On This Day...

Three Years Ago

Traffic in Leighton Buzzard was brought to a standstill when an elderly shopper on a mobility buggy inadvertently hooked up to a line of more than eighty shopping trolleys gathered up in a supermarket car-park for return to base. The driver of the buggy, who asked not to be named, left the parking area unaware of the extra payload behind, though he did detect a certain sluggishness on acceleration.

At a sharp right-hand turn several hundred yards on, the trolleys swung wide, taking out two shop-fronts. The buggy continued east for a further mile, coming to a halt as it attempted to circle a small roundabout, only to find itself stuck in a queue of stationary shopping trolleys. 

According to Darren Pook, aged 39, Head of Customer Experiences, 'Shopping trolley theft is something we take very seriously, with prosecutions leading to fines of £75 per trolley.'

Five Years Ago

Renewed efforts were made to track down and withdraw from sale a potentially lethal Christmas toy shipped in from the Far East and widely available from market stalls and retail outlets across the country. The Joly Satna Kiddi Fnu Pak had been found to contain a reindeer & robin-patterned boomerang in moulded plastic with inside edge sharp enough to decapitate a small child looking the wrong way. According to Health & Safety officers, a month-long campaign of product recall had failed to see the return of a single boomerang.

Ten Years Ago

Trading Standards officers in Cheshire were successful in their prosecution of a breakfast foods company which sold a packet of Hawaiian Surprise Fruity Oat n' Raisin Mix that was found to contain just one raisin. 'When the picture on the box shows bunches of grapes, you don't expect to be chasing round the cereal bowl in search of one raisin,' said regular Fruity buyer Maureen Snickelthwaite, aged 47, of 14, The Willows nr Runcorn. A spokesperson for the company apologised for the imbalance, saying the manufacturers had been let down by their dried fruits supplier.

Episode 8: Bloatmingle is outwitted yet again, and yet another cliff-hanger...

Previously on Bloatmingle of the Yard... Bloatmingle has just come face to face with his Moriarty, the evil Dr Peasmold. Not just Peasmold, but Tommy No-nose - who in those days was still equipped with a nasal extremity. Not for long, though, as Hercules Peasmold deftly removed said proboscis by means of a shooting stick. Rounding on Bloatmingle, Peasmold fired the question: "How on earth did you find me?"

‘I knew that only a truly sick and deviant mind could even conceive of a plan to poison lady’s corsets,’ Bloatmingle explained. ‘I therefore decided to profile our suspect and I deduced that I was looking for a man called Bill who raises chickens. Alternatively, we were looking for a man with a secret passion for bagpipe music and who wears rubber tips on his goat-chewed fingers. When you booked yourself into the Mayfair Hotel as Moll Dynmar, I knew who and where you were. “Moll” is the Catalan for “wharf”, “dyn marw” means “dead man” in Welsh. There are very few master criminals as proud of their Catalan-Welsh ancestry as you or who boast about their 37 inch inside leg. No 37 Dead Man’s Wharf seemed the obvious place to look.’

There was a sudden noise from the back of the room as PC Fittock appeared with Spiggot trailing behind him leading the kidnapped goats of Kidderminster which, if you cast your minds back, is where this whole complicated case had started.

‘You’ve been clever,’ said Peasmold, ‘but I’m afraid I have again outwitted you again. Haven’t I constable?’

‘That’s right,’ said PC Fittock turning his gun on Bloatmingle. ‘You were far too trusting to believe that I was really PC 214 Fittock, the son of PC 675 Fittock! I am actually PC 483 Humplock!’

‘Not PC 483 Humplock, the disgraced son of disgraced police constable Humplock whose number I don’t recall?’

‘No, he was my uncle. I’m the son of WPC 029 Mavis Humplock who you once cruelly humiliated in the station canteen by remarking on the size of her ankles.’

‘Curses!’ said Bloatmingle, surrendering his Webley by throwing it to the floor.

‘So, it looks like I triumph again,’ said Peasmold.

