The Edwardian Box

Honky

2006-01-23T11:02:00.000Z

...as an NHS manager, and formerly curator for the Peking Museum of Facts, Artifacts, and D-I-Y, imagine my surprise to learn of a 20 foot northern bottlenosed whale swimming up the river Thames. This mythical beast was rumoured to weigh a staggering 1,000,000 tons, which would make it twice as heavy as the biggest crane in the world (the wading bird, not the lifting device). I can only assume that the whale's luggage was included in this sum.

However, a stranger thing happened in the north east this week that received nowhere near the bloodlust frenzy of the media...in the river Wear, fish were reported to have been seen!!! Fishermen were deeply concerned with this news..as one admitted to a local news, "?". This was echoed by the columnist, who declared this "the most pompus thing he had ever seen or listened to! Not only are the fish in the water, but they are also." (at that point, the article finished). The mayor of the river Wear has declared war on the fish, and the battle has been going well. So far, the death toll among the people of Sunderland is 100%. Thousands more are expected to perish in the mouths of the fish in the next hour or two.

The first shop ever opened in Sunderland this week. It was a branch of argos and as a promotional tool, it sold only photographs of ghosts in its first three days...here are some examples of the best sellers;

Fucking amazing! I showed these photos to an orphan on Sunday and he cried like a spoilt brat!

Dr. Robotnik's proposal to his board of shareholders.

2006-01-17T00:17:00.000Z

- - - -

Essentially, it is a giant ball hanging from a chain. I will attach this chain to my own personal antigravity pod as I indicated here. I will be in control of the pod as well as the ball. The idea? To swing the ball at the hedgehog with enough force to make him drop all his rings, leaving him vulnerable to attack. If things get hairy, I have installed a backup power supply, stored here, that will swing the ball all 360 degrees around my pod, increasing both the centrifugal force of the boulderlike ball and my defenses.

Yes, I have thought this through and I have decided that this is the best use of my newly discovered antigravity technology. What about the pod? Well ... I like convertibles. I want to feel the breeze through my moustache as I destroy this little blue threat to my industry. No, I don't think it will be necessary to add armour to the top of the pod—this is a hedgehog, not some sort of flying fox.

I have explained this to all of you in writing—the hedgehog has taken it upon himself to free our rabbits, which we have turned into robots. These rabbits are the backbone of our work force! If we lost them we could no longer maintain our islands, cities, or our giant antigravity slot machines. I have stolen a lot of rings from those slot machines, which has shot our profit margins through the roof!

OK, we'll compromise. We won't downsize the ball, but we will skimp on the flameproof interior. I never should have gone public.

- - - -

Mungo!

2006-01-10T00:44:00.000Z

Its a shame he died, he'd have made a cracking Mungo Jerry on "Stars in Their Eyes"

Don't worry! It's only Dabo!!

2006-01-09T15:35:00.000Z

Mathematicians are currently debating as to whether or not there is a number bigger than 45,000,000 (possibly 45,000,001...they're not sure). Anyway, this is how many goals Dabo could score if he wanted to.

Ask anyone.

A Tale of Two Cities

2005-12-16T15:10:00.000Z

I've decided to dedicate the rest of this week to spiders, and it all starts here!

I just love spiders! They spin silk from special glands up their arse somehow, just like factories do. They eat flies and other insects that fly or don't fly. They make a house every night. Some of them have sex with eachother. Some of them are poisonous though...not sure if that's a good idea. It's too dangerous. However, according to statistics, no-one has ever been killed, injured, offended, or sexually fiddled by a poisonous spider. I did hear of a spider that lives in a castle near Toulouse (France) that is apparently the most dangerous non poisonous spider in the world. He is called Barron De La Piscine and is reputed to have killed over two hundred (maybe two million) French men and woman. He invites them to his castle with very fancy invitations printed on very nice paper (embossed and everything), he cooks them a slap up meal (probably horse or some shit!), then, when they're all fat, he wraps them in silk and eats them later, when it's his tea time, or supper time maybe. The police can't arrest him, because he's a spider.

Has the rest of the week finished yet? Good, cos I fucking hate spiders.

The Musical unit

2005-11-22T14:46:00.000Z

Upon reading of the forthcoming foray to the shores of Spain by punk-a-billy combo, the Hyperjax, I uncovered this little gem on the official website for the festival in question.
It reads like the brain-shit of a mentalist, but is in actual fact, composed by a foreign:

"If you are fan of bands as Long Tall Texans or The Quakes and not yet know to Hyperjax do you with them as soon as possible, we assure you that its explosive cocktail of newwave/punk/rockabilly will not defraud you.

They began toward the 96 with a composed repertoire mostly by classics of rockabilly for, but late, to be centered in its own themes arriving thus to a sound that has carried them but there of the scene rockin', coming to obtain mention in magazines as Kerrang.

They include a CD to his credit published by the tambien British Raucous Records, as well as contributions in diverse recopilatorios among them the tribute rockabilly to The Clash or the video of the first one "American big rumble", having rotated for United States and participated in massive festivals out of the environment rockabilly/psycho.

This it will be the first visit to our country and we expect that not the last one."

Terrifying.

DOUBLE TOP!

2005-11-07T10:55:00.000Z

Thank you Boxie for those smart and gorgeous words.

I am unsure whther it is a good idea for such a prominent politician to be linked to a blog that plays such weckless disregard to political correctness. Or is it? Anonymity remains a blessing wherever it rears its featureless (but fit) face.

Right hon John can sometimes be slimey, but this is only because of the history that sometimes seeps from his brain. He can quote you any extract from any book ever written...plus all books that haven't been written or refused to be wrote...and he can do this ages ago, before you even asked him to or wantde him to. He always wins at trivial persuit....not the board game, but a meaningless fox hunt.

Blunket can't even see pensions. How on earth does he know what they are? For that matter, he can't see shares...or letters telling him he shouldn't have shares...or DNA testing companies. All he knows is the stink of his dog, which wasn't well trained enough to avoid the ugly path its master had fumbled down.

Oh well. Three cheers for Right hon John. May all his indiscretions remain private.

Shit!

Right on, john!

2005-11-07T02:11:00.000Z

This is the Box:

The left-wing communist news-honk, The Daily Mail, describe Right-(h)on-John as "a sexual timebomb waiting to blow" and later "The slimiest of all the cabinet".

They are, in fact, referring to the Edwardian man's male parental unit and successor to blind hump-merchant, David Blunkett, the right honest Jonny Hooting.

I thought this worthy of its own blog. He was on the news any everything, looking like a well-worn tawny owl, and spouting truths out of his voice-cavern.

I loved it.

I also hated it... Lter I was indifferent.

Is someone pissing on our chips?

2005-10-14T12:19:00.000+01:00

This comparative surge in interest fot the Edwardian Box is disconcerting. For the longest time, I thought the Box was only designed because we thought it was funny to be able to type an address into your computer and for all our silly thoughts to appear on the screen. It was an even funnier notion to think that other people might see it....however, that was only a notion, and never a reality....until now.

Interestingly enough, the people leaving messages on our sites are concerned that we are losing our hair, or they are trying to sell us stocks in healthcare biometrics (and that). Some are directing us to a site where "women want sex". I have to confess to being interested in that one, but I'm at work....if I access sites like that, computer men will come from head office and strangle my liver. Awful.

Oh where is the Box to offer his brilliant mind to this problem?! Surely he would be able to lay waste to the questions with his pious keyboard of golden hue, and his apple mac of aqua-marine justice.

The only thing I can think of is that the Box has become subject to a torrent of jokes written subtley enough to be considered truth, wherein lies their genius. Either that, or something else.

I'm going to write the rest of this blog in italic.

The unlikely union of Tim Dawson and Sylvia Tingate

2005-07-10T19:05:00.000+01:00

Over recent days and weeks and months and years and things, I've been on a kind of journey.....

....I've been on a metaphysical, physical, metamental, mental, and physical journey to the centre of everything. It's used up most of the worlds natural resources....it's also used up much of the worlds un-natural resources - things like eggs, dogs and muslims. I've burnt enough fossil fuel to bury in a hole the size of an inverted mount olympus (i.e fourteen gallons of the stuff, but spread very very far apart). And where did it bring me............

.....To Jedbrough.

I've said it before - Jedbrough is a trully remarkable place. No people live there, only wraiths and strays. The shops don't open. They have no mayor, just a monkey, which the local scolars hung a while ago for being a spy. However, they insisted that it still perform it's civic duty, so they stuffed it with ironing boards and cast it into the ocean (this silly vessell slowly gathered momentum, and moss, and clumps of earth, and began to reek of toxicity, and can now be found floating off the indian coast line (now better known as Sri-Lanka, which is spanishy for Iron Monkey).

