"Moxy's taking time off for bad behaviour."

What is the point of 1 da land if its inspiration is off doing bad behaviour. Return 2 da hood and wunder Mox.

I've also been shopping for ultra violet papaya jelly beans moulded from the breath bubbles of keel-hauled pirates with guano-bleached beards. And, do you know, I managed to get some at The Sharp Left Turn At The Moon!

Hmmm, Biscuitland would have been a much better name.

But it is Biscuitville -- the capital city!

That is true!
Now that we have these walls to contain our insanity, does that mean the rest of the forum needs to be insanity free?

Yes -- we are a contained outbreak!

We are Quarantinos -- Quentin Quarantinos!

Reservoir Doodles!

Natural Born Spillers' Dog Biscuits!

They'll be forcing us into isolation at open mic nights next ha ha!

Don't be a noodle, those doodles are poodles.

hmmmm noodles, I've still got some noodles from Kwik Save from a couple of years back, they stunk the whole house out, I darent open them now!

I bought a forlorn mower and its blades were sadness itself, sing 'clippings collect in removeable hoods.' Sing, 'rural seats have the right to remain.' Sing, ' when you stir your tea with a teaspoon the vortex you initially create continues beyond the payload of energy you imported. This is known as the Bishop Berkley's Bucket Effect since the speed of rotation of said tea is now propelled by the speed of the object furthest away in the universe and my idea tonight, Saint Peter, is for this to be a realised effect qua cars and all vehicles, that once the wheels begin spinning, their speed is connected to and determined by the speed of the object furthest away from us in the universe -- the object that is moving further as we speak -- so how can you possibly give me a speeding ticket, officer, since your radar trap is not sci fi hi tech enough to calibrate gallactic objects moving at gallactic speeds qua their effect on my moving car, an effect that I as a driver have no control over. The speedometer is obviously counterproductive and incorrect.'
Good songs ain't they just?

The ping pong with neutrinos and the nano-bat blahblah below is mine but I registered as 'Anon.' I am now going to open a flagship shop to sell ping pong you can only play in a bagel/donut-size particle accelerator by sheer force of intent.

Hi Mox,

I WOULD BE GLAD TO PLAY PING PONG WITH YOU.
Mind ping pong if possible as my titanium plated bat has run out of energy, it was usually powered by one or more harvested dwarth stars but they seem to be a dying breed these days. I went down the local HI-TESCO store and they said they dont stock em due to lack of demand. Surely people like you and me should not be forgotton. I mean if they stop stocking dwarth stars and other convienant energy products other casual sports people will be effected espically the ones with the older technology 'plate2' type titanium bats. I mean when i invested in my 'moxy bat' I not only invested in a quality piece of space hardware, but a tool for life. I expect life timne support for the investment. Mox you promised me a life of fun and enjoyment and now i find myself grovelling at the head of office of HI-TESCO begging for the suppliers contact details.

anyway, the power source is nearly depleted so I ask to make this final serve to you, to hit this 20th century ping pong ball with all the might of a million of those old atom bombs, nothing like nostalgia mox, and when i do baby its gonna send the ball to you at such a pace that even with the ,ost sophisticated of automatic head up tracking devices (and I kNOW for FACT from Paul Blackburn the 102nd) that you own one !!! dont be shy girl, just use it, the rules say its ok, anyway when you see that ball approach, just use your feelings (not the force - no one believes in that religion these days) and try and give me one last serve, thats if the ball does not punch a wormhole through your bat. If it does hold on to your lunar grip shoes as the wormhole as an inverse vortice thats quite decieving and actually throws you out, just monents before rapidly devouring you, watch out, its a trick of nature a bit like the old volocaraptours of the pre historic age on this lil ol ball we call earth.

ok i assume you returned the ball, woow what force what a delivery only matched by your vocal rebuke and written retort, well played moxy , i cant quite raise the hand in time , the ball is now one thousand microns long but it weighs more than saturn, im sorry ma mox its all consuming, enveloping, envoking me, it seems to be full of stars, look at the outer edge, its black and shimmering, its fantastic, i think im dreaming...........................wow.....a new horizon in another universe mox and you sent us there with a ping pong ball

Hello Pete! Ping Pong at this level is like a queuing system for Newton’s Delicious until Isaac has gravity stockpiled and calculus is the sticky oval label thumbed onto the waxy atomic orbits of every yumscrumptuous element in the field of probability. Oh but titanium is so outré, you need tungsten carbide with a 0.00000000000000000000001 nanometer thick coating of fulgurite – glass formed by lightning strike in sand – aka Moxy Bat Mark 2.0 – you also need to have your feelings (qua emotional states) exchanged for cathected parameters since there is no interstate between organic and inorganic in this here game, Mr C..
As for power source you need my new spacetime packs and the supersonic black holes in their handy twist-release pollybubble cartridge – the trick is to emulate the rapid expansion of the neonate-universe so LBW is allowed. Remember, 99.99999% of the moves depend on the ‘chameleon’ – postulated particles that clone their immediate environs. You’ll need at least five of these and an event horizon – all available off-the-shelf at your favourite outlet.

I am now trafficking branes if you’re interested? I’ve also added some more ‘weight’ to Saturn by imploding a payload of mini-charged particles and motoring up the magnetic field before firing them at one of Saturn’s moons, Iapetus, to install a more mordant gravitational miasma type of thing.

If you want to change your ellipticity without the drag of ritation, let me know. After all, today is a new spacetime day everywhich where in the Universe.

I meant 'rotation' of course. 'Ritation' is a Spring Festival where people plant themselves in a fine-crumbed clay-sand aggregate tilth after self-medicating with marsala sauce. Oh silly me.

Notice from the Maladministration

Complete insanitary is a requirement of participation in Wonderland. If you have not already been certified you should be.

A bit of Malpractice should get you up to certifiable standard. Personally, to meet the demanding standards of Wonderland I am having a new brain fermented. During the time that my brain is absent I have sent my cells off to have new telomeres knitted to give me the indefinite life that will be necessary to keep pace with proceedings here. In the interests of economy and good taste, the work is being carried out by Chinese Leprechauns. I get another 126 years of life for every 6 Yuan that I pay them and they get twenty minutes break every 16 years so it's not a bad contract. So far they have completed 87 purple years and then I have got a few dozen yellow ones, but they are in purl.

When my single walt brain has been cask aged for 20 years, I can pour it back in.

I am looking upward to it.

Fewshon

I am Malfunction Personified. I run a brain scam using incongruity, artist designed shrapnel (by war artists, naturally,) and arpeggios achieved by ear waggling against my noodle mandolin. People are generally fooled into thinking. As a consequence, my skull is a dilapidated barrel. Will the Chinese leprachauns and the Tibetan pooks help me? My brain stem is a pseudopod and it practices hopping so my right and left hemispheres are reversed like so, then like so, especially if I come into contact with beatboxes or anything with a pronounced existence. Let's face it, DNA is basically malicious -- I site mustard in the bad corner. And whatever happened to the molar vacuum they promised the 21st century?

Am I now certified? Do I get a swatch card to hold up against my current thought processes? Oh shiny new!

Hypothesise is not the right size. That must be a joek. I am going to rent my sells back to do some certifying.

After the trepanning insert the lemon squeezer and rotate over the weekend it will turn you into a hammered dulcimer with a capricious note.

Adolph Tatler, I wondered when you'd show up. That fettuccini you ate with so much GUSTO that we called you GUSTO contained a mushroom CLOUD. You’d spent the weekend in a plasma duvet snorting manhole covers and your thalamic receptor nodes were a glutinous pulp. Your morphing into a Bittern was precipitated by your insistance on opening a restaurant with vertical tables and having crockery that was basically sucker pads qua sink plungers. So don’t point your accusation at my compass point.
Moxy

Listen to Moxy. She is a rock. Let her into your don't mind and get it tickled.

