e Squared (7 page)

Janice xx

 

 

The pilot of a BizzyJet Boeing 737 successfully aborted takeoff at Stansted Airport after an engine burst into flames. The Rotterdam-bound jet was evacuated and five passengers were taken to hospital. There are no reports of serious injuries. The Civil Aviation Authority has begun an investigation and is considering all possible causes.

 

Eyewitnesses reported hearing a loud bang immediately before seeing flames and smoke pour from the plane's starboard engine. One passenger, who declined to give his name, said: “It was a sharp metallic clank, exactly as if a cheap B&Q spanner had become caught up in the works. It was absolutely terrifying. I'm telling you, the sooner all air travel is banned and our airports are grassed over and turned into nature reserves the better.”

Róisín

Reception

blogass.co.uk
Posted by
Veiko Van Helden
06/01/09, 02:31 GMT

 

 

The greatest gig ever! Yes, reader, we conquer Jisalmi making day when Dethrush crown Finland biker-cheesy-power-metal kings soon come. This were the highlightings:

 

Till the next time. Homantsi on 15th. Rokk till your spleen go splat!

 

Comment posted by
jesus666
:
I was there, man! You guys rock! Necrophobic, Autopsy Torment, Hatesphere? You shit on them big time!!!

 

Comment posted by
Necrophobicluv:
Jisalmi? Anyone notice it sound like jism? Dethrush suck. Dethrush = jism!

 

Comment posted by
jesus666:
Necrophobicluv = jism + shit

 

Comment posted
by
Necrophobicluv:
jesus666 = jism + shit + piss x knob cheese
²

 

Comment posted bv
MaryMary:
Confused! I'm looking for a blog that gives info on fungal infections (of a personal nature). I really got my hopes up because I thought de-thrush might be it. Can anyone help?

 

Comment posted by
jesus666:
Let me explain cuz you're obviously completely lame-oid. Death put together with Rush makes Dethrush. I thought people this dumb wasn't allowed on the internet.

 

Comment posted by
Necrophobicluv:
You got that right. MaryMary = total flid

 

blogass.co.uk
Posted by
Tiga
06/01/09, 18:44 GMT

 

 

Today my human rights were violated. I was forced to have a tiny (like almost invisible) tattoo removed. By my mother! With the support of my fascist school, she dragged me to a sadist on Harley Street who attacked my leg with a laser gun. He said it would be painless, but it was
agony.
I could actually smell
burning flesh.

 

The scar will be a permanent symbol of the emotional damage I now have to live with for
the rest of my life.
Doesn't anyone care that the tattoo (which, by the way, was
not
a skull. It was supposed to be Hello Kitty. It wasn't my fault that the tattoo guy couldn't draw) was an expression of
my individuality?

Not my so-called mother, obviously. The most unbelievable thing is that she is a lawyer and is therefore supposed to understand the rights of the individual. The other most unbelievable thing is that she is also a member of Amnesty

International. Yes, she gives money to
stop
torture! Doesn't she realize that what she did to me was
exactly the same
as what the secret police do to people in countries like Burma, Belgium and Guantánamo?

 

I haven't been defeated though. Mum and my
Nazi
teachers don't know about the tattoo on the back of my neck and as long as I keep my hair down they never will!!

Comment posted bv
littlepinkpony:
100% empathy, Tiga. My mom has kept me locked in my room for five days just coz I dyed my hair blue. What's she gonna do? Keep me in here till it grows out? That so wouldn't surprise me coz she's a total bitch. I'm like that Australian girl in the cellar. Except I've got a window. And Mom isn't making me have babies. Not yet anyway. My only contact with the outside world is my PC. Anyone in the Saginaw, MI area, call Child Services. Please! I'm at 1215 Jeffers St. Look out for the sign in my window. A pic of Lindsay Lohan. She's totally persecuted too, you know.

blogass.co.uk
Posted by
Hornblower
06/01/09, 20:30 GMT

 

 

“Froid vif, esprit vif,” as they are wont to say in these parts. Mots justes, indeed, because I awoke at dawn to both Jacques Frost's delightful filigree upon my windows and a distinct sense of a sharpened mind.

 

And in that intellectual limpidity one certainty was clear: I have made the right decision. Leaving the narcotic-fueled and vanity-powered Soho media fest for
la simplicité rustique
of le Dordogne was
une bonne idée.

 

“Tu traines encore en pyjama, mon couillon d'Anglais?” remarked dear old M. Papin when he arrived on his rusting bicycle to repaint the wall around the plum orchard. Papin and his forebears have worked this land since Neolithic times. His craggy and leathered visage is as much a part of the Périgordian landscape as Les Caves de Lascaux. I poured him his
tasse de café
and he set match to Gitanes, settling down for our customary rumination on
la vie du pays.

 

“Elle est où ta salope?” he asked.

 

Ah, Celine. I explained that she hasn't yet returned from her yuletide visit to her parents.

 

“Elle revient quand?” he went on.

 

She hasn't called, I told him, but the mobile reception in these far-flung parts is
sporadique
at best.

 

Papin nodded sagely at that, though the frustrations of
le mobile
are as alien to him as warm English ale would be to un
Chinois.
“Elle était bonne. Ses gros nichons vont me manquer,” he said finally.

 

I'll miss her too, I agreed. But if Celine has chosen the dubious comforts of SW6 over
la pureté
of our new home, then so be it. I have made my choice and it is assuredly the right one.

 

Or as the inimitable Papin put it, “Tu es un vieux connard, seul et pathétique. Vas-te faire enculer.”