I knew a short lad by the odd name of Howard
His mam was a whore and his dad was a coward
He used to write sonnets addressed to the Pope
And he made his own line in blue platypus soap.
While walking to town in the blackness of night
He stumbled upon an incredible sight
Thousands of gibbons, asleep in a pile
'Well that looks quite comfy, I'll stop for a while.'
So he lay down to sleep and he rested his head
On a large howler monkey with an arse that was red
But as he lay there almost dead to the world
The pile of monkeys slowly unfurled.
He woke with a start and then realized he'd sunk
In a simian heap, and although he was drunk
He remembered his life amongst humans and thought
These guys aren't so bad, and I don't look so short.
So now he lives happily with gibbon companions
And he hopes one day to pay a visit to the Ukraine.
Cos he's got some family there, like.
So it all worked out in the end.

Oh Hull.
Thou are not dull.
And the beauty of your majestic fjords
Fills me with an awe unsurpassed.
Except for that time I saw a rabbit s**t in a Cornflakes packet.

And a response to this poem by Dave:
Reading, Reading where art thou?
Not to the east but to the west of Slough.
Never bright and always dull.
At least it isn't chuffing Hull.

The dark flag is flying the children are crying and a cold acrid breeze blows the night.
The parasites quicken the walls creep with lichen and the insects creep out of the light.
We look to the skies and Black Death fills our eyes as we see past our own immortality
the demons abroad with fang tooth and sword and a dread air of fatal totality
and though all is lost we care naught for the cost as we take up our bibles and guns.
As the terrible majesty of life's biggest travesty marches relentlessly on
and the people start praying the dark knights start slaying and blood starts to rain on the land
and so it ends here as humanity's fear is engulfed in one final last stand.
From the smoking remains of the guts and the brains the dark masters will slowly unfurl
a new flag forged in hell where the demons once dwelled as they settle this dark, brave new world.

6 Years Later....

The New ruling class had the people amassed to become a new race of mute slaves
but although they were silenced they had eyes filled with violence as they sullenly slunk in their caves.
And the last of the race had to eke a new place in the food chain bequeathed by their lords
so they fed off each other, and brother eat brother as they silently served the dark horde.
But although they were bested they waited and rested and watched for a chance to prevail
and then one wet night someone saw a soft light shining out of the shower of hail.
The few who were well sounded out their small bells for the others to come and observe
and they saw in the long grass their slavers in dark Mass, the jailers, it seemed, also served.
And one thought sang out strong like an audible throng so that everyone there understood
that here was a chance to undo the dark dance that so easily overthrew good.
Through watching and waiting and hoping and hating they slowly began to resolve
that although isolated each person was fated to help their lost species evolve.
When their chance came they ran, every woman and man, to the field of strange apparitions.
They looked up as one at the slow-setting sun, and suddenly dawned recognition.
Above in the skies was a huge pair of eyes and a face that was cast of pure hate,
and they realized then that the beasts were just men, and they saw humankind's future fate.
If we are these beasts we can halt these dark feasts, all we have to do is make a pact.
We've learnt to get on, though our voices have gone, if we change they will have to react.
So they drew a new banner, with dove crossed with spanner to symbolize progress through peace.
They sat back to wait, this time tried not to hate, and waited for mankind's release.
And over the hills they heard screams, squawks and trills as the dark masters met with their end,
and when it died down they returned to their towns and found everything empty again.
And so they'd departed, and mankind then started to rebuild the cities they needed,
humanity saved by the peace they'd long craved, and from then on the warning was heeded.
If man killed his friend they would soon meet their end and so peace settled fast on the land,
united at last they'd remember their past, and so war was from then onwards banned.

When in doubt, call out for cheese
It's good for you and good for me
It's palliative for knobbly knees
and also helps to ward off fleas.

When feeling down, request some Brie
It'll fill your heart with boundless glee
It's glistening crust will help you see
It's benefits for you and me.

When all alone, demand some Stilton
A companion to the poet Milton
They serve it in the Bankock Hilton
And the waiters there have all got kilts on.

When in need of hearty cheer,
you know the answer's really beer,
but cheese is not so awfully dear,
and so I end line 17... here.