Pim Airs

Pim Airs, you secretor of ambergris,
you bestrewer of dipped headlights with oregano
you powdery battleship in the clipclop Baltic
you creeping beach towel woven from dendrites
you bettel-tainted squid of ambivalent proportions
you automated ego-syntonic obsession
you

Oh flip your brain's come apart in my hands flip. Or is it a puzzle?

Flop enigma.

Pimp Hairs

Hello Plum Pears, this is my lucky talisman. It's a stone age conceptual artist sealed in amber. I may salvage some of her DNA and open a park where computer controlled vehicles travel slowly enough for visitors to watch hundreds of stone age conceptual artists hunker down next to the amber-leaking trunks of pine trees. And this is my helpmeet, Schlumbeck. He is a cyborg. 89% of his hard drive is actually cork noticeboard so when I delete information by removing a drawing pin or blutack, I lose some of his memory space either by compaction, epilation or crumbing. Hello Plum Pears, please use this information wisely.

There is no help for you, George Talisman. Only a lemon squeezer and a West Wind that walks like Alfred Hitchcock!

Oh, and some sherry-flavoured cement.

And a freaky star that keeps borrowing cups of light from the moon so the moon's dark side is growing.

And some reft Merseir his endite
for Death dispone
Two sugars, please,
Basil Rathcalcium.

Hire bleo blykyth so bryht
Heo is parvenke of prouesse
Ant lady of lealte
And fine knacks for ladies!

Oo-er I'm having difficulty keeping up here, best use a change of tact...
So...whats everyone having for tea!?

Guess.

My guess is biscuits, I've got time for a quick sandwhich before I bomb into Halifax for a punk rock gig, might have some mini chedders when down there, decisions decisions...

Biscuits is correct! I'm having Maxi Cheddars, they're so flipping big they have to lean 'em against the side of the house and they clip the guttering. I'm staying in and hammering my toenails into diamonds. Is your band playing tonight?

As of Wednesday, the band split up with the original drummer leaving so I've decided to focus on my poetry a bit more at the moment, although I'm trying to form a band in Sunny Bradford too.

Oh what a shame about the band. Still, Bradford's got a lively music scene -- you should be able to get a band together pretty quickly. Great you have time to focus on your poetry, though -- always good to have a bit of writing time. When's your next poetry gig?

My next poetry gig is at The World on Your Doorstep Festival (thats a mouthfull!) This Sunday at 12:00ish in Hebden Bridge Park, Hebden Bridge, so it's probably a good job that I do have time to focus on my poetry!

You'll storm it! And given the current state of the weather, Hebden Bridge will probably storm you! I hope it's an indoor gig.

Its in a tent of some description, can't imagine doing much of a gig in one of them 3-person tents though-you'd have thought more thought would go into these things!

Hope it's got a ground sheet and a good zip. And sufficient tent pegs! Is there such a thing as punk wellies?

Think steel toe cap wellies are the clostest to punk wellies.
I hope I'm still allowed on the slide, at least the paddling pool will be full, be take my camera I think!

You've got to go on the slide! We used to nick our mum's furniture spray and squirt it on the slide to make it more slippy. We tried chip fat, too. Went home smelling of fried lavendar. The paddling pool'll be a boating lake.

I shall be on the slide though I think it's only a diddy one, especially if someone like me is taller than it! Still should be good fun, hope they do food, I want to stay away from pubs this weekend

Pub biscuits? Guinness foam topped digestives.

Guiness Biscuits, now theres an idea! Unfortunatly I'm meeting a friend in Halifax that evening and I think me turning up drunk might scare the wee lass- especially if I do really well and am in a celebratory mood as no force on Earth will keep my ego down!

How much alcohol is there in Guinness foam? Probably nothing. Just a Guinness smell. It might taste horrible, though, cos the foam is filled with industrial air, certified for machine use only.

Probably none, Guiness could make a fortune with that stuff though, they could sell it as "Instant Moustache"!

Instant Moustache and eyebrows and sideburns. You could cover your face in it and draw eyes and mouth where they're not. Spy Disguise. You could get some of those doll's eyes -- they're round with a small dome of plastic and a loose circle for the iris so they move when you shake them. And a packet of Cherry Lips for a row of tiny little mouths.

Guiness Masks!! Lots of fun for everyone!
4.5% Fun!!

Then you could make pretend puddles outside the pub on special laminated pavingstones and they'd be filled with foamless Guinness and you'd bet everyone that you'd drink a puddle dry and they all go 'bet you won't,' and by closing time you're a millionaire.

Ahh, you'd be able to tell its guiness though with its extreamely dark colour, what you'd need is something a bit lighter, like Tetlys, but then again I'd need a million pounds before I drank that stuff!

Hmm. Do I hear here the disguised call for the unique beverage: the unadulterated taste of Wastebasket Weevil? Of which, I am very pleased to inform you all, I myself me own the sole and solitary recipe and rights.

Now, I know tonight is Harry Potter night and that That is really where Cayn has gone (!!!), but I insist you all form an orderly queue. And let us not be having any more incidents like last time. Those involved know who I mean. Yes, red faces all round; I can feel the glow from here. Charging up my car battery nicely, too, if I might add.

Unfrocked priests only between Party WAGs and Female Store Detectives, please. Yes, you over there! And I'm sorry but the haircut gives you away so can all Public School queue after the Dickensian urchins, and not with like last time.

So, same proceedure as last time: first into satelite orbit gets first dunk. The co-ordinates are, as last time.

Roll-up. Roll-up. But not indoors, thank you.
You know you want to.
But can't.
(ah, the exquisite pain!)

Honestly, I was at a pub in Halifax watching a gig!!
If I had of known that Harry Potter was on I'd have watched that instead!
No, to my credit I can honestly say, I have never picked up a Harry Potter book, though that might be a bad thing!

Come now, cayn

do you honestly expect us to believe you weren't in some queue outside a local Waterstones eager and excited for the fateful hour when they open the doors and Ah! Glory! The Last Harry Potter!! The One That Ties It All Together, the Wonder of the Last-The-Very-Last-Never-To-Be- Another Harry Potter.... (ahem, ahem)
yes, sorry Cayn, you were quite right. Course you were (I was just looking out for you, wondered why I couldn't....).

But At Least Now I Know! Now I Am The One Who Can Be Named Because I Know hahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahha

I think I know him as well.

hahahahahahahahhahahahhaha


hahahahahahahhahahahhahahhahahahahhahah





hahahahahahahahahhahahhahahahahhahahahahahahhahahahahahah

(taken up short) Oh. Do you?


I think I'll, er, just get my coat.

I know your goat as well.

Hairy Poster

I'm wizard. I even know JK.

Jo King (Assistant Producer)

(what to do? what to do? at every line, on every word he nails me! I am caught! Caught worse than than being caught is!

What to do? What to do?)





answers on a postcard please to:
End of the Line
The Last Dot
The Final Countdown
GoneWestshire.

Bloody postal strike.

Aha! Evidence of a divine mercy at work! What think you?

Or is it something far more sinister - something working within the stitiches of my psyche sufficient to warrant a complete MOT and overhaul
Yes, I recognise it now, those overalls, see it always has to make itself known: I Know You For What You Are! You are my old Woodwork teacher still slandering my lack of physical dexterity, still sniggering at every mortice and tennon.
Seeking to undermine this rickety confidence I have errected over your hollowing out. Well, its' s proper tubular scaffolding this time, cock, none of your unsustainable softwood, nah, get ye gone. ye feeble weeble of a fish-smelling man!
God, where did they find 'em!

