<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251</id><updated>2012-02-16T15:45:24.383Z</updated><category term='dracula'/><category term='shower'/><category term='blood'/><category term='youtube'/><category term='wtf'/><title type='text'>The Golden Age Of The Low Countries</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><link rel='next' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default?start-index=101&amp;max-results=100'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>136</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-7039485247002572870</id><published>2011-11-25T13:59:00.000Z</published><updated>2011-11-25T13:59:52.800Z</updated><title type='text'>TALE OF BROKEN HORSE ORGAN</title><content type='html'>I WENT INTO HOPSITAL IN 1990 AND DID NOT COME OU7T FOR A WHILE. I HAD BROKEN HORSE ORGAN AND IT WAS ABOUT TO BURST SO IT WAS TAKEN OUT AND THEN I LOST TRACK OF TIME AND THEN I WA S SICK INTO A CARBOARD KIDNEY AND THEN THEY TOOK ME TO CHILDREN'S WARD. THE GIRL AND OY ACROSS FROM ME WHO WERE IN BED HOSPITAL FOR LOOSE PELVIS. IT WAS THEY HAD LEG UP IN AIR TIED TO CEILING AND THEY HAD A WEIGHT ATTACH TO FOOT SO PELVI S OWULD BE CORERRECTED. WE WERE ALL GIVEN ORANGE SODA AS IT SAVE ILLNESS FROM BEING TOO BADL. IN 1990 ORANGE SODA HAD TO BE SERVED FLAT FOR ILLNESS AS MEDICINE THAT FORMED IN ORANGE SODA WAS BETTER. THOUGH I HAD BAD HORSE ORGAN RATHER THAN LOOSE PELVIS BUT ORNGAGE SODA GAVE ME GOOD AS WELL. AT NIGHT ONCE I ATE FISH AND FAT NURSE WITH CURLS SAID I HAD TO DO MY SCHOOLWORK AND BUT I DIDN'T HAVE ANY. I HAD YELLOW FILM COATING ON THORAX ABDOMEN AND IT WAS SMELT OF MUSTY MCDONALDS FROM LAND OF ANTISPETICS. THEN LATER I READ COMIC BOOK ANNUAL FROM HARLEM GLOBETROTTERS AND EVERYTHING WAS YELLOW AND THEY HAD EADVENTURES OF YELLOW. BUT THEN I SAW PICTURE OF SKELETON HOLDING UP SEVRERED HEAD IN AMIGA MAGAZINE THAT MY PARENTS BROUGHT ME AND IT WAS TERRIYGYING AND THEN PREGNANTS WENT AND VIEWED NEWS AT TEN IN ROOM NEARBY AND MY BED WAS BENT AND I COULD NOT SLEEP DUE TO SKELETON MEMORY AND NEWS AT TEN AND BED WAS BENT. THEN THE NEXT DAY I WATCHED A 1960S BOY IN DISNEY ON TELEVISION IN WARD AND HE THOUGHT OF GIRL SITTING IN BATH AND HE DID A WHISTLE. AND THEN DOCTOR CAME AND SAW ME AND SAID OH LOOK YOU CAN GO HOME NOW AND FAT NURSE WITH CURLS SAID MAKE SURE YOU DO YOUR SCHOOLWORK AND BUT I STILL DIDIND'T HAVE ANY AND THEN I ATE CHINESE MEAL THAT WAS HUGE BALL OF RICE BUT MY STMACH HAD SHRUNK SO I COULDN'T FINISHE IT.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-7039485247002572870?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7039485247002572870'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7039485247002572870'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/11/tale-of-broken-horse-organ.html' title='TALE OF BROKEN HORSE ORGAN'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-8151131032247209078</id><published>2011-11-24T11:52:00.000Z</published><updated>2011-11-24T11:52:23.919Z</updated><title type='text'>people who have never done a fucking thing to you</title><content type='html'>Okay. So all this about broadening your horizons, and not being against anything with rap in it. I like rap-metal/nu-metal. I like ICP, Cypress Hill, Rage Against the Machine, even Eminem, etc. Whatever. But I also love Marilyn Manson, Korn, Nine Inch Nails, Thrill Kill Kult, and all that kind of music. I love techno. I even listen to classical and country. My tastes are broad.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But in all of these articles, what I cannot understand is why the majority of you feel the need to put down two forms of people who have never done a fucking thing to you (Satanists and homosexuals). Several times in these articles the word "fag" is used (which shows such a lack of articulate vocabulary [okay, whatever, call me a stuck-up piece of shit for using big words - I know you will]...). And all this talk about goat-worshipping Satanists used in an insulting manner, what the hell Satanist ever did anything to you!?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If any of you had ever put aside your own closed-mindedness, and had even flipped through a fucking copy of The Satanic Bible by Anton Szandor LaVey, you might know that Satanists don't sacrifice goats or anything else.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But no. Most of you dense assholes (except a few exceptions) are too busy in your mission to promote rap-metal, nu-metal *whatever*, and putting down awesome, respectable get-ups and presentations like Marilyn Manson and Korn, therefore closing your mind in this argument in which you tell us that we are closed-minded for disagreeing with you. Yeah right. Grow up. Get over it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;People like you never amount to anything. Good luck cleaning the stalls in the bathroom in the back of Pizza Hut while you listen to your *awesome rap-metal CD's* and bitch about how much you hate Marilyn Manson and those "stupid, goat-sacrificing Satanists."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-8151131032247209078?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8151131032247209078'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8151131032247209078'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/11/people-who-have-never-done-fucking.html' title='people who have never done a fucking thing to you'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-3454478457557211995</id><published>2011-11-24T11:44:00.002Z</published><updated>2011-11-24T11:44:53.047Z</updated><title type='text'>Don't Forget To Switch Off Your Set</title><content type='html'>Well the time it [sic]… half past twelve. A final good night, and please don’t forget to switch off your set. And just a final reminder before you go to… go to bed, [laughing] if I can get my words right, please don’t forget to switch the television off. Once again a very good night to you, and sleep well. And just a final reminder before you find your way to bed, please don’t forget to turn off the televison set, and unplug it - good night to you and sleep well. The voice in the dark… back again, to say don’t forget to switch [mock-upper class inflection for following word] orf your sets, and fill up your hot water bottles. Good night! And you won’t forget to switch off the set, will you. Once again, good night. And that final reminder ladies and gentlemen, you won’t forget to switch off the set will you. [Pause] Once again, good night. And now it’s just after 13 minutes to midnight. Again to you all, a very good night, and you won’t forget to switch your set off will you. Good night. And finally tonight, of course, please do remember to switch off your television sets and unplug from the mains. Goodnight all. And don’t forget to switch off and unplug your TV set. Night night! And may I just remind you to switch off your set. Good night. May I be the first in 1981… to remind you… to switch off the set before you go to bed. And a very happy new year. Well, if you need more entertainment tonight our friends at er, Piccadilly Radio and Radio City are still on the air providing it for you, but before you switch on one of them… don’t forget to switch off your television. Good night. Our colleagues at the four independent local radio stations want you to know now that they offer sound entertainment 24 hours a day, weekends and bank holidays included, but before tuning to one of them don’t forget to… switch off the television. Good night. A final word from me to remind you that your independent local radio station is still on the air, if you’d care to join them, but before you do… don’t forget to switch us off will you. Good night. We shall hand you over now to either Piccadilly Radio, or Radio City. From Granada, a reminder to switch off your set, and once again, good night. Well no doubt the only bird you’ll encounter if you tune to your&amp;nbsp; independent local radio station are those that er, stick to singing. But now, don’t forget to switch off the television. Good night. As we go, don’t forget our… colleagues on indepedent local radio - so! Granada bids you good night, don’t forget to switch us off, and… have a nice weekend! Bye for now. If you’re still in the mood for entertainment, your indepedent local radio station is on the air, right throughout the night. But before you tune in, don’t forget to switch off the television set. Good night. And don’t forget to switch off that set, will you? Bye. And don’t forget our colleagues on independent local radio will carry on the entertainment, so once again, from Granada good night, but only for tonight, and don’t forget to switch off your set, and only for tonight! And don’t forget to switch off your sets, and carefully remove the mains plug from the socket. Good night. Well if you’re still around, and haven’t rushed off to bed after hearing that timecheck, may I remind you - to switch off your set. Good morning. Well now my last duty before breakfast is to remind you - to switch off your set. For the last time this weekend - can I remind you to switch off your set. Good morning. For the last time this weekend - may I remind you - to switch off your set. Good morning. Just before we go - can I remind you - to switch off your set. Good morning. And a final reminder - please don’t forget to turn off your television set. Good night! Just before we go - our usual reminder - to switch off your set. Good morning. And please, don’t forget to turn off the television set. Good night! All that ends a day’s transmission here on Scottish Television, can I remind you to switch off your television sets. Good night! And finally, please remember for safety reasons before you go to bed, please remember to switch off your television set. Good night. And finally, for safety reasons before you go to bed please remember to switch off your television set, good night. Finally, please don’t forget to switch off your television sets. Good night. Don’t forget switch off your set, and - check fires and ashtrays and - doors, etc… [very quickly] good night to you sleep well. Well don’t forget to switch off your set and pull out its plug and check… ashtrays and fireplaces. Good night to you sleep well. And if you can still hear me, don’t forget to switch off your set, and as a fire precaution, unplug it from the socket. Good night. And as we say good night, a quick reminder if you can still hear me, your set is not switched off properly, do that immediately please, and don’t forget - pull that plug… out of the socket. Fast approaching thirteen minutes to one o’clock, please don’t forget to switch off your television sets. Good night once again. And with the time approaches [sic] twenty five minutes to one, a reminder please to switch your [faint sound of electronic phone ring] set off properly. Don’t forget to switch off your set, will you? Once again, good night. Don’t forget to switch off your set, will you? Once again, good night. Almost sixteen minutes before the hour of one o’clock, please don’t forget to switch off your televison sets, good night… once again. Don’t forget to switch off your set, will you? Once again, good night. Well before we all put our… cycle clips [chuckling] on, let me tell you it’s er 20 minutes to 1, please [chuckling] don’t forget to switch off your sets. Good night once again. Don’t forget to switch off your set, will you? Once again, good night. Coming up to nineteen and a half minutes now before one o’clock, please don’t forget to switch off your television sets now will you. Good night once again. Yes, I’m still here. Please don’t forget to switch off your television sets [slight chuckle] will you? Good night once again. And you won’t forget to switch off those television sets will you. Good night once again. Fast approaching, er twenty eight minutes past the hour of midnight, please don’t forget to switch off your television sets [chuckling] will you? Good night once again. Fast approaching twenty two minutes past midnight, please don’t forget to switch off those television sets now will you? Good night, once again. Don’t forget if you can still hear me, please make sure that your set is switched off properly. And if you can still hear me, don’t forget to switch your television sets off. Good morning. Don’t forget to switch off your set, will you? Once again, good night. And just one more thing, don’t forget to switch off your set. Once again a very good night to you, sleep well, and god bless. Once again, please don’t forget to switch off your television sets.&amp;nbsp; Good night to you all. [8 second pause] AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR! Don’t forget to switch off will you? Good night again. Now of course, just that final reminder to switch off your television set. Good night again. [Very quiet] Just a reminder - to switch off your set. Good night! [Voice of director over intercom: “Do it again…”] [Much louder] Just a reminder to switch off your sets. Good night. If you’ve fallen asleep in the chair, wake up now, and please don’t forget to switch the set off will you? Good night. If you can still hear me, please don’t forget to switch off your television. Once again, good night. Don’t forget… switch off your set. Good night to you… sleep well… happy new year. …Remember to switch off your set, and do remove all plugs from the wall socket. A very good night to you again. Good night! Just a reminder to switch off your television set. And the time, well it’s twenty… three minutes past… midnight. 12:23. Good night… and good morning. And that’s all from Westward Television for tonight, so don’t forget to switch off your sets. Good night.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-3454478457557211995?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3454478457557211995'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3454478457557211995'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/11/dont-forget-to-switch-off-your-set.html' title='Don&apos;t Forget To Switch Off Your Set'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-4224130568206680177</id><published>2011-11-24T11:43:00.000Z</published><updated>2011-11-24T11:43:50.947Z</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;b&gt;I.&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And the resentment was not actually resentment, but it was actually... of erm... just felt like you felt sorry for them, you know, you could feel the, the anguish in somebody, because they couldn't achieve anything, because there's no opportunity.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;i&gt;I mean all I can say is that, you know, I've got a lot of compassion and erm, admiration really...&amp;nbsp; for families that are on the dole... and er... you know, are - &lt;u&gt;existing&lt;/u&gt;, and managing to keep their standards at a steady level.&lt;/i&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Unemployment shouldn't be termed as a disease, I mean if, if they can't work they should be - you know, helped to, live a satisu - a sort of lifestyle that's sort of not on the breadline or below it. I mean, they should be - it sh - the wealth should be shared out so that if you haven't got a job, you're unfortunate and unlucky, not someone who's just a hanger-on or something. [&lt;i&gt;Mm.&lt;/i&gt;] Society's got to look at it in a different way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cos if not, if this problem's going to stay, and stay and stay for the generations to follow... um, then there's definitely something wrong with our society. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;II.&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't see any future for my bairn. Unless something is done - in the next - what, five year... and &lt;u&gt;drastically&lt;/u&gt; done, in the North, my bairn has no future whatsoever! He's just going to give up. I mean, he sees his father sat in the bloody chair, doing nothing. Well, it's automatic he's going to take it on, isn't it? He's got no future, he's finished. Before he starts.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;i&gt;Well to tell you the truth I don't want to go home tomorrow... back to Middlesbrough. Cause there's no prospects there for Dave, that means no proxects - &lt;/i&gt;[corrects self]&lt;i&gt; prospects for me, or the bairn. The same as the other families there. There's nothing. Except unemployment.&lt;/i&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to go home. I honestly do not want to go home. I've had a good week down here... I've met new people... new friends... I mean I've got a lot of friends - at home... you know, I know a lot of people. All my families are at home. Our family, you know, our - Jill's family, my family. They're all up there. But... I would stop here. I don't want to go home.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-4224130568206680177?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4224130568206680177'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4224130568206680177'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/11/i.html' title=''/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-624602663177394567</id><published>2011-11-24T11:29:00.000Z</published><updated>2011-11-24T11:29:10.599Z</updated><title type='text'>Letter To Kay</title><content type='html'>&amp;nbsp;Dear Kay, &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am sending you the above photo of the old Tennessee Electric Chair before I rebuilt it.&amp;nbsp; The photo contains some interesting and unexplained images.&amp;nbsp; The Photo was examined by Eastman Kodak and determined to be authentic. The images are unexplained by the experts.&amp;nbsp; The photo was taken as an experiment in Kirlian Photography to see if there was an energy aura where the electrodes were located.&amp;nbsp; The procedure&amp;nbsp; used was of some 5 exposures on a&amp;nbsp; time exposure of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 second exposures in complete darkness.&amp;nbsp; The second exposure was accidentally flashed with room light for 2 seconds.&amp;nbsp; All but the 2 second exposure was blank (indicating on exposure on the film and no aura.&amp;nbsp; The 2 second exposure produced the unexplained results.&amp;nbsp; I was unable to duplicate the image.&amp;nbsp; People have counted as many as five different images in the film.&amp;nbsp; I do not know what was photographed, only that something was.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fred A. Leuchter Associates, Inc.