Just in case you were still looking for a toaster

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Turn your smartfone into a MINI-TOASTER now, and just watch all those babes gettin' naked just for YOU!

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For Sale, a highly-prized Heinkel steam-powered outdoor toaster.

Recently refurbished and converted to take British steam, this is a late model “Graf Spee” toaster capable of producing 500 rounds per minute in shades ranging from Very Pale to Charcoal and requiring only a crew of two.

Offers over £10,000. Part-ex considered.

For Sale: 'Trebuchet' deluxe toaster

Low mileage, one careful owner. You'll need to get your own MOT though.

• Can accommodate several slices if you can work out where to put them.
• Variable browning, not subject to control by any known being.
• Extra bits for pinging burnt toast all over the place.
• Springs for removing small animals  and bits of plaster that may have fallen in.

Settings include, but are not limited to:
- slightly singed in one corner
- slightly singed in two corners
- cremated
- small flames, plus pinging mechanism so it'll start your barbecue outside
- as above, but strong enough pinging to start next door's bonfire. Specially recommended for November 5th

On This Day...

Five Years Ago

Talks continued behind closed doors between Parish Councillors in the search for peace between the neighbouring Suffolk villages of Rickinghall Inferior and Rickinghall Superior.

Fifteen Years Ago

A small band of loyal supporters gave a hearty round of applause as the curtain came down on the final scene in Ham Village Hall of the Ham Players' performance of 'Trossachs', a dramatisation by producer Phyllis Pardew of the Waverley novels (by Sir Walter Scott) in which each member of the cast got to play several roles. Lighting, including the fog sequence, was by Trevor Poggle, while coaching in the Scottish accent was given by Wardrobe Mistress Edna McNab. On the last night a bouquet of flowers (along with a jar of Vick) was presented to lead actress Beryl Streep, who, despite a heavy cold and loss of voice, held front of stage in all 43 scenes of this ambitious production.

Fifty-Five Years Ago

Further shots were fired in the ongoing row between the BBC and Mr G. Willock of Shepton Parva.  The Corporation, as will be remembered, had, in a series of increasingly curt refusals, declined the many offers made by amateur photographer Gordon Willock to make available his extensive archive of holiday slides (plus one 7mm film of Skies Over Shepton) for use in transmission breaks between programmes. The BBC replied that it had ample footage of its own of horses ploughing, windmills turning, pottery making and basket-weaving without needing to add to it pictures of Mrs Willock staring out from Stonehenge, Minehead or with the donkeys at Clovelly, let alone filmed sequences of Doreen Willock (49) mowing the lawn or relaxing in her garden. 

Accusing commissioning editors of arrogance and not knowing what the public really wants to see, the complainant pointed out that all his neighbours (including two members of the Quantocks Camera Club) were heartily sick of all the bad things on the news and in programmes like Dixon of Dock Green and would positively welcome a breakdown in transmission in order to enjoy some pleasant reminders (set to music) of what makes Britain great. The Director-General was not available for further comment. Neither were the Willocks (away in the Lake District, filming daffodils).

Episode 13: Bloatmingle - the Fugitive has stopped Fugitting.

Previously on Bloatmingle of the Yard...

Bloatmingle and Spiggot have apprehended the evil Doctor Peasmold and the nasally-challenged Tommy. Accidentally, but they got 'em anyway. Unfortunately, the treacherous Fittock - who turned out to be Humplock - has made good his escape. Their ruminations at 37 Dead Man's Wharf have been rudely interrupted, however, by the sudden appearance of not one, but two apparitions. One of them has leapt into Bloatmingle's arms...

“Humplock...?” Bloatmingle gawped in disbelief. The man was naked but for a pair of red and white stripy socks, his Metropolitan Police issue clodhoppers and a rather fetching leopardskin pattern posing pouch. He had bite marks on his buttocks.

“Just keep her away from me, I tell you, keep her away...”

Bloatmingle and Spiggot stared at the second apparition. The long, matted red hair. The large blue eye. The small blue eye. The bright red lipstick which would have been perfectly applied, had it not missed her mouth by one and a half inches. But, most telling of all, the unlaced corset flapping in the breeze to reveal a hairy chest of an unusual topographical nature.

“Dorothy Knickerthwaite...!” breathed Bloatmingle.

Humplock was still weeping and gibbering uncontrollably. “I'm giving myself up, yes, giving myself up. Pleeeease put me in prison. Put me in prison. I'll be safe there...” He glanced over his shoulder at Dorothy Knickerthwaite and screamed again. Mrs Knickerthwaite had stopped in her tracks, however. She just stood still, taking in her surroundings and shaking her head.

“Would someone mind tellin' me what the ****'s goin' on?” she demanded loudly in a shrill cockney accent. “And where the ****'s my ration book?”

“Please, dear lady,” intoned Bloatmingle, putting himself in mind of the suave and dashing Anton Walbrook in “Dangerous Moonlight”, one of Mrs Bloatmingle’s favourite films. So favourite in fact that more than once when he and the love of his life were being, erm, affectionate in the marital darkness, Bloatmingle had heard her squeal “Anton, Anton!” in her lovely bass profundo.

But here his specialist Police training kicked in and he put all thoughts from his mind save that of calming the rampant lipsticked harpy who even now was eying him in a sultry cross-eyed fashion.

“Please dear lady, calm yourself. I am a Police Officer. You are quite safe now”, drawled Bloatmingle, still in Walbrook mode. He cleared his throat and said again, “You’re quite safe now.”

