Thursday, 6 March 2014

Floods, Facebook and Food ....... and Religion. It's combo-tastic!

Hello dahlink, how are you? I thought I would sneak in an extra blog post because the Bolly is flowing and I need a distraction from all things cooking.

Talking of cooking, the other day I received a berluddy excellent text from a chum called Emily. She is a brilliant chef like Jamie Oliver, except that she isn't a bloke and doesn't sport facial hair. Actually, 'chef' is probably not the right word because she actually makes posh cakes, but anyway, she asked if she could come round to my house on Tuesday and cook pancakes ........ something to do with Catholics and Easter and Lent or something.

Apparently, according to Catholic tradition, you are supposed to scoff loads of pancakes, then give up something for 40 days. Not sure what that's all about, but if I was a practising Catholic, I would give up anchovies and tuna because they are disgusting anyway. And while we are on the subject of Catholics, I have an interesting fact for you. My mum was a nun. Totally true. But looking at how things turned out, she wasn't a particularly successful one. Probably for the best really ...... the uniform can be a bit samey and apparently you have to live off potatoes. 

Anyway, I digress - back to Emily offering to cook pancakes. My response? "Errrrr, yeh! Does the pope shit in the woods!" Last time I attempted pancakes they ended up like carbon brake disks, so getting in a gordon blue chef was a no brainer.

Pic.No.1 This is Emily cooking pancakes in my kitchen. She had to wipe all the dust from the pans and cooker before proceeding

Pic.No.2 Izzy, her chum, and Fraser (Em's husband) scoffing the proceeds - pancakes served with lemon, syrup, Nutella and banana. Unfortunately they were only for the kids, so I was stood there like a Pavlov dog at a bell ringing convention

All in all, Emily did a marvellous job, but I have to think of a pretext to get her round cooking some scoff for me. Something like 'a dog ate the contents of my freezer and I'm about to perish from Beri Beri'. Hmmm, may have to refine that one a bit, I think she'll see through that thinly veiled ruse.

Anyway, that's pretty much it for me ......  except for two photographs I saw on Facebook this week that made me laugh. And because I am like Mother Theresa (except that I shave my legs), here they are (the first one was actually taken from the passenger seat of my car) ..........

Pic.No.3 No shit Sherlock

And finally, Obama met the Dalai Lama last week. China objected.
Then the Daily Record delivered this belter of a headline ..........


Pic.No.4 Is this the best headline ever? 

Ok, the headline above wasn't quite the final thing. I found this video on youtube. It's a mutt which sounds a bit like Naughty George did and caused me much guffawing. Enjoy.


P.S. what have you been up to this week dahlink?

Monday, 24 February 2014

Ugh! A trip to Ikea - the Devil's spawn

Shopping is the devil's spawn. It's even worse than cleaning windows. Or hoovering the stairs. Or washing the cheese grater. Or washing the garlic press. Or weeding a flower-bed only to discover a hidden dog turd when it's too late. Man alive, that shit is worse than visiting a relative and realising that you have forgotten to pack any underwear. And then realising that you need to borrow some.

Oh crikey. That brings back memories. Yes. I've done that (the underwear thing). 

Last weekend in fact. 

I packed in haste, and forgot to shove in the essentials. As a result, I had to borrow two pairs of my cousin's skids to get me through the weekend. And let me elucidate; nothing feels as wrong as wearing other people's pants. It's worse than sitting on a toilet seat that is still warm from the previous incumbent. Or someone offering you the dregs of their coke bottle when you know full well that it is heftily diluted with their gob.

So, after donning my cousin's aforementioned skids, I needed to adopt a 'contact minimisation strategy': firstly, I loosened my belt to drop my kaks (that's slang for pants 'oop north') by 3cms, and then I subliminally adopted a John Wayne kind of gait in an attempt to prevent any gusset contact. It's not an experience that I want to repeat any-time soon. It's not that her underwear was objectionable in any way, it just that it was HER underwear.

Anyway, I digress. Enough of borrowed skids ....... let's get back to shopping. 

A "friend" convinced me that I needed to go to Ikea (with my Izzy and his daughter, L) to help choose the furniture for his daughter's recently redecorated bedroom.

After 15 seconds of arriving at the store, I was bored out of my head. It was full of room-sets, all containing hundreds of accessories that would need dusting if you bought them. 