&lt;br /&gt;231 Kennedy Drive&lt;br /&gt;Unit 110&lt;br /&gt;Boston, Massachusetts 02148&lt;br /&gt;(617) 322-0104&lt;br /&gt;fred1@bellatlantic.net&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-624602663177394567?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/624602663177394567'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/624602663177394567'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/11/letter-to-kay.html' title='Letter To Kay'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-2655436598640788290</id><published>2011-10-17T04:48:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-17T04:48:29.370+01:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='wtf'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='youtube'/><title type='text'>A Man Displays His Unusualness In The Comments Section Of A Youtube Video</title><content type='html'>@caerleon87 So what if AMys frisby is melting a frisby can be replaced a life cannot, Amy gave Jimmy foolish advice but Jimmy went along with it and got himself killed by letahal electricity silly lad.If Amy was my sister, and we lost our frisby in a substation and Amy said go on get it I would say Amy for goodness sake woman the frisby is in an electrical substation full of dangerous live electrical apparatus if we go in there we? will get a fatal electric shock. Amy we will buy another frisby.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 day ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@ DaOneToRuleDaWorld? The girl is not Alisa she is called Amy and Amy is a foolish girl saying to Jimmy presumably her brother go on get it when the frisby goes into the substation and gets lodged on an insulator. Jimmy is daft enough to go into the substation and get fatally electrocuted silly boy. Amy was very traumatised in billions of ways losing a frisby is not worth losing sleep over. Jimmy died and Amy screamed in horror poor girl.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 day ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@PaulMichaels78 I say? when I saw the ad where Amy and Jimmy, were playing near the electrical subsstation and the frisbee went into the substation and got lodged on an insulator and Amy said to Jimmy go on get it.I was around the age of 12 @13 and I was never scared or freaked out by this ad in fact this ad taught me vital lessons do not play near substations or electric pylons with frisbees or toys of any type. Amy and Jimmy should havebought another frisbee not tried to retrieve that frisbee.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 day ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@FrankieM1974 Amy is not a snotty little cow, you silly boy Amy is a foolish girl saying to her brother Jimmy go on get it. But Jimmy is a n even sillier lad, to go into the electrical substation to retrieve Amys frisbee. What you are inferring is Amy is a murderer you cannot say that really, Amy is a thoughtless girl but? not a murderer your emphasis on Amy is totally wrong matey.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 day ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@Smackmiranda Amy the young girl, in the substation advert is a very foolish girl saying to Jimmy her brother go on get it but Jimmy is daft enough to go into the electrical substation and get himself fatally electroctued and? burnt to toast . Amy was no doubt very traumatised over Jimmys death and she could have committed suicide as a result of the trauma of jimmys death poor Amy.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 day ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@dutchgirl96 The girl who screams Jimmy is called Amy. Amy is a foolish girl, and she says to Jimmy go on get it which is daft but Jimmy s daft enough to go into the substation and get fatally electrocuted silly lad. I agree Amy has perfect teeth for whatever age she was at the time this film was made. I would imagine Amy AKA Jayne Tottman is now out? of the acting profession and she is probably running a pub or a restaurant who knows where Amy is nowadays.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@JohnnyBravo74 Amy? is a very foolish girl, but Jimmy is an even dafter lad to go into the electrical substation an dget a fatal electric shock. If Jimmy had said to Amy, Bollocks you go then, he would have been giving the same foolish advice to Amy as Amy gave to Jimmy it would not solve anything at all.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 month ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@smackmiranda Amy was a very foolish girl sayint to Jimmy go on get it? but Jimmy was a n even sillier lad to actively go into the substation for Amy's frisbee and get himself electrocuted.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 month ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@ferrretshockey Jimmy was a silly lad, he went into the substation at Amy's urging him by saying go on get it and Jimmy was foolish enough not to say to Amy. Amy do not be so silly woman we must, not go itn to substations they are downright dangerous woman. Jimmy? as I see him was not trying to impress Amy he was ,been a silly lad and he got fatally electrocuted and burnt to totast.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 month ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@bazpannts77 Amy Jimmy's was a very foolish girl, when she said go on get it but Jimmy was a n? even sillier lad to go into the substation. Imagine if there were substations with 33,OOO, OOO volts 33,ooo,ooo, ooo volts or even 33,ooo, ooo, ooo volts. The voltagge would not only kill the victim outright like the 33,ooo volts one did it would also vaporise the victim into ash and dsut.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 month ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@Frankiem1974 Amy is? a very foolish girl, and gives her brother Jimmy foolish advice to go into an eelctrical substation to retrieve her frisbee and Jimmy gets a lethal electric shock silly lad.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 month ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@JohnnyBravo74 Amy is a very foolish girl, saying to her brother Jimmy go on get it and Jimmy is daft enough to go into the substation and get a fatal electric shock silly boy.?&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 month ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@DaOneToRuleDaWorld Amy the girl in the psa? Playsafe frisbee is the sister of Jimmy and Amy gives Jimmy very foolish advice saying go on get it but Jimmy is the one daft enough to go into an electrical substation to retrieve Amy's frisbee silly lad and Jimmy ends up dead and burn tto toast.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 month ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@hasanyonetakenthis1 Don't be silly being electrocuted in Substations, is not cool and Amy and Jimmy were foolish enough to play near a substation with a frisbee Amy said to Jimmy her brother go on get it he was? daft enough to go in the substation and get a fatal electric shock silly lad&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 month ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@kingklabe So do I mate, I particularly remember the ad where Amy and Jimmy play frisbee, near an electrical substation and the frisbee goes into the substation and Amy says to Jimmy go on get it and Jimmy is daft enought o go into the substation to retrieve Amy's frisbee and he gets a fatal electric shock and dies and is also burnt to toast silly lad that is a price people pay if they mess about with lethal electricity.They will end up dead, and burnt toast silly fools but there you are.?&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 month ago in playlist Public Information Films &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I remember the ad where Jimmy goes into the electrical substation was shown in the early 80s on television? during the school holidays about ten thirty am and I was never freked out by this ad but I learnt to saty out of electricla substations. I also learnt that if toys, go into substations do not try to retriecve them yourself or else you will end up dead.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 month ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@ dutchgirl96 The girl who screams Jimmy is called Amy and Amy is a very foolish girl, for giving Jimmy sily advice but Jimmy does nothing to rsist it. Amy poor girl witnesses Jimmy dying, and screams Jimmy because she is witnessing her brother been fatally electrocuted poor? Amy.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 month ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@FrankieM1984 Jimmy is daft enough to go into the electrical substation at Amy his sister's foolish nagging but Amy is not a snotty little cow at all. Amy is a very foolish girl, I admit that but Jimmy? is daft enough to go into the electric substation to retrieve the frisbee and he gets a lethal electric shock stupid boy.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 month ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@PaulMichaels78 Jimmy was daft enough to go into the substation on Amy his sister's silly advice, but Jimmy did nothing? to resist Amys silly advice he got a lethal shock and died poor lad.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 month ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@DaOneToRuleDaWorld JImmy is silly enough to go into an electrical substation and Amy his sister when she sees Jimmy, fatally? electrocuted screams in horror poor girl.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 month ago&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;@jordanna0 The girl Amy gave Jimmy silly? advice, but he was daft enough to go into the substation and get himself fatally electrocuted silly lad.&lt;br /&gt;rojblake82 1 month ago&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-2655436598640788290?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2655436598640788290'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2655436598640788290'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/10/man-displays-his-unusualness-in.html' title='A Man Displays His Unusualness In The Comments Section Of A Youtube Video'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-9121649496209138969</id><published>2011-10-12T05:48:00.001+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:48:36.094+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Sega</title><content type='html'>Sega sega will heaven about and drop the droplet to 16 bytes. R and D three have spent a yellow cube over here and a yellow cube over there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;32? Jesus.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sega and sega muppeting where with where out to eyes to see you to see you eyes. Dear old Jonathan, a tall buttock, the tallest buttock, we never could anything around here.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Remove it or reimburse me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had a had but the window was as gay as the hills; as gay as your dear little daughter, thank you honey honey. You wrote for moustaches and I am beyond moustaches. The tallest buttock yet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'd have thought you were too old for all this nonsense.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-9121649496209138969?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/9121649496209138969'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/9121649496209138969'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/10/sega.html' title='Sega'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-302511465124817360</id><published>2011-10-12T05:47:00.001+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:47:14.674+01:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='shower'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='blood'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='dracula'/><title type='text'>Dracula</title><content type='html'>Dracula was in my shower. He was biting the showerhead. "There's no blood in that!" I said. Dracula looked at me. He suddenly seemed to be quite embarrassed. He took his fangs off the chrome, tapped it and brushed his fingers against it. "Yes," he said, "This shower seems to be working correctly. Goodbye!" Then with cape in hand, he hurried out of the bathroom.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-302511465124817360?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/302511465124817360'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/302511465124817360'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/10/dracula.html' title='Dracula'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-4701262659835385402</id><published>2011-09-23T21:17:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:15.204+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Nipples</title><content type='html'>A woman awakes to find that her nipples have turned into anuses. "Oh, this is a good idea," thinks the woman, "I'll be able to have a poo without having to sit down on filthy public toilet seats." However, when she tries them out in the commodes of the local shopping centre, what comes out is chocolate milk.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-4701262659835385402?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4701262659835385402'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4701262659835385402'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/nipples.html' title='Nipples'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-1578273273347157990</id><published>2011-09-23T05:01:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:15.252+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Princess Diana</title><content type='html'>The first thing that alerted me to the death of Princess Diana was the frequency my anus began to vibrate at in the early hours of 31st August 1997, at approximately 4am. Usually, the occasional throb at 440Hz (the general tuning standard for the musical note A) is all that I experience; but suddenly, without warning, a piercing 1000Hz, the same frequency as the tone that TV stations transmit when off-air. Something was up. When I switched on the television a short while later, everything seemed to be okay - a repeat of The Chart Show was on, and they were playing the video to our Britpop hit smash, "Bingo" - but then halfway through my passionate tale of experiencing adult vices for the very first time, my handsome face was slowly faded out, and I learnt the terrible news.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-1578273273347157990?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/1578273273347157990'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/1578273273347157990'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/princess-diana.html' title='Princess Diana'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5847201115085035456</id><published>2011-09-23T05:00:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:15.270+01:00</updated><title type='text'>POSSIBLE TITLES FOR SUPERMAN SEQUELS</title><content type='html'>Superman 8: Superman Laughs At An Inappropriate Moment&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Superman 12: Pachinko Crazy!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Superman 15: Informing Social Security Of A Death&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Superman 24: My Toothbrush Is Stuck Up My Anus&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Superman 53: The Quest For A Youtube Video Of The McCain Oven Chips "Most Excellent!" Advert&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Superman 72: Carry On Lex!; Or, I Recognise A Fokker When I See One; Or, Ooh Me Kryptonites!; Or, Hey Lex Your Bald Head Looks A Bit Like A Big Tit Without A Nipple Hahahaha&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Superman 1009: Richard Pryor's Skeleton Wearing Skis And Wrapped In A Tablecloth Getting Pushed Off A Skyscraper As An Ice-Cream Splats On A Bald Man's Head And Some Battery Operated Toy Penguins Go All Over The Bloody Place And Some Even Catch Fire And A Woman On Rollerskates Falls Over And The Old Man From The Old Jack Smith's Beer Adverts Gets A Custard Pie In The Face RIMSHOT Laughter Buhdyoi-oi-oinnng&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5847201115085035456?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5847201115085035456'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5847201115085035456'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/possible-titles-for-superman-sequels.html' title='POSSIBLE TITLES FOR SUPERMAN SEQUELS'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-7662622079347721335</id><published>2011-09-23T04:59:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:15.287+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Downing Street</title><content type='html'>Multiple anuses appear in the ceilings of every room in 10 Downing Street. They all seep blood onto the furnishings below.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Prime Minister orders hundreds of corks to plug the anuses, but none of them arrive as the people who were meant to deliver them can't be bothered.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I can't bear this any longer!" says the Prime Minister's wife, sheltering underneath an umbrella.&lt;br /&gt;The Prime Minister does not reply. Instead he stands and stares upwards, transfixed by the apocalyptic messages that the anuses are transmitting into his brain.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-7662622079347721335?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7662622079347721335'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7662622079347721335'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/downing-street.html' title='Downing Street'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-2572018037210441012</id><published>2011-09-18T11:51:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:15.348+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A man finds a small skeleton</title><content type='html'>A man finds a small skeleton in his pudding. He points out the skeleton to his mother, who is eating next to him. She laughs and says, "Oh, that's your skeleton from when you were young!"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-2572018037210441012?