Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The Reader's Digest Version

Presenting the entire BTVS saga (yep, in it's entirety. There was NO Seasons 6 and 7, dammit) as told through the medium of classified ads.

Buffy Season 1

Lonely British Gentleman seeks young lady for exciting evenings in front of dusty old tomes and general killing of the nasties.
Girl Next Door seeks new best friend.
Young lady seeks brooding undead beefcake for sexual tension and meaningful glances.
Teenaged Everyman, prone to self-deprecating humour, would like to meet something to hump.
Bitch seeks heart.
Decrepit centuries old vampiric scion of evil is seeking boy (8 - 12) for prophetic mutterings and prom night excursion.
Inactive Doorway to Hell for sale; preferably to vampiric scion of evil. One previous owner; sadly passed away following encounter with young lady.


Season 2

Lonely British Gentleman seeks outgoing computer science teacher. Gypsy origin a plus. NS.
Young lady wants romp with undead beefcake.
Undead beefcake seeks arteries.
Computer science teacher with gypsy origin seeks love and untimely demise.
Adventurous couple seek undead beefcake with appreciation of demonic stonework for late night shenanigans.
Girl Next Door seeks quirky boyfriend for walks in the moonlight.
Bitch With Heart seeks Everyman for clandestine gropings.
Everyman looking for something to hump.
Adventurous couple and undead beefcake seek end of the world.
Notice! End of the World cancelled due to untimely loss of undead beefcake and absconding of adventurous couple. Refunds available.


Season 3

Mayor Wilkins would like to thank the citizens of Sunnydale for their support in the recent mayoral campaign!
Girl Next Door seeks gradual empowerment.
Everyman seeks something to hump.
Bitch With Heart seeks rehash of redemptive storyline.
Bad Girl available for work as hired goon. Skilled in administering bodily harm, both actual & grievous, and wearing leather pants.
Undead beefcake, recently returned from the… undead, is looking for fresh start in new city following graduation.
Quirky boyfriend seeks storyline.
Young lady wishes to notify citizens of youth rally against proposed mayoral policy of destroying the world. May get bloody. Minor characters should not expect to survive.


Season 4

Abrupt ex-demoness looking for something to hump.
Everyman wishes to cancel standing order for classified ad.
Government initiative seeking volunters for exciting experiment. Contact UC Sunnydale's Dept. of Nothing Suspicious Going On Here, Please Move Along. We will provide the limbs.
Unemployed British Gentleman with spacious housing has room to offer. Undead British Gentlemen preferable.
Confident Girl Next Door offers subtext-laden talks for Unconfident Girl Next Door.
Young lady seeks plank, 6 foot 2 with boyband hair, for nailing and using power tools on.
One half of adventurous couple looking for anger-management and all the best lines.
Half demon/half man for sale. Comes with Windows XP, 80GB Hard Drive, 256 MB RAM, nVidia Matrix Rip-Off Graphics Card and all the software you need to run a total psychopath.


Season 5

For Sale: Death. Unwanted gift.
Airhead offers reward of brain-sucking for lost keys. May be in the form of snivelling brat/plot-device.
Abrupt ex-demoness looking for gradual appreciation of humanity.
Snivelling brat WLTM emo-kids for self-harming and general whingeing.
Confident Girl Next Door continues to grow in power. Seeks like-minded individuals for chanting in Latin.
Everyman and British gentleman seek plotline.
One half of adventurous couple seeks last hurrah before having his character watered down into shadow of former glory.
Obit. Young lady plunges head first off of shoddy scaffolding in lightning storm. She saved the world. A lot.

Not the Nine O'Clock News

All the news of the past fortnight, for anyone who has been living under a rock. Or inter-railing.

In Britain, all they’ve really been reporting on is the fact that that the country is basically underwater. For the past two weeks. This means that every news broadcast requires that the it place it’s reporters waist-deep in water while they ask a traumatised local if they think the flooding is connected to global warming. Unless you’re Sky News, in which case there’s no way in hell that Kay Burley is standing in flood water after what it’s close relative, The Ice, did to her last winter.

You’re fairly with it regarding the whole Russia/Britain diplomatic spat. While they say it’s been caused by Russia’s refusal to extradite the prime suspect in the Litvenyenko case (ALL things come back to Litvenyenko. For example, the flooding in Britain has been caused by a weather-control device he was sent to Britain to destroy.) the truth is that it all stems from a politico joking that “In Soviet Russia, diplomat expels you!”.

