Monday, 26 March 2007

Frogs Porn

In springtime, the frogs come out of hibernation and breed like the clappers. As the warm weather and the strengthening sun bathes their cold blooded squishy hides, their natural urges and instincts take over.

On the 9th March, my other half Deb took a stroll into the woods near our home. It was a crisp spring day, beautifully warm, with drifting clouds peppering the blue sky and a gentle breeze rustling in the trees.

In the marshes however was a heaving mass of seething frog bodies, entwined and pulsing, spewing forth their spawn, fertilising their spawn, throttling each other, groaning and grunting, rutting like mentalists. (I can't keep up the evocative prose for long). The males can be distinguished from the females by their slightly longer feet, armed with horny (heh) pads to help them grip the females better. Females lay 2000 eggs... of which only 2 will survive to froggy adulthood.

At this time of year, their survival instinct is overcome by the urge to breed, therefore frogs are easy pickings for predators. Herons, Ducks, Stoats, Birds of Prey, Badgers, Pike and Peter Beardsley. All of these will feast upon the rich pickings of randy amphibians gorging themselves till they shit themselves with joy.

Please review the film debbie took, it really is quite disgusting if judged from a human perspective. I myself think it is a beautiful ballet, one female ballerina being crushed under the burgeoning weight of 200 males all trying to cop a feel.

And at the end of this mass orgy, a snuff element. The frogs get so weak, they can die..... of exhaustion.

The ballet is a tragedy, I have a tear in my eye, but like Sir David Attenborough and Terry Nutkins always say, we can't get involved, it's like Star Trek, we have a prime directive of non-intervention. We may pay for our arrogance though.... Just wait till those frogs evolve enough to beat the fuck out of us, then we'll be sorry.

Humans Beware!

Tuesday, 20 March 2007

The power of the human mind

I went to see the Arcade Fire in Brixton on Saturday, with Des, Mel and Martin. Before the gig though I met up with Des and Mel in Islington for a pizza. As I walked down Upper Street I mused on how amazing the human mind is. How does it not get overwhelmed with all the information hitting it all the time? It is an incredible organ…. I paused for a second to take things in. Stuff we would normally filter out in our day to day.

Church Bells Ringing, Sirens Blaring, The lights of a police van burning into your retinas, the stink of a kebab, a wailing child. What if we lived a life when we couldn't filter anything out? We'd never achieve anything! We'd crumple to the floor in sensory overload gibbering like a stoat injected with red bull whilst clasping our hands over our ears and scrunching our eyes from the multitudes of colour attacking us from every direction.

So had a nice meal, then got on a packed tube to head off to Brixton. And that's when I got the converse effect of the power of the human mind. The times when you can't filter out something intensely irritating. A stupid 30 something couple in lust with each other (30+ people publicly showing affection is frankly disgusting) got on and stood nano-metres in front of me touching each other and sticking tongues in each others facial orifices. Get a room! They had invaded my aura with their irritating fumbling. And much as I tried to shut them out, they were too close for comfort. If I looked down and away, then my ears would pick up (above the noise of the tube train – bastard ears!) the slurpy licky sounds of tongue's popping in and out of ears and the scrape as her taste buds rasped against his shag pile like nasal hair.

If I looked up, my peripheral vision would see Gollum like fiddly hands worming their way around their partners fulsome carcass and horrid wet tentacular tongues writhing like entangled pulsating termite queens.

And their shitty perfume / aftershave combo was particularly gruesome. I had some options to get my own back –

1) Hug them and start licking their faces.

2) Have an Arthur Fowler like nervous breakdown and garrotte them with the strap of my man bag.

3) Avoid touching them and irritate them in a not so subtle way.

The first two options may have got me arrested, so I went for option 3. First, I smiled smugly as I picked my nose, sticking my little finger right up my hooter and pushing the skin out like a proboscis. All I needed was one glance, but it hurt like hell. And yes! Success, the man of the couple of looked at me… his tongue rolled back into his skull as his eyes bulged in horror. They didn't stop though. He shut his eyes, so I needed to crush their senses via another route. I wiped my snot sodden pinky and cleared my throat, a proper old mans green grolly invoking growl from the back of my throat. They both stopped this time, and looked at me. I had won.

Luckily I didn't even have to guff. That was my last defence, like a squid in danger squirting black ink, I would have unleashed hell upon their nostrils. But there would have been civilian casualties….

Thankfully, they got off the train, everyone was safe. I sincerely hope that they could see my distended nose and hear my throat gurgling greenie cough all through the night. FUCK OFF! DON'T MESS WITH ME!

Ps - Arcade fire were great. Awesome live.

Thursday, 15 March 2007

Tara Parker Tompkinson has never made up her own bed

I read somewhere that TPT has never made up her bed... ever, in her life.

I felt disgusted at this, this life of privilidge (sp?) the aristocracy live in. People like me can't even spell privilidge, let alone indulge in it.

I bet she gets a butler to butter her muffins too. And apply organic lemon curd as well (mmmm....)

Anyway, when I voiced my disgust at this lack of bedmaking, Debbie informed me that in all the years she's known me, I've never actually made up a bed either ... ever.

Then I realised, me and TPT might come from different backgrounds, but we are not so different really.

I looked at my hands, realising how girly and silky soft they are. I've never done a hard days work. I might tip tap on a keyboard for a living, but I've never taken an axe to a man for instance, or even a tree.

Come the revolution I'd be first up against the wall, but I'll use TPT as a human shield. Maybe I'll survive and beg for a job as a prancing fool with bells on. Like Mr Claypole.