‘You have indeed,’ nodded Bloatmingle. ‘And all because I didn’t spot that the constable suffers from the same water on the ankles as his poor mother.’

‘I do not suffer from water on the ankles!’ cried PC Humplock lowering his gun to hitch up his trousers by half an inch.

‘No, you fool!’ cried Peasmold.

But it was too late. In the fraction of a second it took the PC to inspect his own ankles, Bloatmingle had acted. He dived forward, grabbed his Webley between his teeth whilst removing his pipe from one pocket and a pinch of tobacco from the other. Falling into a forward roll, he pulled the gun from his teeth, lit his pipe, inhaled a lungful of Beryl’s Old Shag which immediately calmed his nerves so he could fire off the single round towards the disappearing figure of Doctor Hercules Peasmold.

‘Should I chase him, sir?’ asked Spiggot who had eventually acted and was now sitting on PC Humplock’s satisfyingly plump and comfortable ankles.

‘No need,’ said Bloatmingle. ‘I took a chunk out of the good Doctor’s right ear and that will be enough to make him list slightly to the left. If my calculations are correct, he’ll run in a circle and will be back here within the hour.’

As they waited, Bloatmingle savoured the flavour of Beryl’s Old Shag and wondered how many times the blessed leaf had saved his life. He had counted into the low three hundreds by the time he eventually heard the sound of webbed feet approach.

‘Now,’ said Bloatmingle, coldly. ‘Before we take him in for questioning, I want some answers from the good Doctor and I’ve been wondering what else those goats might like to chew…’

Detective Inspector Bloatmingle had been in worse predicaments. Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember any since his memory had been rendered momentarily useless, possibly due to the biting cold, equally possibly by his standing without his trousers on the edge of the Clifton Suspension Bridge with the nose of a single-barrel shotgun pointing at his groin.

Tesco Health and Safety Advice 28/10/13. To all employees.

Please note SRGs (Shoppers’ Routes Diagrams) in (1) and (2): Route (1) is more liable to be taken by Elbow Steerers, Massive 2 Trolleyers and Dopes, whilst Route (2) is favoured by Irritables and Quickies.

Type Descriptions:

• Elbow Steerers. Tend to be female, elderly and bad-mannered. Elbow Steerers lean heavily on trolley because of bad back/hips/knees.Will push in.Tend to use ROUTE ONE.

• Dopes. Can come in family groups. Are stupid. Gossip with other Dopes. Mouth breathers. Will bang their car doors against cars they’ve parked too close to. Leave trolleys parked across aisles whilst gossiping. Exclusively ROUTE ONE.

• Irritables. Young mothers with screaming babies. Hated by everybody.Would like to use ROUTE ONE, but screaming baby forces use of ROUTE TWO.

• Quickies. Invariably male. Approximately ten times faster than all other categories. Tend to forget to purchase 50% of what they were sent to buy. Exclusively ROUTE TWO.

• Massive 2 Trolleyers. A real hazard. Tend to block out all light in narrower aisles. Two trolleys because they tend to buy in double-double-bulk. Exclusively ROUTE ONE. Occasional two hour delay whilst emergency services free them from the tight turn next to Reduced Items.

I shouldn't bother him just now. Nobody's monitored his phone. Again.

From your transport correspondent, Jeremy Klaxon

Agh! Traffic cones! Dontcha hate 'em? Bloody miles and miles of perfectly hazard-free motorway cut down to one  50mph lane because of thousands of cones placed there in the dead of night by mystery workmen in ski masks. You’ve all seen the signs 'Caution, maintenance personnel (workmen) in carriageway'. They don’t tell you what these phantoms are doing, do they? Well, they’re waiting for the wee small hours when a lorry full of cones arrives and begins crawling along a 25 mile stretch of motorway like a great wheeled hen, laying thousands of cones in an exercise specifically designed to get on my tits.

