I was baking cookies in the oven, nude. When I bent over to pick up the tray my testicles fell onto the cookie sheet. I can no longer achieve orgasm unless I feel extreme heat but I told everyone it was because of cancer. I feel so bad.
I once watched my mum get dressed by putting strategically placed mirrors throughout the corridor all the way to my bedroom.
I made some marijuana brownies one day, and when I left them to cool my mother came home from work and ate almost half of them. She had never been stoned before, and when she got the massive hit she curled up in a ball on the ground in her room, screaming that she was dying, She made me write her a new will, in which the goldfish would inherit the house. I never told her that it was brownies that made her so sick, and she's still convinced it was a bad oyster she had for lunch.
I need to get this out. Years ago I took LSD with a good friend. I ended up thinking he was a space alien and beating him up with a baseball bat, which I thought was like a Star Wars light sabre. He ended up in ER and took another three weeks in hospital to recover. It freaked me out and I never had the courage to tell him it was me.
Last month my car broke down at the store. I didn't feel like walking so I stole one of those handicapped motorised shopping carts and rode it home. Then I sold it on eBay.
Me and my cousin Tanya, who's about to drop twins. Her bump looks like one of those unconvincing pregnancy suits you see in films.
My best present was probably a bottle of Blair's 2am Reserve which my brother gave me. Due to it's strength, he had to sign a disclaimer in the shop. Apparently this stuff is dynamite! It says on the bottle one drop should be mixed with one gallon of oil to create a mind-numbing sauce. I can't wait to try!
I take charge of carving the turkey on Christmas Day. Please note the Old Harrovian cravat, suitable attire for undertaking such a task.
Once again Ma and Pa Edmondson impress the neighbours with an 18' Christmas tree. The only problem is having to make the presents look as impressive underneath!
After a quick feeding, it was straight onto the group karaoke to sing for our supper. George got us involved in a fantastically original evening where everyone stands up and sings along to some dude on his piano, choosing from 50 very well known songs with lyrics in a songbook (it's amazing how often you think you know the words and end up realising you only know the first line!)
More photos here.
Santhi Soundarajan is an Indian athlete who won a silver medal in the women's 800m race in the 2006 Asian Games in December, 2006. Soundarajan underwent a sex test shortly after claiming victory, and the results have indicated that she "does not possess the sexual characteristics of a woman."
While such sex tests are not compulsory for competitors, the International Association of Athletics Federations can request that contenders take such tests at any time, and include intensive evaluation by a gynecologist, an endocrinologist, a psychologist, and an internal medicine specialist.
I don't understand why you need so many experts. Surely just pull their pants down and see what's dangling?
I'm loving the electric guitar, close up shots of thighs and XXXXS-sized tank tops.
The Rocky 4 training montage, an all time classic, can be seen here. Please email me if you know what the hell those flashing tubes are meant to be at the beginning of the clip.
The new Rocky Balboa trailer is here. I hope the film delivers.
The full result is:
Kenney: 35% (12 votes)
Cazenove 15% (5 votes)
Hills 15% (5 votes)
Gray 12% (4 votes)
McCall 9% (3 votes)
Hepurn 6% (2 votes)
Kennedy 3% (1 vote)
Bollom 3% (1 vote)
Anastasiou 3% (1 vote)
I have added a new poll for this week. Please vote!
If a bra is an upper topper titty flopper stopper,
A jock strap is a lower decker pecker checker,
And a roll of toilet tissue is a super duper doody pooper scooper,
What do you call a Japanese drummer boy whose father has diarrhoea?
A slap happy Jappy with a crap happy pappy
The Rolling Stones
The Beach Boys
Am I missing anyone, or is it fair to say so many of the all time greats are British?
Friday night was Christmas meal night out with the boys and girls at work. After a good Thai meal at Mangosteen, we went onto All Bar One on Oxford Street (which worryingly had fluorescent blue lights in the gents to stop intravenous drug taking). Shenanigans ensue, including copious amounts of Guinness, tequila and dodgy photographs, unsuitable for an office environment.
The father, surprised, answers, "Well, son, there's three kinds of breasts.
In her twenties, a women's breasts are like melons, round and firm. In her thirties to forties, they are like pears, still nice but hanging a bit.
After fifty, they are like onions."
"Yes, you see them and they make you cry."
This infuriated his wife and daughter so the daughter said, "Mum, how many kinds of 'willies' are there?"
The mother, surprised, smiles and answers, "Well dear, a man goes through three phases. In his twenties, his willy is like an oak tree, mighty and hard.
In his thirties and forties, it is a birch, flexible but reliable.
After his fifties, it is like a Christmas tree."
A Christmas tree?"
Yes, dead from the root up and the balls are for decoration only."
Hat tip: Claudia
Blast from the past at Duttie's drinks party this evening. Lots of characters I skied with in April 2001 who I haven't seen since (that reminds me to upload my old photos to Flickr). Great drinks, right on the river in Battersea, served up by two charming young girls who took a note to give to their RE teacher who I know. Will be interesting to hear her response...
Apologies for Kenney who, as usual, was acting like a schmuck.
I think you're beginning to live through your blog rather than it reporting on you. Is there help out there for blogging addicts?
Great evening at Rachel and Charlie's last night to celebrate Rachel's 30th birthday. Trying to beat off the Sunday evening blues, I did my best to deal with the mulled wine on offer. I lasted the distance and being the last man standing, only left after I felt Rachel's father's eyes burning a hole in my back.
Earlier in the day I ate a superb mixed grill and played a popular three-dice game "vingt et un" with James (occasional contributor-at-large to this blog) in Battersea at Le Bouchon, followed by newspapers and Forrest Gump. The perfect Sunday afternoon?
VERY sophisticated party at Fi's house in Holland Park this evening. I was completely out of my league with all the beautiful people, both boys and girls, mingling around me. Great to catch up with some old faces, but as always there were people who I recognised but didn't say hello to. I must be more proactive in the future... Played some lines about being a lion tamer on some new characters (better than the story about being a public sector leech) which went down well, though I was surprised that later on, most of the people I had spoken to had already left. Some mistake, surely?
Hat tip: Hills
game of Pac-Man (or, at least, the only person in the world who has
publicized that he played a perfect game of Pac-Man) is one Billy
Mitchell, a 39-year-old hot sauce manufacturer from Hollywood, Fla. In
July 1999, playing for more than six hours at the Funspot Family Fun
Center in Weirs Beach, N.H., Mitchell cleared all 256 levels, eating
every single bonus prize and every possible ghost, and racked up
I didn't realise until today that all around the world there are normal people going beyond the call of duty to help their fellow man. I knew of Angle Grinder Man (see blog passim) but there are many others that the press have reported on:
Time Out New York Magazine interviewed Tothian, Squeegeeman, and Dark Guardian, 3 real-life Superheroes who met on MySpace, patrol dangerous neighborhoods of New Jersey and New York City, and mostly work on their own, but occasionally will team up to go on public missions to give water & snacks to the homeless.
ABC News interviewed Terrifica, a New York City-based woman who patrols bars and parties in an effort to protect inebriated women who are in danger of being taken advantage of by men. She wears a golden mask, Valkyrie bra, blond wig, red boots and cape as a distraction to men.
The BBC reported on Angle-Grinder Man, a British vigilante and self-described "wheel-clamp superhero" who uses an angle grinder to cut wheel clamps off vehicles in Kent and London.
CNN covered Mexico City's Superbarrio, who wears red tights and a red and yellow wrestler's mask. Rather than fight crime and corruption with violence, he uses his unique image to organize labor rallies and protests, and file petitions.
The Age described Polarman of Iqaluit, Canada, whose primary interests are shoveling the snow off of sidewalks during the day, and patrolling the streets for criminals at night.
The Sydney Morning Herald interviewed Brokenman, a costumed Australian who created fake crime scenes with chalked body outlines to highlight his views.
The Detroit Free Press reported on Jackson, Michigan superhero Captain Jackson, who is an "officially sanctioned independent crime fighter." He and his team the Crimefighter Corps, regularly patrol Jackson's downtown area, do volunteer/community work and report any crimes that they see.
Intake Weekly and FOX59 News interviewed Mr. Silent who regularly patrols the Indianapolis area along with his partner Doktor DiscorD. Comic book writer Warren Ellis Blogged about thier growing superhero team called the "Justice Society of Justice".
Somebody teach me those moves!
I think this could be my favourite clip of all time.
Hat tip: Claudia.
A construction worker in Bahrain was hospitalised after being inflated by a high-pressure hose. When Muthuvatti Abdul and his co-workers got covered in sand, they decided to clean themselves. "I was bending over when my friend Shams inserted the nozzle up my rectum" Abdul explained. "He only did it for a few seconds. But I asked him to do it again out of interest." This time, the pressure burst his large intestine.
"Out of interest"? "Inserted the nozzle up my rectum"? An accident? Pull the other one!
What is it with people's backsides getting them into trouble at the moment?
An American Airlines plane made an emergency landing in Nashville after passengers reported the smell of sulphur from burning matches.
The matches were found on the seat of a woman who had attempted to conceal the odour of flatulence with the matches, Nashville airport authorities said.
I have total understanding. My butthole + air travel = bad news.
After my Tuesday night wine course, I went down to the Queens Arms for a swift one with Hepburn, Cooney and Mel. Good piccie of Hepburn and I topping off a Mel sandwich. On the way home, I had to go via a newsagent to pick up an "adult" magazine to add to Horrocks' Christmas present Cooney and I are sending to Iraq. The conversation I had with the Asian shop owner went like this:
Edmondson: "Good evening"
Shop Owner: "Good evening Sir. Magazine or DVD?"
Shop Owner: "Very good Sir. Right behind you"
Edmondson: "Ah, yes. It is for a friend of mine"
Shop Owner: "Do not worry Sir. We have many couples coming in here"
Edmondson: "No really. He's a friend of mine in the Army, currently in Iraq"
Shop Owner: "Of course, Sir"
Shop Owner: "Enjoy the magazine, Sir"
Hat tip: Puppa
This is the latest big event that has happened in my life in the last few months. It has indeed been crazy (I might write about it if I feel the urge). When will it end?
I feel I should bring to your attention the horrendous level of service I received at a new lunching house in my village, which appears to be owned by one R McDonald Esq. Upon entering, no-one took my hat or cane, I was instructed to extinguish my Carey, and there was no table service. Instead, they held with a disgusting practice of ordering one's own food from an open kitchen at the rear of the premises! As it was breakfast time, I ordered a brace of kippers, four devilled kidneys, a dish of kedgeree and a pot of Darjeeling. When the pimpled knave behind the counter began to titter, I demanded to see Mr McDonald immediately. To my horror, a deranged simpleton was produced, whom they had made up to resemble a clown. I have since learned that Mr McDonald is to open another such establishment in the neighbouring village of Westgrove Belmont. Alas! And so the darkness spreads!
Brigadier Gordon Volante, Pudsey
I recently sprained a thigh, and thus paid a visit to an establishment on the High Street named "Spangles Massage & Sauna". I explained my considerable discomfort, and was led to a private room and asked to disrobe. Presently, the door opened to reveal the person who was to administer to my ailment. It was a lady! I jumped up, apologising profusely while I fumbled for my tweeds. Roxanne, as she was named, seemed amused by my bashfulness and assured me she was a professional masseuse. Once she had begun her treatment, I began to relax, and soon the pain began to abate. It occurred to me that the ideal accompaniment to the treatment would be the comforting feel of my trusty briar. "Roxanne," I said, "is it permitted to smoke my pipe?" "Oooh," she replied, reaching for my towel, "You are a dark horse!" Twenty minutes later I stumbled out of Spangles in a state of shock. I consider myself to be a broad-minded sort of fellow, but really!
Brigadier Gordon Volante, Pudsey
Following a recent late night, rather ill-advised and (so it would transpire), ill-fated croquet wager, I found myself dispossessed of my snuffbox in a shrubbery. I was assured that though the hour was late, there was a local retailer that would serve as an ad hoc tobacconist – Messrs Londis & Co. Once there, I discovered the establishment to be a garishly lit "super-market" and I expected that my friends were most amused at having directed me there. Nevertheless, my face had begun to twitch in a most distressing fashion and I was obliged by necessity to enter.
Having waited my turn in a queue (composed of manual labourers and drunkards who repeated the same peculiar words: “Ten Elbee") I asked the girl behind the counter (dressed in a manner more appropriate to a scullery-maid than the proprietress of a mercantile) if I could see the selection of dry fine medicated snuffs. I sensed some level of antagonism had entered the woman's demeanour, and as the hour was late decided to simply ask for Gawith Hoggarth & Co. Camphor and Menthol Fine Kendal Brown. At this, the woman began to shout aggressive colloquialisms. Dumbfounded, I could think of nothing to defuse the situation save to repeat what I had heard from the soused lackeys previous to me: "Ten Elbee?". I was presented with a plastic wrapped silver package marked Lambert & Butler, which I later discovered contained poor quality cigarettes.
I shall not be so ready to use a service revolver in lieu of a mallet again, let me assure you.
Major-General J.B. Felton-Norton DSC
Hat tip: George (welcome home; the blog has missed you)
Highly amusing evening at Casa Hills-Simkins on Saturday night for Hills' 30th birthday party, spiced up with Hepburn turning up intoxicated. Great food, amusing chat, especially Heps' insistence that we all play "Noah's Dark" (instructions on request). Made it home in time to carry on the lash with Cooney, Dunt and Greany, who'd all been out on Greany's hen night.
A few photos here.
Ten years ago, a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit. These men promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire... The A-Team.
Dr. David Banner: physician; scientist. Searching for a way to tap into the hidden strengths that all humans have. Then an accidental overdose of gamma radiaton alters his body chemistry. Now when David Banner grows angry or outraged, a startling metamorposis occurs. The creature is driven by rage and is pursued by an investigative reporter. (Bixby: "Mr. McGee, don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I am angry.") The creature is wanted for a murder he didn't commit. David Banner is believed to be dead, and he must let the world think that he is dead, until he finds a way to control the raging spirit that dwells within him.
Knight Rider, a shadowy flight into the dangerous world of a man who does not exist. Michael Knight, a young loner on a crusade to champion the cause of the innocent, the helpless, the powerless, in a world of criminals who operate above the law.
The local paper read: "PASTOR'S ASS OUT FRONT."
The Bishop was so upset with this kind of publicity that he ordered the pastor not to enter the donkey in another race.
The next day, the local paper headline read: "BISHOP SCRATCHES PASTOR'S ASS."
This was too much for the bishop, so he ordered the pastor to get rid of the donkey. The pastor decided to give it to a nun in a nearby convent.
The bishop fainted. He informed the nun that she would have to get rid of the donkey, so she sold it to a farmer for $10.
The next day the Paper read: "NUN SELLS ASS FOR $10."
This was too much for the bishop, so he ordered the nun to buy back the donkey and lead it to the plains where it could run wild.
The next day the headlines read: "NUN ANNOUNCES HER ASS IS WILD AND FREE."