'Did you wear a dashing dress and eat fish eggs?'

Nearly had a friggin’ nosebleed when I read that rangy r’arsepout pop-er Mika topped some industry–insiders’–choice new talent list which is bound to keep him in the public arena longer than I first anticipated. Am now seriously considering launching a petition to get that bumbee of the airwaves while my eardrums and my sanity is still in tact. The latter due to heavy medication namely fistfuls of Prozac that, fortunately, lighten the cross of Mika’s nauseating razzledazzle enthusiasm, archetypal stage-school campness and reptilian phizog. Unfortunately though it seems one cannot escape his jactitating bastardizations or ‘songs’ as I think they are known. Or turn the telly on without seeing him and his mob of mammoth-limbed floozies, cooing along in faux adoration with a look of contrived ecstasy on their spam-pie faces. It’s safe to say Mika’s got his fans. Now let the rest of us hope some cretin in the USA comes to our rescue and offers Mika a permanent position entertaining the chunkeroonies at one of those fat-camps. Alternatively, I wouldn’t mind if someone mowed him down with their car or filled his gobber with quick-set cement. A supercunt like him deserves no less.

'You'd probably daub your nipples with a sedative and then nick all their possessions when they had fallen unconscious.'

There once was a man called Eakins
below is one of his paintings,
of a fellow called Schmitt
which was never a hit
but what Eakins concealed is amazing!

...besides a polka dot brolly, my very own catzen, a shiny gramaphone, a new life on a watermelon farm, a lop rabbit, my half of the silver spiral, a yellow gas mask, a wireless, a bigger bunker, a new pair of silk nylons, a multicoloured abacus, a lifetime supply of Smythson’s stationary and Hipp Organic baby food, a cat-hat, a 24 piece-set of crayons, Alan Sked’s Guide to Post War Britain, a meet with jabberwocky, a library, a tango with Salinger, a vac-u-duck, a magic knitting kit and the broken Shirley Beans record, is one of these babies:

Not only ‘cause Hunter S Thompson had one but also because it’d be enormous fun to use it to type letters and things.

'I can hardly wait for the shitstorm to break and see her covered in shit.'

‘Those shoes wouldn't last a single day in a nuclear winter.’

A bit of twaddle courtesy of the BBC: Back in 1942 Scotland Yard conducted an investigation in to George Orwell’s political background and concluded that the author had ‘advanced communist views’ because he dressed ‘...in a bohemian fashion both at his office and in his leisure hours.’ Clearly, the Scotland Yardies had nothing better to do.