Underneath Jedbrough is a quarry. It is called Pat, and from its gaping mouth is mined a mineral called coal, which is only used to power the machines that dig it out. Any left overs are thrown back into the mine to be mined again tomorrow, or perhaps the day after that, depending on how busy they are. The townsfolk used to eat the coal themselves, using their hands and mouths, but this was condemmed thousands of years ago by the Royal College of Nursing, as it made everyones clothes too dirty.

Climbing high above the town, there is a man. He can see for miles and miles, but not from where he is at the moment. There's something in the way.

Given that my journey was supposed to be to the centre of everything, I was frankly dissapointed with Jedbrough. I only stayed there long enough to leave.

A Hungry Man is an Angry Man

2005-05-04T12:11:00.000+01:00

Due to the recent onslaught of activity on this info-pit, and the incessant chantings of the unruly crowds who bay for the blood of literature, EdBox has returned to this place for a session of updated textualisms.

Let us pray:
That it is, and will ever be, as nothing can ever not be, and shall be, will cease to exist and exist forever.
amen.

Goodbye.

Something of late has troubled my shizzle glands. The world is spinning at a dock-off rate and I feel a queasy unease that I might be thrown from the mothership at any given second. That said, I feel like Galactus - an indestructable being and devourer of the meek. "Fuck this world" says I, "These mortals shalt be mine dinner, and I may save some for breakfast". I often wish I had spoken in the third person since birth.
The sound of the wind and the rain dancing down on the window pane reminds me of the child I used to be. Ugly and massive, with a distinctive lopsidedness and terrifying grin. Filthy as a rat, and half the size, I towered over London like a new sun. Dogs covered their ears to sheild themselves from the deafening silence which emitted from my laser eyes.
What has become of this monster? How did this transformation take place? And why do the mortals now run in fear? My metal heart pumps oil around my motor.
I no longer have time for the modern ills... Inventions of the puny champions, who cannot cope with the dirty strains of life. What a cop out - The Elder Gods spit in disgust at these timid happenings.
And so, we grow stronger.
And we grow in number, yet fall like flies.
One day i'll wake up and wonder what it all means.
There are too many to count on one hand, yet not enough to warrant the employment of an abacus... some chinese kids can calculate sums on an abacus faster than a calculator can comprehend, but what would they know? Their food is shit. Fuck numbers, concentrate on dinner, lads. the Indians and Italians have got it nailed - keep up. Owls like mice, mice like lice, lice are nice.
The English remain uncharted culinary buffoons, like the blind leading the blind, with a deaf illiterate child taking notes for future posterity... I prefer a photograph, or if you have the time, an oil painting.
Burn all the old art. Lets start again.
And so, I conclude with the beginning.

Hello.

Top Facts: Ripe for the picking

2005-01-19T10:43:00.000Z

Word, my honkie friends. And word, indeed, this week, for the Boxie Vetinarial man has been hitting the books with his thought hammer in order to drag forth some top factual offering to appease the Gods of inquisitation, AKA you little tarts.
Here, without further ado, are the findings of the studies of Vet Boxie's personal team of scientifically-minded ghosts:

* Water boils at a temperature of 100 degrees Centigrade. According to the laws of physics, it cannot legally refuse.

* During a drought of carrot availability, a large colony of rabbits (or rabbi) will stalk an elk for anything up to three weeks before finally trapping it in a net when its taking a nap, in the mistaken belief that they have given up.

* Contrary to popular human belief, Canary Wharf Tower is not the tallest building in London. It is in fact the much older and better known monument, Nelson's column in Trafalgar Square. It descends for over three miles into the earth! Only 2% of it is visible above ground...

* Fish and chips is one of the most popular modern-day dishes in England. Hard to believe, then, that up until 1927 they point blank refused to talk to each other.

* If all the people in China sat down at once they'd need all the chairs in the world and some of them would have to double up or maybe sit on the floor or some shit. Naturally, everyone else would have to stand up until they got thier chairs back. Frankly, its a logistical nightmare, and an event thats best avoided at all costs.

* Speaking of China and the art of sitting...Its not well documanted but until 1998, there was only one toilet in the whole of the country. The following year, there were 27 billion, although that number is thought to have been made up by the French. Current estimates suggest there may be anything up to seven in active service.

* The ancient Aztec civilisation believed that breathing was bad for you.

* Due to a typing error, the Second World War started two years earlier than it was supposed to.

Thats it, i'm afraid. Its after hours and the staff have gone home. I have to get off now, as a pack of hungry wolves are after me. Also, due to yesterday's wet weather, my house have floated away...I have to find it...I heard it was spotted near Exeter.

Sex Appeal

2005-01-14T17:14:00.000Z

This morning, via roads, I arrived at work. The weather was harsh, but fair. I wore a feather in my hat. Ice caused a nuisance to travel, but not as much of a nuisance as a man mental in the hospital. When I arrived, it was revealed that he had already sent two nurses to A&E with injuries to the hands, chucked stuff about, and smashed a load of windows. The police keep coming, calming the situation, leaving, then returning cos he's gone all spaz again. He keeps escaping into the car park and screaming at traffic. This is the setting in which I'm currently writing this blog. Yes. I have to be at work tonight for ages, probably until about nine o'clock, which is proper gay. Then I have to remain alert and sensible through the night in case anything else kicks off in the hospital. Wick.

The most exciting thing in history of things happened to my home town of Hexham in recent days. It was subject to floods and it was on the telly. People were left without water for a few days, which led to a bizarre kind of siege mentality in the sleepy middle class dwelling. People were confused at the lack of water, caused predominantly by an overwhelming abundance of water. They were shouting at it and hitting it with sticks, whilst simultaneously scooping it up in their jumpers and trying to boil it over a fag lighter. This led inevitably to cannibalism as a source of moisture and/or nutrition. When the disaster was finally declared over, more than half the population had been scoffed by fatties. The government tried to help by providing entertainment in the form of swingball and jigsaw puzzles. Although gratefully received, these were eventually melted down and drunk. I went there amidst the turmoil to have a hair cut. When they washed my hair, instead of water they had to use olive oil. And because they had melted all their scissors (and remoulded them to use as a kind of yarn to stitch holes in time), they had to shout the hairs off my head, which worked, but only after months of shouting.

In other news, there was a shocking drought in Hexham in recent days after record breaking temperature of ten degrees Fahrenheit was recorded on four consecutive days. Most live stock have perished, but people have survived by going to other places in their jeeps.

Also, there's no room in my fridge. Its full of books.

I had a look at the blogPOT version of the Edwardian Box. Its fun when such tiny errors of typing can yield such exquisite parallels. I didn't look at the religious quarry of nonsense for long because I laughed, and a pea came out of my nose, which I spent ages looking for. I wonder if we can post some of our thoughts on it? More to the point, I wonder if anyone has tried to find that sight and come across the Edwardian Box. One can only hope.

A Gift from God

2005-01-12T18:27:00.000Z

Right, I just found out something completely mental!
If you slightly mis-type the web address for the Edwardian Box, you get some off-their-tits sites instead.

Try entering go-team-us.blogpot.com ie Not Blogspot...BlogPOT

Why would a site like this have almost the same address as the E Box? I think it is a conspiricy set up by the illiterate and the unwilling. Although, that appears to include us...maybe its a conspiracy against us, by us and for us.
Or maybe not.

The mystery continues...

Happy Birthday Neil Fist.

Vet Boxie's Important Research.

2005-01-08T13:46:00.000Z

I have been doing a lot of research of late, and have dug up the following important facts and figures:

Scatman John, he of the Scatman fame, developed his legendary stammer by being repeatedly beaten in the face with a brick during his childhood years. He later caught AIDS and died, so its not all bad news. It is unclear as to whether it was Good AIDS or bad AIDS, hence the official stance was that he died of middle AIDS, or MAIDS.
Another famous MAIDS victim was Napoleon, who, contrary to popular belief, only had sex once in his life, and that was with a talking pig. Napoleon wrote many words in his life, mostly of no importance. He did, however come up with the revolutionary discovery that if you shout at a cat for ten minutes, it will burst into flames...Which, as we know, is also a great way of removing a cat from a tin bucket, should it become stuck in there.
If junk food is bad for you, how come there are so many foxes in the bins? Or is it just the same fox?
Anyway, fuck it...I don't even care.

