Thursday, 29 November 2012

Britain's longest living married couple in care home in Glossop!

Barbary and Ophelia Wemmick, both 129, have the longest lasting marriage in Britain - they've clocked up a whopping 104 years, and are still going strong!  Of course, they're rather frail now, but they've outlasted scumbags who put them in a home in the first place and are now the proud owners of all their relatives' houses!  
Lucinda Dedlock

They're well-respected residents of Sunnyfluffywuffybunnyview Care Home in Bag End, Glossop, where the owner, Lucinda Dedlock, waxes lyrical about them.  

"They're such a devoted couple", she trills. "And they're always tucking into the delicious food we serve here at Sunnyfluffywuffybunnyview, and participating in all the marvellous activities we offer here at Sunnyfluffywuffybunnyview and no wonder they've lasted this long at Sunnyfluffywuffybunnyview.  Especially when you consider what happens in some care homes.  Why, there were rumours that one of our competitors had failed to notice that an elderly couple had died, and continued to change their bedpan and deliver the Daily Mail!

And it is CATEGORICALLY untrue that we are more interested in marketing Sunnyfluffywuffybunnyview than in looking after our customers; also that we regard events like this as an opportunity to put photos of our upholstery and curtains into The Glossop Bugle.  Now, did you catch the name of this care home..."
Barbary and Ophelia Wemmick, Britain's longest surviving married couple

Pangolin Sports Personality of the Year

Yes, it's that time of year again, and after what's been an amazing twelve months of sporting achievement, it's your turn to vote for your favourite 2012 sporting personality.  Of course, here at Pangolin HQ, we've kept our sports editor, Brenda Ripething, hard at it, spotting the front runners....

Here's what Brenda thinks...

'Well Bob, who can forget Ronnie Smallbone, captain of Tottenham Wanderers, hero of a tense Cup Final against Sir Alex Sourpuss's Manchester Excited?  Ronnie scored the winner as Wanderers ran out, victors in an epic 19-18 battle.

Smallbone just never gives up. Here's that dramatic picture of him getting cramp inside the area. A definite contender.

And, of course, everybody's hearts were in their mouths as Dipthong McCoy, the pride of Pinner, waited anxiously for the scores to come in at the end of what turned out to be his gold medal winning 500m Freestyle Lurk.  Said plucky Dippo, "Well, I've been lurking for years in and around Pinner, but it's so nice to do it in public."

Scotland swept the board at Wimbledon this year, and here the victorious Isle of Mull Ladies' team serve up some aces.  A great outfit including, far left, the conjoined McPhew triplets and on the right, doughty one-legged captain, Elsie Hopper.
And let's not forget motor-racing - lots of fans out there!

This year's World Champion is fiery Eddie Splean, the Anglo-Irish-Inuit speedster in his 23,000cc Spermicelli. Eddie's seen here in typical mood, at the start of the final Grand Prix, refusing to wear a flat cap like everybody else.

So let's get those votes pouring in!  Remember, it's the usual address, and don't forget your bank details and PIN number!'

Tuesday, 27 November 2012

Your Wildlife Continued...

'Hi, its Willow and Josh here, out braving the cold, damp, mud and shite so you don’t have to!'
'Can we say “shite”, Willow?'
'Well you talk it all the time Josh! Hahahah! Only kidding. Anyway, what’s big on our radar this week Josh?'
'Oh it's a packed programme this week, Willow. We’ve got all the usual tripe about little brown birds nobody cares about...'
'Apart from that Besley chap, Josh.'
'That’s right Willow, he does, doesn’t he? Takes all sorts. Then we’ve a fascinating piece about Fawcett’s Longnosed Woodlice which are making a welcome comeback in the uprights of Wigan Pier whilst our Man of the Wilds, Ivan Lentil has been trying to convince Kill Bill Baxendale that fenceposts do not give cows T.B. Over to you Ivan....'
'Josh, thanks. Yes, Kill Bill and I have been looking at some interesting data from somewhere or other which seems to prove conclusively that fenceposts are incapable of carrying T.B.on account of them being made of wood and dead. Bill was clearly deeply affected by this information and said to me, “But Oi killed ‘undreds ‘o those boogers. Yo mean to tell Oi they is innocent?” 

