David.

Why should the dirty cunts who sold their sex be happier than him?  If anything the dirty fuckers should  feel as low as their morals.  and that was low enough.  These dirty fucking creatures that slithered out of their filthy bellies from under their respective stones every night ought to realise that while they were an annoying nuisacne, in the grand scheme of things they didn’t figure as anything more than dog shit.  An annoying problem that you cursed yourself for stepping in. David had a habit of stepping in them all right. Not just stepping either, stamping, grinding, smearing them out across the pavement. Wiping their pathetic existence out on the soles of his pointy black shoes.


This latest one had asked him if he was looking for business while he was on this way to work. half seven in the morning, and she was asking him if he wanted to fuck her! in what world did this make sense? Did she get a lot of passing trade at that time? Were there seriously some blokes that would consider eating cornflakes and fucking a piece of scum in the same hour? David couldn't believe it. Still, she wouldn't be touting for any business after he'd finished with her. Nodding his interest, she led him up the alley that ran parallel with market street.


Walking home after another uneventful day in the office, he saw the police vans cluttering up Market street. The local shop owners stood outside their businesses vacantly looking at the cordoned off back alley where a woman's body had been found. David would have shared in their interest, but he had bigger plans tonight.

Celina, Please get in touch.

Hello Dear.

My name is celina.

I'm an simple caring girl.
I'm willing to meet people all round the world to exchange views and learn more about each others culture and ways of leaving.
I am writing from cyberclass and I decide to drop you this mail to know if we can become friends and maybe more later.
Please pardon my errors because I don't know much about the site.
I will be glad if you write back so that we can know each other better.

Waiting to hear from you.

celina.

celinayaguba@yahoo.com

-------------------------------------

Celina, 

you totally sound like my type of girl; simple, caring, and enrolled in a cyberclass (I picture you, perhaps unfairly as a Nigerian cyborg).  I also love your picture.  I reminds me of a mid 90s comedy that tried to ride the crest of the wave that The Cosby Show left behind.  Your look of bemusement whilst reclining on a luxurious leather sofa makes me fall in love slightly.  If you write back, I promise I won't tell John Connor.

Best,

James

On Compulsion

I guess you know a have a friend who is utterly obsessed with something.  The guy (it is always a guy; women seem on the whole reluctant to embrace the concept of devoting sizeable chinks of their lives to a single, niche thing) who has every single madonna cd release from the 80s, including the spanish mis-press of Holiday that was recalled, and only three hundred copies are known to exist., or the guy that owns every Pynchon book, and happily daubs muted posthorn symbols on bins, or even the guy that does computer programming on a thirty year old home computer plugged into a CRT tv screen, because he appreciates the beauty of a dead computer language, the authenticity of which cannot be replicated on a modern PC.
Yeah, those types of guy.

Well, I think I may be one of them, you see, I am utterly ruled by my desires.  Even this is disingenious.  They aren't desires per se, they are fully blown compulsions.  I have an overwhelming desire to buy music. Unlike serious music collectiors, I don't limit myself to a single artis or a single record label.  I don't even limit myself to a single genre.  Instead, I hop onto Amazon, and collect music in a shotgun approach.  I judge music by its percieved value versus it's actual cost.  I will hppily buy 100 Cds for a penny a pop, but find difficulty in paying a tenner for a cd that I really want.

Whilst I have started talking about music, my compulsions run far deeper.  I have a need to catalogue all of my digital output, to drink myself into a stupor at every opportunity, to scur Amazon for the cheapest CDs I can possibly find, and a whole host of other self destructive behaviours. I know that these are self destructive behaviours, but the joy of the internet is that however extreme tyou percieve yourself to be, there is always someone more extreme willing to share their obsessions.  As a result, every time I question my compulstions to collect, catalogue or consume, I find myself reassuring my conscience that there people out there far worse afflicted by their inability to reign themselves in, and lead what society would no doubt consider to be a wholesome, and productive life.  This perhaps is the nub of why being so utterly ruled by my compulsions is so dangerous - the more I allow them to rule my life, the greater hold they have over me, and in turn, the more ostracised I become as a direct consequence of my actions.

Must go; I have some CDs to catalogue.

On being Itchy

It isn't as if I hate the skin I'm in.  Ive grown used to it over the past thirty-odd years.  Granted I'm not a particularly photogenic kinda guy, but then I don't tend to fawn over pictures of myself. I'd descrive myself as skinny, with a beer belly, and a face that constantly looks tired.  Yes constantly.