Cracker Jokes

2004-12-30T11:37:00.000Z

Last year, I bought really shit crackers from Asda, or Iceland, or Harrods or something like that, and to my dismay - but, alas, not to my surprise, the jokes within were of a poor and unfunny standard. To counteract this travesty, I somewhat "splashed out" this year and stole my crackers from an orphanage. Imagine my delight upon Christmas day when tucking into the yuletide ensemble of culinary yum, when I pulled my cracker to reveal this little beauty of a pun:
"What is the difference between Paula Radcliffe and Hitler? There isn't - Neither of them can finish a Race"
At first, the mind boggled, and i felt a bit ill. Then it ceased boggling and I felt a little better. Then it began to boggle again and I was sick on my dad's turkey. Then it snowed...I saw this as a cue to do one to the pub, where some shit ran off with my mobile - They probably sold it to buy heroin or a caravan or some crystals and shit.
For Christmas, I recieved the following list of items:
An electric hammer
An egg and spoon race kit
A bag of dust
The Roy Chubby Brown Box set - Its just a set of boxes in various sizes
Some yeast
A large package of heroin from my mother
AIDS - with cure
Some space

I'm tired now. And my rumourmill needs attention. In other news - Dabo.

Just as a footnote, the Edwardian Box is actually the foremost information resource on the subject of Dabo on the entire internet.
Maybe, he'll sign for Liverpool, they need a new Striker. I'd be so made up if he went to Northwich Victoria.
Anyway, Happy New Yaer from the Box and the E-Man

Tell me a fable?

2004-12-29T17:22:00.000Z

Ooook

Today, at the moment, I am at work. To me, work means all sorts of things. This afternoon, it meant remembering about blogs. Then, to my astonishment, I noticed that the hobby of blogs had been reforged by that Box. So here's a little contribution to blogs. Blog.

I had contracted diesel, the box does not lie. Contracting diesel is very much like getting your wings stuck in a great big cake. Lush. I also had a bout of alcoholism - the box retains his godlike devotion to the truth. I kept on putting alcohol into my mouth and swallowing it, which is where the trouble began. The trouble ended later.

In other news, fights.

What did everyone get for Christmas then? I got a hat and a joke, and this list of items:

a book - "The history of screaming" by Cher
a wok - "for cooking with"
some plates
and cups

It was brilliant.

Whilst scurrying around in bins the other day I found this. I'll show it to you later.

Ask Vet Boxie (just not about animals)

2004-11-25T11:41:00.000Z

Dear vet Boxie,
I am writing to complain about the state of Alan Smith's hair recently. What's the crack? Its a fucking disgrace.
Sir Alex Fergurson, Alderley Edge, Cheshire.

Vet Boxie writes:

Dear Sir Alex,
Yes, its true, there has been a noticable decline in the public upkeep of Alan Smith's hair recently, and it hasn't gone unnoticed by those who have noticed it. The government over recent years had allocated approximately £37.98 per household, per annum (App. £6.9 billion per annum) to maintain Smudger's usually immaculate pyramid of blonde delight. this included root maintenance, overall shaping, and a 24 hour emergency styling team. However, recent unforseen expenses, such as the general up keep of your lawns, since the shock disappearance of your former gardener, Eric Djemba-Djemba; and the ever-increasing cost of producing your unique brand of whiskey flavoured chuddy, have led to a re-shuffle of tax allocation and I'm afraid that Smith's hair is in a state of decline of late.
Unfortunately, this situation is only going to get worse before it gets better. The government will be able to afford to preserve smudger's bonce should ou re-allocate one of your shitter players to doing your lawns and hoovering, which is of current strain to the country's finances. May I suggest Phil Neville (although, he'd inevitably fuck up), or one of the fucking randoms like Chris Eagles or Liam Miller.
Cheers.

Classifieds...Advertise your tits.

2004-11-24T13:23:00.000Z

Offered:

* KICK IN THE DICK. Unwanted present...Would suit minor celebrity / old farmer.

*CHARLOTTE CHURCH? I would but i'd feel guilty afterwards. Would you? Send for an information pack. Box number 18809

*LEAMINGTON SPA or Tunbridge Wells? I can't decide, and the deadline's on thursday...Call to discuss quietly. 07745 87535

*VIETNAMESE child hooker. Steel-strung. Cedar body. Fast neck. Gold hardware.

* JAZZ BASS available. A doop be bob da wom la doo bee doo...you get the idea. £5 or whatever seems cool to you cats.

* BLOW UP Paul McCartney - Just a suggestion, I mean What a cunt.

*ROMP WITHIN. Would suit van or house.

Wanted

* KICK IN THE DICK - will pay any price.

* AN END TO THIS? Feel this thread is going nowhere? Stop writing it.

In my defence, i'm very tired and a bit pregnant.
I'll try something else.

What has 3 legs and lives on a farm? Paul McCartney and Heather Mills.

What has nine arms and sounds like shit? Def Leopard.

Help.

Alcoholism

2004-11-19T13:12:00.001Z

Link this, you fucking pigs. We're back..Welcome one and all!
We had a slight sabbatical due to the Edwardian man contracting the diesel and battling alcoholism, whilst the fucking box was serving hard bread for koshing a doctor.
Since we've been gone a lot has changed...There was an election in America, although we are unaware of the outcome, so if you'd let us know who won, we'd be most appreciative. I think actually that was all that happened... Oh wait.... They reckon Michael Jackson may get 20 years for having sex with kids. Not very long when you consider Christopher Reeve got the electric chair for riding a horse.
Speaking of horses...A man in Cuba carried a horse for 100 metres, over his shoulders. Thats fucking crazy.
Would an urban fox be into UK garage? Would he wear Burberry and smoke L&B?
Who knows?
Anyway, the fact is : we're here and you're not.

A Massive Brain Wrong!

2004-08-24T11:59:00.000+01:00

HA! I had to write some writing about this letter that I've just read at work. It was a letter to the Prime Minister and the President from what can only be described as a Man Mental. I'll try and give you the jist of it, whilst simultaneously trying not to give too much away and getting myself in terrible terrible trouble.

Essentially, this insane of brain chap got pissed off with a dentist and slapped him up. Then proceeded to complain about him to the government. When they told him to shut up, he wrote them several letters per day complaining about anything that he could find in his head. He said that "the comercial world has bamboozled i.e. confused reality itself" and that this is essentially Tony Blair's fault, who should "stop fighting for, and with, old methods". He also claims to have attempted to resolve the problem of Iraq and the twin towers - his conclusion is that "often, wild minded city boys are the problem regarding freedom of sound or noise".

At one point, he actually refers to a letter he hasn't written yet. He refers to the future like this:

"(see the letter I'll write in two days)"

He goes on to have a go at DNA, calling it "unstable". He hates Rolls Royce and economics.

He then, very helpfully, has drawn a diagram which illustrates the circle of life (genetically). We are born, then we learn, then we rest, then we're done. Apparently, this is a cycle we need to repeat every day in order to live with "ability, meaning, means and sense".

In his next letter (the future one he referred to earlier, which he opens "Dear Fools") he claims that someone owes him 3 million pounds, which sadly reflects the violent energy of the comercial world. He also says that the modern world abuses IT and violins (or fiddles).

He finishes his letter by scrawling in a completely mad way over the page with words like "invisible".

Now I've got to write this man a letter in response to all this. Does anyone have any suggestions for what to include in this reply, aside from congratulations?

An Edwardian bureaux of medicinal advice

2004-08-17T09:34:00.000+01:00

As an Edwardian medicine man with full and gleaming qualifications from kent, I thought it just and reasonable, and sexy, that I put an Edwardian perspective on some of the health issues that are currently plaguing modern Britain. These sentiments were echoed by my partner in doctoring, Rodney Leonard Dick, who rubbed his hands together and said "yes".

To start with, I'll begin.

Chlamydia

As far as I'm aware, this is an ailment that troubles roughly %100 of people in some towns and villages in England. It makes your urine go all black and sticky, a bit like yeast extract, which can cause great discomfort and pleasure. It can cause abnormalities to the stomach, abdomen and tummy - one case demonstrated a midrift that had a treasure map on it. This disease can envoke a swelling of the brain in men, and a swelling, shrinking, or maintenance of size of the tits in women. It is passed on by special particles of smell that are transmitted through delightful chlamydia tools that grow amongst hairs.

In terms of a cure, I am a little stumped. In Edwardian times, we weren't really troubled by this shocking sickness. It is an invention of the 21st century which puzzles my knickers down. But if I had to level any sort of advice on this epidemic, it would be to quarantine these poor devils right away. Whilst in confinement, they must then be subjected to loud marching music and constantly insulted via tannoy. I don't know what effect this will have on the afflicted souls, but I'd be interested to find out.