Quite why Bill was using that accent I don’t know, what with him being from Glossop. But he perked up no end when I told him that the latest theory is that cattle get T.B. from wandering poets and arty-farty types who do tend mince about the place during the summer getting inspiration from daffodils and bunnies and other soppy things. Bill knows nothing of the Art scene, so is ignorant of the fact that artists and poets and the like do tend to favour T.B. as their disease of choice, so its not surprising they spread it when they go sneezing all over Bill’s cows. Anyway, he’s away up on the high meadow now looking for anybody with a pen and a funny walk.' 

(Background FX, I wandered lonely as a... BANG!)

'Ivan, thanks. That really is good news, and well done you. Bill’s not easily convinced about anything. And I think that’s about it for this week Willow....'
'Yes it is Josh, but not before I take a second to acknowledge the hundreds of letters we’ve had objecting to our humorous use of T.B. We got them. Get a life. Byeeee...'

Monday, 26 November 2012

On This Day

Forty Years Ago

The furnace was fired up for the last time at Frigholm Forgemasters, makers for more than 130 years of convict branding irons and suppliers to the Empire. ‘A sad day indeed,’ said works manager Reuben Glumthwaite, reflecting on the loss of a once proud industry, whose belching chimneys had in happier times dominated the skyline for the full length of the Grimebeck Valley.

Twenty Years Ago

Young Britart sensation Dwain Cuttles proved a sell-out at his first exhibition, Smile, held in London’s glitzy Bond Street. Red spots spread like measles over the 250 exhibits, each an actual-size cracker joke, hand-stitched by Lebanese craftworkers in the East End and then hung upside-down. Strikingly dressed as the Mona Lisa, Mr Cuttles maintained an enigmatic smile all evening as he gathered in the many cheques written out by eager collectors.

Twenty-Five Years Ago

Spectators were obliged to run for cover at the Strathfaffin Games near Scourie when novice entrant Norma McGurk took to the field. In only her third ever Highland Games, Sister Norma, ‘the Flinging Nun’, brought records tumbling in a bravura performance of accuracy and strength. Interviewed after, the soft-spoken Carmelite put her remarkable powers down to clean living and beef tea.

Sunday, 25 November 2012


Angus, Laird of Cromarty, Minches and German Bight.  23/7/21 - 1/11/12.

Known locally, and not without affection, as "The mad wee bastard in the big hoose", Angus died as he chose to live, surrounded by his beloved Brillo collection.  A world-acknowledged expert in scouring, Angus McEyebroo inherited at an early age and dedicated the rest of his life and not inconsiderable fortune on getting aluminium pans really clean.

Another Thought for The Day

...with Justin Almost Webly, nearly Archbishop of Canterbury

“ Hullo. Me again.

Well, what a schemozzle! I’ll bet (which I don’t do, of course) you Ordinary People out there are thinking what a bunch of chumps we are. First we men do the fashionable thing and allow ladies to become bishops, then those very same ladies – well not the VERY same because there are men involved too – and they’re not ladies – but you get my drift – decide they don’t actually want ladies to be bishops.

Let me try to explain. The Church of England has lots of rules all carefully formulated to make it appear really liberal and not at all square, if you’ll pardon the modern expression. Nearly twenty years ago, we made a new rule which said ladies could be vicars. What’s the next step up God’s greasy pole? Right – Bishop. (Well, not next precisely, but you know what I mean).

But we also have in the Church of England a thing called the House of Laity which is made up of women – and men – who aren’t ordained (but probably would like to have been but failed the exams). Anyway, this House of Laity gets to vote on stuff and its that vote which has screwed us. If you’ll pardon the modern expression. There is little doubt in my mind that its the twinset and pearls brigade within the House of Laity which is behind this kerfuffle. And their hubbies probably voted as they were told to vote. I can only think that these Laity Ladies believe that God is a man which whilst probably true, is so completely unfashionable and utterly uncool, if you’ll pardon the modern expression.

Well, the upshot of all this is that its left we Church Bosses feeling pretty silly. I mean, we’d thought that the outfits alone would have swung the vote. A Bishop’s gear – if you’ll pardon the modern expression – is pretty impressive – all those gold embroidered frocks and in yer face – if you’ll pardon the modern expression – hats so we’d quite naturally assumed the ladies would have jumped at the chance.