Sorry, oh, forgot I was online...................................

Making you into that joak coffee table was the best thing I ever did.

You would have been a very fine table if you hadn't collapsed under the weight of that enormous Vienna Famous biscuit.

notice the shocked silence?

gone ve-ry quiet, hasn't it?

Hush now, listen

listen to the silence once again

Ok! I admit! I went to Waterstones at 7:30 last night and set up my tent reading all past Harry Potter books just so that at Midnight I could get that elusive first copy!
Unfortunatly come 11:58 I realised I left my wallet at home and was therefore unable to buy the said book

In my kitchen there are three uncomfortable jellies. They have forfeited their enthusiasm for synthetic and natural fruit flavours by selling their bowls to the devil. Theirs is a Faustian Picnic Pack. I have drawn a gingham circle round them using mayonnaise and mustard. Suddenly, a demon appears as a wall chart, free with my Sunday Papers. The wall chart is a shooting gallery target, its silhouette streaked with topographical gradient lines as though it were a map. ‘Boo hoo,’ it whimpers when I hold it, folded, under my blue-enamelled hole punch. ‘Ha ha!’ I yell as I reduce it to the dandruff dislodged from the Platonic idea of a circle by millennia of abstruse, and ultimately sophist, speculation.
So that's my morning so far. How's yours shaping up?
Moxy

Go and look at the jelly picture in the attic. You will find it green with hairy mould and gasping through its tar encrusted lungs while tinges of jaundiced yellow seep through to the surface.

I met Sniper Fire in the attack. Was this a planned elocution?

The tinges were hinged and opened like so 'eeekcreeeekkkksqueeeak.' Now I'd like to relax with some paper bags in a lax editorial climate. Oh, I've just found a wassail bowl and a wassup bowl. I'm off to a car boot sale. My perky periodontal membrane is given even greater definition by a full scale replica of a luxury cruise ship's anchor. Meanwhile, your smile is merely a glottal inflection and just stays as long as the syllable lingers. I know.

Watch out for snipers, they are venomous which is not so constricting, but they are never subtractors.

I bet you've got a boat load of car boots by now.

I own an atomic subtractor. I also own an anomic protractor. I own a wind farm and request that you blow your nose, cough, exhale, and trump in its direction to increase wattage. I own a tractor that runs on its own reactor. I own everything with a beak.

All purchased at carboot sales. I also bought a schoolyard and a bright leaf.

I don't eat beaks even though I am a carnival.

Do they have these sales in Xanadu? I might go to one.

Xanadu is Xanadid. It's now a parking lot for statues' legs with a local goblin market on Wednsdays and Saturdays using the gigantic toes as trestles.

I left the 'e' out of Wednesday and now Woden's saying it's created a vacuum and the other days of the week have all been sucked into it so he's quite happy cos it is Wednesday for all time now. He has rewarded me with a title. I am the Norse gods' perpetual calendar.

Wonderland? I do hope so.

Already I feel a sanctuary of confessional booth proportion. Enveloped in crushed red velvet voices that commute their logic within good old fashion language.
Hoorah for Wonderland and all ambitionable etchings. Now, read very carefully, I will write this only once.

I have spent the last two weeks exhausting my now weary but inspired hair follicles exposing them to the land of 'All Crown'. (I find that the proteins contained in non synthetic hair actually lactate at a far more agreeable rate the closer you inch towards a southern longitude.) Having said that, my map reading skills are non negotiable.

Those damn Cornish people - when will they ever learn just how to become impatient, demonic and completely inflatable just like the rest of this shadowy Nation.

It may have been my imagination - but as I was rowing home - Cornish men, women and children were brandishing large pick-axes. Their intention? Only to sever the county from the rest of the mainland! The cheek of it - and not a protestor in sight.

I must remember to empty the contents of my thingymigig.

Sanctuary is a blue leatherette bandolier containing every shade of lipstick ever created, it’s an air force scrambled by a thumbtack randomly stabbed on a Departures Board, it’s a highway whose hardcore and tar macadam were tamped and flattened by the punches thrown by welter weight boxers suspended horizontally in harnesses from JCBs. It’s the perforated tags telling the shepherd to tackle the ring pull on his canned drink by smashing it against an herald angel. You’re in a safe place. You’re here

Ah, that's all very well, but is here here enough not to be someone else's there? Moot point, and I'll commute to that later, but in the mean time - because, after all, that is where we all are: Mean-Time Buddies - in the M-T what I was going to say is no longer approropriate because it is now part of Then Time.

Moral:
Do not ever hesitate in a well-thought thought, phrase or saying. Because it ceases to be so, and then all time unravels at a rate bigger than most local councils can slap another increase on you.
In other words: we always lose.

And tnow the Moot Point: all the other conclusions are, of course and by necessity and definition, this very same, said Moot Point.

Ay tha ku

Ah, that's all very well, but is here here enough not to be someone else's there? Moot point, and I'll commute to that later, but in the mean time - because, after all, that is where we all are: Mean-Time Buddies - in the M-T what I was going to say is no longer approropriate because it is now part of Then Time.

Moral:
Do not ever hesitate in a well-thought thought, phrase or saying. Because it ceases to be so, and then all time unravels at a rate bigger than most local councils can slap another increase on you.
In other words: we always lose.

And now the Moot Point: all the other conclusions are, of course and by necessity and definition, this very same, said Moot Point.

Ay tha ku

Ah, that may be so but I do wonder at moments like this, is that here here enough not to be someone else's there? In the mean time I mean and you perhaps are mean, or do I lean a little to the other when I mean that? Moot point; we'll commute to that later.
Let the mean time reign; but perhaps it is already too late, that what I was going to saw already belongs to the when, wherefore and before.

Moral: do not ever hesitate in your well-known phrase or saying, lest you too succumb to Before-time syndrome.

As for the Moot Point: well, it is, isn't it!

aye tha kew

I'll have that in triplicate, please.

Triplicatoriciousness - the extinct live wire of repetition that reinforces the retaining element of thought. Sugar my hypothalamus with Pixshy dustdiniom and allow my endocranic rivers to burst their celled walls and reach out with their tangible fingers of time before they each dissolve like shortbread and fall into a teapot - that I call ' life'.

I have a hangover. It is historical with an intimidating lineage. It is Hanovarian, the lower mandible is pure Austro-Hungarian barcode voodoo. Over time, the application of hardening agents means that the pain has become timelocked and indistinguishable from an iron diving helmet of the old school. The hangover expectorates vastgouts of bubbles visible under normal terrestrial barometric conditions. Sacs of clotted air swivel from my mouth and audibly pop in the stratosphere, shattering birds. I just thought you ought to know.

I once dusted skinheads with icing sugar.

I'm more a 'Mod' myself. How I enjoy the sight of a Lamberretta filled backdrop with its twinkle of reflecting pea hen eyes and the harsh sound of adolescents muffled by nothing but baffles and the establishment.
Flapping fishtails gasping for air on imaginary riverbanks, losing their fight for life at Lollipop people.
Then it happens.
And the scooter becomes a tortoise in its box, but it never rustles, only rust made it this far.
Before we both become too old - because YES - we all do.

Funny you should say that Darren - I had a friend who was so cool he used to back comb his helmet

I'm a hot head myself. Lobal warming is to blame.
Do tortoises suffer from tort when normal road conditions apply -- what about camber changes when cornering? Or is that cucumber changes? Cucumber sliced into faceted windscreens with
Pea hen feathers arranged into horizontal blinds.

