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Jim Garten View Drop Down
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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 11 2004 at 08:01
Originally posted by Blacksword Blacksword wrote:

Collectivly known as alcopops, these drinks get you severely wrecked. I drunk 13 Bacardi Breezers, one summer afternoon a few years back, and I was ill for two days.



Bacardi is indeed an evil drink - one of those & I can be guaranteed an instant pounding headache; however, 13 in an afternoon......... Hmmmmm. Did you expect to feel good the next day?

Jon Lord 1941 - 2012
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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 11 2004 at 08:18

It tasted like pop! I didn't feel drunk at all, until I tried to play football after the 10th or so. The projectile vomiting started about 30 minutes after the 13th. That was about 5.00pm. I was still shouting EUROPE at the U-bend by 7.00am the next day. The headache that followed lasted the rest of the day, up until lunch time the following day.

My caring friends, to this day, whenever I'm feeling a off colour for whatever reason, ask me if I want a breezer.

Ultimately bored by endless ecstasy!
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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 12 2004 at 01:57

Yes I quite agree I mean what's the point of being treated like sheep. What's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - "Oh they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home" - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's sun cream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they "overdid it on the first day." And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners. And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the backstreets where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion....... crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'." And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing "enterovioform" and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane...

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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 12 2004 at 02:11
Originally posted by Peter Rideout Peter Rideout wrote:

Originally posted by James Lee James Lee wrote:


^ absolutely! I nominate The Specials' cover of
"Enjoy Yourself (it's Later than You Think)"



Also, their "Pressure
Drop
" onclick="AddSmileyIcon'smileys/smiley20.gif'"
alt="Thumbs Up"
http://www.progarchives.com/forum/smileys/smiley2
0.gif"> -- CRANK IT, King
James!OR: pointer"
onclick="AddSmileyIcon'smileys/smiley16.gif'"
alt=Cool
http://www.progarchives.com/forum/smileys/smiley1
6.gif">


Early Madness is
also great, & what do you think of ska-punkers
Reel Big Fish? Fun
stuff!onclick="AddSmileyIcon'smileys/smiley4.gif'" alt="Big
smile"
http://www.progarchives.com/forum/smileys/smiley4.
gif">



personally, i don't really like RBF as i don't really
seem to relate to their lyrics (fart, sex, and other
jokes can only be funny for so long) so they are a
happy band (show me a ska band that isn't), but i'm
just not a huge fan, i think they're are plenty of better
ska band out there.

my personal favourite ska band is the slackers.

http://www.theslackers.com/mp3s/TheSlackers-Was
tedDays.mp3

their lyrics tend to be more serious, and i think the
band is all together very talented.

*Remember all advice given by Asuma is for entertainment purposes only. Asuma is not a licensed medical doctor, psychologist, or counselor and he does not play one on TV.*
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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 12 2004 at 05:31

See? This isn't tense; were just a bunch of guys and girls having a drink and shooting the Bacardi Breezer...

I must remind the right honourable gentleman that a monologue is not a decision.
- Clement Atlee, on Winston Churchill
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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 12 2004 at 05:49

Sigod:

As I've explained, the Bacardi Breezer is the downfall of all civilized conversation. Its not to be encouraged.

Is that Marc Almond snuggled up next to Gary Kemp in the background, nursing their shandys??

Ultimately bored by endless ecstasy!
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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 12 2004 at 07:10
Originally posted by Blacksword Blacksword wrote:

Is that Marc Almond snuggled up next to Gary Kemp in the background, nursing their shandys??


I think you could be right - and if I'm not much mistaken, he's listening in to the conversation between Peter Rideout on the left and Velvetclown......

Jon Lord 1941 - 2012
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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 12 2004 at 08:46
Originally posted by Velvetclown Velvetclown wrote:

Yes I quite agree I mean what's the point of being treated like sheep. What's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - "Oh they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home" - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's sun cream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they "overdid it on the first day." And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners. And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the backstreets where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion....... crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'." And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing "enterovioform" and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane...

classic!