I remember a young clam called Stephanie, back in the 20s.
It was hard to get by in those days, but we had all the shoe leather we could eat and clams are quite happy just eating ration books, so we didn't do too badly.
We used to walk along the beach at midnight, arm in suction cup, gazing up at the stars and thinking how lucky we were to have found each other in such a vast, inhospitable world.
It didn't matter that one of us was human and one of us a mollusc, we didn't care about such meaningless distinctions. We were simply 'us', and happy to be just that.
Unfortunately she was swallowed some weeks later by a heiffer during the Munich Olympics.
This was when I developed my irrational fear of effort.

Picture yourself in a slice of baked brisket
Where melamine barbers look sullen yet cute
Suddenly somewhere you see in the distance
A perfect if rather small flute
Huge sodding flagpoles and woodchucks galore
Waiting to read you a song
They wrote it themselves and they hope that you'll like it
Though most of the spelling is wrong

Trevor and his bucket of hydrogen
Trevor and his bucket of hydrogen
Trevor and his bucket of hydrogen
Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah

I was born in the year 1827, the ninth of twelve children of a shoe farmer in Pwlhelli. My mother died after her first child and the subsequent births had to be performed by my father.
From an early age I learned the trade of shoe farming, starting in the pumps and slippers Corral, and eventually learning to work the stiletto fields.
I was sent to school at Herpes College, Aberdaeron, until I was 16, when I left for London to find work in the raspberry trade.
I was apprenticed to a raspberry called Terry, and it was during these years of my life that I became trained in the ancient art of osmosis. This apprenticeship lasted four years, and at the end I was a fully qualified raspberry, indistinguishable from the real fruit except to the trained eye.
My father died during 1847, when I was 18. After my apprenticeship was finished I decided to go into business on my own. I wrote to my brother Spot, and invited him to become my assistant in the new venture; he quickly agreed and was in London within a month. I hired a small wickerwork basket and would sit atop a bunch of bananas trying to look ripe.
The support I received from my brother was invaluable to me during this difficult phase in my life. Eventually, however, my hard work paid off and the business began to turn a profit, all of which I plowed back into the company, hiring more berries and eventually owning my own wicker basket.
By this time, my brother had picked up enough of the trade to be able to impersonate four different berries (I could already manage 6) and we were soon doubling the value of the company every year. Of course, word of our runaway success soon spread, and we were invited to perform for the King during the opening of the Crystal Palace in 1865.
However, by this time I was 38 years old, and deeply in love with a young flapjack called Nancy. I decided that, in order to provide an heir to the business, I should sire as many children as possible, and so we were wed in the Spring of 1866. Although my wife was a syphilis-ridden whore of an oat snack with no legs, we quickly managed to produce 18 children in short succession.
In 1867 I got bored of the whole thing and decided to stop writing this piece of tripe. Goodnight.

After considerable research conducted by the Nautical Institute of Numerology it has been discovered that demand for the number 6 has been tailing off for some time now.
In order to reduce inflationary knock-on effects, it has been decided that the number 6 shall now be moved to between numbers 3 and 4. Please update your spreadsheets accordingly.
Obviously, the values of these numbers have had to be recast in order to maintain a sensible relationship on the numberline. For example, you will note that 6+1 now equals 4. 5 now becomes an even number, and is divisible by 2 to give 3. Likewise, all numbers greater than 5 will now have their oddness / evenness reversed.
Prime numbers will now be known as 'On The Bone' and consist only of the numbers 4, 17 and 36.
The actual values of these numbers have been set as follows:
1: 1
2: 2.1
3: 3.5
6: 5.2
4: 11.1
5: 24
7: 37
8: 158.3
9: 2,017
0: 1,000,000,042
It will be seen that all numbers can now be expressed as products of these 10 digits, e.g. the original number 5 (number 5 now being worth 24) can now be expressed as 6-2-2+1+1+1+1.
The original numberline had the distinct drawback of maintaining a constant numerical progression, whereas the new, quasi-geometric progression will allow us to chart numbers previously inexpressible as they were simply too large to fit on a calculator. For example, 80 is now equivalent to an old-number system value of 158,300,006,648.6.
The applications extend from advanced probability calculations to anything involving a large number of very small items, such as salt cellars and beaches. It is now perfectly feasible to count the number of grains of sand on the fingers of both hands.
God has expressed dismay with the new system, citing ancient Hebrew law maintaining the sanctity of the fixed-interval number system, although extended negotiations with other deities will hopefully allow most Western religions to adopt the new system.
Ancient philosophers have expressed excitement with the new system, one particularly attractive feature is an easy answer to the old rice-on-a-chessboard riddle. It now takes 12 grains of rice to fill the entire board.
Car manufacturers have expressed reluctance to adopt the new guidelines, fearing that customers believing themselves to be within the speed limit may actually be travelling at several times the speed of sound. However, as all distances will also be adjusted to the new system, journeys should take approximately the same length of time.
The solar year now contains 8+8+7+4-1+2 days (28 days), but this should not be confused with the new lunar month, which now lasts exactly 8 days (5+3). There will therefore be 3.5 months to the year, Christmas only occurring on years with a '3' in the second-to last place.
Please update your calendar accordingly.

