Posts Tagged ‘vegetables’

This isn’t very interesting but it does have a photo of Tennant (not my idea) for the ladies,(but obviously not for Doctor Who fans because he has nothing to do with it) and lots of stats and stuff to show you how many wonderful peeploids worried my blog last year.

The stats helper monkeys at mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a high level summary of its overall blog health:

Healthy blog!

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads Wow.

Crunchy numbers

Featured image

The average container ship can carry about 4,500 containers. This blog was viewed about 19,000 times in 2010. If each view were a shipping container, your blog would have filled about 4 fully loaded ships.

In 2010, there were 28 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 110 posts. There were 53 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 4mb. That’s about 1 pictures per week.

The busiest day of the year was February 17th with 559 views. The most popular post that day was Has Anyone Seen Our David…?.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were,,,, and

Some visitors came searching, mostly for cheryl cole, underground map, london underground, lady gaga, and captain pugwash.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.


Has Anyone Seen Our David…? February 2010


GaGa Ooh La La! December 2009


Sci-Fi’s Unsung Heroes #53,627 – Ensign Ro Laren August 2009


Star Wars Episode VII-A New Blog September 2009


The One About Not Drinking August 2009
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MERRY MICKELMAS…or something…

Guten Afternoon-en,Reality Surfers and Splitters of the Infinitive!!

‘Tis I,ब्लॉग कुत्ता !!!

And in the words of Sir Noddy Holder…IT’S BLOGMAS !!!!!!!

A time to remember the important things in life,such as getting rammed out of your cabbage on Asti Spumante at the office party and waking up the next morning with Dawn,the fat girl who fills the photocopier.A time to think of those less fortunate than yourself,the poor souls who,believe it or not,aren’t intergalactic pug-dogs of mystery with a vast fortune amassed in a life of adventure,intrigue and leg-humping.For even though I am a fabulously wealthy adventurer in time and space and elsewhere,it doesn’t mean that I don’t think of those less fortunate than myself.

*By the way,the people from the gas board called..they’ll be round to switch off your supply on Tuesday,….*

Ha ha…umm…yes thank you for reminding me…I’m switching over to electric heating.I’ve heard wonderful things about Economy 7-

*…and I’ve taken the magnet off the electricity meter…the bloke from n-power said,and I quote “Low usage is one thing but we were just taking the pi-*

SShhh…ha ha yes you do that,I don’t know how it got there…bloody kids.Bring back National Service,that’s what I say….Anyway,shouldn’t you be packing ?
*I’ve nearly finished*

Yes indeed,Constant Reader…you read right…I am vacating my current Fortress of Blogitude and relocating to a swanky drum in the Docklands…West India Quay to be exact.Tube stations are so last year.And Mornington Crescent is rather too big for me and Rizla now that my former love,Miss Deidre Macbeth,has run off with that Tennant person.Where is he now,eh?
Eh ?
Answers to this,and other,questions shall be forthcoming during the next twelvemonth,for The Dog of Blog will be back in business very soon,banging one off the wrist,as it were,with more gusset-ripping installments of The Necronomnomicon and more tuber-troubling terrors with everyone’s favourite psycho-bitch,Marjorie Misnomer.
Christmas is a time for family..but seeing as I have no family,I’ve decided that Blogmas is a time for me,so if you’ll excuse me,I must away to my new pad to install the shark tank and gruff a box or ten of jelly fruits while watching Her Majesty (God Bless Her) on the tellybox,for was it not John The Baptist who said-

*Umm you may want to stop it there,actually…*

For why,pray,for why ?

*Well there appear to be two very large gentlemen with hurty-sticks  attempting to squeeze themselves through the barrier you put up to keep the council tax bloke out-*


*I think I already have*

Oh Buddha it’s the Theydon Bois !!!

*Big lads,aren’t they?*


*Oh Arsenal*

Down the secret tunnel!! Time to blog off,Dear Reader…until we meet again in futures uncertain,Happy Blogmas !!

The Blog Kitten—MISSING!!

‘Tis I-The Blog Dog!

I speak to you today,Constant Reader,in a state of some agitation,and not a little preturbation.