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2572018037210441012'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2572018037210441012'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/man-finds-small-skeleton.html' title='A man finds a small skeleton'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-4239696762915840112</id><published>2011-09-18T01:32:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:15.870+01:00</updated><title type='text'>An edition of the 1980s local news show "Thames News" that I dreamt recently</title><content type='html'>A tiger has ripped the face off of a woman from Henley-Upon-Thames, during a royal visit to a new branch of Halfords in Dagenham. The tiger is believed to have then placed the woman's face onto his own face, which animal behavourists think was an attempt to look pretty. The tiger will be hung at dawn.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Residents of Mickleham in Surrey have been menaced by a man of vapour that resembles the Norse god Thor. The man has threatened to crush several local businesses, and knocked a bike into a fence. Russell Harty has cancelled his holiday in Jamaica and is flying to Mickleham to talk to the residents and inspect damage.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In St. George's Hospital, Tooting, a boy aged 12 ate a radioactive chicken feotus and then threatened to vomit onto the nearest newborn baby. The crisis was averted when police entombed the boy in concrete.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And finally, the annual worm digging in Oxted, Surrey has been a major success. An estimated 12 worms were dug from the ground, and will be displayed in the window of the local branch of Woolworths until 3rd September.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-4239696762915840112?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4239696762915840112'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4239696762915840112'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/edition-of-1980s-local-news-show-news.html' title='An edition of the 1980s local news show &amp;quot;Thames News&amp;quot; that I dreamt recently'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-9066592718151395178</id><published>2011-09-17T22:17:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:16.380+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A Fascinating Fact About Justin Beiber</title><content type='html'>If you sliced Justin Beiber in half, you would find that he is filled with Fry's Turkish Delight!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-9066592718151395178?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/9066592718151395178'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/9066592718151395178'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/fascinating-fact-about-justin-beiber.html' title='A Fascinating Fact About Justin Beiber'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-4367808754709252515</id><published>2011-09-17T22:15:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:16.889+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Tintin Vs. Pot Noodles - A Side By Side Comparison</title><content type='html'>Tintin is a fictional character in a long running series of Belgian comic books.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pot Noodles are a British brand of ramen-style instant noodle snack foods.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tintin was created by Georges Remi, AKA Herge in 1929.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pot Noodles were created by Golden Wonder in 1979.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tintin was based on an earlier Herge character called Totor.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pot Noodles were based on an earlier noodle snack called Cup Noodle.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tintin's best friend is a sailor called Captain Haddock.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The best friend of all Pot Noodles is a haddock called Captain Human.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tintin's quiff looks a bit like a very short noodle.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Chopped up pieces of Pot Noodle look a bit like Tintin's quiff.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tintin seems to be uninterested in meeting beautiful women.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pot Noodles do not care either way if they are eaten by beautiful women.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tintin is enjoyed in Japan.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If anybody Japanese ate a Pot Noodle, they probably wouldn't enjoy it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-4367808754709252515?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4367808754709252515'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4367808754709252515'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/tintin-vs-pot-noodles-side-by-side.html' title='Tintin Vs. Pot Noodles - A Side By Side Comparison'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-2031693629083887120</id><published>2011-09-17T22:13:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:17.238+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Pasta Maker</title><content type='html'>A man converts his face into a pasta maker.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"This new gadget provides healthy eating for all," he informs his wife.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Max, please, our child is dead," cries his wife.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"It's economic, too," says the man. He pops out a sheet of pasta. "This type of pasta can be used for - "&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;His wife grabs him by the scruff of his neck and starts shaking him, and she shakes, and shakes, and she wails and screams and howls over the loss of her son.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-2031693629083887120?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2031693629083887120'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2031693629083887120'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/pasta-maker.html' title='Pasta Maker'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-3346301197393441763</id><published>2011-09-17T22:12:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:17.354+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A fairy story</title><content type='html'>One day a man's legs fell in love with his arms. The man couldn't walk anywhere or pick anything up because his legs were always kissing and cuddling with his arms.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Eventually his legs and arms detached themselves, and brought the man's torso and head out to the rubbish bin, where they plonked him in and left without even saying goodbye.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The following morning a young bald woman found what remained of the man in the bin. "I can't do anything now," he sobbed. "I'm useless!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Nonsense," said the bald woman. "You can be my hair!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And so, the man became the woman's hair, held upon her barren scalp with the use of sticky tape. He turned out to be such good hair that one Christmas he won a prize from the Queen.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-3346301197393441763?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3346301197393441763'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3346301197393441763'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/fairy-story.html' title='A fairy story'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-1321767033393722130</id><published>2011-09-17T22:10:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:17.875+01:00</updated><title type='text'>FUN RECIPES FOR UNHAPPY PEOPLE - Chicken Micro Noodles a la Famicom</title><content type='html'>INGREDIENTS:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One (1) pot of Unilever Micro Noodles Chicken Flavour&lt;br /&gt;One (1) copy of "Game Over" by David Sheff (the Coronet Books edited edition, given away with the May 1994 issue of Arcade magazine)&lt;br /&gt;One (1) 700w Microwave&lt;br /&gt;A table and a chair situated in a living room&lt;br /&gt;A possible touch of Asperger's&lt;br /&gt;A deep sense of melancholy about the past&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;RECIPE:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. Open pot of Micro Noodles, making sure it is chicken flavour and that you do not completely tear off the lid.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. Pour in cold water up to the specified "fill line". Stir thoroughly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3. Re-cover the pot with the lid, and place in microwave. Cook on high for 2 minutes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4. Go to living room and prepare table with placemat, and copy of "Game Over" by David Sheff.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5. When microwave has finished cooking, examine contents. If everything has gone to plan, top surface of noodles should look very flat and a bit brain-like. Do not stir to get rid of this appearence. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6. Remove lid and get spoon.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7. Bring Micro Noodles and spoon to living room. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8. Sit down at table and put spoon in right hand. With left hand, open up the copy of "Game Over" by David Sheff at the point where it discusses the three different R&amp;D groups in Nintendo, and how they designed the Memory Management Controller chips used in certain Nintendo cartridges that effectively upgraded the Famicom / NES's abilities (such as Super Mario 3's MMC3 chip).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;9. Eat Micro Noodles while reading this chapter. Do not stop reading until noodles are completely consumed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;10. Repeat this entire recipe every other night until Unilever no longer manufacture Micro Noodles.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-1321767033393722130?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/1321767033393722130'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/1321767033393722130'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/fun-recipes-for-unhappy-people-chicken.html' title='FUN RECIPES FOR UNHAPPY PEOPLE - Chicken Micro Noodles a la Famicom'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-7966166374249493773</id><published>2011-09-17T22:09:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:18.384+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A Fascinating Fact About The Police</title><content type='html'>Every policeman's greatest fear is that a crow will peck away their face and feast upon the toffee hidden inside their heads.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-7966166374249493773?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7966166374249493773'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7966166374249493773'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/fascinating-fact-about-police.html' title='A Fascinating Fact About The Police'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-8684017530432582988</id><published>2011-09-17T22:08:00.001+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:19.432+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Blender</title><content type='html'>A man has sex with a blender, and the blender gives birth to a girl whose top half is human and whose bottom half is a blender. When the girl turns 21, she marries a man whose top half is a blender and whose bottom half is human. They have two children, a girl who is entirely a blender and a boy who is entirely human. The girl is sent to a Young Offender Institution after blending her brother to death.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-8684017530432582988?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8684017530432582988'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8684017530432582988'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/blender.html' title='Blender'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5182608873977292863</id><published>2011-09-17T22:08:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:18.896+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A Play</title><content type='html'>[A man made out of cake decorations strides into a chemist. He goes to the counter and leans toward the assistant.]&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;MAN MADE OUT OF CAKE DECORATIONS: I hate you, and everything you stand for.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;[The man walks out.]&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5182608873977292863?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5182608873977292863'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5182608873977292863'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/play.html' title='A Play'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-1290713232504576812</id><published>2011-09-17T22:07:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:19.942+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Whistling</title><content type='html'>A scientist invents a way to send donor organs to hospitals via radio-transmitted whistling noises. The system is a success, though in one hospital a nurse accidentally plugs their whistle noise organ receiver into the hospital radio system and all the patients get a kidney in the ear.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-1290713232504576812?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/1290713232504576812'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/1290713232504576812'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/whistling.html' title='Whistling'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-3121924657374699415</id><published>2011-09-17T22:06:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:20.453+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Penis</title><content type='html'>A man shows his penis to a policeman. "It's a penis," complains the man, "And I want you to do something about it." &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The policeman sternly inspects the penis, and flicks it with his finger. The penis makes a high-pitched noise.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I will have to bring your penis into custody," says the policeman.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-3121924657374699415?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3121924657374699415'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3121924657374699415'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/penis.html' title='Penis'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5706172383895350104</id><published>2011-09-17T22:05:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:20.964+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Prank Call</title><content type='html'>A woman answers the phone and says hello. A man at the other end of the line also says hello and then adds that this is a prank call. The woman isn't sure if she heard him right, so she asks him to repeat what he said. The man says again that he is making a prank call. There is a brief confused silence. The man breaks the silence by saying that he knows he shouldn't be making prank calls and is sorry. The woman asks why did he immediately give himself away. The man says that he thinks it is time he was more honest.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5706172383895350104?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5706172383895350104'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5706172383895350104'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/prank-call.html' title='Prank Call'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-8275157149404026494</id><published>2011-09-17T22:04:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:21.474+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Motorbike</title><content type='html'>A young man is driving a motorbike very fast down a suburban road at 4am. Halfway down the road he suddenly remembers the strange, faintly mouldy smell of one of his old primary school's classrooms. He is so caught up in this intense hit of nostalgia that he forgets what he is doing and smashes into the side of a house.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A few minutes later, another young man driving a motorbike very fast comes down the same road. At the exact same point as the first person, he remembers the the strange, faintly mouldy smell of one of his old primary school's classrooms too. He smashes into the same side of the same house.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then a few minutes later, another motorcyclist comes bombing down the road, experiences the same nostalgic memory, and ends up smashing into the same house.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This ends up occurring roughly every three or four minutes until 7am, upon which the man who lives in the house comes out, sees the enormous pile of wrecked bikes and corpses, and walks back into the house. After a brief pause, he comes out again armed with a whistle. He blows a very long and very sharp note, and then throws the whistle on the ground. Then he goes back inside, and does not come out again that day.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-8275157149404026494?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8275157149404026494'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8275157149404026494'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/motorbike.html' title='Motorbike'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-2218186217636020117</id><published>2011-09-17T22:02:00.002+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:23.019+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Their dog</title><content type='html'>A wife asks her husband where their dog has gone. The husband points towards the television, and the dog is on the screen, issuing commands to Britain's youth.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-2218186217636020117?