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fire or bicyle?
You decide. But before you make up your mind, here's our Graham with another quick reminder.....

Will you choose fiery number one, who's so hot he can burn stuff, or will it be odd shaped number two, who is a bike. The decision is yours.

Nice one. Top one. Get Carter.
I bet this doesn't work, there been all kinds of weird voodoo shit going on today. I was talking to ghosts this morning.
Well, actually that's a lie. I was whispering to ghosts this morning.
I said 'You leave my feet alone, Y'Hear!'

I don't get this colour stuff. Why can't you just say blue?

I think a line is in order.

Aren't birds noisy at this time of year?
Yes they are.
I was woken up this morning by a bunch of finches that were quite obviously drunk, squawking (obligatory) 'LAGER LAGER LAGER, WORMS'. I wouldn't mind but I'm allergic to stupid noises, and this causes me, normally a lazy person at the best of times, to get up and be tired all day.

How expensive are globes then?
Very. Not that I want one or anything, but it always amazes me that you can spend fifty quid on a round map. Are all maps this expensive? I will have to investigate. Someday.

I'm quite impressed today. I got pictures working, and also added more boxes and stuff at the bottom. Hmmmmm.

I was pissed last night and was dragged to the AI labs at 2 in the morning, but managed to change almost nothing on my homepage. I also managed not to delete my entire homepage in an act of anarchistic fervour. Well actually, that wouldn't really be too bad, would it, I mean it's not going to bring down the government of New Zealand or anything is it. I wonder if anyone ever reads this, if you do, write something in the box down there.

I am actually gonfrey going shopping today. These pages are supposed to be about all that, but it isn't. Do they have people checking sites and throwing you out, or are there defenestrating vigilantes who roam geocities finding bad apples? I just don't know.
Write some comments that get read. (If you want).

It appears no-one reads this at all. Oh well. Bastards the lot of you.
Someone appears not to be a bastard. I don't know who though.

thought :      'Tissot's awful warnings in the eighteenth century about the disastrous effects of masturbation had already made a crucial transition.
this is plaigarism.

Ok if you have felt the need (or do now) to fill in the box up there, remember to say who you are, because I don't know. Make up a name if you want, I don't really care. I've had loads (well one) reply from that box and I don't know who sent them (it).

I have found out to my horror that I have got a veruca. This is a horrible bumpy type thing on my heel, which is transmitted through ice skating. On my shopping list for today is some of that there veruca bazooca stuff to rid myself of this parasitic twat. Honestly, a veruca on my foot. The indignity of it all.

Oh! Malone is a biggoted bitch who is not only stupid, but ugly too.

Sorry about that little outburst, but I've got exams and that (it's now May 1997 - when was this page started anyway : the end of 1996 I think). Just realised that I got the exam dates mixed up in my head and I haven't got one the day after tommorow like I thought but on Saturday morning - can you believe it? SATURDAY MORNING - oh yes its a caps job (I almost added an exclamation mark but they look shit almost everywhere in this post-modern world that we live in. See you could get away with using them in the olden days, you know - just after the industrial revolution when they were invented; but if anything marks the end of the modern era and the commencing of the post-modern one it is the defashionisation of the humble exclamation mark; none of this new communications bollocks). Good job I realised though, otherwise I could have turned up at Pleasance (for that is where the exam is to be held) and done the wrong exam leading to all manners of sit-comic situations.
NB:- I'm sure the last word in that sentance was going to begin with a 'C', but I can't remember what word it was (it may have started 'con', but I'm not absolutely sure). If anyone knows what it might be write it in the box up there and send it to me. If you include your address I may even send you a prize.

Another thing you may get sent a prize for is by going to my monkey page. I've checked the secret statistics page that only I get get to and no-one has ever visited it since I made it back in February. You can try and find it if you want, or you could get Anneka Rice in or something, straight outta 'Treasure Hunt'. What was that advert for which was a spoof of 'Treasure Hunt' (I think that was what it was called - it had that aforementioned goofy bird running around with helicopters and stuff, then cutting to old man and some other people standing knowledgably(?) round a map), and had Anneka Rice eventually falling off the top of a tower/castle type thingy? Was it Carling Black Label? Maybe.