To back comb one's own helmet requires a degree of dexterity that I'm afraid was misplaced at the same time I stumbled across a tangled mess of persistant and most unwelcome varicose veins. It was at a time when the midlife circus was in town and there for all to see, on posters the size of snooker tables, were, amongst others -
The Hungarian Droop Brothers
The Human Molar
The Botox Sisters
The Venetian Vasectomy Twins - who rather worryingly were shot from an ageing cannon, before the finale'...
The Impotent Jugglers - a bizarre act that didn't really get going.
That's the things with that type of circus. Now that animal acts are not encouraged - every act contains a clown.
Still, yesterday I chanced upon another flyer.
The Human Reverend Canon Ball - being shot out of the roof of Salford Cathedral and landing in a pale on Salford Quays. Fantastic.

And I'm the best actor ever ever no contest because my neurosurgeon has rewired me so I have little pressure points scattered within easy access like acu-pressure points -- and if I touch them I immediately enter a particular and precise emotional state -- left earlobe, a longing that leaves stains, right earlobe is spiritual gratification, midpoint forehead is incapacitating loneliness as though the heart is twitching on flypaper. You want to pitch your film idea, you create a carnival float and you deck it out with a trailer montage, your actors in situ, in costu, and you take your lorry-trailer film-trailer and you drag it past the offices of the film financiers and maybe other film trailer trailers join you and the mood goes mardi gras and you bucket-collect funds and the big-money-guys go palms level with face at the windows and you get them coming after you straight off the ledge three stories up, and you have your first taste of BigTime and it's like space dust. And your mind acquires a greeting card wit and your hands ball like two pods of falafel.

I too have a neurosurgeon - much more reliable than my oldosurgeon. They tampered with my neurotransmitters, which ran on continental electric currant and dried dates. Those novelty cerebral jelly moulds I would use to highlight useful thought and the lesions that it left behind in my sorry beauloris of vacant stares. The right questions are so much easier than the wrong answers. So, in future, its perhaps best if those cotton wool balls of delusion are left to fester in pickle jars and smashed later with the emergency toffee hammer, that sits next to the inflatable conscience of our peers. The voyeaurs of the looking glass in Wonderland.

I, too, have a toffee hammer. Trotsky mucked about with it. He pretended it was an auctioneer's gavel and he was in the middle of a bidding war for his thoughts when he tapped a little too heavily. The rest is history. Our nouveau-gerontologist couldn't put Leompty back together for gain.

I spick

Uncle Joe

I think I've got your balls Uncle Joe
Mint!

No I've got them.

Dan de Leon

Einstein inherited Trotsky's wig. Uncle Joe used to borrow it and comb wisps out at the side of his hat.

Uncle Leon's Party Mints

Imperialist Mints V Polis Mints, the mint with the party membership

After Eight No Disputin' Rasputin mints. Rasputin inherited his hair from Catherine The Great's horse's tail.

Soviet Peppermint oil based economy... Western Capitalist degenerate spearmint behemoth. The Strong Mint March.

The Royal Mint, of course. And Minton to serve a royal mint on. Glaciers impinged on by Foxe's book of martyrs.

That's not what I mint at all.

That's not what I meant at all
You're everything mint ignoring my balls
And when all is said and done
Two mints ain't better than one

well mister death how do you like your blue-wrapped mint now,
your solitary blue wrapped mint in the torn finale of a packet now?

Hi guys, sorry to interupt but thought I'd catch the ones I'm looking for on here.
Wanted to say thanks to Malcolm for his kind words, and ask you and Moxy and any one else who fancies if you will have a look at my poem in the poetry reveiw it is the newest I've written - bit mushy maybe which is far removed from my style - I would really value your opinion - as I'm thinking of replacing your little white golly doll with it, and maybe reading it at the next gig.
Thanks chaps - sorry to bring work into all the fun and frolics.
I should maybe post this comment somewhere else but just wanted to say it's great to be part of the WOL family.
much love and laughter to you all.
Magi

And now you have to write for one minute on the subject of mints.

I like mints of all kinds
but some mints I can't eat cos they
chuck in dead cow rinds
well thats not strictly true
it's not just cow jelly but
pig jelly two
extra strong mints do this and soft mints too
which is a shame as I'm quite fond of a chew - ooh did somebody say bless you.
I get the sneezes and the wheezes as I get a chill from sucking on this bitter pill
causing all these beautiful creatures ill
and they say pigs eat swill!
as I'm already cold I'll find my glacier to uphold
my mood matches it's wrapper of blue
and I like the picture of the pretty polar bear too
shame they are starving
cos of global warming
just what is a bear to do
it seems if them humans aren't eating the beasts
in these slaughterish feasts
they're heating up the planet
with nuclear power and electricity too
seems they've nicked all the granite
and now they've run out of coal
but on the subject of mints
the polo is the one for me - it may not be economically sound
to pay a third of a pound
for a mint that's mostly a hole
but it don't have any animal jellies and therefore
is morally whole!

(Hope I met the challenge magical Mox)

Now you have to write about MINCE.

what kind of mince? the fruit or the meat?

I love to mince
it's ages since
I've walked straight hipped
and butchly

Poor Shambo Bull
was sent for mince.
It made me wince
most cruelly.

Now, sharp as quince,
with winks and hints,
I've built a scheme
so sneaky.

In their office chintz
I will evince
revenge on
butchers really.

I'll stride right in
straight, tall and trim,
and mince their balls
to jelly.

Minsk?

I am the purveyor of sinks
From my kiosk in Minsk
I sell mini ice rinks
From my troika in Minsk
I am a Higgs Bowson Sphinx
In my dacha in Minsk
I forge hypertext links
In my saucepan in Minsk

Minsk the Prequel
(or Before 8 minsk)

I have cognitive shrinks
In my flophouse in Minsk
And Minnie the Minx
In Mausoleum Minsk
And rinky boom dinks
From the tank turret mounted on my grand piano in Minsk
I have criminal finks
In my cartel in Minsk
With untraceable links
To my laundry in Minsk

Moxy - Moxy - Moxy.
I'm bereft of Wonderland glue to provide the adhesive sanity strips to my nasal passages. I've stared long and hard into a brecciated Jasper for inspiration. When all this time, you had defected to the other, more sensibubble, side. Context/pretext, I ask you?
Bring your crayons with you and let us begin to join the dots of our kaleidascopic souls. Hurry, before the colours of my thoughts begin to run...

Hello Darren! I was just pretending to be serious and I was going on and on for the sheer tomfoolery of it because sometimes I am like that. Context/pretext was all fingerpaints on sugarpaper prior to posting. Now I've made a poem lyric that is a plyoec, an inextricable meld, a hybrid that cannot be subdivided. I shall be back shortly, after a brief haircut, to play.

A Brief haircut eh?
I'm away to snuffle some truffles with me very sensitive feet

I have returned after having a brief haircut.
Are you sure those things are truffles, A. Daftie?

experiment in obvious rythme with surreal links me thinks me moxy and me minks.

start with minks


minks are great but viscous
whats much more delicious
is the flesh of the skin lickers
who kill them
and then
ben came along
he wore a borat thong
sang a blackbird song
had a galvanised tongue
of zinc
and he said
that he thinks
minks
are actually pink
and that moxys nature
had a staining and tanning production line
and that it was actually fine
to decieve the public
but only this time
she got rumbled
on words mox stumbled
when amazed by the fumbled
failure of this weeks ink
ink on mink?
mox i dont think so!
Peter, yes definately
ink is on mink
they are bloomin pink!
Darren Thomas its true
no Darren not blue of flashing
no Thomas not eyelashing mascara black
the bloomin thinks are pink
ill google you the link
ill galvanise my sink
so i can start my own pink production line
a local tannery of the mink
the sink will brim to the brim and brink of spilling
onto 1950 black and white floor tiles
and the stains will go on for miles
trails will lead to turnstiles
where you pay to see the real pink
you pay to see the pre paint job drink
they make you drunk to lessen the stench and stink of it
drunk people dotn ask as many questions
thats the theory
the gleefully accept the dabauchery
as though in an acceptory way
with receptors they say
wow mink looks better that way

Pinkocracy
palmistry
mink tarot
phrenology
Psycho-kinetically
Post energetically
hands laced in shoes

where the klingons use dylon
and strimmers in sinks
the soft slub of moultings
the indistinct sphinx
lost in the silage
when harvesting pinks
Google on 'jamjar'
and follow the links.

