WHAT I GOT OFF SANTA

Well Chumleys, it seems Pere Noel's generosity knew no bounds this year! He flushed himself down my chimney and left a rich deposit of luxury goods with nary a spot of soot to be seen. Then he managed to get back up said chimney and go on his merry way - which is quite the achievement considering ours has a u-bend fitted.
How does Swiety Mikolaj (as they call him in Poland) do it? I'll admit to being a Godless bead-mumbler but when one sees the miracles Joulupukki (as they have monikered him in Finland) performs, one begins to wonder is it possible there may, after all, be a God?

Yes, it was 'Grand Theft Archaeology Mesolithic' that took top marks among my Xmas chattels. It's the sequel to 'Grand Theft Archaeology Palaeolithic' and what a game it is! Simply insert the disc into the superlative Playbox 2 and using your well polished joystick you wander into an innocent boyish cyber-heaven of blunt trowel beheadings, defiling corpses, damp sandwiches and turning rent boys into roadkill with the aid of a wheelbarrow. Ahh! It brought a tear to my eye, reminding me as it did, of the erstwhile days of yore during the last building boom.

Baba Chagaloo (that's Him in Afghanistan) gave me several books of an educational nature and they are all greatly appreciated as a means of feigning intellectual depth by arranging them suggestively on my mahogany sideboard. I never read the foul things though, literature is (much like going to the loo) a filthy habit. And when they have done their job of educational fakery they will add vigour to the roaring fire in my stove.

When I peeled back the wrapping on my last present the excitement was so great I had fetch a mop from the yard to sort out the mess it provoked. The WHS Nimbus 3000!! No sooner had I this in my moist hands than I leapt up onto it and flew out the window. Such gaiety I have never before endured! It was all going splendidly until, at 30 meters OD, a concerned neighbour shot me down with the aid of a pump action shotgun he had received for Christmas. Damn you Mr. Moldevort - if that is indeed your real name!
And once again thank you dearest Kanakaloka (as they say in Hawaii,) for all your kind gifts, beat those sweatshop elves harder than usual this coming year so that I may enjoy more outstanding consumer goods for Christmas 2012.


Pass my pipe and slippers darling, and be quick about it lest you inflame my ire!


Until Next Week Archaeochrimassophiles!

MY CHRISTMAS CARD

HAPPY APOCALYPSMAS

The Night Before XXXmas

WARNING: Gentle Readers, the following post is a nauseating, vulgar pastiche, and as such, a perfect reflection of the Christmas spirit. I have asterixed the smutty words giving an amusing snowflake-like texture to the doggrel.


'Twas the night before Christmas and the squeaks in the house,
Were the sounds of Niall Colfer abusing a mouse.

O Sullivan and McDermott were farting in bed
While ould Cathy Moore baked inedible bread.
All our trowels were stored in a small timber box
And Franc Myles was busy choosing a frock.
'Will it be pink?' He wondered, 'Or Blue?'
When out on the street arose a hullabaloo.
Off to the window Franc flew in a flash,
Tearing his gusset as he slipped on the sash.
With his tackle a-dangling he saw through the fog
A box, of cardboard, dragged by two dogs.
"In China," the box claimed it was made in
And packaged within was sweet Alan Hayden.

Those mongrels they charged like seraphs aflame
And Alan he cursed and abused them by name.
'On Gringo you b*****d! On Luther you c***!
You dumb lazy s**ts, we don't have all month!'
To the rear of our house the dogs they came crashing
And then came the sound of a back window smashing.
When we ran to the kitchen it was just as we feared,
There stood dear Alan with glass in his beard.
He looked like an elf. Well . . . more like a goblin
Then he spat and he grunted: 'What's your f***ing problem?'
Al raced upstairs and sniffed about like a fox
Until he had excavated our box.

He tore it wide open, grabbed all the trowels
Then gave a look that could loosen ones bowels.
'You  f***ers,'  he gnashed 'May your spuds all get blight!
You stole all these trowels off my f***ing site!'

Nora Bermingham tried to thieve them once more
But Al roared 'F**k off!' And made for the door.
Conor and Aidan jumped out of the bed
Saying: 'Hold down the p***k and we'll fart on his head!' 
Cathy was p***ed and threw a loaf for a hoot,
But it didn't hit Alan, it hit Franc's dangling fruit!

Niall Colfer appeared in a bit of a flap,

Squealing, 'My b******s! My b******s! They're snared in a trap!'

In all the confusion Al slipped away
With both of his dogs and substitute sleigh,
But I heard him exclaim 'ere he had gone
'Ed Bourke must have been, 'cos there's s**t on your lawn!'


So Merry Christmas blog readers
I wish you good cheer
But beware of housebreakers
If they wear a beard . . .

UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN COMPADRES - DON'T BE SHY WITH THE TURKEY!