I was losing the will to live. Desperately, I tried to seek a way out, but anyone who has been to Ikea will know that you have to tour the whole store before discovering the holy grail - the exit. Yep, I was trapped in the furniture maze of hell.

Grrr. So then I decided to make my own entertainment before I went mental. And what better entertainment can you get than mixing kids with accessories?

Pic.No.1 Izzy found this speech bubble. Guess which bit I Photo-shopped?

Pic.No.2 Blimey, I thought Ikea was a family-friendly shop. Down Rover!

 
Vid.No.1 Keeping ourself entertained whilst my "friend" browses accessories (8 seconds)

After a million years (or thereabouts), the whole experience thankfully ended, and I burst forth from the store blinking in the daylight and gasping for oxygen (after encountering biblical check-out queues that took 30 minutes to get through). But not before we had an Ikea hot-dog for £1.00 each - the stand of which is placed just after checkout.

Once free, my "friend" quickly realised that I might be displaying symptoms of PTSD, and asked what could be done to alleviate the situation.

"Pizza ........" I replied in an exhausted fashion, with half-closed eyes because my eyelids were all weak from the stress.

"I know a place called San Carlo in Banbury," he replied.

My weak eyelids instantly recovered. "Let's do it!" I hollered.

And within 20 minutes we were seated in what was one of the best Italian restaurants I have been to in a long time.

Pic.No.3 The chef even let the girls into the kitchen to cook their own rabbit-shaped pizzas but he burnt the ears because I was chatting to him about the horrors of Ikea

Oh yes, years of hard-core commando training (kind of) has taught me that ALL trauma can be quickly eliminated by simply serving a pizza / curry / Bolly (or any combination of). In fact, if you look at the contents of my fridge, that is pretty my how my filing system works ..... top shelf - pizza, middle shelf - curry, and bottom shelf - Bolly. It's a remarkably effective system, and you never end up throwing away any waste vegetable shit.

So dahlink, what have you been up to the last couple of weeks?

P.S. Next post will be about my holiday in Hampshire with FIVE girls! It was hair-tastic.


Monday, 10 February 2014

It's a slow news week in Oxford .... don't read this .... read the next one

Crikey, I don't how you are faring, but it's been colder than duck's chuff here in Oxford. I've been huddled in the dining room with the heating on, trying to keep warm by swigging tea from the mugs that my cousin Jane, bought me for Christmas.

Pic.No.1 Look. These are my new mugs

Jane generally has impeccable taste. 

Except for the time when she made me wear false eyelashes and I had to go out looking like a German hooker. Or when she painted my nails with black varnish so I looked like I'd just returned from a stint on an oil rig. Oh, and then there was that time that she insisted on 'back-combing' my hair, and I resembled someone who had had an electric shock in a wind-tunnel. 

Blimey. That's without forgetting her suggestion that I wear a mini-skirt, only to look like a Russian shot-putter. She might be a git.

 Pic.No.2. This is what I look like with back-combed hair. Yes I'm pleased to see you

Oooh! Dahlink! I digress. Before I go off on a tangent with more ramblings, I wanted to introduce another cool present that I received for Christmas. Without further ado, may I introduce ........

Pic.No.3 My plastic squirrel eating a nut. He's called Barry


Barry is well handy. Actually, I can't back that up. I have stared at him for weeks wondering what to do with him -and the only thing he is good at is gazing into the middle-distance without moving.

video
Vid.No.1 I did an animation of Barry jumping into a tupperware container to try and make him useful

As you can probably tell, it's been a bit of a slow-news-week here in Oxford. But that's not to say that nothing has happened. No sirree.

Give me a slow week, and I'll make you an omelette.

Ok, maybe it doesn't sound that spectacular, but given my culinary skills, it's the equivalent of scaling Mont Blanc (which I have actually done ..... except that when I did it, I used a cable car to avoid having to deal with those barbaric ropes, pick-axes and dangly clip things). Hanging off cliff faces with a 2000ft drop is so 80s dahlink.

Anyway, back to my omelette and the desolate wasteland that is my kitchen. The omelette initially looked quite good. I had mixed up three eggs, some raw bacon, and then I had thrown in some cheese. I cooked the mixture for 30 minutes in a frying pan. But then I realised that the eggs looked a bit black and carbon-y, and the bacon was still anaemic. Necessity dictated that I pick out all the raw bacon from the congealed egg and fry it in a separate pan before re-adding it to the omelette.

But, you'll be pleased to know that after all that faff, (you know - scraping off all the black bits), I had a feast fit for a king .......

Pic.No.4 My omelette - Please feel free to share this recipe with your friends

Even though it was a successful experiment, that's the last time I do cooking, I tell you. It's a mug's game. You spend ages doing it, and then it ends up looking like something that Jackson Pollock would knock out. It's why home delivery was invented.

So dahlink, that's it for me. Next week is looking quite exciting .... I am taking FOUR girls (all under 14) away on holiday during the school break. Updates coming later ......

Monday, 20 January 2014

Looky here! Comedy Poses with Statues

Greetings dahlink. Today I decided that I needed a new hobby. After Naughty George's demise and subsequent journey to that big dog basket in the sky, I've kind of gone off comedy-taxidermy as a way of keeping myself entertained in the long winter evenings. Even though I briefly contemplated having NG stuffed and mounted onto a trolley, he just wouldn't be the same if he wasn't surrounded by a yellow mist and circling flies.

Consequently, for the time being, my heart just isn't into dead animals, and I decided that I needed another hobby. So, after much contemplation, and pondering with my forehead resting on my fist, I came up with an indefectible idea.

"And what idea is that?" I hear you cry.

It's obvious! It's comedy poses with statues! You can't go wrong. And what's more I have got provenance ..............

Pic.No.1 Here is a picture of Steve that I took whilst we were in Finland 

The whole scenario got me thinking; 'Hmmm, I wonder if anyone else has done any funny poses with statues?'

A couple of hours on the internet confirmed my suspicions - that many other people had taken comedy photographs whilst they were posing with statues.

And because I am like Mother Theresa, except that I have more variety in my wardrobe, I have got some pictures for you ........................

Pic.No.2 Crikey, has Hilary Clinton's BO brought that girl-person to her knees?

Pic.No.3 Yep, I agree statue ...... I don't want to see his skids either

Pic.No.4 Go on son! Straight for the nork strike

Pic.No.5 Crikey, Cops do tongues these days. Excrement!

Pic.No.6 I like the way his eyes have rolled up. That's attention to detail that is

Pic.No.7 Blimey! I know why she looks panicked - that statue is holding a butt plug in his other hand

Pic.No.8 Good job he was there to stop her from falling

Pic.No.9 Oh no. I tripped

Pic.No.10 This pictures poses questions on so many levels

Pic.No.11 More tea vicar?

Pic.No.12 I reckon that statue is normal sized, and the human-guy is from Lilliput

Pic.No.13 Socrates (or some other old-fashioned type bloke - they're all pretty much the same) does a selfie. Look how big that boy's hand is in the background

Pic.No.14 Roar. 'She was killed for wearing white socks with black shoes', says Trevor the Bear

Pic.No.15 Some kind of Peter Pan shit ....... I think

Pic.No.16 Is that a Buddha sitting on a turtle?! Besides that - I reckon that the likeness is so great that human guy doesn't want to remove his PJs

Pic.No.17 Awwww ...... heavenly cherubs

So dahlink, please feel free to send me any comedy statue poses that you might possess. I like them so much that I want to do another blog post on them.

Finally, here is a statue of Lady Godiva that is positioned in the centre of Coventry. 

Pic.No.18 Lady Godiva - In the olden days she was made famous because she stripped naked and galloped through Coventry protesting about something or other

Although I don't have any photographs of the event (mobile phones were rare then and didn't have cameras), I do have a claim to fame. When I was a student at Coventry University, I (aged 21) managed to scale the plinth and sit on the horse behind Lady Godiva. Huzzar!

Despite the fact that all my chums were spurring me on, unbeknownst to me, the statue was being monitored by CCTV and within 2 minutes the police arrived, meaning that I had to dismount the dobbin and run away very quickly.

That's why statues are cool. They proffer up a plethora of comedy opportunities.

Monday, 13 January 2014

Hello Scotland. You're Barking Mad

What, with last week being shittier than a flock of cows with double diarrhoea, I decided that I needed to get away for a bit. In Cognitive Behavioural Therapy parlance, it's called 'distraction tactics', a handy phrase that can be used to justify almost all hedonistic activity.