Also making the news repeatedly, Britain-wise, are a number of revelations about TV phone-in/texting competition irregularities, including an awards show on ITV where the public were asked to vote for the winner despite the fact it’d already been chosen (Ant & Dec are said to devastated that the meaning inherent in the first two words of People’s Choice Award are pretty moot as a result), and a number of incidents on the BBC where they used production staff to pretend to be the winners of various competitions. No one has yet answered the question of just what happened with the prizes in these competitions following the fake victories.

On this side of the Irish sea, the three most noteworthy stories have been, in no particular order:
-Bertie and his financial affairs, a matter that no amount of investigators will ever reach the bottom of considering that Mister Ahern’s mentor was one Charles J. Haughey. The man at the top certainly learned from the best when it comes to financial obfuscation and inexplicable memory-loss.
-The Rachel O’Reilly murder case, which caused shockwaves around the country when justice was actually served (despite the trial nearly collapsing at one point when some idiot left documents the jury weren’t meant to see in a room used by the jury) and the murdering bastard got life (i.e. a minimum of 30 years).
-The Rostas family, a clan of over fifty Romanian gyppos, who came over here, not to take our jobs and our wimmen, like most foreigners, but to take our roundabouts. Having set up camp at the Ballymun rang-dabaht (as AA Roadwatch would probably pronounce it) in Dublin, they were deported earlier this week when the Government realised that we had to take tough and decisive action to show these gaijin devils that we will not tolerate the colonisation of our roundabouts. Clearly, we have learned our lesson from the plantations.

Other news in brief:
Plastic bags now cost 22c, cannabis makes you a lot more likely to be psychotic and/or schizophrenic, some twonk at Nasa attempted to sabotage a shuttle for reasons unkown, Jordan has named her new child Princess Tiamii, the Americans dislike Victoria Beckham as much as we do but they kinda like David, phone-masts don’t give you psychic powers OR brain tumours, JK Rowling has begun work on Something New That Is Not Harry Potter, MySpace has purged 29,000 sex offenders from it’s site yet still refuses to do anything about the far worse problem of the emo-kids writing bad poetry and taking pictures of themselves pouting with their eyes obscured by chemically straightened fringes, everyone taking part in the Tour de France is a dope-fiend, the new Mr. Spock is REALLY hot (and a former Hero of the Week to boot), aaaaaaaand President Bush handed power over to Cheney last weekend while he got his ass probed. Again.

Final Fantasy VII: The Reader's Digest Version

A witless but mega-quick meandering through a convoluted plot.


Hippies blow up reactor. One of them gets a headache.

The reactor's owner's don't take kindly to this and frame our heroes for larger, more violent act. Following a spot of cross-dressing, our Noble Hero Clueless Cloud leads Big Bear Barret, Tigger, Tits & Ass Tifa and Aeris (not Aerith, because I'm not hardcore enough to spell it Japanese style) past the walls of Midgar in search of life, love and Sephiroth. Also to get away from the Shinra nasties who want to get their mits on There's No 'S' In Aerith. (But there is in Aerisu, if you're totally hardcare fanboi x) And the tax people who want to speak to T&A Tifa about her bars so-called accounts.

Crossdressing Cloud continues to indulge in activities that raise questions about his sexuality, while suffering from headaches. The gang are joined by A Large Stuffed Cat, the definition of gruff man with a hard exterior but a heart of gold, Yuffie Powers: Girl Thief and Vincent in their fight against mutated non-lewd Jenova bits. There's No 'S' In Aerith, whose physical abilities aren't worth shit, has passive limit breaks and likes flowers, sushi and gentle lovers, thinks it'd be a great idea to run off on her own to cast the spell needed to stop Sephiroth, who by this stage has summoned a large meteor to make the world go smash. She gets a sword through her belly for her troubles. Frankly, it's deserved. Also: Her scrunchie falls into some water. Fanboys weep. Because Not!Aerith died. Not because of the scrunchie in the water thing. Though that'll be important later, so it falls in slow motion.