Child birth

I read about this just the other day in some writing that I found. I've never been more upset.

In Edwardian times, people were all grown in eggs that were laid by hens, chickens and female cockrels. They would gestate in an egg for forty years and come out wearing tweed and talking about cricket. What the fuck is a baby? I don't know what brought about this revolutionary reform in human creation, but it isn't civilised at all. You all come out of twats, for God's sake!

The AIDS

The closest thing we had in Edwardian times to The AIDS was gout. Gout is a disease of the foot which makes it stink and change colour depending on its environment, a bit like a camouflaged soldier, or a variety of bear (chameleon). The only cure for gout is the black and white minstrel show. Science has never been able to explain why. I don't know anything about That AIDS, but presume that my comparing it to gout is correct.

Now, the problem you've got in this day and age is that the black and white minstrel show has been disbanded (on account of their brilliance, one can only assume). So without this infallible cure, what is the AIDS sufferer to do? I've been surveying some of the images that appear on these vision boxes that are all over your modern world, and have come to the conclusion that diagnosis murder is more or less exactly the same as the black and white minstrel show, and should therefore have the same therapeutic benefits. I realise that my advice on this matter makes some fairly astounding assumptions, some might even call them leaps of fancy. But I can't see any problem with this. What do you think Rodney?

"yes"

Vet Boxie talks about some plankton, innit.

2004-08-08T21:42:00.000+01:00

Plankton, fucking plankton...They're all over the bloody newspapers; switch on the TV and all you get is plankton presenting more shite TV shows -primarily aimed at the young plankton market. They are over-running us commercially, sexually, culturally, desperately, unwittingly, wittingly and in all and none of these ways.However, it is becoming increasingly clear that so very little is known about these modest abominations of science and nature. As such, I have taken it upon myself to enlighten the masses with Vet Boxie's "Plankton Dialogues", which can be located just

here:

- Plankton, or plankti as they so hate to be called, are many in number, as well you know. They feed by opening their massive gobs and sifting smaller fish through their specially designed front-openings and into their food-caves, located deep within their generous guts. A single plankton can feed upon up to 800, 000 Blue whales in a single mouthful. Given that the average plankton devours over twice that in an hour, we can assume that the average annual whales eaten by plankton is in the region of seven. Plankton can grow to a massive 300ft in length, breadth, width, depth and age, but can't be arsed.

- Plankton were invented by the French in 1896, initially as a "bit of a laugh". However, the joke was soon to backfire when, in 1901 plankton revolted and seized power of the French government, over which they have presided ever since. The outcome of this has been a mandate stating that: "No sharks, whales or fucking dolphins shalt ever be granted any kind of sexual gratification off a monument within the wall of Gay Paris, ever". Despite this, the inventor of Plankton, Philippe de Sauvingnon Chatte-Moiux-est-est-est D'Asinone, won the nobel prize.

- The nobel prize was actually for services to farming.

- Famous plankton include such lofty stars as: Charlotte Church, Charlotte Hatherly (from out of that ASH), Charlie Bronson, Charlie Chaplin, Prince Charles, Charles De Gaulle, Charlie out of Busted and Richard Blackwood.

- And Dabo...(Cheick Oumar Dabo of Turkish club Ankara, not the French international Dabo, who plays for Lazio Roma)

- Plankton make clouds in a factory near Tamworth. They invented central heating and smell like the future.

Today, the Box went to Tatton Farm, to witness a Dog Show. However the highlight was baby pigs in a barn, which licked his toes through his flip-flops. He also saw a pig that was about to give birth, which pyarly fucked off.
Box.

His name is Rio and he dances in the sand

2004-08-04T11:05:00.000+01:00

I have been commanded by the powers that be (the Box) to try and come up with a reason (or reasons) for the perculiar shape that has materialised on top of Rio Ferdinand's head. I was first alerted to this terror via a text message referring to his "massive hair". When I got to work, I looked on some cyberspace to get a proper gander at what the hell was going on.

What I saw scared me to the depths of my miserable soul. Rio Ferdinand, the once handsome, lethal and virile England centre half, seems to have chosen to model himself on a kind of Gargoyle. There are only several explanations for this terrible transformation, and they are these:

1) That he's caught foot and mouth - everyone who knows football will be acutely aware of how vulnerable footballers are to toe rot, rising damp, and fleas. George Best, for example, was riddled with holes caused by wood worm. But the worst news of all to the ears of football farmers is this "your centre half's caught foot and mouth. He'll be fully out of wack for two weeks - and then he'll die!" I think that it's possible that Rio's mad hair is an effort to disguise the dreadful head legions that are all part and parcel for the foot and mouth sufferer. But if he drops down dead, we'll shave his bonce and then we'll know once and for all.

2) That his brown furry brain has popped out of his skull in an effort to escape - either Rio's brain is simply too massive for the the tiny confines of his head (which is extremely probable. His mind is literally full of football tactics and phone numbers), or the inside of his brain case stinks so much, that his brain has dug a kind of tunnel up, through the roof of the skull, to fresh air, AND FREEDOM!

3) That he is growing cress for a school project - Rio's head is like a potato in which he is growing a kind of disgusting brown cress. This cress has a remarkable flavour, but is incredibly poisonous. Young Ferdinand is hoping to get an A for his project, yet he'll get nowhere near that. He'll get a K, because he misunderstood the assignment. The assignment was to design a logo for the school newspaper. Growing cress out of your head won't win you any prizes Rio! What a scum bag!

I'm not confident that any of these theories are wrong or right. If anyone knows of any other reasons for the madness of Rio's hair, I'd love it if you kept them to yourselves. I wish I had.

The only possible solution to all this mess!

2004-07-30T10:16:00.000+01:00

So, there I was, just minding my own Ps and Qs, when a thought came along and ripped my brains out! Why shouldn't time be metric? Any sub devision of a second is metric, but anything larger than a second, we only bother counting up to 60. Why? When? - Awful!

This is how things SHOULD be:

100 seconds (or micro minutes) to the minute;
100 minutes (or micro hours) to the hour;
100 hours (or hours) to the day;
100 days (or micro weeks) to the week;
100 weeks (or micro months) to the month;
100 months (or micro years) to the year.

There should probably be 100 seasons a year too, and they should all be different, just to avoid any muddlement.

I've started putting my thinking into action - I've collected all the hours and weeks I could find and have begun chopping them up into fractions of ten, yer na? I won't lie to you - I'm very confused. But despite my mental cognitions being clogged up with spack, I feel confident I can get the job done.

My next task is to slow down, or speed up, or muck about with the earth's orbit of the sun. Ideally, I would like to send the earth in a kind of figure of eight orbit around both the sun and saturn. I've worked out (using science) that it would take the earth (using movement) exactly 100 micro years to complete this crazy orbit, provided that it is travelling at precisely the right speed. I have proved (using models) that if me and ten of my chums (using gloves) each take a sturdy grip on a tree, our combined and measured efforts should be able to throw the earth off, through space, towards saturn. And Lo, the new measurement of time will commence.

Dunno how to make 100 seasons though...might not bother.

Hooray! Nigwin is back!

2004-07-27T19:02:00.000+01:00

Look...He left a post just below this!
Mate, I have had it up to here (my thigh) with jeans...honestly, I'm packing them in for good this time...I mean it!
You can have the lot for free.
They will cost you £60 each...There's 4 pairs so thats £59.99 altogether.

The news is telling me at this very moment that Top of The Pops used to be filmed in Dickenson Road in Manchester...Off its tits!

Great! Fuff! Job!

The Lovely Boxxxxx

Richard from "News Ping" called - he says he wants to send us the news?

2004-07-27T15:32:00.000+01:00

Well, I've been absent from posting for a week, and I'll tell you why: I was allowed some time off work for terrible behaviour, which was great, but meant I was without quick, easy, free, constant or fucking access to a thinking plastic brain box with finger button attachments and internet powers. But I suppose that's holidays for you? So, in some sort of strange effort to redeem myself, I'm going to fill you in on what I did with my week off work. And it goes...a little something...like this:

Monday

Bought jeans

Tuesday

Burnt Jeans

Wednesday

Baked jeans

Threw jeans off a steeple

Thursday

Took jeans back to shop on account of their invulnerability

Friday

I went down to Manchester on Friday. True, true, true. I stayed in my brother's girlfriend's cottage in Fallowfield, which was decorated in gay. Ace! There was also a cat living in it - a cat that looked just like a tiny owl. It was called Evie. I liked the cat, but thought it meant trouble. So I stood on it.

