I like to think we’re all big enough now to see advertising for the evil mind-bending witchcraft that it is.
On the other hand, this ad is very good and I urge you all to drink PG Tips tea as a result:
(There’s a YouTube video here that you won’t see on the RSS feed. View it on the website instead.)
I’ve just had a very enticing offer by e-mail. I can’t say too much in case someone steals my contact and beats me to the readies, suffice to say it was from a MRS CAROLINW (sic) WOZIMM, a good Christian lady from Nigeria who is rather sadly dying from “the cancer of the lungs”. To cut a very long story short, the unfortunate woman has a $9,000,000 inheritance to invest and wants me to have 25% of it! 5% will go on expenses, which sounds reasonable, and the remaining 70% “will be for the work of GOD”, which I have to say I find rather humbling.
All I need to send her is my bank account details and the money’s mine! She doesn’t even tell me how she knows me, but I’m guessing our great-grandfathers knew each other in the Boer war or something. That’s how I understand it usually happens.
Needless to say I can’t believe my luck. This time next week I’ll be obscenely rich and can finally wave a fond farewell to this fucking blog. Honestly, it’s been a pauper’s game, and never a word of thanks. Good riddance to the lot of you.
Quite why a Dutchman should concern himself with producing a wobbly picture of Paxman with a cat on his head I have no idea, but concern himself he did.
It reminds me of the animation I once did of Wim Kok with an ocelot up his arse: I must dig it out some time. (At least I think that was the title.)
I am delighted to announce the opening of my new art gallery. Please feel free to visit: entry is free for Lego people.
The wife just uttered those three little words which never fail to make my heart leap and remind me why I married her all those years ago: “Curry for tea?”
Truly I am blessed amongst men.
Just had an e-mail, from some woman I’ve never even heard of, informing me that although she doesn’t care why my woody is so small, 83% of women do.
How the hell do they find out about these things? Has Mrs Blogrot been blabbing again? Is nothing sacred?
Just for the record: if you’re one of the 83% then I appreciate your thoughtfulness but it’s really none of your concern.
My tiny Woody - less than 2" tall but perfectly detailed
Honestly, have you ever seen a man look more like he’s just followed through in public?
It’s the look of panic in those evil piggy little eyes. There’s no question, the guy’s touched cloth.
This Iraq thing must be worse than we thought.
Do not, under any circumstance, eat a Mr Kipling Delightful Lemon Slice, for they are the work of the devil.
They are not delightful at all. And don’t be fooled by the slice of lemon depicted on the packaging. They have all the lemony goodness of a sponge scourer marinated in Fairy liquid.
Satan comes in the guise of a lemony cake, but is not lemony cake
Don’t be fooled as I was. Believe me, it’s better to just be fat.
Lemon drizzle my arse.
Initial reviews of new German Nazi comedy Mein Führer - Die wirklich wahrste Wahrheit über Adolf Hitler (My Führer - The Truly Truest Truth About Adolf Hitler) are surprisingly poor. You’d have thought a comedy about Hitler made by Germans would be a hoot, but according to Damien McGuinness on Radio 4’s Front Row, the laughs mostly revolve around the Nazis being fat and falling over a lot.
Here’s the trailer so you can make up your own mind:
(There’s a YouTube video here that you won’t see on the RSS feed. View it on the website instead.)
It’s a shame. Some of my favourite comedies are from Germany, such as Stop! Oder Meine Mami Schiesst.
10 Australians we COULD beat at cricket:
From left to right: Skippy the bush kangaroo; Rolf Harris; Dame Edna Everage; Steve Irwin (with crocodile); Craig Bag of Revels Horwood; Priscilla, Queen of the Desert; Harold Bishop; both Koala Brothers; Adolf Hitler.
I know there are supposed to be 11 but we have to retain some kind of advantage.
I’m being ironic, of course. We could field the Chelsea Pensioners and still see this lot off in time for supper. But the underlying point is a serious one: that the Australian is not a mythical beast. It is a creature of flesh and blood and it can be beaten (or failing that, made to look ridiculous in drag).
UPDATE: Where blogrot leads, The Guardian follows:
