You can't really go wrong with a URL like http://thefuckingweather.com/, can you?
Thursday, 30 April 2009
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
Google Alphabet
Australian graphic designer Rhett Dashwood has painstakingly trawled through Google satellite images of Victoria, his home state, to find images representing each letter of the alphabet.
'I found them exactly as you think I might have,' he said. 'Slowly moving from page to page over the maps and visually scanning.'
Six months well spent, I think.
Via the Daily Fail - click image to enlarge
Via the Daily Fail - click image to enlarge
Monday, 27 April 2009
Friday, 24 April 2009
24/04/09 - Nostalgia
Nostalgia, so they say, ain’t what it used to be.
They’re wrong, obviously. The concept of ‘nostalgia’ is an immovable constant, it is what it is. They’re trying to be clever. Do you see what they’ve done? You see, nostalgia is, by definition, a sentimental yearning for a former time or place. They’re punning on the word itself. Don’t overthink it, just move on. Don’t worry. Forget it.
Nostalgia is marvellous. It’s fun to replay the past with all the shitty bits filtered out – in my mind I can pull on my A-line flares, ride my Raleigh Chopper into town, fling it in the boot of a brand new Escort Mexico, have two or three pints and a fag in a pub that’s not full of chavs, drink-drive to the movies at 100mph and excitedly watch a new flick in the hope that someone might say ‘arse’ or show a nipple. Halcyon days. Of course, the seventies didn’t have broadband, Bravias, cheap flights, iPods or American Dad, so they weren’t all that. What’s really nice is for a little piece of the past to occasionally update itself and come to us. (We don’t have a lot of choice in this, obviously; given the nature of the space-time continuum, our options are nostalgic memories, revivals or… well, that’s it until Doc Emmett gets his flux capacitor in order.) Take Terrorvision, for example. Their second album, ‘How To Make Friends and Influence People’, was released in 1994 and immediately formed the central reference point for my teenage years. It’s still awesome. So I went to see them a couple of weeks ago in Shepherd’s Bush – fifteenth anniversary of the album’s release, so they were playing it live in full – and it was just like being a kid again. Seriously, they rocked. It was exactly as exciting as it was when I didn’t have work and bills and other nasty obstacles to deal with. The only real difference was the worrying sight of ponytail/bald patch combos in the moshpit. Gnarly rockers get old too, y’know.
There is also a grim side to nostalgia. Revisiting something that you used to love can often reveal it to be rather less good than you remembered when set in a modern context. I bought the first series of The Brittas Empire on DVD and it was a big let-down. I was in Devon at new year so I popped down to Bude, where we went on an exciting school adventure holiday when I was 14 - it was a lot smaller than I remembered. Adidas shelltoes are far less comfortable than they were when I was seventeen. And so on. But you know what really pissed me off recently? Red Dwarf.
I was quite a nerdy kid, I’ll admit that. I liked cars, funny telly and rock ‘n’ roll. I was also amusingly fat with enormous curly hair. Easy target. This sort of social leprosy leads you to introversion, and as one of the many cultural offshoots of this, I was obsessed with Red Dwarf.
The first six series are still faultless and wonderful. Series seven was distinctly patchy and series eight really wasn’t very good, but you can sort of forgive that as the earlier body of work was so strong. But then they went and made a three-part special for Dave entitled ‘Back to Earth’ – did you see it? It was fucking terrible from start to finish. I was cringing so hard I could barely look at the screen, the whole thing was thoroughly shite. It’s baffling how it’s getting reasonably good reviews, and Robert Llewellyn said on Twitter that ‘it’s the best Dwarf we’ve ever done’ or some such. The plot made little sense, the scripting was dire, the acting was pretty poor, it basically wazzed all over the memory of all that they’d achieved before. Rimmer’s character was a total characteristic reverse of what he used to be. The guy in the comic book store was just crap. The guy in the TV shop was worse. The ‘brother and sister’ on the bus had very pronounced accents (northern and southern respectively) that indicated that they couldn’t possibly be siblings. The lack of a laughter track meant you genuinely didn’t know when it was supposed to be funny, it was that bad.
It upset me. I love Red Dwarf, I can recite every episode from series 1-6 word for word, and I’m not ashamed of that. I love Red Dwarf and it betrayed me.
Sod it, you can keep your ‘Back to Earth’, your New Beetle, your Italian Job remake, your chain of Central Perk coffee shops… if you’re not going to do it properly, just don’t bother. Sheesh.
They’re wrong, obviously. The concept of ‘nostalgia’ is an immovable constant, it is what it is. They’re trying to be clever. Do you see what they’ve done? You see, nostalgia is, by definition, a sentimental yearning for a former time or place. They’re punning on the word itself. Don’t overthink it, just move on. Don’t worry. Forget it.
Nostalgia is marvellous. It’s fun to replay the past with all the shitty bits filtered out – in my mind I can pull on my A-line flares, ride my Raleigh Chopper into town, fling it in the boot of a brand new Escort Mexico, have two or three pints and a fag in a pub that’s not full of chavs, drink-drive to the movies at 100mph and excitedly watch a new flick in the hope that someone might say ‘arse’ or show a nipple. Halcyon days. Of course, the seventies didn’t have broadband, Bravias, cheap flights, iPods or American Dad, so they weren’t all that. What’s really nice is for a little piece of the past to occasionally update itself and come to us. (We don’t have a lot of choice in this, obviously; given the nature of the space-time continuum, our options are nostalgic memories, revivals or… well, that’s it until Doc Emmett gets his flux capacitor in order.) Take Terrorvision, for example. Their second album, ‘How To Make Friends and Influence People’, was released in 1994 and immediately formed the central reference point for my teenage years. It’s still awesome. So I went to see them a couple of weeks ago in Shepherd’s Bush – fifteenth anniversary of the album’s release, so they were playing it live in full – and it was just like being a kid again. Seriously, they rocked. It was exactly as exciting as it was when I didn’t have work and bills and other nasty obstacles to deal with. The only real difference was the worrying sight of ponytail/bald patch combos in the moshpit. Gnarly rockers get old too, y’know.
There is also a grim side to nostalgia. Revisiting something that you used to love can often reveal it to be rather less good than you remembered when set in a modern context. I bought the first series of The Brittas Empire on DVD and it was a big let-down. I was in Devon at new year so I popped down to Bude, where we went on an exciting school adventure holiday when I was 14 - it was a lot smaller than I remembered. Adidas shelltoes are far less comfortable than they were when I was seventeen. And so on. But you know what really pissed me off recently? Red Dwarf.
I was quite a nerdy kid, I’ll admit that. I liked cars, funny telly and rock ‘n’ roll. I was also amusingly fat with enormous curly hair. Easy target. This sort of social leprosy leads you to introversion, and as one of the many cultural offshoots of this, I was obsessed with Red Dwarf.
The first six series are still faultless and wonderful. Series seven was distinctly patchy and series eight really wasn’t very good, but you can sort of forgive that as the earlier body of work was so strong. But then they went and made a three-part special for Dave entitled ‘Back to Earth’ – did you see it? It was fucking terrible from start to finish. I was cringing so hard I could barely look at the screen, the whole thing was thoroughly shite. It’s baffling how it’s getting reasonably good reviews, and Robert Llewellyn said on Twitter that ‘it’s the best Dwarf we’ve ever done’ or some such. The plot made little sense, the scripting was dire, the acting was pretty poor, it basically wazzed all over the memory of all that they’d achieved before. Rimmer’s character was a total characteristic reverse of what he used to be. The guy in the comic book store was just crap. The guy in the TV shop was worse. The ‘brother and sister’ on the bus had very pronounced accents (northern and southern respectively) that indicated that they couldn’t possibly be siblings. The lack of a laughter track meant you genuinely didn’t know when it was supposed to be funny, it was that bad.
It upset me. I love Red Dwarf, I can recite every episode from series 1-6 word for word, and I’m not ashamed of that. I love Red Dwarf and it betrayed me.
Sod it, you can keep your ‘Back to Earth’, your New Beetle, your Italian Job remake, your chain of Central Perk coffee shops… if you’re not going to do it properly, just don’t bother. Sheesh.
Thursday, 23 April 2009
Dan & naD - a palindromic sketch
This is bloody clever... and must've taken ages to perfect! It's a palindromic sketch, meaning, obviously, that it plays the same backwards as forwards. Superb.
The Orchard - 'Surprise'
The Orchard's latest viral features yours truly... in fact at one point I'm on screen twice at the same time. Clever bastards.
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Cursor Chaos
This is so addictive - use the arrow keys and space bar to control a quick-fire selection of random games. Click the image to have a go.
Vintage toys
This brilliant website has an encyclopaedic archive of classic toys, as well as various other retro memorabilia. Very cool.
Saudis go mental for old sewing machines
Via BBC:
Saudi police say they are investigating a hoax that has seen people rushing to buy old-fashioned sewing machines for up to $50,000 (£33,500).
The Singer sewing machines are said to contain traces of red mercury, a substance that may not exist.
But it is widely thought that it can be used to find treasure, ward off evil spirits or even make nuclear bombs.
It is believed that tiny amounts can sell for millions of dollars, the Saudi Gazette reported.
The paper said that trade in the sewing machines was brisk across the country.
Rumours about the sewing machines have been spreading for days by word of mouth and over the internet, it said.
These included rumours that foreign experts and companies had been buying up Singers.
In Dhulum, it was reported that people had broken into two tailors' shops to steal the machines.
In the city of Madina, people were holding mobile phones up to the machines, due to the belief that they could be used to detect the presence of red mercury.
An interior ministry spokesman said authorities were trying to discover who had spread the rumours.
"We have to find out who started this hoax," he told Reuters news agency.
"People hope to make profit," he added. "This is no different to cases of citizens who put their money in untrustworthy schemes."
Tuesday, 14 April 2009
Thursday, 9 April 2009
Massive Japanese cock
Interested in parading down the street with a huge pink willy? Here's what it's all about:
The Kanamara Matsuri, also called Festival of the Steel Phallus, is an annual Shinto fertility festival held in Kawasaki, Japan each spring. The festival is centered around a local penis-venerating shrine, once popular among prostitutes who wished to pray for protection against sexually transmitted diseases. Today, the festival is used to raise money for HIV research. There's also a legend of a demon that hid inside a young girl and castrated two young men on their wedding nights before a blacksmith fashioned an iron phallus that was used to break the demon's teeth, leading to the enshrinement of the item.
09/04/09 - Interneternity
Something very distressing happened on Monday – the internet went down in the office. For hours. This was a huge problem for me, as my work is largely internet-based (as well as all the essential arsing about that needs to be done online in order for your JuicyPips to be sufficiently succulent and nourishing). I’m writing this on Monday because I’ve cleared all my non-internet-based work and I’m now stumped. This has thrown into sharp focus the reliance that we have on our online lives in 2009 , and the extent to which we take it for granted. It’s also highlighted one very important and hitherto unappreciated fact: the real world is fucking boring.
Now, it’s important to retain a sense of proportion. The world will not stop turning if you can’t update your Facebook status for a few hours. It’ll probably do you some good to stop Tweeting for a while. The relentless stream of Nigerian scams that lurk in your Hotmail inbox can wait till later. What’s really infuriating is having your options removed – living without the randomness of the internet is like losing half your teeth at once, or suddenly realising that the smiling neighbour of your childhood wasn’t actually helping you by easing you out of your sodden garments on that hot summer day and it was, in hindsight, probably his hose that soaked you in the first place. You feel lost, detached, disassociated with what you thought you knew. You’ve misplaced a spectacularly large frame of reference. The internet validates all that we know and think, and without it we’re reduced to the level of pre-www humanity. And they all lived in caves or something, probably. They didn’t even have mobiles back then, they had to arrange meeting times and venues in advance like ponies and lions do. It’s ridiculous.
The simple fact is, we cannot live without the internet. Anyone who says they can is a filthy liar. Even my grandma knows how to Skype and email confusing quasi-demented messages around the family. A browser window isn’t a playground, it isn’t a luxury – it’s the bedrock of our own mental stability, anchoring us to reality (or whatever passes for our personal realities, anyway) and without it we just spiral downwards into an information-free void, an unspeakable oblivion. You quickly run out of things to talk about.
You can’t keep up to date with the news. eBay auctions finish without your attention. You can’t check the cinema times without having to actually talk to a real person (and they don’t fucking know anything). People could be tagging photos of horses’ cocks with your name on Facebook and you’re powerless to retaliate. Someone could have asked a question on a forum that you know the precise answer to, yet they’ll have to settle for other people’s half-arsed guesses. If you can’t check your bank balance, how will you know whether your card’s been cloned? You’ve forgotten your mum’s birthday, you don’t have time to go to the shops, yet you can’t access Moonpig. You need to do the grocery shopping, but what if you break your leg in the next half an hour and can’t go to the supermarket? You can’t get on tesco.com, so you’ll probably starve to death. It’s an endless stream of irritation and borderline panic, like waking up in a tent to find a line of red ants working their way up your leg and setting up home in your pants.
You know what? I could bang on about this all day, but I haven’t checked Twitter in about twenty minutes… Peter Serafinowicz or Graham Linehan might be saying interesting things. I have to go.
Now, it’s important to retain a sense of proportion. The world will not stop turning if you can’t update your Facebook status for a few hours. It’ll probably do you some good to stop Tweeting for a while. The relentless stream of Nigerian scams that lurk in your Hotmail inbox can wait till later. What’s really infuriating is having your options removed – living without the randomness of the internet is like losing half your teeth at once, or suddenly realising that the smiling neighbour of your childhood wasn’t actually helping you by easing you out of your sodden garments on that hot summer day and it was, in hindsight, probably his hose that soaked you in the first place. You feel lost, detached, disassociated with what you thought you knew. You’ve misplaced a spectacularly large frame of reference. The internet validates all that we know and think, and without it we’re reduced to the level of pre-www humanity. And they all lived in caves or something, probably. They didn’t even have mobiles back then, they had to arrange meeting times and venues in advance like ponies and lions do. It’s ridiculous.
The simple fact is, we cannot live without the internet. Anyone who says they can is a filthy liar. Even my grandma knows how to Skype and email confusing quasi-demented messages around the family. A browser window isn’t a playground, it isn’t a luxury – it’s the bedrock of our own mental stability, anchoring us to reality (or whatever passes for our personal realities, anyway) and without it we just spiral downwards into an information-free void, an unspeakable oblivion. You quickly run out of things to talk about.
You can’t keep up to date with the news. eBay auctions finish without your attention. You can’t check the cinema times without having to actually talk to a real person (and they don’t fucking know anything). People could be tagging photos of horses’ cocks with your name on Facebook and you’re powerless to retaliate. Someone could have asked a question on a forum that you know the precise answer to, yet they’ll have to settle for other people’s half-arsed guesses. If you can’t check your bank balance, how will you know whether your card’s been cloned? You’ve forgotten your mum’s birthday, you don’t have time to go to the shops, yet you can’t access Moonpig. You need to do the grocery shopping, but what if you break your leg in the next half an hour and can’t go to the supermarket? You can’t get on tesco.com, so you’ll probably starve to death. It’s an endless stream of irritation and borderline panic, like waking up in a tent to find a line of red ants working their way up your leg and setting up home in your pants.
You know what? I could bang on about this all day, but I haven’t checked Twitter in about twenty minutes… Peter Serafinowicz or Graham Linehan might be saying interesting things. I have to go.
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
Baracknophobia - obey!
Tyranny! Surrender! Political correctness!
| The Daily Show With Jon Stewart | M - Th 11p / 10c | |||
| Baracknophobia - Obey | ||||
| ||||
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Toy-A-Day
A year-long project to make one paper toy every day and post them on t'internet for all to see. Why? Well... why not?
Click here for the blog.
Snatch Wars
This is the most awesome thing that's ever happened to the internet. 1:45 and 4:12 are brilliant, but to be honest it's all gold.
Escalator girl.
I love stupid people. They unwittingly entertain the rest of us.
Look how determined she is!
Look how determined she is!
Close Range - The Onion
All games should be like this.
Hot New Video Game Consists Solely Of Shooting People Point-Blank In The Face
Hot New Video Game Consists Solely Of Shooting People Point-Blank In The Face
Monday, 6 April 2009
Above+Below shoes
An interesting take on today's enthusiasm for recycling and the perennial coolness of nostalgia and garish retro colour schemes - Above+Below have been reclaiming material from tube trains, buses and overland rail to make strictly-limited-edition footwear. They're pretty sweet - imagine a Converse All Star with a couple of decades of sweat and spilled lager.
Click here to learn more.
Friday, 3 April 2009
Holidaymakers' ridiculous complaints
News anchor jokes about lady's moustache
This is brilliant - absolutely no tact whatsoever.
News Anchor Jokes about Lady’s Moustache - Watch more Funny Videos
News Anchor Jokes about Lady’s Moustache - Watch more Funny Videos
Scamming fail
You know the old scamming formula - 'Hi, I'm from Nigeria, I have a business proposition for you, I have two million dollars to put in your account...'
If only they were all as polite as this guy. No timewasting here.
(Click to enlarge)
If only they were all as polite as this guy. No timewasting here.
(Click to enlarge)
Guy fakes heart attack in court
His acting skills aren't too hot, but you can't fault his commitment and determination to just stay still long after the jig is up.
Cockenspiel
The most accurate 'playing a glockenspiel with your cock' simulator on the internet.
Click below to have a go.
Cock Shot
'Stop having a boring nut-shot, stop having a boring life.'
Cock Shot from Invisible Engine on Vimeo.
Cock Shot from Invisible Engine on Vimeo.
Kill Bill in one minute
You don't need to watch both full-length films now, it's all distilled and condensed into one entertaining minute for your convenience.
03/04/09 - Ben's departure
Howdy y'all, and welcome to another of the occasionally entertaining JuicyPips tribute issues. We chuckled over the memories of Mike Treharne, we wept at the departure of Sorrel Trenchard, we smiled broadly at the splendour of the Bruce Haines era, and now… now it’s time for the venerable and unpronounceable Mr Ben ‘Jamin’ Hourahine to be leaving us, the slippery bastard.
He’s a strange one, Ben. His job title, up until this very Friday, was ‘Futures Editor’ - you picture him as a sort of cross between the eerie gurning terror of Mystic Meg and the simultaneously intriguing and off-putting three-nippled psychic from Mallrats, and you’re right to do so. That’s exactly what he’s like. He’s pretty good at predicting the future too, using a combination of crystal balls (hence the expression ‘futurology? It’s a load of balls’), tea-leaf reading, seaweed hanging from windowsills and voodoo incantations. It’s not an uncommon sight to see him dancing around in warpaint, butt-naked but for a racoon’s pelt upon his fevered brow, begging the gods for further clues to the future of mankind. This is largely effective – or, at least, confusing enough for him not to have to explain himself too much in meetings before people become unsettled – but, it must be said, he did miss one or two things. For the sake of neatness, here’s a list of things he failed to predict (and if you see him, try not to throw this in his face, he’s sensitive about it):
1) His own departure from the company
2) The recession
3) The results to any sporting event
4) Burley & Lawson’s Christmas party costumes
5) All that snow we had
6) That time he got his face mashed up playing football
7) McEwan getting us all kicked out of Treharne’s private member’s club, then having a fight with a parked car
…and various other things too.
There are more strings to his bow than just predicting about 30% of the future (and trying not to look surprised by the other 70%). He’s a superstar DJ in a Nathan Barley style, and he fucking loves an electric nose flute.
But what really goes on in the head of Hourahine? Well, I’ve managed to source a tantalising peek into his brain… I ripped a page from his notebook. Transcribed below is the enlightening shorthand I found scrawled within in thick black crayon:
Coffee, fag. Digital = no. 19? Too young. Everest.
Mighty. Digital = yes, later. Lawson’s tongue. Bouncy. Scratchy treble.
Ever? Non. Nice pear. LEDs. Fuzzbox. Motherliker. Tidy? Youth hostelling, Chris Eubank. Well plastic. Nitro.
Cymbal symbol > Byker.
Looking shit-hot in shades. Coffee, fag. Where is…?
Ah, there. Monsters. Big, nasty, dirty bass.
Can we? Fuuuuuuuuuuuck. Alligators = shoes/delicious/toothy.
Elevate. 4chan. None of this is yours. Strobe/spiral.
Unusual chap. I don’t think that actually tells us anything.
So what’s next for Ben? Well, the story he’s been spreading involves him and his wife disappearing off around south-east Asia for a bit, then settling in Australia. Don’t believe a word of it. Ben is actually an accomplished inventor and time-traveller – picture the offspring of Adam Hart-Davis and Sylvester McCoy-era Doctor Who – and has been secretly beavering away in a lock-up in Camden on a machine of his own devising. It’s basically a flux-capacitor glued to an atlas, sealed inside the top-box of a Triumph Trophy. He rasps into the future (not too far, he doesn’t want to spoil the surprise), takes a stroll around, comes back and tells people about it, feeding in the odd lie here, missing out a little detail or two there to ensure that he isn’t too accurate. (This builds reverence and admiration for his prescience without getting him burned for being a witch.) So if he’s doing so well with his machine, why’s he off? Well, he’s got into a bit of trouble, you see. Having watched Back To The Future after necking a teacupful of cheap wizz, Ben hit on the concept of betting on horse races using retrospective results. Unfortunately, his natural philanthropy proved to be his undoing: in placing a vast quantity of bets in a Brixton betting shop in the late sixties, he explained his plan to the bookie and offered to cut him in on the deal. The bookie was having none of it. He told his mates, they told their mates, it’s now forty years later and Ben is a wanted man in London. Hence why he’s fleeing to the colonies – they don’t mind if you’re a criminal over there. As long as you enjoy a cold tinny and a barbie’d shrimp then you’re golden, cobber.
