A trip down to the shops.
Monday, June 30, 2003
Where did it all go wrong?
Dr. Crippen, the famous wife-poisoner who tried to evade the law with his mistress who was dressed as a school-boy in order to pass as his son was not only adept at murder, far from it. Although having said that, he was a bit rubbish at getting away with it, which is half the battle in my opinion. He had many more strings to his bow than bad murders and terrible escape plans. Few are aware of his early ventriloquist work that delighted children and retarded adults alike, a far cry from burying one's dead wife in the cellar? Perhaps not.
Consider this if you will. A normal, fairly well-adjusted child of perhaps six or seven years old is taken to the beach one sunny August day by his parents. They adore him, naturally, as he is the union of their love, their only motives for anything they do being influenced by their love for him. There, along the promenade his parents see the gaudy striped canvas of the ventriloquist's stage fluttering in the light summer breeze.
"You'd like to see the ventriloquist man wouldn't you Ian?" His mother asks kindly. Ian didn't really know what a ventriloquist was, but he liked the look of the small stage set-up, it reminded him of the Punch and Judy show he'd seen on their last trip to the coast. Punch and Judy he enjoyed. Although there wasn't much plot, and Ian certainly didn't agree with the obvious abusive relationship that Mr. Punch and Judy seemed intrenched in, which was a little disturbing to him, although after the crocodile arrived he could write it off as possibly a drunkard's fiction.
"Here we are champ." Ian's dad said as he was sat on a deckchair facing the stage, ready to 'enjoy' the show. It started, but from the very beginning Ian could see that this was different. Puppets he could understand, but what in god's name was this? A short man with dark hair and round, thin-rimmed child-molester spectacles stepped out onto the stage with his arm thrust into the ragged hole in his associated midget's back. What made matters worse was that this this foul cadaver was being manipulated by the future poisoner, Ian seeing nothing of the quaint seaside show but more a macabre display of humanity's sickness.
From that moment on Ian never allowed a smile to cross his lips. His brow furrowed and eyes sunk as he withdrew further and further from society, no matter what his parents did to try and disperse this disturbing new trend. They encouraged friendships with neighbourhood children, but nothing was to do the trick.
"Myra has come to play dear, I'll see you later. Take care." His mother said, putting her arm around her husband as she saw him skip down the path with his one friend. Mr. and Mrs. Brady sighed heavily and went upstairs to make love.
Team building, soul destroying.
Team building seems to be the new buzzword everywhere nowadays. In order for employees to work to their full potential in the workplace they must feel like they are part of a cohesive whole that works like a well lubricated porn-star - getting the job done as smoothly as possible. At least that's what these agencies will have your employer convinced of, no matter what kind of imbecile turns up at the door to undertake this job; one that in the workplace is akin to being a red-coat amongst a throng of pikeys.
The firm that was employed to instigate and referee these team building exercises at a local company of rectal sanitizers was Phil-Late-Activity, the chairman being Sir Phillip Late whom the company was named after. Two people, a man and a woman dressed entirely in white arrived at the offices where the rectal sanitizers and their assistants waited in anticipation, hoping in vain that this will be the thing that is needed to stop their job being so unrelentingly foul. Barry and Colette were the two 'facilitators' sent by Phil-Late, and requested that all 'keystones' (a term used by facilitators for the employees) refer to them and each other only by first names. A fairly inauspicious start, but that was only the tip of the iceberg of madness that lurked in the sea of the workplace ready to sink the Titanic of your job in record time.
Once the exercises began it was clear that insanity was being unleashed, but whose was to be a mystery. Colette? She seemed benign enough, but beneath that white boiler-suit there may lie the intent of a psychopath, determined to bend and coerce the world into her own twisted ideas of normality. Barry? Almost certainly sexually confused, but insane, who's to say? One thing was a given though, he was a genetic freak, a mutant, a man who only had three fingers and a thumb on his right hand, and no accident scar proved the deficiency in his DNA. Perhaps they were after all just Phillip Late's stooges, acting out his inhumane sickness like puppets doing their master's bidding.
The first exercise involved the usual kind of thing you'd expect, but with a bizarre twist. Everyone must surely be aware of the trust exercise where one person falls backwards into the arms of another person, well the first exercise mirrored this almost exactly. Barry performed it with Colette showing everybody how it was done, but when asked to pair up it was discovered that there were an odd number of people there. When The one lonely employee, Stewart Felcher, who had the misfortune of being least liked, and thus unable to find a willing partner for the game asked what he should do neither Barry nor Colette could understand quite what the problem was, and so convinced him that it would work just as well if he performed it on his own.