But it was not to be. Whither now, voyager? Well, we’ll just have to make do with a few gay male bishops for now I suppose.

Met a strange cove called Dawkins the other day who asked me if any of this really mattered in the grand scheme of things. Stupid man.”

Thursday, 22 November 2012

Ask Lady Violet

Dear Lady Violet

I think my man's just not that into me. He addresses me affectionately as 'Toothless Mary', and says he's delighted we're together, but I'm not so sure.

You see, he hardly ever goes out with me in public and when we do, for example, he will go into the Public Bar and makes sure I go into the Saloon Bar. Once I saw him in the street talking to his mates and I went over and said hello and he pretended we'd never met before. He said he was worried about word getting round, but I'm not sure what he means.

Do you think he's ashamed of me? Should I be looking for a new man? Would it be a good idea to get a set of dentures?


Floribette Schuffenecker-Blartfast

My Dear Miss Blartfast,

No relation to the Shropshire Blartfasts I suppose? But no, probably, as none of them would have got themselves into this sort of pickle.

Men do tend to favour less than flattering pet names for their nearest and dearest. Why, Captain Bippy M.C.,V.C.,RsPcA., the love of my life, used to call me "My Old Gruntbucket" throughout our long and tempestuous relationship. I put this down to inherent shyness and a desire to be seen to be in control. And I think this is true in your case. My darling Bippy was very rich so I put up with it. Is your man rich? If so, bite your tongue (so to speak) and hope that you outlive him. Or, if he's a bit skint, buy some teeth and clear off.

Lady V

Dear Lady Violet

Well I was talking to this really hot bird I met when I was on my holidays but my house caught fire and I had to hang up really suddenly because the flames were lapping around near the turn-ups of my trousers and the phone melted and then I ran out of the house and accidentally dropped my mobile phone into a cesspit and I'd lost the piece of paper she'd written her phone number down on and I couldn't phone her because I'd stored the number in the other phone (now melted and drowned in cess) and eventually I decided to drive to a local library to look up her phone number on the internet. Her name is Renate Codswallop and she lives in a small village called Frogsbourne, in Derbyshire, and I thought this wouldn't be too difficult to find. It wasn't.

However, dear Lady Violet, my problems are now threefold:

- I haven't got any phones left
- Who's going to believe that story?
- My wife didn't believe it either.

What shall I do?


Declan Bonklecroncher, FRSA

Quite frankly, there's not a lot down for you my boy. I see from your letter that you have a wife. How on earth did you manage that? She must be an exceptionally stupid woman, so she probably will believe you. But the really shocking part of your letter is the portion which refers to TURN-UPS!! ABSOLUTELY NO-ONE WEARS TURN-UPS THESE DAYS! And a cess-pit! My advice to you, dear Declan, is that you should buy some fashionable trousers, get yourself on mains drainage pdq and buy a trainset.

Lady V.

Dear Lady Violet

I thought I might try a bit of online dating and checked out the available men in my age range (95 - 102). Unfortunately I already know most of them (and a right bunch of wasters they are too), and I'm related to the rest. I want to play it cool and not look too desperate. What should I do?


Emmeline Bagpuss xxx 

At your age, you really should know the answer to this one. Get yourself one of those nifty blow-up male sex dolls, a jerry-can full of light engineering oil, and a recording of Richard Tauber singing "You are My Heart's Delight". You'll never look back. Unless the doll's behind you.

Lady V.

Pangolin Fashion

Just to prove that Pangolin fashion extends beyond large, hardened, plate-like scales. The scales, which are soft on newborn pangolins but harden as the animal matures, are made of keratin, the same material of which human fingernails and tetrapod claws are made.

Unlike this ace piece of designer jacketwear, which is hand-crafted from high-quality Astroturf and features optional mole hills, worm casts, weeds of varying degrees of commonality and house sparrows. The deluxe version also features a large lump of lion dung and a water feature.

Be the envy of your friends! At least, the ones who don't think you're a total pillock.

Wednesday, 21 November 2012

Spotted by Denis Dowland



Have you got a dead body stashed away in your wardrobe, attracting flies and taking up space?  Maybe  you've got away with murder, but have had to keep the git holed up in your attic so people think he's still on holiday in Weston-super-Mare.