Saturday

We left Manchester in high spirits and drove to London. I drove my engine at a trillion miles an hour, and yet it still took 3 and a half quantities of time to get there. I deduced from this that London was at least two thousand miles from anywhere and drew a time/speed/distance graph to prove it. It didn't prove it, so I sent it away.

We had gone to London because it was the occassion of my Dad's wedding, which was to take place on the terrace at the Houses of Parliament. Splendid! However, I was surprised to learn that there is a rat that lives in the pipes at Westminster that often terrorises MPs and civil servants, and on Saturday, wedding guests. The rat is called Pinky on account of it's black fur. It has roughly the same size and dimensions as a mule, and it talks with the accent of a pirate. I thought that this was dreadful news, but luckily, June Sarpong was there and she dealt with the situation with her hands and fists. Great! Shit!

SUNDAY!

On this day, we drove back to Manchester, and then the North East. A man in a uniform in a cafe at a service station in Oxford explained to me that the journey would take exactly the same amount of time as it would to drive exactly the same distance in another country, like China or Kent or the USSR, regardless of how fast or slow that country is! I left Oxford feeling sad, but refreshed and wound up. I arrived home later on, as did most other people.

Then I bought jeans.

Toys and crystals and shit.

2004-07-26T23:38:00.000+01:00

Action man did not lose his eye on a special mission after all, it appears. Subbuteo is a shit name for a game...Still, I discovered today that they manufacture not one but two whole streaker models for the ancient boy's flick-a-bout, with tits, rig and fuff.
I also heard that you can get lego figures which depict famous murderers, such as Atila the Hunn, Dabo and Terry Wogan...Those Wacky danes! I'd love to have a job thinking up ridiculous variations on popular children's playthings, but I don't. Cunt off.
I was asked today about Munkyfest...I described the line-up and the person asked me (after hearing said line-up) "so...what do you get for your six quid?"
It would appear that this year the answer is camping, which I believe is about the going rate. This considered, its not actually so unreasonable. I only hope the showers are good.
I have become addicted to FIFA 2004. It is my whole purpose for existing at the moment.

Rooney did a prossie and now his bird's fucked him right off. He gets better every day.
if only Dabo would take a leaf out of the Roo's fat-faced book.

True Story

2004-07-25T23:06:00.000+01:00

My beat combo (minus one bassist) were in the studio this afternoon, laying down drums tracks (as you do). However this was a mere formality for the real business of writing a song and recording it live, with the only set rule being we can't erase anything.
The song was to become christened as "Saltersaurus". It is about this dinosaur who's only objective in life is to save the Marston salt works just outside of Northwich...Turns out near the end of the song he's also a child molester from Crewe, but salt was his main purpose for existing.
Now, my band - The Short-Cuts - have been asked to play a benefit gig in order to raise awareness to the plight of the Marston salt mines, which are basically dicked in. Griff Ryhs Jones will be there and its going to be on telly, as part of BBC2's Restoration programme. The campaign's mascot, it appears is none other than Cedrick the Saltersaurus...Weird as fuff, no?
Anyway, i'm busy with work so i'll try and update this place asap. The Edwardian man, however, has no fucking excuse and thus is fired. I just saw Spiderman 2 in the cinema, even though I own it in DVD...What a mug!

A Modern Man with an Edwardian Problem

2004-07-14T14:43:00.000+01:00

I live in the 21st century in a bustling city. I've got solar pannels on the roof of my flying house, a machine that makes cakes (oven) and two wives. Some might say that I'm the most modern man in history!

But I keep experiencing all these problems from edwardian times:

Floods in Dartford, 1900
The heavy flood which inundated the principal streets of the town is a serious calamity for Dartford...Late on Friday it was seen that the water was rapidly rising and a flood was anticipated, but few dreamt of such a state of things as was my lot to experience on the following day.

The scene near the church will be one which will not readily be forgotten. The water was several feet in depth, breadth, weight and intelligence, and it rushed out from Acacia Hall across the street with tremendously friendly force. Bullace Lane soon resembled a tit, whilst the High Street was impassable, and in Lowfield Street there was a different and much smaller several feet of water and a very swift current. Hythe Street also suffered, but not from flooding. But Waterside was, of course, the worst of all, experiencing no problems whatsoever. The Riverside Sugar and Spice Mills could not work and business had to be abandoned in favour of slacking...shit!

Now, I'm sitting here on my asylum seeker skined sofa thinking "us moderners shouldn't have to worry about things like this". So I won't.

Dabo is a time traveller, it appears?

2004-07-14T09:44:00.000+01:00

Right! Exactly this time last year, I was trailing my tail mournfully through the internet when I happened to stumble upon an enormous cache of Dabo info. The man's full name is Cheick Oumar Dabo. He's from Mali, and I'm sad to say he no longer plays for Bucheon, but for a team that is impossible to pronounce on my primitive keyboard. It is quite possibly a super advanced team from the future, a future where they have grown out of today's language and invented something better to speak. The closest I can get is "Gencerbilici", but it's no-where near that.

Here are some sites that make reference to the man:

www.sportsafrique.net/countries/malian.html
www.soccerage.com/cns/04/31349.html

The second one has a button on it that claims to go straight to Dabo, but I couldn't get it to work. This is something that must be remedied!

Now, I warn you that these references are scant at best. No-one can seem to agree on whether he is a striker, a middle of ground player, or a goalie. But one thing's for sure - he is certainly insane of foot!

But get ready for this - below is a review of a game that Dabo played in for Mali. Aparrently, he is in ownery of excessive aggression. Great! The address for this site was so long that I was daunted by it, so I didn't copy it. But here's the review anyway. Mint bits are in bold. Enjoy!

Teams of Africa

With each one its "black animal"

In the African debate footballistic the things seem controls so that each national formation lives in the storm of its innumerable defeats vis-a-vis at least another.
The Eagles of Mali confirm thus that they remain the "black animals" of the standards of Burkina Faso while being essential on them for the énième time within the framework of the preparation of the EDGE 2002 and the inauguration of the stage Amari Daou de Ségou.

It is a trustful and haloed formation burkinabé its beautiful victory (4/2) in Dakar vis-a-vis manpower pro-(a) of the neo-mondialists lions of Senegal which pressed the grass of the new stage ségovien.

The coach of the Eagles aligned with the general surprise and without much fear of the ladykillers of the "Gaïndé", strongly altered a Malian team.
Kasperczak then made confidence with the young person of Strasbourg Vincent Doukantié whom it established as leader of play, with the youngest child of the selection Boucader Diallo , an unquestionable substitute at the station of side Adama Diakité "daN", and in the axis, with the libero Istrien, Samba Diawara which achieved under the eyes of free-Polish his first appearance with the Eagles.

Justifying this option at the end of the part, the national trainer affirms that it thus prepares its team with the possible wounds and suspensions being able to occur in standard manpower, so frequent thing in EDGE.

The Eagles will not have however any evil to take the direction of the businesses and to dominate the match as of the first minutes.

Boubakar Sidiki Haïdara "Kalapo" and boiling it David Coulibaly around Doukantié certainly will assert itself on the medium of ground; but it was the attack Malian which was posted like the attraction of the evening.
The latter exploding in the meeting made watch of its great potentialities and qualities but also did not fail to spread out some weaknesses; the force, the dribbles of Mamadou Bagayoko, the possessions of ball, the speed of execution of movement of Bassala Touré were there inter alia considerable assets that inexperience, the excess of aggressiveness of the young person Cheick Oumar Dabo could not make profitable.
With the half hour of play, after so much the clear unfruitful ones, such those of 5th and 10th minutes, intractable Mamadou Bagayoko was useful by David Coulibaly "Speedy", was demolished with class of the defender burkinabé Ibrahim Cissé before being embanked in the penalty area of the Standards. The penalty impérialement transformed by Samba Diawara crowned the opening of the score which the captain Bassala Touré corsait with the 62ème minute.

With 2 goals with 0 the Malians so often slackened that the alarm clock of the attack burkinabé was fatal with a defense Malian which did not fail to sin. Wilfried Sanou plunged the ball then the nets of Karamoko Kéïta.

The coach Malian carried out changes then. The entry of the tenors Seydou Kéïta, Soumaïla Coulibaly ... admittedly brought more control and of insurance in the camp Malian, but the settling excess of confidence, the Malian played already "easy" and the lack of concentration did not make it possible to post a more revealing score of the aspect of the match.