Oh ye of little faith.

According to the Daily Telegraph, this year's weather has been perfect for truffles, not just in terms of growth, but because the rain brings them closer to the surface and makes them easier to find.

It has the remarkable story of Richard Jones, who's 11 and lives in Berkshire. He can apparently find truffles by feeling the surface of the ground with his feet. It's a good talent to have, because his dad owns a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Such a kerfuffle concerning a truffle
when eclairs are sweeter and so much cheaper
no pretentious etiquette consuming the things
no anaphalatic shock from little bee stings.
just the sound of tounges righting the wrongs
as i sense a closeted indignant shufffle
from the man who champions the humble truffle...

What a wonderful word ' Truffle'. Perhaps on a par with 'Cellar Door'.

Pingisphere
Pongisphere

The first word is half a ping pong ball and the second word is the other half.

I got too tired to read any more past the ping pong so just made my contribution. Context is flexible here anyway, I feel.

oo this is my WOL debut.

Hello Flexible Context Steph! Your pinpongpingpingpingipono is a true treat. Welcome to Wonderland, have a petal. How're thing?

That was supposed to be ' how are things' although maybe you are operating in singularities and the missing 's' was appropriate.

pingisphere pongisphere spheripongpingipoid so flexible their transmutable.

Hey Steph welcome.

I have never come across a Portersmith before. Smiths are people who make things and Porters are people who carry things so Portersmiths must be people who make things who carry things. What a wonderful boon to the world. May you have millions of children.

All the ping pong balls there have ever been will be transportered to wherever they are required to be.

pingpongibulous wondrosity

In a world of pongs the one 'i' d ping is King.
May I too, offer you my humble pongs, pungs, and pangs of hunger.

Ping pong - Arvon Calling

beautiful day scouring the badlands in my monotone caftans on fleet trireme cocktail trolleys during a lull I'm an Ordealer an Either Orderly the historical past is jamming my watch beautiful day

every orb spider leaks dental floss zigzags beautiful day
dusk whizzes over me stars are entopic specks drifting on retinas
real sky is nowehere beautiful day

As it's Sunday, I've plugged myself into a 240 volt wall socket and smashed the 'In case of Emergensunday Break Mould' wire alarm. This is the sound it made...

Suffer

With every sunrise a pain
fills a smile, and the hours eat at a soul.
Then, a soothing medicinal sunset
both the skies and a life turning black.
Anguish hiding amongst the stars and
broken dreams.

For every sunrise brings its own tears,
falling upon the different worlds.

My ears are STILL ringing.

bzbbzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz --crk crk BZZZZZZZZZZZ CRKKKKKK KZZZZZZZ BBBBBBBBBSSSSSS PHT PHT BBBBBBBBBRRRRRRKkkkkkkkkkk fizzzzzzzzzz

Darren, you've left static szzzzzzz nnng bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

****NEWSFLASH****

Static Found Inside Wonderland.

Police are investigating unconfirmed reports of 'static' found in Wonderland. It's believed that the 'static' applies to every single letter submitted onto this thread. To explain this theory, Chief Superintendant Dickie Saint-John Smyth stated:
"It's very simple. The letters do not move. They are absolutely still. Unless of course you view them through Wondergoggles. The words then not only move but punctuation becomes random and in some cases, none existant. Before the collective letters, we believe are called words, begin to move you as a person."
He denied that the 'letter theory' was based around the recent 'Emperor's Clothes' scandal, but failed to answer any significant questions about turnips.
This is Cecil Duval - News at Ten - Wonderland.

Hello Cecil Duval,
My Wondergoggles have brought me to the verge of self-marginalization.I am outre. I am pariah -- all thanks to the latex goggle surround and strap fastener. I now know that the exact spacing between the letters on this thread is the optimum 'jump' diameter for a type of electro-magnetic force that can build to deliver the equivalent voltage of a top-gunning electric chair prior to today's models with their gauges and micro-watt control. Will all visitors now wear rubber-soled footwear whilst posting.
Thank yous. Oh, the 'random' punctuation is simply that they share the same magnetic poles as he nearest letters and so are repelled, landing next to letters (or words) with the opposite charge. Should make the charge-sheet easier to complete, eh, Chief Superintendant Dickie Saint-John Smyth?

I'm out of breath Moxy. I've donned a pair of Snow Boots and spent the last few days trekking over that volatile terrain known as 'The discussion threads'. Some, like Mount Tied (? - Tenerife) appear dormant, while others are like smoking gun barrels. There is some wonderful linguistic scenery out there. Fantastic views of the insightful and wonderful food for thought. In fact, I'll probably 'holiday' there again later in the week.
In the meantime, let me undo these boots... Ahhhhh.
Right, where were we?

Good Morning, Darren, strange weather we're having in Wonderland. Why, the whole place looks as featureless as as a marxist ideologue. Oh, hang on, I've found the 'on' switch and the joysticks so we can steer these snowmen around, synchronise them or smash 'em together. Yes, there have been some interesting threads in Elsewhere and I have been spouting great big rubbery words almost too big to shove into somebody else's earhole and then I have been scurrying off to play with my electroencephalogram. And you have been posting beautiful pieces of merit, worth, validity and wonder -- poetry, in fact. And I have gone gone splutter splutter flub!

Tis a Wonderland Laydee's perogative to splutter the occasional flub just so long as you tidy up after yourself then the flibbers will not mind I'm sure.
Yes, I've spent some time in the Olde English Clog Shoppe and purchased what I believe to be an original pair of George Stephenson's Rocket Boots. A prototype of the Acme rocket boots used by that Cyote fellow in animated circles. They're fantastic, if not a little uncomfortable. They rub on my little toe. However, this minor complaint pales into a magnolia insignificance when I set them to 'full speed'. In fact, that's the reason I didn't attend the last WOL at the Howcroft. They were so powerful I sped past Sunday and didn't stop until what will be THIS Friday. Rocket Boots with an in built time machine. Those Japenese eh? Or perhaps in was just the Einstein model i received by mistake, allowing for long lost relative dimension in space hoppers? Mmmmh, anyway, I've seen the future - Rocket Boots for every WOL member.

Looks like Moxy may have overdosed on cloud cakes washed down with lashings of hellium laced flubber juice causing her to float like a hoverfly or maybe she has had an accident with the highly volatile electroencephalogram.

Warning: Birthdays are dangerous (may contain nuts!)

