Sinister: the high altitude porno waikiki beach alien midgets

[Gordon]

It's a tiny little golden compact disc wrapped in a yellow and green
photocopied sleeve in a see-through plastic wallet, made in northern England
by those pesky Alien Porno Midgets. What is? My subject, my fellow sinister
sitizens. This information a propos of nada; duck-egg; zilch; nuttin, by the
way, except by the way of an introduction to another garbled
no-harm-intended blitzkrieg of a post from yours truly. That, and I just
love the magical vibes of saying, and repeating, *the high altitude porno
waikiki beach alien midgets*. Go on, intone it too. It's better than saying
*gouranga*.

the high altitude porno waikiki beach alien midgets

yes!

Don't track them down and buy into their sound, though, unless you want to
listen to that which is weirder than weird and then some, with
electronically strangled pedal steel guitar on top.

Now onto being driven the wrong way
down a motorway.
Yesterday.
It's today's anecdote.
So, without further ado but much convolution involved:

I was returning from a lamentably idleberryless sojourn in the big smoke
London town and, by the only account offered, someone got shot on the M6 in
the middle of the night. This, the driver told us over the tannoy later. At
the time, all that was apparent was a general lack of movement in the
traffic. I mean, hours, or so it seemed, of no motion whatsoever, which does
not a proper journey make. I'm all for journeys involving getting places,
not being still, even if it's nice 'n' zen now and then [!? yeah, me too,
and I wrote it. Sorry]. Anyway, the bus eventually started up again, but in
reverse gear along the fast lane, cranked into a U-turn then proceeded
towards what I expected would be fast approaching headlights. At 140mph.
Rather alarming and apt to be inconvenient. However, no such result
resulted, thanks to the ministrations of a nice police person in a big
chunky car with blue flashing lights parked at the nearest junction
controlling things. So off we tootled as part of an increasingly long single
file of juggernauts and suchlike down the deserted backstreets of somewhere
like Wigan at 4am. We were late home. The end.
My life is not like the movies.
Of course, a fellow passenger announced she had a bomb and Elvis was seen
driving a small  apple green Fiesta GL down the hard shoulder singing 'I
left my heart in Brondesbury' just after we re-joined the motorway but
before the flying saucer landed at Charnock Services (Northbound), but I'm a
bad liar.

Can you imagine someone prattling on like this is capable of holding down a
proper job? Well, I've not proved it. Actually, it's quite good fun not
doing any work for a living, even if it does seem to be raining all the
time. This morning, however, over a leisurely breakfast of sausages, eggs,
fried potatoes and tomatoes with fresh basil, rhubarb from the garden with
cornflakes, an aero mousse (fourpack for 99p, buy one get one free) and a
pot of Earl Grey and, oh, just *lounging* around with a magazine, it was so
sunny and warm it seemed in order to activate the patio fountain. I even had
time to rummage around in the garage for the plastic attachment that
converts the bluggubblegluggubble water non-jet into a priapic sixteen inch
multiple spray!  Hah! take that you labouring types in offices with carpet
tiles that build up static and max-pax coffee from a silly machine in the
corridor that also spews horrible soup! Take it from me, and my bike!

Ok. Please ms/r. job-giving person (yes, you, the dynamic facilitator in the
suit), I take it all back. Make me a productive member of society. I desire
your sponduliks.

And on our merry way, non sequitur stylee...

People like getting name-checked in posts, Idleberry. They do indeed
Caitlin. But what of the people who inevitably get left out Ken? Not chu,
I'll wager, and not Mr. Cochrane Mr. Cochrane Mr. Cochrane.
I'll make it simple. Name checks cost 5p each from now on, payable in Euros.
That'll be 0.164 Euros Sgazetti, should you decide to take me up on this
offer twice. Three name-checks, suitably couched in relevant prose, will set
you back nearly a quarter Euro [are there sub-denominations, a la pfennings,
pennies? ] Hannah Brown, but you'd be better off saving them and making a
trip to the next scotchpicnic in Edinburgh (date to be announced, but pencil
Saturday 27th July into those furry covered little notebooks, people, and
we'll see what happens).

See! That was a picnic rumour slipped in there!

Meanwhile, if I say deputy dubs b squared baker miss baker miss lindsey lou
baker you won't get much change out of a dollar.
[Come to think of it, maybe a Euro divided into a hundred bits is called 100
cents, assuming one were to divide one equally and figuratively rather than
in any other way, especially literally.]

It seems the latest Glasgow shindig went swimmingly without me, despite
predictions to the contrary, which I'm sure were all just falsely modest
negative hype on the part of it's organiser. She (I've named you twice
already so I'm trying to save you some Euros here) didn't know where it was!
Somehow *I* just knew that, with BGM Casarotto involved, so would a football
match and hence West 13 must've been a field somewhere. As it turned out, a
field next to a tap from which people were drinking and in which they were
snogging, which sounds intriguing, as in WHO WAS SNOGGING? Did the tap drip
seductively? I confess, I've been there before and am all too aware that
this tap is in fact a public house and not some Claes Oldenburg effort [If
you're not into modern art, Claes makes massive shuttlecocks and binoculars
and possibly taps big enough to snog in, on, under, whatever, but don't ask
me why. Check out his 'Study for Giant Chocolate', Laura]. Still. Erm, I
seem to have forgotten what I was supposed to be saying.

Ah yes. I remember now.

THE HIGH ALTITUDE PORNO WAIKIKI BEACH ALIEN MIDGETS

You know you want to hula koo maki saki, baby.

Gordon


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