Anyway, one day whilst crawling along behind a retired assistant librarian in one of those dreadful Suzuki R Wagons at 48.3mph, and hemmed in by serried ranks of bloody cones, I spied an official-looking  car parked inside the coned area – you know, the ones you think are police cars because they have the same self-important decals all over them. So I pulled in, got out, strode over to the vehicle, leaned down to the open window and said to the pointy-head behind the wheel, “WHAT ARE ALL THESE CONES FOR?” His answer astounded me.

Apparently, traffic cone production in the UK is government subsidised. It was one of the last Labour government’s wheezes to boost employment. As I type we have 1000% more traffic cones than we will ever need. And they keep coming because the present government daren’t shut down cone factories for fear of what that would do to the unemployment figures. So, as Mr Pointy-head in his fake cop car said, “We’ve got all these cones and nowhere to put them. So we dump four or five million every day on motorways up and down the country . We don’t actually DO anything in those areas – just dump cones. I mean, everything’s got to be somewhere, right?”

I was speechless. Bloody speechless. But did have the last laugh because as I rejoined the 50mph crawl, I took out at least 150 cones and watched happily in the mirror as they bounced about the carriageway. I was told later by a contact that this causes untold confusion in Coneland because whilst there are highly trained crews who put the cones out and highly trained crews who remove them, there are NO highly trained crews to stand them up if somebody inadvertently knocks them over. Felt a bit better then. But I am thinking of asking James Maynot to design a sort of trawl net you could scoop up a dozen cones with and then fling them up, over your car, at speed, into motorway service areas.

Test your General Nollidge with The Pangolin!

DID YOU KNOW...

That research proves that Leonardo da Vinci invented the Dyson vacuum cleaner 600 years before James Dyson did. The Duke of Sforza was Leonardo’s first customer. However, the Duke thought it was a helicopter and tried for many years to go to work in it.

DID YOU KNOW...

That the rain in Spain falls mainly all over the place.

DID YOU KNOW...

That at official gatherings H M the Queen never enquires about the identity of sneak farters.

DID YOU KNOW...

That the overall surface area of all the man-made islands off Dubai is nowhere near as big as Wales.

DID YOU KNOW THAT...

Lemmings, gerbils and hamsters have a third eye located quite close to their bottoms (like Tax Inspectors)

Well?

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

Hullo,

            

Justin here. What a week it has been! And ‘tis only Tuesday, as my dear mother was wont to say, sometimes when it was in fact, Monday. Oh my! The young man with the wire in his ear has just pointed out that I said exactly that in my last Thought to you. 

I do apologise. But as I say, I am terribly, terribly busy and today will be a blur of religious duties starting with the Christening of that nice young couples’ baby. Barring accidents – child dropped into font, child throwing up etc., etc., that shouldn’t take long although there will be a certain amount of walking about in a regal fashion and much photography afterwards.

Then I’m off to chair a meeting at No 10 – yes, you’ve got it – No 10 – all about these dreadful Facebook people who have decided that its alright for them to show acts of depraved violence, for all to see. I am indeed honoured that Mr Cameron has entrusted this responsibility to me, although the young man with the wire in his ear is of the opinion that the PM has passed the buck and that when the shit hits the fan, I’ll be the one covered in it. His words, not mine. But let us not shy away from contemporary parlance, for it often paints an honest picture. And the shit may verily hit the fan. Impressionable youngsters, seeing adults beheading each other on Facebook may well take it upon themselves to wander the streets at night decapitating their chums. And why? Why would they do this? The young man with the wire in his ear suggests that it is because they are “bleedin’ dickheads”, but I suspect that there’s more to it than that.

Incidentally, Mr Cameron also asked me if I could come up with a few ideas about how to put a more Christian gloss on his administration. Of course, bringing immediately to mind what Jesus would have said, I recommended the immediate ditching of that silly high-speed train, a U turn on the bedroom tax, sacking that odious Gove fellow, increasing income tax on the very rich which would include most of his cabinet, and vaccinating badgers instead of employing myopic marksmen. Well, the effect was immediate, and our Prime Minister had to be helped to his car in tears of uncontrollable laughter. 

