Karate Party

Thank you Jill, I have never laughed so hard and that is not hyperbole. Take a look at Karate Party

This is a list of the 100 worst names for karate films from 1960s onwards. The dry humour of the list compiler just cracks me up. And they keep coming as you scroll down. As a sampler I give you Number 73.

73 – Hard Way to Die
This title is beautiful. It’s not that it’s hard to kill the hero, the hero has just found a really difficult way to go about dying.

There’s also The 100 worst horror movie names

Sex change in animals (and all it entails)

Have you ever wondered about sex change in animals? When there is an overwhelming imbalance of males to females, in some species the issue is resolved by some males turning into females. Now, this in itself is remarkable, but I wonder even more about the process by which the decision is made which of the males undergoes the chop, so to speak. 

If it’s voluntary, then I imagine the discussion goes something like this:-

Chopper:- Ahem, it looks like one of us had better do the right thing.

Choppee:- Well, it’s no secret that I’ve always fancied a bit of rough-and-tumble with the guys. Many’s the night I’ve lain awake hopping to get buggered. If this is what it takes…

If it’s involuntary, then the person who gets the chop is perhaps the one with the least to lose. (There had to be a joke about penis size. I had another one about the shortest straw drawing the shortest straw)

We made a Pig’s Ear of it!

As you all know, this Sunday was the first day of the Chinese New Year, the Year of the Pig. So the usual suspects (Jill, Jessy, Kaitlyn, Tracy, Sha, Adam, Dmitri, Gareth, Ioannis, Paulo, Simon & moi) gathered at Jill’s luxurious and well-appointed (two microwaves, three fridges) penthouse flat to celebrate. Some of us cooked, some brought booze, and some sponsored dessert.

My imaginative and amazingly spiced chicken chilli went head-to-head against Simon’s more conventional, staid, traditional, boring beef chilli. Let’s just say that there were no losers. And let’s also remind Simon that no-one remembers the second guy on the moon.

Ioannis made a ham n shroom bake, Tracy brought prawns and special sauce, Jessy had a beef dish, Jill made dumplings and sticky sweet, and Sha brought a wonderful cake. We even had fortune cookies!

It was nice to have an good old ISOM bash and as usual it was a rip-roaring success. Reflecting upon which, I realise that a full SIX of yesterday’s revellers were outsiders, successful infiltrators of our close-knit community. What is the world coming to??

Happy new year guys and gals!

Teletrubbies – 1. The Meddling Narrator

I realised there’s a lot of material for moaning about, so here’s the first of a series of many in which I shall explore the ills of British terrestrial telly.

It seems that nowadays no program can be made without the ubiquitous narrator present. At best, Narrator Person (NP) attempts to provide continuity to a change of scene by linking the two. As if we couldn’t make the jump by seeing the same faces in the two scenes. The telly producers are so scared of making something unintelligible to their hypothetical “Least Common Denominator” person that they lump all the viewing public in with that stereotype. I regularly see BBC programs (which have no ad breaks) with NP saying “Coming up next, so-and-so will such-and-such” Lo and behold!! in the very next scene so-and-so does such-and-such, but not without NP first saying “Previously, we saw so-and-so doing such-and-such and now we catch up”!!

At the worst end we get the Idiot NP who goes “Who will win?”, “But will the voters know that?” or “I wonder whether they will share or shaft?” at which I literally scream “If you shut up you’ll find out you flipping orangutan!”

Another example is “Lily is looking sad” when indeed Lily is looking sad, the operative here being ‘looking’, as in we are watching what she fucking looks like!


An abstemious God

My site was down for a while and I panicked. I can’t find any of my regular blogbuddies through Google except for Boudica. The rest of you are so ornery that you don’t show up, whereas I’m top of the pile for “nazmania”.

I was thinking last night (I know, I apologise and will not be making a habit of it) and realised, the year 2007 is on its way!! What this means is that God hasn’t got his leg over in about Two Thousand Years, if you believe the news. How people are going to respect a God who doesn’t even get a bit of action every now and then, only God knows. But He seems to be quite busy interfering with reptiles and amphibians, producing “virgin birth” after “virgin birth” with no end in sight, nor indeed any talk of child support.