If so, I'd be delighted to hear from you.  I want to be a surgeon but I only got one GCSE, in Food Technology, and they wouldn't let me into medical school.

So I'm looking for bodies to practise on.

I'm happy to collect.  I won't tell if you don't.

For Sale

Sycamore;  this is lovely wood and comes up a treat if polished in the correct manner.  That's after it's been chopped down, chopped up and made into furniture of course.  This beautiful tree can be yours for only £40.00.

Granted, it's still very small but it does have potential.  Buyer to collect from my herbaceous border please.

Monday, 19 November 2012

The Rupert Besley Guide to Wildlife.


The Advent of the Crested Henfumbler

 Wildlife is what buzzes round your head in a low-cost Bed & Breakfast and then dies in your egg. Wildlife is what trundles across the carpet every night as the news comes on. Wildlife is what joins you in the bath when you’d rather it didn’t. Wildlife is never where you want it to be.

Take up binoculars, dress as a section of woodland, lurk in a damp hollow and the chances are that you will see nothing. However, all around you will have had a field day, filling their notebooks with rare sightings of porpoise and pine marten. This is what happens in bird hides.

Scene: a draughty outpost on the edge of a bog
Enter Innocent Visitor (IV), anorak swish and heavy boot on creaking floorboard causing Serious Watchers (SW) at every window to spin round and glare. 

IV settles on perch, raises field-glasses and stares. Five minutes pass like five hours. Silence broken by low whisper of Bearded Expert (BE) alongside –

BE: Pair of Brunwalters…
IV: Wha –
SW: Tsk!
BE: Brunwalter’s Snorkelling Little Owls… crossing the Sound… 2 o’clock from bushy-
topped tree… the one with the Crested Henfumbler… hear it a mile off… that’s not
a Corbelled Goat Pipit, is it? Small brown thing… just gone down…
IV: I –
SW: Sssssh.
Etc. etc.

Small brown birds look like all other small brown birds in the book, but never a sure enough match for positive identification. They are too small for that. This is the other problem with wildlife: it is rarely the right size. Take ticks, too small to see until too late. Were ticks the size of elephants, you would spot them well ahead and take avoiding action. They would not be able to drop from the undersides of bracken, crawl up your leg, bury their heads in your flesh and gorge on the contents. It simply would not happen. (Conversely, elephants the size of ticks would be less likely to trample villages or be hunted for their ivory.) Or midges. A well designed midge would be the size of a ptarmigan, say, or grouse. That way, it would have been blasted out of existence long ago by gun-toting members of the aristocracy - all but a select few, hand-reared on large estates for sporting purposes (midges, that is, and also aristocracy). Which leads me to end on a footnote in history –

A regular jape for guests at weekend house parties thrown by Edward VII at Sandringham would be to find under the bedclothes as they retired an item from the day’s bag – a newly shot pheasant or hare – in place of the anticipated footwarmer. Now don’t tell me that lot did not know how to party.

Sunday, 18 November 2012

Oh, and another thought...

Oh Gawd...will it never end? This constant twittering? 

I’ve already said I don’t like it and why, but every day brings new bollocks dropped by stupid, stupid people who seem to think that Twitter is secret. Some of these people are running the country. How dumb do you have to be not to know that twittering “Marjorie Coathanger has an enormous bum, a face like a bag of spanners and steals things from Waitrose” will get you into a whole shit-storm of trouble? 

Not least from Mr Coathanger who, myopia apart, thinks his wife is lovely, but is also a lawyer.

Twitter seems to have become the adult equivalent of the mobile phone bullying kids practice. And we can’t stop it. It’s a legitimate business. Worth billions. As is the other gossip gun, Facebook. We can stop kids being vile with their phones by fiddling with the phones so the little sods can only contact certain numbers. Can’t do that with responsible (hahahaha) adults putting their feet in their mouths on Twitter.

Ah but, ah but! I hear you cry – the good Twitter does outweighs the bad. Really? That’s like saying that the Arab Spring justifies Facebook. It doesn’t. Besides, they’re all still at daggers drawn anyway. And is the US going to stop blowing people to bits with drones, or Israel stop shelling Gaza or Hamas rocketing Israel because of Facebook opinion? Of course not. I even suspect that ”Mr Netanyahu has an enormous bum and a face like a bag of spanners” would not deter.

