Local Artist defaces Painting

Curator of Glossop's Museum of Pictures an' That, Dame Caroline Mouthful, was reported to be shocked beyond belief by local artist Aubrey Spanner's deliberate and admitted defacing of the Museum's recent most controversial acquisition, "Load of Balls" by up-and-coming painter Traci Omen (23).  Mr Spanner is understood to have handed himself in to the Police, claiming to be the Prime Minister and therefore able to do as he pleases.

"Besides", said Mr Spanner, "it is".

A Cut Above

It started, as these things often do, with strong beer. I’d got into the bath with a lit cigar, a huge air dried Spanish ham on the bone and a waterproof mobile smartphone, all of which I’d received for Christmas the day before, perched them on the bath caddy and started opening the beer that was in the ice bucket. Heavy Belgian, self-mugging beer. This was a premeditated beer/ham/cigar Boxing day double soak after a particularly grating family Christmas that involved other people’s children and not enough wine. (There never is.) 

The knife I was using to thinly slice the ham wasn’t thinly slicing the ham. Instead it had decided to clumsily saw off great lumps rather than those translucent sheets one sees in supermarkets. Time passed. Empty beer bottles joined me in the bath, bobbing around with clinky optimism. I started absent-mindedly looking through ebay on my new phone for sharp knives. With the customary impatience of a drunk man coughing in a bath I decided to bid on several of the knives that were “ending first” to ensure winning one. I felt like an extra Christmas present anyway.

Three days, total amnesia and a colourful hangover later something arrived in the post. I opened the package that afternoon and, baffled, unwrapped the sort of Bowie knife I’d only ever seen being used in knife fights by Richard Widmark in 60’s cowboy film. The blade didn’t look like there was anywhere on my body that I could stick it in without it sticking out the other side. I assumed it was a late Christmas present and I laid it on my bar where it dutifully busied itself in the task of cutting lemons for a large Tom Collins.

The next day another knife arrived from Thailand. This time I unwrapped a sheath knife so crappy that it had a plastic handle, wobbly blade and, clearly in a mix up in translation, had the words “shown actual size” etched on the blade. The lemons proved too much for it and so did pencil sharpening so I took pity and demoted it to cheese, which is the third lowest knife rank above paint tin then screwdriver (once you’ve broken the tip off with the paint tin.) The fog of memory began to clear and I looked into my bidding history. It seemed that I’d stupidly bid, won and paid for these knives whilst in the bath, £15 for the Bowie knife and £8 for “shown actual size.” What’s more there was another one on the way. It seemed I’d only paid £4.68 for it. I didn’t hold out much hope and continued writing enthusiastic and wildly exaggerated thank you letters.

Another three days later and the final package arrived. Nestled in white raffia paper was a knife made by David-Andersen the Norwegian jeweller. It had a smooth walnut handle, black leather sheath, silver fittings and a mirror finished folded steel blade. It was quickly rushed through the rank taking up Spanish ham duties where it sliced a piece so thin that, had I dropped it above a lit candle, it would never had hit the ground, much to the annoyance of the jealously glaring Leathermen.

Nowadays, David-Andersen sits at my desk ready to whittle a pencil end to a single molecule and because he’s an outdoorsy Norwegian knife I let him out in the fresh air and take him sailing or fishing whenever I can or he has the tendency to sulk. And the others? Widmark still cuts lemons on the bar without a word of complaint (Bowie knives are big but not very bright) and “Shown actual size” was finally demoted to screwdriver. The parmesan proved too much for him.

by Guy Venables

Sensory Garden

The Nature of Time

The Pangolin’s Science Correspondence Dr P J Whimbrel answers some of the thousands of letters and emails we’ve had about the nature of Time. What is it? Where does it go?

From Barry in Dawlish:

“What’s all this stuff about time running out? They’re always telling us stuff’s running out. Gas, oil, an’ it never does. OK there might be the odd queue but it never runs out does it? It's just there innit.”

And Mrs Jean Flambard MSc, in Bath.

“Surely time is the ultimate barrier linked as it is to the speed of light and velocities humans can never achieve".

