It has come to our attention that a fever is sweeping across our great and illustrious nation:
People dare but whisper his name, and yet the whispers echo and magnify till they carry the gravitas and din of a hundred volcanicus eruptionus watching status quo.
Martin, the marvellous, of Mumbai (formerly Bombay, you can imagine his delight when its name was changed so his full title would be so full of alliterative allusions).
But we are beating, as they say, around the proverbial shrub.
We talk as if we know him, and in a truculent sort of way, we don't. Of course, everyone knows of him, and his dark deeds, but his actual character remains veiled and shrouded like a bestial bride, of woe, standing before the altar of Hades (also known as Hades the Great, or Harry to his friends).
For great misery has befallen Ben and George at his hedonistic hands: Mark the Possum (nominal leader of the possum horde) is no more, thanks to his doing; consequently a possum revolt is underway as we type to create a glorious possum's democratic republic, spearheaded by Bertram Possum. Robin, rallying the remaining possum capitalists, is, we fear, doomed to an ignominious failure, and all because of that mangy cur, Martin.
Martin has also declared an insidious yet deadly war on the ursine world, as can be seen in the below video: this is the only known footage or Martin - he is the man holding the gun.
Dastardly!
Our thoughts go out to those brave bears who continue, unabashed, to fight this injustice, and their families, standing tall and proud in an increasingly ursine-unfriendly world.
When and where our next post will emerge, we do not know, as it grows more and more dangerous to speak out against Martin the Marvellous of Mumbai (formerly Bombay), but it is our civic duty to you, the reader, to bring these sordid goings-on to your attention.
Good luck!
Friday 4 January 2008
Monday 3 December 2007
By the way
Assuming, as we naturally are, without a hint of hubris, that our blog will become internationally renowned and esteemed amongst the intelligentsia, we thought we might allow you a small window into our really very excellent and jet-setting lives. In fact, only this morning did we partake in a voyage of sorts to judge the tri-annual Miss Hirsute and Halitosis Brazil, as we are internationally recognised as afficianados in this admittedly quite specific realm of the beauty industry.
Ben is the first hunchback ever to have produced gold from lead and was asked by Nasa to be the first man on Mars, but respectfully declined as he didn't trust anyone else to feed his possum horde (nominally led by Mark the Possum) and tape his daily fix of countdown, which he still loves despite the rapid decline in the quality of the the show since Richard Whitely had such extensive plastic surgery and mysteriously acquired a nigh-on radioactive perma-tan.
George and Ben do not fully comprehend the cause for such ribald hilarity at the above video, despite extensive study. Nevertheless, we see that Whitely is happy, and when Whitely is happy, we are happy.
George is that most mysterious of creatures: a very short giant. indeed, he is so short he can quite easily be mistaken for a normal human being, though naturally this illusion vanishes in a puff of smoke upon engaging him in conversation, at which point it becomes clear he is far, far superior to any of you inferior bottom-feeders (and by that, yes, we do mean the act of felching).
Between us, we are the most prolific munging team in the whole of Western Europe (alas, Minky Gyorgi and Bynydyct the Destroyer of Prague are such a formidable team that no one could ever hope to out-mung them) (Mung mung mung).
Imagine, if you will, the following is accompanied by the dramatic swell of three separate church organs and an indian classical music group:
Algy met a Bear
The bear ate algy
The bear was bulgy
the bulge was algy
Perhaps he'll die...........
That is all. For now, goodbye.
Ben is the first hunchback ever to have produced gold from lead and was asked by Nasa to be the first man on Mars, but respectfully declined as he didn't trust anyone else to feed his possum horde (nominally led by Mark the Possum) and tape his daily fix of countdown, which he still loves despite the rapid decline in the quality of the the show since Richard Whitely had such extensive plastic surgery and mysteriously acquired a nigh-on radioactive perma-tan.
George and Ben do not fully comprehend the cause for such ribald hilarity at the above video, despite extensive study. Nevertheless, we see that Whitely is happy, and when Whitely is happy, we are happy.
George is that most mysterious of creatures: a very short giant. indeed, he is so short he can quite easily be mistaken for a normal human being, though naturally this illusion vanishes in a puff of smoke upon engaging him in conversation, at which point it becomes clear he is far, far superior to any of you inferior bottom-feeders (and by that, yes, we do mean the act of felching).
Between us, we are the most prolific munging team in the whole of Western Europe (alas, Minky Gyorgi and Bynydyct the Destroyer of Prague are such a formidable team that no one could ever hope to out-mung them) (Mung mung mung).
Imagine, if you will, the following is accompanied by the dramatic swell of three separate church organs and an indian classical music group:
Algy met a Bear
The bear ate algy
The bear was bulgy
the bulge was algy
Perhaps he'll die...........
That is all. For now, goodbye.
Welcome
Hello, esteemed reader, welcome to the krunkaliciously satisfying cerebral experience of two middle class boyz from Hampshire (or sometimes da' hood, wherever that is, exactly).
To break you in gently, yet with unsurpassed vigour, we will discuss for your delection the dichotomy of Bath water, nay, water from Bath.
To adequately prepare your soggy and unimpressive grey matter for the tantrically intellectual experience to follow, here is a little hors-d'oeuvres in the form of a video about a spectacularly silly cat:
bon apetit!
Now, on with the main course in our plethora of distinction, the mystery rapped in an enigma that is the supposedly healthy water from the baths in Bath. Quite frankly, dear reader, it tastes not unlike the seat of Beezlebub's unctuous crotch, and should be strucken forthwith from the face of this mortal earth.
That is all. Till next time, you, ne'er-do-wells, Tschuss.
To break you in gently, yet with unsurpassed vigour, we will discuss for your delection the dichotomy of Bath water, nay, water from Bath.
To adequately prepare your soggy and unimpressive grey matter for the tantrically intellectual experience to follow, here is a little hors-d'oeuvres in the form of a video about a spectacularly silly cat:
bon apetit!
Now, on with the main course in our plethora of distinction, the mystery rapped in an enigma that is the supposedly healthy water from the baths in Bath. Quite frankly, dear reader, it tastes not unlike the seat of Beezlebub's unctuous crotch, and should be strucken forthwith from the face of this mortal earth.
That is all. Till next time, you, ne'er-do-wells, Tschuss.
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