Yolk time.

This is a joke I heard a while ago. It made me laugh. Therefore, I've stolen it, and have created an elongated version, complete with picture and extra explanation. This is because I am lazy and have no original ideas of my own. And nobody can sue me, because who ever heard of copywriting a joke? HURRAH FOR PLAGARISM! I win.

The Fable of the Ears

There are these three guys. Actually, to maintain the standards of equal oppurtunities, there are two guys and a woman. And one of the guys has no legs, so he's in a wheelchair. And the woman is a 90 year old serbian asylum seeker. The third guy is a ginger midget with a cleft palette and schizophrenia.
This merry band of examples of our tolerant society are looking for a job in the newspaper together in their local pub, "The Token Tavern". Unfortunately, they all share a car, and so can only apply for one job at a time. There are a lot of jobs in the newspaper, which for various reasons they're not qualified to do. Therefore, they quickly cross out the pole vaulting, oxford professorship, leg modelling, karate instructor, ladder designer, prison warden, and Klansman vacancies. In fact, the only job left in the newpaper to which they're all qualified is a job in an opticians.
It reads:
Bob's Opticians. A fun, rewarding, fairly well paid job involving lots of glasses, bits of glass, contact lenses, wine glasses, pasties, and busty lasses. No qualifications required. We are an equal oppurtunities employer. Come in for a quick, easy, quick, fun, easy, well paid, interview any time! No Indians.
So they phone up, and the guy says that they can come in for a quick, easy, quick, fun, easy, well paid, and most of all easy interview any time. So they all go in the next day, rather excited about the possible job. You see, the thing is, none of them have jobs and they're all sharing one cardboard box on the street. Usually, they end up killing other vagrants and eating their warm flesh for sustenance, and obviously this is not a healthy way to live.
They are ushered into the waiting room by a receptionist and sit there listening to Wham, as one by one they are called in to the interview room.
The first one up is Mustafa, the guy in the wheelchair. So he rolls into the interview room nervously, with only a slight pause to unjam his wheels from the door-jamb. But as soon as he arrives at the desk and takes a good look at the interviewer, he realises something slightly odd about his appearance.



YES, HE HAS EARS GROWING OUT OF HIS FACE. What's more, the ears seemed to be from a totally different ethnic background. How they got there actually has no relevence to the plot, but lets just say that it involves one of those really fast moving ceiling fans, your mum, and one of Tim Robbins's insane plans.
Well, that's interesting thinks Mustafa to himself. A guy with ears all over his face. Don't see that every day. But he decides not to comment on the ears and settles into the interview.
"Well," says the interviewer after they have a brief chat. "I can see that you're a smart guy, Mofo. So I only have to ask you one question. Answer this correctly, and you'll get the job."
YES! thinks Mustafa. Finally I can save up enough money to fix the brakes on my wheelchair!
"And the question is this: do you notice anything interesting about my appearance?"
Mustafa stares at him and thinks. Well, this is a difficult moral quandry. He has a bunch of ears on his face. But would it be rude to comment? But surely he knows about the ears? So what's the point in asking? Perhaps he wants to check out my honesty. I'd better say the ears.
"Well," says Mustafa. "I couldn't help but notice that you appear to have some ears growing out of your face."
This does not please the interviewer.
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WHEEL YO ASS OUT OF MY OFFICE NOW, YOU RUDE LITTLE CRIPPLE!"
He fetches a broom and shoves Mustafa out of his office. As his brakes don't work, Mustafa rolls into the road and gets hit by a juggernaught. This punts him into the air, and over a nearby dam. He then lands on the roof of a pillow factory, bounces, and crashes into a pencil factory. There, he catches lead poisoning and dies in hospital three weeks later.
The next applicant, the woman (Kim) is called in. She too notices the ears, but decides not to comment. The interview takes a similar path, until finally the interviewer asks:
"Well, do you notice anything interesting about my appearance?"
Kim thinks for a long while, then finally responds:
"Well, I don't mean to be rude, but... um, you have some ears growing out of... your face?"
This does not please the interviewer.
"WHY IS EVERYBODY SO RUDE TODAY? STOP INSULTING MY APPEARANCE! GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!"
He pushes her with a broom and she flees. In the foyer, she sees the ginger guy, Timothy, waiting patiently and reading a copy of Bella upside down. She is about to leave, when she stops and warns him not to mention the interviewer's ears. She then exits and gets struck repeatedly by lightning.
Timothy enters the office. The interviewer is obviously quite annoyed by now, so there's no introductory chat. Instead, he says right away:
"Right... Timothy. Everyone else has been as rude as hell to me today. So I'm going to ask you ONE question. Answer it correctly and the job is yours. Do you see anything interesting about my appearance?"
Timothy stares at him for a long, long time. Finally, he smiles and kicks his teeny feet about happily.
"I've got it!" he proclaims. "You're wearing contact lenses!"
The interviewer looks delighted.
"Amazing! How could you tell?"
"Well, you wouldn't be able to fit glasses on your face with all those fucking ears in the way, would you?"

BA-ZING. I'll be here all week. Tip your waitress.

Long time, no blog

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I nearly died on Wednesday

No joke. I was literally HALF A SECOND from death. Death by Land Rover. I could have been no more, just a manly streak of red on the road. My fragile bones could have been crushed to powder and my teeth expelled like tiny bullets across the road to pierce the face of anybody foolish enough to not leap in front of the car and save my life. I could have been permanently, and excitingly, brain damaged, like that guy in Memento, or Spider-Man 2. I could have been expunged, put down, my fragile flame snuffed, iced, put on a slab, exterminated, a victim of a misadventure, coronised, pickled, death-visitated, 409'd, skeletalised, buried, minced, turned into a bag of meat, wiped off the mortail coil. If it were not for that half second, I would probably be six feet underground right now, happily mouldering in a nice warm coffin, without a care in the world, planning my return from the afterlife and vengeange on the human world.