(Is that a word?)

This very morn,upon waking from a shit-hot dream involving Bettany Hughes,Eva Mendes and a tub of swarfega,I rolled over in my 5-poster bed to greet the dawn and my beloved,Deidre, with a snuggle and a kiss,and to possibly try a few things I’d worked out in my dream.


Imagine,then,my horror as I beheld my beloved,who was conspicuous by her absence.


Now this was not really that unusual,as it is part of our pre-nuptial agreement that Deidre should be up before I wake in order to get the tea on,so I was not unduly alarmed.I slipped on my yeti-skin dressing gown and griffin-hide slippers and sauntered into the kitchenette,to be greeted with a sight of abject,screaming horror,the like of which I had never before encountered,and no married man should have to endure….

…the teapot wasn’t even on the hob.

Searching around for Deidre in order to remonstrate with her and to extract a reason as to why my morning cup of  Earl Grey was,as yet,merely theoretical,I came swiftly to the conclusion that she was,as my Latin teacher used to say,non adest.

To whit,buggered off.

Not a soul in sight.

This was,as the Ameriyanks say,an “issue.”

Not only would I have to make my own tea AND breakfast,I’d have to most likely feed the piranhas AND go and whip the students in the dungeon.

This was not on.

The Blog Dog,as you know,has no time for the trivial matters of existence….for the Blog Dog is a roisterer,a rodgerer,a puker and a gorger-a shafter of time and space.

The Blog Dog cannot save the universe twice over whilst making his own cornflakes.Simple as that.

I trotted,stressed,onto the platform of my secret London Underground lair,cunningly disguised as Mornington Crescent,to see if maybe Deidre was polishing the third rail or something;it was possible that she had got her chore shcedule arse-backwards.

I was about to enter that state of mind known as the “hissy fit” when I spotted it…although how such an abomination came to be in my residence,I knew not,nor dared to wonder.

Plastered to the far wall was a poster of…..David Tennant.

You will know,Constant Reader,that normally I would not even debase myself to cleanse my lower extremities with such a tawdry piece of stationery,so how it came to be here was a mystery,wrapped up in an enigma,then sodomised by a “what the fuck?”

The third-rate actor who got lucky was gurning horrifically from the poster,but this was not the worst thing assaulting my retinas at this moment…there was more.

Someone had added a speech bubble which emanated from the vicintiy of his gruesome visage…these very words of horror chilled me to the bone:



(Rubbish Scottish accent)

I know…bless him he hasn’t worked in ages,it’s probably affected his mind.Anyway back to the action…





The horror…the horror.

Dumped for Doctor Who…and not even one of the good ones.


So this is how you now find The Blog Dog,my Constant Reader…Deidre-less,tea-less and very possibly custard-cream-less.And even worse than that…I’ve got a fucking David Tennant poster on my wall.

What will my guests think ??

I suppose I’ll have to take it down myself ,too.

(Aw bless)

I’ve still got you,dear Rizla, my faithful retainer…my wife has left me for a has-been,my reputation is in tatters….and I haven’t had a cuppa for hours,put the kettle on would you-

-OI! Come back you sod !!!


‘Tis I,The Blog Dog…the dog’s dog,the Hocus bloke,the lad himself,the cosmic dick,the mutt’s nuts,here to celebrate my blog reaching the ton! Deidre and I would like to thank all of my fear-fans for their faultless following of my adventures over the past 99 blogs.The little woman and I are currently on holiday in a flashback in Devon,so the blog has been left in the hairy palms of my slave, Rizla…but fear not!! I am,at this very moment,while Deidre puts the dinner on,banging out another existential episode of the orgasmically exciting Marjorie Misnomer series.I do enjoy banging one out of an afternoon..anyway…I’ve also commissioned that fine piece of brainy crackling,Bettany Hughes,to write my life story which will be appearing in the pages of this very blog in the not too distant future,if she can pull her finger out.AND as if that wasn’t enough to make you wet yourself unselfconsciously,I’m also working on the next cranium-cracking chapter of The Necronomnomicon…get in!!!

