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

Hullo,

             

Justin here, and a slightly more off the cuff letter than usual perhaps, because here at the palace, we’re all preparing for Lent – you know, deciding exactly what we’re going to give up. Even the young man with the wire in his ear has entered into the spirit of things and removed all the cameras from the guest rooms. My lady wife has foresworn vodka and is making do with gin, whilst I have given my official driver a break and have taken the wheel myself. After a couple of near-misses on the ring road, I am quite getting the hang of driving this large Jaguar and I am heartened by the number of other road users who, upon recognising the official pennant, have made the sign of the cross. On the other hand (so to speak) I have been shocked at the number of digital amputees there are – able only to use one finger.

             

My other concern is the fate of the ex-Ukrainian president, as he seeks to distance himself from his fellow countrymen who do seem jolly annoyed with him. I don’t doubt that things like governmental corruption is rife in Ukraine. As the young man with the wire in his ear says, it goes with the territory, and let’s face it, some of these eastern bloc countries can be strangers to the truth. But let us remember that they have not had the time to develop the noble principles of State that we enjoy; the unimpeachable integrity of our politicians and free eye tests for OAPs to name but two.

             

I see also that Mr Cameron’s high speed train scheme is yet again in doubt, this time after senior members of his own party have suggested that the building of HS2 would seriously compromise areas recently devastated by flooding. Prayer is the answer here. Did not the Almighty part the Red Sea? But people will do what they will do, although I must confess that I’d much prefer the recommissioning of the many branch lines closed by that dreadful Beeching fellow. I mean, what could be more English than little trains pottering around this green and pleasant land, uniting Much Thrusting once again with Longbottom Edge?

           

Ah well, dreams of long ago, and I’m afraid I will have to break off here as I have just seen the young man with the wire in his ear pushing a rather swarthy unshaven chap in a stained and crumpled greatcoat into the cupboard under the stairs....

The Seagull

Breeding season doesn't start til April, but there's no harm in lookin', is there? Been checking out Lara - the one who hangs around outside 'Gertie's Fish Diner' on the sea front. Been regaling her with songs... 'Nothing you can say will tear me away from my gull' and 'Gulls just wanna have fun!' but not impressed so far.

Rather ungrateful I thought, considering I regurgitated nearly an entire curry for her delectation last year.

Was sitting near Boris on the wheelie bins in the car park the other day. If I line myself up properly I can see daylight through both his nostrils.

Episode 12: Bloatmingle - the Circle Closes

Previously on Bloatmingle of the Yard... Bloatmingle had suffered a recurring nightmare whilst being stunned by the fall of a chandelier. Buried in a pile of ornamental crystal, he recalled the events leading up to his unconscious state... and realised that the freshly apprehended villains did not seem to be with them any longer...

“Where's Humplock? And Tommy No-Nose? And come to that – Peasmold should be back by now, even with him hobbling round in a circle on those stupid ducky feet of his!”

“Aha!” beamed Spiggot smugly. For the first time in his life he felt the intoxicating power of superior nollidge.

“H'if you poke around in that pile of fancy glass bits and stuff off of the lampshade, you will find Mr No-Nose and Dr Ercles Wossname buried in there.”

“And Humplock?”

“Erm, well, Sir,” Spiggot sucked his teeth, suddenly discovering a boiled sweet lodged behind his third molar. “That's where it got to!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, WHERE did he get to?” demanded Bloatmingle. Honestly, getting information from Spiggot was like pulling teeth. Armed only with a fish hook and a length of embroidery silk.

“Well, Sir, it's like this, Sir. You will recall that I h'appre'ended the villain and indeed h'erstwhile colleague Humplock by means of sittin' h'upon 'is plump and comfortable h'ankles?”

Bloatmingle nodded. He didn't like the sound of this.

“Well, when the lampshade went and fell orf of the ceiling, Sir and landed on Mr No-Nose, Dr Ercles Wossname and yourself wiv quite a thud, Sir, I felt h'obliged to get up and do sumfink, that is to say, to ACT. Bein' as how I was chucked out of the Nativity Play at the h'age of eight, Sir, I felt the h'actor's life was not for me. No, sumfink H'IMMEDIATE was called for.”

Spiggot drew himself up to his full height and hooked his thumbs behind his braces. They pinged back menacingly and he winced.

“So I dug you out of the wreckidge of the lampshade, Sir, and, er, revived you by means of the water from that flower pot.” He indicated the vase. “H'unfortunately, Humplock took h'advantage of the situation, that h'is to say, I was no longer sittin' upon his plump and comfortable h'ankles, and he, er, buggered orf, Sir.”

Bloatmingle looked around for his pack of Beryl's Old Shag. It was lying there among the remains of the begonias. “Never mind, never mind,” he thought.

“We'd better get these dastardly villains tied up, apprehended and brought to justice before they come round!” he declared.“But they've already come round, Sir,” explained Spiggot patiently. “Or they wouldn't be 'ere, Sir. That Dr Ercles Wossname come round not two minutes before the lampshade 'it 'im!”

Bloatmingle busied themselves digging through the crystalline wreckage and eventually located the unconscious forms of Peasmold and Tommy No-Nose. The latter did not seem to have suffered any further damage by having his face pressed heavily to the floor. Luckily, Bloatmingle still had several balls of yellow scene-of-crime string, and the two felons where swiftly trussed up, looking like particularly ugly and over-wrapped chianti bottles by the time our heroes had finished. In Peasmold's case, a chianti bottle with webbed feet. They stacked them neatly against the wall.