I then imagined what the conversation would go like today:-

Cuckolded Husband:- You what?? But we didn’t even….

“Virgin” Wife:- It was God’s act.

Cuckolded Husband:- Not again?!

God:- Sorry, you know, it’s actually been quite a while…

Cuckolded Husband:- You could’ve been more careful God! This is the 20th century you know. There are things you can use to prevent…

God (mumbling):- Sorry..

And now for the Educational part of the post———–

As for virgin births, they are brought about by a process known as parthenogenesis. This is obviously from the Greek “Parthenos” meaning “milkman, or any other such door-to-door tradesman” because in those Early Greek Days of Aristotle and Democracy and Nana Moskouri all such people came from a region called Parthena. I think the “Genesis” part we all understand. If not, I can recommend a couple of top-notch movies.

Angry dad

Yesterday Homer Simpson was the muse for Bart’s comic creation “Angry Dad”. Apparently Homer has an anger management problem. He says:-

I’m a rage-oholic. I need my rage-ohol!!


Women joggers

I must say, this is a sub-type of the human race that I wasn’t aware existed. I haven’t really noticed their heaving breaths, their bouncing breasts, and as for those lycra pants…. 

But this article in the BBC says that jogging can lead to sagging breasts in women (presumably in men too; I’m reminded of Homer Simpson discovering the joys of sports bras). Apparently, as a woman runs a mile, her breasts bounce 135 metres. Presumably they take a taxi the rest of the way to catch up with her later. With the average breast weighing 200-300 grams (figures that match independent reseach on my part) this puts a lot of stress on the connecting tissue, leading inevitably to sagging breasts. The solution is to wear a sports bra, preferably made by the company that sponsored this research (do I see a self-interest angle here?).

A new Superhero!!

I have dreamed up a new Superhero!! Forget Batman, Spiderman (and especially forget crappy Hellboy), this marks a new era in Superheroicalitism…onomy…whatever. I call him Womanman, and I presume he was once minding his own nerdy business in a very alter-ego kind of way when he was caught by a radioactive blast of womanly pheromones from someone on a bus (I was similarly attacked recently; it smelt of hairspray). This transferred to him the powers of a woman; namely he can get into a terrible berserker rage thanks to the power of PMT. Of course, he wouldn’t have a superhero car or boat or plane or anything; you know what women are like, it’d take him ages to park in Womanman mode, and the rearview mirrors would all be used to check out his make-up. (I pretty quickly realised this brief piece could play host to all kinds of woman jokes 🙂 ). Of course he’d need some symbol, some shortcut to memory like Batman’s bat logo, so I suggest
/ WO
| 2x |
be emblazoned across his ample chest (did I mention it grows and fills up?)

Does anyone have any more suggestions for this character? Like superpowers and whatnot?

Adrian Mole – Superstar

Sue Townsend’s fake diaries are something. I’m reading “The Wilderness Years” where the hero turns 24. Here is an excerpt from his diary.

Norman Schwarzkopf was on television tonight, pointing a stick at an incomprehensible map. Why he was dressed in army camouflage is a mystery to me:
a) there are no trees in the desert
b) there were no trees in the briefing room
c) he is obviously too important to go anywhere near the enemy; he could go around dressed like Coco the Clown and still not be shot at

Anally retentive persons are so funny.

Thousand apologies..

..but as some of my closer (better, nicer, etc.) friends will know, I have been quite busy in recent times. Or shall I say, I have been, ahem, kept busy. But let me talk about more mundane things. My driving lessons with me mate Ben are going well; he’s a remarkably good instructor, drawing a fine line between having a laugh and getting a lesson drilled in. Or is it I that is (am? are?be?) the remarkably good pupil?? In fact, the only complaints I get are “Heh heh, we were going a bit fast there, weren’t we??” and “Heh heh, you weren’t checking your mirrors there, were you?” and “Heh heh, you really didn’t see that little child you knocked over, did you?”
Only Kidding!!! Of course I checked my mirrors! 🙂

I’ll now take a purfunctory look at your blogs and leave some random remark to lead you guys into believing that I actually read the stuff you moan on about, thereby awakening your guilt feelings and forcing you to visit MY blog!!

AAAHHH! Refreshingly Honest! tm