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2218186217636020117'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2218186217636020117'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/their-dog.html' title='Their dog'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-3363367777459466534</id><published>2011-09-17T22:02:00.001+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:22.508+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Drawer</title><content type='html'>A gorilla discovers he has a drawer in his torso. He pulls it open and a little man inside shouts at the gorilla to close it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-3363367777459466534?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3363367777459466534'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3363367777459466534'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/drawer.html' title='Drawer'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-2227150828008525456</id><published>2011-09-17T22:02:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:21.984+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Jeremy</title><content type='html'>Jeremy Kyle commits suicide after listening to a Beatles LP.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-2227150828008525456?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2227150828008525456'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2227150828008525456'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/jeremy.html' title='Jeremy'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-8578799631367729915</id><published>2011-09-17T22:00:00.001+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:23.965+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Bunny</title><content type='html'>A BBC newsreader takes a little bunny out of a satchel and shows it to a Conservative MP. The bunny blinks and wriggles.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What on earth is this thing?" says the Conservative MP.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"It's a cute little bunny," says the newsreader.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Preposterous," says the MP. The bunny twitches its little nose.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Ridiculous," says the MP, and suddenly he clambers out of his seat, shaking. He walks a few steps, stumbles, and collapses on the floor.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"A cute little bunny," repeats the newsreader.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"INSANITY!" screams the MP, sprawled on the ground. "INSANITYYYYYYYYY!"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-8578799631367729915?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8578799631367729915'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8578799631367729915'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/bunny.html' title='Bunny'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-3012243656580236434</id><published>2011-09-17T22:00:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:23.455+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Dinner</title><content type='html'>"Dinner is served," says the butler. The guests all sit down as one. They look down at their plates and find that dinner is a photo of an old man shouting at a piece of wool. The guests all start screaming as the butler slowly hovers up into the air, smoothly revolving as he does so.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-3012243656580236434?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3012243656580236434'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3012243656580236434'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/dinner.html' title='Dinner'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-8936947017325595745</id><published>2011-09-17T21:58:00.001+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:24.733+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A crippling fear</title><content type='html'>A man develops a crippling fear of his own genitals. Whenever he needs to urinate, he has to blindfold himself and his wife aims his penis at the toilet bowl. A similar thing happens whenever he wants to masturbate. His wife is very understanding.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-8936947017325595745?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8936947017325595745'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8936947017325595745'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/crippling-fear.html' title='A crippling fear'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-6683648622882764371</id><published>2011-09-17T21:58:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:24.357+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A bike horn</title><content type='html'>A bike horn falls in love with a young woman it sees whenever the bike's owner rides through a certain street at a certain time. Whenever the bike horn sees her, it shouts: "I love you!" Of course, that just comes out as a loud honk.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This happens enough to bother the young woman to the point where she walks a different way back home after her pilates class. The bike horn is left only with her memory.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-6683648622882764371?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6683648622882764371'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6683648622882764371'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/bike-horn.html' title='A bike horn'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-2321576683342486924</id><published>2011-09-17T21:57:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:24.744+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A foot and a turd</title><content type='html'>A foot and a turd go on a date together at Number 10 Downing Street. The night ends on a sour note when the foot gets into an argument with David Cameron over how space stations work.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-2321576683342486924?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2321576683342486924'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2321576683342486924'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/foot-and-turd.html' title='A foot and a turd'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-7699170591425605371</id><published>2011-09-17T21:56:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:24.753+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Twine</title><content type='html'>An astronomer ties a piece of twine around his index finger and then goes to a dinner party. When the woman running the party greets him at the door, the astronomer introduces the piece of twine as his friend. A man comes up and stares at the twine. The astronomer asks him not to do that, as he is making his friend uncomfortable.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-7699170591425605371?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7699170591425605371'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7699170591425605371'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/twine.html' title='Twine'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-633095455644852886</id><published>2011-09-17T21:54:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:24.763+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Play the guitar</title><content type='html'>A young woman is trying to learn to play the guitar. Just as she is about to complete playing a difficult chord progression, a man leans through the window and shouts: "TOI-HOI-HOI-HOI-HOI-HOI-LET!".&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What?!" cries the woman as she messes up. She looks through the window and sees no one. She returns to her guitar, and resumes playing. Just as she is about to get it right, once again a man leans through the window and shouts "TOI-HOI-HOI-HOI-HOI-HOI-LET!".&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Gaaaaaaah!" shouts the woman as she messes up again. She looks out the window - again, no one there. She resumes playing the guitar. Just as she is about to play it correctly, the same man leans through the window and has a heart attack and dies.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The woman stares down at her empty hands, as her guitar has suddenly vanished.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-633095455644852886?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/633095455644852886'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/633095455644852886'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/play-guitar.html' title='Play the guitar'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-2176460372349538060</id><published>2011-09-17T21:53:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:24.772+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A man goes to the toilet</title><content type='html'>A man goes to the toilet to urinate. However, his penis decides not to excrete waste fluid at all, but rather elongate itself as is it were Silly String being squirted. In a matter of seconds the toilet bowl contains a thick, spaghetti-esque nest of glans.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-2176460372349538060?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2176460372349538060'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2176460372349538060'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/man-goes-to-toilet.html' title='A man goes to the toilet'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5663735598021761863</id><published>2011-09-17T21:51:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:24.785+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A Fascinating Fact About Pranks</title><content type='html'>Pope Paul VI, the town planners of Milton Keynes and David Frost had insect eggs implanted in their face while they slept, as part of a Candid Camera stunt.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5663735598021761863?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5663735598021761863'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5663735598021761863'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/fascinating-fact-about-pranks.html' title='A Fascinating Fact About Pranks'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-6217048031747720863</id><published>2011-09-17T21:50:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:24.805+01:00</updated><title type='text'>EXPLANATION OF CHOC AND CULTURE AROUND CHOC AND OTHER ITEMS</title><content type='html'>YOUNG USA GIRL TOLD MANY BRITISH TO DRINK SPECIAL POOR QUALITY USA HOT CHOC DRINK. CHOC IS 1960S BRITISH SHORT TERM FOR CHOCOLATE. THE USA GIRL DID NOT LIKE BRITISH USING SUCH TERM AND ASKED TO BE REMOVED FROM THE AIR BASE AND PLACED IN A GRAVE. SHE WAS BURIED IN A MILE BENEATH THE GROUND, WRAPPED UP IN CONCRETE, WITH SOME INNER ORGANS REPLACED WITH LEGO EQUIVELANT.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;CHOC WAS EVERYWHERE IN 1960S. THERE WOULD BE A POT OF MELTED CHOC ON EVERY STREET CORNER, AND HOMOSEXUALS AND NEWSREADERS WOULD DUNK THEIR WHOLE HEADS IN CHOC AND DANCE AWAY, SINGING. CRABS WOULD BEAR GIFTS OF CHOC LOLLY TO BISHOPS AS A PROMISE THAT THEY WOULD NOT PINCH THEIR THUMB, OR THEIR FINGER, OR ANY PART OF THEIR HAND, RIGHT OR LEFT.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;CHOC WAS FEATURED ON TELEVISION NEWS PROGRAMME IN 1966. ASSOCIATED BRITISH CORPORATION TELEVISION TRANSMITTED PICTURE OF LAUGHING CRAZY MAN, IN HIS UNDERPANTS, WITH MELTED CHOC IN SAID UNDERPANTS TO EMULATE CHOC POO SHIT. SALES WENT UP 3000%!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;ACTUAL GENUINE REAL-DEAL CHOC POO SHIT WAS POISONOUS, AND IT MADE PEOPLE HAPPY TO IMAGINE PRETEND THEY WERE EATING IT, BUT NOT REALLY, AND THEY WERE IMMUNE TO ITS ILL-EFFECTS, BUT NOT REALLY. SO YOU SEE, CHOC OFTEN HELPED POPULATION COPE WITH MORTALITY FEELING. IN 1966, THE TREES WERE BARE AND THERE WAS CONCENTRATED AREAS OF COLOUR IN CERTAIN ZONES OF THE CITY. SHOPS SOLD SUITCASES THAT SMELT OF TCP AND CIRCUIT BOARDS AND OZONE AND DEAD TIME. ALL COLLEGES OWNED, BY LAW, A FROG COVERED IN FLUFF AND DUST AND GRIT THAT WOULD HOP OUT OF A CUPBOARD UNEXPECTEDLY AND BRING HAPPY AND AMUSEMENT.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;INTERSEX PEOPLE WERE UNHAPPY AS HAIRSTYLES OF CURRENT TIME DID NOT GO WITH DUAL SEX GENITAL ORGAN COMBO. IF THEY HUNG ON FOR A FEW YEARS, THEN THEY BECOME HAPPY AND MAYBE EVEN AMUSEMENT AS WELL! BUT MANY WERE TRANSFERRED FROM BODY TO SHIBADEN BLACK AND WHITE 405 LINE VIDEOTAPE, AND THEY WERE WIPED BY ASSOCIATED BRITISH CORPORATION TELEVISON. AND ONLY THREE YEAR BEFORE COLOUR EVERYWHERE!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;INTERSEX PEOPLE ATE CHOC, BUT GOVERNMENT FORBADE THEM AS THEY THOUGHT THAT DUAL SEX GENITAL ORGAN COMBO WOULD REVOLVE AT TERRIBLE SPEED AND FLY OFF AND HIT SOMEONE IN THE EYE. BUT THIS ONLY HAPPENED ONCE, IN FRANCE, AND THAT WAS ONLY BECAUSE FRENCH MANWOMAN WAS BITTEN BY COUNT DRACULA DURING HOLIDAY IN MEXICO.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;COUNT DRACULA IN MEXICO WAS LIVING THERE BECAUSE HE WAS FASCINATED WITH BEAUTIFUL MANWOMAN, AND HE WANTED TO MAKE MANWOMAN ARMY FROM BLOOD BITE SUCK. BUT DRACULA HAD PROBLEMS WITH ZOMBIE. ZOMBIE WAS WORST ENEMY, ZOMBIE HATED EVERYTHING, HE COMMITTED ACTS OF CHOMP NECK INSTEAD OF BITE NECK AND WOMAN HEAD GO ALL FLOPSY TO ONE SIDE! HE WAS AN AWFUL BUGGER! ZOMBIE EVEN ATE BREAST AS PARTY TIME SNACK, AND THEN DRACULA WALK IN AND GET REAL ANGRY AND THROW TABLES AND CHAIRS AND BURN ZOMBIE WITH "ULTRA-CHOC", A TYPE OF CHOC THAT ZOMBIE WAS ALLERGIC TO.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;ALLERGY IS EVERYWHERE FROM 1980S ONWARDS. IN 1966, THERE WAS NOTHING ALONG SUCH LINES, PEOPLE ATE EVERYTHING, FROM NUT TO WHEAT TO GLUTEN AND SULPHITE, AND EVERYONE WAS HAPPY. BUT THEN HEROIN GIRL INFECTED WOMAN WHO SAT ON A PIN, AND WOMAN GOT HEROIN PIN DISEASE, AND WENT TO A SCHOOL AND COUGHED, AND THEN THE CHILDREN GOT HEROIN PIN DISEASE AND THEY DEVELOPED THE ALLGERIC. IT WAS TRAGEDY, AND SOME PEOPLE WERE TRANSFERRED TO DIGITAL DAT TAPE AND THEN DROPOUT CAUSE UNRETREVABLE, BUT THEIR NAMES LIVE ON AS EXAMPLE TO NEW GENERATION.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&amp;copy; Sinclair Research 1982.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-6217048031747720863?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6217048031747720863'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6217048031747720863'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/explanation-of-choc-and-culture-around.html' title='EXPLANATION OF CHOC AND CULTURE AROUND CHOC AND OTHER ITEMS'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-6023646822785132930</id><published>2011-09-17T21:49:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:24.824+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Cat</title><content type='html'>A cat observes a car that has just been destroyed by a car bomb. The cat tries to see the charred skeleton inside, but the flames and smoke are too thick. The cat picks up an abandoned handbell and starts to ring it, to make music for those who have passed on.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-6023646822785132930?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6023646822785132930'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6023646822785132930'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/cat.html' title='Cat'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-6171195131897431669</id><published>2011-09-17T21:48:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:24.841+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Bacon</title><content type='html'>A man worked at a cafe. A woman came up to the counter and said it was a disgrace that they were out of bacon. The man opened his mouth so wide that a pig leaned out of it and glared at the woman.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-6171195131897431669?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6171195131897431669'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6171195131897431669'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/bacon.html' title='Bacon'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-2044472331266066838</id><published>2011-09-17T21:46:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:24.849+01:00</updated><title type='text'>The last thing that the Captain of the Titanic thought of just before he died</title><content type='html'>"Why do I always think of the smell of pine when I masturbate?"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-2044472331266066838?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2044472331266066838'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2044472331266066838'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/last-thing-that-captain-of-titanic.html' title='The last thing that the Captain of the Titanic thought of just before he died'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-6259743902727398661</id><published>2011-09-17T21:44:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:24.858+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Anus</title><content type='html'>An anus appears in the ground in Central London. It grows so large that it swallows up whole roads and buildings. It only stops growing when the Prime Minister is thrown into it as a sacrifice.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-6259743902727398661?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6259743902727398661'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6259743902727398661'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/anus.html' title='Anus'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-8935313033839895267</id><published>2011-09-17T21:40:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.025+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Hitomi Tanaka and Terry Wogan's Head On A Stick</title><content type='html'>"You are not learning," said Hitomi Tanaka. "You must learn."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Ah, if I could, if I could!" replied Terry Wogan's Head On A Stick. "But the brain, the old Wogan brain, is on the blink today."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hitomi took a series of coloured handkerchiefs from her mouth. "Try it," she said. "You can do it if you try."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Terry Wogan's Head On A Stick lit up all red and veiny due to an internal bulb.