Crossdressing Cloud goes off to stab Sephiroth, then changes his mind and decides to join the Jenova Reunion, because there's going to be cocktail suasages and the unveiling of a collage. T&A Tifa has a nap, and when she wakes up the planet is being stomped on by Diamond Kong and OMEGA Hulk. Following a catfight, T&A discovers Crossdressing Cloud's come over catatonic and stays by his bedside because she likes the look of the magazines in the doctor's surgery at Mideel.

The definition of gruff man with a hard exterior but a heart of gold leads the others on the hunt for Huge Materia. If Materia are magic then Huge Materia are VERY Magic and can be used to blow shit up. Like the massive meteor Sephiroth invited to Jenova's party. The definition of gruff man with a hard exterior but a heart of gold fails utterly, but never fear, T&A is here to save the day. God help us. She ventures into Comatose Cloud's brain, and their combined intelligence, comparable to that of a gnat, is enough to uncover Cloud's Terrible Secret™. Which, surprisingly, doesn't involve any sort of revelation about his sex life.

After he's come out, Complete Cloud leads the others in an assault aimed at removing Sephiroth so Not!Aerith's Super Scrunchie Spell can blow shit up. Sephiroth gets creamed, the gang share some fuzzy happy moments and wait for Not!Aerith's spell to pass judgement on them all. Considering Cloud's crossdressing, Big Bear Barret's chronic neglect of his daughter, T&A Tifa's crimes against fashion (and her account-keeping improprieties), Yuffie's thievery and the fact that Cid gave a Fall Out Boy album five stars on Amazon, it's no surprise that There's No 'S' In Aerith's spell not only blows Meteor up, but takes all humanity with it, leaving Tigger free to roam the plains of the future without worrying his pups will hump someone's leg and have his membership of the Junon Yachting Club suspended.

Finally, that's where it ends, folks. There definitely wasn't a film where Cloud went Emo, or a roaming shooter with Vincent, or myriad novels or mobile-phone games starring the Turks. Nope, definitely not. Because the people at Squeenix care about their creations and the integrity of their art, and they wouldn't tear apart the simple, brutal majesty of the ending to FFVII solely to make a buck or three. If you were led to believe otherwise... well, just dismiss it as a fantasy.

Ponder Ponder Ponder

I just noticed the subtitle Brian has ascribed this blog; Politics, Philosophy, Random Rants and Musings.

I can't help but ponder exactly which of these categories the posts I've made below fall under...

Perhaps I should shove in a new category to better describe the textual froth I produce.



Edited to Add:

There, much better.

Worry not, Brian, you can change it back when you return :P

A Final Solution, Paris Hilton's Prison Diary

June 26, 2007

My dearest diary,

My time in prison has reached it’s end, yet I find myself consumed by remorse rather than relief, for my last hours in the Correctional Institute For Naughty Ladies were marred by a set of exceptional circumstances which forced me to compromise the pious morality for which I am famed and betray friends most dear, all in the name of freedom.


It began when Bulldog Baker stepped up her campaign of intimidation. My nerves were already shattered from the stresses of keeping Donatella’s presence a secret, a task not helped by Daisy’s rampant stupidity. I lost count of the number of times she almost let slip the presence of our guest, and consequently, of the amount of times I was required to slap her across the face in an effort to beat some sense into the lass. Baker observed some of these beatings, and made comments of a lewd nature inspired by them, implying I was some sort of debased sexual deviant into all manner of violent kink. I will not repeat the fetishes she accused me of subscribing to, aside from noting that I was shocked to discover a human female was capable of doing the things she mentioned in a golf car with an ostrich, while upside-down. As she continued her lecherous spiel, she began rubbing her baton so vigourously as to leave it gleaming as though t’were brand new. After she clocked out on Sunday afternoon, she paused at my table in the food hall, where I was trying to enjoy a low-fat plain yoghurt while Daisy waffled on about Cold Mountain, winked lasciviously at me, and told me she looked forward to seeing me in my night-clothes the following evening, when she began a month on night-shift. I was filled with despair. I knew this woman intended to intrude upon my maidenhead with her shiny, ebon baton and cold, groping hands. I took to my bed and cried myself to sleep. But morning came, and with it, salvation.