Here's how it happened: Basically, I was cycling down the road, listening to The Divine Comedy on my iPoditorium, happy as Larry Flynt in a metal legs store, when I came to a busy t-junction. "Hmm", I thought to myself "My highway code says that it's advisable that I stop before crossing busy junctions, and to always signal". I therefore sped up and cycled directly into the road without looking either way or stopping. And suddenly out of NOWHERE comes this ugly cunt in the world's fastest Land Rover, heading directly for my under-guarded left side. He locked eyes with me. I locked eyes with him. I was basically, micro-seconds from death (and as my mother pointed out, "When you get hit by a Land Rover, it hits you here *Motions at chest area* and you DIE!"... thanks Mum), when I stood up on the pedals and JUST avoided the bumper. I then kind of stopped my bike on the pavement and scratched my head in a confused manner.
The Land Rover. Did it stop? No. Did it in any way slow down? Other than a half hearted attempt at braking, no. In fact, I very much doubt that it was a real Land Rover. Far more likely, it was in fact a DEATH ROVER. Driven by the Grim Reaper in his quest to steal as many innocent souls as possible (even in off-road and wet areas), the DEATH ROVER scours the streets of London and runs over uncaring on bikes. THEN STEALS THEIR SOULS. DAMN YOU, DEATH ROVER. DAMN YOU. THE DEVIL DAMN THEE BLACK, THOU CREAM FACED LOON. He failed to kill me this time. I was lucky. But will he strike again? I didn't know. Because of this, I continued to cycle everywhere, with my cycle helmet safely stored in my locker. Yes, that's me, PLAYING WITH DEATH. Come and get me, Grim Reaper, you stupid twat. I listen to Linkin Park: you'll need something special to capture my rebellious soul.

Whats that you say? You can't imagine the situation as to my near death? Oh wait, look, I made a little map of what the situation was. That's lucky:



I feel that I captured the occasion perfectly. But of course in the real thing there were more spectators and possibly more swearing. And the Death Ranger was much bigger and more covered in spikes/blood. My hair is also more yellow than that. But anyway. So I nearly died. This is a big moment in one's life, and you'd expect something exiting to occur, mentally at least. The following things FAILED to happen:

• My entire life flashed before my eyes.


• I repented all my past mistakes and took Jebus into my heart.


• I gained a sudden, unique viewpoint on life.


• I made a resolution saying that if I were to survive, I'd only be sweet and kind to everyone.


• I regretted all the mean things that I'd said to everyone, including the fat cunt who was playing Carmen in the school's production (In fact, watching that piece of shit was the only thing I regretted).


• I saw a hooded skeletal figure chasing me down with a mad cackle.


• I wished that I was wearing some sort of safety gear. I mean, even shinpads might have been useful.


• I heard a choir of angels.

So basically, all that my near death experience showed me was that there is no God. Nice. In fact, the only thing that even popped into my head was that I didn't really want to die listening to The Divine Comedy. I mean, Come Home Billy Bird is a nice song and all, but is it the last thing you want to hear as your congealing brains slop out of the bitumin-induced hole in your skull? Our survey says: NO.
And anyway, I'd already planned out my death. It'll be when I'm well into my twenties, driving a sports car, off some sort of cliff. And then landing on a barge. A barge populated by James Blunt, Jason Mraz, Green Day, Muse, the Goo Goo Dolls, and anybody who has ever been on Pop Idol. Oh yeah, and my sports car will belong to Ben Affleck. And he'll be stapled to the boot. Along with, like, two thousand pounds of C4 explosive. So when the car hits the barge, it explodes and everyone dies. Especially Jason Mraz.
I haven't quite decided what music I'll be listening to when I die. So far it's a toss up between U-Mass/Debaser/Alec Eiffel by the Pixies, or Bittersweet Symphony by the Verve, but I like to keep my options open. I mean, if I suddenly feel suicidal and the only CD that I have immediately to hand is The Best of Craig David (an oxymoron if ever I heard one) and my iPoditorium is not charged then, hey, I guess I'll go down listening to Seven Days. But I'll be forced to drive to Craig's house and run over his stupid long face with the car, just to punish him for screwing up my death.

Oh yeah, and if they find enough bits of me for a funeral, here are a few requirements that I'm gonna make right here and now:

I want the entire service to rhyme. It's not a hard request, but I think that it'd make all the eulogies a lot more bearable.
Tapdancing. Everyone going up to the podium must tapdance up, and then tapdance down again. The orchestra will play jaunty tapdancing music while the tapdancing is taking place. Did I mention that there will be an orchestra? There'll be a full size orchestra. Except without the french horn section. I think that everyone agrees that french horns will never have a decent place in music. And when they put me in the grave, I want them to play that 'wah wah wah waaaaaaaaah' sound from old black and white comic movies. That never gets old.
You know those women in those films wearing the red dresses who lie on top of pianos and sing while the pianist plays away? Yeah? Well I want one of those. Except she'll be singing on top of my COFFIN. While it's being carried to my king-sized grave. Oh yeah, I want them to dig up like four other graves and have me buried at right angles to every other coffin. I especially want this if it involves ruining several other funerals.
I want a twenty foot high musical tombstone that plays H. Chappelle's The Gonk every time anybody walks past.
Actually, before being buried, I'd like to be burnt on top of a huge funeral pyre first, then scattered to the wind over a crowd of asthmatic babies. You can then clone me and bury me in the aforementioned way.
Posthumously, I want to donate a full sized rowing 8 to every boat club in the country. However, they all have to be called "Rowing Sucks", "Your Mum," or "Thomas has a big Penis".
There should be a few huge statues of me. Made out of GOLD.
Actually, I'd also like to be blown out of a cannon. MANNNN I wish I could die more than once, just so I get all these awesome funerals.
A huge crowd of mourners would be good too. In fact, I'll be positively disappointed if there aren't throngs of schoolgirls throwing themselves in front of my (totally pimped up) funeral hearse and leaping into my grave.
I'd also like the Pixies to play Debaser LIVE as I am placed into my grave. Well, I say grave, I actually mean PYRAMID. With big piles of all my earthly riches and several slave girls to serve me in the underworld. Also, we should get some of those Scientologists to put some sort of curse on the tomb, so if it is ever disturbed, I return from the dead and annoy the grave-robbers with my bullshit religion and lack of drugs.
Monkeys should also play some sort of part in the funeral service, I'm not quite sure how. Perhaps they could serve vodka at the wake? The wake will have big water drums filled with neat liquor, and nobody gets to leave until it has ALL been consumed.

Yeah, that's about it.

My death will be so totally kickass. That is definitely something to look foward to. Except I'll probably outlive all of you. Unless this birdflu comes along and kills off half the population. HURRAH FOR TOPICAL COMEDY.

Surgery of the Tonsils? THE TONSILS? Surely not.