There's acid blobs and demons, wizards, leprechauns and yellow lights
There's umber hulks and healers, giant beetles, centaurs, orcs and knights
Cockatrices, kobolds, quantum physicists and sewer rats
Valkyries and bugbears, archaelogists and dogs and cats
There's grid bugs, tourists, shopkeepers, werejackals and barbarians
And postmen, healers, funguses and jaguars and molds and xans
There's freezing spheres and nymphs and naiads, nurses and the succubus
Floating eyes and and gnomes and goblins, snakes and cubes gelatinous
There's unicorns and vampires, ghosts and nurses, manes and zombies
And leocrottas, piercers, kobolds, vault guards, yetis, wraiths and harpies.
There's rust monsters and cavemen, violet fungi and some elephants
And also jackals, ettins, blobs, and minotaurs and giant ants.
These are the only monsters that I've come across in Hack
There may be many others, I'll have a look when I get back.

Italian Language Disproved by Linguists
A new report published this week claims that the Italian language has no actual basis in reality. Linguistic Analysts at York University have discovered that what was previously thought to be a complete, coherent language is, in fact, a neurological condition similar to dyslexia. The sufferers apparently string together random consonant and vowel sounds in an attempt to make themselves understood.
Dr Weeble said yesterday 'This goes a long way towards explaining the expansive arm gestures and symbolic actions employed by the Italians - without these important visual cues, the Italian people would be completely unable to communicate with one another. It also explains the appaling performance of telecommunications companies on the Italian stock market - only 2.2% of Italians own a mobile phone, and those who do find it impossible to communicate all but the simplest emotions using the technology. I have been saddened to witness grown men screaming like a baby into a mobile phone, then crying in frustration and attempting to eat the handset. This has resulted in severe tracheal trauma and we have had to abandon our studies in this area after the protests of leading Italian human rights groups. They seemed to be upset about something, anyway.'
Dr Weeble and his team now plan to try to teach a basic language to an Italian, and will start by using banks of picture-pads which correspond to real-world objects, a technique pioneered in the field of dolphin-human communication projects.
'As yet,' Dr Weeble reports, 'we've had considerably more luck with dolphins, but we believe a time will come when we will be able to communicate concepts and ideas freely with the Italian people.'
The church expressed excitement with the idea, by jumping up and down and waving their arms above their heads. Janet Wobble, assistant to Dr Weeble, stated that the Catholic Church will now be able to recieve mass in a common language, instead of Latin, as is currently used, being the closest the Italians have ever come to a true 'language'. Up till now, the Pope has had to make purely symbolic gestures - an expansive sweep of the arms, the kissing of the tarmac, and it is believed that a new form of communication will enable scientists to explain to the Catholic community that the world is actually round, and orbits the sun, concepts much too advanced to be grasped by a culture with no language.
'This really will bring the Church into the 17th Century', quoted Dr Weeble yesterday.