Dr Whimbrel writes:

“Whoa Jean! Heavy, heavy! You’ve been watching Beeb 4 haven’t you? Maybe peeking at all that stuff coming out of CERN, yeah? But you’re probably right, OK? Besides, Godwit and Zyrcwzc’s work on time travel suggests that if we DID travel back and forth in time, our natural curiosity would really screw things up. I mean we’d fiddle, right? Who could resist getting Elvis onto a drugs rehabilitation programme or taking Himmler to one side and beating the shit out of him? Or having the final goal disallowed in 1966?”

(Pause here for Dr Whimbrel to have a bit of a lie down).

“And Barry – a practical chap obviously – you’ll be pleased to know that for years scientists have suspected that like gas and oil, this planet has vast reservoirs of time buried somewhere. Occasionally, operating a bit like volcanoes, a bit of time leaks out into the atmosphere through a vent. Some think that our very own Prime Minister is such a vent. Whenever he speaks, time seems to pass very slowly. 

But we’re a long way from being sure about this. Mr Cameron was approached some time ago by Dr Godwit to see if the PM has a vent. Ugly scenes followed with Dr Godwit being called an interfering Pleb and being made to give Mr Cameron his trousers back. Best I can do Baz. Time will tell.”

Wow. Dontcha love that Science! Next time we’ll be talking to Kate Rumble from BBC’s Slimewatch about why slugs crawl up garage walls at night. Can’t wait!

Poem about a USB Stick

Obituary

The death, in Wiesbaden, at the age of 121, is reported of Count Karl Vonnguturn-Krasch-Bang-Wallop, one time advisor to von Zeppelin.  It was Vonnguturn who, upon hearing that the gas von Zeppelin was using in his airships was dangerously volatile, suggested porridge.

After leaving Zeppelin's employ Vonnguturn joined the emerging German army and was decorated during the refurbishment of his local headquarters.

Defeat in 1918 shattered him.  He is quoted as saying '****ing hell!  We lost!'  And spending his remaining 80+ years squandering his considerable inheritance on edible false teeth.

Business Tips for New Bosses

So – there you are, replete with Degree in Business Studies (with Golf Management) from the University College of Glossop, and you've now got a Management Position.  In a firm.  Which is part of a much bigger company.  And you get to be what we call Corporate.

Chances are, you have no knowledge or any practical skills (not even golf). So it's important that you maintain your position and don't let any so-called experts show you up as a complete prat. You will need to hire specialists from time to time.  You want someone with all the skills, but it's very important that they don't appear more knowledgable than you, even though YOU haven't.

Here are some handy tips on how to BE TOPP.

• When your specialist smartass person leaves work for the day, hide all their important stuff in a locked cupboard in a different room.  Tell them that the office needed de-cluttering.
• You also need to employ a mindless moron who will mindlessly obstruct everything they try to do.  If necessary, this character can be kept in a different cupboard to be wheeled out on demand.  The mindless moron should preferably talk very, very slowly and spend long periods of time staring into space.  But make sure this is the person who can authorise expenditure.
• The above is particularly important if your know-it-all has that nasty tendency to get things done.  Nothing worse – don't let this happen to you, especially if it's patently obvious it wasn't your idea!
• Don't let on to your wiseass about things they might need to know, like important meetings.  If they do inadvertently catch on that something may be afoot, change the venue without telling them.  They needed a bit of exercise anyway, and all that running around like a headless chicken will do wonders for their cardiovascular strength.
• To show what a supportive, involved boss you are, send them emails with instructions as to how to tackle their job.  Apologise for 'teaching granny to suck eggs' and then carry on anyway.  Make sure your emails are really patronising and show them to your regional manager.
• Give instructions that an important report be out by the end of the day; then make sure that they have no access to a computer to actually do this.  If there is potential for space, fill it with other people doing lengthy e-learning courses;  preferably ones who will take at least half an hour to log on to the computer.  The e-learning courses need not actually exist, but your staff will have such FUN trying to find them.
• After three months of this, your smart-aleck-windbag-who-thought-they-knew-a-thing-or-two will have very little hair left and will probably have started talking to window boxes.  Sack them on the spot, and explain to future smartasses that the previous one was mentally unstable.

Right – back to the beginning...

