Now thats a thought, we really require your submissions here, photo's of outstanding animals. Preferably alive and kicking. We found a few to start the ball rolling. Some may tax your belief others will shock you. here is the first, a bunny to make Bugs Bunny run for his life.

Next and somewhat less amusing, we have a green pig, injected with green fluoresent 'pigment' so its internal organs would be more visible for medical examination. The idea may grow, fancy green bacon with your breakfast, might be suitable for vegetarians.

Finally, at least, for our contributions a mouse with three ears. This is a device implanted on the back of a mouse covered with human tissue and allowed to develope. It does of course raise the old argument about the use of animals for human health research. The two schools of thought would be perfectly devided here. Whilst the picture seems to show an obscene experiment, how would you feel if scientists were able to replace your damaged ear with a perfect replacement. Hard to decide really, we are not sure on what side of the fence we fall.

Technorati Tags: Freaky animals, biggest bunny, animal experiments, health, three eared mouse, green pig, health experiments

Little Britain 

all pictures from the BBC

There is no question that Matt Lucas and David Walliams have created a series of characters that are so far beyond ugly they are downright obnoxious. This is of course the secret of their amazing television success. They have taken Britain and torn so savagely into the very structure of British society that a country that considered itself capable of laughing at itself, is in a 'state of shock' that so many of their prejudices are revealed and exposed for the world to laugh at. 

British lavatory humour is an entire genre on its own. created in the schools it has become part of the structure of the education system. The USA and the rest of the world may well be taken aback by the depths the program goes to, but every school age British kid, for whom the lavatory is a central part of their lives, will revel in its exposure on main stream television.

There are sections of British society that pretend 'shock' and those that are genuinely offended, whilst all would probably admit that this is not their first exposure to such filth.

The extreme edge of upper class society in Britain is having its nose rubbed in the dirt, whilst everybody else is lying about laughing but feeling genuinely exposed.

There is of course no harm, nor is it the first time that, vomit, urine, and expellations of polluted air have been used to create humour, its just the prime time spots on TV that are so unusual. Previously it existed in the deep caverns of working men's clubs, and the nightclub circuits in the Midlands and North of England. Its primary exponents Jim Davidson, Bernard Manning, and others, who all had television shows where they curbed their parlance to suit the censors of the day, whilst in their live acts perpetrated the very essence of lavatorial humour. Little Britain is the first mainstream TV show that relies almost entirely on the purile acts of school kids to garner a laugh from the world, for me it works very well. You can choose, try this video and then go the the BBC website

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Saturday night The 5th March 2006. The dark and very cold streets of Cambridge. A slight flurry of snow, lit by the slim silver torch in the elderly lady’s trembling hand. We shivered. Above us was the unlikely statue of a small dog. The lady’s torch moved upward to highlight the silent stone creature on the roof of a building.

‘The master of this college, and his dog, were found dead in 1632. The master had hung himself, a sad disappointed man, but no-one knew why or how the dog had died. Perhaps a broken heart, we will never know.’

The elderly woman spoke quietly. She was a guide, and we were in the middle of a walking tour around the haunted old lanes and byways of Cambridge, seeking ghosts - or at least wanting to hear the tales that others had spun, illustrating their fears and experiences of the dark underworld.

‘Only last week, three Chinese students had refused to return to their room at the top of this very building, blaming the visions and intense coldness of the room. Scared by the fears inherent in such a building, or maybe the reality of sharing accommodation with unsettled spirits from the dark past.’

We looked up, and felt a coldness born of the night, and although we were well wrapped, it was a coldness that exceeded the previous experiences of the tour.

The group continued until presently, we arrived at a small shop. There were several dusty old books in the window. A spider’s web, untouched, stretched across one corner, and a sign hung over the shop painted red on white: ‘The Haunted Bookshop’.

The group of nervous people stopped, as the lady raised her hand, bringing one finger across her lips to ensure we listened carefully to her explanation.

‘This shop,’ she began, ‘benefits from a friendly ghost - a young woman, who appears on those stairs to the rear of the store.’ She shined her torch towards the back, and lit up a staircase that rose into the old building. The torch created shadows, and the banisters seemed to move as the beam crept upwards along the far wall.

‘I suppose they are lucky,’ she continued. ‘There are many malevolent spirits loose around this town.’

There was a loud cry! Then the sound of glass breaking! Most of the group jumped, and sure enough in the doorway of the pub opposite, some malevolent spirit had dropped his beer glass in a howl of disappointment, his mates just laughed.

