That pure Cane Spirit since 1848.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Awake! For morning in the bowl of night….

SEXYBEAUTY Is there anything worse than a fool who misquotes poetry? Well probably. But, it should have gone:

Come with Khayyám tum tetum tetum tetum,
Some strip of herbage strown….
Rattle tattle tat..
Where name of slave and sultan scarce is known,
Something something something

Then it goes

Here with a loaf of bread beneath the bough,

A flask of wine, a book of verse and thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

Anyhoo, I was trying to show off to Olivia in a poetic educated romantic way, but I thought it was Fitzgerald wrote it. Or at least translated it loosely from the Persian of the apocryphal Omar Khayyám.

I’ve got a cracking edition, which after much searching, must now I realise, be in the possession of a previous Mrs Maroon. Women, they’re all poison! I may have commitment issues, but enough of that, and it had a verse on the frontispiece, which went something like,

These pearls in ancient Persian (Gulf or seas or something) were laid,
Each as perfect as something or other
Khayyám pluck’d them from their sandy bed,
Fitzgerald strung them on an English thread.

D’ya get it? There’s no mention of your fellow, what’s his name? Kahlil Gibran.
I hope that clears it up for you.

Caroline, if you’re reading this, I want that fucking book back.

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Well did you ever? What a swell party this is!

SafeTinspector: Giant of a man.
Last night, washed out of all hope (no James Bond on the TV) I took myself off to a quiet part of the Hall and checked in to the virtual world. It is something of an addiction now. There, in the comments, my faith in the world was restored anew. While such as he walk the earth, the West will not fail. It cannot.

I reproduce it here for us without apology.

“In the US we celebrate by drinking a concoction made mostly of bourbon and pickle brine called "chesapeke bell"

Its traditional to sprinkle crushed garlic cloves and grated nutmeg atop the drink, quaff it in one go and then attempt to out the names of all those to whom you wish good luck.

You can repeat the process as many times as you are able before getting too pissed* to stand, and can enlist the help of a trusted friend to continue imbibing until you are no longer able to operate your esophagus.

I'll tell you all that I barked each and every one of your psuedonymous names to the walls, which led my 'helper' to think I was nearly done, as it made no sence to hear tell of 'gorillas the bearded one, readheaded m'roon,' etc, etc.

After I pantomimed that I still had more in me, we finished the whole jar of brine together.
Good times, what?

*in honor of the UK majority on this blog, I'm using the UK definition of pissed, which is more drunk than angry.”

SafeTinspector Homepage 12.26.05 - 6:14 pm #

Saturday, December 24, 2005


Lets face it; we are by far the best, most erudite, funniest, quickest, cleverest most crackerjack lot on the Net today. Who compares? Exactly. So it’s happy Christmas to us, we deserve it.

Going up to town this afternoon. I always do this. There are tremendous bargains to be had on Christmas Eve from the overstressed staff (with a bit of bargaining). All shops will be heaving in a panic ridden jumble sale frenzy, which I shall sail through in an invisible bubble of calm. The best tip, is to dress in your best clothes and walk slowly, taking time to examine your purchases. The staff responds to this kind of behaviour and will totally ignore the drowning proles around you for just ten minutes of peace in your company. Trust me, always works.

Sexy Beauty. I still haven’t done it but I shall

Thursday, December 22, 2005

SexyBeauty, if you're wondering where it is, I haven't put it up yet. Busy!

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

YEP! It’s Tuesday Roundup.

Lets start with the ladies.

The delectastic

LindyK has had a haircut! What else she had done? Matching collar and cuffs? We want Pictures! You want to show us, you know you do, you love it.

Flame haired poet and sex guru Ms Redhead, continues her advice column over at Mr G Bananas’.

Talking of poetry, nah, stuff it! NO! Update! (3:40GMT) : OLIVIA-POET is back!
“Underneath the bough, a book of verse, a loaf of bread, a flask of wine and thou, beside me singing in the Wilderness, and Wilderness is Paradise enow”
(one of Fitzgerald’s)

Fatmammycat is enjoying the best sex of her life right now, with some hazel-eyed, big-footed clod. What do we know of him? What are his intentions? What does his father do? Exactament. We know nothing: other than, he is distracting her from her vocation. Has he no soul? If he loves her, he must give her her freedom to soar like the blithe spirit she is. A big walloper and flipper feet isn’t everything FMC.
But in truth, I have no opinion on the matter. I wish them well. Just hope it doesn’t end in tears, that’s all.


This picture is a young LAD! That’s right Muffy, a BOY, ohh Muffy!(If that doesn’t draw her out, we’re fucked).