How did you know, King Paul -- ah ha -- you've borrowed Jeremy Betham's panopticon again, haven't you? I had overdosed on exactly that, cloud flubber helium gnat cakes. With the prevailing wind I had almost caught up with Darren in his Einstein-Stephenson's Rocket Boots but, in the end, he was little more than a dot and a vapour trail until tomorrow.
I have also been detained by the gift of a 'bald-head wig' from my son, and an American G.I. style anime 'dog tag' and anime based notebook which is bound in black and has the words 'Death List' in a kind of gilded copperplate on the front, with each page having a rather elaborately drawn skull on the outer top most edge. Just the most appropriate kind of stationary (and bling) for the kind of poems I write, I think you'll agree. My book on clouds was a magic book caled Cloud Busting, not a 'oh look, that fluffy mass is a 'cirrhosis', I mean a 'cirrus.' And my birthday treat had been a trip to the cinema to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, the last 20 minutes being in 3D. We took my dad who managed to sleep through quite a lot of it and who then ended up flicking his glasses onto the floor whilst trying to put on his 3D specs, muttering 'very unusual.' My son kept leaning over and pointing to various rather peculiar-looking characters and saying, 'Mum, that's you that is.' So a fab and memorable event all round. Ricardo Reis, that old hippy and my husband as well, also enjoyed Harry Potter and has offered our garden as a suitable home for retired thestrals. Ten out of ten fun rating there, I think.

I meant, how did you know A. Daftie!?
I am still recovering from 3 cups of birthday cocoa.

Left the 'n' out of Jeremy Bentham and he's called round and said he's going to leave the 'M' off Moxy so I'll just be Oxy -- and I left the 'l' out of 'called' and called's said it's going to leave the 'x' out of Oxy so I'll just be Oy.
Oy

It couldn't have been Bentham he's stuffed and held somewhere in a cupboard in Oxford

Actually if you left the Y off Oy you could be O and write a story about yourself!

Yes I knew I was right, he was the old utilitarian, check out this link for a look at his stuffed body
http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=3365

Oh yes, he left his body to his university and they did that to him. Tut tut. But he designed that panopticon you were using the other day. And he said you'd borrowed it. He had his words stuffed in the shape of speech bubbles. Isn't he sort of partly covered in wax, wearing rather dapper clothes and a hat, and presented sat down in a glass case -- I'll go and look at the link in a mo?
I don't think I would wish to be involved in The Story of O!
I live a very quiet life.
O woke up, made a cup of tea, went and cleaned the hedgehog poo from the coal shed, took delivery of some meal worms and dove food, wrote some things, had another cup of tea, fed the crow, wrote some more, had a go on her hula hoop, went to see the crow who stuffed some shells and sticks down her neck and started unpicking her jumper, had another cup of tea ... I mean, hardly the stuff of outre literature, is it?

O I don't know.....

lol

O I do!
And the crow only works away at a small patch of jumper and I've another jumper on under that so, um....
Maybe I should go for Dial M for Murder?

Dial O for Omelette that should confuse them, a perfect murder... two deaths by strangers who meet in a pan, the novel that Patricia Highsmith should have written. As Mr Burns might say "Eggs-cellent"

Dial 'O' for Oligarchy or for the Oligocene or Oligopoly -- you could shift through rule by the few, to few molluscs in that geological period, or few buyers for whatever it is you've got on sale. Then you could say hopefully A Few Good Eggs, a few barnacle geese and a few eggs. Or something. Right, what's next on my itinerary? Mr Burns would say, 'You can't break eggs without somewhere to put what drops out unless you want a mess.'

O is for onan.... no let's not go there

...the Barbarian? The Bare-ian?

Onomatopoeia?
Yoko Ono?

Dial 09 and participate, involuntarily, in a scam?
The world is certainly filled with winders.

.....ism

Ism? - Dial Ism for Movement.

If one takes the x from Moxy
and turn it to a T
wave a wand about your head
turned the M into a D
then added one more letter
then Dopey you would be!
And I can't believe you're that at all!

As you've known all along:
ism onan - re-arrange and turn into one rude word.

Oh, Sir Daftie, I was doing the lady-like thing of deflecting the rude word into something, hopefully, a playful and witty repartee.

Onan was a bloke in the Bible who, unlike the good people on Gardener's World, spilled his seed.

Ism was a bloke who always ended up at the back of a queue.

Oh my.

the extra 'a' ran in just as I was closing the airlock.

I know , I know, sweet Lady of the Mac, My purient, infantile humour got the better of me I'm afraid. I was sniggering behind the bike stand and I just had to splurt it out.

Apologies and deep penance

your 'umble servant

That was you behind the bike shed was it? I heard the giggling! I thought it was a Biblical Giggling Bush. They grew close to the Burning Bush but kept getting incinerated before they got a mention by passing prophets.

I can see your neurones firing. You're off round the back of that shed again, aren't you?

Oh blessed are the prurient in heart for they shall inherit the backs of sheds.

Rather quiet in the playground of late.
Have I got the wrong place, or the wrong date?
Is there some place I should be
or is it that
everyone else is there instead of me?
From where I sat
it looked like all were is suspended animation
I guess I'm just, shucks, seeing things
or someone's shucked-off creation.
Who is that? Oh it's me, who sings:
'Shall I stay or shall I go go?'
I guess I'll just wait for Godot

The playground is indeed bereft of insomniacs save one. Moi.
My energies have been employed in time travel. The holiday insurance is sky high and barely affordable on a student's fiscal stash. However, I got as far as the year 2017.
WOL had its own cable TV station similar to QVC. 24 hour performance poetry on tap. WoW.
Paul was the Poet in residence at Wigan, which has become an International economic hub for both commerce and global trousers.
Pete Crompton is now Lord Crompton and spends his day's performing his celebrated work's at the Lowry which itself has become an outdoor hairdressers to the stars and their pets. Dale Winton is Prime Minister.
And, America is celebrating its first female president. I didn't quite catch the name, but the inaugral speech was very similar to the mutterings of a curious keg of sorts. Mmmmh.
Anyway, back to present day Wonderland...breathe in...and out.

Flip! My time travelling appears to have upset the flow of dicussion named Fred.
Yoodal Odle Eee...hello?

yoodal odle eee...hello? [a rather feeble echo back]

Sorry, been at the international key wrestling competition at Kemps Jig, a rural enclave in Shireshire. Ran out of circumambient prose on the way back. Stayed overnight in a shaking slide rule. Caught an aggrieved ear and shingled protractor as a consequence.

Darren and Mox mess around with inverted dwarf star powered slide rulers. I heard this rumour from 'a daftie'


they use them to calculate the ratio of lcd brighness versus plug in night lights in order to correctly illuminate thier respective kitchens.

darren cooks orange kit kats on top of lemon sponge cake, whilst moxy (as long as light level is correct) attempts a new hybrid cake bar.

its made out of inside out battenburg cakes that are stacked vertically in her perectly designed vertical baking machine.

the result

some nice deserts to serve at an appropiate tea party

probably friends of Turton Hall day out.

Serving deserts at tea parties will give them their just desserts.

Warning Thieves operate in this area.

Has someone watered the Cress seeds of interaction. Marv - less! Exposure to direct sunlight in recommended. In the unlikely event that you should become dissatisfied with your interaction AND any suitable replies, please contact.
The Under Secretary for Foam and all things Curly His right Dishonourable, Sir Eugene Emily Nimblehurst. Please enclose a stamped addressed hot air balloon and shaving equipment.
Mr Nimblehurst will endeavour to reply to none of your possessions.


M SS NG
Thiiief.

I am a warning thief, an Achtung-Whippet -- I nick anything that alerts anyone to any danger -- ha ha ha -- I am intending to render the whole world RECKLESS and WRECKED ha ha ha. Crunch smash kerump are my calling cards! HA HA HAHHAHAHA

The Under Secretary for Foam and all things Curly has been Overthrown and forcibly straightened by heated ceramic subways ha ha ha I ahve injected him with last night's roast potatoes ha ha ha ha. The only gestures his hands can make are gull-swoops. I have mad a disorderly distribution of rain across the Brotish Isles I am the suds and debris of a fedora, you'll never take me alive! I am selection and combination on an open top tour bus visiting a chemical blast peppered with braille dots for the sight impaired. I am the noise on the street in postcard format!