The future is here,the future is me…a peristaltic smack in the mush,a bunch of fives,madder than a cartload of arseholes,the pan-dimensional scream of terror,the piece of blue cheese you found under the cooker,the standing-in-the-middle-of-Tesco-with an-itchy-arse feeling of helplessness…I am the Hound of the Baskervilles,humping your leg…quite simply,The Blog Dog!

Kismet and Ketamine were indeed conjoined,but could not in any natural way be called “twins.”

In fact they had been born almost 5 years apart,but from an early age both had displayed certain…tendencies.

So disturbed was their father,the erstwhile Nemesis Misnomer,and their mother Godsmack Misnomer (of which nothing has been hitherto recorded) by their unnatural behaviour,that he had them sealed together at the hip.

All the better to keep an eye on them,he reasoned.

He had Kismet and Ketamine locked away in the Tall Tower at House Misnomer,and they were only allowed out under strict supervision.

From this day on,all weird shenanigans stopped,the sheep could sleep easily,and dogs and cats lived together in perfect harmony….and the Misnomers’ life went back to something approaching normal.

Then Marjorie was born…and Nemesis soon realised he needn’t have bothered.

None of this was of utmost importance to Martin Limp,even if he had been aware of the facts of the Misnomer family tree,strapped as he now was to the operating table in the cellar of House Misnomer.From his supine position he could see only the ceiling,and occasionally an evil face or three when the Misnomer girls swam into view.

Martin knew he was going to die.

If he was lucky,he thought,he’d stay dead…but he knew Marjorie was in possession of some unnatural gifts.

Just as he was making peace with his God,Marjorie Misnomer loomed to his left.The “twins” hovered to his right.

“Martin dear…what are we going to do with you?” cooed Marjorie.

He gulped.

Marjorie disappeared momentarily,then emerged once again into Martin’s personal Hell-space pushing a metal trolley.

On it,young Limp could just perceive out of the corner of his eye,were several….implements.

Marjorie looked down on Martin,her ebony black eyes impaling the rather pathetic,soon to be ex-art student.

She was holding a small spray bottle,the kind gardeners use to…well..spray things in gardens.Marjorie took to liberally spraying Martin with the liquid in the bottle,all over his face and body.

It smelled faintly of lavender…there seemd to be no adverse effects from it,as far as Martin could ascertain.

“Kismet likes.”

“Ketamine likes.”

Martin’s head swung around in the direction of the “twins”,who were getting very agitated and quite visibly drooling.

Oh dear….I don’t think they just want me to smell nice,thought Martin.

“Now now,girls,all good things to those who wait” cooed Marjorie,smiling.She turned to the table and picked up three runcible  spoons,handing two of them to Kismet and Ketamine.They grabbed them eagerly.

Marjorie pulled a small moleskin book out of her pocket,flipped a few pages and read from it-

“They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon”

She closed the book and returned it to her pocket.

Martin’s legs turned to jelly.

So did the rest of him,as Marjorie’s concoction of the digestive juices of various venomous spiders and snakes did it’s work and melted Martin’s flesh and bones into mush.

He started to scream as he liquefied.

“Well,Martin” said Marjorie,”we don’t have any quince but we do have quite a lot of lovely Limp.Off you go,girls…bon appetit!”

“Kismet likes.”

“Ketamine likes.”

What was left of Martin’s eyes registered their final,sanity-blasting image—the Misnomer girls,runcible spoons plunging into the remains of Martin’s inner portions and raising them to their mouths.

Sometime later that day,Martin Limp died.

Aww...don't they look happy?

Aww...don't they look happy?

When my son comes to stay over the weekend,my mother makes Sunday lunch for all of us and my uncle who comes to dinner as well.

There are certain rules concerning this that are inviolate-

  1. You WILL be at the table by the serving-up time,which is always (and forever will be) 1.00pm.
  2. The dinner MUST be eaten at the table,not on your lap in the front room.
  3. The food on offer will ALWAYS be a proper Sunday dinner,with meat and 2 veg,and it will NOT be pizza,pasta or fish&chips,”just for a change.”
  4. There is NO Rule 4
  5. See Rules 1-5

The Mother Unit takes Sunday dinner very seriously.