Bloatmingle surveyed the remains of the chandelier. It reminded him of that time in Conk Street when the sardine delivery van went arse over tit through the plate glass window of Dorky Pankhurst's ice cube shop. His poetic reverie was soon to be disturbed, however...

A frightful apparition burst through the door, followed by a scream of the kind Bloatmingle had never experienced outside the rutting season in Glen Parva, and never directed at himself. The scream seemed to assume a corporeal form in the shape of a second terrifying apparition.

The first one leapt into Bloatmingle's arms. “Help me... help me...” it whimpered uncontrollably. Bloatmingle took in the wild hair, the eyes which looked as though they'd been borrowed from a documentary on squid in the Mediterranean – and the unmistakeable wart with two long hairs growing from it, sited just below the left eye.

Dear Lady Violet,

Dear Lady Violet,

I've been trying online dating, you know, on the internet an' all, and I've heard about these people called 'catfish' who put up fake online dating profiles and send pictures which aren't them at all.

I've been sending cute little txts with modern expressions like OMG and LOL, whatever those mean, to this nice sounding young man, and now he's sent me a photo.

Do you think he's a catfish?

Yours,

Hermione Cadwallader (83)

Chipping Sodbury

Lady V:

My Dear Miss Cadwallader,

                                                   

You will excuse my presuming that you are a well-bred unmarried lady, but I believe that we may have been introduced years ago at the Chipping Sodbury Hunt Ball. I was the one in pink chiffon, escorted by a Captain in the Lifeguards who turned out to be spectacularly well hung. As I remember, you were the thin, pale, outstandingly unattractive gel in the company of what appeared to be a corpse.

                                                    

Whilst I'm pleased to see that you have reached a goodly age, I despair at your lasting innocence. Of course your correspondent is a catfish. These creatures are known to prey on silly old fools, insinuating themselves into their affections so that they may tickle the victim with their long, damp whiskers. This usually happens at night at a full moon. The swiftest cure is to drink a half-bottle of cheap brandy upon retiring.

Dear Lady Violet,

I've recently shown my boyfriend, Eric (91), how to open a Facebook account. He doesn't use it properly, and so far he hasn't liked any of my pictures of cats, or of my dinner, or of me being blind drunk and puking into a plant container outside ASDA. This makes everyone think I'm a sad git with a boyfriend who doesn't care about me. All he does is sit there with a tartan blanket over his knees and watch telly.

Yours,

Josie Headwhacker (38)

Eastrington, Goole.

Lady V:

Dear Ms Headwhacker,

                                          

I have in fact been to Goole. The Bentley was struck by a careless pedestrian in the main street there, leaving a nasty stain on the nearside front wing and I was delayed for a good ten minutes waiting for the stupid man to regain his senses and be encouraged by my driver, O'Hell, to wipe it off.

                                           

I had been shooting with the Crome-Frobishers up at Grubbocks, and O'Hell took a short cut through Goole so as to shorten the journey back to the road south and blessed civilisation. I have to say that the whole area struck me as one shot through with inbreeding and native idiocy. Your boyfriend would seem typical of the average male Goolie (as they like to be called, apparently), and if I were you, I'd drop him asap. I mean, he's 91 and will, more than likely, fall off the perch pdq, leaving you with absolutely no reason to upchuck on supermarket premises.

                                            

No, my dear lady, urgently dump Eric and look for someone nearer your age, and just as drink dependent. Let's face it, according to the photographs you enclosed, at 38 you're no spring chicken, and on the outstandingly plain side to boot.

Dear Lady Violet,

My mum won't let me mend my motorbike. This is serious, because it's getting dangerous what with bits falling off an' all. She says it's because all the oil and gunk will stain the sheepskin rug in the dining room - which is the only place I could do it.

How can I get her to stop being so stubborn?

Cheears.

Darren Wossname

Scratchy Bottom

Dorset 

Lady V:

Dear Mr Wossname,

                                      

You will note that I invest you with the grown-up title, "Mr" although I sense from your letter that you are anything but.

Mending your motorbike on the sheepskin rug is a perfect example of adolescent thoughtlessness. Whilst this may not be your fault - you are probably the result of a kneetrembler when your poor mother was young and foolish - you absolutely must try to mend your motorbike somewhere else. If you do not, I have provided your mother with the contact details of a freelance persuasion agency (called Clint) who will be only too pleased to help.

Ten More Things You Didn't Know About...

1. Prince Philip is not afraid of mushrooms, but gets nervous around parsnips.
2. Alexander Graham Bell could not tap dance.
3. Twice during the early part of her career Joan Bakewell ran out of washing – up liquid.
4. William Wallace of “Braveheart” fame regularly forgot to cancel the milk whilst away campaigning.
5. Philip Larkin and Madge Fairbrother  had regular knitting competitions. At the time of his death, Larkin was leading by two mittens and a Fairisle jumper.
6. Dame Alicia Markova’s real name was Tom Gobby.
7. John Cage’s famous 4.35 (or whatever) Minutes of Silence was originally called, “I Really Can’t Be Arsed With This.”
8. Whilst directing “Halloween”, John Carpenter ran out of underpants.
9. During the 1948/49 Ice Hockey season in the US, tactical farting (breaking wind, often in unison) just as an opposition player was about to make a shot on goal was declared illegal.
10. Alvar Liddel, wartime BBC newsreader was cautioned in 1942 after he said, on air, "This the BBC Home Service. Here is the news, and a right load of depressing old shite it is too."