The old farmhouse at Whatlode basked in the glow of the afternoon sunshine. Despite it being late January, the rooms on the south side of the house benefited from the sunlight and were particularly warm and inviting.
John Fullerton could think of nowhere that he would rather be that afternoon. After a bracing walk across the moor, he had returned to the farmhouse at noon to find Mrs Crossett serving up one of her home-made stews. John had devoured a plateful, followed by second helpings and then a generous portion of treacle sponge and custard. Young Lucy had paid him a visit shortly afterwards, as she often did on weekdays. They had shared a pot of tea and, after seeing her off, John had reclined contentedly on the sofa, which was perfectly placed to catch the warm sunlight.
John dozed for an hour or so. He finally awoke when Mrs Crossett crept into the room carrying a tray laden with coffee and a plate of biscuits which had come straight from the oven. John stretched. He sighed with pleasure, then treated his housekeeper to the most sincere and heartfelt of smiles.
"Why, thank you very much, Mrs Crossett," he said, as he lay there. With a twinkle in her eye, Mrs Crossett nodded, and left the room forthwith.
John remained inert on the sofa. He was having such a wonderfully relaxing, indulgent sort of day that he was determined to enjoy it for as long as it lasted.
But what John Fullerton did not realise was that Mrs Crossett had not shut the door properly when she left the room. Barty the Irish Setter, who had been lounging around in the hallway, spotted an opportunity and wasted no time slipping through the open door.
The dog sat down on the carpet and carefully looked around the room. There lay his master, stationary on the sofa, horizontal and completely unguarded. Over to the right were his master's slippers. To the left, biscuits. Elsewhere, there was a leather satchel, a vase with flowers in it, a rickety old lamp on an equally rickety side table, and various other articles of interest spread around the room, all ready for the taking.
Barty did a quick calculation in his head. He worked out that, should he be so inclined, he could jump up on to his master's stomach and proceed to lick his face without mercy: from there he could leap across to the old suede armchair, knock over the coffee pot and biscuits en route, jump down, snaffle the biscuits, then sink his teeth into his master's favourite leather satchel before dragging it around the room and emptying its contents: at the same time he could reverse without prejudice into the table with the lamp on it, take out a couple of vases and damage so many other precariously placed knick-knacks that the only thing left to do would be to hump one of his master's slippers.
Fortunately for John Fullerton, Barty was not that sort of dog.
Barty just sat there and panted a bit.
Then he licked his paws.
And then, after about five minutes, Barty grinned in that way that Irish Setters do.
Here it comes, thought the dog, with bated breath.
Then Barty let out a silent but so compellingly noxious fart that, in years to come, commentators would claim that it was even worse than that infamous incident from 1957, the great ill wind of the Old White Poodle of Rotterdam.
A perfect day indeed, thought Barty, as his master arose from the sofa, clutching at his throat and gasping for air with a look of abject horror on his face.
Barty was impressed. He had expected to get a reaction, but not one that good.
He barked. Again, Barty grinned in that way way that only Irish Setters do. Then, for an encore, Barty decided he would hump one of the slippers after all.
Monday 30 January 2012
Thursday 26 January 2012
LITTLE MISS TRUMPY
by Roddy Hotgruffs.
Little Miss Trumpy lived in Windy Land. She lived in a little brown house called Windy Cottage, which stood next to a wood. Little Miss Trumpy’s home was very tidy, but nobody ever saw how tidy it was because the cottage was not particularly well ventilated, and of course ventilation is essential when the occupant is somebody like Little Miss Trumpy.
Each morning, Little Miss Trumpy would make herself a cooked breakfast – eggs, bacon, beans, toast – which set her up for the day.
It also set her off for the day, too...
One morning, Little Miss Trumpy ate a little bit too much breakfast, and it was not long before she began to live up to her name. Unfortunately the ventilation problem in Windy Cottage had become so acute that, when Little Miss Trumpy boffed, her poor home could take it no more. There was a loud crash, a lot of smoke and when the smoke finally cleared, Little Miss Trumpy found herself surrounded by rubble.
"Oh, deary dear!" she exclaimed to herself. "Whatever shall I do now? Where am I going to live?"
Little Miss Trumpy decided to ponder her predicament while taking a walk in the woods. So she set off into the trees, and she walked...and walked...and walked...until eventually she emerged from the woods and found herself to be somewhere she had never been before.
Little Miss Trumpy had walked right out of Windy Land!
Can you guess where she was? That's right! She had walked all the way to a land where people like you and I live - she had walked to Blighty!
"Excuse me - where am I?" she asked a portly fellow sat on a bench.
At first the man was very chuffed that Little Miss Trumpy had come over to talk to him, but he soon caught a whiff of her distinctive odour, which was too much for him to bear. He cried the name of the village over his shoulder as he ran away to the pub. Honeysomething.
Little Miss Trumpy was very taken with Honeysomething, so in no time at all she got herself on the housing list and before long she was allocated a new home.
Little Miss Trumpy never returned to Windy Land. These days she resides on one of the main roads into Honeysomething, at number 8.
As for her wind problem, well, the food we eat here in Blighty agrees with her a lot more than the grub she noshed back in Windy Land. That said, if you ever find yourself in the village of Honeysomething, you might want to think twice before knocking on the door of number 8.
Little Miss Trumpy lived in Windy Land. She lived in a little brown house called Windy Cottage, which stood next to a wood. Little Miss Trumpy’s home was very tidy, but nobody ever saw how tidy it was because the cottage was not particularly well ventilated, and of course ventilation is essential when the occupant is somebody like Little Miss Trumpy.
Each morning, Little Miss Trumpy would make herself a cooked breakfast – eggs, bacon, beans, toast – which set her up for the day.
It also set her off for the day, too...
One morning, Little Miss Trumpy ate a little bit too much breakfast, and it was not long before she began to live up to her name. Unfortunately the ventilation problem in Windy Cottage had become so acute that, when Little Miss Trumpy boffed, her poor home could take it no more. There was a loud crash, a lot of smoke and when the smoke finally cleared, Little Miss Trumpy found herself surrounded by rubble.
"Oh, deary dear!" she exclaimed to herself. "Whatever shall I do now? Where am I going to live?"
Little Miss Trumpy decided to ponder her predicament while taking a walk in the woods. So she set off into the trees, and she walked...and walked...and walked...until eventually she emerged from the woods and found herself to be somewhere she had never been before.
Little Miss Trumpy had walked right out of Windy Land!
Can you guess where she was? That's right! She had walked all the way to a land where people like you and I live - she had walked to Blighty!
"Excuse me - where am I?" she asked a portly fellow sat on a bench.
At first the man was very chuffed that Little Miss Trumpy had come over to talk to him, but he soon caught a whiff of her distinctive odour, which was too much for him to bear. He cried the name of the village over his shoulder as he ran away to the pub. Honeysomething.
Little Miss Trumpy was very taken with Honeysomething, so in no time at all she got herself on the housing list and before long she was allocated a new home.
Little Miss Trumpy never returned to Windy Land. These days she resides on one of the main roads into Honeysomething, at number 8.
As for her wind problem, well, the food we eat here in Blighty agrees with her a lot more than the grub she noshed back in Windy Land. That said, if you ever find yourself in the village of Honeysomething, you might want to think twice before knocking on the door of number 8.
Wednesday 25 January 2012
TRUTH
The potato head was out of sorts.
"Why is it, when I'm supposed to be composing music, or reading Nick's novels so I'm ready to edit his new book, that instead I find myself staying up too late and writing this sort of tripe?" he asked.
Neville stopped flossing the penguin for a moment and looked at his friend. "Because you're a nob end?"
Potato head thought about that for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I think that must be it."
"Why is it, when I'm supposed to be composing music, or reading Nick's novels so I'm ready to edit his new book, that instead I find myself staying up too late and writing this sort of tripe?" he asked.
Neville stopped flossing the penguin for a moment and looked at his friend. "Because you're a nob end?"
Potato head thought about that for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I think that must be it."
Tuesday 24 January 2012
THE GIMLET TRIUMPHS AGAIN
The ageing nibbler was always amazed by the reasons his gimlet came up with for not brushing her spanglers.
Most days he was lucky to manage three passes before she came out with one of her excuses, like "look - a potato bus!" or "flush me, The Acts of Man sounds just like Camel!"
She was amazingly fluent for a gimlet only twice round the glowers. But even Old Grumby was unprepared for what she would put forth this day.
"I need to spenge my wickets, so I don't get jockwort in the thrubbards!" she declared.
Old Grumby was so aghast that he dropped his spangle twanger, and before he had time to recover, the gimlet rolled her puddings and started merrily bouncing on the third mattress.
"Flaming telepaths!" gasped Old Grumby. "Where in the name of Peter Seago's powdered spotlings did you pick up a phrase like that?"
The gimlet grinned like Benjamin Francis Leftwich on a picnic in a pet shop and pointed beyond the racks of the balanced flange-partridge at the twisted whistles.
Suddenly all became clear. Like a queefmeister on the eve of Burns Night - when all but the least flatulent of men take up their matches and light their own fogals - she had been bothering those stumps of quenge.
"Ah." The aging nibbler rolled his Steves up and reached for the superglue.
Even in the shadow of the hills of Mardley, there was no fooling Old Grumby.
And yet, once again, the gimlet had escaped a brushing. For the lights had passed over the final bending, with little but a cold gusting and slippy paths on which to greet the rustling.