I am a very sick little boy. My mother is typing this for me, because I can't.
She is crying. Don't cry, Mommy! Mommy is always sad, but she says it's not my fault. I asked her if it was God's fault, but she didn't answer, and only started crying harder, so I don't ask her that anymore. The reason she is so sad is that I'm so sick. I was born without a body. It doesn't hurt, except when I go to sleep.
The doctors gave me an artificial body. My body is a burlap bag filled with leaves. The doctors said that was the best they could do on account of us havin' no money or insurance. I would like to have a body transplant, but we need more money.
Mommy doesn't work because she said employers don't hire crying people. I said, "Don't cry, Mommy," and she hugged my burlap body. Mommy always gives me hugs, even though she's allergic to burlap, and it chafes her real bad.
I hope you will help me. You can help me if you forward this e-mail. Dr. Johansen said if you foward this e-mail then Bill Gates will team up with AOL and do a survey with NASA. Then the astronauts will collect prayers from school children all over America and take them up to space so that the angels can hear them better. Then they will go to the Pope, and he will take up a collection in church and send the money to the doctors. The doctors could help me better then.
Maybe one day I will be able to play baseball. Or maybe just use my lungs and heart, when the doctors make them. The doctors said that every time you forward this letter, the astronauts can take another prayer to the angels. Please help me. Mommy is so sad, and I want a body. I don't want my leaves to rot before I turn 10.
If you don't foward this e-mail, that's OK. Mommy says you're a mean heartless person who doesn't care about a poor little boy with only a head. She says that she hopes that you stew in the raw pit of your own guilt-ridden stomach. What kind of wretched person are you that you can't take five lousy minutes to forward this to all your friends so that they can feel guilt and shame for the rest of their day, and then maybe help a poor, bodiless nine-year-old boy?
Please help me. This really sucks. I try to be happy but it's hard. I wish I had a puppy. I wish I could hold a puppy.
Thank You. Billy 'Smiles' Evans, The boy with just a head. And a burlap sack for a body.

Albany: A Moroccan dessert made from the fingernails of various reptiles.
Bolero: The shame felt by a single mother on discovering her clothing is made entirely of bubble-wrap.
Craunch: A collection of verses written by Eddie 'The Eagle' Edwards to win the heart of that bird off Ballykissangel.
Demasque: Effing and blinding without due consideration to religious minorities.
Encroach: The rewriting of dictionaries with little or no regard for reality.
Fandango: To swallow the semen of Freddie Mercury (as in Bohemian Rhapsody see Gamahuche).
Gaberdine: a one-mile long strip of thin flesh protruding from the upper cheek of Jewish babies, usually removed at birth.
Heuristic: an algorithmic technique concerned with the simulation and modeling of jowl wobble.
Ignoble: Reminiscent of Igs.
Jacknife: The process of applying starch to mammals to enhance photogenicity.
Kudos: An operating system written for the Kurdish Udder society.
Leghorn: A system of mazes and pulleys into which an egg is inserted for symbolic reasons.
Macaw: An ancient musical ceremony in praise of the Norse god of pus, Donald
Namby: a now-obsolete golf club (previously known as a thirty-four iron).
Obsidian: A long strip of card used for prising open beetles.
Pelony: Colin D, 1963-1994. Founder of the Didsbury Women's Rotary Society and noted fool.
Quagmire: A small cooking tin used primarily for Spaghetti shapes, hoops and alphanumerical ASCII characters.
Rampart: A sheep's willy.
Sowester: A holding pin, which secures the nozzle on a tube of pump-action toothpaste.
Timbre: The part of the cartilage of the nose which holds the roof on.
Uxbridge: A part of hell reserved for middle-aged women with shopping bags, and tulips.
Vaudeville: The practice of slaughtering small children for fun and art.
Wagstaffe: The colour of a pie.
Xanadu: Assorted leftovers after a meal or large fight.
Yosarian: A book of prophecies written in the future which predict the past.
Zygote: An animal with telepathic connections to the National Grid.

June 6, the year of our lord 2000
Am reaching a low ebb. I've still got another 122 Pokemons to think up, after the recent rejection of 'Kennelwank' and 'Snoopyspunk'.
My wife has left me and I don't know how much longer I can keep it together.
Have started seeing visions of Snoutburger and Fofflesnarp at night at the periphery of my vision. I think this place is starting to affect me, but I can't stop now. I have to follow in the footseps of Hingiroshi Kasahuma, who managed to name all 151 Japanese 'mon in under two hours. I've been at this for 6 months and the strain is beginning to tell.
Where are you in my hour of need, O great lord Owlflipper?

June 9, 2000
I can see them, now. They sit under the desk once I've named them, waiting for the rest of their evil brood.
Pollyfart and Benzodiazepam are the ringleaders, they seem to be engaged in some sort of internal power struggle. Sometimes I try to sneak out of the room when I think they're not watching me, but they've left Salmonoid guarding the doorway.

June 15, 2000
Progress, now. 62 names, 89 to go.
Yesterday, Benzodiazepam formed a splinter group, taking with him the strategic brilliance of Cornhole and the ruthless cunning of Xylophoneherpes, but Pollyfart has the advantage of numbers. They're starting to surround me now. I feel them calling my name.