To anybody who's getting, or has had, tonsil surgery in the recent past or future...
Here's a post dedicated to you. You kings of Maine, you princes of New England, you getters of tonsil surgery. Now, not a lot of people know this about me, but as well as being a gold-winning Olympic rower, boxer AND high-jumper, I'm also a fully trained surgeon, specialising in the mouth, nose and throat area. So I know EVERYTHING there is to know about tonsil surgery. Seriously, everything. Go on, ask me anything. Anything at all. So, seeing as somebody reading this blog might be having tonsil surgery rather soon, I've decided to write up a quick instructional leaflet to tell you all everything you need to know about the most painful and dangerous surgery on the market:

Dr Thomas's Guide to Surgery of The Tonsils

First thing first: What ARE Tonsils?. That's an interesting question. Now, until ten years ago, tonsils occupied the same space in medical textbooks as ears: medical mysteries. Nobody knew what they were or what they did. It was only after some pioneering medical experimentation by famous Doctor H. Shipman that we discovered that tonsils actually have the purpose of stopping one from drowning in one's own bile at night. They also prevent one from accidentally swallowing one's own teeth after ingesting cold food. Because of this, it's generally advised against removing them, but with the correct surgery and a decent pair of tonsil-bolts, tonsil-removees can get through life eating chilly food and with a miminum of bile-draining at night. So that's good.

What qualifications do you need to perform surgery of the Tonsils? Amazingly, the answer to this is: none at all. Because tonsil surgery is such a pioneering field, there are no tonsil surgery exams or specialising boards of excellence. It's fully legal for anybody to walk into an operating theatre and perform the operation, even if he's blind drunk, naked, a woman, or on fire. Of course, I strongly advise that you don't allow a woman to perform surgery on you, and a qualified doctor IS preferable to just some random hobo off the street. Usually, NHS hospitals have fully trained doctors. But then again, with recent budget cuts, that guy with AIDS and the long fingernails who'll do it for a fiver and a pack of clean needles who keeps hanging around A&E biting people might seem rather appealing... To be honest, if you're going through surgery of the tonsils, I wouldn't worry about the qualifications of the doctor. You'll be ethered up to your High Heaven before he even sets his bleary, bloodshot eyes on you.

The tools of the trade: Ah, now we get to the FUN stuff. Tools for tonsil surgery are still rather in their crude stages, I'm afraid. The most important three instruments however, are the surgical chisel, the surgical soldering iron and the surgical pliars. A surgical mallet may also be useful in order to hack through any irritating bone-material. A large surgical moist towelette could also be used to dab the sweat off the arm muscles of the surgeon doing the chiselling. And, of course, a surgical bucket/hose to catch the majority of the goutage and to clean off the ceiling after the procedure.
Interestingly, Professor Ling-Lang-Ping of the Taiwan Tonsil Institute is pioneering a brand NEW surgical device guaranteed to perform the surgery a lot quicker AND less painfully (for the surgeon... it removes the chiselling blisters). Just feast your eyes on the CUTTING EDGE of tonsil surgery equipment:



Wow. Of course, this tool is ONLY in the experimental stages. Already, several prisoners of war have been treated with this equipment, and two of them survived! So exciting stuff for the future. But of course, we current tonsil surgeons use the good old fashioned tried and tested tools and techniques. By now, I'm sure that you're asking How does the procedure happen? Well, that IS a good question.
First of all, we ether the patient. This is done with a triple folded sheet of Bounty (extra absorbant) placed over the nose of the patient. We then pour ether onto the sheet until the patient is unconscious. Due to the fumes, we do not use a full dosage of ether and it's not uncommon for patients to wake up MID OPERATION! Ha ha, how we all laugh when THAT occurs. But don't worry if that happens - you won't suddenly feel searing pain, odds are the dosage was only enough to knock you unconscious and you were fully aware of what was going on the entire time.
Following the ether, the REAL fun begins. The doctor might wash his hands or something and change into a nice woollen tonsil-surgery smock. Then comes the 'cracker' - we'll vice open the jaw so its wide enough to fit in the chisel. Amazingly, many patients of tonsil surgery have impressively widened jawbones following the operation. So much so that they're no longer able to speak. Although, to be honest, this is a common side effect.
The doctor will then go into the mouth and, using his surgical chisel, will hack out enough flesh/gristle/bone matter so that the tonsils are fully loosened from the tonsil beds. Then, using the pliars, the tonsils are ripped loose and placed into a petri dish. The dish is then sealed and sent away for experimentation. The gushing tonsil-beds then might be seared shut with the surgical soldering iron. This is done so the tonsils do not grow back: it's a commonly held theory that tonsils will actually regrow in larger numbers if the surgery is not performed successfully.

Ah, so you want to have the surgery... but what should you bear in mind before ticking the box that says "I give my consent for this operation and will not sue if I am mutilated"? Yes, the possible side effects. Well, these involve, but are not limited to:

• Brain haemorraging


• Muteness.


• Fever of the brain.


• Lockjaw.


• Squareness of the neck.


• Breaking of voice.


• Having lots of little tonsils growing all over your face and neck until you DIE.


• Shephard's palsy.


• Cowbell.


• AIDS (we frequently forget to clean the pliars).


• Cillit Bang.


• Mime-fever.


• Severe mental anguish.


• High-clottitis.


• Green Day.


• Falling out of teeth.


• Oozing.


• Alzheimer's Disease.


• A constant dizzy feeling.


• Vomiting.


• Both Crimson AND Clover. Over and over.


• Constant pain for the rest of your life.


• Inability to sing soprano.


• Inability to communicate in anything OTHER than soprano.


• Hallucinations.


• Castration.


• Ulcers.


• Amnesia.


• Little bubbles of air in your veins.


• Tonsilitis.


• Spontaneous sex change.


• Cancer of the FACE.


• And, of course, Death.

Before you panic, please bear in mind that a good few of these are unlikely.

Well, that's my review of Surgery of the Tonsils. That's all folks. If you're my girlfriend and you're having surgery of the tonsils tomorrow, I hope that I've helped to soothe your fears somewhat. Good luck.

YOU'RE GOING TO NEED IT.

Screw you guys.

Right, that's it. I've had ENOUGH. England sucks. When I say 'England', I mean, 'every possible facet of England that you care to mention'. The people suck... fucken pikeys. The weather sucks... fuken rain. The wildlife sucks... fucken foxes. The telephone booths and post boxes suck... fucken red. The language sucks... fucken received pronounciation and fucken phatic communion. Even the Queen sucks... fucken royals, taking all my swans. Because of this, I've decided to move to Switzerland. As soon as possible.