Perhaps I'm not totally comfortable in my skin.  I am accustomed t it though.  Im accustomed to most of my shortcomings by now; my inability to settle down properly, my inability to dedicate enough time and effort to things that deserve it and so on.  In turn, i have come to accept these shortcomings.

This doesn't stop the itching though; the pervasive burning on my arms and legs that flares up once my wife and child are fast asleep upstairs.  It gets to the point where I gleefully rip away at layers of epidermis on my  in order to replace the itch with bloody tracks scored by my blunt fingernails.  Each morning, I will wake to find streaks of blood criss-crossing the bedding, and my forearms covered in a spiders web of maroon streaks of dried up blood where I have torn away at my skin.  I realise that this is desperately self destructive, but when the compulsion takes over me, I am near powerless to even consider not submitting to it. IO'll find myself absently-mindedly scratching away at my bicep when thinking, and before I know it, I have opened another track of bloody flesh, that I am unable to stop damaging further.

Perhaps I have a parasite.  I mean, I'm clean, and all, but perhaps we have some kind of bed bugs that only attack myself, when I'm not in bed, but the hour warrants me being in bed.

On Reinventing Oneself

I'm 33 and I don't know what I want to do.

 

When you are asked to describe yourself, what is the first things that springs to mind?  Your age, your family status, or your job?  I guess most people would say their job.  The 40 hours that they spend a week which earns them the ability to keep a roof over their heads, and if they're lucky to maintain a couple of hobbies.    I would put myself firmly in that category, except, that I'm miserable in my job.  Miserable to the point of being on antidepressants.   Strong antidepressants.

 

I haven't been happy in my job for years if I'm honest.  The petty annoyances that came with the job now define it. Moreover, I find myself becoming one of "the tossers that cannot do their job", who instead  cause everyone else problems.  In short, I'm making the job into my worst experience of it.

 

The reason for this blog post has that I have been found out.  My boss; the well meaning, but ultimately aggressive incompetent has managed to build enough of a portfolio of my failures to get me out.  Not immediately perhaps, the meeting we are due to have with HR next week is to decide whether to allow me the chance to turn my misconduct around, to give me the final chance that HR demand, to they can bin me off with their consciences clean.

 

I'll admit that I accepted this news with a tired resignation.  Not only am I bored of the job, I'm bored of the processes within my workplace.  The processes that are typically miscommunicated, poorly reevaluated, then hurriedly 'corrected' by the middle aged, hard-bitten women who find themselves at the hard edge of implementing decisions that they don't believe in.  And that is kind of the point.  Do I really see myself putting in another 35 years into a job I have little or no interest in?  To be honest, no. 

Against this, I have a steady stream of well meaning 50+ year olds trying to get me to think about what jobs I might like to do.  Trying to make me think about stuff that most of the rest of the people my age sorted out when they were still in their teens.  You know what? it's hard.  It's hard to realise that you've wasted that past 15 years, harder still to think that you're not even a third of the way through your miserable existence behind a desk.

So having thought deeply about this to the point of wasting a weekend, my escape plan is as follows:

1. Get the hell out of my current job
2. finish my degree
3. Start a PGCE
4. Become a teacher.

With any luck I won't find myself at the same crisis point for much longer.

Phone based photo editing trial (PBPET)

There's a post doing the rounds about a designer who uses iPhone apps exclusively to create architectural/design-y images. Here is my poor mans homage to those wonderful images.

A Brush With The Law

The blue lights flashed off the rear-view mirror. Probably an ambulance on the way to the General. As the vehicle got closer, he realised it was a police car. They couldn’t be after him. He was driving at the speed limit, hadn’t been drinking. They must be after someone else. Pulling over to let the police car past, David slowed the Fox. Instead of passing, the police car motioned for him to pull over. As he did so, all he could think about was the body in the boot which was could wake and start making noise at any moment.

chorley Choker 2

Holding the bitches head up by the mop of greasy hair, he pulled back the hammer again, and smashed it into the bloody maw of her broken mouth. Her sobbing had all but ceased now, The pitiful moans first replaced by screams of terror and agony were now replaced by, wet slurping noises coming from the back of her throat.  David stuck his fingers down her throat, and smiled as hot bloody bile slopped over his fingers.  No point in letting the bitch choke on her own blood - he'd plenty of things for her to choke to death on.

