Saturday, 31 January 2015

A Party Political Broadcast on Behalf of the Very Conservative Party with Sir Greville Boynton-ffart

Y’know, I make no secret of being stinking rich. I’m positively rolling in it and I know lots of chaps out there who are loaded too. Like me, they’ve never had to work because theirs, like mine, is Old Money.

As a right wing and proud of it Conservative I feel passionate about holding on to what’s mine. I feel aggrieved and offended at the thought of what I’ve got stashed away being wasted on let’s face it, lesser beings. Unlike them, I know how to spend money and what it's worth. You won’t find me wasting it on elderly peasants who’ve never been to Klosters. I mean, what good have they ever been in their boring little jobs? What good are they now sitting in their boring little flats waiting for free meals?

And youth? Don’t talk to me about youth. The world does not owe them a living, whatever a living is. What we need is a return to National Service. We need to create again a huge army to keep out all these foreign scrounger Johnnies bent on bankrupting this Island Nation.

Vote for me and you’ll be voting for safeguarding all those things which have made Britain Great – wonderful country houses, State Funerals for the wealthy, Elgar, the reinstatement of Borstals for any oicks who escape from comprehensives and huge tax breaks for English millionaires – especially those presently in government.

Greville Boynton-ffart.

Thursday, 29 January 2015

Pangolin Poetry Corner

Snowy bit: "Field-with-snow-champ-enneige" by Emmanuel Boutet; gloves belong to snowmen

In Winter, when snow lies thick on the ground
It means buried snowmen
Are waiting to be found.

A Digger

Home Thoughts from A Wardrobe

Jobe, jobe, the fantling gront,
Perteeny and bonglip blancmange,
All blibbsy and clangthump with westerly airs
Astride a great noble faranjie

Parnsfeldt, parnsfeldt, pogniart and Crilp,
The fuming, umniant Snobberly,
Winky, wonky spune and blort
My puny, disgraceful throbberly.

And so to unsqueam
With gernackers thribed
Jermin, all jermin and boncefeel
Woggarts gripped and pules ascribed
Aligroaty! Aligroaty! My funtsgreel!

A.J Nostrille

Sunday, 25 January 2015

Thought for the Day, with Justin Webly, more or less Arch. of Cant.

Justin here.
You know, because of the nature of my job, so to speak, I am asked lots of questions. Some, like, “Where does the C of E stand on free speech?“ are easy to answer. We are in favour of it. Others, such as, “Why do you live in such a big house?” require rather more explanation.

Lambeth Palace is indeed big. Most of it is also very old, and quite a lot of bits drop off it from time to time. Many are surprised to learn that it has not always been home to an Anglican Archbishop. In fact, the very last Catholic Archbishop of Canterbury, one Reginald Pole (1500 – 58) lived at Lambeth Palace and was a very interesting fellow, with an impressive beard. As his name suggests, he first came to this country seeking work as a builder/handyman. It must have come as a great surprise to him, when due to some typographical errors, he became Archbishop of Canterbury. Fortunately, he died of ‘flu before the mix-up was discovered.
But I digress. Like Reginald Pole’s before me, my Archbishopric requires a large staff. The young man with the wire in his ear always sniggers at the mention of “Archbishopric” and has suggested I change it. Just as I didn’t understand his joke about the fat lady and the duck, I have no idea why.

Of course, the young man with the wire in his ear is only one of many souls who dwell within the Palace walls. There are housekeepers, gatekeepers, record keepers and a retired military gent in charge of what was once the Palace prison. He is known as the goalkeeper.
The Palace receives many visitors. They do not, as the young man with the wire in his ear suggests, “come to gawp and swipe the silver”, but are , of course, interested in the ecclesiastical heritage  of this country and they need knowledgeable residential  guides. Nevertheless, I do note that at times of heavy public traffic through my and my lady wife’s home, significantly more young men and women with wires in their ears are in attendance. I did question the resident young man with the wire in his ear about this. He said, “Well, we don’t want you and yours getting knocked off by some foreign nutter, do we?”

One of my many official duties is to receive and act as host to countless but important foreign dignitaries and to offer them dinner. Fortunately, I am fluent in French, German, Italian, Spanish, Greek, Russian, Portugeuse, Japanese, Chinese, and Gaelic and have a smattering of Inuit. When at dinner, if conversation stalls because of my linguistic shortcomings, my ever-resourceful and down-to-earth lady wife is always on hand with sparkling carafes of vodka-laced spring water. As she wisely points out, if he’s off his head, the Grand Ishfi of Kund won’t care what you say.

So, dear reader, as you might imagine, such functions require significant numbers of residential staff, all ready to deal, in an instant, with whatever may crop up. Why, I remember, after a delicious dinner of Aberdeen Angus (with a vegetarian Turnip Surprise alternative), the President-elect of Dragvonia sprang to his feet, pointing at the young man with the wire in his ear, shouting, “ I DO NOT LAK HEEM ! VHY ISS HE VATCHINK ME?” This burly gent then challenged the young man with the wire in his ear to a wrestling match which is what happens in Dragvonia when honour is impugned. The heavy-set Dragvonian advanced upon the young man with the wire in his ear until they were face to face. Nervous laughter rippled round the room.