Yes, talking of poetry, the illustrious Mynah Bird posted some verse again to illustrate a point and the besotted GB was too busy with new friends to appreciate it.
A commenter called Desargues has turned up, all classics and maths and cufflinks. Frightening, but a welcome intellect I‘m sure. GB’s taken a shine to him and calls him Des! Be still my beating heart! Watch him! We must check his bona fides.
And on that subject, there’s a new link to that
schmeby fellow. I’m not at all sure what to make of him either, but welcome to my humble hearth. You’ve just this minute missed high tea, but there’s some whisky on the dresser.

Binty McShae is feeling desperately homesick. Well, we all do at this time. To add to his woes I must tell him that Roy ‘Keano’ Keane has signed for Celtic. But, the Bhoys could only draw with Inverness Caley, whereas the Teddy Berrs pressed home the advantage by beating Killie and have drawn an easy-peasy team (Villarreal) in Europe with Hugh Dallas to referee (if he has no “brethren” duties that night). So it’s not all bad. Chin up.

Snippet from Jokemail to cheer us up ferchristsakes.;
You Know You've Had Too Much Holiday Cheer When....
1.( of 21) You notice your tie sticking out of your fly.

The ANTI-Barney is shagging goats so maybe he DID go to Bray Boys after all.

I haven’t mentioned Andraste the Rabbit Girl because I derive pleasure from winding her up. I’m sick in the head.

El-Barbudo; noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Brewski says he’s still squeezing the juice. I believe him.

Kim the bearded Scotsman says he used to cavort round pastoral England wearing an animal skin to further our knowledge. I’m sure that was why.

Doctor Evil has come back! Hurrah and God bless us every one!

And finally Safety Inspector ’s mother said hello. I cant help wishing I hadn’t mentioned all that stuff about masturbating in the shower. Jesus, and worse, now I’m thinking about it.

Sunday, December 18, 2005

Winning Hearts and Minds

The Church of England is now so gay that there’s talk of two naked marines forming a spit roast with the padre at this year’s Christmas Drumhead Service in Basra.

Imagine if the situation was reversed and the Muslim occupying forces here held one of their Ramadan goat slaughtering ceremonies in your local Arndale Centre drinking blood and everything.

The Foreign Office used to be the best in the world. They were expert at subjugating people without them noticing. Now with all the secondary modern and grammar school boys in charge and worse, those hysterical women with something to prove, the union jack is reviled the world over. It will take more than handing out a few toffees to the kids to smooth this over.

And talking about marines, just when did they turn into the King’s Own Butterballs? That video of them fighting naked was a shocker. Flabby coca-cola bellies rippling as they fought like girls. What ever happened to the wiry Jocks of the 51st Highland Division, who would run you through with a bayonet nice as ninepence and as sweetly as telling you the time?

My God and no mistake.

The Iraqis must hate our guts.

Friday, December 16, 2005

Stroke my badger.

“Garn! Daisy durst haff a coff on ‘er as would rattle the delft ! She do!”
“Aye, ‘erin been French kissen’ them badgers I fancies”
“Nay, not my Daisy, her teats iss mine an mine alone!”
“Them badgers iss laffin at yew, I reckons”
“Well’in, we’ll sees whose laffin come spring whenen ol’ Maroon comes a’callin’”
“Marry nuncle”

The tongs oiled, train booked, all set and rarin’ to go! For it’s off to Gloucestershire for me in the new year.
I shall be participating in the Great Badger Kill. Shed no tears for them. They must be killed for their own good.
The whole county down there is awash with bovine tuberculosis and while the transfer mechanism is a little hazy it must be them. Who else could it be?
We will pull the stripy devils coughing and wheezing from their lairs or “SETTS” using the aforementioned long-tong pincers (clamped to their snouts) and then humanely dispatch them with many kicks and punches. It’s a fair fight.
I know what you're thinking, it could be the feckless husbandry of the yokels. Well, £90 000 000 of our money in compensation, says no.

You townies just don’t understand; it’s The Country Way. Get over it

X-Ray Update: Just in, this from the radiographer. The little chap, Bertie Badger (6) above, has suffered a broken paw as can be seen from the x-ray plate below. His injuries were sustained when clumsy oaf Rolf Harris trod on him during filming. We wish him well, poor little feller.

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

…and I’m hovering like a fly,
waiting for the windshield on the freeway…

Poetry Update: somewhat peeved that there’s been no feedback re my haikus. OK they’re only seventeen syllables long (that’s the Jap rules apparently) but I put my guts into them and a welcome kind word, even some gentle criticism oh never mind.
Thanks to Fatmammycat we now have pictures of the office pest. See below.
Must have him transferred forthwith, if only for the benefit of the collective. The steady state must be restored.

Shopping duty this evening. We hates it. It’s not the chore; it’s the fucked off look on everyone’s ill-mannered face that’s the killer. These cunts should spend some time in the east, a la Muff Diver, where life is cheap and they might not be so fucking tornfaced.
And all you parents out there, Slap Your Children! They’ll thank you for it. Spoilt little ratbags. In fact, why are you dragging them round the store in the first place you twats!?