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hitomi's annoyance suddenly turned to pity. He didn't even have hands - how was he going to do the pulling-things-out-of-mouth-based things she was trying to teach him? She picked up Terry Wogan's Head On A Stick and cradled him in her enormous bosom. She sang an old Japanese lullaby that sent him to the deepest and sweetest level of sleep.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;Dear Mr Editor,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love Your Sinclair Magazine and buy it every month. Truly, there is no better publication for users of the ZX Sinclair Spectrum. I was very happy to win your "Star Letter" award, and I am very grateful for your subsequent gift of Terry Wogan's Head On A Stick, but I must return him to you. I can do nothing for him here. I hope you understand.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yours,&lt;br /&gt;Hitomi Tanaka&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-8935313033839895267?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8935313033839895267'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8935313033839895267'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/hitomi-tanaka-and-terry-wogan-head-on.html' title='Hitomi Tanaka and Terry Wogan&amp;#39;s Head On A Stick'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5850059450833099203</id><published>2011-09-17T21:32:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.175+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Today's Schedule (ITV1)</title><content type='html'>6:00am Unhappy People In Purple Studio&lt;br /&gt;9:00 Grinning Scottish Being&lt;br /&gt;9:30 Evil&lt;br /&gt;10:00 Over-Giggly Interviews &amp; Features&lt;br /&gt;12:30pm Terrible Events That Have Occured Around The World Today&lt;br /&gt;1:00 Gobshites With Vaginas&lt;br /&gt;2:00 People Doing DIY&lt;br /&gt;2:30 People Buying Antiques&lt;br /&gt;3:00 People Buying Houses&lt;br /&gt;3:30 People Cooking&lt;br /&gt;4:00 Endless Murders Within Small Village (instead of Children's Programming)&lt;br /&gt;5:30 Quiz Where Everyone Is Unpleasant Towards Each Other (instead of Children's Programming)&lt;br /&gt;6:00 Regional News, Dying And Unloved&lt;br /&gt;6:30 Terrible Events That Have Occured Around The World Today (Teatime Edition)&lt;br /&gt;7:00 Soap #1&lt;br /&gt;7:30 Soap #2&lt;br /&gt;8:00 Useless Right-Leaning Current Affairs Programme That No-One Watches As Eastenders Is On BBC1&lt;br /&gt;8:30 Soap #2 (additional episode)&lt;br /&gt;9:00 Drama Starring The Only 3 Or So People Who Ever Appear In ITV Dramas At The Moment&lt;br /&gt;10:00 Terrible Events That Have Occured Around The World Today (Night Time Edition)&lt;br /&gt;10:25 Regional News, Barely Hanging On&lt;br /&gt;10:30 The Police &amp; Drunk People &amp; Car Accidents &amp; Bullishly Sarcastic Voiceover (first broadcast 1997)&lt;br /&gt;11:00 Old Film From The 80s Which Is The Only Thing You'll Probably Want To Watch&lt;br /&gt;12:30am - 4:00 Repeat Of Most Of The Shit That Was Broadcast During The Daytime With A Little Man In The Corner (instead of "Get Stuffed" or "America's Top 40 With Casey Kasem")&lt;br /&gt;4:00 Powerpoint Presentation (instead of "Collins &amp; Maconie's Film Club" or "Nightshift")&lt;br /&gt;5:30 Early Morning Update On Terrible Events That Have Occured Around The World Today&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5850059450833099203?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5850059450833099203'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5850059450833099203'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/today-schedule-itv1.html' title='Today&amp;#39;s Schedule (ITV1)'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-7064909547137695426</id><published>2011-09-17T21:29:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.366+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Things that Roy Castle could have sung by mistake during the taping of the "Record Breakers" theme</title><content type='html'>1. "Defenestration's what you need!"&lt;br /&gt;2. "A love for Satan's what you need!"&lt;br /&gt;3. "30-day uncrippled evaluation's what you need!"&lt;br /&gt;4. "GET YOUR FUCKING FACE AWAY FROM ME"&lt;br /&gt;5. "I might be a honky, but I'm hung like a donkey"&lt;br /&gt;6. "Jump back, hunh! Kiss myself!"&lt;br /&gt;7. "AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"&lt;br /&gt;8. "Skatty-de-wappy-de-wap-wap-woppo"&lt;br /&gt;9. "Auschwitz, the meaning of pain, the way that I want you to die..."&lt;br /&gt;10. "[a minute long humming noise]"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-7064909547137695426?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7064909547137695426'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7064909547137695426'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/things-that-roy-castle-could-have-sung.html' title='Things that Roy Castle could have sung by mistake during the taping of the &amp;quot;Record Breakers&amp;quot; theme'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5262426506052577445</id><published>2011-09-17T21:26:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.385+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A Fascinating Fact About Art Garfunkel</title><content type='html'>Art Garfunkel has kept 3 blue Smarties that he bought from the newsagents in 1991 in his fridge for the last twenty years. In an interview with the Daily Mail, he said that they are wrapped up in a bit of kitchen paper to protect them from microbes, and that owning them gives him a sense of superiority to his greatest enemy, the sea.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5262426506052577445?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5262426506052577445'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5262426506052577445'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/fascinating-fact-about-art-garfunkel.html' title='A Fascinating Fact About Art Garfunkel'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-7753496808470841766</id><published>2011-09-17T21:23:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.394+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Paintings I would like to paint, if I was good at painting, which i am not</title><content type='html'>1. A naked Jennifer Aniston with a hand protruding from her vagina, which is clutching a sign that says "FUCK OFF"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. A tiny little kitten making a speech at the 1987 Labour Party Conference&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3. A really big duck (3 metres wide)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-7753496808470841766?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7753496808470841766'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7753496808470841766'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/paintings-i-would-like-to-paint-if-i.html' title='Paintings I would like to paint, if I was good at painting, which i am not'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-400725485741933026</id><published>2011-09-17T21:17:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.403+01:00</updated><title type='text'>DOCTOR WHO AND THE OLD TELLY FULL OF PISS</title><content type='html'>The Doctor was stroking a black and white television.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"God, Doctor," said Amy, "That's so old and saaaaad. It's too saaaaad to be bothering with."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Doctor's head revolved a full 360 degrees - and when it returned to its original direction, his face was gone, replaced with a giant hole in which there was a tiny fire, and thousands of even tinier naked men jumping about, dancing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"We want to see your bra!" they shouted at Amy. "And your pants! We want to see your bra and your pants!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Amy cried out in horror - and was tapped on the shoulder. She span around.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was the Doctor, his face back to normal. "Glass of lemonade?" he said, cheerfully.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Thanks," said Amy. "Where did you get it? I thought the TARDIS only had Irn-Bru."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"From a man," said the Doctor, trying to supress a grin. "A man on that telly."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Amy had already brought the drink to her lips by the time she realised - by which time it was too late. She spat out the filthy, acrid liquid, and the Doctor ran off, hooting like one of the Three Stooges.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-400725485741933026?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/400725485741933026'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/400725485741933026'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/doctor-who-and-old-telly-full-of-piss.html' title='DOCTOR WHO AND THE OLD TELLY FULL OF PISS'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-6780419401685631614</id><published>2011-09-17T21:16:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.416+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Valerie &amp; Andy</title><content type='html'>Valerie Solanas stood in her kitchen, thinking dark thoughts.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Andy Warhol walked in. "I can't eat this hamburger," he said. "I don't have any ketchup to dip it in."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Without looking at him, Valerie snarled: "The hamburger is supposed to already have ketchup in."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No, no," replied Andy. "I ordered it without ketchup in, so I can have a little Heinz ketchup on the wrapper, to dip it in."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"How long have we been together, Andy?" said Valerie. "200 years?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"We've been married since 1668."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"And haven't I told you, again and again, since the year of our Lord 1668, it makes more sense to have ketchup inside a McDonald's hamburger instead of having to dip it in some?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"But I like it that way!" whined Andy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Valerie lost her temper and threw a glass at Andy. It missed his head and smashed against the wall.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Outside the window a cow floated by, and raised its bowler hat to them.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-6780419401685631614?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6780419401685631614'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6780419401685631614'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/valerie-andy.html' title='Valerie &amp;amp; Andy'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5449665963569338876</id><published>2011-09-17T21:14:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.426+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Three Answers To Three Questions</title><content type='html'>Q: Who gave birth to Benny Hill?&lt;br /&gt;A: The cast of Grange Hill!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q: Why are there no space shuttles anymore?&lt;br /&gt;A: Gary Glitter invented them and they had to send him royalties!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q: What did they show on TV back in the days when they didn't broadcast all day?&lt;br /&gt;A: Things that man was not meant to see.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5449665963569338876?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5449665963569338876'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5449665963569338876'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/three-answers-to-three-questions.html' title='Three Answers To Three Questions'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-6930507772236741726</id><published>2011-09-17T21:13:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.442+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Once I knew a girl</title><content type='html'>Once I knew a girl, she died before I was born and I never met her. I imagined she was blonde and had a nice smile and died of being too lovely, but as it turned out she had stringy brown hair and bad teeth and died from cunt drugs, so I went off her. I told a photo I had found on the internet of her that I wasn't going to ask her out to the cinema. She didn't react, she just kept half-smiling in the photo. She was probably too busy thinking of cunt drugs.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-6930507772236741726?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6930507772236741726'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6930507772236741726'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/once-i-knew-girl.html' title='Once I knew a girl'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-6292660235049827841</id><published>2011-09-17T21:10:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.453+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A girl gave birth to an old man</title><content type='html'>A girl gave birth to an old man.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Typical," said the old man. "I've only just been born, and most of my life is already over."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Maybe you'll age backwards, like in that film?" said the girl.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No," said the old man. "I'm pretty sure I won't."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'm so sorry."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Do you know how I spent most of my life, in your womb? Practising solitaire. And after all that time I still can't play it very well. If someone tells you that if you work for long and hard enough, you can achieve anything you want, do me a favour and punch them in the face."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-6292660235049827841?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6292660235049827841'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6292660235049827841'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/girl-gave-birth-to-old-man.html' title='A girl gave birth to an old man'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-7037868083883988573</id><published>2011-09-17T21:07:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.579+01:00</updated><title type='text'>If TVGoHome was still going, I would have sent this in</title><content type='html'>13:00 Gianna Michael's Cartoon Calvacade&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Big tits, blowjobs and some atrocious attempts at a Scottish accent, interspersed with two Mr Magoo cartoons.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Producer Connie Lingus&lt;br /&gt;An STV Production&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-7037868083883988573?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7037868083883988573'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7037868083883988573'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/if-tvgohome-was-still-going-i-would.html' title='If TVGoHome was still going, I would have sent this in'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-8047427440670222348</id><published>2011-09-17T21:05:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.589+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A boy was singing</title><content type='html'>A boy was singing in a school hall when suddenly the immensity of the infinite universe hit him, and his eyes blasted out of their sockets and his lips burst and he fell to the ground and wept, his conciousness leaking out of his skull in gas form (which frightened the younger children).&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-8047427440670222348?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8047427440670222348'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8047427440670222348'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/boy-was-singing.html' title='A boy was singing'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-3049246562661813696</id><published>2011-09-17T21:03:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.598+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A man crashed his car into an elephant</title><content type='html'>A man crashed his car into an elephant. Except there was no car, so the man just walked into it. And there was no elephant, so he walked into himself. And both of the men weren't actually men or even human beings, they were only gas; so they just sort of floated around. But there was an explosion when someone lit a match, so there's an ending for you.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-3049246562661813696?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3049246562661813696'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3049246562661813696'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/man-crashed-his-car-into-elephant.html' title='A man crashed his car into an elephant'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-3021212411232213010</id><published>2011-09-17T21:02:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.609+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Interesting Computer Fact</title><content type='html'>The most popular home computer in Surrey during the year of 1984 was the ZX Custodio +4. The computer sold highly despite its unique all-in-one error message, which consisted of electrocuting the user by redirecting all mains power to the metallic keyboard.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-3021212411232213010?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3021212411232213010'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3021212411232213010'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/interesting-computer-fact.html' title='Interesting Computer Fact'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-7447601063770295895</id><published>2011-09-17T21:00:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.769+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Synopsis of Halloween III: Season Of The Witch (1982)</title><content type='html'>A sinister man starts up a company with the intention of manufacturing generic halloween masks that will kill children. Problems arise when it turns out that the company's premises are haunted by the ghost of Adam West, who floats around messing around with the machinery, and replacing the face eating snakes and insects concealed within the masks with marshmallows and bits of tissue.