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."
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