Grumby sighed, glued the gimlet to the chimney and bid her good night.
There was always tomorrow.
Most days he was lucky to manage three passes before she came out with one of her excuses, like "look - a potato bus!" or "flush me, The Acts of Man sounds just like Camel!"
She was amazingly fluent for a gimlet only twice round the glowers. But even Old Grumby was unprepared for what she would put forth this day.
"I need to spenge my wickets, so I don't get jockwort in the thrubbards!" she declared.
Old Grumby was so aghast that he dropped his spangle twanger, and before he had time to recover, the gimlet rolled her puddings and started merrily bouncing on the third mattress.
"Flaming telepaths!" gasped Old Grumby. "Where in the name of Peter Seago's powdered spotlings did you pick up a phrase like that?"
The gimlet grinned like Benjamin Francis Leftwich on a picnic in a pet shop and pointed beyond the racks of the balanced flange-partridge at the twisted whistles.
Suddenly all became clear. Like a queefmeister on the eve of Burns Night - when all but the least flatulent of men take up their matches and light their own fogals - she had been bothering those stumps of quenge.
"Ah." The aging nibbler rolled his Steves up and reached for the superglue.
Even in the shadow of the hills of Mardley, there was no fooling Old Grumby.
And yet, once again, the gimlet had escaped a brushing. For the lights had passed over the final bending, with little but a cold gusting and slippy paths on which to greet the rustling.
Grumby sighed, glued the gimlet to the chimney and bid her good night.
There was always tomorrow.
Sunday 22 January 2012
THE SCATMAN
There was a grubby, smelly brick building in WC12 and it was there that Walter witnessed a miracle.
It was the day that Walter met Gerald.
Walter was searching for the right words to say. Eventually he found them.
"Why do you live in this toilet?" he asked, almost coyly.
Gerald sighed. "Because I'm a poo," he pointed out, patiently.
Walter thought about this for a moment, then conceded that it was a fair point. Gerald was, indeed, a poo.
Now, this might sound a little bit far fetched. But bear in mind that, what most of us might think of as ridiculous, Walter took in his stride. For Walter was a lavatory attendant by trade, and lavatory attendants witness things almost every day of the week which most of us simply would not believe unless we saw them with our own eyes.
Be that as it may, what happened next surprised even Walter.
For moments later, before Walter's very eyes, Gerald the poo metamorphosised into a handsome prince.
"Er...what just happened?" asked Walter, his mind reeling. He really did pinch himself to make sure this was not a dream.
"Got you there, didn't I!" The prince looked exceptionally pleased with himself as he clambered out of the toilet in trap three. He straightened his clothes, smiled at Walter, then leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially, "It's a little known fact outside poo circles, but to the seventh stool born in every seventh generation do the elements bequeath special powers. The seventh dung of a seventh dung can use those powers to take whatever form he chooses." Gerald winked at Walter as he pushed past him. "And I am that seventh stool."
Walter checked that the window was open, and that he had not just been using too much cleaning fluid in a badly ventilated room again. Amazingly, he had not.
He turned to look at the prince, who was busy washing his hands.
Talking to a poo is one thing, but a poo that can turn into a handsome prince? That really is utterly preposterous. Isn't it? Walter could not deny the evidence before his eyes...
"So...you're a bit like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly?" Walter asked conversationally, leaning on his mop.
"Only much rarer!" Gerald responded, admiring himself in a mirror.
"Fantastic," declared Walter, to himself more than to the prince. He took a step closer to Gerald, wanting to make sure his eyes were not deceiving him. Then he caught a whiff of something nasty and pulled a face. "Ew! If only you could do something about that stench, you could pass for a real prince!"
"What do you mean, 'could'?" said Gerald, turning to face Walter. "I tell you now, I am a real prince and tonight I shall dine with the queen of the rabbits!"
Walter's eyes widened in amazement. "There's a queen of the rabbits?" He was struggling to take this all in.
"Well, of course there is," replied the prince. "Where have you been hiding, Walter?"
Walter shrugged. "I clean toilets," he mumbled and took a step towards cubicle three, the one from which Gerald had emerged.
"Indeed. Well, much as I'd like to stay and chat a bit longer, there are things I must do," said Gerald airily. "Time waits for no man," he added, as he began to head towards the door. But as he did so, he glanced back, only to see Walter disappear into trap three...
Gerald realised in an instant what Walter was about to do - flush the toilet in which he had been birthed!
"NO!" yelled Gerald, throwing himself with all his might in Walter's direction.
But it was too late.
Walter flushed the toilet.
And as Walter flushed the toilet, Gerald's life was flushed away.
One moment Gerald was there, throwing himself across the room, the next moment the only evidence that he had ever existed was a suspicious looking pool of liquid on the floor.
"What have I done?" Walter tried to hold back the tears welling up in his eyes as he stood there on the threshold of trap three, staring at all that was left of the handsome prince. He stood there, unmoving, for a long, long time.
Only minutes before, Walter had witnessed a miracle. But already he had undone it. Foolishly, without thinking, in the blink of an eye.
Walter felt a great sense of confusion and of loss. The world seemed distant that morning. The public convenience in WC12 remained unusually silent, except of course for when David Robinson came in and spent ten noisy minutes relieving himself in trap one, in that way that David Robinson does.
It seemed like a long time before Walter began to connect once more with the world around him. In truth, it was but moments after Robinson exited the building and the after effects had pummelled the lavatory attendant's senses until he could remain still no longer. Walter blinked, picked up his bucket and mop and slowly, laboriously, began to clean. Nevertheless, he could not bring himself to clean up that puddle in the middle of the floor - that would seem wrong, somehow.
So, if you ever find yourself caught short when you're out and about, and you visit a public convenience where there's a dejected looking attendant who says "mind the puddle, mate", you might just want to do what he says.
And if you venture into a cubicle where there's a special looking floater, it might be prudent not to flush. Just back out slowly and use trap 2 instead.*
*if you choose to use trap 1, then be it on your own head - I'm not going to condone the use of any toilet where Robinson has left his mark.
It was the day that Walter met Gerald.
Walter was searching for the right words to say. Eventually he found them.
"Why do you live in this toilet?" he asked, almost coyly.
Gerald sighed. "Because I'm a poo," he pointed out, patiently.
Walter thought about this for a moment, then conceded that it was a fair point. Gerald was, indeed, a poo.
Now, this might sound a little bit far fetched. But bear in mind that, what most of us might think of as ridiculous, Walter took in his stride. For Walter was a lavatory attendant by trade, and lavatory attendants witness things almost every day of the week which most of us simply would not believe unless we saw them with our own eyes.
Be that as it may, what happened next surprised even Walter.
For moments later, before Walter's very eyes, Gerald the poo metamorphosised into a handsome prince.
"Er...what just happened?" asked Walter, his mind reeling. He really did pinch himself to make sure this was not a dream.
"Got you there, didn't I!" The prince looked exceptionally pleased with himself as he clambered out of the toilet in trap three. He straightened his clothes, smiled at Walter, then leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially, "It's a little known fact outside poo circles, but to the seventh stool born in every seventh generation do the elements bequeath special powers. The seventh dung of a seventh dung can use those powers to take whatever form he chooses." Gerald winked at Walter as he pushed past him. "And I am that seventh stool."
Walter checked that the window was open, and that he had not just been using too much cleaning fluid in a badly ventilated room again. Amazingly, he had not.
He turned to look at the prince, who was busy washing his hands.
Talking to a poo is one thing, but a poo that can turn into a handsome prince? That really is utterly preposterous. Isn't it? Walter could not deny the evidence before his eyes...
"So...you're a bit like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly?" Walter asked conversationally, leaning on his mop.
"Only much rarer!" Gerald responded, admiring himself in a mirror.
"Fantastic," declared Walter, to himself more than to the prince. He took a step closer to Gerald, wanting to make sure his eyes were not deceiving him. Then he caught a whiff of something nasty and pulled a face. "Ew! If only you could do something about that stench, you could pass for a real prince!"
"What do you mean, 'could'?" said Gerald, turning to face Walter. "I tell you now, I am a real prince and tonight I shall dine with the queen of the rabbits!"
Walter's eyes widened in amazement. "There's a queen of the rabbits?" He was struggling to take this all in.
"Well, of course there is," replied the prince. "Where have you been hiding, Walter?"
Walter shrugged. "I clean toilets," he mumbled and took a step towards cubicle three, the one from which Gerald had emerged.
"Indeed. Well, much as I'd like to stay and chat a bit longer, there are things I must do," said Gerald airily. "Time waits for no man," he added, as he began to head towards the door. But as he did so, he glanced back, only to see Walter disappear into trap three...
Gerald realised in an instant what Walter was about to do - flush the toilet in which he had been birthed!
"NO!" yelled Gerald, throwing himself with all his might in Walter's direction.
But it was too late.
Walter flushed the toilet.
And as Walter flushed the toilet, Gerald's life was flushed away.
One moment Gerald was there, throwing himself across the room, the next moment the only evidence that he had ever existed was a suspicious looking pool of liquid on the floor.
"What have I done?" Walter tried to hold back the tears welling up in his eyes as he stood there on the threshold of trap three, staring at all that was left of the handsome prince. He stood there, unmoving, for a long, long time.
Only minutes before, Walter had witnessed a miracle. But already he had undone it. Foolishly, without thinking, in the blink of an eye.
