Irish crooner Chris de Burgh has paid 30 grand for the chest-burster from Alien. (Chris is the one at the top.)
He also has a £14,000 letter from WWI, special healing hands and Miss World for a daughter. I’m telling you, this guy puts the RRROCK! back into rock star.
Rumour has it that Chris has written a special version of his hit song Lady In Red for his little alien, entitled Lady in John Hurt:
Lady In John Hurt
I’ve never seen you looking so lovely as you did tonight
I’ve never seen you shine so bright
I’ve never seen so many men have to hold me down while I died
With you bursting out from inside
Then running off to hide
I have never even really noticed
How you look just like a horse’s cock with teeth
You’re beyond belief
The Lady in John Hurt is hatching in me, little freak
There’s nobody here
It’s just you and me, and-some-blokes-and-Sigourney (Weaver)
But I hardly know this beauty in my insides
I’ll never forget the way you made my chest burst open and all my blood squirt out
I didn’t say it was finished yet but it’ll be done for Christmas.
The wicked moral rot of the Democrats continues its relentless march into all spheres of public life. Today it was Nick Robinson on Radio 4’s PM.
I could barely believe my ears:
Ministers and civil servants when you talk to them privately aren’t thinking about the beginning on today this Queen’s speech, they’re thinking: when’s he off and when’s the nude guy coming.
I’ve always thought very highly of Robinson in the past, but now I can see he’s just as demented and sex-crazed as the rest of them. I can hardly close my eyes without falling prey to the vilest images of him, knocking on my entrance with his Black Rod and such like.
And to think children could have been listening! Thank God ours prefer Radio 3.
Quick! Ooh! Everyone get over-excited! Google’s buying a SPACESHIP! Let’s run around squealing! Let’s call it Space 2.0! Ooh, I like that! Let’s tell everyone! Googlegooglegoogle!
I hope you’ll forgive my scepticism, I’ve had a long day. Plus I’ve managed to get hold of a photo of what’s really going on inside Google’s secret hangar, “Building 43”.
UPDATE: DROP EVERYTHING AGAIN! AMAZON’S BOUGHT ONE TOO!
What’s this? No sign of Diana on the Express front page??
Have they no heart? But wait… what have we over here? Why, if it isn’t the Daily Star, the Express’s special stablemate for those who prefer their daily wad of rat piss unburdened by small print and sentences:
Britain owes a debt of thanks to Richard Desmond for getting this remarkable scoop to us by whatever means available, and bonus points for not cheapening the Express in the process. I do wonder though if anyone’s warned the Star about those £100 fines.
It’s just been pointed out to me that Mugabe is “E’ ba gum” backwards.
Also, if you play the theme music to Last Of The Summer Wine backwards and turn the sound right up you can clearly hear the words “Africa must revert to what it was before the imperialists divided it”.
WARNING: NOT SUITABLE FOR MINORS.
I’m sure this will all turn out to be some huge practical joke, but I’ve been sent it by two blogrot irregulars now so I felt duty bound to post it.
I am, of course, referring to Channel 4’s screening of the UK’s first charity Masturbate-A-Thon.
The obvious joke is that they’ve been screening rooms full of wankers for years on Big Brother. I’m too tired to think of the non-obvious joke so I’m afraid that will have to do for now.
Meanwhile, you might like to reflect on the event’s bizarre winged dog/cock logo, and where it might have ranked in b3ta‘s excellent run down of the best phallic corporate idents.
…then Wah Kazoo must surely be the botulism.
It’s the kazoo, played through a wah-wah pedal. Here, have a listen:
I had an anxious moment today, passing the news cube at Tesco’s, when it looked like the Daily Express had abandoned its tireless quest to uncover the truth behind Princess Diana’s murder by Mossad/Prince Phillip/MI5/the 12-foot lizards. But on closer inspection there it was, just a bit less prominent than usual.
From “The Daily Express: The World’s Greatest Newspaper“
As predictably as night follows day, our friends north of the border have got their knickers all in a twist again about England going to the World Cup while they get to stay at home and mope.
“Aye, the English, they’re so arrogant,” said one chap on Five Live last week. Another one said something else but how am I meant to understand them with those silly accents? They don’t even make an effort.
Meanwhile, sales of mangoes were reported to be up four-fold in Scotland in advance of the England v Trinidad & Tobago match, on account of the number of Carribean-themed party nights that were planned. It actually made me feel a bit sorry for them, having to find other under-achievers to root for when their own under-achievers under-achieve so splendidly they fall right out the bottom of the barrel. Simon Hoggart put it rather succinctly in yesterday’s Guardian:
I feel quite sorry for those Scots who detest England so much. There can be nothing more galling than to loathe someone who in return regards you with benign tolerance. Inevitably the anti-English brigade become like children shouting “I hate you, I hate you!” while the parent smiles and says, “I think he’s over-tired”.