I've found out a startling correlation. The more work that I do for essays, the less marks I seem to get. Unfortuntely, this does not apply to my current time-crisis problem : exams, I do shit in them no matter what. Another correlation is the more work pressure I'm under, the more bollocks I seem to write (the majority of this page was written just before exams/essay deadlines). I wonder if this says something about the Social Sciences?

The time has come my friends, January 1998, to bring rubbish to the forefront of the Geocitic world. Well, I've made it my index page anyway, and hidden all the stuff that was far, far worse than any of the things on this page. Martin Fighting Bicycle will tell you that for starters.

Millenium Fever over a clock thing stolen from somewhere!!

(I was lying and being deeply unfunny some time ago up there). Actually this really isn't that good, but I hope you all stay up on New Years Eve 1999 to see what happens when it finishes, I know I will not.

The time left to the Millennium :
Years, Months, Days, Hours, Mins, Secs.

Yeah, yeah, so it doesn't work. It just my contribution to ***king the millenium. Like that'll work. Type in the time yourself.

Whilst debating the previous and future careers of pop artiste Robert Miles (confectioner and train driver), I was disgusted to hear that the general concensus among most Europeans, and indeed anyone else who has met one, that Germans have no sense of humour. Now I know this is not the case. I have seen Inspector Derrick (why dat man so funny), so there is no point in arguing. There may, however, be a case for arguing that there are more jokes about the Germans than by the Germans. Example:

       Gestapo officer 1: Vould you like one of my Trevor mints?

         Gestapo officer 2: Jah. Das ist gut.
Unfortunately some jokes are just rubbish. Still, it's better than the Korean prisoner of war/Kevin mints joke, which is along the same lines. Or perhaps it's just more blunt. But I don't know what I'm talking about, I should be cheddar.

Anyway, I was walking down Princes Street a couple of months ago, and I turned round and, whoosh - a five foot duck - ha ha haha. So I said 'Herriot Watt? No thanks - ha ha haha. Voosh. But that's the good thing about Princes Street at that time of year.

I don't believe I can fly, but I sometimes think I can, although I've never actually just dived out in front of myself, because of a fear of falling flat on my face, thus causing injury and social mockery. I wonder if R. Kelly has ever tried to fly, or if he is just content to believe it. And does LL Cool J really represent Queens? I don't know.

Another thing which may have troubled you during sleepness nights and that is the question: 'How on earth do they fashion those Polo mints, and what on God's own earth has it got to do with that tinkling popster Robert Miles?'. (Should that full stop be there? Answers in that box above, cheers). Well, I have heard rumours that they are made by the aformentioned author of the classic 'Dil lil-lil-lilew, Dew de lew' song loves nothing better than to abduct small children for use in his mint making train, travelling through the alps. Small children are chosen not because of any paedophilic reasons, but simply because they have fingers small enough to push the middles out of the mints; and also because of the subsidiary reason that their milk teeth (which are on the verge of falling out anyway) make smashing 'mint whiteners'.

Scottish festival: see your breath + mud + water.

Perhaps I'd better make it clear, although I have mentioned being in AI labs up there I don't have any affinity with science people except through friends and stuff. Also that word which was supposed to end that sentence up there was probably consequences, but no thanks to any of you cunts, I had to read my own drivel and it suddenly came to me. I don't think I swear half as much at this end of the page as I did at the top (apart from the word 'cunt' in the last sentence), perhaps I'm growing up or something. I wonder if anyone realises that this page is updated from the bottom? Does being grown up mean swearing less? Why? Shut up. Grrrrrrrr. I never bother updating the translated pages either, but at least they make me laugh.

Apparently you can say blue, or so fat-ass Roger claims. Vroooom.

You see, I'm wondering whether or not to start a separate page for rumours and the like, but that means I'll have to update two pages and the whole thing could snowball leading to too many pages filled with uselessness and all sorts of monkey business going on. I'm also quite lazy and realise the fact that no-one actually reads this page and so starting a 'rumour-mongering' page would be next to pointless (on the wrong side), so I've decided just to bung them into the text. Rumour number one: The great big bird in the sky has informed me the the Beastie Boy are third degree Masons.

I can write with paragraphs, I just haven't.