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

…or finding better words, these ideas never lasted long…

Household Hints 37
Fairy light maintenance

A standard set of 12 multicoloured Pifco lights will last a lifetime with the proper care, so avoid fairy light misery by following these handy but rigid rules.
1. After Christmas each year take down your lights gracefully from the tree with joy in your heart.
2. Remove each bulb with a smile and set aside in their coloured order. A strip of duct tape or other proprietary adhesive ribbon will assist. Keep a couple of festive mince pies back for this little task!
3. Using a number 4 camel hair brush, lightly grease each socket with a household dilution of three parts virgin olive oil to one part WD40
4. Gently wrap the cord around a soft wood former. Your handyman will be happy to make this for you. Be sure to specify white pine from a sustainable forest. A Christmas carol makes short work of this winding chore
5. Place the wrapped cord in an EMPTY biscuit tin, Rover Family Assortment or my personal favourite, Walkers Luxury Shortbread Compendium are best.
6. Test each bulb individually with a Megger and continuity tester PRIOR to placing adjacent to the neat coil of bulb holders in the biscuit tin.
7. Finally, pack the airspace with silica gel or other desiccant and tape up the tin with more duct tape. I like to decorate mine with snowflake patterns cut out of paper doilies and old Christmas cards.
8. Place the tin in the warmest part of the airing cupboard. Your housekeeper will show you where the airing cupboard is and which is the warmest part.
9. Test your lights every six weeks throughout the year.
10. Have a happy Christmas, but remember, fairy lights are a silent killer.

Monday, December 12, 2005

…and there beneath the lamplight I met a Southern Belle…

We all deal with Mondays in our own way. With experience we have developed routines that serve us well till four-ish when we start to come round a bit. Some buckle down, low profile, don’t talk to me I’m having flashbacks from Saturday, some stare out the window till Tuesday, some share with TRUSTED confidants just how much of a tit they’ve been.

What no one wants, is any outward sign of enthusiasm or joy.
This is held universally to be such bad form. It requires no discussion. It’s a, a given (truly, an utterly hateful expression).

Imagine then the damage that a big wholehearted double knit Simon MacCorkindale type can wreak with his gigantic kinematic envelope and huge hands. Why doesn’t he find some other fucking calling? Go and feed the world the cunt? Sink the U-boats with a penknife and an empty Bovril tin anything in fact but get him the fuck away from me! I won’t be responsible I won‘t…what a fuckbag.

Roundup Update: That Hungbunny bloke has done a roundup and all it is, is a picture of a BIG TURD. See here. Is he jealous or coming the cunt?

Saturday, December 10, 2005

…only for the…only for the…only for the hardcore UK raver !
R R R Rewindd…

It’s…Weekend Roundup!

First, thanks to all the commenters, what a fine bunch.

Fatmammycat’s talk of oily girl sandwich action proved too much for Maroon’s depleted blood supply but after some PG Tips (no offence GB) and a Tunnoch’s Caramel Wafer I was able to continue…Only to find yet more of the same at Mr G Bananas’ excellent sexual health forum. I took the rest of the day off, stopping only to collect my Viagras and Spiderman outfit from the cleaners. Why they sell Viagra at the cleaners is a mystery to me as well.

Ms Redhead and I are back on the poetry trail. Hurrah! Such catharsis. High art. I think you should all visit Olivia's and leave your constructive remarks and or poetic efforts. It’s free! This means you as well LindyK.

And on that subject,
she has been in Vegas, jammy wee midden.

Binty McShae is right! I will remove the offending line accordingly.

Jokemail’s drink related warnings are not funny but instead are frighteningly accurate.

Andraste has drunk 100 proof vodka. Pishaw and fiddlesticks, we DILUTE our drinks with such weak provender. We want pictures!

The ANTI-Barney has returned safe from Barca for which we should all give a moment’s thanks. Ryanair being what it is, he could’ve ended up in Egypt with electrodes on his tentacles, and no VB, we don’t mean in a good way.

Brewski has a bad back!…and liver...and lungs…cerebral cortex probably…his blood must be awash with allsorts…but still, he’s young and the recuperative powers of the human body must not be underestimated.
In most cases.
His Awakening to the Military Industrial Complex is proceeding apace and he hasn’t panicked, yet, but we should look for the signs and be there for him with a firm hand on the tiller and whatnot when he needs it.

justbreathe28. stole a toy penguin from some infants. Yeah I know, pretty fucking sick, and this in the week that John Lennon was shot as well.
In the back.
25 years ago.

Kim the bearded Scotsman could find nothing to do in Falkirk for 2 hours (frankly, I don’t believe him), he didn’t lift the cup at the awards and has yet to explain coherently to those who may be interested, what a goddamned gravatar is.