The Aerobatic Team of the Wingless Insects Association during their historic fifth attempt at the First Night-Crossing of the Great Snore

(Courtesy of Denis Dowland who was luckily on hand to witness this event)

Poet's Corner (1)

Van Gogh was consumed by grief, love and hate

Which caused in him moods, grim and irate.

Given the push by a lady held dear

He stomped off home

And chopped off an ear.

Gaugin’s pictures are cryptic

One or two quite torrid 

And on an island far away

He caught something really horrid

Dear Sir or Madam,

The Reverend and Mrs J P Ghastlie

Purgatory Lodge

Doom Lane

Lostock Green

Northwich 

CW9 4ST

23/5/12

Dear Sir or Madam,

My wife and I are increasingly concerned at the number of placards and posters appearing in the nearby village, placed there presumably by people inexplicably opposed to the exciting prospect of us soon having our own Crematorium.

Both Glenys and I joyfully embrace Life’s last Mystery, having moved to our present location on the blind bend at the junction of Doom Lane and Reapers Hollow in the hope of my being able to officiate at resulting fatal motor car accidents. Sadly, none have taken place these past five years, although once a local farmer did run over a frog there. We stood and sang “The Day Thou Gavest…” and the little flat body was cremated near our greenhouse.

As Respecters of Death, we use our Railcards to travel the country in search of really good funerals. I myself have compiled a Sadness Quotient based on the number of funeral cars, how many occupants are besides themselves with grief, and the volume of singing during the service. Amazon have expressed interest.

So you can imagine our disappointment at the village reaction to Memoria Crematorium’s (MemCrem) inspiring offer. Do villagers realize that by rejecting Memoria’s overtures, they are passing up the chance of being really sad at least seven times a day? Fourteen, if you count the return journey which in my experience can be far more harrowing than the inward because the bereaved are by that time utterly shattered by Death’s swift sting. And all this visible through the windows of the slow moving funeral cars. An unrivalled spectacle!

So my wife and I regard the village response as not only personally disappointing, but also as a missed opportunity for locals, especially the normally feckless and workshy who suitably dressed in cast-off dark clothing could line the funeral route, heads bowed, caps and bonnets in hand, intoning “Nearer My God To Thee…” Given persistent rain and an overcast sky I can think of no more beautiful a pageant.

I am,

Yours in Death,

Rev Jolyon Ghastlie MA (Tombs. Cantab)

"I Could Do That, My God, I Have Done That"

By R T Faherty, Art Critic

At five foot one, it was difficult to see Gustav Krebs across the crowded Pinkars E Gallery. But I can’t help being short. Everybody was there. The Gnottchis, Val Gropus, The Right Hon Honour L’oded, several members of Girlz Singin’ Shite and almost every Art critic who didn’t fancy what was on telly on Tuesday night. The free champagne and grebe’s throats (served on very generous lumps of tripe) went down very well as I gradually made my way through the throng to where Gustav, the newly anointed Celebrated One in the Art world stood trying to explain why his huge badly composed, badly focused, badly printed photos of very boring things were important to some proles from BBC News.

“Is so simple really. I vos think about all the pipples mit der liddle cameras undt der phones tekking der pictures off tinks nobody iss interested in. So, because I em, how you say, not much copping at der paintinks stuff undt mein skulptur schtinks, I vud heff some prole Mr Gnottchi gave a few quids to to make zees big pictures of mein own bad photographs.”

Here, Gustav, immaculate for the evening in a heliotrope jumpsuit, turns and raises a glass to the distant Agricola Gnottchi who  reveals several golden teeth.

“Mr Gnottchi, he say rich pipples mostly stupid about Art. He say they don know difference between Good Art and poke in der eye with Glock 18. Eschpecially here in thatLondon. So I mek for him big rubbish.” Here Gustav smiles, waves languidly,and steps daintily down from the dais, the mass of bodies opening before him. Soon he is surrounded again and flash camera set the heliotrope off against his viridian locks.

I turn and find space enough to look up at Gustav’s work. It IS truly terrible. He has produced as authentic an exhibition of really bad art as I’ve ever seen.