So tactically distract myself I did. By heading off to Edinburgh, Scotland, for a few days.

For some bizarre reason, I decided to travel by train (something I hadn't done for about fifteen years), and not much had changed. Firstly, the cost was extortionate - £137.00. Secondly, it took forever - 6 hours and 30 minutes. And thirdly, the food was minging. I had to survive the journey by nibbling on an anaemic burger that tasted like cat food. Not that I have ever eaten cat food (for the record). It's how I imagined cat food would taste. In fact, cat food would probably be preferable.

As the train chugged inexorably towards Scotland, it gradually emptied until I was the only one in the carriage. But then something bizarre happened. We stopped at an outpost approximately one hundred miles from Edinburgh, and a solitary bloke embarked.

Given the choice of an entirely empty carriage, he decided to take the seat right behind me. WTF! Is it me, or is that an etiquette faux pas? A similar scenario is when you are the only person in a large public toilet, and someone else comes in and selects the cubicle / urinal right next to you. It's just all wrong .... surely they know it makes your bladder contract faster than an octopus eating plankton.

Pic.No.1 The weirdy bloke in the seat behind me

Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that even though he was a bit weird, he wasn't an axe murderer, and I successfully arrived (alive) in Edinburgh at about 7pm.

Pic.No.2 This is a picture of Edinburgh from the train station

Within one minute of arriving in Scotland, I was ripped off.

After leaving the train station, I jumped into a taxi and gave him the name of my hotel - The Jurys Inn.

"Nay problem, luv." he said.

And then he literally drove me 100 yards before saying, "Here we are, that'll be £5.00 luv."

Cheeky bastard. I could have walked that distance in less than 30 seconds. Who knew the hotel was so close to the station?

Never mind, I was there to chill out, so I checked-in and made my way to my hotel room.

Pic.No.3 This is an exact copy of my hotel room. I forgot to take a picture so I had to nick it from the internet - hence the bluriness

Ostensibly, at first glance, it appeared to be a perfectly respectable hotel room. But after spending half an hour in it, the flaws started to appear. All I wanted to do was relax in bed with a cup of tea, some food, and a bit of internet time. Each of which were scuppered by:

- The fact that the kettle couldn't be filled because it didn't fit under the tap in the bathroom
- They didn't do room service
- Internet access cost £5.00 per HOUR! In this day and age - surely you're kidding me?
- The curtains weren't black-out curtains, and the street-lights were shining through
- The bed had horrible foam cushions (being Lady M, I am a stickler for duck-down cushions)

Pic.No.4 The Jurys Inn Hotel in Edinburgh - it's pants

It didn't stop there.

'Ummm, a shower would be nice after such a long journey,' I thought.

So I headed to the bathroom, only to discover a tiny bath with a weak shower above, and a mildewy shower CURTAIN (what kind of hotel uses them in this day and age?) that clung to my body for the entire duration of my ablutions.

By this stage, I was feeling wearied by it all, and decided to go to bed .... not realising that I had inadvertently booked into the noisiest hotel on the planet.

In summary, every time the heating kicked in, the radiators made a loud knocking sound. Then at about 7am each morning, there was a huge clattering outside as the hotel put the bins out for collection.

As if that wasn't enough, on my second night there, the hotel had decided to undertake maintenance work on the room below. From 7.30am, all I could hear was the intense sound of drilling and hammering ....... for two solid hours. Bastards.

Then, on my third morning, I was awoken by someone knocking at my door. I opened it, bleary-eyed, only to find a member of staff standing there: "I just wanted to let you know that your 'Do Not Disturb' sign has fallen off your handle," he said. What a twat.


It couldn't get worse ....... or so I thought.

Shortly after the 'do not disturb' incident, a mad bloke started Scottish yodelling outside my window. He interspersed his 'song' with shouty words like 'HAGGIS!' and 'ARSE!', before repeating the cycle ad infinitum.

It was like sleeping in a bloody train station.

But I don't want to seem too whiny just because the hotel was shite. There were very many lovely moments to Edinburgh ..... and because I am like Ariel Sharon (except that I am not nicknamed the 'Butcher of Beirut'), here are some pictures for you ..........