You must recall how my friend Nicole Ritchie vanished in the scuffle that saw Donatella accidentily imprisoned. As the sun rose, I caught sight of something sliding into the cell from underneath the door. I dismissed it as a pamphlet or a newsletter, but realising the absurdity of this, got up to inspect the object. I was shocked to discover it was Nicole, squeezing her 24lb frame through the door. I helped her through, we embraced, and then she began tearfully telling me of the escapades she had endured to avoid detection in the prison, including repeatedly turning sideways and having to hide between the pages of a pornographic magazine. Nicole is a self-obsessed creature that never tires of discussing her own trivial trials and tribulations, and I interrupted her to explain the situation I found myself in, mere hours from being intimately introduced to a night-stick. Donatella and Daisy awoke, and together, the four of us formulated a bold escape plan.

Alas, it seems that the escape plan was lifted directly from a popular TV series called Prison Break, which I guess is what happens when you let three people with the combined mental abilities of a pomegranate concoct your scheme. Baker herself caught us in the act in the early hour of Tuesday morning. She reveled in the moment, and made it quite clear that the only way we were getting back to our cells was if I submitted myself to a thorough cavity search. With freedom so close, yet so far, and the prospect of having my body defiled so, I simply snapped. I shouted at Daisy, telling her that Donatella was the reason that Renee Zellweger’s seven-month marriage to Kenny Chesney failed. Daisy exploded, hurling herself at Donatella with cries of “Home-wrecker!” and such. Baker was distracted by the violent catfight, as I had predicted, and I used this to my advantage. I grabbed Nicole and stabbed Baker with her razor-thin shoulder blades. It was quick, and it was fatal. Alas, the impact reverberated through Nicole, and she too perished as her anorexia-induced osteoporosis led her bones to crumble. As she lay on the ground, a crumpled heap of skin barely resembling a human, she seemed to mutter “Et tu, Paris?” before giving up the ghost. At this point, Donatella and Daisy had done one another in, the latter gouging out the former’s eyes with her thumbs, while the former choked Daisy to death by wrapping her hair around her neck. I took in the scene for a moment, shocked at what my own rage had led to. I reasoned that no one could ever prove I was involved in the violent incident involving Baker, prisoner Daisy and what authorities speculated were a blonde velocirapter and a goomba from Super Mario Bros. So, I returned to my cell, picked up my copy of War and Peace, and waited for the ‘morrow, and freedom, safe in the knowledge that my lulu would remain unviolated.


-Paris Hilton, The Hilton Estate

Mein Kampf: Paris Hilton's Prison Diary, Day 14

June 18th 2007

Dear Diary,

I can scarcely believe that it has been two whole weeks since I began my incarceration (aside from my brief sojourn to the outside world). The hours seem to be passing by so quickly one moment, and then the next it slows to a tedious crawl, as the mundane regimentation of prison life threatens to overwhelm one’s persona and destroy the sense of self through the constraining effect prison has on the sphere of activities we all need to engage in to maintain the necessary aspects of being. Nevertheless, things have improved greatly in the past few days, due to a convoluted set of events I shall attempt to explain to you, my dearest diary.

It all began when visiting hour arrived on Friday. My good friends Nicole Ritchie and Donatella Versace were paying me a visit. Donatella looked fabulous, clad in a daring summer ensemble of turquoise thong and bejewelled cleavage-hugging bikini top that offset her healthy tangerine complexion beautifully. Nicole was a marked and appalling contrast. Without me by her side to serve as her thinspiration, she has gained two and a half pounds, putting on so much weight that she has even begun menstruating for the first time in two years. She broke down into tears, and despite my efforts, failed to mustre a smile for the duration of the visit.

My friends regaled me with tales of the LA early summer party season, and for a brief and glorious moment I felt as though I were free, cavorting in the midst of a mass of beautiful people at a premiere after-party, arms lifted skyward as I shook my hair from side to side with not a care that was ever known to man, challenging the world to join me on the peak of human experience. I came crashing back to reality, however, when a loud alarm rang out as my friends were heading for the exit and Donatella was suddenly set-upon by a mob of guards. There was a terrible confusion at the time, but it seems that the guards mistook Donatella’s leathery orange hide for regulation prison clothing… those horrible orange jumpsuits that I, mercifully, do not have to wear, thanks to a note from my physician detailing the needs of my sensitive skin. Before the guards could be told of their mistake, they had already leapt upon Donatella, sending her sprawling to the ground as a small plastic bag (containing what she insists was medicinal cocaine) went spinning from betwixt her cleavage and out onto the pale concrete floor for all to see.