Pip, pip,

Justin

'What d'you want to do? Go down the bus shelter and drink cider, or watch a few blokes
having their heads hacked off?'

Ask Lady Violet

Dear Lady Violet,

I've recently started my own very posh marketing company - it's called TWUNT, which I'm sure you'll agree is an eye-catching, alluring name, redolent of class and style.

I had paid a fortune to produce all my publicity - letterhead, business cards, souvenir mugs, pens, and even a promotional calendar with pictures of golf clubs on it.  Then - what do you know? There's been a rather disconcerting epidemic of Tubrous, Warty, Unsightly, Nasty Threadworms (or TWUNT for short) which has been widely publicised in the press, and I feel that this has had a detrimental effect on the image of my company.

What should I do with all that stationery and the souvenir mugs? Should I start up another company called SARS?

Yours,

Phineas Wubbs

Lady V: Mr Wubbs,

                      
Doubtless, you will note the omission of the customary “Dear”. This is because that appellation implies some small level of affection or respect. You will forgive my frankness, but I feel neither of these things for you. How could I?

                      
What you have done is stupid in the extreme. First, you do not enlighten me as to what TWUNT stood for in the first place, and secondly, you can hardly blame the press for appropriating “TWUNT” as discreet shorthand for something utterly unspeakable.

                    
Your only recourse might be to fiddle with the lettering on your stationary etc so that TWUNT becomes BOMP (British Overseas Military Police) and see if that organisation might take the lot off your singularly inept hands.

Dear Lady Violet,

I am somewhat inexperienced in matters of a fornicatory nature, and often struggle to find conversational topics which will interest the opposite sex. For example, I am unable to give what I believe is colloquially known as a 'toss' (whatever that may mean) about football, motorbikes or strong lager - all subjects on which I have heard the male of the species exchange views.

However, I was talking to two young men in the refectory of a College of Higher Education yesterday, and I mentioned that I have problems getting underwear which fits properly, my 'vital statistics' being 48-23-36, and had resorted to using cling film instead. I reflected that sometimes the cling film causes me to sweat, and I am obliged to remove it and find a particularly wet mud patch in which to roll, preferably in the company of like-minded females so that we can apply the slurry to each others' nude bodies. I commented that though my interest in sport was minimal, I found 'muff-diving' to be a diverting occupation.

Before the two young men departed, they made a comment that they'd need a 'cold shower' now. I feel my social ineptitude has really come to the fore here. Did the mention of all that mud make them want to cleanse themselves at the very thought of it? I fear I may have offended them.

Dear Lady Violet - please could you give me any conversational tips which would serve me well should I meet any more young men in the future?  I would SO like to converse with one!

Yours,

Beatrice Foxx-Bumbler, B.A. (Hons)

Lady V: Dear Ms Foxx-Bumbler,

                                             
The experiences you describe are still very common especially in parts of the country able to boast young women with impressive chests and a higher-than-average rainfall. Whilst modern substances like cling-film have supplanted cellophane these day, the essentials of muff-diving remain the same. I have to work on my instincts here, so I must ask – why on earth would you want to TALK to a young man when you could roll about in the mud with one, indulging in all manner of Ugandan practices? Count yourself lucky, my gel. Enjoy!

Your Wildlife – SPECIAL EDITION !

Hi! Its Josh and Willow here, and long time no see, Willow!

Yes indeed Josh. It's so good to be back up here on the fells amongst the wild life we love so much!

You’re right there Willow, and might I say how windswept and sexy you look today, with those skin-tight jeans showing off your pert little b… CUT! CUT!

OK let’s go again please, and Josh, stop fiddling with yourself… OK, CAMERA. Action!

So, Josh, what brings us up here today? The arrival of Blebbie’s Crested Thrippit all the way from Reyjkavik? The annual shrew huddle? Or more boring shite about how important bees are?

Well, no Willow. Its something much more serious than that.

Oh no Josh! Its not the …

Yes Willow, it’s the BADGER CULL! And here’s someone who knows all about culls. Why its Kill Bill Baxendale!

Hello Bill! Great to see you again!