Why Switzerland?

Well, no reason, other than that Switzerland is only the NUMBER ONE PRODUCER OF TOBLERONES IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. Thats right, every single toblerone ever produced in the world comes from one factory in Switzerland. The manufacture of the toblerones is fascinating. Firstly, they mix all the magical ingredients together in a giant pan made out of Swiss gold. From this pan, they produce a cube of chocolate with side of roughly one metre. Then, using special toble-chisels, the oompa-loompas chip away all the chocolate until the only toblerone shape is left (the excess chocolate is deemed impure and is gassed). Every toblerone then goes through a complicated system of vetting and checking to make sure that it forfills EVERY LAST requirement of the toble-kings, before finally being packaged and sent off to chocolate shops around THE WORLD.

But it's not just the toblerones. Oh no. As well as the toblerones, Switzerland is famed for being the land of the free, the home of the brave, and the landscape of the... bold. It's said that the streets in Switzerland and LINED WITH GOLD, and on every corner are rosy cheeked, hale busty maidens dressed in lederhosen and pigtails, ready to feed you with specially cut selections of pigmeat and roasted foreskin before taking you away to a mysterious chalet where you shall eat the finest cheese fondue while sitting in a bubbly jacuzzi THAT'S ACTUALLY A GIANT CHOCOLATE FONDUE POT, while being serenaded by the sweet symphany of alpine horns and french horns. And I haven't even BEGUN to describe the skiing. I don't ski, but I'll hire a team of professionals to show me how to surf. Then I'll set off an avalance of some sort and ride the wave all the way to the picturesque alpine town at the bottom, where I shall relax in a sauna (naturally, with rosy cheeked, hale busty maidens dressed in lederhosen and pigtails) before throwing myself into a freezing lake to blow out the cobwebs. I'll then go back to my chalet (on a very punctual train) and leap onto my huge bed composed entirely of softened bits of toblerone, and call in my swiss accountant to discuss the huge amount of money that I've poured into my swiss bank acount without any authorities knowing, before buying a load of precision watches and telescopes to celebrate my own brilliance with big swiss movie stars like Val Kilmer Toby McGuire? Mmm.

THAT is how awesome Switzerland is. So that's why I'm moving there. Unfortunately, in order to preserve the picturequeness of Switerland, computers are banned. So are telephones, televisions, and basically all modern electronic equipment. The swiss fear these things, and think that they will steal their souls. They communicate by trained carrier pigeons and by yodelling across the alps. In fact, you remember that avalanche the other year in the alps that killed all those people? They swiss government had heard rumours that there was a mobile telephone in one of the affected villages. Steps were taken. Personally, I approve of this, and will be destroying my computer before I finally make the big move. So this will be the last post EVER on this blog. Yes, I know. It's heartbreaking. But on the other hand, there are lots of good blogs out there. I especially like to read this site, which should definitely win some sort of award for genius.

ONLY KIDDING. I'm not REALLY going to live in abroad. All that stuff I was saying about Switzerland? Irony.* I'm only going for FOUR DAYS to go rowing. Yes, rowing. In Switzerland. And this means that I have to get up at 3 in the feckin morning tomorrow. THREE. THAT'S LIKE FOUR HOURS EARLIER THAN WHAT I'M USED TO. IF I WENT TO BED NOW, I'D STILL HAVE AN HOUR LESS SLEEP THAN I REQUIRE. CAHNTS.**

I'll get back at 11 on Sunday. So if anything exciting happens (and God knows, it always does when I'm not in the country), please find some way of informing me. For example, if Lucia's throat surgery gets pushed forward to Saturday and it gets botched and she ends up looking like Jack Nicholson in Batman***, kindly text me.
Actually, thinking about it, if I get back at 11 on Sunday, when am I meant to do ANY homework? I have a lot of homework. By my last calculations, I had THIS much homework to do:

• A 400 word History essay - Was the failure of the Weimar Republic inevitable?


• A 1500 word English essay - What principles ensue that normal conversation is not chaotic?


• A 200-300 word French essay on a piece of French cinema and how it ranks up to other pieces of French art


• A two page History essay - How responsible was Germany for World War 2?


• A long English essay on Dracula


• Like, 18 pages of French reading


• Some English reading


• An English essay on The Tempest... however, I have no idea about the title/length/deadline of this essay


• History reading AND note taking


• TWO pieces of English coursework.


• A French essay on homelessness... fecken french hobos

And I've just worked out that, due to general inadequateness, I'll have to do most of these at 11 on Sunday evening, because I'll be fecked if I'm doing them now. Yes, that's right. I'm a REBEL. And I'm listening to Beck right now, but as I type this I'm moving the mouse with my nose to change it to LINKIN PARK.

SWITZERLAND, FRICK YEAH!

*Finally:



**I hope that you've noticed that, in my drive to wipe out obscenity on teh interwebs, I'm spelling all my curse words incorrectly.
***But seriously, Lucia, I know that you're worried about the surgery, and I'm sure it'll go fine. I've known loads of people to have their tonsils removed, and I'd say that a good five or six-ninths of them got out FINE without any permanent scarring, psycological damage or muteness. So your odds are good. Hell, I'd bet a small sum of money (about £4... not much more) on your survival. You'll be fine. I'm sure.

Remember: you can't spell 'peculiar' without 'liar'

I was thinking today about how much I hate the "Romeo + Juliet" H&M advert that they're showing in cinemas. I mean, I really REALLY hate it. I hate it so much that I'm still brooding over having to watch it, eight days after the twats who run the Odeon assaulted my eyes/ears with it.