Safety Inspector has passed way beyond us now through his stargate portal. He can still communicate but the space/time distortion thing is strong. Is it me or has he grown a bigger beard? Old Albert documented this effect. We remain young while he gets older before our eyes, and your own father becomes your second cousin. Hey that’s what he said (SafeT) not me, it’s all very mathematical, you wouldn’t get it.

Bigger beards
El-Barbudo! No, I shall not give beardy a hard time, he does not have far to look for his troubles; F**t Eater is back hovering.
God bless us and save us all!

Friday, December 09, 2005

…the cracked brass bell will ring,
to summon back the Fire Witch,
to the court of the Crimson King…

In the name! Two days now lost to work. Someone threw a spanner in the works, not literally, that would be criminally insane but a minor spanner, a spanner with a small “s” which meant that yesterday I was in the West of Scotland, [God preserve me from the ******** XXXXX ******* XXXXXXX ****** (no offence)], which was totally crap, and today I have been mopping up the credibility slops. Someone’s got to do it. Never mind if you can do polynomial regressions in your head, in this line if you can eat peas off the back of a fork, you are pushed to the front to smooth things over with the glaikit bastards. Sometimes I think it shows on my face even when I’m smiling that I couldn’t give a flying fig for their silly little problems.
Customers, I fucking hate ‘em. They spend a few bob and they think that entitles them to oh never mind it’s all shite anyway fucking stuff and nonsense It was their fucking fault.
The roundup’s going to be late and that’s a fact. Here’s an interim cartoon I stole from JokeMail. I’ll put the link in the roundup. I might just sit here and do it now. Fuck it all.

Update: fucking Blogger won’t let me post! This is the pits.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

…her name is Aphrodite and she rides a crimson shell….

Ahh! The familiar desk, the good old swivel seat, the same moonfaced incompetents milling about like radio controlled robots.
Good to be back.
“Why Ack, you’re, you’re crying!”
“Tears of joy, Dick, tears of joy.”

Some days ago now in these pages (it seems like years), I rather dismissively advised Fatmammycat to buckle down and work her way through the Depths of Monday Hell.
Big mistake. It is obvious to me now, that she immediately slit open a rooster, smeared herself with the hot spilled entrails (viscera) and by Voodoo or somesuch, returned the curse to me tenfold with brass knobs on.
A lesson learned.

Anyway because of my superb globetrotting remedial work, it’s now safe again to fly off to your favourite Christmas destinations.
I’m positive it is. Yes. No I’m quite sure. Yes I’m certain.
Avoid older MD80s

And on that subject there is apparently talk of making us all work till we’re 68 or something. Having been born in Glasgow, this means I shall be dead for a year when my pension comes through. Good job I’m embezzling as fast as I can, what foresight I have.
I also did not realise that everyone in this Great Britain of ours drank like fishes. I thought it was only we downtrodden Scotch and the poorer Northerners that drank, not a bit of it. The affluent Southerners have joined the national pastime with such enthusiasm as to be almost off-putting. The women are the worst, with their lack of suitable winter clothing, their smoking and their ribald antics, trying to outdo each other as “laddettes”. A single chap with oats to sow would find very little stony ground down there and no mistake. I of course with an important position to think of, made my excuses and managed to avoid any unpleasantness (skin contact) with the eager young hussies.
I hope I don’t regret it.

It will have to be MIDWEEK Roundup now. It will follow tomorrow.

Late Update: Wednesday is Addiction Day! always.

(see Barbudo?)

Friday, December 02, 2005

Bouncing Buckbeans.

She’s the girl who makes the thing that holds the ring that moves the spring that shifts the thingamabob.
It’s a ticklish sort of job putting the thing on the thingamabob, especially since it makes the engines ROAR. (or not, in this case)

My sincere apologies dear reader for abandoning the blog this week but I have an excuse.
This week I have been;

a) Mainly ill with an ague (avian bird poultry flu disease).
b) Drinking on St. Andrews night**, where I also got my photo taken by an IMPORTANT NEWSPAPER.*** He did look at me funny when he took down my name.
c) Visiting manufactories where they don’t know their arses from their elbows. Buckbeans all!
In fact, I am to be sent to another manufactory this evening, in ENGLAND of all places and will not return until Monday afternoon, at which point I shall be only too pleased to update you all.
I am to fly to Surrey which now has its own airport called Gatwick and then beetle up the Brighton Road to a drink-sodden suburb of the Great Metropolis crawling with lager louts enjoying the new relaxed drinking regs.
I can’t wait.
See you Monday.
Regards all.

** An unqualified success or utter disaster depending on your viewpoint. I asked more than once for blue vodka but still no joy.
*** The Oban Times.