The small chamber orchestra musicians tried to further lighten the mood, but for reasons best known to themselves struck up with “Abide With Me”. For a second both men stared at each other and then for reasons still beyond me, the Dragvonian gentleman clutched his neck and fainted, several solid silver serving spoons slipping from his cummerbund as he slumped to the floor. Such larks!

I do hope my description of certain aspects of Palace life helps to explain why our home is so very large. Personally, my lady wife and myself are happiest in our small apartment – me beavering away at my 00 gauge railway layout, whilst my lady wife gets very excited at Match of the Day.

Pip, pip,


Friday, 16 January 2015

Draw The Line Here

Draw The Line Here is a...

Book of cartoons responding to the brutal murders at Charlie Hebdo - contributors include nearly all the Pangolin staff and many others. You can help to fund it/get your copy by following this link:

Tuesday, 13 January 2015

FoxWitz News Collaboration Project

Following the astonishing pronouncement from FoxWitz News that Birmingham, UK, is a totally Muslim city where non-Muslims just don't go - despite the latter comprising 80% of the population - Pangolin correspondents dug themselves out from under their desks in Glossop and set forth to investigate. Our Steve Wuss had once visited Birmingham in the 1980's and found a very ropey pub on Aston Lane which didn't have anyone in it at all. He wondered if FoxWitz had conflated the two.

Suitably attired, our intrepid reporters set forth:
Pangolin staff in disguise

Suitably domed vegetables compulsory

It was found that local culture had adapted remarkably well to the environment of the West Midlands; there were strict injunctions about public displays of vegetables, which were required to show the appropriate architectural features, for example. 


The humble serviette now features decoration in keeping with mosque interiors:
Mosque interior with your afternoon tea

Of course, no trip to Birmingham is complete without a visit to the 'Balti Belt', that area of the city bounded by Ladypool Road, Stoney Lane and Stratford Road. But even this shows expansionist policies, as the following photographs reveal:

Balti Belt c. 1988
Balti Belt 2014

Finally, any self-respecting city would take it upon itself to complete the Haj - the pilgrimage to Mecca - and collect a skull cap (comparable to the pilgrim badges of medieval times).

It's good to see that famous Birmingham landmark, Selfridges, is clearly a very frequent visitor:

Sunday, 11 January 2015

Bogwort Down the Pan - Again!

Darren O'Bogwort: "I'm acksherly a sensitive New Age Guy an' I like poetry an' everyfink."

Darren O' Bogwort, well-known local bailiff and Parliamentary Candidate for the latest Right-Wing-Splinter-Group-but-we-don't-know-what-it's-called-yet - has hit the headlines once again!

Last year, O'Bogwort (17) had been photographed attending orgies and seemed to relish the notoriety - until it was pointed out that the so-called 'orgy scene' was nothing more than a photographic backdrop generally used by contributors to the Readers' Wives page in Norks Monthly. He strenuously denied the allegation, saying that it was "A proper orgy and everyfink an' anyway they're just jealous!"

However, it had been alleged that his tattoos feature Nazi regalia, but he was advised to deny this by his party leader, Obergruppenf├╝hrer Bang. Reading from a prepared statement, he explains his tattoos thus:

"The one whot looks like a swastika is in fact a very ancient symbol and you get it in Buddhism, Hinduism and Jainism. At least that's what it says on Wikipedia. So yar boo sucks to all you lot.

The tattoo which looks like an eagle whot was a symbol of the Third Reich is in fact a dove of peace. OK OK it's a crap drawing.

Then you lot said that I had a tattoo which says 'Let us prey' well actually clever clogs it says 'Lettuce spray' and that's what I got for my mum for her birthday because she was getting dead narked with all the greenfly in her salad."

When questioned further, he admitted that they weren't really tattoos at all, but the work of his mate Bazzer, who had drawn them on with biro for a bet.

They were no longer on view since he had had his annual bath since this photo was taken.

Sunday, 4 January 2015

Cassius Pugnatius Seagull

As January continues to roll onwards, a gull must move with the times, adapt, grow and become at one with the environment. A fine example of a gull in touch with her spiritual core is Doris, who sent us this video from her holiday in Devon:

She reckons she narrowly escaped prosecution by singing to the examining Magistrate who then opened a window to let her out.

She and her mate Beryl have perfected the art of the Cornish Pasty (more prevalent in the South West peninsula than round these parts). One of them will swoop down and apparently attempt to grab a pasty being eaten by one of those grockle types, who will then pull it out of the way and hide it behind his/her back. But THIS is the real sting: the other one will be loitering, all innocent-like, behind the aforementioned back... like taking candy from a baby so they tell me.

And the song of the grockle thus fleeced is apparently wild and picturesque enough to rival one of our own in the mating season!

So happy hunting, thieving, pillaging and spreading of litter for 2015!

Thursday, 1 January 2015