“I Could Do That, My God, I Have Done That” is on until Feb 30th and after that, on tour until somebody susses it out. Prices start at £300,000.

Dear Lady Vi,

                       

Recently, whilst shopping in Knutsford, I happened upon my local MP, George Osborne. I immediately lost control and smacked him across the face with a kilo of cod loin just purchased from the excellent Booth’s supermarket delicatessen (they do a very good boil-in-the-bag yak rump, too).

You can imagine the ensuing chaos which involved Osborne staggering backwards and upsetting a buggy containing Kyle (aged 14 months) and pushed by mum Traci (23). Despite being on probation for assault outside the nearby Move Yo Ass nightclub some weeks ago, Traci set about Osborne again – with my cod-loin which had fallen to the floor after its first contact.

Prior to my case being heard, I have submitted to tests and the psychiatrist I spent some time with has assured me that either the DPP will not bring the case to court, or if they do, it will be dismissed, because – and I found this so, so encouraging – many medical experts now view Osborne as having a face which cries out to be smacked and that I had no choice but to do so. Much as one might swat away a bluebottle.

My question to you is – can I claim for the ruined cod loin?

Yours etc

Angela Wheee.

Dear Ms Wheee,

You can indeed claim for your ruined cod.  However, your compensation will be calculated on its value had it not suffered the assault by Mr Osborne's visage.  Despite cod being quite rare these days - due to over-fishing in the North Sea - I note that this fish has now been unrefrigerated for sixteen days and has remained in the old video cabinet in your lounge during that time.  I wouldn't bother to claim.  The chances are that you'd end up having to pay someone to bury it, especially with those still-detectable traces of Osborne's aftershave on it.

Lady V.

Dear Lady Vi,

The Bible tells us that we should not covet our neighbour’s ass. What does this mean?

Yours in Jesus

The Rev Wendy Heaver.

My dear Reverend Heaver,

This is simply an injunction that we should not look upon a neighbour's ass and have thoughts along the lines of 'hide the sausage', 'drive the beef bus to tuna town' or 'park the pink submarine'. Similarly, to look upon our neighbour's donkey in such a fashion would be a sin.

Lady V.

Dear Lady Vi,

I have soon to make a decision about a mad old bat who socked George Osborne with a dead fish. Psychiatrists tell me that he asks for this sort of thing by just being somewhere. What can I do?

Yours etc,

Keir Starmer DPP.

Dear Mr Starmer,

Those psychiatrists are technically correct. Indict Mr Osborne for conduct liable to cause a breach of the peace instead.

Lady V.

Dear Lady Vi,

My husband has become very boring. His new hobby is watching peoples’ hair grow.

Ann Greatwobbler (Mrs*, no relation)

P.S. There might be a cousin in New Zealand.

My dear Ann,

How fortunate you are; you can rest assured that this dreary man will not stray, or even move from the spot for months at a time. What better opportunity to acquire for yourself a granny-grabber, or toyboy, as I believe they are colloquially known!  However you may wish to keep your name as 'your little secret' and not reveal it to potential suitors.  Likewise your membership of the Bladder Control Support Group.

Happy bow-chika-bow-wow!

Lady V

Our other Science Correspondent reports...

Pangolin Travel

Arriving close on the heels of our previous revealing piece is another one from investigative reporter Tom Cruise (not his real name, and this is being typed by an actor). Pangolin Travel has long been concerned about air fare add-ons, or as the industry calls them, “Customer Financial Participation Opportunities”, or CUFPO. 

Tom spoke with Bryan O’ Grabby, CEO of Bryanair in one of Bryanair’s executive lounges at a leading UK airport which cannot be named for legal reasons, near Gatwick.

“So Bryan – you don’t mind me calling you Bryan?”

“You can call me Mary Poppins so long as the price is right.”

"OK, well, Bryan, here we are in one of Bryanair’s Executive Lounges, and I must say its very different from other Executive Lounges I’ve been in."

“How’s that?”

“I’m sitting on the floor”

“Its clean, isn’t it?"

“But you’re in a chair.”

“I’m the bloody boss, sonny, besides, as you well know, seats anywhere within the Bryanair operation are extra. Except for me, and I can do whatever I bloody well please."