 

Dorothy Knickerthwaite (for it is she) crouched, gathering the burst corset around her not inconsiderable self.  “But you’re not!” she gritted and began to sidle towards Bloatmingle, slightly dragging one leg. She was a truly magnificent woman, thought Bloatmingle, his lightning-quick, trained Police mind wondering what might next transpire. Dorothy Knickerthwaite advanced and began whistling “You are My Heart’s Delight” through the fingers of her left hand. Her heaving breasts (a Land where Veet had never been) heaved.

The whistling stopped. Bloatmingle was aware of a certain type of trouser activity, but again he focused on the job in hand. Dorothy Knickerthwaite gazed into Bloatmingle’s eyes – a siren’s gaze – the gaze of the Femme Fatale! “You are mine!” shrilled Dorothy and lunged forward. “Quick! Spiggot! Your truncheon!” shouted Bloatmingle as he realised that what he could feel in his pocket was not his truncheon, which must have been misplaced in the melee.

For once in his life, Constable Spiggot did not hesitate. He tossed his rarely used staff across the room and Bloatmingle caught it expertly using the difficult reverse wrist Thrames-McDowell Expert Catch catch. He felt Dorothy Knickerthwaite’s hot breath on his cheek – a seductive waft of Corned Beef and Rennies – and his mind reeled. “God, this woman could be mine!” he thought, but yet again the iron vice which was his Policeman’s mind snapped shut and he laid Mrs Knickerthwaite out with a smart blow to the left temple.

“Cor!” said Spiggot. “That was a close shave an’ no mistake!” intoned the young Bobby. “Cor? Close shave an’ no mistake?”

“Who writes his stuff?” thought Bloatmingle, gently heaving the helpless Mrs Knickerthwaite onto a mysteriously convenient upright piano transporter.

"I've been watching you - and that's what you get when you go rooting down
the back of other people's sofas."

30,000 year old virus comes back to life!

An ancient virus has "come back to life" after lying dormant for at least 30,000 years, says Prof Anna Prongg.

It was found frozen in a deep layer of the Siberian permafrost, but after it thawed it became infectious once again. Well, for a little while at least.

It got up, stretched and yawned a bit and then settled down to read the paper. Then it caught sight of a picture of Ian Duncan-Smith, was heard to yell "Bugger that!" and leapt back into the permafrost.

"Oh yes - tragic of course, but he was never really passionate about bogrolls, was he?"

Diary etc etc Tuesday (I think) but no wossname today...

Had one of those nights when you’re suddenly wide awake at daft o’clock. Got back to sleep. Woke up late. Hens going "werrp, werrp" waiting to be let out into gale force wind. Make coffee. Lots. Better half off to sort horse out. Horses don’t like wind. But go crazy for sprouts.

And so to Ye Olde Arte Shoppe. Yes, I know you can get stuff on line cheaper, but said emporium is part of the high street which already has way too many empty shops. Aren’t I a goody?

The only problem with my art shop is that you ALWAYS get stuck behind a keen dabbler. They spend loads more than me. Art shop proprietors love them.  Top quality paint and brushes to die for. Sometimes they bring their pics in to be framed. They are invariably dreadful.

Eventually made my purchases – two 3B pencils, a little tube of propelling pencil leads and two bottles of FW black acrylic ink. Got home; pencil leads too little. Fall out of end of pencil (a Rotring Newton. Excellent but obsolete now).

Friday

Private commission. Not keen on private commissions. Clients usually v vague about what they really want. They say “cartoon” when they mean “caricature”.

Of a relative. I ask what they’re like (meaning appearance). Client says they have a great sense of humour. Suggest client sends me photos. Wants caricature of Dad on his boat which is a Sprayseeker H23 and please could I draw the boat as well. Oh, and can you just pop in the rest of the family?

Photos arrive. Big family. Dad has a wholly unremarkable face. Suggest to client that scale here might be a problem. A3 might be better (for me) than A4. Client says bigger’s fine and could I just put the dog in too?

Then we talk about cost. I tell her. She asks whether I charge per figure and if so, I could leave out the couple at the back in matching sweaters. Aaaargh!

Eventually agree a price. Begin. Phone rings. Client. Does the price include a frame?

Go away. Bang head for a while.

Saturday

Wind still giving it what for and chickens finding walking about tricky. Going “werrp” a lot. Dog gets walked – in the rain. She hates rain, so it’s a quick walk, then back for another niche interest mag. This one’s called “Stationary Engine”. Honest. Deals with skilled amateur engineers who rebuild engines to drive machinery with. Then they go to Steam Fairs and sit on camping chairs watching each other’s engines chug away. Old engines are being found all the time. Magazine has headlines like, “Fittock Cogswell 4 hp rotary flange engine found in outside loo. Says owner Ralph Punt, “I’ve thought for a long time that seat was lumpy.”

These are dedicated people and cartoons must be accurate, or readers write in; “ Your cartoonist needs to get a grip on the difference between the flared exhaust on the Thrimmington Cadet and the straight-through version on the altogether larger Thrimmington Major.” Same with car magazines I work for.

Experts look at the drawing first and the joke second.

Then its back to the private commission. Dad’s face is SO featureless. Might make his ears stick out a bit.

Pangolin News Flash!

Pangolin Political Correspondent Beryl Tussock reports...

“Party watchers were today puzzled by three major players all finishing speeches in different parts of the country by making strange little tiny squeaking noises. All three were not available for comment but a local UKIP spokeswoman, Marjorie Bland (Mrs) (47) said, “Mr Farage is a man of the people and like everybody else, he makes odd noises from time to time.”  

A Psychiatrist writes; p.96