Disturbed we moved on, arriving at another shop just a few hundred metres away.

‘Look, look in the window, just in the corner,’ the guide pointed with her torch again. There was a stone talisman, its hands encircle its screaming mouth. ‘This shop suffers with an unwelcome ghost, and only since the owners were advised to put the talisman in the window, has it ceased to appear.’

We all gathered around to peer at the left corner of the shop window, looking fearfully at the talisman, grateful for its power.

Tamara looked at Marcus, ‘I’m glad our shop is on the Internet. There are no ghosts in our online store.’

Marcus looked up at her, his face shrouded in shadows, his body silhouetted by the distant street light.

‘How do you know that?’ he asked through a grim smile. ‘How do you know the Internet itself is not some diabolical creation of the spirit world?’ He turned and walked away from her. Tamara ran after him, unwilling to be left on her own, outside the haunted shop.

‘You are talking nonsense, you are trying to scare me, stop it!’ Tamara was unusually forthright.

‘Next time you blame our software company for the gremlins in the system, just stop and wonder who put them there? The unfortold glitches… the fantastic way things vanish over night… the work you know you saved and has disappeared… Think for one second longer - is it the software, or a spirit that pervades our system, wreaking havoc whenever possible?’

‘Shut up Marcus,’ she stared at his face. ‘You are talking absolute rubbish.’

‘Really my dear, is that so….’

He drew his scarf tighter, and pulled his long winter coat close, as he walked down the road away from her, and disappeared into the pub.

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Do you sit late at night, very late, even into the early hours of the morning, working on your computer. When the house is silent and the only source of light is your screen. The heating has switched itself off, and the metallic clanks of the radiators cooling have faded away.
You are alone, sitting there, discussing with virtual friends, or just quietly browsing, repeating your favourite paths of interest, maybe searching for that illusive download.

Your screen flickers, and the darkness seems rather more intense. Every one is sleeping, the rain still beats monotonously against the window. A low wind is rustling the leaves outside, creating shadows that throw dappled patterns on the walls of your room.

The door is shut, the speakers hushed, your imagination and senses are fuelled by the phenomena of your situation and the images flashing across the screen.

You were here last night, and that had not seemed so tense, what is different about tonight, what is keeping you so alert. Normally your head would be nodding gently towards your chest, your eyes beginning to close as sleep inevitably replaced your interest in the technological excitement of the computer.

There was the faintest hint of a soft breath on the back of your neck, not enough to disturb you, hardly anything at all, just the wind that crept up the stairs and filtered under the ill fitting door. The house had been standing since 1705, and was uncomfortably draughty. Most of the windows had been replaced over the years, except the one in this room. This one had never been repaired the frame was twisted, the lintel misshaped, gradual subsidence has distorted the wall around the opening until it would have needed a major rebuild to allow the frame to be repaced.

There is that breath again, stronger this time, disturbing the hairs on the back of your neck. Leaving you shaking, adrenaline pumping around your nerves. You try to lift your hand from the mouse, you can’t, your hand is cramped into position. Your other hand is playing over the keys, you have no control. The breath again, much stronger, the slightest hint of a gentle panting behind you, the rustling of draughty breezes through the ill-fitting window. The ragged curtain lifting and falling, the screen goes dark, the room is pitched into blackness. You hear the door being pushed open, can you turn to see, do you even dare.

The cursor is beating in the centre of the screen, a solitary point in the heaviness that pervades the room. You manage to lift your hand from the pad, still clutching the mouse, you try to rise, your legs are weighed down. Your body no longer under your control, locked in a bent position over the computer.

There is a sucking noise, at first gently, then increasing, the screen is changing, it becomes a void, the blackness develops a depth, you feel the power of its animosity. You are being pulled downwards, closer to the flashing cursor, your body is no longer yours, it is rising from the rattling chair, you seem to be floating, just above the keyboard, your legs swinging in an arc behind you. There is a sudden crash, the door to the room bursts open, the sucking noise increases, it has become the voice of your past and certainly the tragedy of your future. The screen has become reddish, pulsating beneath you, a frightening hole that is pulling down. You are being sucked into a mighty vacuum, your body has lengthened, and stretched, you have no control, there is a final mighty rush of air, and your head is in the screen, a loud clattering, and a last scream as you become part of the computer.

You are still aware, but unable to feel, to touch, your body no longer exists, you are just another memory, another gigabyte, senseless without someone to control you.

A virtual prisoner, or perhaps you always were?

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