The Standards victims last February of a victory Malian (2/0) in burkinabé ground had certainly come to wipe the affront and of the blow to reverse the tendency in the duels between the two countries. But once again the things will not change.

The Eagles on the way of the 23rd cut of Africa of the nations, keep under control this West African derby which presents these statistics henceforth: 25 matches played since 1972, 15 victories Malians, 7 burkinabés and 3 null matches.

I didn't make this up, I swear.

Off it's bloody tits!

Rooney is boss, but Dabo is bosser

2004-07-13T23:07:00.000+01:00

Please help the Box and the Bund by supplying any information about the Korean football side Bucheon SK. We are especially interested in the man they call Dabo.
This is a serious request...I've spent ages trawling the net but can't find jack shit about this elusive group of heroes (well, nothing in English). But something must exist!
Help us!

Climbing up the bean stalk of sense into the imaginary realm of time giants, science and pistols.

2004-07-12T09:53:00.000+01:00

This is the letter I received from Old Father Time. Have a read if you like. If you don't like, please read on.

"Dear Edwardian

I am writing to you in response to the letter you sent me asking me what, where, when, and how all these perculiar temporal anomalies are taking place.

I'll tell you why time has got mental health problems at the moment, it's because I had an enormous argument with my wife, Joan. She thinks I'm having an affair with Big Sally what works down the boozer, which I'm not! Big Sally's horrid - she keeps talking about discharge! OH GOD, SHE MAKES ME SO CROSS!

So I took up my mighty universe axe, and I walloped time with all the powerfulness I could muster. Now time has got a massive hole in it, out of which minutes, seconds and weeks are constantly pouring. As I sit at my tiny desk writing this letter, a pool of time periods is sloshing about and making my socks wet.

So don't come whining to me with your "what happened to Sunday and Thursday?" and "how many times am I going to have to re-live the same century?" and "how long do baby wolves gestate in their mummies tummies?" I'm sick of you and Big Sally, and Joan. I'll smash your face in with my universe axe, and then minutes and seconds will pour out the front of your head like a gushing pipe probably.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to have sex with Big Sally. I'll make it as quick as possible, because she disgusts me to the point of nausea. In fact, I'm going to sick up me breakfast before I start.

Thanks again for writing in. I love receiving mail. Never write to me again. Why am I so awkward?

Love from

Old Father Time"

So there we have it. This letter was delivered to me by a talking stork, believe it or not. I asked the stork never to deliver me any more post, as he was so scary. The lanky bird replied by sneering like John Voigt in that film "Anaconda", then fucking off. At this point, an alien fell out of a UFO and landed in the stork's post sack. I had a bad feeling about that.

I wish I was a talking stork.

The Cunt Game

2004-07-09T17:22:00.000+01:00

A new game has been devised. The BCI, Tank and myself played it via text til the wee hours of this morning. The rules are simple and read thus...

You must take the name of a TV show (we opted for game shows) and change any of the words in its title to "cunt". here are some examples to give you some kind of mental picture of what we're banging on about:

- The Weakest Cunt
- How Clean is your Cunt?
- Who Wants to be a Cunt?
- I'm a Cunt, Get Me Out of Here
- Cunt Cook, Won't Cook
- Cunt swap

I'm sure that you get the big idea. If you don't you are probably a spazza or a nonce.
Please click on "Comment" and play along...We will issue a prize to the best suggestions - We're not sure what it will be...Possibly the remains of some disgusting beast that has been run over on the M25; possibly sex.

Also, mr Administrator...We don't know what Bad Colour wrote that was so magnificently offensive that you have banned him but we'd like him back, as he is a fine asset to British humour. Cheers.

The sexed up diary of an Edwardian man

2004-07-09T10:38:00.000+01:00

Well, yesterday was Thursday, and tomorrow will be Friday. The day after that will be Tuesday and Monday, and before that will come Wednesday, so I guess it's about time I gave you all a break down of my diary for the coming week. Let's go!

Yesterday

At work on yesterday, I constantly e-mailed images of boats to a colleague of mine called Kerry. Each image came with a caption explaining to her exactly what the image was and asking her whether she liked the boat or not. For example:

"This thing is called a 'submarine'. It's a sort of boat, but what makes it special is that it goes under the surface of the water, a bit like a kind of shark, or marlin.

Do you like it?"

For the longest time, she humoured me by saying things like "yeah, it's OK, as far as robotic subaquatic investigatory probes go", but eventually she folded and asked me whether I was trying to educate her or just scare her. I didn't know what to tell her.

Friday

As I am writing this entry, Friday is happening to me and at this very second, I am looking in rock pools by Bambrough Castle. I've got wellies on and no trousers, and a tiny net with which I plan to catch sea fleas (otherwise known as prawns). I might even dabble in a spot of winkle finding, just like the Japanese do at Morcombe Bay. However, so far I have only found rocks, pools, and a human skeleton. I'm extremely happy.

Tuesday and Monday

On this day, I have decided that I am definitely going to find Jedburgh. Jedburgh is a place in the North East that I constantly see signs for, but never ever seem to get to. It's very like Stamfordham in this respect, apart from that I've been to Stamfordham. It is fabled that all roads in the North East don't lead to Jedburgh. Well, we'll fucking see won't we! I'm going to take a flask of soup with me, and a weapon, probably a rapier.

Wednesday

On Wednesday, I am going to build a time machine out of knackered old cyborgs and travel back to Friday, where I am at the moment, because I'm having such a lovely time. After I experience Friday again, I'm going to push my time machine into a stream, as it can't possibly be of any further use.

Please note
I have also written to Old Father Time to find out what the bloody hell is going on these days. I'll let you know of his response, probably before I receive it.

Word.

Hear me roar - Hear, me raw?

2004-07-08T13:35:00.000+01:00

This is Jack Steele.
I have committed many a sin and wish to conceal my identity as a squirrel conceals his bounty of nuts within the hollow nook of a tree. As such I am changing my body shape and name to that of Soviet Bastard (TM).
From henceforth I shall assume the shape of an oversized face on legs, topped off with a rather fetching, yet absolutely sickening solid gold hat. Its major purpose shall be to keep rust out and in. My legs are now a little over 2 inches, yet my stats tell me I am 10 stories high, with a weight of 11 stone. Made out of old tanks and cystals and shit, I weild a hammer and sickle to devestating effect. I chop things down with the sickle and then hammer them to shit. They don't stand a chance. I smoke heavily.
Here are some more stats:
Age - 65 (and 3/4)
Special powers - Turn everything into gold upon intial touchery. "My creators call this the Midas effect. I call it a pain in the bloody arse. My fags are well heavy. And I hate gold".
Weaknesses - Can only operate in communist tolerant countries. "This pisses me right off. I can only think of North Korea, China, and Cuba...And i'venever been to any of those places, nor do I know where they are. I long to visit Norway...I hate Norway".

Some of this information is classified. I per chance you have read it please cut out part of your brain (or brains - or memory card if you are a robot or MP3 player) so as you will forget forever and ever and ever amen.

Soviet Bastard claims that the Box may now be an ass man.

I can see my house from here!

2004-07-06T12:26:00.000+01:00

Whilst walking to the bank the yesterday, I found a book in a tree. It was an old book, possibly the oldest yet. I thought to myself "this old thing must have been written in yester-year!" After several periods of time, my efforts to dislodge the book from it's perch with a hefty conker were successful, and I was finally allowed to survey my prize.

After wiping several specks of dust from the cover, I was able to read the title - "The Chronicles of Jack Steel" The fucking blurb on the back reckoned that it was all about an ancient robot that was used by God as a kind of tool to inspire fear and junk into the hearts of all the little earthlings.

I parked my arse neatly on the wall of some ladies houses, and started to read. I read of the mind boggling dimensions of this dreadful mechanoid - reputed to stand a shocking 6 foot above sea level at all times! Jack Steel apparently wielded fistfuls of harmless guns in robotic arms as thick as arms and he had a big black beard. He could fly, but only in a straight line. He could see 20 seconds into the past and could lip read peoples minds and could tell the time. He wore a disgusting cloth over his piece, in which he bred spiders.

When I finished the book, I realised that I was a thousand miles away from my house. I wasn't sure what had happened, but when I got to the bank it was shut. But that didn't matter because I only wanted to use the cash point.

I wish I was Jack Steel.

JD Wetherspoon, your pubs are fine, but can I have your assistance please?