Chorley Choker

Somebody was watching him. He could feel it. Speeding up, he slipped into a side alley off Collinson Avenue. glancing over his shoulder. He couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t prove anything did it? He paused, weighing up whether to go home or not. He decided to carry on, he’d risked too much already to not follow it through now. He got back onto the main road, and walked towards the White Bull. As he turned onto Cheapside, he saw the meat wagons blocking off Market Street. Calmly turning around he returned home, empty handed and angry, but also free.

Cheese Scones (Recipe)

Makes 12

• 250G Self raising flour
• 15G Baking Soda (dessert spoon full)
• pinch salt
• 50G butter/Marg
• 50G Strong Cheddar, plus a little more for topping)
• one egg
• some milk (less than quarted of a pint)
• either eggwash or some more milk for brushing

*/preamble

My oven is broken, so whilst I use Gas Mark 9, the scones should probably be done at Gas Mark 8 (or equivalent) The Baking Soda I use is fairly old, so I use a lot more (3 times) than I would if I were using fresher stuff.

I mix it all by hand. From experience the more you work the dough the less the scones will rise

I can usually get a batch served within 15-20 minutes - about the same time it takes me to eat my tea, and do the washing up :)

Variations:
Fruit scones: replace the cheese with fruit. Sultanas, Craisins or Glace Cherries work well. You can also add a little sugar to taste (dessert spoon full at most)

Drop the egg: The egg can be replaced by more milk if needed. The scones will not taste as rich, but may feel a little lighter.

/*

Technique:

• Preheat oven to GM9, and put in as many trays as you need to. The mix makes 12, so I use one baking sheet. YMMV

• Put the dry ingredients in a bowl. You can sift them, but I tend not to bother.

• Add the butter, and rub into the flour. I find that the cheapest marg works better than proper butter, and gives lighter tasting scones. Butter on the other hand lends a more luxurious taste, but leads to heavier scones.

• add the grated cheese into the mix

• Add the egg, and mix in.

• Add just enough milk to create a dry dough, and mix in.

• Transfer the dough to a well floured work surface and roll out to about 1cm depth. Using a three inch cutter cut your scones - you should get 12.

• take the hot baking tray out of the oven, and quickly transfer the scones to it, brush with eggwash/milk and top with a little cheese.

• Cook for 8-12 minutes, or until risen and golden

• transfer to a cooling rack, or your face if you just can't wait.

A week of Terminator - Terminator

Day one: Terminator

Earlier this year, I managed to buy the four terminator films for a penny a pop on Amazon a couple of weeks ago. Having never seen beyond Judgement Day (Terminator 2), I was interested in how the franchise would play out, and how the first two had aged, having last seen Arnie in the role over ten years ago.

The first thing that struck me about the original was that it was essentially a slasher film. How had I not seen this before? Arnie's character bears all of the hall marks of a slasher figure; a supernatural, amoral machine relentlessly trying to kill its prey, irrespective of what it has to do in order to kill her. To this end, the casting of Arnie was inspired; He looks and acts like a machine. Judging by his other 80s films, I suspect that this has more to do with his acting ability rather than a conscious effort to portray the perfect killing machine that the terminator is supposed to represent. Nevertheless, a robot as a slasher figure is an inspired idea; the slasher figure doesn't need extended dialogue to explain its motivation, and the range of emotions you may expect from a human character just wouldn't be found in a sociopathic robot, so Arnie's "acting style" fits perfectly.

The first Terminator film feels like a grimy cyberpunk flick, the references aren't perhaps as blatant as they could be (subsequent films would examine this theme more fully), but the iconic red light behind sunglasses has been adopted as a standard part of the cyberpunk canon together with the idea of augmented humanity, which at its logical extremes present us with a robot devoid of all humanity wrapped in human clothing (a ‘la the replicants in Bladerunner). The  80s futurism sets night club scenes and the decaying industrial factory where the final fight scene takes place, also serve to remind us that the dystopian  future that the Terminator presents already has strong roots in the "present". As such, these scenes still feel relatively fresh and relevant, despite having being aped for the past 25 years.

Parts of the film have aged less gracefully; the SFX look ropey; lots of obvious latex and (intentionally?) jerky stop motion animation do detract from the viewing experience, but thankfully the sfx heavy scenes are relatively short and dotted throughout the film.