In the scuffle, Nicole vanished, and as of yet I have no idea where she disappeared to. I would phone to enquire, but I used my daily call to finalise a deal with a newspaper to serialise my prison diary. Not this compendium of my innermost thoughts, but rather a cleaner and more sympathetic version compiled by my public relations guru Monique Sikozu-Wong. But I digress.

Using the quick wits that I am famed for, I managed to manipulate the guards into thinking that Donatella was a pre-existing prisoner, Donna “The Dealer” Duggan, a heroin fixer-upper with a penchant for pulling off her enemies’ fingernails with pliers, thus saving Donatella the embarrassment of a very public court action. Of course, this now means that Ms. Duggan will have her sentence extended for a misdemeanour not of her own doing, but I think I can live with the moral grey area this leaves me in by telling myself society is a better place with her behind bars. Donatella is currently hiding in my cell until we can find a way to smuggle her out of here. She has taken Daisy’s bed, and Daisy now sleeps on the floor; something she became enthusiastic about when I lied and told her that Renee Zellweger sleeps in that fashion to improve her posture. I hope the woman doesn’t discover I’ve never actually spoken to Renee Zellweger.

I expect the next few days to be devoid of the tedium I mentioned in the opening of this entry, as I plot my dear friend’s prison break. I wholeheartedly hope no one gets shot.

-Paris Hiltion, Imprisoned Heiress,
SoCal Correctional Institute For Naughty Ladies

Mein Kampf: Paris Hilton's Prison Diary, Day 9

June 13th 2007

Dear Diary,

What a tumultuous few days it has been. I shall endeavour to recount everything that has happened in the past week, but my head is still spinning from it all, and I may forget minor details.

It all began, as whirlwind events are wont to, with a simple misunderstanding. Upon receiving my first meal in prison I, naturally enough, presumed that it was only the first of four to five courses. Based on the presumption, that further courses would follow, I ate only the barest smidgeon of the unappetising meal laid in front of me, hoping for something with a little more piquance to come, and did my best not to look too disgusted as I observed Daisy gorge her already bloated 60lb frame on the colourful assemblage of pulses and entrails. (A digression: I cannot help but ponder why I have taken to writing in UK English. Most perplexing.) When further courses failed to materialise, I briefly pondered making an enquiry into what had happened (Daisy was at this point asleep, thanks in no small part to my smacking her across the side of the head with my copy of Dostoyevsky until she slipped into unconsciousness, all the better for me to concentrate on the Russian literary master’s opus) until I decided it was best not to rock the boat, particularly with Bulldog Baker’s interest in me weighing heavily on my mind. Ms. Bulldog persists in her antics; she has been blowing kisses in an attempt to unnerve me and continues to make lewd gestures with her baton. I refuse to rise to the bait, and maintain stoic indifference in the face of her provocation. I may not be British, but I greatly admire the stiff upper lip approach to dealing with one’s adversaries, and I shall continue to emulate Winston Churchill et al in my dealings with Baker. But I digress, and return to the matter of recent events.

The day after the incident with the meal, I again found myself presented with a less than inspired choice of appertif, and again refused to partake of it. Afterwards, I was less than amused when further courses were not forthcoming once more, and asked Daisy (who was maintaining a pleasant silence for fear of receiving another battering) if the service was always so inconsistent and poor. I was shocked to learn that when in prison, one receives only one meal, and realised that my ignorance had cost me two days worth of necessary nutrients and nourishment. Alas, my behaviour was interpreted as a refusal to eat by the powers that be, who immediately acted in my best interests and arranged for my release into house arrest, where it was felt my frame of mind would become more amiable and that I would begin eating again. I found myself caught up in the maelstrom of events; before I knew what was happening, I was at home, and even before I had time to settle back into my routine and become accustomed to my newly fitted anklet monitoring device, I was back in prison again.