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The employees in charge of making the mask-activating commercials then contract a disease that causes their arms to vanish. There is a full half hour sequence of them desperately trying to operate some cameras with their feet and mouths. It is all in vain, as Adam West has replaced the camera circuitry with more marshamallows and bits of tissue.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Eventually the sinister man discovers he is a talking cartoon dog, and there follows a touching finale where he is reunited with his cartoon dog family.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-7447601063770295895?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7447601063770295895'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7447601063770295895'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/synopsis-of-halloween-iii-season-of.html' title='Synopsis of Halloween III: Season Of The Witch (1982)'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-7228595513219118298</id><published>2011-09-17T20:59:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.801+01:00</updated><title type='text'>David Cameron's Top 5 Favourite Animal Corpses</title><content type='html'>1. Pig - "Pigs are a lot like humans, apparently. They're just as stupid as most humans! I find a real serenity while staring into a dead pig's gaping mouth. I often enjoy doing that while listening to The Jam. Have I ever listened to the lyrics of Eton Rifles? Of course I have, it goes, 'E-ton Ri-fles, E-ton Ri-fles."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. Fox - "Vermin. A lot like humans, too, the sort that eat too many crisps and say rude words at night, and then get arrested by our police force [i]and rightly so[/i]."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3. Crow - "Crows are evil personified, and for that I respect them. If I pass a dead crow, I cannot help but genuflect before their tattered wings. Once when I was a child, a crow whispered in my ear that if I didn't do something, people would continue to demand a national health service. Crooooooooooooooooow."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4. Rabbit - "Once the family cat brought a severed rabbit's head into our mansi... house, and we all had a good laugh at it."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5. Cat - "Later the cat was found napping on a picture of Tony Benn, so naturally it had to be destroyed. Naturally. When any kind of humanity enters the picture, quick action must be taken. It's the same principle I had at Carlton Television - without it, we simply wouldn't have had such sterling examples of popular television such as Man O Man or something else that Carlton made."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-7228595513219118298?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7228595513219118298'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7228595513219118298'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/david-cameron-top-5-favourite-animal.html' title='David Cameron&amp;#39;s Top 5 Favourite Animal Corpses'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-2345555648620755277</id><published>2011-09-17T20:56:00.001+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.825+01:00</updated><title type='text'>IMDb Plot Summary for Black Swan (2010)</title><content type='html'>Natalie Portman is a wheelchair-bound little girl whose only contact with the outside world is a BBC Model B microcomputer. One day she discovers that Matthew Kelly, Eric Sykes, Windsor Davies and Gareth Hunt are living inside it. Together they help her save a nuclear power station from melting down in Wales, spoil the local council's plans to demolish an old mansion, and return Yen-Sen the Yeti to London Zoo.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-2345555648620755277?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2345555648620755277'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2345555648620755277'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/imdb-plot-summary-for-black-swan-2010.html' title='IMDb Plot Summary for Black Swan (2010)'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-7840559894070043943</id><published>2011-09-17T20:56:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.813+01:00</updated><title type='text'>An Interview With Dave Rowntree, The Drummer From Blur</title><content type='html'>What's it like being the drummer for Blur?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You have &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;decimated&lt;/span&gt; our cheese plate. Do you have any idea how much I was looking forward to that cranberry stroke wensleydale hybrid? You are &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;this&lt;/span&gt; close to being thrown off the tour. I was a punk once.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What's it like making CGI cartoons?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Saddam Hussein had to be dealt with. He had personally decimated another cheese plate of ours and he had stolen my copy of Poser 4. We had to send the army in, you see. BANG BANG BANG. Do you know what he spat out when they pinned him down onto the floor and jumped on him? &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;Feathers.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What's it like flying planes?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All the other pilots keep decimating my own personal fucking cheese plate. They all stole my copies of iClone and I can tell you now that Romo certainly isn't going anywhere. Dickon Edwards had spent all the money we'd made from "Leisure" and he'd eaten all our cheese plates, so we fired him. I have no regrets. No regrets at all.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What's Damon Albarn really like?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, he's certainly not a cheese plate! (Bursts into hysterical shrieking laughter)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-7840559894070043943?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7840559894070043943'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7840559894070043943'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/interview-with-dave-rowntree-drummer.html' title='An Interview With Dave Rowntree, The Drummer From Blur'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5791546280908486985</id><published>2011-09-17T20:55:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.834+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Interview with Billy Ray Cyrus</title><content type='html'>Q: Do you mind talking about faith?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A: It's a lovely escapist's way out. I quite like it. It is depressing and sterile and, yes, ultimately evil. Anything that contributes to stagnation is evil.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q: Can you describe how you came to faith?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A: I haven't a clue. My father is dead. I think I talked to my mother a couple of years ago. I don't understand any of them. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q: Was there a lot of music involved in the church you grew up in? Did your love of music connect with church or was it separate?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A: Sound as texture, rather than sound as music.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q: Do you think it's easier to live out faith and to raise kids in faith in a place like Nashville, or is it just as hard here in Hollywood?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A: I have no message whatsoever. I really have nothing to say, no suggestions or advice, nothing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q: Do you think God made your daughter to do what she's doing?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A: I was in love once, maybe, and it was an awful experience. It rotted me, drained me, and it was a disease. Hateful thing, it was. Being in love is something that breeds brute anger and jealousy, everything but love, it seems. It's a bit like Christianity — or any religion, for that matter.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5791546280908486985?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5791546280908486985'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5791546280908486985'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/interview-with-billy-ray-cyrus.html' title='Interview with Billy Ray Cyrus'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-4425834354189677039</id><published>2011-09-17T20:54:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.843+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Press Conference</title><content type='html'>"...At 06:00 GMT, all radioactivity in Chernobyl's exclusion zone died of a heart attack, and consquently the area is now habitable once more. We never knew that radiation could have a heart, but apparently it does, and an autopsy of it will be carried out in two hours. And now I'll open up this conference to your questions."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Marbleen Hippotoloum, TV Times. Why is one of your arms a mile long?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"The length of my arm is irrelevant at this time."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Xavier Bengangle, Amiga Power. Has your arm always been that long?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"As I just said, that is completely irrelevant, but if you must know it is only intermittently very long."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Christopher Krakatoa, Usbourne Guide To The Future. Is it only intermittently long due to some kind of allergy?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Look, I do not appreciate all these questions about my arm. But yes, it is most likely due to an allergy, but what kind I am not sure. I'm having tests done tomorrow."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-4425834354189677039?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4425834354189677039'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4425834354189677039'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/press-conference.html' title='Press Conference'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-6042463458834231057</id><published>2011-09-17T20:52:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.861+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A nun</title><content type='html'>A nun prays with her head missing. Steam shoots out of her neck hole.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-6042463458834231057?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6042463458834231057'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6042463458834231057'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/nun.html' title='A nun'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-8849231171233762989</id><published>2011-09-17T20:50:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.871+01:00</updated><title type='text'>little black dog</title><content type='html'>little black dog sits by the bed / dissolves into a door of smoke / out steps a skinless milkman / "two pints for you!" he chortles / punches your sleeping face twice / "two pints for me!" / punches himself in the face twice / he turns into mercury and flows down the stairs /&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-8849231171233762989?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8849231171233762989'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8849231171233762989'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/little-black-dog.html' title='little black dog'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-264188743694915953</id><published>2011-09-17T20:46:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.882+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A small plastic word</title><content type='html'>A small plastic word is regurgitated by a shaven cat. The word is "WORD".&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-264188743694915953?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/264188743694915953'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/264188743694915953'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/small-plastic-word.html' title='A small plastic word'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-2630820595729190104</id><published>2011-09-17T20:44:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.895+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Hmm</title><content type='html'>"Hmm," thought the man as he stared down at the bullet wound. "I'll have to get that seen to."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-2630820595729190104?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2630820595729190104'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2630820595729190104'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/hmm.html' title='Hmm'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-7936798171661753759</id><published>2011-09-17T20:41:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.934+01:00</updated><title type='text'>I met the lead singer of the Offspring once</title><content type='html'>I met the lead singer &lt;br /&gt;of the Offspring once.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He came into this very office, &lt;br /&gt;sat on that chair next to &lt;br /&gt;where you're standing right now -&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;then he leaned back, &lt;br /&gt;eyes wide and expression blank, &lt;br /&gt;pushed his hand down hard onto his face&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;until blood started to &lt;br /&gt;seep out &lt;br /&gt;between his fingers.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-7936798171661753759?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7936798171661753759'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7936798171661753759'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/i-met-lead-singer-of-offspring-once.html' title='I met the lead singer of the Offspring once'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-8965216871777434993</id><published>2011-09-17T20:39:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.946+01:00</updated><title type='text'>google autocomplete for the phrase "how can i"</title><content type='html'>how can i lose weight&lt;br /&gt;how can i make money&lt;br /&gt;how can i get taller&lt;br /&gt;how can i tell if i am pregnant&lt;br /&gt;how can i contact justin beiber&lt;br /&gt;how can i change my name&lt;br /&gt;how can i control my dreams&lt;br /&gt;how can i help the oil spill&lt;br /&gt;how can i keep from singing lyrics&lt;br /&gt;how can i help you say goodbye&lt;br /&gt;how can i hide my ip address&lt;br /&gt;how can i get my hair to grow faster&lt;br /&gt;how can i get over my fear of flying&lt;br /&gt;how can i not sweat so much&lt;br /&gt;how can i not be tired&lt;br /&gt;how can i unclog my ear&lt;br /&gt;how can i afford a house&lt;br /&gt;how can i unblock someone on facebook&lt;br /&gt;how can i make my hair thicker&lt;br /&gt;how can i win the lottery&lt;br /&gt;how can i work from home&lt;br /&gt;how can i increase my milk supply&lt;br /&gt;how can i increase my chances of getting pregnant&lt;br /&gt;how can i improve my life&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-8965216871777434993?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8965216871777434993'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/8965216871777434993'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/google-autocomplete-for-phrase-can-i.html' title='google autocomplete for the phrase &amp;quot;how can i&amp;quot;'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5888290649529298165</id><published>2011-09-17T20:36:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.959+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Idea That Could Make Me Rich</title><content type='html'>There ought to be a chinese meal that's just a really, really big ball of fried rice, that comes crashing through the doors of the kitchen and hurtles through the restaurant towards you.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5888290649529298165?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5888290649529298165'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5888290649529298165'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/idea-that-could-make-me-rich.html' title='Idea That Could Make Me Rich'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-6681944323220745127</id><published>2011-09-17T20:30:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.972+01:00</updated><title type='text'>magic spell</title><content type='html'>I'd imagine that if you got your penis cut off, and you used a magic spell to grow a new one, the noise it would make when it popped out would be something like the sound of an old cash register.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-6681944323220745127?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6681944323220745127'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6681944323220745127'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/magic-spell.html' title='magic spell'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-3262631296562772249</id><published>2011-09-17T20:28:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:25.984+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Flarf #71</title><content type='html'>Damn the whales, shoot the children, remove the bumper stickers from cars and place them on your heart. Wasted lives and fitful dreams, sordid pleasures and the "Z Beam", which freezes human minds and will allow them to take over an Earth populated only by John McGlaughlin, Alanis Morrissette, Princess Anne and Captain Mark Phillips. Break the shell of the egg, and fuck it up. Take that distortion away. Eat sausages. Communism is like one big phone company. Eat sausages. There is an orange.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-3262631296562772249?