Here's the advert in full:
Black girl is in her room. Hears gunshots outside. Runs outside, sees dead guy on floor. Starts crying.
BLAM... we're in a ballroom. Everyone's wearing stupid masks, except for one ugly woman who starts yowling some song.
Cut back to girl crying over dead guy. Now, some girls look really fit when they cry. Not this girl. This girl is just plain OOOOOO-GLAYYYYYY. She's uglier than a piece of wood carved to look like Moe Molem. An ugly piece of wood. Carved with a spade.
Cut back to queen yowly in the ballroom. She's still yowling.
FLASHBACK... boy is alive. Boy and girl prance around doing gay emotional relationship stuff.*
Cut back to girl on street. She's really really upset that her boyfriend is dead.** She gets surrounded by a gang of onlookers and some policemen who do nothing.
FLASHBACK... boy/girl make out in a bedroom. OH MY GOD, I JUST REALISED THAT THEY'RE WEARING JEANS. I WANT SOME RIGHT NOW.
Cut back to yowlzilla in the ballroom. SHE IS STILL SINGING. When I say singing, I mean 'screaming random sounds at the ceiling in an attempts to convey passion, while failing and just conveying haemarroids'. This has already gone on for like six minutes.
FLASHBACK... boy and girl are STILL making out in bedroom. Christ.
Back to girl on street. She's so upset, she happens to be singing along with yowly in the ballroom. She pulls out a mobile phone and pretends to shoot at the policeman. The policeman shoots HER FREEZE FRAME.
Yowly is still yowling.
Cut back to bedroom. Boy/girl lie on bed. But that's not important. What are they wearing? OH MY GOD IT'S JEANS. "H&M&denim: Jeans with soul" appears on the screen. Everything goes dark.

Oh man, what a journey. I really want some jeans now that H&M have wasted six minutes of my life on their shitty advert. If I die and I'm just six minutes away from discovering the elixir of life and all my scientific work gets destroyed and humanity gets killed in a plague, do you know who's fault it'll be? That's right, H&M's. Twats. I have yet to find a single person who likes that advert. I think after wasting thousands of dollars on an advert that everyone hates, H&M would issue a public apology to everyone and stop showing it. BUT NO. THEY'RE PROUD OF IT. I managed to get a sneak interview with Jorgen Andersson, marketing director of H&M, and person responsible for this advert:

Me: Thanks, Jorgen, for giving me this interview.
JS: ...
Me: So, Mr Andersson, why do you use two s's in your name when its quite clear that one would work just as well? And why is your name Jorgen when it quite obviously should be Jordan? Were your parents really cruel, or just bad spellers?
JS: ...
Me: I'll take that as a yes for both. So tell us about the advert.
JS: There's enough comedy in advertising today. And jeans are not about laughs, jeans are love and soul and tears. That's what we're trying to emphasize with this tragic and beautiful Romeo & Juliet story.***
Me: Woah. I've been using my jeans totally incorrectly for my entire life. All those times that I was wearing jeans and I happened to laugh... man, I should have been crying or doing something soulful instead. Wow, you guys at H&M sure showed ME.
JS: A pair of jeans is the only kind of clothing where true feelings are involved.
Me: And there I was, thinking that jeans simply consisted of several bits of denim stitched together to make a covering for the legs to protect against cold when ACTUALLY they represent the entire gamut of human emotion. God bless you, jeans - the soulful trousers. Compared to jeans, chino's don't stand a fucking CHANCE. And you ruin the shit of those stupid strappy trousers that grungers used to wear.
JS: Every pair of &denim jeans is the start of another true denim love story.
Me: Piss off.

Seriously, man, wtf? "Jeans are the only kind of clothing where true feelings are involved." What the HELL is that meant to mean? This kind of corporate doublespeak actually makes me ill. No joke, that website gave me a frickin' migraine. It reads like one of my english literature essays when I have no idea what the book is about and I have only five minutes until the deadline so I just write a page of incredibly vague non-sequitors that actually make no sense and have very little to do with the book and have no grammar/vocabulary and happen to go on forever kind of like this sentence but it doesn't matter because I still get an A* because I RULE at english and even my crappily thought out word-burps are still like 50% better than everyone in my school... Am I getting a big head? I hope so.

But depressingly, this isn't the worst bit of corporate rubbish I've seen. Although it's pretty poor, at least it's still an advert for jeans. Doesn't compare to Honda, who apparently haven't actually made anything for the past year and a half.
Yes, they were responsible for like the best advert of last year (the cog one... awesome), but then have totally ruined the world with their semi-philosophical moronic pro-hippy japanese feng-sui moron bullshit. Instead of bringing out any products, they choose to have some guy with a semi-gravelly voice and a nicely clipped grey beard in a suit (I have never seen this guy, but that's what I assume he looks like) telling us about 'the power of dreams' or 'you-may-oh-katara, the japanese word for the power to make your dreams happen' or how Honda is always 'making dreams happen'. Basically, all it seems that Honda does is talk about dreams and then make them happen. And with all these dreams and crazy imaginings, what does Honda make? Water pumps, lawnmowers and snowblowers. WOAH, FAR OUT DUDE.

Then they did that advert that said that "hate is good". I think there was some bizarre bit of philosophy behind this reasoning but I was too busy tying a noose around my neck and hoisting it from the hook in the ceiling to really pay attention. Apparently Honda have decided that having a crappy hippy outlook in their advertising is going to change the fact that they're really a big evil corporation... and who the fuck buys cars from Honda anyway? NOBODY. YOU GUYS SUCK.

And then Orange jumped on the bandwagon with some bullshitty adverts about some street cleaning hobo who suddenly started dancing and everybody loved him. Orange had nothing to do with him, but have bought his existence to sell crappy phones. And even Mars bars have a new 'feel good philosophy Mars bar moment' thing going on. And Sainsburys has a new 'try something new today' ethic. WHY HAVE I SEEN ALL THESE ADVERTS? I DON'T WATCH THAT MUCH TELEVISION. Man, everyone is stupid except me. To be honest, the only advert that is in anyway good is the new CILIT BANG advert with the one and only... BARRY SCOTT. He's so manly. And in the latest advert, Barry S has a girlfriend called Jill. But even when he's talking to her, he yells like he's selling her something. I love Barry. He's the man. So in conclusion, here are the products that I advise you to buy:

• Cillit Bang power crime and lime trigger.


• Cillit Bang universal degreaser.


• Cillit Bang Universal Power crystals.


• "Cillit Bang and me: A life as the manliest man in the entire world" by Barry Scott (available in all good bookshops)

And here are products that I advise you not to buy:

• Anything from H&M, but in particular the jeans.


• Anything from Honda.


• Orange phones/contracts.


• The Green Day album. Because Green Day SUCKS.


• Mars bars.


• Anything. Just starve to death, you fat cunts.

Reason why I hate H&M number 17: I'm unable to type 'H&M' without first stopping to search for the '&' button on the keyboard... wankers.

