Star Crossed

She probably had to hang his cigars up to dry in the oval office airing cupboard.

Not adjusting his receiver, was he? Edit: No, having read the article, it seems he was blowing leaves off the roof. A bad day for irony.

Really... we should have a game online sometime then. Anyone else in? Deal me in.

I second that sentiment. Not the nicest person on the forum, of course; we wouldn't want you to become conceited, but you are nice! Many happy returns, H!

No!!!!! I always wanted to have a chat with her, having seen her in several movies, not least of which was the classic Black Narcissus, which is well worth a viewing. Gutted she's gone. Deborah Kerr 30th September 1921 - 18th October 2007 Last 2 posts merged [HCW]

If BS owns a silent, black helicopter, it might explain a few things.

Americans found to be f*****g cousins? Hardly front-page news, BS.

I swear, it was between him and Mohammed Deif for the last slot on my DDP team. He'd be an unique pick as well!

... unlike "Peter Seabrooke's Complete Vegetable Gardener" published by Cassell, which contains no contradictions whatsoever. I believe my current Assassin status renders this post de facto on-topic.

He was one of the DDP candidates I had to find a photo for. Looked like the sort of C-word who should be sharing a faeces-smeared west-african jail cell with Simon Mann, Thicko Thatcher and Nick Du Twat. Unlucky, OoO. An unique pick for Ailing Rulers Of Africa!

Edit to add pic Looks like a witchetty grub to me.

That's my best BS impression yet.

Aside from the fact that £10k seems rather cheap, I wonder if Terry Lubbock has got Michael Barrymore in his death pool? Sweet, sweet irony...

Am I the only f*****g person on this forum who has the decency to curtail excessively-long posts when quoting them?

Hopefully. The only time Branson stops making a C-word of himself these days, is when he takes a short break to be a self-aggrandizing, megalomaniacal C-word elsewhere. I'd like to submit the following scenario: Steve Fossett is found, alive and well. He and Branson embark on another epic edge-of-space balloon extravaganza. Mid-flight, (insert mechanical malfunction here) and Branson plummets earthwards, landing squarely on top of Rupert Murdoch as he applies his morning haemorrhoid cream, killing both of the c**ts. Steve Fossett embarks on another epic ballooning adventure, accompanied by gastro-C-word Jamie Oliver filming a "live, wecord-bwaking edge-of-thpace cookewy lethon". The "lethons of hithtory" not learned sufficiently well, however, (insert improbable but nonetheless satisfying mechanical malfunction here) and Jamie's oxygen supply is cut off. Literally dozens of his fans watch him slowly suffocate, separated from a smirking Steve Fossett's oxygen-rich half of the gondola/capsule by the thickness of a toughened-glass partition (installed to prevent the smell of freshly-chopped shallots from tearing-up Fossett's eyes as he navigates), live on tv. One grief-crazed Jamie Oliver fan takes up arms and storms the set of the Ready Steady Cook Christmas Special, needlessly (but rather pleasingly) ending the careers, and lives, of Gary Rhodes, Ainsley Harriot, Anthony Worrell-Thompson and a few other professional arseholes I can't remember right now. Somewhere in the midst of this commotion, the ubiquitous king of smug James Nesbitt is felled by a stray bullet, the bloody ricochet striking Pete Doherty to the temple, killing him almost instantly. Doherty falls, syringe-first, into Vanessa Feltz's lap. She pours her freshly-purchased half-gallon cup of McDonald's coffee into the lap of the gentleman sat to her immediate left, one Simon Cowell. It's alright though, folks, it doesn't kill him; it just causes horrendous burns and permanent disfigurement. In shock, his left arm swings out violently, breaking Graham Norton's nose; an injury from which he later dies. Somewhere else in the midst of all this, Alastair Campbell's cold, evil heart is impaled by the pointed end of a falling anvil. Upon hearing the news of this mass fatality, Ant & Dec carry out a suicide pact, shoving paracetamol up each other until they burst.

Is that a euphemism?

A Jodrell Bank Special was the subject of October's TSaN. Chris Lintott took a tour of the hardware, getting up close and personal with the big dish for the first time. Losing his Jodrell Bank virginity, one might say. Sir Patrick Moore stayed on terra firma talking to Jodrell Bank's founder, Professor Sir Bernard Lovell; two knights of the realm, old friends passing the time of day, reliving old glories, battles fought and won... I'm pleased to note that Patrick was on location and out in the open air, several hundred miles from home. His complexion looked better than it has done for some time, his characteristic vigour and enthusiasm for the subject as evident as ever. Deathlisters should be disappointed. I'm thrilled.

What Level Of Piety Does Your Medieval Alter-Ego Demonstrate? I was...

You can bet that the world didn't make quite so much sense for the chicken/lamb/cow/pig in that roasting tin, as it left this mortal coil with the sweet smell of blood, death and fear invading its nostrils, listening to the theme tune from "My Family And Friends Are Being Needlessly Slaughtered On An Industrial Scale". Norfolk; not renowned for displaying mercy toward roastable animals. Overcast and drizzling here in Northumberland. Must be time for .

Not really. I've got a lot on my plate today, and simply can't fit any more tasks into my fil-o-fax. I thought you did quite well enough on your own, although it would have been nice if you'd "named and shamed" the corrupt officials who seem determined to thwart your educational aspirations.

Re-using the same set of strings used to "levitate" the AGL, no doubt. Things To Do Whilst Waiting For Death? Be cynical.

It tells me that the University of Aberdeen simply don't value your continued presence, and that they're doing their level best to consign you to their Room 101.

Old poster? Surely not my Wendy James of Transvision Vamp, life-sized poster? Is that you? Where you have you been all these years? Did those guys who stole you from our flat during that party treat you well?

Swear filters. I'm not much of a swearer. I wish we could have them in real life.I've got no idea what Lord Nelson typed, but it looks like it was probably rude. Spliff? Oh, go on then, whilst we're here in Room Lovely and nobody's looking...

"Something for the weekend, Mr. Scream? I wouldn't bother... that young lady you've been courting? She's gay."