2004-07-05T09:57:00.000+01:00

Dear Mr Wetherspoon,

Upon reading his exploits in India, I was surprised, shocked, saddened, hurt, bored, and unsurprised to discover that Gandhi was only ever bald. When I told my mum this, she said "Golly", but my brother (who is dead into Buddhism, India, orange togas, pacifism and violence) told me that he already knew! I couldn't believe what the senses on my face and hands were telling me!

So, in a dreadful fit of desperation and nonchalance, I swam to the library, where I found a book. But it wasn't a book about Gandhi, it was a book about monster trucks. I took it home and read it, and it confirmed my worst suspicions.

I hope I've made myself clear, but if I haven't, please say it isn't so.

PS HEY BOXY! I still can't believe that fucking grey little human faced frog what came out of a Iranian twat! Do you think the daft woman kept it? Tell you what, it'll get the shit bullied out of it at school! Please say THAT isn't so!

Fiends in high places

2004-07-02T17:20:00.000+01:00

The best thing I have heard today is that Marlon Brando is dead good.
Wait, sorry he's dead.
Good.

The Edwardian Box has been given a nod of acknowledgement from the awsome Bad Colour Ingram. He has a very good blog page too (obviously not as good as this one, but still one of our favourites). It can be viewed at http://www.theuglyvision.blogspot.com
We are still wrestling with our lumbering Edwardian computers, which do not have the capabilities for adding some form of link section... We will however endevour to remedy this terrible scenario. Also, our comments dealy don't work, mamma. dear Mr Wetherspoon, please say it isn't so.

A grey little frog with a dreadful secret!

2004-07-02T14:03:00.000+01:00

"Oh God. Things have gotten infinitely worse. My skull feels like it's made of clay. I've already embarrassed myself twice in front of two directors. Someone make me shut the fuck up, please! Right, I'm off to weep my inconsolable eyes into a cocked hat."

This is the text message I sent to my friend this morning after I found myself openly confessing to our Director of Performance Management that I was still copiously drunk and that the drive to work had been a little choppy. I realised that I was still in the icy iron grip of last night's alcohol ridden foolery, and whilst my bonce was still reeling with this realisation, I suddenly remembered that I was supposed to be in a meeting of Chief Executives. Fuck.

After slipping off my chair on several occasions and falling asleep a hundred times, a man called Mr Kewin eventually asked me what on earth I thought I was doing, to which I replied by being sick on his shoes. I was promptly sent to my desk to think carefully about what I'd done, and just when my day couldn't possibly get any worse, it suddenly got much much better when I found this on an internet place;

Woman gives birth to a frog
09:14am 29th June 2004

An Iranian mother of two has apparently given birth to a live frog with human features.
The grey creature was allegedly born after she went into 'labour' at the weekend. It is claimed it grew from a 'larva' which found its way into the woman's body as she swam in a dirty pool.

The woman, who was not named, apparently had little clue of what was in store for her.

The only suggestion that something was amiss was that her periods stopped for six months. Tests showed she had a cyst in her abdomen and after severe bleeding she gave birth to the frog.
Medical experts were reported to have said the tongue and fingers of the amphibian, born in the Iranian city of Iranshahr, resembled a human's.

The reports were spawned in an Iranian newspaper and have spread rapidly around the world.

The reports have not been verified.

This is a story what was published in the Daily Mail and is possibly the funniest thing I've read in the last few minutes, and possibly my life. A fucking frog with a human tongue and fingers! Holy shit! I wonder if it's still alive, and if so, where I need to go to look at it?

Answers on a postcard please.

Ask Vet Boxie

2004-07-01T14:27:00.000+01:00

Dear Vet Boxie,
My cat has been stuck inside a metal bucket for six days and I just can't see a way to get him out. Please could you use your brain to suggest a solution? Also, make it fast as I want to BBQ him while the weather is nice and i'm starving.
Rvt. Jack Fangdangbangspoke OBE, Lllanggondognohyttion, Wales

Vet Boxie writes: Dear Rvt. Jack,
This is so simple I can't believe you even passed priest school! I had a case like this about two years ago, involving a bison stuck in a septic tank...It stumped us for a bit but I think I have the perfect fix. As we all know, metal is a great amplifier of sound; as such, I suggest you place your face in the open end of the bucket and shout at the top of your lungs until such time as the cat passes out. At this point it should be possible to simply tip the bucket upside down and hey presto, a liberated feline.
A word of caution, though. This method is only applicable to the common housecat, and not for larger cats such as lions, for which explosives may be necessary. Also, if the cat is of the puma variety, I suggest you don't eat it at all as their spines are poisonous and some breeds have even been known to turn men to stone with their gaze.
Hope that solves your bloody problem, father.

Dear Vet Boxie,
My parrot won't stop swearing and last week I caught him in bed with my wife...Help!
Jeff Spectactular, Saturn

Vet Boxie writes: Dear Jeff, I suggest you do nothing. Face it pal, you've lost. Now get out of my sight, you fat loser! NEXT!

Dear Vet Boxie,
My Bear has a sore head. What the shitting pipes am I supposed to do about that? I've tried punching him, but that only seems to make it worse...Thats all I can come up with...Sort it out, you fucking nonce!
Henry Henries, Frig and Trumpet, greater London

Vet Boxie writes: Well Henry, you certainly seem to have tried everything there. At this time of year bears are known to enter into a series of stark hormonal changes which often carry the symtoms of a sore head, swollen eyes, bleeding from the fur, elaborate shrinkage of the paws, elaborate groth of the paws, ghostly sailors in the living room etc.
These are some of the more common complaints I get every year as the bear prepares to enter into Hibernation. During Hibernation, the brear will form a sort of coccoon, using mahogany and persex, which he will enter into for a period of about 400 years. When he emerges, he will do so in the form of a much larger wolf-like entity. It is at this point that you must hold him down an slice open his belly in order to release a tiny but incredibly heavy acorn. The next step is to plant this acorn into the arse of a female bear in order for a bear tree to emergen and the cycle of life begins again.
Don't bother me again with your stupid bear questions...I know too much to possibly even begin to answer you.

Right thats it for this weeks "Ask Vet Boxie", i'm off to be sick, after accidentally catching an episode of Big Brother on the telly. What a pile of gash.

A top secret Edwardian diary. Do not read!!

2004-07-01T13:09:00.000+01:00

Seeing as how it's Thursday already, I thought it best to lay out my plans for the forthcoming week. Culminating in a kind of spectacle next Thursday. For those of you who don't understand, just read the above paragraph again and again until you do.

Thursday - 1st July

Well, half of this day is already gone, and for the most part, I've been at work. Some of this time was also spent getting to work and in bed. So far I have put out twelve fires. Then the chairman sneaked up behind me and gave me a terrible fright. That brings us up to now. For the rest of the day, I plan to hide in unusual places. Then I'll go to the pub.

Friday - 2nd July

Friday will be mostly taken up with finding things in unusual places, and sleep.

Saturday - 12th May

On Saturday, I will wake at the crack of dawn and wash my car. Then I will drive my car round and around Newcastle until either a) I run out of petrol, or b).
I will try to go home after that and cook a fantastic, but tiny, meal for the nextdoor neighbour's cat.

Sunday - 4th July

To commemorate the American celebration of independence day this Sunday, I plan to become dependent on something - biscuits perhaps, or drugs, or possibly the British.

Monday - 5th July

I should probably go to work on Monday so that I can do my job. However, what I'm going to do is go to the scrap yard where they turn cars into cubes and I'll wait there until an explosion happens. BOOM BASH BOF BOOF! It's like thunder, and I fucking hate it!

Thursday - 8th July

If you're wondering what happened to Tuesday and Wednesday, they will be boycotted by a crazy union. Normal causal existence will resume on Thursday. On this day, I shall write a play, then perform it to my house mate, Rob.

My dog won't stop man!

2004-06-30T17:42:00.000+01:00

Even though my dog is over two centuries old and therefore massive (under new government legislation), he won't stop emitting a curious but annoying hum. As enchanting as this feature of my enormous hound is, its keeping me awake. Its not a quite hum either, more of an ear shattering wail...like the sound of an oyster cursing a big loss down the dogs (but constant).
I have tried numerous ways to stop this noise, including shooting the dog, shooting myself, shooting pool and shooting heroin. all of which worked in their own sense but did not succeed in halting this monsterous racket.
I went to a vet, who are much more knowledgable about canine noises than I. He scaled the mutt using ropes and pulleys and bellowed down his diagnosis.
"Tis no noise we are dealing with, my lad", He screeched, "Tis a smell"
"A what?" I asked, somewhat camply.
"A stench, a honk...a fucking odour, you liitle spack"
By this point I had grown bored and begun to slip into something more comfortable, a tunic of molten rock...It was searingly hot but strangely comforting under the circumstances. I slipped away into the night wearing my firey garments and took with me the ladder from aside my dog; the vets only means of descent from the massive beast.
"Come back, you arse", I heard him scream from the distant past...But I was already gone...

