Jah Lush

Your Name: Jah Famous Artist/Band/Musician: Jeff Beck 4 letter word: Jizz Vehicle: Jeep TV SHOW: Jeeves & Wooster City/Town: Jarrow Boy Name: John Girl Name: Janie Occupation: Journalist Something you wear: Jeans Celebrity: Joan Collins Food: Jerk chicken Something found in a kitchen: Jam Reason for Being Late: Jousting participants collapsed apparently dead in the middle of the road causing a traffic jam.

Ooohhh-wheee, look at me looking for some sympathy It's the same old story - - of a man and his search for glory and he found it, there underneath the bottle Things are never good, things go from bad to weird hey gimme another scotch with my beer I'm sad to say - - I feel the same today as I always do gimme a drink to relax me Ooohhh-wheee, liquor set free I can't do no work, the shake's inside me Ahhh, shucks I got the lousiest luck, I'm sick of this underneath the bottle Seven days make a week, on two of them I sleep I can't remember what the heck I was doing I got bruise on my leg - - from I can't remember when I fell down some stairs, I was lyin' underneath the bottle Ooohhh0wheee, son of a B. you get so down, you can't get any lower So long world, you play too rough and it's getting me all mixed up I lost my pride and it's hiddin' there underneath the bottle

Tourettes Society's Bonfire Night Out Rude word warning on the attachment - The Administrator

Careful what you wish for you just might get it, and you got it. Well done. Welcome to the rat race CWALD. I sincerely hope you get plenty of job satisfaction and you're as successful as you want to be.

It's just that social life It's got you on the run That goddamn social life It's torture dressed as fun It's just that social life They got you chasing strings That goddamn social life and now you're seeing things

Dancing madly round the room Singing loudly and sorta' out of tune Was escorted by a friendly slag Round the bedroom and back Wandered across to the door Missed my step and I fell on the floor. Said one word and was asked to leave Kinda' wish I was dead.

Now skin and bones sinks easy on the high tide And I'm not one for castles in the sand I've seen a girl I once knew from the East Side I think I spy a bottle in her hand

You know I've tried so hard to keep myself from falling Back into my bad old ways And it chars my heart to always hear you calling Calling for the good old days Because there were no good old days These are the good old days

Man City 2 Sunderland 1

They've got womanly breasts under pale mauve vests Shoes like dead pigs' noses Cornflake packet jacket, catalogue trousers A mouth what never closes

I know there's much more to life than the physical side I should put these thoughts on hold But when she's buttering my baguette My blood runs hot and cold

O My O My What a wretched life I was born on the day That my poor mother died I was cut from her belly With a Stanley knife My daddy did a jig With the drunk midwife

I'm sorry about all your friends I hope they'll speak to me again I said before I'd pay for all the damages I'm sorry it's just rotten luck I'm sorry I've forgotten how to f**k It's just that I think my heart and soul are kind of famished

Brockwell Park in Herne Hill tonight. Might pop into the Half Moon afterwards where there is a Clash tribute band playing.

John Willmot, penned his poetry riddled with the pox Nabakov wrote on index cards, at a lectern, in his socks St John of the Cross did his best stuff imprisoned in a box And Johnny Thunders was half alive when he wrote Chinese Rocks

Later on we smoked a pipe that struck me dumb And made it impossible to speak As you closed in, in slow motion, Quoting Sappho, in the original Greek

You spurn my natural emotions You make me feel like dirt And I'm hurt And if I start a commotion I run the risk of losing you And that's worse

Quit work and live a life of leisure.

West Ham 3 Bolton 1

You're only 29 Gotta a lot to learn but when your mummy dies she will not return

Showing a bit of passion when you're watching your team is only natural, so why be embarrassed about it. We all do it.

I get your point perfectly Nero. I heard you the first time and you are correct in what you so say about the columnist.

I hear you Nero but as he's a social commentator he's only doing what he's paid for and that is to write his point of view despite what the paper's agenda may or may not be. Also how can we leave her alone when it is she who seeks to be in the media to raise her profile for her various charities and whatnot. She's a deluded self-publicist. Be that as it may I still think she is a sociopath.

From today's Daily Mirror and I have to say that I agree mostly with what Brian Reade has written here. Mills the martyr is lost in fantasy land Brian Reade 01/11/2007 I'm aware that some people hold journalists in lower esteem than lonely farmers who interfere with their livestock on the way home from the pub. I'm aware because I'm occasionally told I'm lower than a sheep-abuser. And at times I agree. But experience has taught me that the majority of famous people who try to convince the world there is a concerted press campaign to destroy them and their loved ones, are deluded hypocrites. Think Earl Spencer, who harangued the media for profiting from his sister's image, before turning his home into a pay-at-the-gate shrine to her memory. Think Jonathan Aitken, who vowed to fight journalists with his sword of truth, before falling on it. Think Cherie Blair, who claimed she was hated because the Press held an agenda against her. When in truth the nation had simply tired of her brazen free-loading and the pressure she put on Labour MPs to send young men to their deaths in Iraq to save her hubby's skin. And then there's Heather Mills. Planting herself before various TV cameras yesterday, showing al-Qaeda how to truly make a martyr video. Well, excuse me for not being taken in by her tears over incessant media "lies", because untruths and Heather have a bit of history. She says she's being called "a whore, a gold-digger and a fantasist." So let's bring on the witnesses. There's no shortage of people with a McCartney surname to back up the gold-digger claim. And as for the fantasist accusation, where do you start? This is a woman whom Walter Mitty would have bought material off. Who claimed her mother had lost a leg when she hadn't and who stole the identity of another Heather Mills to pose as a journalist. Her ex-fiance Chris Terrill says when she left him she told their mutual friends it was because she'd discovered he was a gay MI6 agent, paid by the British arms industry to sabotage her anti-landmine work. Even though he was a heterosexual, freelance film-maker. Her self-delusion is breathtaking. She attempted to deny those interviews were part of a PR offensive in her bitter divorce battle, by saying she couldn't talk about the case. Then mentioned the judge's comments, potential settlement figures, and accused McCartney's "corner" of spreading spin. But it's her self-obsession that is truly scary. How many women would liken their circumstances to Princess Diana's at the time of her death, or their current misery to Kate McCann's? Mills compared herself to both. Without blinking. When Fern Britton told her that most celebrities have to take criticism she drowned her out by yelling: "I'm responsible for nine countries." At least that explains why she's asking Macca to part with so much cash, if she's got that many dependants. Her stunts, pouts, lies, outbursts, desperation for publicity (think Dancing With The Stars) and delusions of grandeur have turned the self-styled Lady Mills McCartney into a sad caricature. Someone who believes she should have a permanent seat on the UN Security Council, while the world thinks it should be a stool in Moe's Bar on The Simpsons. And all the Press does is reflect that much-deserved public derision. The truth is, Heather, we don't hate you. We've just sussed you. Which, to the Lady Mayoress of Fantasy Island, is probably the cruellest blow of all.

I don't see what the study of caves has got to do with it Snorky.