It has all been rather disorienting, but I am glad the matter has been resolved. I do find it rather bothersome when my schedule is in flux, and now that I know I will be serving my time in prison, I am content to do so. I have been returned to the cell I shared with Daisy. She seemed unhappy with my return, and cowered in fear in a corner for several minutes until, feeling sorry for her, my conscience got the better of me and I shared an anecdote concerning her idol Renee Zellweger and a Burmese long-haired shrew. This proved to be something of a mistake, as she has been nattering without end about her plans to adopt one of her own, name it Renee and enter it in rodent beauty pageant. It seems likely that I shall have to resort to binding and gagging her yet again, but for now I am just too tired. Nichole and Donatella visit tomorrow, and I hope to update my diary of prison life with whatever tales they bring from the showbiz circuit. And if Donatella can sneak in some cocaine, I might be able to purchase favour with some of the guards.

-Paris Hilton
SoCal Correctional Institute For Naughty Ladies

Mein Kampf: Paris Hilton's Prison Diary, Day 1

June 4th 2007

Dear Diary,

Today I surrendered myself to the State of California and began the sentence that was handed to me after a most egregious miscarriage of justice on the part of a deluded arbiter of justice who for some puzzling reason thought it was in the public interest to see me imprisoned for a bit of harmless speeding. My attorney's plea that I was late for a manicure seemingly fell on deaf ears. Judging by the judge's appearance -- the last time she saw a hairbrush was when Adam was knee-high to a grasshopper -- it's clear in retrospect that expecting her to understand the importance of looking one's best, of which perfectly sculpted and coloured nails are an essential aspect, was the incorrect approach. Said attorney was duly dismissed from the Hilton Legal Team in the wake of the verdict, and has been replaced with a more expensive and therefore better member of the bar.

My cell-mate is a chatty and coquettish young lady named Daisy who makes constant queries into the finer points of la vie celebrité. She seems to have an unhealthy interest in the career and life of chipmunk/human hybrid Renee Zellweger. I soon tired of her loquaciousness regarding the soft-spoken Ms. Zellweger, and enacted a fiendish scheme wherein I tied her to a chair using the bedclothes and stuffed a pillow case into her mouth. Peace, thy name is silence. I sat down to bury my head in a copy of Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, when the harsh screech of an electronic bell resonated throughout the complex, informing the inmates and I that lunch time had arrived. I released Daisy from her restraints and we joined a procession of dolorous delinquents. Upon arriving at the cafeteria, I was the subject of a traditional prison initiation ritual wherein my peers threw faeces at me until I rather resembled Grendel’s mother emerging from the swamp. They were shockingly accurate in their pitches, and the sound of their chatter -- of which one of the most common utterances was “Fresh Fish”, the meaning of which I must admit to being ignorant of -- was defeaning. Reader, I think they must like me.

The same could not be said of a certain member of staff, Beatrice “Bulldog” Baker. An hirsute woman with a slightly off-centre glass eye, I admit to being slightly perturbed by the looks she regarded me with, and I was similarly affected by the manner in which she mimed certain actions with her baton when she knew I was looking. I believe it was a reference to an incident during that turbulent period when the sordid details of my personal life were released onto the world wide web, to my immediate consternation and embarrassment. If such behaviour continues, I shall have to confront this Beatrice Baker, and if she does not offer an apology and remedy her behaviour accordingly, I may approach her seniors and make an official complaint.

All in all, my first day of incarceration has flown by rather nicely. If the rest of my sentence proceeds with the same perception of haste, I shall be most pleased. Tomorrow is visiting day and I look forward to seeing my sister. I believe Donatella Versace is also dropping by to see how I’m doing. There are difficulties to come… I admit that I’m not relishing the prospect of showering with 24 other women, Daisy isn’t exactly the most intellectually stimulating company, the food is merely passable and there’s also the matter of the aforementioned Bulldog Baker, but ultimately I think I’ll enjoy my 3 weeks freedom from the relentless pursuit of intrusive paparazzi and the chance to catch up on my correspondence.

-Paris Hilton
SoCal Correctional Institute For Naughty Ladies

Greetings, Alien Visitors of Tomorrow

Hello gentle readerfolk, and welcome to a quick introductory aside from your temporary host, Jonathan. Yes, Brian's off waltzing about the continent attacking pigeons and raising an army with which to wage lightning-war on Luxemburg and in his absence, I've been tasked with updating his blog. If you look at the nice picture of His Prettiness there at the right, you can see my Hat of Awesomeness, also referred to as "A Lovely Tea-Cosy" by a classy lady who stuck her considerably large head out of the window of a car driving past Brian and I as we left the cinema following Harry Potter and the Muggle Muggle Voldefahlala specifically to call it so.