June 17,2000
What is my name?

June 22, 2000
Things have degenerated. I can no longer write names for this evil. My home is engulfed and I can see them fully. They have integrated themselves with the potential archetypes in my subconscious, they are now inseparable from me.

June 23, 2000
Have decided to join Benzodiazepam's splinter group and devote my life to fighting the evil of the Pollyfartians. I can feel myself... becoming, somehow.
Spent a lot of time with Goatpiercer and Hebdenbridge, they like my otherworldy strangeness, and I, for my part, have been learning the skills of their trade.

June 25, 2000
I.... AM....
TESTICLEOOEY!

I've been undercover so long I forgot what I used to be
I know this ain't the real world but I'm losing my ID
People look me up and down, they see my suit and tie
They think I must be one of them, I'm a walking talking lie.
Double agents, hidden codes, no one's what they seem
I don't think there's many left without a covert team
Polite exchange of random facts
To try to ignore the horrible acts
Reality hurts too much to be faced
So we live in this weird imaginary place
The murders and misery don't happen here
Send in the clowns, pour some more beer.
Light up a joint, stick on the TV
It's got to be better than reality.

He was badder than a bad man with a really big moustache
He was scarier that Kruger, though he didn't have the rash
He was tall and thin and balding, and he had a hearing aid
2 glass eyes, 4 tattoos and one rather nice French maid.
He lived alone in Tottingham, in a castle made of twigs
He'd regularly go out hunting for junipers and figs
And although the children ran away when they saw him from afar
He used to make jam for their mothers, in giant, thick glass jars.
An odd bloke, all in all, you'd say, you'd probably be right
- He was a pretty daunting man when bumped into at night.
Unfathomable, certainly, but then who really knows
What goes on in their neighbours place, right underneath their nose?
So anyway, I met him once, while traveling to town
He stopped and stared, and then he slowly looked me up and down
He took his hand out from his cloak, extended his forefinger
And ominously pointed at a distant jazz/funk singer
'Young man', quoth he, 'I've waited long, to meet you on this day
I have a task for you which must be done a certain way.
You see,' he said, 'I'm old, and frail, and my eyes are darkened glass
You shall take my mantle, now it's time for your masterclass!'
And with these words, he leapt at me, I hardly saw him move
Before he was upon me , his words he meant to prove.
I spun around and tried to throw his old frame from my back
But he just kept coming every time, a relentless bold attack
He bested me eventually, as I soon realized he would
And he maimed me, quite horrifically, and left me lying where I'd stood.
And though my eyes were blinded, I saw him start to glow
He crumbled, and was swept away when the wind began to blow.
I realized he'd changed me, I felt transformations starting
My hearing failed, and I could feel the widening of my parting
I was he, I realized, with a horrible despair
I didn't mind the glass eyes but I really missed my hair.
I slunk along to Tottenham, and found the castle made of twigs
(along the way I stopped off for some junipers and figs)
And when I got home, Fifi cried 'Why, sir, you look so young!'
And your breathing sounds much better, have you fixed your rotted lung?'
So now I live on junipers, they go so well with figs
And I live with Fifi, happy in my castle made of twigs.
I've recently discovered how much fun there is in jam
And I'm off to get a new tattoo of beloved Tottenham
And though the children run away, and my old life's been mislaid
It's more than worth it, cos twice a day, I get to pork the maid.