Once the first ambulance left with Stewart's unconscious and bleeding form the activities continued. Excercise number two was almost as much of a disaster. Barry suggested an excersice in 'coordination with colleagues', and instead of showing how it was done with Colette he decided that two 'keystones' would perform the activity for the rest of the group to see. Only when Alan Fistyah and his palsied assistant, Jennifer Glockenspiel were picked as the lucky 'keystones' for the task was it revealed that the coordinaton activity was to take the form of a three-legged race. Naturally, like a sports-day at an amputee ward, the three-legged example was a debacle. Jennifer could do nothing but spasm with shame as she was cut loose from the numbed and unconscious form of Alan, his wrist broken and bleeding, a compound fracture now troubling his already lumpy and malformed arm.
The second ambulance arrived and left in even more of a hurry that before, Alan and Jennifer both riding in the vehicle, he for his tattered and splintered appendage, and her for shock-induced seizure. When the blood and spittle had been crudely mopped up Barry and Colette continued unphazed, like the automata they always appeared to be.
Exercise three was to be the final exercise performed, although many more were planned by Barry and Colette even they could not continue a team building exercise with corpses, no matter how much they seemed to want to. This was all to come about simply because Colette suggested some role-play amongst the group. Pairing up was now possible due to the three casualties so far, and so, once pairs had been decided Barry led everyone into the small kitchen attached to the office, used for making cups of coffee and tea for tired rectal sanitizers. Once all the pairs were in the room they were blindfolded, applied with nose clips and tied to their partner using the rope that was intended for the three-legged race. Barry instructed all the people that the door will be shut and locked, and when unlocked in half an hour each pair will be brought to the front and asked to tell the group at least five things that they have found out about the other person through their remaining capable non-aural senses.
Obviously it was an accident when either Barry or Colette nudged the dial of the gas cooker in the room. Both were too involved listening to tapes by Sir Phillip Late on their personal stereos to hear the shouts and pleads of the rapidly overcome 'keystones'. An official apology was given by Sir Phillip Late, but claimed that no responsibility can be taken for the dangerous working environments of those places his 'facilitators' go to facilitate, and suggested that Phil-Late-Health-n-Safety could be consulted at any time for a modest fee.
My only advise is never to commit yourself into the care of these madmen. If you are given advance warning of team building exercises then it is time to start to plan, how to avoid such a senseless waste of life without being fired.
Sunday, June 29, 2003
bugger piss shit wank!
WHY WHEN I HAVE GOSSIP IS NO ONE HERE THAT I WANT TO TALK TO. I KNOW ITS 4AM, BUT FUCKING HELL!!!!!
I HAVE MET A MAN, NOT SURE WHATS GOING TO HAPPEN YET, BUT WE WILL SEE!!!!!!
Thursday, June 26, 2003
The Mystery of Glanseye Hill.
*** REPORT BEGIN ***
The phantom car was first spotted along that now fateful stretch of road on a rainy night in January, 1978 by an elderly couple. Mr. and Mrs. Brachiosaurus said that they had parked their Ford Anglia at a spot designated for picnicking for a swift act of fellatio when Mrs. Brachiosaurus looked up and saw what she could only describe as, "A red Morris Traveller, but that wasn't the extraordinary part about it, the extraordinary part was the driver, a large kidney-stone, roughly the same size as a small sideboard."
This creepy calsite has been spotted on many subsequent occasions, most recently by Pope John-Paul II's third cousin, and local resident of nearby Glans-on-The-Shaft, Eamonn Spenk, 33. Mr. Spenk had been walking up the hill, alongside the road after a twelve hour session of hard drugs at a friends house when he tripped and fell into a ditch. Upon pulling himself out of the ditch some ten minutes later a red Morris Traveller passed him, doing around twenty miles an hour. At this speed Mr. Spenk could clearly see that the occupant was "A kidney-stone, but larger than any I had seen before. It was like the kidney-stone of a whale or something." Moreover Mr. Spenk left the scene with some solid evidence, unfortunately the laudrette removed any last traces before our team had a chance to investigate the sample further.
A report in the local newspaper 'Eye on Glans' told of a more sinister appearance by the rouguish renal calculi, and this time with a notable absense of its usual vehicular transport. A number of townspeople witnessed the kidney-stone at a local branch of Tesco brandishing a stained sanitary towel in the dairy aisle. Whilst it was clear that the kidney-stone was definately seen waving the pad, none of the witnesses could say if it had arms or not. The final few lines of the article hinted at an earlier, even more horrific event that involved an elderly lady, but that was were the trail ended.