Walter felt a great sense of confusion and of loss. The world seemed distant that morning. The public convenience in WC12 remained unusually silent, except of course for when David Robinson came in and spent ten noisy minutes relieving himself in trap one, in that way that David Robinson does.
It seemed like a long time before Walter began to connect once more with the world around him. In truth, it was but moments after Robinson exited the building and the after effects had pummelled the lavatory attendant's senses until he could remain still no longer. Walter blinked, picked up his bucket and mop and slowly, laboriously, began to clean. Nevertheless, he could not bring himself to clean up that puddle in the middle of the floor - that would seem wrong, somehow.
So, if you ever find yourself caught short when you're out and about, and you visit a public convenience where there's a dejected looking attendant who says "mind the puddle, mate", you might just want to do what he says.
And if you venture into a cubicle where there's a special looking floater, it might be prudent not to flush. Just back out slowly and use trap 2 instead.*
*if you choose to use trap 1, then be it on your own head - I'm not going to condone the use of any toilet where Robinson has left his mark.
Saturday 21 January 2012
WIND UP YOUR WILLOWS
Two thousand hairy gorillas
Lined up in rows, holding their pillows
Sucking their thumbs
Picking their bums
- it's enough to put wind up your willows
Lined up in rows, holding their pillows
Sucking their thumbs
Picking their bums
- it's enough to put wind up your willows
Friday 20 January 2012
MEGA OFFLOAD
This webpage is currently offline due to there having been a crackdown by Marjorie Ramsbottom on story sharing websites which footle around with such inflammatory words as froplet, mungethwackers and crussets.
The page author has been temporarily suspended from cracking his nefflers and has been sentenced to at least 20 minutes washing up.
If you wish to vent your anger, you may wish to join the Synonymous campaign and throw your best underpants at John Samsung's facebag page, Steve's Eagleswangs blog or the thrusting trussets of The Big Mint's incomprehensible bothy fixation. Or you could just pop down to the chippy and stroke Alan's whippet.
Normal service will be subsumed as soon as Grimsby
The page author has been temporarily suspended from cracking his nefflers and has been sentenced to at least 20 minutes washing up.
If you wish to vent your anger, you may wish to join the Synonymous campaign and throw your best underpants at John Samsung's facebag page, Steve's Eagleswangs blog or the thrusting trussets of The Big Mint's incomprehensible bothy fixation. Or you could just pop down to the chippy and stroke Alan's whippet.
Normal service will be subsumed as soon as Grimsby
Thursday 19 January 2012
RETURN OF THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY
"I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!" thundered the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley, who had just appeared in the dental surgery.
"Really? Would you like to come through?" asked the dental nurse, as she ushered the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley into the consulting room.
Inside, the prophet was greeted by the dentist, who was smiling broadly and proffering his hand. "Hello!" said the dentist. "And you are?"
"I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!" roared the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
"Welcome, er, prophet." The dentist indicated a large chair in the centre of the room. "Please, do take a seat."
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley looked a little confused, but sat down anyway.
The dentist glanced at the paperwork in his hand, which said nothing more than 'new NHS patient'.
"Pott Shrigley - isn't that somewhere near Wigan?" the dentist asked, making conversation as he handed over the papers to the nurse and grabbed his stool.
"CHESHIRE!" bellowed the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
"Oh." The dentist noticed that his assistant, the nurse, looked like she wanted to visit her cousin in Malta rather urgently. Now perched on his stool, he began rolling towards the prophet. "So tell me...why do they call you that?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley looked beside himself. "BECAUSE I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!" he squawked.
"I meant the bit about the egg," the dentist muttered, but let it go. More loudly he added, "Now, lie back, relax and let's have a look in your mouth."
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley did not move. He looked shocked and deeply uncomfortable.
The dentist tried again. "Your teeth, sir. Can I take a look?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley jumped up out of the seat and declared, "I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!"
The dentist glanced at his assistant, who now had her back pressed to the door and was trying, as unobtrusively as possible, to locate something in the bottom of her bag.
"So you don't want me to look at your teeth?" The dentist had returned his gaze to the prophet, who was glaring back at him like he was something repugnant dragged up from the pit of hell.
"NO!"
"Then why are you here?" The dentist was confused.
"I AM HERE," the Great Egg Prophet spelt out slowly, as if to an idiot, "BECAUSE I WISH TO COMMENCE RELATIONS WITH YOUR DENTAL NURSE."
Silence fell. The dentist blinked, several times. "Right." He pulled a face, shifted uncomfortably on his stool, then met the prophet's gaze. "Tell me, sir. Presumably you - being a prophet and all - can predict the future?"
"YES!" replied the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley. He was making progress at last.
"And does your gift tell you what my assistant's response is going to be?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley thought for a moment.
"YES!" he suddenly declared, waggling a finger triumphantly in the air. "SHE WILL ATTACK ME FORTHWITH WITH HER PEPPER SPRAY!" he announced, turning as he did so to face the dental nurse, who was bearing down on him with a small aerosol can in her hand.
And once again, The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley had predicted something which turned out to be completely and utterly accurate.
"Really? Would you like to come through?" asked the dental nurse, as she ushered the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley into the consulting room.
Inside, the prophet was greeted by the dentist, who was smiling broadly and proffering his hand. "Hello!" said the dentist. "And you are?"
"I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!" roared the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
"Welcome, er, prophet." The dentist indicated a large chair in the centre of the room. "Please, do take a seat."
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley looked a little confused, but sat down anyway.
The dentist glanced at the paperwork in his hand, which said nothing more than 'new NHS patient'.
"Pott Shrigley - isn't that somewhere near Wigan?" the dentist asked, making conversation as he handed over the papers to the nurse and grabbed his stool.
"CHESHIRE!" bellowed the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
"Oh." The dentist noticed that his assistant, the nurse, looked like she wanted to visit her cousin in Malta rather urgently. Now perched on his stool, he began rolling towards the prophet. "So tell me...why do they call you that?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley looked beside himself. "BECAUSE I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!" he squawked.
"I meant the bit about the egg," the dentist muttered, but let it go. More loudly he added, "Now, lie back, relax and let's have a look in your mouth."
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley did not move. He looked shocked and deeply uncomfortable.
The dentist tried again. "Your teeth, sir. Can I take a look?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley jumped up out of the seat and declared, "I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!"
The dentist glanced at his assistant, who now had her back pressed to the door and was trying, as unobtrusively as possible, to locate something in the bottom of her bag.
"So you don't want me to look at your teeth?" The dentist had returned his gaze to the prophet, who was glaring back at him like he was something repugnant dragged up from the pit of hell.
"NO!"
"Then why are you here?" The dentist was confused.
"I AM HERE," the Great Egg Prophet spelt out slowly, as if to an idiot, "BECAUSE I WISH TO COMMENCE RELATIONS WITH YOUR DENTAL NURSE."
Silence fell. The dentist blinked, several times. "Right." He pulled a face, shifted uncomfortably on his stool, then met the prophet's gaze. "Tell me, sir. Presumably you - being a prophet and all - can predict the future?"
"YES!" replied the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley. He was making progress at last.
"And does your gift tell you what my assistant's response is going to be?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley thought for a moment.
"YES!" he suddenly declared, waggling a finger triumphantly in the air. "SHE WILL ATTACK ME FORTHWITH WITH HER PEPPER SPRAY!" he announced, turning as he did so to face the dental nurse, who was bearing down on him with a small aerosol can in her hand.
And once again, The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley had predicted something which turned out to be completely and utterly accurate.
Wednesday 18 January 2012
FLUMPING SCRUFTY
Sherbert was combing the caterpillar when the vicar arrived with his pencils.
"Nice day for it," said the Reverend, who was very broad minded. You have to be in Mablethorpe.
The same could not be said of Alice, who appeared to have a blocked oculus round the back. "More tea vicar?" she called out from the kitchen, which was in a completely different house over 200 miles away, so it was a good job the vicar had his hearing aid turned up. "I haven't had a cup yet!" he replied. Alas, the Church of England tend not to present trophies to runners up in the 100 metre sack race for retired clergy, so it was a good job he was Welsh.
The Reverend placed his case on the table and proudly pulled out his rosette. The Police take a dim view of people exposing themselves, but it was so dark that on this occasion they did not notice anything. By the time the lights came up, the rosette was gone and the vicar was busy showing Sherbert what he had done on his pad.
"You should try cotton balls and water," Sherbert suggested, trying hard not to pull a face. "Have you seen a doctor yet?"
"Oh yes," said the vicar, "he was coming out of the post office with a bag of lemon bon-bons."
"Traitor!" Sherbert exclaimed, shifting uncomfortably in his two ounce bag.
Fortunately he had never needed help straining his tea bags, unlike that poor fellow from number 67. But, as they say in that little hamlet where you turn left and go down the hill as you come in on the back road to Boughton Malherbe, that is a tale for another day.
"Nice day for it," said the Reverend, who was very broad minded. You have to be in Mablethorpe.
The same could not be said of Alice, who appeared to have a blocked oculus round the back. "More tea vicar?" she called out from the kitchen, which was in a completely different house over 200 miles away, so it was a good job the vicar had his hearing aid turned up. "I haven't had a cup yet!" he replied. Alas, the Church of England tend not to present trophies to runners up in the 100 metre sack race for retired clergy, so it was a good job he was Welsh.
