TalentEven though she had fought in a way considered most gallantShe was pipped at the post by some young dancing menAnd people said it was because she had been starved at birth of oxygenetc etc
It was in the year two thousand and nine,That they discovered poor Susan Boyle was far from fine,On Britain’s got Talent that girl with hairy frown,Crashed out of the final suffering a terrible breakdown.No amount of Piers Morgan’s hand-wringing,Could alter the fact that her mediocre singing was minging,After the priory she must return to her hard knock university,Beaten in the final by arthritic ethnics called Diversity
Diversity won through, although they were observed to soar lessThan their main rivals, another dance troupe called Flawless,But the judges' faces told a storyOf how Susan Boyle was not going to be covered in glory.Amanda Holden, as if in a scene from the Merchant of VeniceLooked angrier than she had when referred to as Mrs Les DennisSimon Cowell called the audience "a bunch of aunts"And vouchsafed he believed them to be in receipt of Disability GrantsBut Piers Morgan saved the day in time-honoured fashionAnd spoke with fervour, nay, something verging on passionWhen he announced in ringing tones and the dignity of HomerThat Susan was booked for the summer season at the Winter Gardens, Cromer.
But alas and alack the three judges lost their aplombFor the final was the subject of many complaints to OfcomThe story would not lie down nor disappear with a sighBut rumbled on interminably like Henry Vee and ViThere was the matter of the tiny singer awash with sad tearsHer 10 year old face a’twisted like wee Hazel BlearsOr pointless Stavros O’Flatley, two fat dancing freaks,A father and son act, from a household of Greeks
But now, before the final curtain is rung down,And Susan searches in vain for the far-flung crownOf success and stature,We recall other acts which held us in rapture:There was an appalling widow who sang "Sloggin' Home",And a midget who'd appeared on a trapeze at the Millennium Dome.A young girl and her grandfather made a hash of their song,And the tapdancing dog proved that 700,000 phone-voters can be wrong.Two poison dwarves, named Ant and DecCould've been described by their namesake, Herr Goebbels, as Durftig und Dreck.A contestant's mother asked Cowell "are you man or mouse?"And he laughingly observed that she should be in a prison in Laos.There is no shame in feeling a wave of elationThat Susan Boyle has singlehandedly saved this glorious nationFrom the pit of despair, misery and an aire pathetiqueThat was epitomised by Mr Jacqui Smith billing the taxpayer for Anal Boutique.
Big Brother starts tomorrow, if that's any help?Sx
... and Hazel Blears has gone...Sx
I'm doing free verse.Sx
Excuse me, Maroon, but I need to address this philistine upstart. Scarlet, as you can see, I have a real and rare talent for this sort of literary endeavour. I intend to establish another blog called Pouncer Laureate. Why they gave the job to that dreary old lesbian and not me defies all human understanding. Anyhoo, I need yr technical expertise to tell me how to do such a thing. Email me with all available haste.
Do you remember Charlene Tilton, Mrs Pouncer? Your poem reminded me of her.
Charlene Tilton was the poison dwarf in Dallas, Mr Bananas. Lucy Ewing. I did all that without consulting Google!Sx
I have mailed you Mrs P!Sx
Where is Mr Inkspot? Why doesn't he come here so that he can ignore me? *sniff* *Wanders off in the direction of the sunset [north, south???], dragging teddy bear, Aloysius, by his left ear*sob.Sx
Excuse me again, Maroon. Dear Gorilla, Charlene Tilton was a competent enough actress, but had no thorax. During one scene, she had to dance with her dear old Grandpaw at a Ewing family barbecue. It was nose-to-navel, and a uniquely awful sight. Many years later she paid a visit to Reading for the opening of a vile nightclub called, I think, Shaggers. She was terribly downmarket by then.I am glad you enjoyed my poem. I have just started work on my latest: On Spotting Price Harry at Chez Gerard, Marlow. In response, Maroon is going to give us Some Lines on The Semi-Final of the Apprentice.
So remember my friends that brief interlude; of hope and atonement and cheese macaroni,When Britons stood proud like senor BerlusconiA forgotten old wristwatch worn while we swimYet an ugly old Rolex still pulls in the quimYes remember this Great Nation as we head out to vote(Forget Mrs Blears capital gains tax and rocking the boat)Our duty demands that we give them all HellAnd think of poor Susan in her padded cell.