Who knows, maybe upcoming court cases will instill in Twittering blabbermouths a sense of, well, sense. “I have heard some people say that Marjorie Coathanger has an enormous bum and a face like a bag of spanners and I’m sure she doesn’t shoplift.” That’s only 113 characters and way safer than the original, but in the end, who the hell CARES ?

Extracts from letters from Cridling Stubbs Council Tenants

1.  Thank you for fixing my thatch, but I have to tell you I'm still leaking down below.
2.  Can you repair the toilet door the wind has broken.
3.  Kids are messing in my bush and playing with their balls.  Will you tell their parents to stop.
4.  Can I have a blow job for all these fallen leaves.  Your men were useless last time.
5.  The sign at the end of the road is giving kids ideas will you take it away.  The one that says 'Humps for 50 yards'.
6.  I've been trying for months but your workman still hasn't come.
7.  When your truck came to collect the old sofa it ran over my pussy, I wish to complain.
8.  Can you fix the tiles please because my grandfather is getting diarrea through the holes in the roof.
9.  Will you please come and remove the mattress from my back passage;  I still don't know how it got there.
10. I was in the park today, and kids were going down on the flower bed.  You should get a man to show them.

Cassie Polevaulter

Friday, 16 November 2012

On This Day

80 Years Ago

At their annual assembly held this year in Prestatyn, members of the South Pennine Wing-Collar & Spatmakers’ Guild heard an impassioned call to arms from their Stitchmaster-General, Ernest J Prinkhole. ‘This is no time for words,’ he told the conference and called upon delegates to join him in urging immediate action from the government to halt the decline of a once great industry, now dying on its feet. In less than 200 years, he warned, spats could become a thing of the past. His motion was carried unanimously by a silent show of immaculately cuffed hands.

One Year Ago

In a prepared statement released to the Press, Drayne Tubbles, lead singer of The Flies, made clear his wish to step out of the limelight for an unspecified length of time, ‘wiv this court case and fings like coming up’. Whilst promising his fans around the world he would be back, Tubbles requested journalists everywhere to respect the privacy of his many friends and families, closing with the advice to lay off you scumbags or else.

120 Years Ago

Inventor Thruxton Plinge unveiled his design for the world’s first mobile phone. The Plinge Mobilatory Telephonic Network Ltd carried out a series of successful demonstrations on a pavement in Pinner. As assistant technician Arthur Wormit strode up and down the footpath, waving one arm and bellowing into the mouthpiece, it was clear that he was able to receive, between intervals, several distinct words in reply. With user harnessed to a trolley capable of reeling out several kilometres of telephonic cable and manservants deployed in key positions to haul in spare line and re-connect to different public call-boxes, the system was hailed as an important advance for British communications. However, a sceptical public remained unconvinced of the need for any such network in years to come, given the abundance of errand-boys, two a penny on the streets of Pinner.

15 Years Ago

Worcester schoolboy Kyle Peeley of 14, Leylandii View, had a shock from his lunchbox when he discovered that the sausage roll he was enjoying, obtained from his favourite supplier, contained not one but two human fingers. ‘It’s not what you expect to find in a sausage roll,’ said mother of Kyle, Dawn Peeley, aged 39.

Poem: How to be a Sheep

Wednesday, 14 November 2012

Marcel Duchamp IN HERNE BAY!!!


Not many people know that the famous Marcel Duchamp hung out in Herne Bay - well not exactly IN Herne Bay, but on terra firma as chaperone to his younger sister.  We have documentary evidence below.  He is, of course, chiefly famous for trying out all the new movements in art in the early 20th century - cubism, futurism, embolism, alcoholism, journalism - and being crap at every one of them.  He then set a precedent for all would-be artists who can't draw, by exhibiting a urinal.  Sadly, Saatchi didn't exist at the time, but he seems to have got by anyway.

An extract from Marcel’s diary... with thanks to the Herne Bay Dada Enthusiasts’ Circle:
“End so – auf to ‘Erne Bayee, whatevaire zat ees, to keep ‘ow you say, the minced pies, on ouwer Yvonne, who ‘as on occasion, shown zat she can be, ow you say, up for it, weez almost any hommes. Ragand muffin or gentlemens. Certainment zer wezaire it will be pissings down end so zere will be no times for moi to go for zer bracing walkings. Bon! All I must do is prevent the naughty Yvonne from becoming into a naughty situations and trembling the knees with passing blokery. This will geev me time to find somethings to do with thees urinal which arrived from Amazon last week. Eef I can get it into my bag.”