The Reverend placed his case on the table and proudly pulled out his rosette. The Police take a dim view of people exposing themselves, but it was so dark that on this occasion they did not notice anything. By the time the lights came up, the rosette was gone and the vicar was busy showing Sherbert what he had done on his pad.
"You should try cotton balls and water," Sherbert suggested, trying hard not to pull a face. "Have you seen a doctor yet?"
"Oh yes," said the vicar, "he was coming out of the post office with a bag of lemon bon-bons."
"Traitor!" Sherbert exclaimed, shifting uncomfortably in his two ounce bag.
Fortunately he had never needed help straining his tea bags, unlike that poor fellow from number 67. But, as they say in that little hamlet where you turn left and go down the hill as you come in on the back road to Boughton Malherbe, that is a tale for another day.
Tuesday 17 January 2012
A SORT OF HOMECOMING
The two rabbits were fast asleep in their burrow, all cosy and snug, when the phone rang.
"Frog me, who's that ringing at this time of night?" said Plopsy, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He grabbed the telephone and put it to one ear. "Hello?" He listened, then added, "Oh yes. Hang on." Plopsy elbowed Dropsy. "It's for you."
"What?" Dropsy asked rudely, turning over and burying his face in his pillow. "Who is it?"
"It's Bono," said Plopsy. "They're playing some 100,000-seater stadium in Germany. They're live on stage right now and he wants you to address the audience."
Dropsy sat up, yawned, farted, then took the phone from his friend and hollered down it, "GOOD EVENING DEUTSCHLAND!!!"
A minute later the call ended and Dropsy put the phone back on its cradle.
"Frogging rock stars," he said, fluffing up his pillow. "No doubt they'll ring me from the Kremlin tomorrow night."
Plopsy tutted and shook his head. Then he made them both a cup of hot chocolate, refilled their hotty botties and they went back to sleep.
"Frog me, who's that ringing at this time of night?" said Plopsy, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He grabbed the telephone and put it to one ear. "Hello?" He listened, then added, "Oh yes. Hang on." Plopsy elbowed Dropsy. "It's for you."
"What?" Dropsy asked rudely, turning over and burying his face in his pillow. "Who is it?"
"It's Bono," said Plopsy. "They're playing some 100,000-seater stadium in Germany. They're live on stage right now and he wants you to address the audience."
Dropsy sat up, yawned, farted, then took the phone from his friend and hollered down it, "GOOD EVENING DEUTSCHLAND!!!"
A minute later the call ended and Dropsy put the phone back on its cradle.
"Frogging rock stars," he said, fluffing up his pillow. "No doubt they'll ring me from the Kremlin tomorrow night."
Plopsy tutted and shook his head. Then he made them both a cup of hot chocolate, refilled their hotty botties and they went back to sleep.
Monday 16 January 2012
A MAN'S GOT TO DO - A TRUE STORY
There's this story in the book of Genesis, of how a man called Jacob works for a number of years so that he can marry a comely young woman called Rachel. Jacob is tricked into marrying Rachel's older sister Leah, but eventually ends up marrying Rachel too. There's a bit of tension between the two sisters and the Bible tells us that Jacob loves Rachel more than Leah. And yet, despite that, Jacob still manages to have 4 children by Leah, and that's before we even get to Chapter 30...
One thing the Bible does not do is describe Jacob's reactions. It is fortunate, then, that there was a TV camera on hand as Chapter 30 unfolded:
Rachel to Jacob: “Give me children or I'll die!”
Jacob: “I am not God!”
Rachel: “Then sleep with my servant, Bilhah. She will bear children for me.”
(Jacob mugs to camera, then looks back at Rachel.)
"But darling, I can't. No really. No, I've told you before....no...oh, go on then. You've twisted my arm," he says, rolling his eyes before commencing the arduous task of giving Bilhah one. (Or two. Or even more, as she gets pregnant twice.)
Cut to later, when Leah realizes she isn't getting pregnant anymore. She summons Jacob. "Yes dear, what is it?" he asks.
Leah says she wants to give her servant Zilpah to him to be his wife.
(Jacob mugs to camera, turns to Leah as if to protest, then looks Zilpah up and down.)
"Oh, if you really insist," he says, rolling his eyes, before giving Zilpah one. (And another one. And probably several more, because she bears him two sons.)
Cut to later - Rachel is begging Leah to give her some mandrakes. Leah agrees, on one condition...
Cut to that evening, when Jacob is coming home from the fields. He's a bit tired after a day's work, the poor love. Leah comes out to meet him. “You must sleep with me tonight! I've made a deal with Rachel!"
(Jacob mugs to camera and raises his eyebrows as if to say 'can you believe this?')
Jacob to Leah: "Well, I'm a bit knackered to be honest, love. But...oh, if I have to." He drops his tools and chases her straight home, after which time she adds 3 more children to the 4 she's already given him.
And Rachel? She gets pregnant and gives birth too...
Is it just me?
One thing the Bible does not do is describe Jacob's reactions. It is fortunate, then, that there was a TV camera on hand as Chapter 30 unfolded:
Rachel to Jacob: “Give me children or I'll die!”
Jacob: “I am not God!”
Rachel: “Then sleep with my servant, Bilhah. She will bear children for me.”
(Jacob mugs to camera, then looks back at Rachel.)
"But darling, I can't. No really. No, I've told you before....no...oh, go on then. You've twisted my arm," he says, rolling his eyes before commencing the arduous task of giving Bilhah one. (Or two. Or even more, as she gets pregnant twice.)
Cut to later, when Leah realizes she isn't getting pregnant anymore. She summons Jacob. "Yes dear, what is it?" he asks.
Leah says she wants to give her servant Zilpah to him to be his wife.
(Jacob mugs to camera, turns to Leah as if to protest, then looks Zilpah up and down.)
"Oh, if you really insist," he says, rolling his eyes, before giving Zilpah one. (And another one. And probably several more, because she bears him two sons.)
Cut to later - Rachel is begging Leah to give her some mandrakes. Leah agrees, on one condition...
Cut to that evening, when Jacob is coming home from the fields. He's a bit tired after a day's work, the poor love. Leah comes out to meet him. “You must sleep with me tonight! I've made a deal with Rachel!"
(Jacob mugs to camera and raises his eyebrows as if to say 'can you believe this?')
Jacob to Leah: "Well, I'm a bit knackered to be honest, love. But...oh, if I have to." He drops his tools and chases her straight home, after which time she adds 3 more children to the 4 she's already given him.
And Rachel? She gets pregnant and gives birth too...
Is it just me?
Sunday 15 January 2012
TWO MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT
Alright mate, how are you?
Oh, you know. Can't complain.
Yeah? How's the kid?
It's her birthday today, actually!
Really? Is she out of nappies yet?
No, not yet.
Still sleeping in your room?
Sadly, yes.
Getting a proper night's sleep yet?
I'm afraid not.
Bet she costs a fortune in food and clothes and nappies.
Yes indeed.
And wakes you up really early?
Always.
Bet you never get five minutes to yourself.
Not often, no.
Messy beggars, kids.
Yes.
They demand all your attention and are always throwing tantrums. And as for your missus...
Don't go there mate.
No, enough said, eh? Mind you, though...a lot of bother really, isn't it. Makes you think. All that money and time and commitment - all that grief, just for two minutes of fun with the missus.
Actually, you're wrong there.
I am?
Yes. It was two and a half minutes.
Saturday 14 January 2012
THE FRENCH WORD FOR 'TRUMP'
Charlie Squirrel has a bit of a wind problem. Not a smelly, must-stand-outside-until-it-disperses sort of problem, but something a lot more serious. You see, Charlie is only a small squirrel, and his farts are such that, whenever he lets one go, it literally launches him into the air like a rocket bound for the stars.
When the problem first developed, Charlie was young and loved the attention. He would do things to make the other squirrels at school cry with laughter, like don his red underpants and pretend to be superman. "IS IT A BIRD?" they would cry. "IS IT A PLANE? NO, IT'S A SQUIRREL IN TIGHTS WITH CHRONIC FLATULENCE!"
But as he got older, the problem became less easy to control, as these things always do. The first time Charlie realised he was losing the ability to control his farts was on the night that Marjorie asked him for a kiss. He had done everything right, wined and dined her - all charm and sophistication. But then as Charlie puckered up and leaned in to seal the deal, he had accidentally cracked one off and found himself cutting through the atmosphere like an exocet missile. Marjorie had been less than impressed when he landed upside down, legs splayed, in a dirty old bath. Charlie had quickly tried to remedy the situation by jumping up, laying down a second botty cough and riding the bath at high speed down the hillside, but unfortunately Marjorie had seen that episode of Last Of The Summer Wine and hadn't been impressed the first time either.
Charlie Squirrel has tried everything to curb his wind problem - change his diet, take more exercise, have surgery - all to no avail. He even bought a cork, but all that did was add a comic "popping" sound whenever his bottom whistled for a cab. Once, some time ago now, Charlie became so distraught that he tried to end it all by throwing himself into the path of a Ford Focus. Unfortunately - or perhaps fortunately - his bottom chose that moment to pat the Rottweiler and, before he knew what was going on, Charlie found himself spread-eagled on the windscreen of a light aircraft. So, the only thing he managed to hurt was his pride.