Pic.No.5 I had a bloody lovely pizza at a restaurant called Vittoria on the Bridge - an amazing Italian restaurant. The pizza was bigger than my head. Just as I like it

Pic.No.6 I also had a meal at a restaurant called 'The Dome'. The building and service was amazing. Apparently the building used to be a bank

Pic.No.7 The Dome had the biggest display of flowers that I have ever seen. It was probably bigger than Mother Theresa's muff fluff

Pic.No.8 Apparently this may be an Ionic / Corinthian / Palladia column. There has been a big debate about it on my Facebook. But all you really need to know is that I am in picture

I returned home from Scotland two days ago and am revelling in the abject warmth of Oxfordshire.

So dahlink, do you have any travel tales for me ...... come on ...... bad hotels and the like?


Monday, 6 January 2014

R.I.P. Naughty George. Died 6th January 2014

*SADNESS WARNING*

This is a post that I never wanted to write. I knew that there was an inevitability about it because Naughty George (my dog) was 19, but still, it doesn't make it any easier.

Suffice to say, there are tears on my keyboard as I write to inform you that Naughty George died this morning at 11.50am. Gutted doesn't come close to describing how I feel.

We had been travelling throughout the UK for two weeks, visiting various friends for Christmas. At the beginning of our travels, he was pretty much his normal self; chasing their cats, guffing under the dining table whilst we were eating dinner, and woofing vacuously every time I tried to hold a conversation with someone.

But on Boxing day, I noticed some slight changes in his behaviour. He seemed a bit unsteady on his feet, went off his food, and was vomiting a lot. I thought he had picked up a bit of a bug, and coaxed him to eat by proffering him some of his favourite food.

He did perk up a bit for a few days, but by the time we finally returned home to Oxford last night, he had deteriorated quite a bit. He seemed confused and wobbly on his paws, and had lost control of his bowel movements.

I decided to treat him to a doggy pamper evening. I managed to feed him a bowl of his favourite chicken and rice, and then I let him snooze on the sofa (not normally allowed).

As a grand finale, I lit the fire and put his basket next to it - absolutely his favourite place in the world.

Pic.No.1 Naughty George, feeling poorly, and having a snooze on the sofa whilst the fire is being lit

Pic.No.2 Naughty George chilling in front of the fire last night

Pic.No.3 Naughty George, my faithful friend

Pic.No.4 I love you Georgie

Pic.No.5 I didn't know it at the time, but this was the last ever picture of Naughty George ... taken yesterday evening

At the end of the evening, I tucked him into his bed and then retired myself.

The first thing that I did this morning, was to check that he was ok.

He wasn't.

He was lying in his bed and was shallow breathing and unresponsive. He wouldn't even open his eyes when I stroked him, he just let out little groans to indicate that he knew I was there.

I wrapped the little fella in a blanket to keep him warm, and then I made one of the hardest decisions of my life - to call the Veterinary.  

I knew the significance of the call to the Vet, and it was totally heartbreaking. But there was one final gesture that I could do for my faithful friend. Naughty George has always been petrified of Veterinary Surgeries, so I asked if the Vet come come to my house to spare him the ordeal. She agreed, and said that she would be there in an hour.

It was as though Naughty George knew I had made the call. He lifted his head up and looked at me with his big brown eyes before dragging himself shakily to his feet. My little mutt was fighting to the end.

11.30am. I stroked his head and steadied him until I heard the dreaded knock at the front door. It was the Vet.

She examined Naughty George and said that he had an irregular heartbeat and that his symptoms indicated that there were many other underlying problems.

"I can treat him for some of his ailments, but that would only take him through another couple of weeks," she told me softly.

"I don't want him to suffer any more," I remember telling her, tears welling up big time. I needed to hold it together.

11.35am. She nodded and then gently asked where Naughty George would be happiest whilst she administered the injection.

"In his bed," I replied.

I remember numbly carrying him there, and cuddling him whilst the Vet prepared the injection.

11.40am. Her first attempt failed, because Naughty George realised that something was going on, and started fighting against all the people around him (there was a Veterinary Assistant as well as the Vet there) .

11.43am. "I'm going to have to sedate him first," the Vet concluded, realising that Naughty George was a bit distressed, "and it'll will take effect in five minutes. I'll leave him with you during that time."

It was a good decision on the Vet's behalf. I got an extra five minutes with my trusty mutt, and he gradually calmed down, lying his head into my cupped hands.

When the Vet came back, she had 'the' injection in her hands, ready to go.