Body dismorphic disorders have recently featured in the media, with the alarming story of the doctor who agreed to remove the legs of two of his patients. This week, one of our readers shares his heartbreaking story of his battle to win acceptance of his rare condition.
"I was born in Somerset in 1965, and grew up on a small poultry farm. I was christened Terry, and learned my trade as a farm-hand from my father.
Because it was a very small, traditional farm, I wasn't exposed to modern conveniences until the early 1970s, when my mother purchased a refrigerator and vacuum cleaner to ease her workload. I remember a feeling of great excitement when the men came to install the fridge, as though my eyes had been opened to a whole new world.
However, it wasn't until 1976 when I caught my first glance of a kettle. It was a stove-top model, stainless steel, and the noise it make when it boiled was electrifying to me. I quickly realized I was spending more and more of my time in the kitchen, or, more specifically, with the kettle.
Around 1980, my mother upgraded to a Morphy Richards model, in a deep, rich blue - an elegant, upright model with a beautifully curved spout. It was around this time that I began to realize that I didn't feel at home with other people my age, and actually preferred the company of the Morphy Richards model 792.
Of course, we still had the original stainless steel model - I had begged my mother not to throw it away and secreted it under my bed - but the Morphy Richards seemed to me to be the epitome of what I wanted my life to be about.
Of course, I was far too embarrassed about this unusual predilection to confide in my friends or my family. I would tell my mother I was playing with friends, when in fact I'd be hidden away under a bush somewhere with the Stainless Steel Kettle, or Susan as I'd started calling her. I remember one time when my parents had gone away for the weekend and I spent the entire time pouring stewed tea from the one kettle to the other. It was around this time when I decided that I was born to be a kettle, in fact, I now believe that I was a kettle born into the body of a man.
I eventually plucked up the courage to speak to our family doctor in private, and I blurted out all my fears, hopes and dreams. He looked quite worried, mumbled something about adolescent experimentation, and recommended I go to church every Sunday to improve my moral sensibilities.
And so it went on for another couple of years, until I was 17 years old, at which point I decided to 'come out' of the kitchen closet as a Kettlephiliac. I spoke to my parents first, and although my beliefs were derided by my father, my mother was understanding and supportive, even knitting me a hat with a spout on.
Encouraged by this success, I made the mistake of telling some of my closest friends, forgetting how cruel children can be. For months afterwards, I was taunted with cries of 'I'm a little teapot' wherever I went. I tried to explain the difference, but nobody would listen.
When I finally turned 18, I did as I had been planning to do for some time, and had my name changed by deed-poll to Murphy Richards. I visited a specialist in these problems, and he agreed to treat me. The process is long and requires great commitment on the part of the kettlephiliac. First, I had to live as a kettle for a year, both in the house and when I went out. Which is not easy, as kettles don't generally take a very active part in everyday life. I would sit on the shelf in the kitchen, with my mouth wide open and pointed at the ceiling, and every couple of hours my mother would come and pour in some tea.
After a year, I saved up enough to have the first operation done privately. The op itself involved having a handle surgically attached to my right side. I was in hospital for 4 days - although it's a relatively simple operation there is a high risk of rejection, but fortunately my body accepted the new handle straight away.
After this, I started the slow process of being stained blue. I had picked the same colour blue as that wonderful MR792, and, although it's impossible to achieve an exact match, the tattooist was a skilled artist and I am more than happy with the job he did.
I'm now 22 years old, and am saving up for my final operation - having the spout fitted to my head. This is the most costly and complicated procedure yet, and I hope to be able to afford it within the next 6 months. I have started a self-help group for others like me, and, although nobody has yet joined, I hope that anybody reading this article who shares the same feelings as I do, will realise that they're not alone, and that it is possible to live a perfectly normal life as a kettle."
Next week, milliner Steven Rawlplug will be telling his tale of bravery, humanity and adhesive-backed plastics.

I was toying with some tins of paint last night, as I lay idly brushing fleas from my sweat-soaked body, and I was fortunate enough to discover a brand new primary colour, which I call Spenglo.
Simply take 1 part white paint, 2 parts blue, 4 ladybirds and a quart of sulphate of lime. Mix together and leave to congeal for 20 minutes. When you open the lid you'll be amazed to see a brand new primary colour unlike anything ever seen before.
The traditional spectrum used to be R - o - Y - g - B - p - (i.e. between Red and Yellow we had Orange. Between Blue and Red we had Purple). This will now have to be abandoned in favour of the new colour scheme: R - o - Y - yenglo - SPENGLO - spenoo - B - p -. Green will henceforth be relocated 4 inches to the left and will be 2 shades darker.
As you can see, the mixing of Spenglo with blue or yellow results in 2 new secondary colours known as Yenglo and Spenoo.
White, although still attainable by mixing, red, yellow and blue, will now also come in a new form know as 'White Lite' which requires mixing Spenglo with Red.
The mixing of Spenglo with secondary colours is inadvisable and will only result in brown.
The implications for this discovery are remarkable.
The artistic world will have to be advised as quickly as possible in order that artists may include the new colours in future works of art. It may be that old masters will need to be updated reflecting this new and vibrant colour.
It is obvious from looking at the drab colours involved in a painting such as the Mona Lisa, that Da Vinci was in desperate need of this new lease of artistic life, and paintings such as this must be immediately recoloured.
The clothing industry has already voiced an interest, indeed the controlling interest in Yenglo is now owned by Benetton. Negotiation continues regarding Spenoo but I intend to retain the Copyright for Spenglo in order to license a new range of Power Rangers, and indeed intend to approach Quentin Tarantino with regard to a new casting for the remake of Reservoir Dogs: 'But I don't wanna be Mr. Yenglo. I'm being Mr. Spenoo'.
Other advantages become apparent in the field of passenger aircraft. At present, due to the problems faced by colour-blindness victims, they are unable to fly planes because the giant sky signs can only be painted in red and green, both of which appear as puce to the unfortunate sufferer. However, new secondary colours have caused a renaissance in the world of sky signs.
The spokesman for Voices In The Sky(tm) said yesterday 'This a really, like, heavy day, maaaan'.