Heightening the sense of urban claustrophobia is the way in which the film is shot in general, most of the film seems to take place at night, whilst the action takes place over 72 hours, the nights are where the majority of scenes happen, from the appearance of the terminator, and the member of the resistance, through to the second night where they first clash, and subsequently meet again at the police station, through to the final night where they are both destroyed. Further strengthening this claustrophobia is the shots showing the grimy urban decay, from Arnie's hideout (does he really rent a room?!? - he's a machine isn't he?) Also, a lot of the shots are very tight, there are no shimmering vistas to behold here, and the focus is firmly on the skeleton main cast. The lighting is interesting here too, most shots feel dull, even the ones supposedly lit by fluorescent lights don't feel bright, again forcing the viewer to focus on the claustrophobic world of T1.

Despite its shortcomings, the original Terminator film is still an incredibly entertaining watch

8/10

Dan 8

The suitcase handle bit into his palm, even through his leather gloves. Staggering off the path, he fought his way through the straggly, autumnal undergrowth. He'd have to be careful to mask his movements on the way back.

It was starting to get light. Slipping on an exposed root, he saw an overgrown thicket ahead. Dropping the suitcase on the soft fetid earth, David carefully pulled branches apart to create a kind of nest. Heaving the suitcase in, he rearranged the branches to best hide it, and made his way carefully back to the car, parked discretely down the road

dan 7

Looking down at her sad, broken face, Dan loosened his grip on the hammer. Blood matted her short blonde hair, the copper tang mingled with the acrid stench of his sweat. The hum of the traffic on the nearby main road interrupted his train of thought. He'd have to get out of here. Clean this time, not like the fucking abortion that ended up with him being chased through the back streets of Chorley. Nudging her with his shiny black shoe, he spat “Reap what you sow, fucking cunt” Pocketing the hammer again, Dan slid back into the shadows.

Dan 6

 The Nokia rattled in the darkness on the nightstand.

“Hello”

he slurred, his voice thick with sleep.

“Hello sir, my name is DI Griffin”

Dan's blood froze,

“I'm sorry to call you so early, I'm investigating the recent murders in Chorley”

“Alright...”

“ I'd like to ask you about Wednesday...”

“I was at water polo” interrupted Dan, relief flooding through him.

“Ahh, OK” said the voice.

“I read about it in the Mirror”, said Dan. “Whoever is killing those women is a real nasty-pasty”

“Yes” agreed the policeman, and hung up.

The Pickup

Her eyes widened as he slid out of his trousers. He was wearing what looked like a jumper underneath, his cock and balls poking out from the neck. Whatever, he was paying after all.

“OK love, it's 20 for a handjob, 50 for a BJ or 100 for the whole lot”

There was a faint tang of blood in the air “So what'll it be?”

A smile crossed Dan's face “let's decide later” Opening the car door he said “get in”

It was only after the car started that she realised the danger she was in.

A transcript for Briona

Hi baby girl

Hunhuh

Everything's OK, I promise.

I forgive you, It's OK, don't worry about it.

Everything's going to be OK.

I Love you, I love you so much.

I love you more than there grains of sand on every beach of every planet of every galaxy in the universe.

I n need you in my life.

I need you more than humans need water and food to survive.

snigger

You mean more to me than home depot means to mister Oldratto. (?)

You mean more to me than just anything.

You mean more to me than gold and diamonds mean to the greediest burglar and you're just the most perfect, the most beautiful girl in the world and I love you so much.

I hope you enjoy watching this baby girl.

licks lips, blows kiss

See you at school tomorrow, I love you

flashes eyebrows three times

I do, it's true

I love you more than anything else in the world.

Heh heh heh

bye baby girl, stay perfect just for me.

The Drop off

The tang of her cheap perfume stuck in his craw. He'd have to Febreeze the interior of the car before he next used it. The car could probably do with a proper clean anyway. Cradling her head in his lap, he stroked her soft blonde hair away from her cool cheek. Her bloodshot eyes flickered open.

“Dan?”

“Yes ?”

“I'd better be going. Can you drop me off near the hotel?”

Dan stretched his back and sighed.

“Just another five minutes, it's not been an hour yet”

Reaching behind the drivers seat, he groped for the hammer.

Evidence

Thwack

Thwack

Thwack.