11.48am. She took Naughty George's right leg in her hand and cut off some fur so that she could find an artery. And then she put the injection into it.

11.49am. Even though Naughty George was sedated, he felt the final injection enter his leg. I know that for sure, because for the last time, he opened his big brown eyes and looked straight at me (his head still lying in my cupped hands) ......... but then they closed, and he became all limp as my tears fell onto his head. 

11.50am. Naughty George died in my arms.

11.55am. The Vet gently removed Naughty George from his bed and wrapped him carefully in a red blanket. I stroked him one last time, and then she left with his body. 

Pic.No.6 R.I.P Naughty George - I will miss you more than you'll ever know
______________________________________________

Leila (aged 10) wrote a brilliant poem for Naughty George, straight after finding out that he had died ....... it sums my lovely mutt up ...... god I miss him.


 George, George

George, George,
You peed in my bed,
George, George,
Did you hear what I said?

George, George,
How do you do,
George, George,
You’ve just done a great big poo!

George, George,
You’ve lived a long and happy life,
George, George,
Now it’s time to say goodbye.
By Leila (aged 10)
In Memory of
Naughty George

Died: 6th January 2014
George’s favourite Hobbies
Stinking a lot and Getting in the way.
We Love you Georgie!

Thursday, 19 December 2013

Stuff that! 16 Innovative Ideas for Your Dead Pet

As you know, I like to be of public service where at all possible. That's because I am like a Mother Theresa, except that I have a propensity to splash-out money on moisturiser.

Anyway, I digress. As is often my wont, I was doing some pondering this week ........

"What the blazes were you pondering about?" I hear you cry.

Well, after observing Naughty George snoring and guffing in his bed, I was wondering what I'd do with him if he went to that big dog-basket in the sky. It seemed such a waste to chuck a cherished pet into landfill just because they're simply a tad stiff and lifeless. Even more so when they could be made into something useful, like a tea-towel holder, or a small table onto which you could put the remote control.

And that got me thinking ........ I haven't done a post on taxidermy (my favourite subject) in absolutely ages ...... hence this post.

So, if you have an expired pet knocking around the house, here are some inspirational ideas for you ......... get that pet out of the freezer and get creative!

Pic.No.1 Look at this cleverly stuffed monkey. Bizarrely, Izzy looks like that when I serve her dinner

Pic.No.2 The taxidermist has managed to capture this cat in all it's predatory glory

Pic.No.3 Antarctica - it's almost like being there

Pic.No.4 This would have been great if the taxidermist hadn't chosen a mole doing the Charleston

Pic.No.5 The wise splendour is oozing from this owl

Pic.No.6 Majestic Moose ....... kind of. Apart from the ear that has drooped. And everything else

Pic.No.7 Hey Amigo! Check out the lug-holes on this kitty. It'll be sent into a flat spin if it encounters a sudden gust of wind, like the kid at my school who was nicknamed 'wing-nut'

Pic.No.8 The aerial prowess of this bat has been artfully captured

Pic.No.9 Don't know what do to with your dead monkey? You could make this handy iPad holder

Pic.No.10 Use your dead bobcat thing to make this natty swing for the kids

Pic.No.11 This fox in his near-natural habitat has been captured for posterity

Pic.No.12 This cute monkey makes a imaginative jewellery stand. But I wouldn't want to see the results of the Taxidermist's Inkblot Test

Pic.No.13 That's a big log Mr Weasel. "Why thank you," replied Mr Weasel, cocking his head at a jaunty angle

Pic.No.14 I ate most of this cow in a series of Big Macs, but I like what they've done with the remains ........ Moooooo!

Pic.No.15 Ferocious, fearsome and relentless predator? roar! ..... Ranger Smith

Pic.No.16 Don't know what it is, but this creature looks ideal for dispensing After Eight mints by pumping it's tail up and down

There you have it, nature lovers. If we all work together, we can transform our pets into useful additions to society even though they are dead.

And just in case you need further inspiration, here are some previous posts that I did about taxidermy ..... happy stuffing!

Dead Pet? I've got it covered..... BIG time!

Dog Sick and Taxidermy gone wrong ..... Part 3

Addicted to Taxidermy ..... it's dead good

When taxidermy goes wrong

Taxidermy Gone Wrong. Again. Marvellous

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