“Right, well that seems to answer quite a few of my questions before I’ve asked them, but I wonder if you’d like to expand a little on Bryanair’s pricing policies, such as charging for water, toilet visits, baggage, heavy clothing, seats and looking out of the window?”

“No, I would not.”

“But Bryanair’s public image is one of a money-grabbing organization which puts profit before customer comfort.”

“I could give a shit. Look sonny, I’m drop-dead rich. I do what I do because I can."

“So your company’s reputation doesn’t bother you?”

“No. Now (looks at watch) I’ve a plane to catch."

“Oh, that’d be a great shot – the boss travelling on one of his own planes!”

“Are you mad!? The only seats on a Bryanair jet are full of pilots. Although why we need two is beyond me. No, I’ll be going on one of whatsisname’s planes. Branston, that’s the man. Lots of legroom and free peeing."

(Gets up, turns to leave) “Oh and by the way, that’ll be £110.97p you’ll be owing me.”

“£110.97p ? What on earth for?”

“Sitting in my Executive Lounge”

The Enigma of Bletchley Park

Obituary

Piers Bentley-Tadpole (b. 13/4/2003)

Always a precocious lad;  his demise is a tragic loss to parents Obadiah and Verrucca.  From the age of 8 months he showed a predilection for dressing as a washerwoman, and the cause of the suspicious-looking bulges under his apron was a matter for much speculation in his home town of Cridling Stubbs.

He is shown here demonstrating how you can play tennis using a fat ball nicked from the bird table and a hand mirror.

Unfortunately a toad virus which had been affecting the local amphibian population saw the washerwoman's outfit, mistook him for the owner of Toad Hall, and done him in.  The name didn't help either.

Your Wildlife

A regular programme dedicated to the fairly boring old stuff you’ll be able to see given your sedentary lifestyles. No white rhinos here!

Your reporters, Willow McFadden (a real hand–wringer when it comes to the small furries) and Josh Grafter (who knows damn all about wildlife, but is good-looking and provides a bit of eye-candy for those who like that sort of thing. Josh is constantly amazed at anything vaguely wildlife–ish Willow might say in her breathless, orgasmic delivery).

Visiting experts include: local farmer Kill Bill Baxendale who will shoot anything. Kill believes that cows can get T.B. from fenceposts.

Environmentalist Joanna Nice who is even wetter than Willow.

Survival specialist Ivan  Lentil who perfected the collection, preparation and serving of pebbles during the siege of Sarajevo.

So, there you have it.

Over now to Willow...

Smiles, checks carefully disarranged hair. 

“Hello, and welcome to Your Wildlife!"

“I say, look! I don’t know much about these things, but isn’t that a tit?”

Willow zips up anorak, glares at Josh. 

“Actually no it isn’t, Josh, but it’s a very easy mistake to make. That’s a Godolphin’s Warbler, first recorded by the Rev E A Godolphin way back in the late 1700s. Like the tit, it only has two legs, one head and a beak and flies about quite a lot, too”.

“Huh well thanks Willow, I’ve a lot to learn about the countryside, that’s for sure. But wait! I’ve just stepped on something soft. Its not running away or anything. But what is it, Willow?”

“That’s cow shit, Josh”

(distant BANG!)

Willow:  “Hear that Josh?”

Josh:  “Certainly did Willow. Was it a car backfiring?”

Willow:  “Up here on the high meadows above Glossop?”

Josh:  "Gosh yes. I see what you mean Willow. I’ve certainly got a lot to…”

Willow: “Stop saying that!”

BANG!

Willow:  “There – up on the skyline – it's Kill Bill Baxendale culling fenceposts! Let’s go and have a word with a true son of the soil, eh Josh?”

Josh:  “Right-ho Willow. Suits me!”

Willow:  “Yo! Bill! What are you up to this fine morning?"

Kill Bill (for it is he): “I’m just sendin’ a few of these disease-ridden vermin back to their maker."

Josh: “And is it working?”

Kill Bill: "Well, in a manner of speakin’ it 'as…except…

Willow: “Except what Bill?”

Kill Bill: “All me cows 'ave buggered off.”