The cleaver bit into the hooker's flesh with a wet slapping sound. There was nothing quite as satisfying as doing this work by hand. Sure, power tools got the job done more quickly, but using them felt like a cheat somehow.

Wiping his brow, he lifted the lifeless arm.

Thwack

Dropping the severed arm in a binbag, he paused again. He'd forgotten something. Perhaps in the car? Wiping the blood from his hands, he jogged out to the car. Everything looked fine, the boot was lined with a dust sheet anyway.

Her necklace glinted on the drive.

The Chase

Swinging her bruised legs over the wall, she dropped into the dark alley behind Apple Jack's as quietly as her exhausted body would allow. Her breath came in terrified shrieks. Looking down the alley, she was alone, but not yet safe. She needed to get somewhere light, where there were people. She ran down the alley, the high street should be on the right, and there'd be people, taxi drivers, maybe even policemen. She sprinted as fast as her screaming limbs would allow, as she met the bottom of the alley she bumped into a silhouette.

“Hiya” it said.

Dan

The beast slunk back into the shadow, as the click-clack of high heels echoed through the narrow, cobbled streets. No, not tonight, he still had unfinished business in the boot of his car parked a few streets away. Sliding the shaft of the sharpened screwdriver back in his trouser pocket, he prowled back to the car.

As he started the ignition, he heard a muffled whine over the hum of the engine, She was awake again then. He smiled, it was always better when you can see the look on their face when you sliced their fucking whoreish tits off.

The Gig

Sunday the 15^th. God it seemed like an age, he'd bought the tickets months ago, and finally it was Sunday the 15^th. He'd bought all of the singles, even the Chocolate Milk mini LP, and now, in a matter of hours, he would see them in the flesh. He'd bought a pair of tickets so Glen could go also, and barely a day passed where they didn't enthuse about what it would be like.

Finding their seats the couple looked at each other, the energy of the crowd passing through them. They were finally at the Charles and Eddie Concert.

The Fancy Dress Party.

Batman confidently stode into the foyer, his cape swishing dramatically behind him, revealing his sculptured thighs. They were all here, Penguin, Riddler, Joker. Fingering his utility belt, he made his way to the bar at the back of the room. "hey buddy, what's going on here" he asked the barman. Before the barman could reply, Batman was spun around and roughly kissed by Joker. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” growled Batman. “Oh Cecil, don't be such a spoilsport, it's a fancy dress party” lisped Joker. There was something wrong here that needed investigation Batman decided.

The Rabbit

He got out of the car rubbing his shoulder where the seatbelt had bit when he braked suddenly. In the red gloom of the brake lights he could see it, about 20 yards away. Sighing, he slowly walked to the bundle in the road. Approaching the body, it was clear it wasn't moving, he'd killed it.

Bile rose in his throat, he'd tried to dodge it, but he was driving too fast, and now all that was left was a mangled corpse surrounded by a smudge of blood.

He returned to the car, closed the door and started the ignition.

The Great Carter

The interview room was hot and claustrophobic. This was a tight spot, but he'd got out of worse.

“I'll ask you again, what were you doing in that tunnel last night” growled the sergeant.

“N,n,n,nothing” choked Jack, the lie catching in his throat. They had been on this merry-go-round for hours now.

The sergeant slammed a sheaf of photos on the table. “Bollocks! You were seen, and now Natwest is a cashpoint short”

Jack gulped. “OK. I don't know how it happened. It was a mistake. I was only supposed to blow the bloody doors off”

Aldous Huxley on Drugs & Creativity

Interviewers: Do you see any relation between the
creative process and the use of such drugs as lysergic acid
[diethylamide]?

Huxley: I don't think there is any generalization one
can make on this. Experience has shown that there's an
enormous variation in the way people respond to lysergic
acid. Some people probably could get direct aesthetic
inspiration for painting or poetry out of it. Others I don't
think could. For most people it's an extremely significant
experience, and I suppose in an indirect way it could help
the creative process. But I don't think one can sit down
and say, I want to write a magnificent poem, and so I'm
going to take lysergic acid [diethylamide]. I don't think
it's by any means certain that you would get the result you
wanted, you might get almost any result.

Interviewers: Would the drug give more help to the
lyric poet than the novelist?