My son and I have tried to introduce some “flexibility” into the proceedings,to no avail.

Who says you can’t have pizza for Sunday lunch?

Or pasta?

The option is open for me to go to the dreaded Sunday lunch every week before the even more dreaded Tesco trip….but how much horror can a chap take in one day? So I only go when the sprog is staying with me….one time we took it upon ourselves to,shall we say,”opt out” of the banquet….my mother decided to let this one go…her exact words to us being-“Well bloody starve then.” (OK she didn’t entirely say that,but something very close.)

But when we had the audacity to actually turn up late,when we had said we were definitely coming,and THEN insist on eating in the front room….on our laps!!!…..well,the fallout wasn’t pretty.

Suffice it to say,we didn’t do it again.

Don’t get me wrong,though,the Mother Unit is a very good cook and her Sunday lunches are very nice…

I’ve never been a fan of routine…I like to do different things.

It’s about time my mother and uncle embraced change and varied the menu…after all they’ve gone all digital with brand new tellies and everything,so how about a nice curry for Sunday lunch?


Gesundheit the Marrow

Gesundheit the Marrow

The day after she had massacred (almost) her entire Family with a psychopathic onion soup,not to mention their party guests,Marjorie Misnomer was entertaining a visitor of her own in her attic room.She was sat cross-legged on the black velvet chaise longue with bone handrests…Gesundheit The Marrow was sitting next to her,telling their guest all about the previous day’s events.

“You should have seen ’em,old boy…12 heads dissolved into nothing…it even ate the skulls…” Here he broke off,glancing at Marjorie who looked suddenly downcast “…which was a shame really,you know how much Marjorie likes to add to her collection.It took both of us and the rhubarb to wrestle it back into it’s bucket.”

“Umm…er….y-yes.” stammered the guest,who’s name was Martin Limp.

Martin Limp was Marjorie’s friend…in the same sense that a fly is a spider’s “friend”.They had known each other for almost two months,which is in itself remarkable,given the nature of Marjorie’s “hobbies.” It is also remakable that he was still in possession of his vital organs,if not his complete sanity.Marjorie liked to play with Martin,just as a cat likes to play with a mouse before it eats it.He was dressed in his best yellow suit and puce bow-tie,because,even though he knew that Marjorie was madder than a teapot full of Thursdays,his mother always told him to dress smartly when visiting people.

He was currently sitting on The Seat Of Pain,which Marjorie kept for her “special” guests,and was,quite frankly,in a state of extreme terror,his bowels on the verge of jumping ship.He also had a very sore bottom.He looked furtively up from his cup of Hate Tea,searching for an exit,only to meet the eldritch eyes of Marjorie-deep as Hell,black as never.She shushed Gesundheit who was describing the fun he and Marjorie had had cleaning up and disposing of the bodies.The word “mop” had been mentioned more than once,and a plunger had been employed.

She kebabed Martin with her unwavering gaze.

“So Martin…”she asked happily,stroking Gesundheit’s green skin.He purred,knowing that the fun was about to start again.

Martin’s lower lip quivered. His bowels threw in the towel and relaxed noisily.

“…what shall we do today?”

She smiled that smile of hers and looked down at Gesundheit,who,it is said,was also smiling.


It was a sunny day in St.Mary’s-Of-The-Cream-Bun-Up-The-Jam as Sheila Lemony-Marchbanks,post-mistress,cake-maker and avid cross-stitcher heard a knock upon her frontally-positioned door.Looking up from the cake she was making,her thirteenth of the day,she made her way to the aforementioned port of egress and,upon opening it,was,as one would have every right to expect,rather surprised to discover the trembling Martin Limp holding a basket of various fruit and vegetables in front of him as if it might go off.

“Well if it isn’t young Master Limp,” she gushed “and what’s this you’ve brought me ?”