More recently, Charlie tried a new approach: tired of climbing one tree, only to gruff and find himself in a completely different tree, he curled his tail around a branch and tried hanging on really, really tightly. When he finally farted, lo and behold, his plan worked: he didn't take off into the sky! But instead he found himself spinning round the branch like some lightning-fast furry Catherine Wheel. The ordeal only ended when his tail became so bedraggled that he could hang on no longer and he fell out of the tree on to the back of a rather surprised cow. So, the next time you spot a squirrel with a tail that looks rather the worse for wear, don't laugh. Now you know the real reason why his tail is missing some of its fur. Not funny, is it?
Charlie has not been able to hold down a regular job in years and has difficulty with long-term relationships. But, all things considered, he's rather an affable fellow. And on the plus side, his problem has now been officially recognised by the medical profession. It has even been given a name: Trompette's Syndrome - trompette being the French word for trump. Charlie was the subject of a BBC documentary not so long ago, too, which he had hoped would highlight the seriousness of the condition. Sadly, there is a long way to go before people stop seeing it as a joke - just look at YouTube. Insensitive comments made by the Prime Minister don't really help either.
But you can help. You have seen for yourself how this debilitating condition has affected Charlie. Please, spread the word: Trompettes is not funny. And if you see a squirrel crimping off a biscuit and shooting into the sky like a firework, don't laugh. How about taking off your coat, or opening your bag, and trying to catch him? Poor Charlie and his friends need all the help they can get.
If you have been affected in any way by Charlie's story, you can talk to one of our trained advisors in confidence. Please leave a message in the comments box below and we will get back to you as soon as we can.
Friday 13 January 2012
TRUST ME, I'M A TADPOLE
Hello! I'm a tadpole.
DON'T BE RIDICULOUS.
Why is that ridiculous?
BECAUSE YOU DON'T LOOK ANYTHING LIKE A TADPOLE.
Yes I do.
NO YOU DON'T.
Yes, I do.
NO. YOU REALLY DO NOT.
Why don't I?
BECAUSE I AM A TADPOLE, AND YOU DON'T LOOK ANYTHING LIKE ME.
Now who's being ridiculous?
WHAT DO YOU MEAN?
Well, I said that I was a tadpole and now you're copying me.
BUT I AM A TADPOLE.
You can't be!
WHY NOT?
Because I said it first, I am a tadpole, and you don't look anything like me.
HOW DO YOU KNOW I DON'T LOOK ANYTHING LIKE YOU?
Because I'm looking at you, and I can see you don't look anything like me.
YOU MIGHT BE LOOKING AT ME, BUT YOU'RE NOT LOOKING AT YOURSELF, SO HOW CAN YOU COMPARE US?
You're justing trying to be clever now.
NO I'M NOT.
Yes you are. You're just annoyed that I said that I was a tadpole first.
NO I'M NOT.
Yes you are. You don't like it that I can be something that you can't.
BUT I AM A TADPOLE!
How do you know? Have you got a mirror?
NO, I DON'T HAVE A MIRROR, BECAUSE I AM A TADPOLE AND TADPOLES DON'T HAVE MIRRORS!
Yes they do.
NO THEY DON'T.
Why don't they?
BECAUSE THEY'RE TADPOLES! AND BESIDES, TADPOLES DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT MIRRORS ARE!
But you know what a mirror is!
NO I DON'T.
Yes you do, because I just asked you if you had a mirror, and you said you didn't, so you must know what one is or you wouldn't be able to tell whether you had one or not!
NOW WHO IS TRYING TO BE CLEVER?
Not me, I'm just trying to point out that you can't be a tadpole, because you said you haven't got a mirror.
I SAID THAT I HAVEN'T GOT A MIRROR BECAUSE I'M A TADPOLE! ANYWAY - HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT A MIRROR IS?
I don't.
YOU MUST DO, BECAUSE YOU ASKED ME IF I HAD ONE!
I asked you if you had one because, being a tadpole, I've never seen one and I wanted to know what one is!
NO YOU DIDN'T, YOU ASKED ME WHAT ONE IS BECAUSE YOU WANTED TO KNOW HOW I KNEW THAT I WAS A TADPOLE! YOU WERE TRYING TO CATCH ME OUT, SO YOU MUST KNOW WHAT ONE IS IN ORDER TO ASK ME WHETHER I HAD ONE!
Oh, this is flipping ridiculous. I am a tadpole. I said it first. You are not a tadpole.
NO, I AM A TADPOLE AND YOU ARE NOT A TADPOLE.
Why can't we both be tadpoles?
BECAUSE I AM A TADPOLE AND YOU DON'T LOOK LIKE ME, SO YOU CAN'T BE A TADPOLE!!!
"Excuse me fellas, I'll just leave your teacakes here on the table. I'll come back in about ten minutes to give you your medication."
Thanks Brenda.
YEAH, CHEERS BRENDA.
Ha! You can't be a tadpole - you just spoke to that woman!
YOU SPOKE TO HER FIRST, SO NEITHER CAN YOU!
Trust me, I'm a tadpole...
NO, I'M A TADPOLE...
Thursday 12 January 2012
THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY
"I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!" thundered the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley, who had just appeared inside the entrance to the cafe.
The old lady at the nearest table put down her toast and marmalade, and smiled at him. "Really, dear? How lovely."
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley had not really counted on that sort of response, so he just glared a bit at the cafe's customers, who had all stopped eating and were staring open mouthed.
"Pott Shrigley," the old lady said, frowning. "Isn't that somewhere in Norfolk?"
"CHESHIRE!" bellowed the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
"And why do they call you that, dear?" asked the old lady, as she plopped a lump of sugar in her tea.
"BECAUSE I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!" roared the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
"No dear. I meant the bit about the egg," the old lady explained, but didn't get a response because the owner of the cafe, Samantha, had joined them and was brandishing a rolling pin rather menacingly.
"Is this idiot bothering you?" Samantha asked the old lady, without taking her eyes off the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
"Oh no, love, we were just having a little chat, weren't we dear?" the old lady replied, before picking up her cup and saucer and supping her tea. "Hmm. Lovely cuppa. Would you like one, dear?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley had no idea how to respond to such a question, so instead he repeated again, rather loudly, that he was the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
The old lady put her cup and saucer down and smiled again at the fellow. "So, what sort of thing do you prophecy about?" she asked, genuinely interested.
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley glared down at her as if she were a buffoon. "THE FUTURE!" he shouted, as if that should have been entirely obvious.
"Really?" The old lady was excited now. "And what can you tell me?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley slowly raised an arm and turned in order to point a long, trembling finger at Samantha. "THAT THIS MISERABLE BINT WILL HIT ME WITH HER ROLLING PIN AND CAST ME OUT INTO THE STREET, FROM WHENCE I CAME!"
And once again, The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley had predicted something which turned out to be completely and utterly accurate.
The old lady at the nearest table put down her toast and marmalade, and smiled at him. "Really, dear? How lovely."
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley had not really counted on that sort of response, so he just glared a bit at the cafe's customers, who had all stopped eating and were staring open mouthed.
"Pott Shrigley," the old lady said, frowning. "Isn't that somewhere in Norfolk?"
"CHESHIRE!" bellowed the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
"And why do they call you that, dear?" asked the old lady, as she plopped a lump of sugar in her tea.
"BECAUSE I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!" roared the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
"No dear. I meant the bit about the egg," the old lady explained, but didn't get a response because the owner of the cafe, Samantha, had joined them and was brandishing a rolling pin rather menacingly.
"Is this idiot bothering you?" Samantha asked the old lady, without taking her eyes off the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
"Oh no, love, we were just having a little chat, weren't we dear?" the old lady replied, before picking up her cup and saucer and supping her tea. "Hmm. Lovely cuppa. Would you like one, dear?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley had no idea how to respond to such a question, so instead he repeated again, rather loudly, that he was the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
The old lady put her cup and saucer down and smiled again at the fellow. "So, what sort of thing do you prophecy about?" she asked, genuinely interested.
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley glared down at her as if she were a buffoon. "THE FUTURE!" he shouted, as if that should have been entirely obvious.
"Really?" The old lady was excited now. "And what can you tell me?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley slowly raised an arm and turned in order to point a long, trembling finger at Samantha. "THAT THIS MISERABLE BINT WILL HIT ME WITH HER ROLLING PIN AND CAST ME OUT INTO THE STREET, FROM WHENCE I CAME!"
And once again, The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley had predicted something which turned out to be completely and utterly accurate.
Wednesday 11 January 2012
THE MOVEMENTS OF THE BRIGADIER'S MEN: THE GREAT PURGE
As the smog lifted, an observer would have been able to see that the military convoy was still en route to Twaddle, Piffle and Shate, but that a small detour had been necessary so that Corporal Snodkins could purge himself in the woods.
Snodkins had been gone a full seven minutes, the soldiers were standing around smoking tabs beside their trucks and the Brigadier was visibly agitated, pacing this way and that.
"What is taking Snadkens so long?" he demanded, thumping the bonnet of his maid. His men mumbled, feigned interest in tyres and exhaust pipes and generally failed to meet their superior's eye. None of them wanted to be sent into the woods after Snodkins, for the Corporal's purges were the stuff of legend.
Another minute passed. The Brigadier was turning purple. "Rait, that's it, one of ass is going arfter 'im," the old fellow thundered. "We toss for it!"
His driver's eyes widened in alarm, but then the Brigadier pulled out a coin, although not without some effort. "Damned trizers..." he muttered, before tossing the coin, clapping it down on the back of one hand and holding out said hand to one of his privates - that is to say, a ginger fellow called Wiggins, not one of his unmentionables. "Rait! Sonic or tails?"