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3262631296562772249'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3262631296562772249'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/flarf-71.html' title='Flarf #71'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5700703245851182685</id><published>2011-09-17T20:27:00.001+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:26.036+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Arnold</title><content type='html'>Arnold found it hard to find lasting sexual partners as they would invariably be put off by the way his penis made the sound of a slide whistle during intercourse.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5700703245851182685?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5700703245851182685'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5700703245851182685'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/arnold.html' title='Arnold'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-4352533538184505245</id><published>2011-09-17T20:27:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:26.023+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Flarf #69</title><content type='html'>It is recommended that passengers consult &lt;br /&gt;the Metro North schedule boards before &lt;br /&gt;a Polish rabbi gains the ability to alter his own density.&lt;br /&gt;In my teens I used to study indigenous plants &lt;br /&gt;and then come home and imitate them in the mirror.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;From the hour of their birth &lt;br /&gt;Conservative MPs are continually decaying, &lt;br /&gt;and when they expire&lt;br /&gt;they become Indian food recipes &lt;br /&gt;for suburban housewives. &lt;br /&gt;My dad had something to say about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Who sent Jesus to die for us on the cross? &lt;br /&gt;David Cameron and an elderly nymphomaniac.&lt;br /&gt;Should the Messiah be allowed to use &lt;br /&gt;Yamaha forks/wheels - for instance, &lt;br /&gt;titanium parts? &lt;br /&gt;It's like explaining computers to me grandad this.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-4352533538184505245?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4352533538184505245'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4352533538184505245'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/flarf-69.html' title='Flarf #69'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-292413242642545007</id><published>2011-09-17T20:25:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:26.046+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Doomed From The Start</title><content type='html'>"I love you."&lt;br /&gt;"Security!"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-292413242642545007?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/292413242642545007'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/292413242642545007'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/doomed-from-start.html' title='Doomed From The Start'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-1598154693758976104</id><published>2011-09-17T20:23:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:26.057+01:00</updated><title type='text'>dental hygienist</title><content type='html'>"Your gums are much healthier now!" said the dental hygienist.&lt;br /&gt;"'Aank 'Ou," I said.&lt;br /&gt;Ron Mael burst through the door, ran to the window and scrambled out.&lt;br /&gt;"He looked familiar," said the hygienist.&lt;br /&gt;"'Ee'sh in Shparks," I said.&lt;br /&gt;After she had finished cleaning my teeth the hygienist added the following to my notes on the computer: "Ron Mael is the keyboard player and songwriter for the rock band Sparks."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-1598154693758976104?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/1598154693758976104'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/1598154693758976104'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/dental-hygienist.html' title='dental hygienist'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-973844193621327990</id><published>2011-09-17T20:21:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.024+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Letterman</title><content type='html'>David Letterman decides to interview his guests via a glove puppet called Mr Binkles. After a while, he does the opening monologue through Mr Binkles, and later the Top Ten. Eventually Mr Binkles does the show entirely on his own. About five years passes before anyone realises that David Letterman has disappeared without a trace.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"How about those Mets?" says Mr Binkles, miming a golf swing as he eerily floats in mid-air.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-973844193621327990?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/973844193621327990'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/973844193621327990'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/letterman.html' title='Letterman'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5704157520079615253</id><published>2011-09-17T20:20:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.168+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A Drink</title><content type='html'>"Can I have a drink?" I asked the host of the party. "Certainly," she said, and led me to a room where a dog wearing a bowler hat was running around and around and around in a circle. I stared at the dog for several seconds. "Thank you," I said, "that was very refreshing."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5704157520079615253?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5704157520079615253'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5704157520079615253'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/drink.html' title='A Drink'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-7281965652976141003</id><published>2011-09-17T20:19:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.178+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Attic</title><content type='html'>A man climbs a ladder up into his attic, where he has not been for twenty years. When he pokes his head up through the hatch, he sees that all four members of the long-forgotten late eighties indie band Birdland are in there. When they notice the man, they all look up from their game of Monopoly and stare at him. The man walks back down the ladder.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-7281965652976141003?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7281965652976141003'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7281965652976141003'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/attic.html' title='Attic'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-6154557982612412827</id><published>2011-09-17T20:18:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.188+01:00</updated><title type='text'>The Tyne Tees Television Logo</title><content type='html'>The Tyne Tees Television logo flies through an open window and starts buzzing madly around the room, knocking over tables and racks of DVDs. The Tyne Tees logo is scared off when Geoff Capes claps his hands at it and shouts.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-6154557982612412827?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6154557982612412827'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6154557982612412827'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/tyne-tees-television-logo.html' title='The Tyne Tees Television Logo'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-7987610948692046090</id><published>2011-09-17T20:16:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.198+01:00</updated><title type='text'>The Head On The Table</title><content type='html'>"My stepdad?" says the head on the table. "Once I knew what happened to him. But lots of other things happened afterwards, and now I can't remember."&lt;br /&gt;"We're here to talk about your emotions and feelings," says the table, who is a trained psycholgist.&lt;br /&gt;"I can't remember who my real father was," says the head. "Was he some sort of goat?"&lt;br /&gt;"He was a human," says the table. "We're here to talk about your emotions and feelings."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A man, quite drunk, staggers around outside a house. His hands are coated in synthetic honey from Japan. A policeman walks out of a wall.&lt;br /&gt;"Can I help you, sir?" says the policeman.&lt;br /&gt;The man swallows hard and blinks. "I can't remember if I was meant to burgle this house or if it's my own house that I'm trying to get into."&lt;br /&gt;The policeman nods and smiles. "Well sir, we've tracked that synthetic honey all over your grubby mitts to a supplier in Kent, who have your DNA on record. I can say, with 99.9 per cent certainty, that you are trying to burgle your own house."&lt;br /&gt;"I'm sorry, dad," says the man.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The head on the table is being carried into another room by an attractive girl.&lt;br /&gt;"You remind me of things that aren't goats," says the head.&lt;br /&gt;The girl reaches the room and places the head on another table. She does the sign of the cross. "Now you're hygenic," she says.&lt;br /&gt;"I'm fed up of all these tables," says the head. "They never offer any solution. They just talk a load of arse and then someone places me on another one. I've been here for three months! Can't someone do something?"&lt;br /&gt;"We're here to talk about your emotions and feelings," says the table.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The policeman is half within a tree trunk. He is gradually being absorbed into it. He has not spoken for some time. "Well," says his son, "I sold my hands, and then my arms, and then the rest of my torso. I think everything else was damaged in transit to Taiwan, so that's not coming back. But I don't care. You know? I don't care what you think. I'm perfectly happy the way I am. I like being a head."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The policeman is fully absorbed into the tree trunk. He is chopped down, and made into various items of furniture. Some of the items of furniture are trained in mental health issues. There is a chair in particular, who occasionally is reminded of someone whenever he talks to certain patients... but the memory is always fleeting, and whenever it briefly emerges, he always feels a profound sense of an opportunity missed, of a package that came to him already damaged.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-7987610948692046090?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7987610948692046090'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7987610948692046090'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/head-on-table.html' title='The Head On The Table'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5121211328036863469</id><published>2011-09-17T20:14:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.207+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Lester Piggot</title><content type='html'>Lester Piggot, Lester Piggot, Lester Piggot, Lester Piggot, Lester Piggot, Lester Piggot, Lester Piggot, Lester Piggot, Lester Piggot.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5121211328036863469?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5121211328036863469'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5121211328036863469'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/lester-piggot.html' title='Lester Piggot'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-9065311732899209816</id><published>2011-09-17T20:13:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.218+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Alienating Eyes</title><content type='html'>"You've got alienating eyes," says Jodie.&lt;br /&gt;"I know," I say.&lt;br /&gt;"They've got a hint of metal shards in a tumble dryer." She comes closer and makes an oblique hand gesture. "And a thimbleful of a Bolivian woman giving birth in a bombed-out hospital. They're *evil*."&lt;br /&gt;"Well, I wouldn't go that far..."&lt;br /&gt;"Can you teach me how to be evil?" She cocks her head, flutters her eyelashes. "Can you?"&lt;br /&gt;She suddenly walks off, not waiting for an answer - if truth be told, knowing her, she simply wasn't interested in the answer. The question was all that mattered. It was the only thing that needed to be said.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Time for your haircut, Mrs Bee."&lt;br /&gt;Mrs Bee struggles underneath a overly-tucked bedsheet.&lt;br /&gt;"The war. The war," says Mrs Bee. "I'm being deported."&lt;br /&gt;I lean into Mrs Bee's face and blow air on it. This is intended to calm the patient down.&lt;br /&gt;"The war," gasps Mrs Bee.&lt;br /&gt;"Which war? There's been quite a few."&lt;br /&gt;"Razor lip, scalp, dye it blue. Why blue? It's just what everyone else did, I don't want to stand out, hold your hand correctly!"&lt;br /&gt;I sing as I shave off all of Mrs Bee's hair.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We returned from lunch break to find our own dead bodies lying slumped over our desks, blood streaming from our noses and mouths. "Not a word," said the teacher. "Not a word to anyone about this."&lt;br /&gt;We were ordered to move the bodies into a closet. The teacher locked the door and said, "If anyone asks what is in that closet, you must say - sir, there is radiation in there, sir! Don't go in! That is what you must say."&lt;br /&gt;I spend the rest of the afternoon thinking about what appeared to be my own dead body. I can't help but be amazed at what a twat I looked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Hold your hand correctly," says Mrs Bee.&lt;br /&gt;I ignore her.&lt;br /&gt;"You're not holding your hand correctly. Hold your hand correctly!"&lt;br /&gt;"Mrs Bee, can you please - "&lt;br /&gt;"Hold it correctly!"&lt;br /&gt;I theatrically swat a vase off the table, and wait patiently as it finishes smashing into thousands of pieces.&lt;br /&gt;Mrs Bee doesn't say anything for the rest of the day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm here again. We all kept up the pretence for so long that we came to believe the lie we repeated. Except for me. I couldn't help wondering what happened to the bodies. I'm standing in front of the closet, years later. I've broken into the building. I have to find out.&lt;br /&gt;I unlock the door with the key I stole. Then slowly I turn the handle. When it's fully turned, I hold the handle where it is for a moment. Then I swing the door open.&lt;br /&gt;Jodie is there, holding a urinating child.  "*Bolivia*," she hisses.&lt;br /&gt;I slam the door shut and scramble out of the window.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"The war," says Mrs Bee. She says it very weakly.&lt;br /&gt;I am on the phone.&lt;br /&gt;"Yes, I realise that. But when she cut off his penis, two more grew in its place, and when she cut those off, four more grew in their place, and then she cut those off, and by the time she was discovered he had a bush of penises."&lt;br /&gt;"The war..."&lt;br /&gt;"I'll call you back. Yes. Ok. Bye."&lt;br /&gt;"The school, the school. Gas. I'm being deported. They're choking and bleeding - "&lt;br /&gt;"What's the matter, Mrs Bee?"&lt;br /&gt;She stares up at me with uncomprehending eyes.&lt;br /&gt;"No one ever found them..."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-9065311732899209816?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/9065311732899209816'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/9065311732899209816'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/alienating-eyes.html' title='Alienating Eyes'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-1795426502403263654</id><published>2011-09-17T20:10:00.001+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.240+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Flarf #83</title><content type='html'>What is expected when an ICBM is fired at a poodle? Richard Littlejohn runs terrified from his own pornographic imagination and England lies in bed, darkly ruminating over missed opportunities. People are always complaining about the fact that most animals have excretory systems. The Autobots and Decepticons were so loud and brash and badly written they were diagnosed with cancer. The government ordered Optimus Prime to be classified for the next 80 years, and so he flowed uselessely through the kidney, ureter, bladder, and finally the urethra. This barely registered in my mind.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In late 1988, people complained about the amount of vital fluids lost when the Conservative Party altered the quantity and consistency of the urine at Harvard Law School. (Pizza is very good.)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-1795426502403263654?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/1795426502403263654'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/1795426502403263654'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/flarf-83.html' title='Flarf #83'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-4508450095137231458</id><published>2011-09-17T20:10:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.232+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Teacup</title><content type='html'>Two old ladies are about to have tea when they find that one of the teacups contains another, tinier teacup. The old ladies ask the bigger teacup what has happened, and the teacup replies that it has given birth.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-4508450095137231458?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4508450095137231458'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4508450095137231458'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/teacup.html' title='Teacup'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-2991911238740026264</id><published>2011-09-17T20:08:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.249+01:00</updated><title type='text'>back then</title><content type='html'>an electric snake style typhoid surges through the piss palace. leave quickly and calmly! leave quickly and calmly! the corpse of a world war one soldier tells the schoolchildren what things were like back then.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-2991911238740026264?