Twins of rivalry

Vladarina and the Contessa seen here in happier times.

Something is clearly upsetting the equilibrity of the twins of evil.

Whether these two have been thrust together by their mutual passions or a dark and shameful secret known only to women in the hours of the full moon, I cannot say.

What I do know is that they have become hideously rivalistic - taking their ambitions for male-domination to new depths of disgustibility.

For a couple who choose to spend their daylight hours cheek-by-jowl in what amounts to little more than an airing cupboard with windows, they appear to have no concern about vis-a-vis or in regard to, stuffing up the little space they do have.

Stuffing it up with wild and insane plans for conquering the male of the species!


Take Twin of Evil 1 - Vladarina Gortona - seen here in what she calls the 'Boy-Map Room'.

Her days are filled with hatching mad plots on how many men will fall under her wicked spell on a day-by-day basis. Her clawed hand inscribes her maniacal plans on a wipe-clean whiteboard, using a complex code of post-it notes and crap handwriting. Linked to this object of horror is an unassuming map of the British Isles, slowly being coloured in with a pink crayon.

From a close reading it is possible to determine the direction of her conquestication - and I warn you now - THE STOUT MENFOLK OF THE COTSWOLDS ARE NEXT!

Now turn, if you can, to Twin of Evil A - the Contessa Joonie-Woonie. A woman of doubtful origins and even more doubtful humanity. Cold-blooded to the point of having to sun herself on the roof of the Tower of Mabledon before she has the energy to feast on a victim, her ambition rises far above that of Twin of Evil No.1, much like a cucumber rises over the heads of those engaged in juggling lessons at a salad factory.


Turn to her wall, if you can, and observe the piteous future of all mankind - for there is a map of the world (15 years old, but nonetheless) in which she has stuck pin after pin to show the progress of her crazed manhunt across the globe.

And - turn away now if you have a weak stomach - some of those pins of evil are green!

And yet for one man - as yet unconsumed - they hold no fear. It is Sam Spiv - who saunters effortlessly with his comedic seafaring gait into their cubicle and demands they make him a cup of tea. No 'please' or 'thank you', mind you. A simple barked order which they jump to immediately, fulfilling his beverage needs. What is it about this man? Is it his access to cheap silk stockings, his never-ending supply of rubber goods? Maybe his way of providing young laydeez with plentiful amounts of bratwurst?

Whatever it may be, I know one thing for sure.

He'd never get away with it at home.