M SS NG
Thiiief.
That looks like the throbbing engine of winter to me Mr Thomas!


'Serving deserts at tea parties will give them their just desserts.'

You say that now, Mr Saunders, but I am a friend to Singing Dunes and they all musically my way. In the chill dawn I am their ownly military narcissist. And these are my starting blocks and ha ha the athletes don't know but they're covered in soot so the track event starts and none of them show a clean pair of heels ha ha ha ha ha how wicked is that?

'Darren and Mox mess around with inverted dwarf star powered slide rulers. I heard this rumour from 'a daftie'' Is that so Mr Crompton -- well you got it sooooooo wrong. Darren messes around with cheese wedges, stuffing them into forming stars at that crucial gass into matter interchange and he's created a mono rainbow, the colour affected by muscle acids and my kitchen is a montage of glimpsed utilities you get nothing cooked but a platter of excerpts and a drink of discontinuous.

'darren cooks orange kit kats on top of lemon sponge cake, whilst moxy (as long as light level is correct) attempts a new hybrid cake bar.' That is true but only on a subconscious level.

And my batenberg cakes are non-euclidian and also mobius strips.

Thank you.

Turton Hall is really a ferry in a trenchcoat.

ha ha ha

my typing is all awry today due to a sawn off platypus.

Of course it is Miss Moxy! The thread did begin
"Warning thieves operate in this area".
Perhaps this 'Inflatable Subtle Clue Kit' is not worth the money? Should have tried ebay. It awash with more than just tricksters and their wares.

It's just been revealed that the Berlin Wall was once made from Cardboard. Graffitti was nothing more than the rationale thought of Communism manifestaion AND that Spit the Dog was actually a genetic mutation of Bob Carolgees's right arm. Having once been bitten by a Sooty glove puppet when he was but a small boy. I kid you not. I'm reading it now in a book entitled, 'How to create a furrow in the forehead'. By Maximillion Fetish. How bizarre?

I'd heard the Berlin wall was on castors, it was only about 15 metres long but they kept sliding it -- at a speed undetectable to the naked eye -- along a track. It would make sense if it was also made of cardboard. Ease of shoving. I still have a pot of communist noodles.
Oh I wish I was an elf. They don't have to bother, do they?

My kit was an Insurmountable Scuttled Shoe Fit. That would explain my subsequent behaviour.

Rapid Response thanks you for your submission. Please try later when one of our operatives will be here to advise you of the consequences of Rapid Responding.
- -
8888 (o) (o) 8888
I ] I
L______ 0 _____I

. .

Don't Shoot!

Blast! Automatic formatting.

In the absence of Auto...etc, this very evening my spirit is offered for conversation through a medium, to our friends sat in the waiting room of immortality, reading Reader's Digest and coughing behind their clenched fists.

I clenched my fist too hard. It turned to fog and nougat. I coughed a zipper into my sunglasses. I have a linoleum cyclone fence thanks to your automatic response team, Mr Thomas. And I trapped a bear in that montage, he is now a fan-folded grizzly and designated a new species of tuft. He'd come for crystal therapy. I have made a spatial mystery out of lichen to give to Sophie.

To the tune: lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala

Bellicose Joe
Joe KO's Belly
Firm Hat's Bella Lugosi
Undead Undead
Fear him! Foo Cult
Penned yule elan
seas on tube mare:
Samosas Sum
Trees pecked
Joe's towed
To not cough.

Howdy Joe!

Armorial footwear for the toes of the 'Mrs Grundy' and all those who sail in such a wooden shoe of emotion. These courtly words shaped and constructed by the lexicological flea circus and placed here, not by Mr or Mrs Qwerty, but by the fleas themselves and are here for your leisure.
A wig of elastic bands and a spinning dickie bow once used on a Lancaster Bomber maiden flight await the runner up. For the winner a

Those darn fleas and their old fashioned trade unions. Unofficial Strikes? Negotiation is needed. These letters are ALL scabs.

(

A Muriel Brogues of East Hardwick was yesterday seen to have spontneously formed a cranially conjoined twin, like herself again balanced on top of her own head. She now intends to take an inland vacation in a p-brane ... hang on, these are scab letters. Cannibal crudities! I thought I was playing air alphabet, then I felt the crumbs. Darren? Sophie? Joe? Malpoet? Anyone?

Hello I have eaten said cake and said cake and said cake I have said cake I have eaten I oh my monkeys with rara skirts for crowns
Frilly bloomers. A fridge down one leg.
Target foghorn trampolines, you jump on 'em to warn shipping. Let me out.

Oh GO ON...Jump!

Today I purchased a Smart Car. This is to compliment my wife who also has a Smart Car. One big advantage is if we travel seperately to dinner parties and she forgets her ear rings, we can always use the cars!

I have NOTHING against Smart Cars. But i DON'T drive one.
I have nothing against cars but i drive. Maybe it's 'Smart' that i have an issue with?

Hello Joe. Are these your snow boots? You may need a pair walking in the crunch and ice of Wonderland.
Willkommen. Ich liebe das freund.

Yes, dank scones to you too, matey. Top of today's slew of entrepeneurial potentials is this: haberdashery for micro-organisms, teeny weeny little hats -- new evidence demonstrates that even the one celled protozoa has PERSONALITY and INDIVIDUATION OF BEHAVIOUR and CONSCIOUSNESS well here I am about to endow all these itty bitties with FASHION CONSCIOUSNESS. First off, though, I have to shove Manchester's buildings through a specialist architectural North Korean Landromat -- it has a special 'cathedral and historical delicates' cycle and the buildings can be washed whilst occupied with no ill effects other than possibly the older worshippers/visitors/patrons shrinking a little.
So I noblesse oblige to the lot of you.
Harumph, Queen of Lockjawdy

I missed 'say' I missed the sartorial boat as well but being a behemoth I am mostly ocean going and only visible from the top 3 vertebrae upwards. Thank you pancakes.

Here is a poem Called SMART

Exclusivity is another person's pick and mix.
The circumference of a bead of perspiration
Is equal to a gnat's body, balled in freefall
Oh warheads hung out on the washing line
Oh mirror with primate speech capacity

Kinda groovy ain't it?

Moxy...Moxy...
Bring those war heads in I think they're dry now

Very groovy indeedy-doo

Oh no, I'll leave them out just a bit longer so they smell fresh-air clean. Nothing nicer than using fresh-air clean smelling warheads.
I used to use Fabric Softener on them, Crushed Concrete and Cindered Body Parts. But now I've gone Green.
It's Well Groovier than before.

Are they going to be used in "friendly" fire incidents?

No, well, yes.

They're going to be used at one of the many -- rightly celebrated -- 'at homes.'

Some of the warheads are actually plush-covered for extra comfort.

Grooviest ever groove.

In a past life, long before the fruits of Wonderland were but the grandparents of seed, I was responsible for the security of nuclear warheads. Not on my own of course. Even that responsibility had to be shared around like stale bread at a medieval banquet, but with other equally anxious and fretful looking airmen. The irony being that at the time not one of us could look after ourselves let alone the security of a planet once deemed 'significant' in the much maligned 'The Astronomer's guide to life and its planets and how to obtain one and destroy the other'.
They are actually quite tame creatures. But they do have a tendency to nibble the fingers of curiosity AND as an added bonus, they taste wonderful with a mushroom cloud sauce.

So, whilst some people were pen pushers, you were a button pusher!
Crickey.
Did the warheads nibble your fingernails down to the quick and the dead?
Crickey!
'Underneath the silos' sung by one bloke in a broken hat, another in a pelt.
Crickey!