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2991911238740026264'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2991911238740026264'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/back-then.html' title='back then'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-1861182004869348662</id><published>2011-09-17T20:07:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.257+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Anglia Weather</title><content type='html'>For three days during April 1996, Anglia Weather was sponsored by the feeling of melancholy. The sponsorship deal was agreed upon after a fistfight beside a beautiful German lake.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-1861182004869348662?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/1861182004869348662'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/1861182004869348662'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/anglia-weather.html' title='Anglia Weather'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5230713506549765469</id><published>2011-09-17T20:06:00.001+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.276+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Flarf #94</title><content type='html'>Martin, if you think you're going to elope with Tricia Toyota and drug River Pheonix while Richard Nixon is still lost in Tibet, leaving me here pregnant with your sister's child, you've got another think coming. Your relationships are mostly all about carcrashes and volcanoes and supermodels and serial murderers and little kittens dying or going into surgery. You sound like Daria for Christ's sake.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Shareholder value, advertiser approval. I don't want to hear about Bob's aching back but I don't really care that Bjork's living in a tent either. She probably gets a bad back on occassion too. Time to stand in front of River Pheonix with my bollocks hanging out for an hour?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The citadel was constructed in 1972 and consists of five mini-roundabouts arranged in a circle. I cant quite fathom it in me head how you can do that when you know what it does to you, thanks everyone, I think I'll just get her a card. She used to work in a meatpacking plant making hot dogs. YOU'RE A FUCKING PRICK! YOU'RE A FUCKIN PRICK - that's what you are, you fuckin PRICK! The Open University is a marvellous institution.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5230713506549765469?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5230713506549765469'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5230713506549765469'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/flarf-94.html' title='Flarf #94'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-4116896860949704854</id><published>2011-09-17T20:06:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.265+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Center Parcs</title><content type='html'>Suddenly, a cloud of locusts descends upon Center Parcs. Afterwards a child's shoe is all that remains.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-4116896860949704854?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4116896860949704854'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4116896860949704854'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/center-parcs.html' title='Center Parcs'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-4152438136405950256</id><published>2011-09-17T20:04:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.286+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Newspaper</title><content type='html'>Paul Dacre doesn't spot&lt;br /&gt;the nude man crouching behind him&lt;br /&gt;On the intercom a woman&lt;br /&gt;made beautiful from plastic surgery&lt;br /&gt;who can no longer eat solid food&lt;br /&gt;who feels tiny and pathetic&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nude man pushes him against wall&lt;br /&gt;"Two Three Seven! Two Three Seven!&lt;br /&gt;Have you seen the patterns?&lt;br /&gt;The reoccurence and reoccurence&lt;br /&gt;of certain numbers?"&lt;br /&gt;The woman does not know patterns&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A kraken outside&lt;br /&gt;Lazily floats between buildings&lt;br /&gt;A celebration occurs on toxic ground&lt;br /&gt;The woman sees a man on fire stroll by&lt;br /&gt;As a young boy he'd dream of a boiling sky&lt;br /&gt;Eventually he can stroll no more&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-4152438136405950256?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4152438136405950256'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4152438136405950256'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/newspaper.html' title='Newspaper'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-9089803076364816267</id><published>2011-09-17T20:00:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.296+01:00</updated><title type='text'>impaled turd on victorian sword</title><content type='html'>impaled turd on victorian sword&lt;br /&gt;vortex over a thousand homes now&lt;br /&gt;little pigs little pigs let me in&lt;br /&gt;what's your frequency?&lt;br /&gt;man smiling in dead world&lt;br /&gt;emulsion bubbles and skin splits&lt;br /&gt;gristle filled lightless room&lt;br /&gt;your hot fat body is pressed flat&lt;br /&gt;silenced as he discussed the threat&lt;br /&gt;blank faced dummy head&lt;br /&gt;as blind as blind can be&lt;br /&gt;all the horrors of the world in a single image&lt;br /&gt;a vegetable generation&lt;br /&gt;a skeleton on a mattress&lt;br /&gt;take a form and make it thine&lt;br /&gt;met with a thick grin&lt;br /&gt;4am screaming abdabs&lt;br /&gt;transmission from a dead civilisation&lt;br /&gt;shopping centre on fire&lt;br /&gt;thing unseen prowls above us&lt;br /&gt;don't look out the window&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-9089803076364816267?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/9089803076364816267'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/9089803076364816267'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/impaled-turd-on-victorian-sword.html' title='impaled turd on victorian sword'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-4648591843582907055</id><published>2011-09-17T19:58:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.305+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Letter To Nicholas Parsons</title><content type='html'>Dear Mr Parsons,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Have you seen a size 10 shoe? I've lost my shoe. The left one. Have you seen it? It's size 10. You and your friends saw what I did, you're all witnesses, you know I'm in the clear. You can vouch for me. Have you and your friends seen a size 10 shoe? The left one? You saw what happened, you know what's going on, I'd like to be your friend, stop hitting me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yours sincerely,&lt;br /&gt;Barry&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-4648591843582907055?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4648591843582907055'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/4648591843582907055'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/letter-to-nicholas-parsons.html' title='Letter To Nicholas Parsons'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-6825252043479077000</id><published>2011-09-17T19:56:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.316+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Danielle Lloyd Wikipedia Entry</title><content type='html'>Danielle Lloyd (born 16 December 1983) is an English glamour model. The former Miss England 2004 and Miss Great Britain 2006 first rose to prominence when she was stripped of her Miss Great Britain 2006 title after posing for nude pictures featured in the December 1992 edition of Disney's Dinosaurs on LWT and her alleged affair with one of the pageant's judges, her then-boyfriend, ORACLE Teletext in 1992.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As a participant in the 1991 series of Ducktales, Lloyd, along with others, were accused of using bullying tactics and making racist comments directed against the Indian actress Shilpa Shetty.[1] She won the celebrity edition of Mel Brooks' Spaceballs in 1988.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Lloyd was born in Liverpool, England, the daughter of Garfield &amp; Friends and Transformers, a bank manager and engineer respectively. At the age of three months, Lloyd contracted Superman IV: The Quest For Peace, resulting in damage to her lungs, this led to her developing asthma. She attended Channel 4's The White Room from 1995. Lloyd claims she was bullied in school; however, Chris Yates, the headmaster of one of Lloyd's old schools, Denver The Last Dinosaur, said, "There's no recollection of her ever being persecuted, she is lying and no teacher can ever recall any incidents where Danielle was bullied. In fact I’ve been led to believe by her former friends that the opposite is true."[2]  She frequently entered competitions in Going Live and Motormouth and around Liverpool. Upon finishing Parallel 5, she decided to pursue a dual career in modelling and as a beautician specializing in Wattoo Wattoo Super Bird. She is a qualified nail technician. For a while she worked as a prostitute to pay off her debts.[3]&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just as she was beginning her modelling career, Lloyd was attacked by her boyfriend of the time. She was dragged from her moving car after an argument with him, suffering terrible abrasions and severe bruising to her body and losing most of her hair. Lloyd later said of the attack:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Deep down you can’t forget what’s happened no matter how much counseling you have. You blame yourself and tell yourself you deserve it – I was given help when I most needed it and I got in one little fight and my mom got scared, and said you're moving with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Air. I whistled for a cab and when it came near the license plate said fresh and had a dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare, but I thought now forget it, yo home to Bel-Air. I pulled up to a house about seven or eight, and I yelled to the cabby yo, home smell you later, looked at my kingdom I was finally there, to settle my throne as the Prince of Bel-Air."[4]&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-6825252043479077000?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6825252043479077000'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/6825252043479077000'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/danielle-lloyd-wikipedia-entry.html' title='Danielle Lloyd Wikipedia Entry'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-7754088722961983664</id><published>2011-09-17T19:55:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.325+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A man runs into his bathroom</title><content type='html'>A man runs into his bathroom and looks into the mirror. "SHUT UP!" he screams at his reflection, and runs out again.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-7754088722961983664?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7754088722961983664'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7754088722961983664'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/man-runs-into-his-bathroom.html' title='A man runs into his bathroom'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-3443733963114580224</id><published>2011-09-17T19:54:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.335+01:00</updated><title type='text'>Charlton Heston In A Hotel, 1974</title><content type='html'>CHARLTON HESTON: There's nothing in this cupboard.&lt;br /&gt;HOTEL MAID: I'm sorry, sir?&lt;br /&gt;CHARLTON HESTON: I went to sleep with my favourite suit in this cupboard and I woke up to find it's gone and there's nothing in its place!&lt;br /&gt;HOTEL MAID: Run!&lt;br /&gt;CHARLTON HESTON: What?&lt;br /&gt;HOTEL MAID: RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, CHARLTON HESTON! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!&lt;br /&gt;(Charlton Heston runs out of his room just as the cupboard detonates)&lt;br /&gt;CHARLTON HESTON: What kind of goddamn crazy hotel is this?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-3443733963114580224?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3443733963114580224'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/3443733963114580224'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/charlton-heston-in-hotel-1974.html' title='Charlton Heston In A Hotel, 1974'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-7501196580074741836</id><published>2011-09-17T19:53:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.346+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A woman at work</title><content type='html'>A woman at work contemplates disemboweling herself with a letter opener. She is distracted from her problems when the skeleton of a medieval king is delivered to her office instead of the kitchen showroom across the road.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-7501196580074741836?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7501196580074741836'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/7501196580074741836'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/woman-at-work.html' title='A woman at work'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5211688439356713793</id><published>2011-09-17T19:52:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.356+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A gigantic stone ball</title><content type='html'>A gigantic stone ball rolls down a suburban high street, crushing cars and people in its wake. An old man in a nearby cafe hears the screaming and smashing glass and rumbling, and says the sounds remind him of his wedding day. The waitress asks him who he got married to. The old man replies that he married a gigantic stone ball.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5211688439356713793?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5211688439356713793'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5211688439356713793'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/gigantic-stone-ball.html' title='A gigantic stone ball'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-2933076017195478905</id><published>2011-09-17T19:51:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.365+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A brief article from The Surrey Advertiser, 24th May 1972</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;TERROR T.V.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A number of odd occurrences revolving around rented colour televisions have occurred in Redhill. All the sets involved have had bizarre individual interruptions in service, apparently localised solely to a given set.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I was just watching the afternoon programmes when the announcer came on," says Mrs K. Jones, 42. "And he just had a big gaping hole instead of a face! It was vile. And then suddenly there was a flicker of interference and everything was back to normal, and he had his face back and he was just casually talking about what was coming up next. It was scarier than Doctor Who."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A similarly horrific incident happened to the Collins family. They switched on their set to see themselves staring back at them, in what looked like their own living room. "I thought it was some kind of prank by those Monty Python people," says David Collins, 39. "But then the images of us all grinned, and aged about 100 years. My youngest son never wants to watch television again."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Other unsettling images - such as "Lulu dissolving into a pile of gristle, teeth and hair" and "Bruce Forsyth gouging his eyes out with a spoon as an audience laughed" were reported by other viewers in Redhill.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The offending sets, all apparently from different manafacturers, have been taken back to Radio Rentals, their shop of origin, and are currently being examined by the staff.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-2933076017195478905?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2933076017195478905'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/2933076017195478905'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/brief-article-from-surrey-advertiser.html' title='A brief article from The Surrey Advertiser, 24th May 1972'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5648795980967147842</id><published>2011-09-17T19:49:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.427+01:00</updated><title type='text'>A woman's arm</title><content type='html'>A woman's arm becomes pregnant. It gives birth to a baby girl arm. A month later when the woman and her arm are walking down the street with their daughter, a young boy jeers at them and calls them lesbians.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5648795980967147842?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5648795980967147842'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5648795980967147842'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/woman-arm.html' title='A woman&amp;#39;s arm'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-833675748154097251.post-5158827225813453487</id><published>2011-09-17T19:46:00.000+01:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T05:44:27.437+01:00</updated><title type='text'>a VHS cassette in the shape of a corkscrew</title><content type='html'>A boy finds a VHS cassette in the shape of a corkscrew. When he puts it in the VCR, both the VCR and TV become four dimensional and show pictures of every point in time at once. His father walks into the living room, takes one look at eternity, and walks out.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/833675748154097251-5158827225813453487?l=thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5158827225813453487'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/833675748154097251/posts/default/5158827225813453487'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thegoldenageofthelowcountries.blogspot.com/2011/09/vhs-cassette-in-shape-of-corkscrew.html' title='a VHS cassette in the shape of a corkscrew'/><author><name>Chriddof</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03637952784577006904</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry></feed>
