Posts Tagged ‘Bagpuss’

Celebrity Perfume: Christmas Round-Up

December 8, 2012

Christmas approacheth. Have you bought a gift for your sweetheart? No? Then why not bestow a celebrity perfume upon your best gal/gentleman lover this year? Here is a a festive guide to help you:

What Santa Claus really looks like

What Santa Claus really looks like

Angry Urine by Robbie Coltrane.

Want to smell like the Big Man o’ Glasgow? Simply rub yourself in chicken fat and the sweat of a dead hominid. Or buy Angry Urine pour homme by Robbie Coltrane. For best results, coat entire surface area of body with Angry Urine pour homme by Robbie Coltrane using a Robbie Coltrane own-brand baster, deep fry body for 4 hours then sprinkle with special brew.

Pussy Magnet by Bagpuss.

Although many celebrities are happy to put their name to a scent, few actually bother to brew it up themselves. Instead, they employ big-beaked perfumiers to devise a hot cologne that reflects their public persona in some symbolically suggestive way. Thus it is that Michael Barrymore’s perfume smells of chlorine, Jamie Oliver’s smells of packed lunch and George Osbourne’s smells of baby’s blood. Not so ‘Pussy Magnet by Bagpuss’. Eschewing the help of a perfumier, Bagpuss secretes a fragrant squirt from the sweet glands in his tight woollen anus, which is then siphoned into bottles by the Clangers. It smells of mothballs and delight. I would passionately love anything that was sprayed with ‘Pussy Magnet by Bagpuss’ – even an inexplicable monstrosity such as you.

Hitlerdaddy by Sylvia Plath.

This fragrance has the oppressive odour of an overbearing patriarch. I hate you Hitlerdaddy, with your biscuit bootheel and your krystallnacht kisses. Plus you stink.

Achieve by every X Factor winner ever

Achieve smells like water and air.

Melodique by Dog the Bounty Hunter

Surprisingly, this cologne’s aroma resembles neither a wet border collie nor justice nor sexual frustration. Instead, it evokes a fleeting memory of peaches and autumn leaves on a twilit veranda, with a topnote of regret. Enchanting.

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Cat People

June 8, 2010

In Britain, the 1982 film ‘Cat People’ is best known as the movie that gave birth to the TV franchise, ‘The Shoe People’. Many Britons of a particular age remember rushing home from school every Thursday to watch ‘The Shoe People’, in which a bunch of debauched brothel creepers, doc martins, espadrilles and ballerina pumps savagely bit each others soles off and acted out abject psychosexual scenarios involving shoehorns. They don’t make children’s TV like that anymore. Anyway, here’s a poem about ‘Cat People’.

The ancient ones tell of a legend,

A legend so powerful that it

Cannot be written down,

Although it can be made into

A low-budget film starring Malcolm Mcdowell.

(David Bowie: Reeeeowwwrrreeerrr)

And now the legend is becoming reality

For the zoo is honking and gnashing

And the cats in the vetinary surgery

Will not be put down

And are calling their lawyers

And citing scripture and telling of

The Coming of the Feline Jesus

(David Bowie: Wur-hur-hur, he’s com-ma-hing)

Mcdowell steps into the light.

Whiskers sprout where once spouted Nadsat,

Where once was a Roman robe,

Now is a fat mound of pink furze.

He yawns and un-retracts his claws.

He rolls his heavy cannonball of a head

And defecates upon a sandy throne.

(David Bowie: Oo-hoo-wurgh-hurgh, Cat People)

This velveteen man-mog will be the death of us all.

This wool-loving Magog shall eat our young.

Lock your catflaps.

Load your stun-guns

Bagpuss cometh.