Willow: “So, on that difficult note which illustrates some of the problems faced by farmers with mental health issues, we’ve come to the end of this edition of Your Wildlife. Be sure to join us next time when I’ll be teaching Josh the difference between crap and creatures and also passing on a few tips about how to care for injured tits."

Tips for Online Dating

Useful tips for creating a completely irresistible online dating profile.

1. If your only photo is one of you in an animal sanctuary, please make it clear which one is you.

2. Refrain from posting glamour photos of yourself on a beach in your bikini - unless you actually live on a beach in your bikini. Especially if you're a bloke.

3. Don't post your wedding photos.

4. Make sure you're facing towards the camera, rather than away from it. It makes all the difference.

5. If you think people might be put off by your looks, photograph yourself in a mirror for your profile picture. Your face will be obscured by the camera or the flash, and it gives potential suitors the opportunity to be impressed by your (photographic) equipment.

6. Avoid use that frightful text speak or unnecessary abbreviations and remember: good grammar is essential to a hygienic lifestyle.

7. Keep quiet about all men/women being lying, cheating bastards. Just pretend you hadn't noticed.

8. Don't mention that you're only looking online as a desperate last resort before giving up. It will make potential suitors feel as though they've come last in the sack race.

Philosophers do Jury Service

Diced Garrets

by R T Faherty, Art Critic.  (Originally published in the Stubbs End Gazette) (and in the Pangolin review pages, where nobody ever looked at it).

A man in my privileged position sometimes gets to look at an exhibition or two, and this week has been particularly fruitful as we're into the Diced Garrets season, when local artists open their studios so that all and sundry can view their offerings and/or case the joint to see if it's worth burgling.

Well, I saw a sign saying 'Open Studio'. It pointed to a basement. The steps were very steep. Something small lay disembowelled on the third step from the bottom. Then there was a subterranean corridor with a triangular sign warning 'Danger of Death' on a door. I thought I'd take a look.

A gloomy looking bloke offered me a glass of wine. He was wearing a t-shirt with 'I Spayed My Cat' emblazoned across his chest. I thanked him, knocked back the wine, and went to look at the exhibits. At least I think they were the exhibits - indistinguishable as they were from the contents of an Argos catalogue. There was a statement to the effect that they were looking to establish the glorious in the uni-directional lines of reverberation and influence as 'becoming ensemble', citing other work, co-opting other work, sticking chewing gum on other work and, in the final analysis, enacting, or re-enacting, a stage across which whole histories (the multitudes) are brought to bear. Or exit, pursued by bear. Or bear behind.

“Hmm”, thought I. “Someone who needs to dig some potatoes. Or something else practical, preferably involving dirt.” And had another glass of wine.

Then I spotted what I took to be another assemblage of artworks but on closer inspection turned out to be bowls of peanuts and crisps. I filled both my jacket pockets with them. “Probably an example of the perverse logic of forcing mute objects into relational forms and the unwieldiness of interpretation. The lot of the artist,” I thought.

And had another glass of wine.

Then I spotted my old mate Bogg. We both had another glass of wine. Bogg has minor psychiatric problems, hasn't changed his jacket since a pigeon crapped on it back in June, and farts, noiselessly, at 87-second intervals. He'd had a baked bean and broccoli quiche earlier in the evening. We both stared at a large piece of polystyrene with holes poked through it in places, with blobs of car paint applied at random. It was called 'Solecism', and claimed to be 'embellishing the mundane with a visually monumental, sometimes ominous, presence'.

“Oh”, I thought.

Then I spotted the most interesting exhibit of the whole show. At first glance it appeared to be a rotting tree stump, but on closer inspection it was a piece of textile art. Fabulous textures which looked like mould were interspersed with areas of flowing grey horsehair, and if you looked carefully and narrowed your eyes it was like a filthy old overcoat painted to represent the bark of a tree. A piece of very distressed felt provided a kind of 'lid', and there was a waxy protrusion from underneath it. In wonder, I poked the waxy protrusion.

“**** off!” it said, stood up and advanced towards me in a menacing fashion. Turned out to be the artist's uncle, who was on stewarding duty that evening.