My finger was on the Button mushroom of destruction as my friends lay in its shade drinking cocktails of radioactive Orangeboom, eating hairy bratwurst killed that very morning. The rest of me was in Cleethorpes.

Is this all true Darren?
Crickey indeed if it is.

Please, save your 'crikeys', this lowly expletive is at the lower end on the scale of expletia litmus when it comes to words associated with my life. But yes, it's all true.
As a highly trained (Government words, not mine) specialist in the Royal Air Force Security and Provost services one of my many fuctions and responsibilities was the security both during transporation and the storage of 'nukes'.
Not many people get to see one in the flesh. Those that do usually end up losing that flesh anyway. Dirty, horrible things they are too.
Some are only made out of concrete but treated as the real thing. It was to confuse the Russian spy satellites during the cold war, or at least the recon' image verifier comrade. Made it look like we had hundreds when actually...

I'd better stop there - i'm still tied by the OSA.

Blimey O'Reilly!

We have now ventured into the realm of Dr Strangelove.
With a dab of the Neville Maskelynes!

Did you really mean to write fuctions, Darren, or was it just a bit of Sleudian frippery?
Is that true? Conker eat silos to rule the Fuss y 'uns? No wonder they called it an unclear arsenal. And not mush room for buttons. You put your finger on it.
Who were you guarding them against? The Russkies (a biscuit-eating culture related to the beaker people)? Or us?
What a film indeed, Daftarse. Dr Strangle-love had me choked with a motion. Tea-break over.
Joe

It takes me back to my childhood when I got a piece of concrete for Christmas, Oh I how I loved and cherished it, wheeling it around in my neighbour's pram and feeding it a flour and water mixture through a bit of old hosepipe. Then some jealous child stole it and I was bereft - I'm still inconsolable.

You had concrete? Talk about posh! We had to make do with volcanic ash, a portion of which we kept on the side of the bath, along with a morsel of dead cucumber and some scented tallow cut with coal by-products - the function of which I never did discern.
Julian

Here is the 'n' that i owe from my previous post, there. Now we're happy. Concrete nuclear weapons, you couldn't make it up! They had to be weighted, the projectiles, for counter balance, otherwise they would have slipped off the trolley that they were being towed along to and from the storage areas where they were kept. And no, they were not shopping trolleys, although the Belgium Airforce contemplated using wheelbarrows at some point. Their defence budget was less than what the country spent on chocolates.They only had one missile. It was a bit of a celebrity and appeared on several chat shows during the 1980's including their equivalent of Gerry Springer (sic). Last I heard it had suffered the indignation of an occasional cameo appearances in James Bond movies. Forced to prostitute itself in the late 1990's after the NATO and USSR agreement to de-commision blocks of shaped concrete, it saught agency work in the Middle and Far East. It posed for many of the European spy satallites where they then mistakenly took it for a WMD. The rest is his-story.

Actually I've heard it's making a guest appearance at Wigan WOL tonight complete with pacifier and armed guard

Actually, it isn't...I am.

And a blinder you was, too, Darren. Bobby dazzler, in fact. Thanks for enlivening further and already lively venue.
But, back to Belgium for a minute: shouldn't ALL countries spend more on chocolate than they do on defence?
BTW, there is an official trade in the cake, biscuit and chocolate industry, called a chocolate enrober. Not many people know that.
Time for a new peace movement: Biscuits for peace! The Peek and Freans shall inherit the earth. Harnessing the fig roll to the needs of mankind.It's crunch time!
Discuss.

Not many people know this either Julian. Peter Kay caused ripples in the Illuminati biscuit world when he referred to ' Hob-nobs' and championed their dominance. For in the dark sinister underworld of biscuits and chocolates, the hobnob is but a serf. A philistine that relies on brute strength and little else. Indeed, the colloquailism word 'nob' is a direct reference to this. The Chamber's Chocolate Dictionary cites the ' One Dip' (Rich Tea) as the Divinity of the biscuit world. This flies in the face of Kay's interpretation of the Great chain of biscuit being which, it's believed by some, is a conspired effort by member's of the Biscuit Illuminati. The signals are all around us. Without going into too much detail, it is no coincidence that the world of religion and science have conflicting general views, but some symbology remains. Such as communal bread and U.F.O's. Their similarity in shape is no coincidence when married with that of Rich Tea.
Chocolate Fingers shaped in the way that they are is no fluke either. The binary code of computer programming is based on the shape of both chocolate fingers and Rich Tea biscuits - oo11oo11oo11oo11oo11 for example.
There are biscuits in almost every household. And in an attempt to corrupt those who decline the world of biscuits they are often forced to 'have one' almost subliminally in Supermarket promotions, elderly neighbour's houses, prison visits, crown court etc, the list is endless.
I don't wish to talk too much because I can feel their lure already, such is their power. I hope this information is helpful - but be careful how deep into the biscuit barrell you stick your hand. It may become painfully stuck!

Name dropper! You been hob-nobbing with Peter Kay?

'wonderland' really is the safest place to be, isn't it Toto?
I'll plump the pillows of my thoughts, settle down onto a mattress filled with styrofoam letters and sleep. Sleep, the trickle charge of inspiration that powers a cement mixer filled with ink.

let us shift the skin on our faces with a block of soap as if leddest by memory into the matin song and aky-braky-fest and genetic homogenity of porridge
let us snap our fingers and rattle the tambourines we hammered our scimitars into and added beer bottle caps to get the tinkle-shinkle
let us drag our pastel quilts onto the runway and wait to be hoovered into the idling engine of a loaded Boeing
let's run screaming from this mission oriented world
carrying cocktail umbrellas and resin jewellery that holds extracted curlicues of our own demobbed DNA
let us stride out like hyperpituitary giants
let us worship the gladiators and their bullhorns which they are unable to use effectivel because of degenerative sinusitis
let us be poets on indeterminate trajectories through dictionaries for words are but the pegs on the clothesline of the soul, Toto.

Is this, of Moxy's, a pastiche, a cento, orload of old shoe repairers?

I have a nose for sinusitis, it can spot me from afar,
“degenerate”, I’ve heard it say, passing me a bar,
of leddest soap, and then, when porridge lost its sheen,
pale quilts, pituitary stilts, on washing lines were seen.
Simmy tar paved the way, whilst fingers snapped and rattled,
For girl-loving cannibals and their klaxons used by cattle.
Writers we be, but can’t agree the way that we must go
And lexicographic laundries turn pages blank as snow.
But curlicues, I do accuse, nigh onomatopoeic,
it leaves unmoved, not to be rude, acid deoxyribonucleic.

Ah, well. Back to work (apologies, Sophie)!

yes.

The negator says 'NO'. Which comes as no surprise. Comes, came, coming where does it all end? At the beggining of the week I inserted a foot pump into my ear canal. At regular and repeated intervals I have had the misfortune of Professor Linguistic stamping on the pedal of predicator.
Enough!

Hello Darren, as blind Tobit would have said, you're only as young as your moustache. Oh the terrible power of the shut, the moribund provenance of the missing, the clarity of disrepute, and the chips at the end of confusion. May you redeem your morphemes by midnight.

Oh Malcolm, welcome to the world of proper nouns. Of us and me and I and you. This world is bereft of berefti things and all things berefti. Not least syntax poured from the quills of scholars. Let us wrestle with 'Constituents' and 'Grammar'. They may wear blue silky shorts but they are but the Mick Macmanus of words. Bring on the Big Daddy of morpholgy. With his hairy chest filled with gallotill stops and words that fill a sentence with nothing but letters.

Leave him...stay on the leader.

I've just re-read the last posting. Ignore that childish typo's. These boxing gloves do wonders for spelling....

and tense...