A Rolex, though ugly, pays for itself in quim. That is vintage Hutton, is it not? It is a sagacious aphorism whatever and no less so for being true. Berlusconi should be your role model: 17-year-old lingerie mannequins! Do admit.
Some lines on the Apprentice then.It was in the year two thousand and nine,That they decided for three of the apprentices it was the end of the line.The good, the bad and the ugly, they did not set the heather afire,So Sir Alan could find them no place in his global empire.“You’re fired!” came the message laden with doom,“It’s been great” the totally false riposte as he slouched out the boardroom.“But I have a GIFT Sralan!” was another plea for life“Yes, stop your bleating love”, (thank god you’re not my wife)Was what he probably thought as he pointed his finger,Wishing the dreary woman would just go, neither tarry nor linger,And as Sir Alan issued his final coup de grace He found it hard to keep his obvious distaste from his faceThat left the Fibber and the toothy blonde Robot; the finalists just two;“What a pig in a poke.” Sralan sighed like he was coming down with swine flu.Until Sunday they must wait with their breath minty baitedTo see who gets the chop and who is the one to be feted.
At last, something I understand. Mlle Inkspot has turned me on to the Apprentice; it is cringe-making (we cower under the blanket as if watching the Daleks) in the most riveting way. Maybe it's heroic or Homeric or some other arts-graduate bullshit; I thought I detected a pentameter or two in some of the previous comments.
“17-year-old lingerie mannequins! Do admit.”I’ve already been there Clarissa! Yes you’re right, it was very nice. I was nineteen at the time. Poor Berlusconi. I mean it. It’s masturbation on every level, we men know it and so must he. I’m sure she finds him exciting and good fun and so on but I can’t help thinking she’d have more fun with a young boy. For him, it must be a constant disappointment that there isn’t a beautiful intelligent woman in his age group who would actually choose to spend some time with him. It must all be so unsatisfying. It’s the level of surface penetration [sic] I suppose. He cannot hope to communicate on any but a rudimentary level with his young girlfriend. It must be like fucking a manikin right enough.Think what he must be missing too: if he sticks to young women it must be operating in a terribly narrow bandwidth. A whole world of beauty is passing him by. No, he is a poor sod and I don’t envy him one iota.**(Iota, is the second most common word used by Ann Thrassyte after “orbit”. As in, “He didn’t care one iota now he was in their orbit.”)Kind regards,Ax.
nb. I know the difference between mannequin and manikin, I think I am funny.Inkspot, Hi, you're right! Pentameter is a devil to eliminate; it's like singing off key, which for me is impossible.
See, I knew it was Henrik Larsson... the most gorgeous footie player that ever lived, despite the pretensions of one David Beckham. I so wanted him to join his old boss, MON, at the Villa.And JBJ as well. Dr Maroon, you surpass yourself. I only came over for Mrs P's poetry but clearly I need to keep a closer eye on you :P
Maroon, you aunt! You are supposed to wait until I am ready with my verse until you unveil yours. Spoils the rhythm otherwise. And why did you let that oik Inky come between us? He's completely ruined the flow. And don't talk to me about 17 year olds in their underwear. And stop looking at Mrs Cake's bottom.
Mrs Cake, come in, do. Now, you'll have had your tea, but perhaps a libation? Let me think. I have it! What about a brandy, advocaat and ginger ale? I call it a noggin.Bottoms up!
I wasn't looking at Mrs Cake's bottom Clarissa; I was marvelling at her knowledge of the offside rule and Inky started talking about pentameter before I knew what was going on. Here, drink this, never mind what it is, trust me. Scrummy, eh?There now.
LMAO, my good doctor! Brandy, naked and poured over a little ice if you please.And, as the perfect woman, naturally I am conversant with the offside rule, as well as most of the latest chants :)
Joanna Cake.That reminds me;You wanna piss?I beg your pardon.You wanna piss?Well, really!Piss a cake? With your coffee?They were not Greek they were from Hounslow. Aunts.
Dr Maroon, do I look like the sort of girl who eats cake in the first place, let alone accepts it (or indeed coffee) from strangers! Especially via such a dubious offer... Im wondering if that might be a footie chant in the vein of 'Who ate all the pies?'
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