Dr. Angel’s Perfume Review

Dear sweet smelling world of shed enthusiasts,

While perusing the interweb for my regular brand of canoe porn and international gestures, I happened upon a blog about perfumes. http://nowsmellthis.blogharbor.com

 This not only made me rejoice, but it also made me think that, goddammit,Jeremy Irons, I can do that too. So please keep your eyes tuned and your buttocks firmly and sweatily clamped for my first perfume review which will be coming shortly, this very night!

 I know most of you haven’t smelt perfume before, apart from on your regular ‘ho’s matalan boob tube, but one day you might find it useful. For those of you in Wigan, perfumes are the things that disguise the smell of dirty houses and chip pan fat. You can buy them in Manchester shopping emporiums or get cheap copies on Costas’ market stall in Kos, just next to the fake Burberry towellettes.

This week’s perfume: L’Eau du Rust perfume house: Le cadeaux de le doublevaycay

 Subtle yet promiscuous, this perfume smells like it could have been shagging your fat mam and all her pox ridden sisters. First, the distinctive opulence of binary fission mingles with the sparkling farcical strain of tuba monsters connected together by a system of strings and pulleys, lifting the senses and tightening your sphincter. Surprising and velvet soft, the heart of the fragrance unfurls to reveal an original blend of irregular objects and glue sniffers’ sputum. Next an intoxicating bouquet of black bile, yellow bile, blood and phlegm balances the four humours and prevents a visit to the snake in the temple of Asclepion. Finally, warmed by the skin, the last notes of the fragrance reveal it’s lingering egg nog milky accord. The smell of sawdust on vomit and the open field system merge with knights in white satin to create the feeling you get after a welcome bum intrusion.

It’s lovely.

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Jim’s Gym

Just got back from the gym.  Managed not to look in those big mirrors next to the machines.  For some people, sadly, this is an all-too unmanagable feat.  Their eyes, magentised by the mirror’s attraction.  Drawn like the moon to the earth’s gravitational pull, they watch themselves work out. 

For mere mortals, the thought of watching your lycra clad frame jostle amongst the steel and pvc pads is visual anathema, however, I am transfixed by watching people watch themselves.

Are you are watcher?  or, like me, are you an eye-averter?

The Gym

Just got back from the gym.  Managed not to look in those big mirrors next to the machines.  For some people, sadly, this is an all-too unmanagable feat.  Their eyes, magentised by the mirror’s attraction.  Drawn like the moon to the earth’s gravitational pull, they watch themselves work out. 

For mere mortals, the thought of watching your lycra clad frame jostle amongst the steel and pvc pads is visual anathema, however, I am transfixed by watching people watch themselves.

Are you are watcher?  or, like me, are you an eye-averter?

Touch me! Touch me! I want to feel your body…

…as Sam Fox, eighties lezzer and chanteuse, once sang.  But enough of that WoS enthusiasts…

about this time of year my eczema flares up into the shape of the soviet union, I cancel all my goating holidays in the Ottoman Empire, Eurasia and Persia, and I write a strongly worded letter to the Holy Roman Emperor.  As autumn advances upon us like Gary Lucy, sour faced hollyoaks gaylord, you may like to take up some of the following suggestions.

1.  Why not rent out your nodes of ranvier for 13 pesetas per day? 

2.  Move all your posessions into a tube of Germoloids

3.  Shout in someone’s face “I am NOT a library and you CANNOT ‘browse’ over me, Sir!”.  Consider emphasising this by spraying spittle.  Or maybe a small amount of spew. 

4.  Start a street fight betwixt two WW1 war poets (I can recommend Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfrid Owen.  I’ve got a feeling that Sasson repulsed Owen’s adavances and the element of ‘thwartage’ will make for a good rucus).  Consider throwing some chickens into the melee. 

5.  Make an amourous advance on The Hapsburg Empire. 

6.  Get youself tested for artefacts, remnants and leftovers. 

7.  Invite a feeling of tension into your home. 

8.  Sculpt your body down the gym so it resembles a barrell.  Walk on your tiptoes and refuse to talk about the exchange rate mechanism until the object of your affections finally relents.  Follow this up by laughing in a cavalier manner as you walk away from people.

9.  Whenever you answer the phone do not attempt to disguise your voice but pretend you don’t know the person who’s calling, even if it’s your mum.  “sorry no, no Fred here, you’ve got the wrong number.  What number did you dial? Yes, that’s this number.  No, no Fred here. Take care now.  Bye”

10.  During a conversation, half way through,change accent. 

Let us know how you get on with that.