Determined to find out the full story we started to make some investigations in the town itself. After plying the local tramp, Mr. Fleecey with methylated spirits we found out what we needed to know. It turned out that five years ago, in the Church of Saint Ginswiller, the local presbyterian church of Glans-on-The-Shaft, a cleaning lady was confronted by this demented nephrolithiasis. Whilst we never managed to get her full name the tramp confirmed that if may have begun with an M or a V. The poor old lady, reputedly "older than methusela's dad" according to our source, whilst never actually physically violated by the giant kidney-stone apparantly did badly sprain her jaw on fleeing the scene.
It is clear that this renal deviant must be brought into check before it's too late, but how? Vinegar pits have been dug throughout the forests around Glanseye Hill in an attempt to 'solve' the problem, although with its known penchent for motorised transportation these are likely to fail. Roadblocks and armed police may be the only way to rid the area of this menace. Only time will tell whether or not we have made the right decisions.
*** REPORT END ***
And that was the last communication we had with them. They sent their report via telex, with an addendum saying that they will be travelling back via Glanseye Hill, but that was three years ago. I just don't know what to make of it...
I am so proud of my boys. Not on the usual tact of this blog, but I need to make it public that I am proud of them. So pleased with them! I call them every night to make sure they are in at 8pm, and for three days in a row they haven't broken curfew AND... they are pleased with themselves one of their mates got nicked the other day, and they didn't. They think its funny, they are also relieved that haven't been in the cells. If I have to call them all the time until the curfew is overturned and they have been sentenced then its all good, and I will. Its only until 7th July, I hope they make it through the weekend though. That will be the test. I hope they do it, I will be so pleased with them if they do.
Wednesday, June 25, 2003
I was out the other day and trying to drive down Lincoln Road, I got stuck waiting for a pensioner to cross on the zebra crossing. I swear to god it took him 15 minutes to cross the road. I was tempted to get out of the car push him in a wheelchair and kick the chair across the road. He was there with his two walking sticks and trousers that ended at just above his ankles. He should have been put down!
Warning to all twitchers!
Fellow bird-watchers, be aware that there has been a sudden increase in cases of thrush throughout Cumbria and Galloway. Free pessaries are available from your local Post Office.
Tuesday, June 24, 2003
Leg or breast?
An interesting question, and one that leads to more deaths in the United States of America than guns and cars combined, with numbers peaking around Thanksgiving. It isn't that surprising really though, considering the explosion in turkey sales around that time. In 1917, after the outbreak of prohibition many people began to distil their own spirits from what they could get their hands on. The most common ingredient used in its making was turkey, but this was where the problems began.
The illegal liquor producers formed two camps. One was convinced that the only part of a turkey that should be used in liquor production was the leg, more precicely the upper thigh, nearest the bottom. The second camp however lived in the firm knowledge that this was filthy, and the only part of the turkey to use was the lush and succulent breast. This led to a deep seated resentment between the two sides, eventually resulting in large scale rioting in March of 1921 throughout every state in America. Over three quarters of the American populace died in the following few days of bloody violence, finally culminating in a stand-off between the two sides. Neither side would admit defeat, nor would they charge the others due to excessive turkey-liquor blindness.
The solution finally came in 1933, when the U.S. Government realised that the only way for this stalemate to be resolved was to legalise alcohol once more. The trade in good quality alcoholic beverage was almost instant, and full bottles deluged the East coast like a veritable tidal-wave. The turkey-blindness slowly waned and sight came back to the depleted American populace, but due to over a decade of not being able to see, they could no longer remember what their legger or breaster opponents looked like anymore. With surprising common sense of forethought the U.S. Government included an addendum on their de-prohibition bill that "No American is to enquire what variety of illegal liquor any other American citizen enjoyed consuming from 1917 to 1933."
This bill has been held dear by the American populace ever since, and in 1969, after 20 years of campaigning by the 'Constitutionalisation Comittee of The 1933 Turkey Liquor Bill' this addendum was added to the American constitution as an amendment. The CCT1933TLB were also successful in convincing the then President, Edward Byron Reuter (1880-1946), the 22nd President of America that ignoring this amendment was deeply unconstitutionalist and tantamount to treason. A speech made in The House of Representatives declared that any person who inquires about this particular issue should be instantly executed by any and all bystanders, else they themselves were being unpatriotic.
To this day the ripples of history can be felt, when a proud father stands over the Thanksgiving turkey and asks his beautiful wife "Leg or breast dear?" and is brutally butchered by his attending family.
God Bless America.
Sunday, June 22, 2003
Some piffling foolery.
There's something really wrong with the world, nay the country; when pensioners have to get around in mobility scooters then this surely is a testament to the failing NHS that operates in this drained phlegm pot that is Britain. When I was younger I never saw old biddies screaming round the mall like Machael Shumaker, or a competitor on Robot Wars. No, they got given new hips so that they could walk for themselves. Bad hospitals or lazy old crones? I just don't know.