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Albion

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  1. Ok, we'll call this one a draw. Tbh I can see the upside of celebrating the arrival of our Lord and saviour twice a year. All that drinking, eating and generally living it up like a pimp for an extra 30 days of the year sounds good to me. I'd get to go to two Christmas office parties for starters, meaning I could close the deal with Maggie from Accounts a few months earlier than usual. Alexa, I take it all back. I'm sending you a photocopy of my junk first thing in the morning.
  2. Anything pre 2000 isn't worth worrying about imo. I mean, thinking back, I'm pretty sure I took part in quite a few sexual assaults throughout the 90s. Although back in the day I simply considered them to be extreme flirting. One example would be the scorching summer of 1991. I'd just started a new job in a tiny office on the outskirts of Stockport, selling vacuum cleaners through them shite sunday supplement magazines you would often get free with the papers. The women in the office knew all about my sexual potency from day one. I just had to flash my legendary smile, and point to the outline of my plonker in my pants, and they'd be frothing down below like a faulty Littlewoods washing machine in no time. All apart from one female, who acted like I didn't even exist. It required a less nuanced, more obvious approach to trap this lass. So one afternoon I cornered her in the kitchen, and simply began singing, “Ooooh oooh ooh oooh oooh ooh ooooh ooooh, I Wanna Sex You Up”. I made sure to point at her while singing the word “you” and upwards when singing the word “up”. Otherwise I'd have looked like a right twat. Then before you could say “Colour Me Badd”. I was kneading her knockers like a pair of sourdough loaves. I was sure this would do the trick. But once we'd finished our little ensemble together, the mardy cow just walked off. I suspected she was getting ready to report me to HR the following day, so I lied to everyone in the office and said that I'd caught her in the store cupboard with her knickers around her ankles, doing ungodly things to our newest range of dirt devils, and she never came back after that. Alas, this was a battle we were both destined to lose. Women, eh?
  3. Nah. We were never the same after that night. We lost our identity to shock value gimmickry, and Alan became addicted to peach concorde and was crying all the time, so we called it a day.
  4. That's always the way. It starts out great & ends up turning to shite. My last trip saw me waking up flat on my back, in the middle of the road in Santa Clara, Cuba, floundering like a monkey at a NASA space launch. Screams of "They’ve got rocket propelled grenades!” was what I woke up to. It was the voice of my mate, Alan. And he was carrying an obese woman over his shoulders running at pace. Let me rewind for a minute, though, and give you a little slice of context pie. Back in late 2008, my friend Alan and I were part of a 3 piece band called Tracey and the Argonauts. We played straight up calypso funk and we played it hard. But our lead singer, Tracey, decided she didn’t want to continue in a funk trio anymore and we were faced with a tricky decision. Do we totally reinvent ourselves as a Calypso infused funk duo, or do we simply accept our fate and call it a day? The decision took all of 30 seconds, and The El Bastardos of Broughton were born. Moments after agreeing upon the change of name, we were organising a 3 month road trip around South America to immerse ourselves in the rhythms that would influence our fledgling El Bastardo of Broughton odyssey. We swam with Dolphins in Peru, we drove a motorcycle across the salt flats of Bolivia, and had a foursome with the most enchanting pair of midgets I’ve ever laid eyes on in Argentina. We felt like road warriors, crisscrossing the scorched earth. Then we arrived in Santa Clara. You"ll see things in this place mate that you’ll see nowhere else on the planet. I saw one kid there who was basically just a torso and a head. I tried to grab hold of him to have a bit of a play, but he was far too fast on his skateboard. My love affair with the city came crashing to a halt, however, the very next night in the north area of the city. To say this bar was a shithole filled with deplorable individuals was an understatement. Anyway, after polishing off a few cocktails and a big bag of shrooms we were ready for the dancefloor. We never made it, unfortunately. As we Moonwalked our way over to the centre of the room towards a bevy of prostitutes, I accidentally bumped into large burly bloke, spilling the last of my Mojito over his leather slacks in the process. “Quer mu Frutados” or summat, he shouted, before flicking open a blade and licking his lips. My natural instinct in such situations has always been to stab my car keys into the person’s throat and run. But the mushrooms had taken their toll on me, and my instincts were not as cat like as usual. So I decided to stare him out and use my gift of the gab as an alternative weapon. I looked him straight in the eye and with a deliberate slow rhythm I said. "YOUR MOTHER HAS HORRIBLE FACIAL FEATURES AND I BELIEVE HER SEX ORGANS TO BE UNCLEAN.” The anger in his eyes was instant. “What the fuck you say, gringo?” Turns out he spoke English. I shit the bed. The next few minutes were a bit of a blur. Punches got thrown, tables were overturned. Apart from that, all I can clearly remember is pulling Alan out of penetrating the most obese woman I'd ever laid eyes on and, under a hail of bullets, somehow managing to drag him out of the bar and onto the street. Once we got outside I sprinted down the streets towards relative safety, but when I reached out behind me for Alan, all I could hear was, “I love her mate. I don’t even know her name and I don’t even speak her language, but I fucking love that Cuban hog back there.” and before I could even argue with him, he turned on his heels and headed straight back into the boozer. I just fell to the ground in complete exhaustion at that point and blacked out in a shroom coma. When I awoke, Alan was running towards me with his new love draped over his shoulders. But I was more interested in what rested on the shoulders of the 2 muscle bound bastards that were behind him. They were both carrying a pair of potent looking RPGs. Somehow, through a combination of cunning and adrenaline we were able to evade the two assassins, and escape with our lives. All 3 of us spent the night hiding in a bin out the back of a slaughterhouse. Amidst all the cow carcasses and bits of rotting beef, I was forced to curl up into a ball and trip my bollocks off in a darkened dumpster, listening to Alan furiously penetrating an obese Cuban lady next to me, as bloody thirsty henchman patrolled the streets outside looking for us. I don't think I've ever truly recovered tbh mate.