Pangolin Travel

It's not all seatbelts and cabin pressure here at Pangolin Travel. Some months ago we wished bon voyage to Jasmine and Toby Fittock as they departed on their trip of a lifetime to the fabled South American lost city of Mucho D’iarreaio, so recently rediscovered by Dr Hank Flank and a team of archaeologists from Goole University. Jasmine takes up the tale….

“It was dark when we finally arrived at Mucho D’iarreaio after a hair raising trip over the Sierra del Pangolino in a battered ex American school bus which, according to Toby, featured the unusual semi-automatic pneumatic extra-cyclo in-line gearbox until I told him to shut up as I’d been sick on my shoes again.

Anyway, we found a hotel of sorts and slept fitfully (Toby’s been having those since he ate some odd mushrooms last year on our Unseen Glossop trip) until the sun rose and we got our first view of the ancient city. Incredibly disappointing. Just bits of rubble here and there with the odd phallic symbol poking drunkenly above the dust. The locals refer to Mucho Diarreaio as “Nob-Nob” and our guide Sancho said that if that was the sort of thing we were interested in, he knew several excellent places just beyond the local McDonalds. 

Sancho, and other locals we met whilst having our luggage stolen, expressed puzzlement about our interest in the lost city and indeed why on earth Dr Flank’s expedition had come there in the first place. "The Incas”, added Sancho whilst palming my camera, "thought Nob Nob was a dump”.

But we’re seasoned travellers and were undeterred by the loss of all our money, luggage and most of our clothes. We did what trekkers do. We sold blood, hair and a couple of Toby’s bridgework dentures which raised enough cash to gain us admission to El Non Nob Paradiso where, after a few hours working the pole, Toby had our bus fares out of Mucho Diarreaio, back to Santa Lumbago and the British Embassy".

Whoa! Scary stuff Jasmine, and thanks for the snaps Sancho took of you defending Toby on the pole. Sadly, this is a family blog and we can’t actually publish them. Shame!

Next time, we ask, how boring are those people who decide they want to live abroad and go poking around foreigners’ houses with a film crew and snide comments.

Monday, 12 November 2012

The Pangolin has received its First Review

Here it is, written by A Birch:

'Pangolin should be much more sensible. Such ill-considered levity can only encourage the belief that life is a random succession of amusing events, rather than a grim affair to be endured between cradle and grave.'

It appeared near a magazine called 'Practical Poultry'.Please feel free to add your own reviews in an empty comments box below.

Sunday, 11 November 2012


Gustav Wancre 5/5/21 - 5/11/12

Friend and confidante of the composer John Cage, Wancre bore an uncanny resemblance to the American maestro.  Often, when spied by passers-by as they strolled the streets of Boston, people would  say, "There go a couple of Wancres".  Like Cage, Wancre was passionate about music which didn't have a tune. He said in an interview with Joan Bikewell on BBC2's High Minded Bollocks programme in 1985, "My stuff is like, cerebral and I certainly don't want people whistling it."

Sadly, Cage and Wancre fell out after the first performance of Cage's Four and a Bit Minutes of Silence piece, with Wancre claiming that the last two minutes were his.

Wancre leaves thirty-two children and a tortoise.

Dame Ellen seen here just prior to the demise of an
un-named Gestapo Officer during an especially
robust foxtrot.
Dame Ellen Pudding 12/4/25 – 6/11/12

Created a Dame in 1977 for her services to her country, most people of her generation knew that this referred to Ellen Pudding’s hugely secret activities behind enemy lines during WW2.
The teenaged Ellen Pudding stood 6feet 5inches in her stockinged feet and weighed in at over 18 stones. SOE watchers in her home village of Fiddler’s End soon singled her out as a possible secret weapon. Late in 1944, using a special quadruple parachute and equipped with a suitcase full of diaphanous gowns, she did indeed drop behind enemy lines and rapidly established herself as a nightclub dancer in Paris. Massively popular with German officers, Dame Ellen single-handedly squashed to death at least twenty three high ranking Nazis. R.I.P.

