I Wave My Private Parts In Your Auntie's Face

So, who doesn't support the troops now, Mr. Prime Minister?

I believe the technical term for this is pwned.

Daily Izzard - Machines That Lie

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Because they do, they do lie. And toast is treacherous. Yes, treachery and toast, toast the Machiavelli of the baked goods world... I'll stop now. No, the novel isn't going well and Eddie Izzard needs to play Toronto so I can shag him silly, stalk him silly, see him live. Yes, yes that is what I meant.

Stupid Question of the Day

"If you were on a desert island with only 10 blank pieces of paper and a pencil, what would you want most to write?"

I'd want to write a plan for getting off the fucking island, is what I'd want to write. God, what sort of a silly question is that? Who thinks "ooh, trapped on a desert island. I have 10 pieces of paper, this pencil and a bloody fucking lot of coconuts. I know - time for a sonnet!"? No, if I were trapped on a desert island with 10 pieces of paper and a pencil, I'd save the paper to use for kindling, the pencil to use for starting fires and write in the sand: it's a desert island. Lots of sand. All you need is wet sand and a stick - presto! notebook. I mean, it worked for the Egyptians. Or you know, I'd use it to write my suicide note. Because I fucking hate the tropics. Hate them. I'm an Anglo-Irish Northern European white person - I am not designed for desert islands. I do not tan. I am designed to herd sheep across craggy, rain-swept moors. Not a lot of UV radiation on your average rain-swept moor. You never see Heathcliff wandering about saying "Oooh, better put a hold on that brooding while I reapply my SPF 30." So fuck your desert island and your 10 pieces of paper and your pencil, I'm off to the pub! So there!

If only that last bit were true.