Until then, I remain your humble servant

The Institute for Grinding and Bogling

 

 

“You crazy babe, Bathsheba, I want ya.  You’re suffocating, you need, a good shed” sang Black Francis.  And don’t we all agree with that sentiment? Of course.  Anyone would. That’s why WoS is the 5th most popular shed based blog after

1. Right Says Shed

2. Beds in Sheds

3.  Sheds in Beds

4.  Lord Rhomboid and his Shed Division

5.  World of sheds
In other matters, I have a proposal.  What we need in this country is an Institute of Grinding and Bogling.  This Instiute will fly in action should anyone be wrongly accused of ‘grinding’ and/or ‘bogling’ or any illegal grinding acts can be addressed by the proper channels. 
If someone is incorrectly accused of Grinding (haven’t we all been?  I know I have on at least 100 seperate occasions, each one more extravangant than the last) an application can be made to the Insitute to investigate.  This will be done by interviewing several sources (usually, Cardinal Mazarin, Cardinal Richelieu, le Dauphin and le Roi de Soleil) and reviewing video footage of alleged grinding.If allegations are largely insubstantiated, and injunction and legal proceedings will follow.  The slanderer will be dealt the punishment of watching MTV’s ‘The Grind’ until they can correctly idenitfy all 68 components of a ‘grind’.  They will then be forced to pull out all their eyelashes and categorise them into either ‘fluttery’ or ‘spindly’. 
I put it to you that such an insitute will save so much heartache and wrong doing in society.  Soon we shall all be able to roam the streets without fear of facing an illegal bogle.  no longer shall we fear being in a nightclub where some inebriated young chap decides to lock you in a ‘reverse unsolicited grind’ (this is a move where a gentleman approaches you from behind, so you can’t run, and puts his arms around you and then gyrates suggestively into your back).  Won’t the world be a better place? Won’t it make us all cry out “P’Tang Yang Kipperbang”.
and now I rest.  I feel all flushed now, and only essence of radiator water can restore my senses.
Until the next time, stay safe
 
Your pal in all ‘dance’ matters

Dr. Angel’s computer game compendium

Tease me tease me tease me baby. Oh, that was too much, you’ve spoilt it.
 
Anyway, when I’m not teasing or being teased, channelling universal energy in the form of argos catelogues or writing in the dirt on the back of vans ‘dirt=hurt’, I oft find myself thinking about computer games. 
 
Now, some of you might have seen one of my regular contributors to the blog is Sir Clive ‘Funky’ Sinclair (his slogan is ‘say YES to PolYESter’) and I have fond childhood memories of zx spectrums.  This led to me and Sir Clive devleoping a new wave of zx speccy games that are more pertinent to today’s socio-cultural climate.  Ecce (look-non latin speakers) at the extensive selection available to own for only £4656585.99 in 79.999999 irregular installments.
 
  • Horace Goes Weeing: The latest zx spectrum game about urine dilemmas. Horace is Drunk in Skelmersdale and all the pubs have now shut. Can you help him find somewhere to relieve his bladder and avoid capture by the ‘Bizzies’ (the Police)?
  • Horace goes Keying. the latest zx spectrum game about anti social behaviour towards vehicles. Can you help Horace evade an ASBO?
  • Horace Goes E-ing: Horace starts university and finds it hard to fit in.  He starts to take drugs in order to endear himself to the ‘cool’ crowd and go to super clubs like Cream and Ministry of Sound and the Roxy in Sheffield.  Can you help him score some genuine pills? Help him steal £6 bottles of water and try to stop him throwing his sweaty body onto strangers, proclaiming “man, this is just, like, totally amazing.  I can tell we’re like, gonna be friends for ever.  I feel so much love for you”.  Help him beat end of level bosses such as the crap dealer,  the night club bouncers, and the club dj (make him play Josh Wink-Higher state of consciousness) and the university halls of residence cleaning ladies.
  • Horace Goes Me-ing: Horace starts to develop an inflated sense of self as one of his mates was in Hollyoaks once or something. Stop Horace developing narcissistic personality disorder by dodging mirrors, attending psychiatry appointments and stopping him from talking about himelf. 
  • Horace goes Being: Horace contemplates is own existance.  Help Horace with his existential dread by collecting and chain smoking Marlboro Reds and standing in slanty doorways, wearing a black polo neck.
  • Horace goes kneeing: Horace has low self esteem and joins a taekwondo club.  He proves his worth as a man by kicking women and children at his dojang. 

