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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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...

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 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."

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...”

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.