“It’s a g-g-gift….f-f-f-from the B-B-B-Big House…” he babbled,quivering and setting the apples and oranges and other produce jostling against each other.Luckily,Sheila,being a little hard of hearing ever since that accident with last year’s Christmas Radio Times,didn’t hear one of the apples whisper to a satsuma-

“Look fatty if you don’t move over I am so going to bloody own you-” only to get the rather terse reply…”oh yeah,come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough,you green bas-”

“The Family is giving one to all the houses in the v-v-village.” Martin continued,ignoring the light chuckle which seemed to emanate from somewhere in the bushy vicinity of Ms.Marchbanks’ privet hedge.”To celebrate the election of Nem-Nem-Nemesis Misnomer as MP for the village.” Martin almost choked the words out as he remembered Marjorie proudly showing him the remains of her father,all dissolved and headless and icky,which she had planted in the vegetable patch for the cabbages to nibble on.

Martin suspected that a by-election may soon be called.

“Oh that’s lovely” exclaimed Sheila,who was,by nature,a trusting sort,”come in,come in I’ll make you a lovely cup of tea and we can have a slice of carrot cake.”

She turned to re-enter her house,and Martin followed,holding his breath as he heard one of the carrots in the basket snap “Murderous old bat…that could be me old mum in that cake.” He pretended not to hear the rustle of leaves and the running of swift feet behind him.

“Be sure to close the door after you,Martin” Sheila called from the depths of her kitchen.”We don’t want just anybody walking in do we? You never know who’s about.”

Martin Limp…Limp by name,Limp by nature…had no need to close the front door,as he heard it softly close behind him,under what he knew in the pit of his stomach to be the dreadful impulse of the black-fingernailed hand of Marjorie Misnomer.

“This is going to rule.” said Gesundheit The Marrow.


“Look,” huffed Marjorie as she kissed a grape and stuffed it up Sheila Lemony-Marchbanks’ nose.The grape whistled a jaunty tune which may or may not have been “‘Bohemian Rhapsody.” “If you struggle you’ll just make it worse.”

Ms.Marchbanks,sadly,was in no position to offer an opinion as to the veracity of this statement,as she had a banana wedged in her mouth.It’s rear end was wiggling suggestively…slowly,almost imperceptibly,it was sliding in deeper.

The banana was making “mmm” noises.Marjorie made an “ooh” sound at this.She was enjoying herself,so was Gesundheit from his perch on top of the fridge.He was thumbing through Ms.Marchbanks’ weekly copy of  The People’s Friend…insofar as a large green vegetable can be said to “thumb.” She readied another grape,gently squeezing it in her black-lace gloved hand.The grape grinned at her…she grinned back then showed it to Martin,who had taken to gibbering in the corner of the kitchen,muttering to himself and rocking forthly and back.She tutted,and slipped the grape into place up Sheila’s left nostril.


He twitched in fear at the sound of his name,verbalised as it was through the Hell-touched vocal-cords of Marjorie Misnomer.

“Martin dear,do try to get the merest semblance of a grip and help the cucumbers out of the basket…I’ve got just the place for them.” she cackled,patting Ms.Marchbanks on the shoulder,who was rapidly losing consciousness,and indeed life,which was probably for the best,since Marjorie Misnomer’s madness knew no boundaries.

Martin Limp shambled to the basket,looking in with dread….there were things going on in there that had no place on God’s Earth.The rhubarb was looking very excited.He lifted out the cucumbers…they thanked him and slid towards the end of the table where the hapless Ms.Marchbanks sat chained to her chair,fruit & veg protruding from (almost) every orifice.

He’d had enough…he took advantage of Marjorie’s distracted attention and bolted for the door.Martin could see the front door literally a few feet away…he heard no voice of protest behind him…in the name of all that’s holy,he’d made it…he made to grab the knob…only to find it turning of its own accord.

The portal swung open….

….to reveal the most horrific sight of Martin’s soon-to-be-short life.

“Martin…I hope you’re not-” said one half of a set of badly-conjoined “twins.”

“-leaving us so soon.” said the other half.

And so it was that Martin Limp came face-to-faces with the only other other surviving members of Marjorie’s Family–her conjoined “twin” sisters,Kismet and Ketamine Misnomer.

And he knew that his nightmare was only just beginning….