Cartoonist-in-Residence, Cassie Polevaulter

A Pome

Pollock splashed it around
Rode a bike through it
But thanks to the booze
Eventually blew it.

Let me through, I’m Saatchi!
I’ll tell you what’s good Art
If you’re rich, thick and pretentious
I’m the place to start.

Pablo could draw when he was a lad,
Then he found Cubism, a bit of a fad
But its all gone a bit wonky
Said the winsome Paloma
I strongly suspect early onset glaucoma.

Tracey’s bed and Dave’s dead shark
Leave the punters in the dark
Is it art or a bit of malarkey
“Who cares? It sells” says nice Mr Saatchi.

Saturday, 10 November 2012

Meet the Pangolin Staff!

Like any reputable magazine you care to mention - Harpers & Queen, The Oldie, National Geographic, Hustler - we want you to know who you're dealing with when you send in your subscription moneys (currently 2/6) and write your innermost thoughts to our letters page.

So we've found a picture of the Pangolin staff!

From left to right... Murgatroyd, founder of the Pangolin brand and fine example of manis pholidota.  He is shown here on his lunch break (above) but can often be seen entertaining literary types in the Clerkenwell area when not emitting a noxious-smelling acid from glands near the anus.

Next:  the office window.  Oh dear, it's that twat Percy from the estate agents next door.  Must be fiddling about with our window boxes. Again.  Either that or he's mistaken ours for the window of the lapdancing club.  Again.  And he's dropped his ladder.  Again.

Then, moving swiftly on... we have Melinda, at 72 the youngest member of the Pangolin team.  She has mysterious blonde hair which waves about in the breeze and traps careless insects, but she is best known for waving her long fingers about in the air above keyboards and puzzling at her reflection in the computer screen.  She once managed to type a letter (j, possibly, but it was so long ago we're not sure).

Then it's Uncle Tarquin, who's been at the same desk since before the office block was actually built.  He lives on a staple diet of Dead Sea Rolls, several of which can be seen near his feet.  He does not hold with new-fangled things like typewriters, or, indeed, moveable type and printing presses. He has an impressive collection of quills, mostly gleaned from Sir Peter Viggers' bird table. He also has a pet cormorant called Vernon, who has written several highly prized illuminated manuscripts simply by landing in Uncle Tarquin's ink collection and then rolling around in the bedsheets.

Then we have Julius.  He is permanently legless, but manages rather well for a disembodied torso.  An extremely prolific member of staff, he has been editing a volume entitled 'Who cares about Centipedes?' for at least five years now. His previous works have included 'Wellington Boots for Centipedes' and 'I wonder if Centipedes get Chillblains'.

Our other lovely lady, Miasma (84), has recently informed us that you can write a novel very effectively by looking away from the machine while you type.  She has so far neglected to explain novel... what.... but we live in hope.  So far the results look remarkably like Welsh.

Then, finally... editor, Steve Wuss.  He goes around in a black mac and black hat and terrorises the likes of Prof Anna Prongg and Dr P J Whimbrel into contributing to the Pangolin on a regular basis. He spends so much time absorbing water, by not having the sense to come in out of the rain, that he can supply his own puddles - without the rest of the staff needing to go outdoors.  An example of this altruism can be seen far right.

Friday, 9 November 2012

On this Day...

10 Years Ago

Plumber Lionel Ferritt promised the present writer to ‘be round Tuesday’ to make good the damage done to ballcock and cistern during a previous repair. No further sign of Mr Ferritt has been recorded since.

60 Years Ago

Children clad as violets and daisies lined the avenue of Soking Towers near Bedford to receive the traditional Poore Soddyes Bountie of two sweets and one hatpin, established by ancient charity in the reign of Edward IV and distributed each year on St Hildagurt’s Day by members of the Soking family. Lady Lavinia, with bull mastiff in tow, accompanied the 14th Lord down the line, sharing a joke or pat on the head with several children along the way. The ceremony closed with the traditional Hurlyng of Shillyngs into the Armada Drum held by Lady Lavinia.