*I don't get all the emotional relationship stuff on tv. Or in movies, films, books, or in songs. I mean, I have a girlfriend, and we never walk down the beach holding hands. Or sit at benches and throw stones into the river. Or sing ballads at each other's window. Maybe I'm a bad boyfriend. Oh well, judging by the rest of my friends and their girlfriends, I'll turn into a blubbering vagina of whingy girl-speak in about a month. "Oooh I love you baby I hope we can last forever YOU PEOPLE MAKE ME SICK.
**And another thing. I know that you're my girlfriend and all, Lucia, but if you were to be killed off by a rival gang in a vicious drive-by (or drive-buy), I don't think that I'd be THAT bummed. I mean, yeah, I'd probably hold up on replacing you for a couple of weeks, but would I be crying in the middle of the street surrounded by a gang of concerned onlookers? Noo-oo. I'd probably go to the funeral, but I wouldn't buy a new suit for it or throw myself into the grave or give a speech or anything. Yeah, I probably am a bad boyfriend. Oh well.
***Actually taken off the H&M website. I could not make up this shit.

Self defence, me style.

PIcture the scene. You're sitting on the train, listening to Tarantula (DJ Tiesto Remix) by Faithless on your brand new iPod Photo 20gb. Suddenly, a shadow falls across your... head. You smell the pungent mixture of cheapo imitation perfume and plastic clothing. You look up. You see the shine of the shaved head and the acne scarred face. The cold dead eyes. The Burberry goodness. The gold medallion. The corncob pipe.
"Oh crap!" you think. "The lower class! They've come for me at last!"
"Gimme your ipod blud or like I knife you right in de head mate blud yeah yeah bust me yer ipod wicked boo-bah I LISTEN TO BECK!" he cries, in a voice that would make a baby kitten beat itself to death with a hammer due to FEAR.
"Uh... what?" you say, confused. Being middle class and not state-school educated, you communicate in real english. Not monkey.
"Yo ma bizzle, ling me the ipod to the shrizzel or I done palm you in the face STARTIN' BLUD I KNIFA YA!" he says and makes a grab for your iPod. You're about to jacked by a PIKEY. And TWO of his earring-wearing mates. They're all bigger than you. And they were all raised on the mean streets of Shepperton, so they can FIGHT.

WHAT DO YOU DO?

This is an event that has occurred to pretty much every person ever*. Now, there are many possible ways you could react. You could react the wussy way, which would be to just give him the iPod and cry yourself to sleep for the rest of the week. This isn't a good way to react. I know, that's what the teachers tell you. "Just give them what they want, that way you won't get hurt, and you're more important than any silly old iPod any day," they say. The teachers are idiots. I advise you never to listen to them about anything ever. Then there's the other way - get up and run for your life. This is known as the cowardly way: you end up running away. Then you lose your masculinity. Yes, all of it. Do you know that only women run away from things? I'm not lying, that's a scientifically proven fact. If you run away from anything, your gonads will fall off and you'll get a vagina. I can't think of anything worse. Real men just stand there and get blown up.
So there's the wussy way. There's the cowardly way. What's the other way, I hear you cry? WHAT IS IT?
Then there's the chainsawzombie.blogspot.com way. Here's my list of 100 GUARANTEED pikey get-rid-of-methods.** Keep these safe, and use them well, and you will never be beaten up and robbed by the lower class ever again:

1: Stare at the pikey in a long baleful way for a good minute. Then sigh deeply, shake your head, and turn up your iPod. Start to bop your head to the music. Ignore the pikey.^
2: Leap up, yell "HALLO SERGIO!" in your best Italian accent, kiss the pikey on both cheeks, then strut down the street.^
3: Scream the lyrics of whatever song you're listening to.^
4: Play dead. Just roll over on your back and go limp. Try to soil yourself.^
5: Violent method 1: Right, you put on your cool black sunglasses. Then, BLAM, you give a jackboot-to-the-neck of the fat pikey on the left before he can react. Then you spin round gracefully, like a delicate ballet dancer, and give a horrific kung-fu punch to the groin of number 2, before grabbing his neck and running around the walls, breaking it in exactly fifteen places. Only one pikey left now; leap into the air. At this point, I'm reliably told that everything will go into freeze frame and the camera will rotate 360 degrees around you. When this happens, kick the final pikey in the chest. He should fly out of the window and plummet to his death. Go back to listening to your music, safe in the knowlege that you've made the world a better place.^
6: Stare motionless ahead of you. Drool.
7: Right, you give the pikey your phone, right, but its a BOOBY TRAPPED PHONE, and then when he finally gets round to using he, he'll find that it's actually just a dog toy and he'll look like quite a twat. Of course, you've also covered it in a thin layer of highly concentrated sulphuric acid, and he's permanently scarred on his hand/ear. That'll teach him.
8: Offer him sweets. But poisoned sweets. Laugh as he eats them and his stomach wall disintegrates.
9: Offer him crisps. But poisoned crisps. Laugh as he eats them and then drowns in his own BLOODY BROWN PHLEGM.
10: Offer him crips. But poisoned crips. Laugh as he tries to eat them, then wake them up and get them to attack him with their little walking sticks and the stumps where their legs used to be.
11: "Gimme your phone, blud."
"Ok. You gimme your nice hat first."
"No mate blud mate bluuuud."
"Why not? This isn't very fair."
"Because mate I'm JACKING YOU."
"Ok, you can have it, but only if I get your nice medallion. The phone's worth at least... fifteen times more than it? And I got this phone for £15 at MiddleKlassFones4U."
Then, while he's confused, you beat him about the head with an iron pole.
12: Just repeat everything he says in a high pitched, whiny voice.^
13: Violent method number 2: "Ok, you can have my phone". *Hand the pikey the phone, but just as he touches it, press the hidden button that releases the electro shock. The pikey gets 10000 volts and falls back, screaming. You then withdraw your Walther PPK and shoot him in the kneecaps, before elbowing the second pikey in the face, knocking him unconscious immediately. Then have a long exciting fight scene with the final one that ends up at a clifftop above a bunch of, I don't know, pirhanas or something. Finally kick the third pikey into the pirhanas. Strip down into a white tuxedo and go seduce a beautiful thermo-dynamic physicist. Say something witty.* "Well, I knew that SOMETHING was fishy around here." A HA HA! I'm so witty. SOMETHING FISHY. AHAHHAHAHA I'M SO GOOD.
14: Laugh cruelly and walk away, giving the pikey self esteem problems for the rest of his life.^
15: Ask for a big mac and chips.^
16: Yell 'YOU CAN'T SEE ME, I'M INVISIBLE!' Then wander about doing the 'walk like an egyptian' dance.^
17: Somehow trick him into tying his own shoelaces together, than slap him and run away.^
18: For this method to work, you have to be dressed like/be a pirate. Get to your feet and yell "So YE WISHES TO STEAL ME BOOTY, EH, LAND LUBBER? IT'S WALKING THE PLANK FOR YE!" Then make the pikey walk the plank. Sharks are preferable.
19: Say "You call THAT a knife? THIS is a knife!". Then get out a quill.^
20: Take a photo of said pikey. Start a blog. Then photoshop said pikey into embarassing poses and put it on the internet.
21: Violent method number 3: Ok, turn your iPod to Linkin Park. Then, bolstered by the sheer manly teenage rebellion ANGST of the official Best Band Ever, go into slow motion. This should give you enough time to stand up and rip the heads of two of the pikeys clear off their shoulders GORILY. Then take the two heads and bring them together (almost like the logs on the AT-STs in the wood in Return of the Jedi, starring Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher) on HIS head, which should explode in a mess of gooeyness. Return to fast motion. Admire the mess, dust off your hands, say "my work here is done", leave.
22: Don't listen to Green Day. Everything is better when you're not listening to Green Day.
23: Two words: melon pliars.
24: Fool the pikey with a cunning trick of some sort, possibly involving a rabbit or a shiny piece of metal.
25: Fucking hell, am I only on 25? I feel that I've been writing this forever. I don't know... give them the fucking phone? Who cares, it's a piece of shit Sony-Ericcson anyway. Was I even talking about a phone? I thought that I was doing iPods. Ah, I don't care, to be honest.
26: Eat a big pill. If my years of experierence serves me correctly, you should suddenly start moving 3x as fast, and the pikey will go blue and run away. Chase him down and eat him, but be wary: he'll regenerate soon.
27: Run him over. With my car. I had another driving lesson today. I'm so good at driving. Today I was taught how to turn left. But not right. Apparently, when driving, turning left and right are totally different disciplines.
28: Spark up the chainsaw.
29: Yell "LOOK, A CRIPPLED GAY ASIAN MIDGET WITH A WALLET BULGING WITH £50 NOTES AND AN ATTRACTIVE FEMALE DAUGHTER!" While the pikey is distracted, leap out of the window.