Wiggins gibbered. "Er...tails?"
"Wrong! Into the wads, nah!"
Wiggins trotted off into the woods and was back in a jiffy - that is to say, in a short time, not a branded contraceptive.
Standing to attention before the Brigadier, Wiggins saluted and declared, "Sah! Snodkins appears to be eggbound, sah!"
"Eggbound?" The Brigadier's eyes were practically golf balls by now. "Rait, Brahn! The Special Equipment!"
Private Brown appeared with The Special Equipment, although he seemed to have misplaced something and was patting his pockets. "Have you got the shoehorn, sah?" asked Brown.
"No, these damn trizers are just a bit tight!" the Brigadier replied. "Now, into the wads, Brahn, and don't cam back without Snadkens! Qui-eck maarch!"
Private Brown set off into the woods with The Special Equipment, which included a wrench, matches and other items which can't be mentioned owing to their being highly classified. However, whatever he did with that equipment worked. Within minutes all the birds in the trees fell silent. This was followed by an overpowering smell which left most of the soldiers wiping away tears and one or two of them writing farewell letters to their mothers. Finally, there was a terrific explosion and a mushroom cloud ballooned above the woods.
One of the soldiers turned to gaze towards Twaddle, Piffle and Shate. He shook his head and said, "Well. If they didn't know we were coming before, they certainly know now."
Snodkins had been gone a full seven minutes, the soldiers were standing around smoking tabs beside their trucks and the Brigadier was visibly agitated, pacing this way and that.
"What is taking Snadkens so long?" he demanded, thumping the bonnet of his maid. His men mumbled, feigned interest in tyres and exhaust pipes and generally failed to meet their superior's eye. None of them wanted to be sent into the woods after Snodkins, for the Corporal's purges were the stuff of legend.
Another minute passed. The Brigadier was turning purple. "Rait, that's it, one of ass is going arfter 'im," the old fellow thundered. "We toss for it!"
His driver's eyes widened in alarm, but then the Brigadier pulled out a coin, although not without some effort. "Damned trizers..." he muttered, before tossing the coin, clapping it down on the back of one hand and holding out said hand to one of his privates - that is to say, a ginger fellow called Wiggins, not one of his unmentionables. "Rait! Sonic or tails?"
Wiggins gibbered. "Er...tails?"
"Wrong! Into the wads, nah!"
Wiggins trotted off into the woods and was back in a jiffy - that is to say, in a short time, not a branded contraceptive.
Standing to attention before the Brigadier, Wiggins saluted and declared, "Sah! Snodkins appears to be eggbound, sah!"
"Eggbound?" The Brigadier's eyes were practically golf balls by now. "Rait, Brahn! The Special Equipment!"
Private Brown appeared with The Special Equipment, although he seemed to have misplaced something and was patting his pockets. "Have you got the shoehorn, sah?" asked Brown.
"No, these damn trizers are just a bit tight!" the Brigadier replied. "Now, into the wads, Brahn, and don't cam back without Snadkens! Qui-eck maarch!"
Private Brown set off into the woods with The Special Equipment, which included a wrench, matches and other items which can't be mentioned owing to their being highly classified. However, whatever he did with that equipment worked. Within minutes all the birds in the trees fell silent. This was followed by an overpowering smell which left most of the soldiers wiping away tears and one or two of them writing farewell letters to their mothers. Finally, there was a terrific explosion and a mushroom cloud ballooned above the woods.
One of the soldiers turned to gaze towards Twaddle, Piffle and Shate. He shook his head and said, "Well. If they didn't know we were coming before, they certainly know now."
Tuesday 10 January 2012
SLEEPING BEAUTY?
The handsome prince stood on the threshold of the room in which the princess slept. He adjusted his attire and approached the sleeping form with the decorum such an occasion warranted. All he needed to do now was kiss the princess and she would awake from her 100 year slumber.
The prince frowned as he studied the sleeping woman. Not what he had expected, to be sure. Still, he inclined his head towards her face, made as if to kiss her...then doubled over in revulsion as he began to gag.
“Chuffin’ Nora, what a whiff! Surely they can’t expect me to snog that? Look at that beard, it’s longer than Gandalf’s! She looks like a dude - in fact, how do I know that ‘she’ is actually a ‘she’ under all that hair? Smell that breath, 100 years without tooth paste or breath freshener...come on people, I’m a prince, I have standards! I can’t be expected to live happily ever after with something that snores like a hog. Stone me - those wazz bags, talk about needing an uplift...and those fingernails – she should be in the Guinness Book of Records. They’re not wrong when they say that ears and noses never stop growing, she looks like a womble! I need to talk to my union representative, there’s no way I’m puckering up for that. Goodness knows what it looks like in the buff...”
Monday 9 January 2012
DRUM AND BASS
The little fish tank was located on a high shelf behind the counter in a takeaway. Neville was hanging about at the front of the tank, watching customers come and go.
"He's frying fish again!" Neville was almost beside himself. "Oh my COD, look at that! The poor sole, fried to death!"
A small guppy called Valerie joined Neville and surveyed the scene. "Don't carp on, Neville. There's no reason to panic. That's Sabrina they're serving up out there. She deserved to die, she was a nasty old trout."
"But still," said Neville, "that could be me next time! Battered to within an inch of my life, fried in chip fat and served up with chips and mushy peas."
Valerie rolled her eyes, which is quite something to see in a guppy. "Nobody would want to eat you Nev, you're a goldfish."
Neville was still not happy. "Somebody would." He watched as a tall skinny human wearing lots of gold chains and rings and pink fluffy headphones slouched up to the counter. "Look, here comes Poop Scoopy Dogg. I bet he'd eat me. He's a greedy git. I wonder why he never puts on weight?"
Valerie wandered off. Neville quietened down for a bit. That is, until Scoopy put his order in, and Dave behind the counter started serving up four large fish and chips.
Then Neville completely lost it and started to scream like a little girl.
Behind the counter, Dave put down the fish he was trying to wrap, folded his arms and turned to face the tank. He fixed a steely gaze upon Neville.
"Will you pipe down?" Dave was annoyed. "I'm trying to work out here!"
"Sorry," Neville mumbled, and spent the rest of the evening looking sheepish at the back of the tank.
"He's frying fish again!" Neville was almost beside himself. "Oh my COD, look at that! The poor sole, fried to death!"
A small guppy called Valerie joined Neville and surveyed the scene. "Don't carp on, Neville. There's no reason to panic. That's Sabrina they're serving up out there. She deserved to die, she was a nasty old trout."
"But still," said Neville, "that could be me next time! Battered to within an inch of my life, fried in chip fat and served up with chips and mushy peas."
Valerie rolled her eyes, which is quite something to see in a guppy. "Nobody would want to eat you Nev, you're a goldfish."
Neville was still not happy. "Somebody would." He watched as a tall skinny human wearing lots of gold chains and rings and pink fluffy headphones slouched up to the counter. "Look, here comes Poop Scoopy Dogg. I bet he'd eat me. He's a greedy git. I wonder why he never puts on weight?"
Valerie wandered off. Neville quietened down for a bit. That is, until Scoopy put his order in, and Dave behind the counter started serving up four large fish and chips.
Then Neville completely lost it and started to scream like a little girl.
Behind the counter, Dave put down the fish he was trying to wrap, folded his arms and turned to face the tank. He fixed a steely gaze upon Neville.
"Will you pipe down?" Dave was annoyed. "I'm trying to work out here!"
"Sorry," Neville mumbled, and spent the rest of the evening looking sheepish at the back of the tank.
Sunday 8 January 2012
THE CONSULTING ROOM
"What are you taking now?" Lardwaft asked, tapping his notepad with a wipple and scrutinising Boff closely.
The truth was, Boff was no longer taking anything, and he said so. The last time he had seen the Important Squirrel, Lardwaft had given Boff the all clear and taken him off the special nuglumps. Boff had been clean for over half a swenge now and, during that time, had not once felt the need to strollop his twangnuts. So, things were looking up, wondering whether anything was going to land on them.
"And how are your fluffy underpillows?" the Important Squirrel enquired, peering over his foculars.
"A trifle sweet, with custard, but I can't complain," Boff replied.
"Excellent." The Squirrel leaned back in his flan, and nibbled the end of his wipple. "In that case, I don't think you need to see me again for, oh, another ten wadgets. Unless there's anything else...?"
Boff flushed and shifted uncomfortably on his blancmange, clearing his throat. "Actually, I wanted to raise something rather delicate..."
"Not in public I hope!" the Important Squirrel cut in, with a chuckle.
"Indeed not." Boff frowned, before continuing, "It's about my poppleshaft."
The Important Squirrel leaned forward suddenly, all hint of jollity gone from his demeanour. "You have a poppleshaft?" he asked, incredulous.
"Yes, two ninety-nine in Tescos. I got cashew nuts and a big bag of carrots too."
But the Important Squirrel was not listening. Indeed, he was no longer in the room and only the flapping of the curtain indicated that he had been there in the first place.
Boff stared into space for a moment, then sighed resignedly and got up to go home.
"Why does that always happen when I mention my poppleshaft?" he wondered.
But, of course, nobody answered.
