Faster than a speeding bullet

Boris leaping the NatWest Tower in a single bound... yeah I'd pay to see that.

The day the wheels came off

Facepalm... because some thing are just too dumb for words



I haven't blogged about the election so far because, well, it's as dull as ditchwater and I'm sat here secretly hoping that they could all lose. However I did want to make a point about what's already become, rather predictably, labelled "Bigotgate". It's not that Gorgon called her "a bigot", it's what he said before that, specifically:

Well just… They should never have put me with that woman. Whose idea was that?

"That woman" was an honest old lady who had played by the rules all her life.

"That woman" worked hard in the caring professions, serving her community until her retirement.

"That woman" voted Labour because she believed they offered the best chance of progress for the working person.

And you, Gorgon, claim to lead the party of the working man? You hate the working man, in fact from your comments you seem to hate the electorate, that is the citizens of this country, full stop.

Well Gorgon, I hate you too. No really hate you with a deep, visceral hate; I merely didn't like Thatcher and her policies but you I hate.

Fuck off you evil, lying cunt. I hope you and your cronies and the once great party you lead get wiped of the political map next Thursday.¹

Guess I didn't need to get interested in football after all

From a blog post back last year.

It would appear that the town where I was fledged1 appears to have won some sort of football competition and, apparently, gets to play with the big boys next year before presumably crashing ignominiously back into the Coca-Cola-Everest-Double-Glazing Conference League...

And today we read...

Burnley's train wreck of a season reached its inevitable conclusion today when they were condemned to relegation by a second-half drubbing from Liverpool, who kept alive their hopes of Champions League qualification by scoring four without needing to play particularly well.

So its back to being sponsored by a meat-pie making company for Burnley FC but I am wondering with my new found skills at footie prognostication I could get a job as some sort of pundit for the up-coming bore-fest of soccer that's happening in South Africa shortly. I suppose I would have to be able to say "Well basically Alan, football's a game of two halves and En-Ger-Lund have to give it 110% out there today" without wanting to set fire to a goalkeeper first.

Rule 34

I've noticed a bit of an upswing in visitors recently. A quick look at the referrers gave the reason why and it's all down to that animated film that's out at the moment called "How to Train Your Dragon".¹

So why is this driving traffic here? Easy, people are searching for "How to Train your Dragon Porn" on Google.

So is there HTTYD porn out there? Stupid question, this is Teh Interwebs and we have Rule 34 which states "There is porn of it, no exceptions".

Here you go... NSFW and Not Safe After Lunch: Toothless being trained to do something very naughty indeed

Dunno, he is kinda cute... I might.





¹ No I haven't seen it yet. The thought of sitting in a cinema with loads of screaming kids makes me feel physically unwell, I'll wait until one of my colleagues at work gets a good rip of it.

Eyjafjallajökull

I don't know about you but I reckon "Eyjafjallajökull" will be the title track on the next Sigur Ros album.

Is rather a shame that I wasn't flying out to Hong Kong this weekend as it would have been rather fun to call up the office there and say "Sorry, not coming because Mount Random-collection-of-letters has just exploded".

Still for anyone reading this stuck in an airport trying to get home here is some nice, soothing music by said Sigur Ros.

In case you're wondering, Sæglópur means "Lost at sea"

They had to say that, didn't they.

From today's "Independent"

Man admits having sex with horse and donkey

By Ellen Branagh, Press Association

A 66-year-old man pleaded guilty today to having sex with a horse and a donkey.

Joseph Squires appeared at Leicester Crown Court charged with buggery of a donkey between February 2 and February 5, 1999, and buggery of a horse between March 15 and 18, 2004.

He also faced charges of damaging property - relating to the two animals on the same dates.

Squires, whose address was previously given as Overpark Avenue, Leicester, was due to stand trial but pleaded guilty to all four counts at Leicester Crown Court today.

Defence counsel Amar Mehta told the court Squires had no previous convictions and was of previous good character.

Requesting he be released on bail, he said: "The defendant does not have a stable address although he says his daughter can provide an address."

Judge Michael Pert QC refused the application and remanded Squires into custody for a pre-sentence report to be prepared. He will be sentenced on May 24.

I'm sure all the equines in the Leicester area are delighted he doesn't have a stable address.

The whale from accounts receivable

Headquarters at Banko di Haggis periodically update our PC wallpaper with some corporate nonsense just to show what a wonderful organisation we are so privileged to work for. Usually it's some picture of some sporty types winning something with a bit of writing saying that Banko Di Haggis is now rated the #2 deal maker in European Elephant Dung Futures by "What Excrement?" magazine.

However today we get this gem...



Right. So I've been to quite a few offices of the company in different countries and one thing that I have noticed is that our once-proud banking organisation doesn't actually have any cetaceans on the payroll, not even dolphins who are supposedly quite clever. So unless this is the new head of accounts receivable I'm not exactly sure how I am supposed to leverage the financial and IT talents of a fucking five ton sperm whale.

However should, due to our government owners' latest diversity and inclusion legislation, we end up actually employing any large blubbery aquatic mammals I can assure my employer that I will treat them exactly as I treat my existing co-workers, i.e. with a mixture of derision and contempt<sup>1




1</sup> Actually I don't mind most of them, apart from the Quants, obviously.

The Man in 47D

So when you woke up on Friday morning, Man in 47D you had a bit of a sniffle but nothing serious, probably just the pollution as it had been rather sunny in Hong Kong the past couple of days and that always gets the ozone levels up. You went through your day doing what you needed to do and at some point Mrs Man in 47D packed your suitcase. That evening you kissed Mrs Man in 47D and patted the little Man in 47D's and promised to bring them back a present from London. You went to the airport, through security and maybe even had a look at the stupidly overpriced bottles of scotch in the duty free shop.

Maybe I looked down at you from my seat at the Long Bar in Cathay Pacific's business class lounge, maybe we walked down the airbridge together, you turning right and me left at door #2. You settled down into seat 47D, middle row of seats on the left, near the wing. Did you have the pork or the beef for dinner, or maybe you had neither because right now you were feeling rather poorly, nose dripping like a fucked fridge and a throat that felt you had just finished giving blow jobs to a large pack of very well endowed timber wolves? You had a miserable night's sleep and not just because you were in economy class and seat 47D did not fully recline but rather because everything ached and you could not get comfortable. And all through that night you sneezed and sniffled and your little cargo of rhinovirus made its way into the air conditioning systems which, being at 36,000 feet recirculate the air several times as it costs extra fuel to heat up fresh, very cold air from outside.

I had a quite pleasant flight, Man in 47D; nice meal, good night's sleep and I even got a sausage for breakfast, you know how much dragons like sausages. But all night I'd been breathing in your recirculated germs.

And so of course three days after getting home it starts with the drippy nose, the headache, the aching limbs, the complete fatigue and, joy of joys, the rendition of a certain oral service to top-level forest predators experience. And just in time for the Easter Holidays when I had all that DIY planned I'm flat on my back for four days with the most miserable cold I have had in ages.

And then just when I'm starting to feel a bit better on Monday in comes Mrs Dracunculus looking like she'd walked into a wall. She pointed at her throat and croaked.

"Timber wolves at it again?" I asked.

She nodded.

Thanks, man in 47 D. Thanks a whole fecking lot.