Next part-We Are Family

The weird and unusual Marjorie

The weird and unusual Marjorie

There wouldn’t have been so many deaths if that Impossible Fish hadn’t appeared.

It was Marjorie who set the ball rolling…always Marjorie.

The Family had seen it coming for years…the strange way she buttered toast…and the unnatural things she could do with cheese.

Great Aunt Conclusion blamed it on the Cure album Marjorie had made her father,Nemesis Misnomer,buy her from that weird little record shop in an imaginary London side-street in the 19th century.

The garden party started innocently enough…Grandmamma did her baboon-juggling act whilst Matron handed out paranoia sandwiches.

Marjorie had been worrying the crops since early morning…none of the house staff would own up to leaving her room unlocked.

Several psychotic cucumbers had been sighted wandering the garden…one guest even spoke of a cauliflower with an inferiority complex.And it is probably best to gloss over the things that the rhubarb was seen doing.

Marjorie was known to have that effect on root vegetables.


It was Nemesis Misnomer who eventually found Marjorie,spread-eagled among the butternut squashes,talking to a lettuce.She was trying her very best to get the lettuce to open up about its mother…..the vegetable was having none of it.

“Been up to your old tricks again,eh Marjorie Misnomer ?” said her father,looming ominously over her as she tore a leaf off the lettuce and popped it in her mouth.A small squeak issued forth from it….though it was best not to think about that too closely.

“Yes Daddy.” replied Marjorie,munching happily.

“Marjorie..” Nemesis asked,exasperated “has it ever occurred to you that root vegetables are not actually in dire need of psychiatric counselling?”

“Oh but Daddy-” began Marjorie

“But me no buts,please Marjorie.There is to be no more veg-based head-shrinking until after the Garden Party is over.It’s scaring the guests…there are some things that rhubarb should never be forced to do.”

At this,Marjorie smiled mischieviously,but kept on munching.Her father caught his daughter’s smirk.

“I thought as much.There’ll be no more of that either.” said Nemesis sternly. “The things they were doing were just….wrong.Now,our guests want to see you,though God knows why,and Grandmamma will be starting the buffet soon.I trust you haven’t been in the kitchen this morning and messed with the heads of the nibbles?”

His troubled daughter stopped dismembering the lettuce and looked up at him.

“No Daddy…I’ve only been in the garden…the food in the kitchen should be emotionally balanced enough to serve to your guests…”

“Good.” With that he left his wayward offspring to her unmentionable activities.Marjorie threw the lettuce aside,which gave out a palpable sigh of relief.Sighing,she looked around for her next therapy victim,eventually settling on a terrified-looking runner bean.She set to work mentally torturing it.

“…although I’d probably give the onion soup a miss.” she said,smiling.


Things got increasingly esoteric just after midday,as Great Uncle Conjunction prepared to do his funny trick with the hosepipe.As he stood up to unbutton his waistcoat and unscrew the jar of vaseline,Marjorie’s dire warning about the onion soup bore impossible but lethal fruit.

Marjorie had not been entirely honest with her father about entering the kitchen.She hadn’t been in this morning,that much was true…but she had been in there most of the night.As it transpired,Marjorie had long ago learned how to pick the lock of the 2 foot thick solid oak door to her attic room,despite being sealed by one of her Grandmamma’s magical spells.

The object of her nocturnal jaunts had been the onions.

What she actually said to them is not known…nor would anybody want to know the exact details.Suffice it to say,as Marjorie Misnomer’s father,the former MP for St.Mary’s-Of-The-Cream-Bun-Up-The-Jam,Nemesis Misnomer,went to taste his onion soup,on which he had unwisely chosen to dine,he was rather alarmed to find the snack tasting him.

Unable to call for help as the soup ate his face,and dimly aware of a similar fate befalling the other guests,judging by the muffled screams,Nemesis looked wildly about for assistance.

His eyes found only Marjorie…his beautiful,loving,madder-than-a-cartload-of-arseholes daughter,sitting in the apple tree at the bottom of the garden,stroking a marrow and smiling.

The marrow,it was said,was also smiling….

Next part–Sheila Takes A Bow…