The truth was, Boff was no longer taking anything, and he said so. The last time he had seen the Important Squirrel, Lardwaft had given Boff the all clear and taken him off the special nuglumps. Boff had been clean for over half a swenge now and, during that time, had not once felt the need to strollop his twangnuts. So, things were looking up, wondering whether anything was going to land on them.
"And how are your fluffy underpillows?" the Important Squirrel enquired, peering over his foculars.
"A trifle sweet, with custard, but I can't complain," Boff replied.
"Excellent." The Squirrel leaned back in his flan, and nibbled the end of his wipple. "In that case, I don't think you need to see me again for, oh, another ten wadgets. Unless there's anything else...?"
Boff flushed and shifted uncomfortably on his blancmange, clearing his throat. "Actually, I wanted to raise something rather delicate..."
"Not in public I hope!" the Important Squirrel cut in, with a chuckle.
"Indeed not." Boff frowned, before continuing, "It's about my poppleshaft."
The Important Squirrel leaned forward suddenly, all hint of jollity gone from his demeanour. "You have a poppleshaft?" he asked, incredulous.
"Yes, two ninety-nine in Tescos. I got cashew nuts and a big bag of carrots too."
But the Important Squirrel was not listening. Indeed, he was no longer in the room and only the flapping of the curtain indicated that he had been there in the first place.
Boff stared into space for a moment, then sighed resignedly and got up to go home.
"Why does that always happen when I mention my poppleshaft?" he wondered.
But, of course, nobody answered.
Saturday 7 January 2012
RAP WITH A CAPITAL C
Poop Scoopy Dogg's most recent single, "No S**t" had tanked badly. Perhaps the decision to promote it with road signs, showing dog turds crossed out, had been a bad idea. The rapper still wasn't convinced, though, and was humming away to Steaming Jacob's Tapered Club Mix on his new pink fluffy Dre cans as he re-entered the studio. The rapper was nothing if not upbeat. There's a pun in there somewhere.
"Sup niggaz?" he called, as he spied two of his three bitches cavorting on the mixing desk. Carly the cocker spaniel wasn't playing, but Sheep Dogg the, er, sheep dog and Madam Butterflea the rather aloof poodle were tearing the place apart as they chased their mangy old ball across the 4 track Tascam tape deck which Scoopy had left set up on an old poof next to the telly.
Scoopy Dogg plopped himself down on a swivel chair and proceeded to swivel until he felt sick. Then he stopped. "Alright J?" he asked eventually, looking at the old poof next to the telly.
J grinned at him over the top of his Daily Mirror and said, "Yeah, I'm alright, although I could do with you moving this tape thingy off my lap - I'm getting terrible cramp."
"Cup of tea, love?" his mother asked, appearing from the kitchen with a tray laden with a steaming pot, her finest china cups and a plate of current buns. Scoopy loved current buns, they were like currant buns only much more "now". He grunted assent, grabbed one with cream on and munched happily.
"Anything happenin' down on the strip today?" J enquired.
Scoopy shrugged. "Clintons have got a sale on," he said. "That's about it really."
"Did you remember me fags?" asked his mother, plopping herself down onto the sofa.
But Poop Scoopy was no longer listening, he was too busy thinking through the promotion for his next single "S**t Happens" featuring Bigg Buoy, Pee Doddy, Chuff Daddy and Dave, from down the chinese.
That single would tank as well.
"Sup niggaz?" he called, as he spied two of his three bitches cavorting on the mixing desk. Carly the cocker spaniel wasn't playing, but Sheep Dogg the, er, sheep dog and Madam Butterflea the rather aloof poodle were tearing the place apart as they chased their mangy old ball across the 4 track Tascam tape deck which Scoopy had left set up on an old poof next to the telly.
Scoopy Dogg plopped himself down on a swivel chair and proceeded to swivel until he felt sick. Then he stopped. "Alright J?" he asked eventually, looking at the old poof next to the telly.
J grinned at him over the top of his Daily Mirror and said, "Yeah, I'm alright, although I could do with you moving this tape thingy off my lap - I'm getting terrible cramp."
"Cup of tea, love?" his mother asked, appearing from the kitchen with a tray laden with a steaming pot, her finest china cups and a plate of current buns. Scoopy loved current buns, they were like currant buns only much more "now". He grunted assent, grabbed one with cream on and munched happily.
"Anything happenin' down on the strip today?" J enquired.
Scoopy shrugged. "Clintons have got a sale on," he said. "That's about it really."
"Did you remember me fags?" asked his mother, plopping herself down onto the sofa.
But Poop Scoopy was no longer listening, he was too busy thinking through the promotion for his next single "S**t Happens" featuring Bigg Buoy, Pee Doddy, Chuff Daddy and Dave, from down the chinese.
That single would tank as well.
Friday 6 January 2012
THE MOVEMENTS OF THE BRIGADIER'S MEN: SNODKINS CUTS THE CHEESE
"Twaddle, piffle and shate!" cried the Brigadier.
He and his cracked team had just crested the hill in their trucks and were now careering down the other side, like numpties on a temporary contract, towards the villages of Twaddle, Piffle and Shate.
The Brigadier was excited by the thought of what was to come, but exasperated too, by the tightness of his clothes, which had shrunk in the wash.
"Damn these trizers," he said, trying to extract a packet of Love Hearts from his pocket. At last they came out with a pop, and spilled out over the floor of the truck. The Brigadier's driver scooped up a pink one, read its inscription and declared, "Ooh - it says Dream Boy!" before scoffing it noisily. Corporal Snodkins looked like he wanted one too, but was not prepared to embarrass himself scrabbling about on the floor in front of his superior.
The Brigadier had, however, read the look on Snodkins' face and, with a knowing wink, commanded, "At ease, soiled-yah."
"Why, thank you, sah," replied the Corporal, who bent over to grab one but, as he did so, accidentally let slip such a preposterous jockey burner that the driver fainted, the truck swerved dangerously and Private Brown, at the back of the truck, thought he could smell a dead whale...
TO BE CONTINUED
He and his cracked team had just crested the hill in their trucks and were now careering down the other side, like numpties on a temporary contract, towards the villages of Twaddle, Piffle and Shate.
The Brigadier was excited by the thought of what was to come, but exasperated too, by the tightness of his clothes, which had shrunk in the wash.
"Damn these trizers," he said, trying to extract a packet of Love Hearts from his pocket. At last they came out with a pop, and spilled out over the floor of the truck. The Brigadier's driver scooped up a pink one, read its inscription and declared, "Ooh - it says Dream Boy!" before scoffing it noisily. Corporal Snodkins looked like he wanted one too, but was not prepared to embarrass himself scrabbling about on the floor in front of his superior.
The Brigadier had, however, read the look on Snodkins' face and, with a knowing wink, commanded, "At ease, soiled-yah."
"Why, thank you, sah," replied the Corporal, who bent over to grab one but, as he did so, accidentally let slip such a preposterous jockey burner that the driver fainted, the truck swerved dangerously and Private Brown, at the back of the truck, thought he could smell a dead whale...
TO BE CONTINUED
Thursday 5 January 2012
TOPPLING THE FORGE OF QUARRN
Twelve days before the advent of Christmas, Mackerel Jones and his furry godmother weaned the coral for the last time. It was an eggy sort of day, the clouds brucing along like a sponge in munty.
If only the lambkins had delayed them. But alas not, for the oafish smoking Napkins, their hares in a bun, had climbed aboard their postulator and sped away with all the bdolitic skill any ostrich could muster. For theirs was a wiry spasm, tension mounting in waterpipes, a lapel of sorts flopping weakly in lieu of their mounds. Could anything heave them?
A mile to the east, forces were stirring in porridge. Nelly Warblethrop sat at the centre, cackling with glee on DVD, as she prepared her magicks and the first of her grotes was spent.
"You've fooned me for the last time, Jones!" she muttered, dribbling ketchup down her warrels. "This time it won't be so easy."
She knew well of which she spoke, having grunted on loopholes with little poplets for her effort all morning. Now she was sore and in no mood to be trifled with, or indeed, jellied.
"Cabbages and rind!" she yelled, throwing the last of the currants into the bubbling mass. It was a pert wind, for sure.
Meanwhile, thyme was running out for the Napkins. Yet again, Mackerel had failed to take heed of his badger's wise words and now his bathtime treats were ailing. Like a sudden rund in a fathelwop, the old witch's magick was upon them.
"Frog me!" cursed Mackerel, looking up just in time to eat a plate glass window, in the manner of a very stupid and subsequently knackered pigeon. His godmother, fortunately for her, had bailed her crackers at the last minute and made like a squirrel attached to a rack. (Yes, that sort of rack.)
"That's going to chafe," groaned the elder Napkin as she sat in a puddle of waddle and brushed down her tender hemmings. And she was right. It did.
NOTE - There was a moral to this tale, but I'll be bagged if I can remember what it was. If you know, please twimble me, or you can always nebble my wrenchcrane at flebbingwalrus@chunweng.munt
If only the lambkins had delayed them. But alas not, for the oafish smoking Napkins, their hares in a bun, had climbed aboard their postulator and sped away with all the bdolitic skill any ostrich could muster. For theirs was a wiry spasm, tension mounting in waterpipes, a lapel of sorts flopping weakly in lieu of their mounds. Could anything heave them?
A mile to the east, forces were stirring in porridge. Nelly Warblethrop sat at the centre, cackling with glee on DVD, as she prepared her magicks and the first of her grotes was spent.