Saturday, 10 March 2007

R.I.P Captain America and my tribute to Kraftwerk

So Marvel comics have finally killed off Captain America. He was never one of my favourite superheroes it has to be said. A bit bland, a bit boring, blonde, goody two shoes, even had the super soldier serum removed from his blood in the 90's to show kids that "drugs were bad".

So why kill him off? Because Marvel didn't have a storyline for him. And he was killed off in a rubbish way (shot by a sniper, not bummed to death by a re-animated Red Skull which would have been much cooler).

Marvel killed him off because they bottled it. He represents America and its ideology driven from the war of independence and the civil war which came later, freedom, democracy, liberty.... but they couldn't give him an opinion anymore, he wasn't allowed one, not when there is a raging debate about war/international intervention going on. Comics, or at least comics aimed at the mainstream are apolitical. So Marvel sacrificed him. It was too dangerous to keep him alive, in case he upset one part of the polarised readership. Maybe they didn't bottle it, it was fairly shrewd in some ways.....

I hated modern storylines around Captain America, he was boring, they were boring. The Avengers were boring. I much preferred him as a member of the Invaders. Set in World War II, battling the Super Axis, The Red Skull, Baron Blood, Master Man, Thor and Adolph Hitler himself. I love those 1970s comics. Weak on plot, but high on action and adventure. And the gaudy bright artwork sticks in the memory.

I think I have most of them somewhere, if not, then I'm going to re-buy them.

Captain America, Union Jack, Spitfire, The (original) Human Torch, Toro, The Whizzer, Prince Namor the Submariner, Bucky (actually he was shit) and Miss America (she was shit too - the others were great).

Also here is a cool rendition of the original Union Jack before he got his legs smashed by his traitourous turncoat Nazi vampire of a brother Baron Blood. After this tragedy with a boulder (ha), his son had to take over in the Invaders. One of only a handful of British Marvel Super Heroes.... set back in the time when guns, and smoking, especially pipes, were considered cool.

Anyway, onto my tenouous link with Kraftwerk. As you know, the Germans fought in the second world against the Allies. Did you know that Kraftwerk were also German? Ha Ha Ha. That was a grim link.

Anyway, I was listening to the C.S.S album today, which is magnificent. Danceable indie brasilian punk. Like many artists they have sampled Kraftwerk. I am absolutely positive that (admittedley small) chunks of "The Robots" and "Spacelab" have found their way into C.S.S' album. I can't find any reference to this on the web anywhere. But it is a tribute to these dance music pioneers heritage.

Kraftwerk, and their 1970's electronics, where more time was spent repairing failing analogue keyboards than recording were geniuses, one of the progenitors of modern dance music, admittedley a curse on, as well as a blessing to the world. So what if the music sounds a bit dated today? It would be like having a 3000 year old Egyptian sarcophagus in your living room, using it as a coffee table. Not particularly appealing, but made of solid gold. It isn't disposable music to jump around to nowadays, but it is still appreciated on the rare occasions you do dig it out.

Coldplay and their tired usage of "Computer Love's" main riff aside, most samples of Kraftwerk in modern music are a great tribute to their musical heritage.

What magnificent nerds. I love them.

Tuesday, 6 March 2007

Amusing Spam Mail

I occasionally check my mails that have been redirected by the spam filter, just in case one of my mates is offering to sell me a re-mortgage, a russian wife or some obscure filthy DVD's. You know, I don't blame the filter, it's eager to please, like a puppy that's pees on the lino, they can't understand irony, they can't separate humour from spam, hence I give the filter my full support and double check its progress and guide it.

Anyway, amoungst the dross, the following one came to the fore.... the subject alone made me crack up laughing. But what the hell is it trying to sell me? Is this spam for spams sake? Or is it some subliminal ploy for me to buy a fart powered ceiling fan? Who knows. Your comments welcome.

From: White []
Sent: 02 March 2007 10:56
To: melly
Subject: Meanwhile, button down that flapping upper lip of yours, goofy, before I staple it to the ceiling and watch you spin around like a fart-powered ceiling fan.

I think that pimple on your ass turned out to be a brain tumor.

My understanding of this crime was the victims where youths on their way to play some soccer. Just one example : At Petrobras. is Brazil teaching to these nations. Six youth, out of what population size in their age category in the city? The team predominately filled with L.

"We respect the local culture to preserve children," stated the doctor. Just one example : At Petrobras.

without anyone help !

Friday, 2 March 2007

Fly Fishing by J.R Hartley

I got really excited on the train yesterday, as I thought I spotted the actor who played J.R Hartley, the author of Fly Fishing who appeared in the iconic Yellow Pages ad of the 1980's... here it is... brings a tear to my eye every time.

I whispered to Deb in my best secretive attempt at grabbing her attention... "psssst (as I have to speak like Ramirez the Hispanic Pimp according to Ongey from now on)... look over there... it's heeeem!"

"Who?" She replied.

"J.R Hartley!"


"SHHHHHHH!!!!!!!! He'll hear us! Wait till we get off!"

So as we got off, we both had a good ogle, I'm sure he muttered "W*nker" as we got off. But that would be praise indeed... from the great J.R Hartley.

Unfortunately, having done some research we were hoodwinked by this elderly imposter. The actor who played JR Hartley died in 2001 aged 95. Rest in peace Norman Lumsden, people aged 30 years and above loved and still love you. I'm glad you found your book, you humble and wonderful man.,4273,4310537,00.html

As for the old goat on the train, I'm gonna find you and make you pay for calling me a w*nker. The real JR Hartley was a gentleman, not like you, how dare you sully his cultural heritage and gentle demeanor with your identical face!