I think someone must have been here and categorised this page, they put it in the literature\poetry section or something. I suppose I know I'm not alone anymore; but why couldn't they have filed it under Pretentious or something? By the way, it's not 1997 anymore like I said up there. It's December 1998. I know what time it is.

It has just occured to me that you have no reason to believe that I am writing this now. Perhaps I should get a picture of me with today's paper or something. NO I won't.

In the future they might spell time like this: tine. Maybe.

Oooh - Remote IP: - that was cutting, but was too far away from the bone to merit anything but a sarcastic remark. I don't know what that numbers business is all. Mmmmmh - the problem with a web-page like this (apart from its inherent shitness) is that people just don't come back, so any attempt at communication is thwarted by lack of addresses; if you get my drift.

Rumour Number 2 :- Posh bird. Tunnel. Crash. Paris. 6 grammes of cocaine. Say no more.

As everyone knows, gambling is the greatest fun you can have with a machine with spinning pictures of fruit on it. So here is one, I know it's a bit dull, but that's because it American. Ble mae'r features?

Good and bad. Bad. Good. It's all relative, isn't it? Did you know Monte Carlo has the worst record for animal abuse in the world (by this I mean they abuse the most animals, not the least). This is because everyone in Monte Carlo has such a good life, gambling in casinos and smoking fat cigars (ceegars), that it doesn't seem half as good to them. One of 'us' visiting Monte Carlo would have a great time, because (conciously or subconciously) we compare it to our crap, mundane lives. Residents, however, have to create lives other than their own which are shit, so their lives seem comparitavely better. So they beat dogs. And put them in small kennels. To keep their dogs happy they make up stories about dogs in Africa without shitholes. And that, a beating (followed by a decent crap) doesn't seem half as bad.


I wonder if I ever thought that that fire engine down there was any good. There is probably a good picture of some fire on the internet by now. Ah well.

"A quote a day keeps the gasman away."

Not quite so sure about this thievery.

Download this music if you want.

buy some books, if you want.

It is all getting rather strange at the moment. Things are changing, they always are, but it means that I will probably not have access to free computers and net-time and all that. This means that this page will not be updated as much as before. Not that it changed that much before, mind. Unlucky you. Or probably lucky you. Or much more probably (un)lucky nothing, because no fucker ever reads all this rubbish. Only three people have sent stuff from that box up there, and they were:
  • someone correcting a spelling mistake;
  • someone saying "trout" and nothing else;
  • someone enquiring as to whether or not I have a life;
    all quite boring really, so if you are reading this and you are not me, write something up there. The inherent weaknesses of writing a page so full of absolute arse are beginning to dawn on me. The reason why no-one ever writes in that box is because the page is so crap that they move on before getting to it. So there is absolutely no point in me writing down here, because all interest will have vanished by now. Never mind.

    ....more games....

    This is the first time I've written anything on this page in well over a year, but the first thing I did was delete an entry from up there. It was woefull, embarassingly so, but I'm wondering if I should have left it there. A testimonial to what an arse I can be. On the other hand it was shit, so it had to go. Despite this page being rubbish. And no one comes here. Seriously, not even me.

    Hmmmm. A number of years have passed again. All the translation pages are well out of date now. And loads of people have started 'blogging'. Now there are millions of people writing stuff that will never get read by anyone other than themselves, like a secret diary that's not actually secret, but is really because no one is interested. What ever happened to Tommy Kimber? How come the picture of the fire engine is bust now?

    Shit, it is now.

    Stuff I can remember: school: lower: playground: spit pools; american football (Hut Hut Hut - where? crap repreated joke); wrestling - Jasey-poos reffing; Doran "the horse"; Wayne "the doughnut"; Craig and Batsey setting fire to cricket pads; some sort of monster top trumps; banks and spitting blood; DJ Mr McCall; Gregory "Aboriginal prince of New Zealand"; giant Kylie Locomotion (Telethon?); climbing in through a broken window to the sports kit shed next to Tommy Tin's class & cutting something.

    Reminder: do not use Sigma Self Drive for van rental, or anything, fuckers rip you off repairing scratches. 350 quid for a couple of scratches? Bunch of shysters.

    copyright mc crazy clair