Don’t get me wrong, mind: many of my best friends are English.
UPDATE: I take it all back, they’re right behind us.
I went to the Manchester Apple Store the other day for a quick prod of the wares. I was mucking about with a MacBook laptop when I was approached by some goon wearing an official Apple T-shirt and dangly badge.
“Need any help there, mate?” asked the goon.
I replied that I was just browsing.
“Yeah, cool,” he grinned. “Are you a Mac user yourself?”
“No,” I said, “PC I’m afraid.”
“Ah,” he said, leaning in with the air of a man about to reveal to me a life-altering truth, “the inferior operating system!”
Honestly, what a dick. The crazy-eyed zealot went on to tell me that Microsoft Office is better on the Mac because it was written (by Microsoft) for the Mac first then ported (by Microsoft) to Microsoft Windows. Eventually I had to pull down his dangly badge and twang it up into his chin to escape.
I should know better. You wouldn’t walk into a Mormon temple without expecting to be told we’re all going to heaven in a magic spaceship. But must I really have to put up with this brainwashed pigshit every time I want to dribble over some overpriced technology? Where are my human rights in all this?
It is for this reason that Bill Gates will always win. Just like Blair, who needs an argument when the opposition are all maniacs?
Photo: a man hurries past the den of crazies clutching a talismanic John Lewis bag. By me.
You know I wouldn’t normally take an interest in a bizarre goat item, but something about the Sun story Man’s sex with goat caught my attention. I think it was the quote from Detective Inspector Dave Crinnion:
I saw the goat the next day — it did not seem too upset but it is difficult to tell.
Difficult, sure – but not impossible. Was it rocking quietly in a corner and crying, Dave? Was it listening to all its old Sade albums? Was it cutting the sleeves off jackets and letting the phone ring out? These are the signs you need to look for.
Just another example of the police’s shoddy attitude to goat welfare in this country. And meanwhile a couple of suspected terrorists get 250 dedicated officers crawling all over them. I feel some balance is called for.
Link from Darren.
In an amazing coincidence, ITV has exclusively revealed that the renowned livestock pleasurer Rebecca Loos sings like a hog being brought to climax.
Performing on ITV’s Celebrity X Factor as part of the novelty double-act Pig-Wank And Squidgy, Loos has demonstrated a voice described by some as sounding like “a pig, ill with stress, rutting furiously in a gas mask.”
The news has come as a shock to other superstar celebrities who hitherto had supposed Loos’s talents to be without bounds. Worldwide recording artiste Rowetta Satchell commented yesterday:
She’s not a star. She’s famous for something horrible… and pigs.
Asked about his partner’s unique musical ear, James Hewitt said, “Anyone for sherry?”
Wayne Rooney was not available for comment.
Listening to Boris Johnstons mumbling about education this morning it struck me that the current Tory party will never let lack of experience get in the way of putting a media-friendly face into a position of responsibility. And so I present to you (once Blair finishes fucking everything up) the next Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Rt Hon Adam Rickets:
As you can see, Mr Rickets once appeared on the cover of Attitude magazine with a wad of £20 notes stuffed into his pants. When did Gordon Brown ever do such a thing? This man’s dedication to the British economy truly knows no limits.
Adam also once went to Turkey on holiday, and hence after a short spell at the Treasury is expected to be moved to the Foreign Office where he will be in charge of sorting out Iraq with his parliamentary colleague Giles Brandreth.
Ow!! In the latest in my domestic injury series, I have just slipped on the kitchen floor while wearing socks and stubbed my toe. Luckily there were no cheese graters involved but still, it bloody hurt.
I should know better of course. A friend of mine once told me a sock-related story from his student days. One of his flat-mates, a kick-boxing supremo, had decided for whatever reason to kick his way into another flat-mate’s locked room. He confidently predicted that a sound kick to the hinge side of the door would have it down in one blow. It’s probably fair to say he had been drinking.
Tragically (for him, amusingly for us), our friend had neglected to consider… the Sock Factor.
In came the kick and out went the top hinge. The top of the door bent inwards and his sock-clad foot slipped all the way to the top just as it snapped back. Van Damme Lite was left hanging from the door frame by his now broken big toe. His quick-thinking pals put some weight against the top of the door, upon which his toe was released and he fell back to earth, fracturing his coccyx.
I’ve no idea if that’s true or not, but I think about it pretty much every time I put on a pair of socks. Tonight I let my guard down and just look at what happened.
THINK ONCE. THINK TWICE. THINK SOCKS.