I hope you enjoy these excellent, contemporary games.

A Sea Shanty

Dear sweet smelling WoS enthusiasts, all three of you.

Usually at this time of year I change my name to ‘Lady Freakathon the third’, join in marriage a Bontempi organ and Stefan Dennis and alter my internet dating profile to read the words ‘I like killing people with my bare hands’. I also like to pen a sea shanty from time to time. This particular shanty I penned on Crosby beach after being inspired by Anthony Gormley’s ‘Another Place’. Also, someone had written their name ‘Phil’ in the sand. I tell thee, I bet this ‘Phil’ character was rather pleased with himself eh? Writing his name in the sand n’ that. What a genius. In honour of this genius, I wandered about the beach shouting “PHIL!” at the top of my voice to see if anyone would turn around. It was also part-homage to the great ‘Phil’ himself that I just felt the pleasure of shouting his name, his name ringing in my head, his name filling my lungs, my every breath as I bellowed it out into the steel grey, heartless sea. Unforgiving, crashing against the torn, black, ragged rocks, bleeding, exhausted onto the shore…

 *cough*

 Er, yes, so this sea shanty eh?

A hundred Saturday Iron Men

There was a hundred iron men who looked out to the sea

 Each one privately wondering what was on telly

 One hoped it was strictly Come Dancing, one hoped for Top Gear

 but Top Gear isn’t on on a Saturday, it’s usually on a Sunday

 Heave Ho!

 Repeat until nauseous….

I’m sure you enjoyed that enormously. You may like to sing it to your mates at the abbatoir where you work.

 Yours, in all matters musical

A sea shanty

Dear sweet smelling WoS enthusiasts, all three of you. 

 

Usually at this time of year I change my name to ‘Lady Freakathon the third’, join in marriage a Bontempi organ and Stefan Dennis and alter my internet dating profile to read the words ‘I like killing people with my bare hands’.  I also like to pen a sea shanty from time to time.  This particular shanty I penned on Crosby beach after being inspired by Anthony Gormley’s ‘Another Place’.  Also, someone had written their name ‘Phil’ in the sand.  I tell thee, I bet this ‘Phil’ character was rather pleased with himself eh?  Writing his  name in the sand n’ that. What a genius.   In honour of this genius,  I wandered about the beach shouting "PHIL!" at the top of my voice to see if anyone would turn around.  It was also part-homage to the great ‘Phil’ himself that I just felt the pleasure of shouting his name, his name ringing in my head, his name filling my lungs, my every breath as I bellowed it out into the steel grey, heartless sea.  Unforgiving, crashing against the torn, black, ragged rocks, bleeding, exhausted onto the shore…

 

*cough*

 

er, yes, so this sea shanty eh?

A hundred Saturday Iron Men

There was a hundred iron men who looked out to the sea

Each one privately wondering what was on telly

One hoped it was strictly Come Dancing, one hoped for Top Gear

but Top Gear isn’t on on a Saturday, it’s usually on a Sunday

Heave Ho!

Repeat until nauseous….

I’m sure you enjoyed that enormously.  You may like to sing it to your mates at the abbatoir where you work.

Yours, in all matters musical

Too Much Love Can Kill You

So says Meatloaf.  On what evidence does he base this claim?  I have read many medical and psychological text books, none of which make the love=death link.  There appears no factual basis for this claim, no evidence, no randomised controlled trials exposing subjects to two conditions:

 

Condtion A-not enough love

Condition B- too much love

Where is it established that the independant variable (IV=love) is manipulated to see if it has an effect on the Dependant variable (DV=life/death status)?  I’d like to read that research, Mealoaf.  Which peer reviewed journal does it appear in?  The international journal of spurious bollocks?  The Australian journal of shit?  Lies!  The Magazine?

I can only conclude that this supposition is INCORRECT

Too Much Love Can Kill You

So says Meatloaf.  On what evidence does he base this claim?  I have read many medical and psychological text books, none of which make the love=death link.  There appears no factual basis for this claim, no evidence, no randomised controlled trials exposing subjects to two conditions:

 

Condtion A-not enough love

Condition B- too much love

Where is it established that the independant variable (IV=love) is manipulated to see if it has an effect on the Dependant variable (DV=life/death status)?  I’d like to read that research, Mealoaf.  Which peer reviewed journal does it appear in?  The international journal of spurious bollocks?  The Australian journal of shit?  Lies!  The Magazine?

I can only conclude that this supposition is INCORRECT.