HOW TO EXECUTE AN EXCAVATION

It is only the seasoned archaeologist who truly understands what procedures and instruments are needed to successfully involve oneself in what is commonly known as an excavation. An unworldly university graduate comes fresh to the slaughter of field archaeology with callow notions about trowels and measuring tapes only to discover, in a very slow and painful fashion, the true nature of the implements needed for a dig (please forgive my use of the vernacular.) In the following blog I will attempt to tease out the main utensils needed to successfully propel oneself, in an agreeable arc, directly through an excavation and onwards into the dark hopeless void of unemployment on the other side.

No excavation begins without a generous dose of valuim washed down with a half bottle of Sore Leg Vodka. Valium's enthralling effect allows the user to attend a site meeting with a sweaty scrounging developer (who we hereafter only refer to as Mr.J.S.) and plant a kiss on his well picked nose with the words 'You are my beshtest friend inna hole whurl.'
During the previous building boom a refreshing cocktail of viagra and cocaine did win over the hearts of many archaeologists, but the chin bruising precipitated by this remarkable cocktail forced it's early retirement.

When it comes time to begin the delicate onsite task of topsoil removal there can be no doubting the efficacious nature of a few sticks of our old compeer Monsieur J. Elligneet. Since Northern Ireland's terrorist groups have decamped into the more solicitous environment of politics the British Isles explosives market has been flooded with intoxicating choice. A dozen sticks of TNT hammered with a mallet securely into the earth, and then combusted, always provides an amusing display not unlike fireworks, but with mud and gravel instead of sparks. - And you will stand there smiling, high as a kite on valium and not giving a shit as a cloud of filth ascends heavenwards, while your disgruntled developer chum Mr.J.S. screams and runs for cover.

Once the topsoil is safety orbiting the earth, the onerous niceties of stratified remains can be dealt with posthaste under the blunt blade of a big yellow bulldozer, (bones and timber always crunch satisfyingly under the loving embrace of diesel powered caterpillar tracks.) The previously mentioned sweaty developer with look on with grudging approval as you wave goodbye to all his planning difficulties, allowing you to pop another few valium, kiss his noggin and enquire whither those pale encrusted blemishes on his pants came from.
And there you will stand, with your midden faced, whoremonger pal, Mr.J.S. as the subsoil bleeds out from under the servile grind of the dozer - and you will make quite a pair, him fumbling in his greasy pockets and you swimming in the arms of Morpheus. Tra La La!

An end of site party (well lubricated with vomit) ensues and we move rapidly on to the post-excavation work . . .
Oh Post-Ex! Ahahahaaa! That is a good one, (wipes tears of mirth from eyes.) Post-Ex my hole! Those terrorists you bought the TNT off want their money and that's where the post-ex shekels have to go!


That dear readers, is how to properly conduct an excavation!


Better make that two packets of Diazepam please Mary, yes, and a whole bottle of Sore Leg.


Until NEXT WEEK, Christmas is approaching and I am positively damp with excitement.

FASHION TIPS FOR ARCHAEOLOGISTS No. 7

THE  WHEELBARROW


The deceptively simple uniwheeled, stereohandled design of the wheelbarrow has proved itself very pliant in the mitts of fashionista archaeologists. No more humble mode of filth propulsion exists which can be moulded so willingly into a contrivance that says everything about it's user.

Niall Colfer has used the nascent field of nanotechnology to develop the micro-barrow and he can often be heard hard at work in the pockets of fellow archaeologists using his new invention to remove the troublesome balls of fluffy lint which accumlate willy nilly in our aforementioned trouser pouches. So next time you put your hand into your pocket and find your linty balls have been interfered with . . .Oh Dear, I think I've said enough.

Aidan O Sullivan's desire to feel his fillings being sucked out by gravitational forces as he hoors around the corner of the site spoil heap has led him to develop a no-holds-barred turbobarrow (YEE-HAW! Go Team Aidan!) This baby's top speed is limited only by weather conditions and O Sullivan's choice of breakfast - on a dry day, with porridge, he can give the large hadron collider a run for it's money. So it truly can be said, (and at the risk of yet another double entendre) - when it comes to evacuating dirt, Aidan has certainly pushed the boat out.

The laziness and ingenuity of Wiltshire archaeologists had led them to design the spectacular West Kennet Longbarrow (not to be confused with the West Kennet Long Barrow.) Once filled to capacity the longbarrow need not be pushed to the spoil heap - because it's already there. So three cheers for all those fine Wiltshire  people - even though the buggers wouldn't sweat in an oven.

*

And when an archaeologist's metaphorical days work is done, they know, (only too well,) how they will carried across the great unknown to the spoil heap of the afterlife. . .

To finish I would just like to include a picture of Thackeray - because all that talk of wheelbarrows has left me completely Thackered.

Until next time - you steamy pride of buttermonkeys!