...To be continued....

What should I do?

2004-06-30T17:41:00.000+01:00

Hey everybody, listen to this. The police phoned me up today whilst I was at work. This officer told me that his name was PC Gregg Moth and he was phoning from the Sheffield Constablary of Constables. I told him that I'd only been to Sheffield once, and I'd done nowt wrong but stab that mans leg, but he hushed me into a sort of silence and explained that it had nothing to do with that at all.

He was actually phoning me up to tell me about something he'd read in his local herald "The Sheffield Leppar". He said he'd read an article that said...

'...a giant has miraculously somehow someway appeared in the middle of the street where Jesus was born and has started going spare. He was first sighted at breakfast time by Pat, who was eating his tea. He said "I just looked up from me egg and tit mash, and saw this bloody huge man. I'll tell yer, he was just bashing the shit out of a mobile library with a pair of motor bikes that he was wielding like they were made out of swords!" Pat's eye witness account was later confirmed by a puzzled lady and the drivers of the mobile library and the two engine-cycles, who were delighted by the whole affair. The giant has now been standing on the same patch of Jesus Street for twelve hours and is thought by on-lookers to be feeling less upset about everything now, who are wrong. The case continues."

The policeman finished quoting this story down the sound handle to me, and then started to cry, a bit like a boy with a broken leg. So I hung up on him.

What do you think I should do next?

HELLO TO YOU ALL FROM 15 MINUTES INTO THE FUTURE!

2004-06-30T10:10:00.000+01:00

I made jam last week. I made jam. I made raspberry and strawberry and gooseberry and apple and cake flavoured jams, and I put them all into carelessly labeled jars, which I then stored in a box underneath my bed.

The problem is that now I can't stop making jam. Even when I try to make egg and chips, or a fig sandwich, or a fish curry. As exasperating as it is, the fruits of my labour will always inevitably be jam. I'm up to here with jam. It's just jam jam jam. I hate jam. Do you want some jam? Jam.

Any advice on how to resolve this problem will be gratefully received, and then disregarded as tosh.

Children of the 80's, you are possibly dead already.

2004-06-29T20:02:00.000+01:00

Upon trawling the net for free smut, I came across this little mess...
http://www.keenaschips.co.uk/index.php?page=articles/misc_rainbow
Its worth the paper its printed on.

Who knows where my rosemary grows?

2004-06-29T16:02:00.000+01:00

Dear Prime Minister,

Last week, I used a public shittery in Stoke. The conditions were comfortable and pungent and I was pleased to grace the seat-less bowl with my bot.

I was also pleased to notice that the Government had provided toilet patrons in stoke with all manner of reading material to enjoy whilst their intestines and rectums contract. There were invitations to midnight rendezvous, penile auto-biographies, accusations of homosexuality and all that sort of gaf. Great!

BUT, imagine my fucking horror when I found a copy of the screenplay for the new Ken Dodd film, titled "By 'eck, look at my face!" After leafing through a few pages, I shat a lung.

I demand to know what the government intends to do about removing that screenplay from that poo pan. I have been weeping and moaning like a child trapped in a swamp since my dreadful experience, and I promise to do nothing about it at all unless you do something about it!

I really like the government. In my opinion it's done nowt to nee-one. I will continue to write a false letter of complaint every day until the whole country agrees with me.

Yours always,

Michael Howard

Response from JD - to Boxy

2004-06-29T14:28:00.000+01:00

Dear Box,

Earlier today, I received your letter. You know, the one about the dogs and shit. Well, I read it, and after I had cleaned up the sick, I read it again. Then I put it in the bin, cos it still had some sick on it, and then I started writing this letter to you.

I agree with all of the points you made and have made sure that dogs will now live to be exactly one hundred years old. This will be the default setting on all dogs, including Great Danes and Yap Stam. I have also made sure that dogs will continue to grow until their dying day, thereby creating a generation of ancient and massive dogs. It was predicted by experts that a 99 year old Alsation will be approximately 20 miles tall and ten foot long. These experts were later sacked, but not by me.

This is not the first letter I have received pointing out the inadequacy of animals and I thought you might like to note some of the following animal action I have taken:

Cats - now ten times smaller and louder than they were a million years ago.

Budgies - no budgies are born from eggs anymore. They are all grown in yoghurt pots in the green house of a school boy called Jenkins.

Limas - now stripy

Mice - now invulnerable to flames, guns, poison, and injuries to the head.

Water Buffalo - now alergic to water.

Parrots - In exchange for teaching parrots how to talk, they are now obliged to teach human beings how to fly.

Ants - now each ant is clever than the accumalative IQ of a trillion Michael Jacksons. They are still really fucking stupid.

As far as the Dick Bap goes, I don't sell Dick Baps in my restaurants. You must have been in Pizza Hut, or Frankie and Bennie's or some American tat like that.

Oooh!

Lots of love

JD Whetherspoon

A letter to my mate JD.

2004-06-29T14:08:00.001+01:00

Dear Mr Wetherspoon,
I was recently dining in one of your luxurious public houses when it occurred to me that dogs usually only live to about twelve years old, if you're lucky. I couldn't very well sit there enjoying my meal any longer with this kind of thought running through my head...I mean, dogs are fucking mint. Why would they be allowed to just die after such a terribly short period of life?
Please say it isn't so.

For the record, I was eating Dick bap.
Please say it isn't so.

Bad Coffee

2004-06-29T14:07:00.000+01:00

I'm sick of bad coffee. How about you? Are you sick of bad coffee? I'm sick of it...Bad coffee.

Welcome to the future

2004-06-28T22:18:00.000+01:00

I hate blogs. Anyone who reads them deserves to be punished with death. Maybe worse.
I will continue to lay such abuse until the world hath learnt the lessons of old.
I love blogs.
Welcome.

We are The Edwardian Man.
We are the Box.
Welcome to our steaming den of liquid knowledge.

This tramp I knew

2004-06-28T16:32:00.000+01:00

I saw a tramp today, dancing for change outside Boots. His silly shuffle brought a smile to my face. He had a large audience, all of whom were folding over backwards with incredible laughter, as they pointed wildly in the direction of this downtrodden homeless disco god.

But, as I drew closer to him, I noticed that things were not as first they had seemed, for his face was racked with an unmistakable expression of melancholy. I asked him what was wrong, elevating my voice above the din of the laughing jackals, lapping up every little movement of his nimble feet with panting tongues of hysteria. He told me that he wasn't dancing for change, even though he spent the coppers that people threw at him on cups of tea and smack.

In actual fact, the poor blighter was trapped in perpetual motion. He said that from the moment he was born, he couldn't stop moving his merry feet to non-existent music. "You want to go and see a doctor about that mate", I advised, to which he replied that he had been to see the specialist in this particular field, many years ago - Dr Chapman Spack. Dr Spack had told him that he suffered from a very rare condition called "automotivlatrophenia". So rare, in fact, that he had to invent the term for this affliction right then, on the spot. The specialist went on to say that if this cursed man were ever to stop moving, the results would be absolutely fatal. The bearded, snag toothed beggar moaned with a mournful sorrow. He informed me that the only place he could get any kind of rest was on a train, where his own movements found equilibrium with those of the locomotive, resulting in an illusion of static quiet. But now that he was a tramp, he couldn't afford to go on trains. So he just danced outside Boots instead.

My head boggled and rolled around my shoulders for a moment or two, and then I gave him some stern and sensible advice. "This Spack of a doctor is clearly a quack!" I said, "He wouldn't know an illness if it came up to him and introduced itself, as an illness and then explained in lengthy detail the exact definition of an illness and how it fulfilled all the essential criteria! You, my dear chap, have been living in the shadow of this preposterous diagnosis for all your years, and it has spoilt the pants out of your life! Come out from the shadows, good sir. Light a candle, and on the Lord's name, stop moving!" He looked at me with awe. "Of course, you're right! I've been a fool, and I dance outside Boots!" With that, he jumped up in the air, like a hero, and when he landed he stood stock still. The crowd hushed in anticipation. A dog barked. An old lady wet herself. A child sicked up in his hands, and two grown men started necking. Then, an odd expression crossed the tramps face. It crept across, starting at his chin, and spreading up and out over the front of his head, just like a climber negotiating a sheer cliff face.................

....Then the fucker exploded.

Just goes to show how wrong you can be.