The only thing missing is the great inflections (like the way he says "Dr. Scholl's" or "bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel") and Carol Cleveland saying "so d'you want to go upstairs?". An all-time favorite moment!

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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 12 2004 at 13:37
Originally posted by gdub411 gdub411 wrote:

Originally posted by Peter Rideout Peter Rideout wrote:

Originally posted by danbo danbo wrote:

Originally posted by Peter Rideout Peter Rideout wrote:

^ Confused Oops! I thought he had died recently -- sorry!Embarrassed

Who was it that died, then, smartguy?

You're probably thinking of Rodney ("somebody step on a duck?") Dangerfield.

No, not Dangerfield....Confused

ErmmI'm thinking of ol' what's 'is name, you know, the guy with the arms and legs!

Be a pal and check the obits for me, will ya, Danbo? Smile

I know that guy. He's that  guy who lived in that one house.. with the windows...right?

Exactly! thanks Gdub -- now we're narrowing it down!Clap

And he had a father and a mother....Ermm

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 12 2004 at 16:20
yes,yes...and he lived in that country with the trees and insects and he did those things and then something happened!
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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 12 2004 at 19:01
Dude...I think it might be me.
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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 13 2004 at 12:08

Originally posted by James Lee James Lee wrote:

Dude...I think it might be me.

Confused  Yeah, Mr. Smee, but you're not dead.... ShockedAre you?

The guy I'm thinking was also known for saying things about stuff. Most times he was right, but sometimes he was wrong....Ermm

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 13 2004 at 17:29
Originally posted by Peter Rideout Peter Rideout wrote:

Originally posted by James Lee James Lee wrote:

Dude...I think it might be me.

Confused  Yeah, Mr. Smee, but you're not dead.... ShockedAre you?

The guy I'm thinking was also known for saying things about stuff. Most times he was right, but sometimes he was wrong....Ermm

Wasn't me then...

...did he have, like, a face and hands and stuff? If he was wearing clothes, then I think I may be able to provide a clue;

He was walking past a house on a day when it was light. There was at least one bird in the sky, I remember, and somewhere in the world a person coughed at least once. Someone else was listening to music being played by a band that had musicians in (so it wasn't Doggy Rapper MC and the Dizzee DeeJayz).

I caught the 11:14 First Great Western to Paddington from Reading Station, which was 9 minutes late due to a bad point just outside Chiswick flyover and the wrong sort of wind. I did apologise for eating the wrong sort of cheese and tried to blame James Lee - but he told be that his bottom burped precisely 12 seconds prior to mine, and wasn't due another eruption for a good minute.

What were we talking about again?

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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 13 2004 at 23:17

uh...why is everyone so tense?

the question may be on its way to becoming moot, thank goodness...

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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 14 2004 at 03:47

Hey, I was in the military and flew fighter planes for the better part of 9 years. It was one of the most unfair jobs I ever had  and BELIEVE me nothing can offend me. You have to take everything with a grain of salt. If you don't you shouldn't have even been born. After all, the only way we know each other on this site is through this medium of cyberspace. Calm your jets. Take a warm shower have some sex spend some quality time with your pets. This web-site is not the end of the freaking world. Don't bicker. Move on to another thread or just don't participate. I happen to really like this site and will continue to visit it and write reviews when time permits. The only two other web-sites I visit are the official KC  and GG sites plus my e-mail. I hate complainers.

Peace and Love, vibrationbaby.

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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 14 2004 at 03:49
Originally posted by Velvetclown Velvetclown wrote:

Yes I quite agree I mean what's the point of being treated like sheep. What's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - "Oh they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home" - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's sun cream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they "overdid it on the first day." And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners. And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the backstreets where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion....... crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'." And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing "enterovioform" and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane...

Eric Idle couldn't have said it better Velv!
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Direct Link To This Post Posted: November 14 2004 at 13:24
Nope 
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