  5. Probably already been posted as it's such a great song by a great Mancunian band but here we go again.
  6. Oh indeed. The last time was 2009 if you want to hear about it? Have you had any memorable trips?
  7. Have you ever tried DMT/LSD/Shrooms etc...?
  8. Wow. That video above features even more dildos & butt plugs than the original video of Erasures kaleidoscopic disco classic, Blue Savanna.
  9. Lies. Lies. And a lack of mince pies for starters. Look, Alexa. Everyone knows the Lord Jesus Christ slid effortlessly out of the Virgin Mary’s immaculate vagina on the 25th of December, and to say anything different is, quite frankly, blasphemous. 10 lashes.
  10. https://www.imperial.ac.uk/news/190994/imperial-launches-worlds-first-centre-psychedelics/ Intersted to see the outcome of some of these trials. Particularly, Antidepressants vs Psychedelics in the treatment of certain mental health conditions.
  11. No. They did keep in touch for a few years after Kurt passed, but they fell out when dad discovered that Marcus was, in actual fact, a homosexual. I tried to reason with him at the time, but it was to no avail. Thankfully dad's grown a lot since then. He's now realised that this great big soup we call life is made from many different ingredients, and each one is just as delicious and important as the last. Nowadays he couldn’t care less what kind of soup people want to plunge their spoons into. He's just happy that everyone's tucking in.
  12. This thread will probably be laughed into oblivion, but you're not alone with the hollow earth theory, Alexa. I still remember Pato Banton seeking some hollow earth advice from my dad in the late 90s. At the time, Pato was still riding high from the success of his 1994 crossover hit, Baby Come Back, and thought he owned the world. Subsequent songs didn’t quite live up to his previous success, however, and he began to doubt his entire approach to music. So he opened up to my dad, and told him of his plan to turn his back on his reggae roots, and record an album of pure hollow earth songs. Over the next few hours, and with the aid of a rather relaxing bag of skunk that Pato had brought with him, dad explained that a life without principles, is like a life without blood. Or oxygen. Or a Penis. It is simply no life at all. Because if those you serve expect you to just disregard everything you hold true, simply to alleviate their short sighted demands, then you only have two choices. You can either you dig your heels in, hold your nerve, and trust in your own ability to record beautiful, hollow earth music. Or you can walk away with your head held high, and let the vamprific ghouls of the music business feast on another mugs veins. I have no idea which option Pato chose tbh. But he was spotted working in a Birmingham branch of Superdrug not long after. So probably option B.
  13. Not me personally, but something strange happened to my dad years ago. He claims he was probably the last person to speak to Kurt Cobain before he died. The story begins in the late 80's, when my dad infiltrated a notorious biker gang from the south of England. Working for intelligence services at the time, he was saddled with gathering information about the gangs villainous practices, including their highly lucrative strategy of ordering furniture from the Littlewoods catalogue, waiting until it arrived, then phoning them up and saying it hadn't arrived. It was a genius scheme that saw the crew rake in an estimated £2 million per year. An absolute fortune back in the day. Anyway, his objective was to bring down the gang from within, but by 1992 he had become completely seduced by them, their way of life, and their endless reserves of furniture and homeware. He turned his back on the world of government espionage and became a fully fledged member of the gang. The following year, 3 of the crew (including my dad) upped sticks and travelled to the US, where they spent a few months roaming northwest America. One of the gang, it transpired, had an American cousin named Marcus, who a few months earlier, won a Kurt Cobain lookalike competition in a music magazine. In doing so, Marcus won the hearts of the entire Grunge world, including Kurt himself. From this, Marcus and Kurt became friends. Friendly enough to ensure my dads gang got backstage with Marcus to meet Nirvana after they put on a gig in Seattle. My dad said Kurt was everything he hoped he would be, and that they talked long into the night about all sorts, like politics, religion and their shared hatred of Germans. The connection he made with Kurt that night began a friendship that grew much closer over the following year. Fast forward to April 1994, and my dads back home cutting oranges on the couch, when the phone suddenly rings. Hearing Kurt drawl, "Hey", on the other end of the receiver, my dad quickly fired back with, "Is that you, Sir Kunty of Cobainshire?".. and they both fell about laughing together. They spoke for about an hour or so, but the content of the conversation was never divulged entirely by dad. But at the end of the conversation he said Kurt's voice turned from grasping into a sort of soft whisper as he said, "I'm off now anyway, to end this fucking horror show once and for all". And with that he was gone. My dad said he assumed that Kurt was off to wash the pots or summat. But not even a day later he saw on the news that Kurt was dead. And within a year all dads former gang members were dead too. Killed by asbestos poisoning from a load of dodgy Littlewoods washing machines, apparently.
  14. Nah, that site exists alright. I've seen it myself. It's known as Damrak these days. You should visit one day.
  15. Dismissing the 4th dimension completely, I see? I will have to keep an eye on you, Mr Gross.
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