"You've fooned me for the last time, Jones!" she muttered, dribbling ketchup down her warrels. "This time it won't be so easy."
She knew well of which she spoke, having grunted on loopholes with little poplets for her effort all morning. Now she was sore and in no mood to be trifled with, or indeed, jellied.
"Cabbages and rind!" she yelled, throwing the last of the currants into the bubbling mass. It was a pert wind, for sure.
Meanwhile, thyme was running out for the Napkins. Yet again, Mackerel had failed to take heed of his badger's wise words and now his bathtime treats were ailing. Like a sudden rund in a fathelwop, the old witch's magick was upon them.
"Frog me!" cursed Mackerel, looking up just in time to eat a plate glass window, in the manner of a very stupid and subsequently knackered pigeon. His godmother, fortunately for her, had bailed her crackers at the last minute and made like a squirrel attached to a rack. (Yes, that sort of rack.)
"That's going to chafe," groaned the elder Napkin as she sat in a puddle of waddle and brushed down her tender hemmings. And she was right. It did.
NOTE - There was a moral to this tale, but I'll be bagged if I can remember what it was. If you know, please twimble me, or you can always nebble my wrenchcrane at flebbingwalrus@chunweng.munt
Wednesday 4 January 2012
THE SECOND AGE OF UNDERSTANDING
“I fear she is a little too gibbous for my tastes,” Gatiss announced, as he replaced the ladle in the decanter.
“Oh come now Doctor,” Paddlewick chided. “Surely you mock me, if only in jest.”
The Doctor did not say a word. The twitch at the edge of his tight, lipless mouth expressed everything that needed to be said.
Gatiss never knowingly under-acted, his fingers absentmindedly adjusting the pin badge on his lapel which told everybody so. The same could not be said of Paddlewick, who eased back into his leather armchair before taking another drag on his pipe. “A ginger pop then, old fruit.”
Again, Gatiss said nothing, but helped himself to a drink anyway.
The two men sat in silence for a time, the room quieter than a library, save for the ticking of the old clock above the mantelpiece and the sound of Paddlewick’s dog in the corner, fighting with his bag of Wotsits.
It seemed as if hours passed before either of them spoke. In truth, it was less than a month.
“Lederhosen...?” Paddlewick ventured eventually. He was clearly nervous, and had begun to sweat profusely.
The Doctor stood up slowly, clearly deep in thought, and paced the room slowly as he deliberated. His shoes squeaked as he walked, or perhaps it was his backside – Paddlewick really could not tell. But before long Gatiss came to a halt next to the sideboard, where he rested his funtnoks. “Lay...der...hosen,” he said slowly, rolling the word around his mouth, as if trying it out for size. He stroked his moustache. “Yes...yes, I think that could work.”
Paddlewick refilled his glass and raised it in a toast. “To the bloating of the haddock, then!” said he, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.
Gatiss also raised his glass. “To the bloating of the haddock!” he echoed almost warmly, even managing a smile, his first that year.
“And her Großvater!” Paddlewick added, a little too desperately. It probably would have been best left unsaid. But Gatiss took it in the spirit in which it was intended, nodded his understanding and downed his ginger pop.
Tuesday 3 January 2012
LOPPY AND THE MAGIC FRUIT BAG
"Guilty as churched!" hollered the nogging Fosslewick, fresh from wringing his trousers out over yellow at The Thrusting Vole.
"Steady on, old fudge," cautioned the miller, who had much experience in the field and was, to be fair, much more forthright with his nibblets.
"Comfortable?" retorted Fosslewick, out puced by his lice, who were nothing if not wanton in their leasurely ways.
"Only when it veers to the left," the Masked Dementia cut in with brutal honesty, "but to be fair, the Pink Arches in the Town Square leave little to the imagination."
"Aye, true enough," mumbled Loppy as he showed off his new hair do, shortly before being arrested for disturbing the piece. As they say in the trade. But that's a tale for another day.
Written by me and published posthumously. In memory of my next wife, who won't be called Carol.
"Steady on, old fudge," cautioned the miller, who had much experience in the field and was, to be fair, much more forthright with his nibblets.
"Comfortable?" retorted Fosslewick, out puced by his lice, who were nothing if not wanton in their leasurely ways.
"Only when it veers to the left," the Masked Dementia cut in with brutal honesty, "but to be fair, the Pink Arches in the Town Square leave little to the imagination."
"Aye, true enough," mumbled Loppy as he showed off his new hair do, shortly before being arrested for disturbing the piece. As they say in the trade. But that's a tale for another day.
Written by me and published posthumously. In memory of my next wife, who won't be called Carol.
SECOND COMING OF THE GRAPPLED ONE
Daisy wept tears of white grape that day the man with the wilting thragg signed her up to the campaign for shorter possetts. She had gotten her thrumble pads in a twist, to be sure, but the lettuce was twice her weight, two threepence ha'penny a bunch and at least three times again.
"Why must they always end up afterwards?" she cried from the pit of her sole.
It didn't half whiff, it has to be said.
But the bumhop was closer than folk would warrant it and they had to duck out of site, or so those saucy mallards would have us believe.
You never can tell in the country.
"Why must they always end up afterwards?" she cried from the pit of her sole.
It didn't half whiff, it has to be said.
But the bumhop was closer than folk would warrant it and they had to duck out of site, or so those saucy mallards would have us believe.
You never can tell in the country.
FLAUNTING THE THWUMPS
As I sat and listened to baked potatoes landing in pants, I reflected again upon my tortoise, a fruity specimen whose uncle once famously said, "she drinks kippers, you know".
A lost sock and an inverted sniff later, the doorbell rang like an azure grape in season, marking the arrival of my sobriety. It proposed a truce, quickly averted by the bursting of Pungent Barry of the 4th Battalion, a towering custard cream of a man who had misplaced his daffodils. A sorry tale, to be sure, but as nought compared to that of Septic Dave of Lower Trump in Dorset, second son of a grand old dame whose stumps were worthy of a cottage pie in November.
"Is that marmite?" he had asked, licking the old post box on that terrible night in the sweet shop.
Few dare credit the man, but smiling like a limpet with a bunny under his arm, he had lit his milk and flown away.
A good man to be sure, who left us a great deal to ponder, if little to sit on.
A lost sock and an inverted sniff later, the doorbell rang like an azure grape in season, marking the arrival of my sobriety. It proposed a truce, quickly averted by the bursting of Pungent Barry of the 4th Battalion, a towering custard cream of a man who had misplaced his daffodils. A sorry tale, to be sure, but as nought compared to that of Septic Dave of Lower Trump in Dorset, second son of a grand old dame whose stumps were worthy of a cottage pie in November.
"Is that marmite?" he had asked, licking the old post box on that terrible night in the sweet shop.
Few dare credit the man, but smiling like a limpet with a bunny under his arm, he had lit his milk and flown away.
A good man to be sure, who left us a great deal to ponder, if little to sit on.
From the fourth volume of "Cheddar In My Pounce". A history of Twatts.
CALLING TIME ON MAGNETS - Part 3
"By gum, you've still got it!" nobbed the burglar. But what did he know, lilting as he did on wind and sail, egg and barley, steam and more than a hint of cornflake gayness. "Better out than up a fig pole, I suppose."
And with that he turned to Lincolnshire and watched as most of the population expired in drainpipe trousers. Or was it the bulbous one, with the fish antlers? In days to pass, they never could remember. Each was too busy with the passing of the new slurry horse, writing it large and taking much inspiration from the fat man's daughter and her enviable collection of fridge magnets.
"Have you been at the sugar crisps again?" asked Auntie Emma with a knowing look in her one unwinking eye, as she stroked his pies. He never did reply, just pulled a face like Steve Lincoln in high wind, and wombled off into the distance.
And with that he turned to Lincolnshire and watched as most of the population expired in drainpipe trousers. Or was it the bulbous one, with the fish antlers? In days to pass, they never could remember. Each was too busy with the passing of the new slurry horse, writing it large and taking much inspiration from the fat man's daughter and her enviable collection of fridge magnets.
"Have you been at the sugar crisps again?" asked Auntie Emma with a knowing look in her one unwinking eye, as she stroked his pies. He never did reply, just pulled a face like Steve Lincoln in high wind, and wombled off into the distance.
CALLING TIME ON MAGNETS
"I like people who live in the floppy wind box," said Mother Darren. She was looking for a dog in the hole.
"That really can't be good for you," replied the erstwhile Henchbunny of Scarborough, who felt like he had already eaten his potatoes that day. In truth, it was a cat called Casper who had strained a baglet of Dragons, stopped a little rabbit and jumped over his great white grandad. But time was against them, the morning plants weighing the distance, with much different use of snow.
"Well I'll be egg bound," sighed the duck, and grew himself a fresh pair of windows before bed.
It had been that kind of day.
Dedicated to the memory of Nhoj Nosmas who, sadly, is no longer with us. He lives in the US.
"That really can't be good for you," replied the erstwhile Henchbunny of Scarborough, who felt like he had already eaten his potatoes that day. In truth, it was a cat called Casper who had strained a baglet of Dragons, stopped a little rabbit and jumped over his great white grandad. But time was against them, the morning plants weighing the distance, with much different use of snow.
"Well I'll be egg bound," sighed the duck, and grew himself a fresh pair of windows before bed.
It had been that kind of day.
Dedicated to the memory of Nhoj Nosmas who, sadly, is no longer with us. He lives in the US.
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