Bogg also has an unusual habit of clapping his hands together and tap dancing whilst simultaneously shooting backwards. Sometimes shouting noisily, but he was silent on this occasion.

However, that cut no ice with the fascists who were running this particular show... we were both manhandled out of the place, alarmingly quickly considering the steep incline of the staircase, with the gloomy looking bloke calling us all sorts of names I'd never heard before. Apart from “Bloody Freeloader!” I think I also caught the drift of “**** out of here and if I ever see you again I'll rip off your ******** and use them as marbles”, or something to that effect. I ask you!

All in all, a fairly standard, boring preview. Go and take a look if you've nothing better to do.

Offered

Coldly Calling (where lots of people have called before)

Ring ring. Ring ring.

Hello.

Am I speaking to Mr Stoat?

No.

(pause)

To whom am I speaking, please?

Why?

(pause)

Are you Mr W R Stoat ?

No.

(slightly longer pause)

Are you the householder, sir ?

Yes.

But you are not Mr Stoat?

No.

(pause)

And this is 01231 777888?

Yes.

47 Wherryman’s Lane?

Yes.

(pause)

But you are not Mr Stoat?

No. My name is Stott. S-T-O-T-T.

Oh Mr Scott, I am so sorry.

No, that’s Stott, not Scott.

I am so, so sorry Mr Snot.

Why are you ringing me ?

Ah – well, how would you feel about saving 90% on your fuel bills ?

I am absolutely and completely not interested thank you, in fact, I would rather eat my own legs.

(pause)

Mr Sprot, have you ever had an accident at work ?

For Sale

Pangolin in The Community

A little penny whistle and a mandolin...

Zuuuullluuuu... and its effect on Post-Modern Culture

When Zulu came out, I was around 8-9. It was the most stunning thing I’d ever seen. Admittedly I didn’t have a wealth of cinema experience to compare it to – Mary Poppins, A Hard Day’s Night, a couple of Hayley Mills films and Saturday morning B movies, but the thin red Welsh line on the Tooting Granada wide-screen was a vision to behold. Actually, I think I was most affected by the chanting in the fantastic Zulu wedding scene, but the whole thing was overwhelming to my tender emotions.

I fear it still is, if I were to watch it again.

Word spreads like wildfire on the savannah, so the whole male half of Gorringe Park Junior School had made the same pilgrimage at various points through the fortnight of its showing. This resulted in the design of a new playground game – yep, you guessed it – Zulu! To modern eyes, it was about as politically correct as Bernard Manning, but there was a smattering of black kids among the throng – on either side.

As you may also have guessed, this involved most of the school gathering at one end of the tarmac playground while about a dozen kids knelt at the other end behind a bench with pretend rifles. A terrifying scream was then let out by the many as they then ran hell for leather at the thin red line the other end, shouting “Zuluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!” and waving imaginary spears. Many would then fall over dead on to the tarmac, because that’s what Zulus did. The ones who reached the other end then engaged in some kind of mock hand-to-hand combat. I’m not sure if anyone “survived”. Once the smoke of battle was cleared, we would do it all over again.

Needless to say, the whole spectacle inspired terror in the hearts of the teachers, who – after a glorious fortnight or so of freedom, and many injuries to the participants – banned it. Such Philistines. I fear the euphoria of running across a terrain en masse shouting slogans might have been the inspiration which sparked the subsequent adolescent lifestyle choice of several participants – that of 1970s Chelsea football hooligan.

I’ll get my coat.

By Andy Davey

UK MAGAZINE TO PUBLISH NUDE PHOTOS OF SEVERAL PEOPLE

Yesterday, Stephanie Vengeful, editor of Bloody Norah magazine said, “Well everybody else did it ages ago, so why shouldn’t Norah have a bit of a pop now?”

In a frenzy of Googling, journos countrywide have identified some of Norah’s victims. Alan and Jane Stiffey appear naked adjusting solar panels on their conservatory. Said Alan of the photos, “We do quite a lot of domestic tasks in the buff. We like to watch each other’s bits wobbling about. We thought the pics were quite tasteful and amazingly arousing." 

Other Norah subjects were less pleased.

(Full list of legal actions pending on p.87).

Cartoonist-in-Residence, Cassie Polevaulter