30 Years Ago

Popular DJ and local broadcasting personality Les Seedie was Master of Ceremonies at the official opening of a new Kipper Tie ‘n Platform Shoes retail outlet close to the centre of Barnsley. ‘This will give the local economy a much-needed boost for decades to come,’ said Mr Seedie, as he gave a helping hand to Lady Mayoress Doris Rowbotham, pictured (p12) snipping the ribbon.

Thursday, 8 November 2012

Welcome Aboard

"This is the 04.15 service to Agglethorpe, calling at Bat and Ball, Snodland, Bickerdyke, Chinkacronk, Norway, Sweden, Denmark and Eastbourne.  When alighting from the train, please leave your belongings behind unless you're that bloke in Carriage Three with the stuffed bear.  They will be sold at a bring and buy sale and any proceeds will to to the Southeastern Railways Rich Tea fund.

When alighting at Itchygrump, please remember that there is a gap of three feet between the train and the platform.  Try not to fall down it as there's something nasty in there.

CCTV is in operation on this train for your security, safety and to catch any absent-minded nosepickers."

Tuesday, 6 November 2012

With grateful thanks and flatulence to Denis Dowland


Toulouse-Lautrec had little legs
He painted ladies bare
To see them all from head to foot
He had to use a chair

Sunday, 4 November 2012

Pangolin Guide to Wildlife

Pangolin researchers, led by the prominent zoologist Dr.Agnetha Grossli-Bentdottir, have long been concerned about increasing levels of public interest in wildlife. “These woolly-thinking do-gooders do more harm than good," says Dr Grossli-Bentdottir. “Constantly saving whales and building hedgehog tunnels is seriously upsetting Nature’s delicate balance. And as for these touchy-feelie sanctuaries which are springing up all over the place, soon we’ll be overrun with superannuated donkeys and cosseted pangolins.”

Hard words but necessary thinks Dr Grossli-Bentdottir. “In my native Iceland, when I was a child - if it had a pulse, we clubbed it and ate it and it didn’t do us any harm. Nowadays, Reykjavic (sic) is covered with Arctic Tern pooh caused by bloody wildlife enthusiasts putting anchovy sandwiches out for the little blighters. They don’t bother flying south any more for the winter. They just waddle about the place crapping on everything. Including our banks. And PLEASE don’t give me that old hogwash about plants and trees and flowers being wildlife. Can they walk, run, growl, squeak, fly? No, so how the hell can anybody be serious about something called Bladderwort or Ladies’ Nostril?”

Of course, opinions differ, and Ted Thump, Head Keeper at the Glossop Pangolin Experience says of Dr Grossli-Bentdottir’s comments: “Sounds like a daft cow to me".

So, in the light of these expert opinions, once again, it falls to The Pangolin to offer clear general pointers. The following Brief Guide flags up, in no particular order, what is Good Wildlife and what is A Bit Iffy.

Fieldmice are OK because they live in fields and don’t come indoors. Mice that do come in your house are Bad and should be squashed, gassed or poisoned. Same with badgers. If you discover a badger living in your house and it’s a bit wheezy, its probably got T.B. and should be kept away from any cattle you may have in your home. Friendly local farmers can always be called upon to sort any badger infestation.

Woodlice are very horrid and creep about underneath stuff. Ants are nasty too, as are slugs, tics,  wasps, bluebottles, magpies, pigeons, starlings, spiders, squirrels and when startled, Cape Buffaloes. Keeping a pangolin can help with some of the above, although tests have shown that pangolins don’t do well against any type of bison.
Sparrows, blue tits, robins, field buntings, Snapshott’s whimbrels, butterflies, hedgehogs and owls are all Good, as are fluffy little foxcubs, except when the latter stop being cubs, at which point they must be pursued by fat toffs on horses and torn to bits by fat toffs’ dogs. 

Swallows, swifts and house martins are all good because they make us go, “Aaah”, and dive about the place showing off, whereas rabbits, despite being furry and cuddly are not good because farmers say so. Moths are Bad because, as everyone knows, they eat our underwear. Seagulls should be killed on sight because they steal our chips.

Be advised that this can only be a very general guide. Space prohibits a more detailed discussion of this fascinating subject, and questions such as how do shags get through life with such an awful name and whether worms carry on wriggling in blackbirds' tummies after they’ve been swallowed whole, will be answered in a later issue if Dr Grossli-Bentdottir is ever released .