Huxley: Well, the poet would certainly get an extraordinary
view of life which he wouldn't have had in any
other way, and this might help him a great deal. But you
see (and this is the most significant thing about the
experience), during the experience you're really not
interested in doing anything practical, even writing lyric
poetry. If you were having a love affair with a woman,
would you be interested in writing about it? Of course
not. And during the experience you're not particularly in
words, because the experience transcends words and is
quite inexpressible in terms of words. So the whole notion
of conceptualizing what is happening seems very silly.
After the event, it seems to me quite possible that it might
be of great assistance: people would see the universe
around them in a very different way and would be
inspired, possibly, to write about it.

Interviewers: But is there much carry-over from the
experience?

Huxley: Well, there's always a complete memory of
the experience. You remember something extraordinary
having happened. And to some extent you can relive the
experience, particularly the transformation of the outside
world. You get hints of this, you see the world in this
transfigured way now and then, not to the same pitch of
intensity, but something of the kind. It does help you to
look at the world in a new way. And you come to understand
very clearly the way that certain specially gifted
people have seen the world. You are actually introduced
into the kind of world that Van Gogh lived in, or the kind
of world that Blake lived in. You begin to have a direct
experience of this kind of world while you're under the
drug, and afterwards you can remember and to some slight
extent recapture this kind of world, which certain privileged
people have moved in and out of, as Blake obviously
did all the time.

Interviewers: But the artist's talents won't be any
different from what they were before he took the drug?

Huxley: I don't see why they should be different.
Some experiments have been made to see what painters
can do under the influence of the drug, but most of the
examples I have seen are very uninteresting. You could
never hope to reproduce to the full extent the quite
incredible intensity of color that you get under the
influence of the drug. Most of the things I have seen are
just rather tiresome bits of expressionism, which correspond
hardly at all, I would think, to the actual experience.
Maybe an immensely gifted artist, someone like
Odilon Redon (who probably saw the world like this all
the time anyhow), maybe such a man could profit by the
lysergic acid [diethylamide] experience, could use his
visions as models, could reproduce on canvas the external
world as it is transfigured by the drug.

Interviewers: Here this afternoon, as in your book,
The Doors of Perception, you've been talking chiefly about
the visual experience under the drug, and about painting.
Is there any similar gain in psychological insight?

Huxley: Yes, I think there is. While one is under the
drug one has penetrating insights into the people around
one, and also into one's own life. Many people get tremendous
recalls of buried material. A process which may take
six years of psychoanalysis happens in an hourÑand
considerably cheaper! And the experience can be very
liberating and widening in other ways. It shows that the
world one habitually lives in is merely a creation of this
conventional, closely conditioned being which one is, and
that there are quite other kinds of worlds outside. ItÕs a
very salutary thing to realize that the rather dull universe
in which most of us spend most of our time is not the only
universe there is. I think it's healthy that people should
have this experience.

III. Further Observations upon Algol. By the same.

Read January 15, 1784.

Oct. 20th, Palitch saw Algol nearly at its greatest obscuration, at 3 o'clock in the morning.

Oct. 22d, near 12 P. M. he observed it again in the same state.

Oct. 25th, at about 9 P.M. it appeared to him like a star of the third magnitude. He was prevented by clouds from making, long observations; but as all those he has had opportunities to make, indicate a period somewhat longer than that of 2 days.

20h. 51' he is inclined to think that half the difference between that period and his own, viz. 2d. 20h. 52' will come very near the truth.

III. Observations upon dissecting the body of a Person Troubled with the Stone. By Dr. Perrot Williams, Physician at Haverford-West in South-Wales.

MR. William Bowen of the Town and County of Haverford-West, aged between 40 and 50, having been, for about the Space of seven Years, severely afflicted with the usual Symptoms of the Stone in the Kidneys and Bladder, viz. Bloody Urine after Exercise, Strangury, &c. Dy'd in May 1722. His Body being opened, there were sound in the Bladder six smooth oval Stones, exactly of the same figure, and nearly of the same Magnitude: There were also three Cells in each Kidney, the figure of each suitable to that of the Stones: The Ureters were so preternaturally extended, as very easily to admit the largest of the Stones to pass from the Kidney to the Bladder. The Viscera, &c. appear'd in their natural State.

Chicken TikKatona Lasagne

It appears that Kerry has been dumped by her latest beau.  At least she has a healthy supply of MSG filled frozen products to find consolation in eh?

Boten Annick

Annick and Basshunter get familiar on the bechemel sauce.

They do now Frank

Frankie Bones on Discogs