I was delighted to chance upon a brand new tense in the English language this morning, whilst brushing my teeth. The previous owners had carelessly left it in the overflow pipe of the sink.
Consider:
I will go to the shops. I will be going to the shops. I am going to the shops.
I went to the shops. I would have gone to the shops. I was going to the shops.
These are all acceptable tenses in the current system. But how can we
refer to past events that may or may not have happened, and which our state of intoxication at the time has prevented us from knowing whether we did or not?
It would be futile to say 'I went to the shops' as we have no way of knowing whether or not we did. For the same reason, 'I didn't go to the shops' is no use.
The new verb allows us to refer to past events without having to attain any degree of certainty as to what actually happened.
It's time to cast off the old-fashioned notions of certainty and embrace the chaos and ignorance that modern (non teetotal) existence must inevitably lead to. Additionally, new advances in science have led to the acceptance of the Uncertainty Principle in the field of sub molecular particles, and it is inevitable that these new ideas will be eventually 'scaled up' to the macromolecular world.
We need to be ready with our language.
I wentex to the shops. I watchedex the film. I startedex a fight with a veritable gorilla of a man. I inventedex a new verb.
Now we need never be certain again!

I held aloft the old man's mirror:
And looked into the clear, dark surface,
It's reflection almost used up.

I tilted it towards me:
It shimmered briefly, then brought forth
One last image from it's old, weary glass.

An image of youth, my youth, overlaid
Onto an old man's face.

My eyes stung, and I threw it to the floor
And I walked away, as I walk away now.
Not looking back, not looking forward.

A Bus. Shot of an empty double-seat.
A young bloke sits down next to the window. A stop goes by. A strange Fellow sits down next to him.
SF: Excuse me?
YB: Yes?
SF: I noticed you sitting there on your own and was wondering if I could interest you in coming along to one of our meetings.
YB: Well... er... what sort of meeting? You're not a Scientologist are you?
SF: Oh good gracious no. No no no, nothing like that. I represent the local Aborigine Women's Prayer Circle.
[Pause]
YB: The...?
SF: Aborigine Women's Prayer Circle, yes.
YB: But you're not an aborigine.
SF [raises eyebrows enquiringly] And?
YB: Well... I... you're not even a woman.
SF [sighs] I think it's this kind of prejudice which drags us all down. You don't have to be a whale to support conservation, do you?
YB: No... but...
SF: You know, people like you make me sick. Just because I'm a white male Atheist, people like you decide to belittle my beliefs and cast nasturtiums at Jesus.
YB: No... I...
SF: Do you think Jesus was a black aborigine woman? No. And do you know why? No. And neither do I. And I think there's a little lesson to be learnt for all of us there.
YB: It's not that I'm... you know... racist or anything.
SF: [snorts derisively]
YB: I'd be happy to make a donation, by all means.
SF: [grudgingly holding out a moneybox]
YB [drops in a quid] I certainly feel for the minorities. My Father was an Irishman.
SF: We don't support paddies.
[Pause]
YB: What?
SF: Bloody workshy potato pickers. They're not getting their thieving hands on THIS little lot, that's for sure [indicates moneybox]
YB: But...
SF: Thick Bastards, aren't they? [Does bad impression] "To be sure and all, begorrah, Oi don't suppose oi could be borrowin' a potato off yer? To be dippin, as it were, in me Guinness, dontchaknow".
YB: Let's cut to the chase. How much to sod off?
SF: 3 quid?
YB: Done.