Art Fake Storm at Glossop Museum of Pictures an' That

The recently unveiled Roy Lichtenstein painting bought by GMPT has been identified by experts as a fake, Councillors have been told. Miss Esmee Gauntlet (103), GMPT's Director of Acquisitions - seen here at the official presentation - told this correspondent:

"Well personally I've never liked this sort of colonial shite, but it seems the public demand it these days. I bought it from a very personable young man in a balaclava at Knutsford Services on the M6 after spotting an ad in Exchange and Mart."

"Besides," added Miss Gauntlet, "It only cost fifty quid, so no harm done in my book."

Another page from the Gerard Whyman 'Mythology of Ancient Greece'

(Ironically, he doesn't seem to have signed the gag).

Thought for the day, from Justin Webly, more or less Arch. of Cant.

Hullo,

With Easter behind us and the cleansing invigoration of Lent coursing through our veins, we can now look forward to the sunny uplands of summer. Brave dips into cold breakers, ice cream, brisk walks to the headland; a time of re-invention, of battery-charging and the casting off of winter’s frosty mantle.

Personally, I shall look forward to watching a bit of cricket. Whether it be local teams with their blacksmiths as demon fast bowlers, or our plucky national squad locking horns with the Australians, it’s a wonderful game. The adrenalin rush as a quickie gets the ball to rise and the batsman fends it off to gulley; the cunning spin bowler probing front foot weaknesses, and the glorious exhilaration of a lusty straight six, all leavened by the mysteries of the LBW rule.

I often wonder what Jesus would have thought of it.

Mind you, I tend to watch cricket on my own as my lady wife thinks it’s a load of bollocks. She far prefers Rugby League. Something to do with the tight shorts, apparently.

However, cricket will have to take its place in my busy schedule. I shall be out and about blessing things hither and yon and preaching in my cathedral – by popular demand, incidentally, in my rather OTT official regalia. My PR lady says that people like all the religious garb, so I go along with it but can’t help thinking what Jesus might have thought.

Then in early June, Gwendoline and I will take our usual week’s break in the tranquil calm of the Peak District. Sadly I’m prevented by the *Special Branch chappie who is watching me type this, and has by law to follow me everywhere these days from telling you exactly where our cottage is. Suffice to say, if you stand on the piano, you can see the old gasworks in Glossop.

Yours in hope rather than expectation,

Justin.

*PS Gwendoline thinks ****y [I can’t tell you his name] carries a gun and has suggested on several occasions that she should give him a quick pat down, whatever that means.

Pangolin Staff to take part in Annual Migration...

...and may be spotted (or striped, or even checked) at the Shrewsbury Cartoon Festival.

More about that here: http://www.shrewsburycartoonfestival.com/.

However, imps and fairies are responsible for ensuring that material actually gets published here (despite the best efforts of The Pangolin staff, who continually try to thwart them by sending the wrong kind of files, in the wrong format and have even been known to send pigs' bladders by way of variety).

These little ethereal folk will be away seeking their fortune until April 27th, when what passes for normal round here will be resumed.

Very democratic, dementia. Available to all, free of charge.

Like most other people, we at Pangolin love a bandwagon, and a major one’s about to roll slowly into town next Wednesday. Yes, you’ve guessed it – Margaret Thatcher’s funeral. And there WILL be a band, and soldiers and guns and who knows, maybe even a warplane fly past.

The Commons spent seven hours – that’s SEVEN hours – the other day paying tribute to her, and radio and television have already wheeled out “The Margaret Thatcher I Knew” type programmes by the shedload. These are irritating time-wasters, but nowhere near as irritating as the Ding-Dong, The Witch is Dead brigade. Apparently, the Hit Parade is easily manipulated, as was demonstrated recently by nitwits elevating a not-very-good band called Saliva in the Machine or something to Number One so that the cherished top spot didn’t go to Peppa Pig. Or something.

Now let’s be straight here, we at Pangolin Towers were not Thatcher fans. We thought she was a patronising, humourless bully who, whilst inheriting a country up to its armpits in industrial strife, destroyed unions, jobs and communities. Thanks to her own party. “There is no such thing as society”, she said. She called everybody’s bluff [including the Belgrano’s] and launched the Loadsa Money mindset which came to spectacular fruition quite recently at the hands of greedy bankers. And we hated her manner – the coached speaking voice, the lack of humour, and the complete conviction that only she was right. In the end, that did for her and her spineless cabinet eventually found the guts to kick her out.

However, what’s the point in dancing about singing Ding Dong The Witch is Dead ? The witch died quite some time ago at the hands of dementia. She has had no influence on British politics for ages. And the pics we’ve seen on telly of twerps dancing about singing that daft song showed a high proportion of young people who probably had to be told exactly who Mrs Thatcher was before the music started. Ah! Young people! They should all be at home studying to become crime commissioners. What they must not be are the arbiters of respect.  The poor old BBC doesn’t know what to do. Play the whole song? Play a bit of it? Playing a bit of its like missing out the **** from OFF. Playing it all suggests that the Ding Dongers and the Beeb class Mrs Thatcher with Denis Neilson, The Yorkshire Ripper or Adolf Hitler. One young man, interviewed in the street whilst Ding Dongers were at it, when asked if he thought it was appropriate said, “Yeah, well, its like, y’know a bit of fun innit.” 

Stupid boy.

"Fancy a gherkin with that?"

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

Hullo,

My dear friends, you will excuse this extra thought for the day, but whilst nipping into Waitrose this morning, I couldn’t help but notice the headlines on the front of The Daily Mail – all about Christians being insulted. Again. It seems that something called the Equality and Human Rights Commission have ruled that minorities such as vegetarians, vegans, atheists, ecologists and Druids should be given the same rights as Christians. “Whoa!”, I said to myself, “I thought they had."

Apparently not. I really must bone up on all these new European rulings. It seems that since the UK lady with the strange surname won the right to wear a crucifix at work, all manner of fringe believers and members of minorities groups will be given the same rights. “Rights” to do what exactly? Wear their outfits and faith jewellery at work? Go “Ommmmmm” at the keyboard? Possibly. But more precisely, a vegetarian would not be forced to clean out a fridge which had held meat, and an ecologist would be allowed to lecture co-workers on their car use. Oh dearie, dearie me. Down this road madness lies.

What happens when a meat-eating Druid finds his lamb chops in the bin? Or the large, carnivorous company courier is harangued by the puny ecologist because of the former’s love of his 1000cc Kawasaki? Or the vegetarian disposes of the pebbles and bits of twig which were the vegan’s lunch?

Heaven forfend!

And yet, and yet, I return again to the eternal question. What would Jesus have done? And yet again I’m sure that he’d’ve gripped the whole bunch, pitched them out of the temple and told them to grow up and get lives.

I may be in serious trouble for penning this piece from all manner of people – Druids, vegans, Flat Earthers, Intelligent Creationists, Alien Abductees, *The Elvis Lives Society, and many other, for want of a better word – nutters. All I want to be is nice to people, but some make that very difficult.

*In a semi near Lyme Regis, apparently.