There's no real reason why I should be doing this, as it's not like the blog was on a schedule of regular updates that the author would like to adhere to while he's gone, but I have plenty of mildly diverting missives I can paste, some of which might even raise a brief "Heh", causing the reader to ponder "Did I just chortle or was it just my breath catching?". Plus, my ego simply couldn't resist the urge to show my meanderings on popular culture (or, in the case of the Paris Hilton blog I'll be pasting, last month's pop culture) to Brian's sizeable audience.

So, for the duration of my tenure in charge of updating, one can expect things to take a sudden and abrupt turn towards lowculture. There shall be no considerations of atheism or essays on purpose and function, because I'm blonde and a faggot and my skill, if one can call it such, lies in ridiculing the ridiculous. Like Paris Hilton. And Scooby Doo. And L. Ron Hubbard. And therein, perhaps, lies the secret of why Brian asked me to contribute in his absence: his writing is going to look so good and so very intellectual in comparison when he returns, heh.

I'd like to think that in a few millenia, after the planet has reached sentience and destroyed mankind for inflicting so much damage upon her, an alien race will find our world and interrogate our digital archive. They'll investigate the life of famed author Brian Carey (well, THEY won't, rather an alien phd student doing a thesis on early 21st century Terran fantasy novelists will) and conclude, using a series of slanderous articles in The National Enquirer and these particular entries of mine as evidence, that Brian actually wrote the blogthings I am going to be responsible for, and that the abrupt change of style was a symptom of the latent schizophrenia that would emerge spectacularly when he reached his thirties and led him to declare himself "Pope of the World" before murdering a bus full of elderly passengers on their way back from Knock in what Sky News described as "Breaking News".

On with the show!

We apologise for the break in transmission, please bear with us.

Right so it has taken me a month to update this blog, which is not completely due to laziness to be fair. I've been busy trying to justify not working for the summer by getting down to actually writing the book I've been planning for over five years now. In any case, I'm off to Europe (the mainland that is) in about two weeks to see lots of places and hopefully not get lost/robbed/gay-bashed/all of the above.

However, I plan on giving control of the blog to my boyfriend Jonathan so that he may amuse my multitude of non-existent readers with his wit and charm etc.
To be honest, his ramblings are much more entertaining to read than anything I would be capable of so enjoy it while you can. If I am persuasive enough I'll make him stay full-time and share blogging duties with me. In the mean time, check out what those crazy Poles are doing below...

Seriously, what’s up with Poland?

I’m travelling to Poland in a few weeks, to Krakow and to see Auschwitz. It’s ironic that the most infamous of concentration camps (which interred homosexuals as well as Jews) is located on the soil of such an apparently intolerant nation. Even the most stalwart opponents of homosexuality/gay marriage etc. must surely find these reports both alarming and absurd:



"The homosexual man can be recognised by his handbag, purple skin, and a large silver screen in his stomach which emits pictures of children being indoctrinated into the homosexual lifestyle." - The Guide To Gays, Polish Edition


Don't believe me? Click here.

Yes, it’s right there in the Official Gay Agenda ™, Phase 3 - Operation Teletubby

But much more disturbing:





Gay Poles head for UK to escape state crackdown

“Polish police have also been compiling a database on gays and the gay community in Poland which, although illegal under EU law, is apparently being done as part of a police investigation into a bomb threat two years ago by a gay man. He had reportedly identified himself as a member of the gay community who was angry when a gay rights march was banned in Warsaw. 'The police are not allowed to catalogue "homosexual data", but it's enough to look into the police investigation associated with the bomb in order to establish a list of names and addresses,' said Ewa Kulesza, a former personal data protection general inspector.”
(Read more here.)

(Pictured right, the Kaczynsci twins, paradigms of Polish heterosexuality.)


“the European parliament has denounced the Polish government for a supposed increase in “racist, xenophobic, anti-Semitic and homophobic intolerance.””

“As part of their efforts to “clean up” Poland, “Law and Justice” have resurrected and promoted both anti-semitic and homophobic ideas. The Kaczynsci brothers are currently proposing legislation that would allow teachers who “promote homosexuality” to be dismissed. In so doing they have opened up a space where extreme nationalists, neo-fascists and reactionary religious elements wield some power. These elements are keen to exploit and perpetuate bigotry.”

More here.