There we go, my 29 ways to avoid getting jacked. Well this has been a waste of time.
By the way, if there's anybody out there who's offended by my use of the word 'pikey', I've made this disclaimer: Pikey only refers to people who come from state schools who try and steal stuff from me. Actually, who am I kidding? It refers to anybody poorer than me. Hurrah for being middle class and reasonably well off!

Don't blame me, I voted for Phil Collins.

^Likely to get you stabbed.

*With the exception of me. Well once a guy came up to me and asked me for a pound. However, I didn't understand what he was saying. So I sort of squinted at him then backed away slowly. Not my smoothest moment, I admit.
**There are less than 100, and a great many of them will not get rid of the pikeys. In fact, it might make them want to hurt you more. Personally, this is a risk I'm willing to take.

Sauce and zombies

First things first: Apparently the school had my art GCSE remarked and I GOT BUSTED UP TO A*. So that is ten out of ten A*s at GCSE. So that means that its physically impossible for me to have done ANY BETTER at GCSES. Ouch, man, ouch, my own crushing intellect actually HURTING me. Ooh, golly. Look, even this cowboy agrees that I'm really great:


"Thomas is really great." That's what he said. But anyway.

Ok, on with the post. Warning: this post will contain spoilers.

• In Star Wars, Darth Vadar is actually Luke Skywalker's DAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!

On FRIDAY, I went to see LAND OF THE DEAD. Actually, I want to see George A Romero's LAND OF THE DEAD. Because it's his. It's nobody else's. Because he's worth it. I went to go see it with MY LADYFRIEND, who goes by the name of 'Steve*'. My mum was like 'Why are you taking Steve to Land of the Dead, surely she wants to go see Pride and Prejudice?' and I was like 'No way, man' but then I asked her and she was like 'Well yeah, I would prefer to see Pride and Prejudice cos I already have a pirate version of Land of the Dead on DVD' but then I was like 'well, I'm paying so screw you' because I'm the man and I have to make the rules. So that meant that I had to pay for TWO TICKETS to see Land of the Dead, which, judging by the recent hyper-inflation that's only affected cinemas, equals £15. FIFTEEN QUID. I COULD HAVE BOUGHT THREE MIDGET THAI HOOKERS AND SOME DELICIOUS THAI BEER FOR THAT. Steve, you're sucking me dry. SUCKING ME DRY. Heh. You leech.

• In Fight Club, Ed Norton and Brad Pitt are THE SAME PERSON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Before actually going to SEE the film, we went to Starbucks to ingest caffeine and discuss weighty matters. Because that's what people do at Starbucks. Ingest caffeine and discuss weighty matters. For those of you who don't know**, the Starbucks in Kingstonia-land has a really big fuckoff window that you can sit in front of and look through. So that's what we did. Sat in front of it and looked through at all the people going past. And it was THEN that I realised that, like, people are really funny to look at. You can just sit there and they parade past like the world's most depressing fashion show. You can say things like 'look at that guy's stoopid hat', or 'hey, check out that rebel in his school uniform at the back, he know's what's going on' or even 'hey, a fat woman'. Which we did. But the BEST THING EVER HAPPENED.

• In The Sixth Sense... HE'S DEAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This guy was walking along with a bag of take-out chicken or something, when his little tub of sauce FELL OUT OF HIS BAG. We didn't do anything, just watched as he walked away from his sauce. It was just too momentous an occasion. You know when you're walking along the street and you see a little puddle of sauce or vomit or something on the floor, and just for a splitsecond you ponder how it got there? Well it was like that, except WE KNEW. We'd been there from the very beginning. For once, we were in on the joke. And we saw it all. We saw somebody step on the tub and burst it open. We saw the tub being kicked about. We saw the twat with the converses step in the sauce and leave saucy footprints down the street. And even more epic was the fact that everyone walking down the road was FASCINATED by this sauce. They all gave it long lingering looks as they walked by. One japanese woman even stopped and took a photo of it. I mean, they're walking through a town, flanked on each side with huge buildings, next to a road filled with big metal chariots, talking into little boxes that magically transport their voices miles away and they're ALL FASCINATED BY THIS LITTLE PUDDLE OF SAUCE. This confirmed my notion that the entire British public are zombies.