He’s a strange one, Ben. His job title, up until this very Friday, was ‘Futures Editor’ - you picture him as a sort of cross between the eerie gurning terror of Mystic Meg and the simultaneously intriguing and off-putting three-nippled psychic from Mallrats, and you’re right to do so. That’s exactly what he’s like. He’s pretty good at predicting the future too, using a combination of crystal balls (hence the expression ‘futurology? It’s a load of balls’), tea-leaf reading, seaweed hanging from windowsills and voodoo incantations. It’s not an uncommon sight to see him dancing around in warpaint, butt-naked but for a racoon’s pelt upon his fevered brow, begging the gods for further clues to the future of mankind. This is largely effective – or, at least, confusing enough for him not to have to explain himself too much in meetings before people become unsettled – but, it must be said, he did miss one or two things. For the sake of neatness, here’s a list of things he failed to predict (and if you see him, try not to throw this in his face, he’s sensitive about it):
1) His own departure from the company
2) The recession
3) The results to any sporting event
4) Burley & Lawson’s Christmas party costumes
5) All that snow we had
6) That time he got his face mashed up playing football
7) McEwan getting us all kicked out of Treharne’s private member’s club, then having a fight with a parked car
…and various other things too.
There are more strings to his bow than just predicting about 30% of the future (and trying not to look surprised by the other 70%). He’s a superstar DJ in a Nathan Barley style, and he fucking loves an electric nose flute.
But what really goes on in the head of Hourahine? Well, I’ve managed to source a tantalising peek into his brain… I ripped a page from his notebook. Transcribed below is the enlightening shorthand I found scrawled within in thick black crayon:
Coffee, fag. Digital = no. 19? Too young. Everest.
Mighty. Digital = yes, later. Lawson’s tongue. Bouncy. Scratchy treble.
Ever? Non. Nice pear. LEDs. Fuzzbox. Motherliker. Tidy? Youth hostelling, Chris Eubank. Well plastic. Nitro.
Cymbal symbol > Byker.
Looking shit-hot in shades. Coffee, fag. Where is…?
Ah, there. Monsters. Big, nasty, dirty bass.
Can we? Fuuuuuuuuuuuck. Alligators = shoes/delicious/toothy.
Elevate. 4chan. None of this is yours. Strobe/spiral.
Unusual chap. I don’t think that actually tells us anything.
So what’s next for Ben? Well, the story he’s been spreading involves him and his wife disappearing off around south-east Asia for a bit, then settling in Australia. Don’t believe a word of it. Ben is actually an accomplished inventor and time-traveller – picture the offspring of Adam Hart-Davis and Sylvester McCoy-era Doctor Who – and has been secretly beavering away in a lock-up in Camden on a machine of his own devising. It’s basically a flux-capacitor glued to an atlas, sealed inside the top-box of a Triumph Trophy. He rasps into the future (not too far, he doesn’t want to spoil the surprise), takes a stroll around, comes back and tells people about it, feeding in the odd lie here, missing out a little detail or two there to ensure that he isn’t too accurate. (This builds reverence and admiration for his prescience without getting him burned for being a witch.) So if he’s doing so well with his machine, why’s he off? Well, he’s got into a bit of trouble, you see. Having watched Back To The Future after necking a teacupful of cheap wizz, Ben hit on the concept of betting on horse races using retrospective results. Unfortunately, his natural philanthropy proved to be his undoing: in placing a vast quantity of bets in a Brixton betting shop in the late sixties, he explained his plan to the bookie and offered to cut him in on the deal. The bookie was having none of it. He told his mates, they told their mates, it’s now forty years later and Ben is a wanted man in London. Hence why he’s fleeing to the colonies – they don’t mind if you’re a criminal over there. As long as you enjoy a cold tinny and a barbie’d shrimp then you’re golden, cobber.
Thursday, 2 April 2009
Gossiping calculators
So this is what calculators get up to when nobody's looking...
Their language is far more advanced than the boobies and shelloil we stuck to at school.
Their language is far more advanced than the boobies and shelloil we stuck to at school.
Creatures that look like ladyflowers
The clue's in the title, really. Look at this oyster, it's filthy. Click it to see more...
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