Wait a second, did somebody say ZOMBIES? OMG OMG OMG... AFTER STARBUCKS, WE WENT TO SEE A ZOMBIE FILM. CHRIST, what a COINCIDENCE.

• In Lost In Translation... THE PLANE CRASHES AT THE END!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Firstly, before the film started, there was this really shit advert for H&M. I say advert, I really mean CHINESE WATER TORTURE. Basically, somebody at H&M thought "I know, we're launching a new line of jeans, let's make a five minute long Romeo and Juliet ripoff advert to some terrible soul song entirely filled with crying black people and insulting ethnic stereotypes, while simultanously raping one of Shakespeare's most widely-loved plays. Yeah, that'll be a good idea." It was so terrible, man, my brain still hurts from watching it. But perhaps I'm beeing too harsh. You know, remaking Romeo and Juliet for the modern era... actually, that's a REALLY GOOD IDEA. Well done, H&M, for your staggering originality. Except OH WAIT, that was already done by Baz Luhrman with Leonardo De Capri-Sun and Clare Danes. Whoops. And even that didn't have a really long song that had nothing to do with anything. And it wasn't just a cynical quasi-artistic rip-off of Willie S's play. I hate H&M. Cunts. By the end of the advert, everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) in the cinema was loudly heckling the screen.

"Just DIE ALREADY"
"Shut up"
"This is so shit"
"WHY WON'T SHE STOP?"

Wait, that was mostly me. Trust me, that advert was terrible. And not in a 'so bad it's good' way. Just terrible.

• In Return of the King, the King... RETURNS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ZOMBIE FILM TIME. Well basically, George A Romero's Land of the Dead is about this land that's full of dead people. All the living people live in this city surrounded by water and cool electric fences, and occasionally drive out into the outer world to kill the zombies and steal all their food. Of course, this one black zombie gets really pissed off at having his zombie friends killed, so gets an army of zombies and marches on the city. This black zombie is really smart, and learns to use primitive tools, such as guns and knives and pneumatic drills. Yes, you heard me... ZOMBIES WITH MACHINE GUNS. As soon as I realised that the zombies were to be using machine guns, I was a happy man.

• In Reservoir Dogs, it's Mr Orange!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! But they all end up dead anyway!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Except possibly Mr Pink, played by Steve Buscemi!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Meanwhile, this evil meglomaniac called Mr Gay or something lives in this skyscraper and cackles madly. He is also a bad-guy, as evidenced by the fact that he wears a suit, smokes a cigar, and has a fat black servant who does all his work for him. There are some good guys also, though. There's this blonde guy called Riley or Ripley or something who has this magic zombie-killing tank. His best friend is this retard with no name. I was a bit disappointed that the retard didn't have magic powers, as in The Stand, but apparently he's really good at shooting people with his rifle. There are some other people too:

• This prostitute woman who, thinking about it, has absolutely no impact on the rest of the plot.


• Some guy who may or may not be Tybalt from Romeo+Juliet (the good one... the H&M advert didn't even bear that much of a resemblence to the real Romeo and Juliet). He has a cool spear-gun for killing zombies. He dies at the end. Boo.


• This fat guy who seems to exist only to provide the zombies with a hearty meal, but then fails to die and provides a lot of comic relief.

• At the end of Jerry McGuire, they all get sprayed with acid!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This film was... ok. Not as good as Dawn of the Dead or Day of the Dead or High Tea of the Dead... but on the other hand, it had like 1263x more originality than any other horror film out in the cinemas today. Zombies playing the french horn? A huge zombie-killing tank? 'Have your photo taken with a zombie'?*** A nightclub with zombie-wrestling run by a bearded midget dude in a purple pimp suit? You aint finding that shit in Resident Evil. And it doesn't hurt that GAR knows exactly how to deal with the zombies. He knows the one rule of zombie films: Zombies are shit. To make a good zombie film, you have to recognise this. George A Romero recognises this, and as such, there's a lot of vintage zombie comedy- in particular a bit where a zombie gets beaten up by an umbrella.
And while there wasn't a bit as epic as the zombie head/helicopter blade bit in Dawn, there were still a couple of really good RINSED!!!!!!! AHAHA! bits:

• Zombie/bridge interface.


• Zombies attack trapped truck. Truck has the oppurtunity of going forward and escaping, but instead reverses and machine-guns all the zombies, just for the hell of it.


• Guy shoots one zombie, laughs, then gets eaten by like seven others that jump out of nowhere.


• Zombies killed, put in a box, dumped out in a wasteland.


• Soldier pulls out grenade. Zombie with carving knife lops**** off his grenade hand. Soldier falls on top of the grenade. Soldier explodes. Oh man, pwned.


• Woman is a bitch. Woman gets bitten by zombie. Her friends shoot her first. Then they take out the zombie.


• Man is trapped in car, with zombie mechanic attacking him. Zombie mechanic pours petrol into car, then wanders off. Man gets out of car and is attacked by second zombie. First zombie returns with fire. Man and second zombie get blown up.


• Man gets bitten by zombie. "I'll be ok" he thinks. His friends shoot him straight away.


• Zombie finds pneumatic drill, figures out how to get into the skyscraper, eats way through fleeing hoo-mans.


• Zombies are previously distracted by fireworks. Zombies get into city. All the humans get chased into a corner. Seconds away from death when fireworks are shot into the sky. Zombies distracted. "We're saved!" cry humans. Zombies lose interest in fireworks and eat humans.


• Lots of zombies beaten up, then wrapped in cloth, strung up, used as target practise.

Actually, thinking about it, this film was pretty sickhead. And some of the social commentary was pretty good too. Especially the mexican zombie who was attempting to mow a car-park. And the spanish zombie. And the whole '9/11' thing, with all the security details and the random-searching of people in city streets? And the lack of personal security in exchange for short-lived ideals of safety? Woah man, the zombies are a metaphor for TERRORISTS? Far out.

• In The Shining, at the end out it turns out that it's just local kids playing a prank on the family, and they all laugh it off and settle down to a nice picnic.

Overall, George A Romero's Land of the Dead gets a ChainsawZombie rating of 10 stars. Wait... ten stars? Where have I seen that before? Oh yeah, after the As on MY GCSE GRADE CARD!

*Steve, Lucia, I forget which.
**Hopefully, everyone.
***SIMON PEGG AND EDGAR WRIGHT WERE THE ZOMBIES IN THIS BIT.
****'Lop' may be one of the best words ever. Just describes the action PERFECTLY.