‘Lo.

And who’s that I can see lurking in the heather?

I think its… yes… its that master of wild life, Ivan Lentil!

Ja. Ve ‘ere to ‘elp cull de cullers. I track. ‘E shoot.

But Ivan, its been clinically proved that badgers pass TB to cows and the cull is to rid the countryside of infected badgers.

Iss how you say, bulwarks. No more proof off dat dan dis psycho tink fenceposts spread TB. Besides, badgers iss varm and cuddly and funny. Cullers are not.

Oh dear, well, it looks like we have a situation here, and as I speak… Josh, is that a 4x4 approaching, up the hill, full of cullers?

Ivan, what..? Ooh, where’s he gone?

Well, Willow, he and Kill Bill appear to have melted into the landscape like the skilled wilderness experts they are….

BANG

Ah, now, that’s interesting, the 4x4 appears to have had a puncture. I wonder if…

BANG

Ooh Josh, another puncture!

Yes Willow, that’s almost unheard of, with those Tundragrip 17x220s the 4x4 has fitted!

BANG

Wow, Willow – that’s three! And what’s that I can hear?

It’s a Police helicopter Josh – look!

Oh Willow, I love it – the way your slim-fitting cagoul strains against your breasts when you point upward…

CUT,CUT,CUT! OK everybody – hands on heads like the officer says. BOTH hands Josh. And just stay where you are…

BANG

Oh no Willow. Somebody’s shot the end off the helicopter! The sticky-out bit with the little windmill thing on it.

You’re right Josh and I bet the policemen are going to be pretty mad about that.

Yes Willow, they’re all crowding around their wounded helicopter now. Some are crying. And the cullers are rushing to their aid with tissues…

Erm Josh..?

Yes Willow?

They seem to have forgotten about us… what say we sort of slip away...?

Or we could stay here, lying down together behind this gorse bush and…

Ooooh, Josh! Are the cameras still rolling?

Yes, I think they are.

Oh all right then…

Further up the hill…

Bill, iss dat a bare ass I ken see down dere?

Yis

Could you hit it from ‘ere?

BANG!

Wind Chill

Something Else We Never Had When I Was A Kid

No, not Ant and Dec, although we did have Mick and Montmorency who did daft things with planks on BBC Children's Hour TV. And no, not mobile phones, although Mrs Bracewell, the only householder in our street with a telephone did let neighbours use her device in emergencies – childbirth, imminent death, or a Pools claim. (This last just once from a Mr Earnshaw who lodged at No. 47 and won £507.17/6. Bought a second hand Ford Pop and a new trilby and was never seen again).

Ah, dear dead days beyond recall when becoming snowed in was common and yard-long icicles hung from every gable end. It could get really cold over there in east Lancashire in the lee of Pendle Hill which loomed over all like an albino whale. We DID have weather forecasts on t’ wireless, delivered by a chap with a completely dispassionate plummy voice… "And in The North, temperatures are expected to fall to 127 below and the public are warned that they will probably freeze to death…" Then the posh bloke on the wireless moved on to the ever-fascinating Shipping Forecast and told us of strange lands called Dogger or German Bight and what Portland Bill had been up to.

What he never mentioned was “Wind chill factor”, a confusing term beloved of modern forecasters… "Temperatures today won’t get much higher than nine or ten, but its going to feel much colder than that with the wind chill factor making it feel more like minus 34…."

Come on! So what IS the temperature? Nine or ten, or minus 34? The wind-chill factor isn’t disinformation, its naffinformation.The temperature is what you actually FEEL, isn’t it? The way weathery things are presented today is a bit like saying, "Mr Gerard Fortinbras (51) of 13 Trampoline Road was, at 11.25am today, in moderately good health. At 11.26am however, he was not, due to the Heavy Goods Vehicle Factor".

Your pad or mine?

Can anyone imagine legendary chancer George Frogsborne (see pic, below) as anything other than a bit of a pooper at a party?  Well, think again as his former mistress, Bertha Payne, prepares to unleash her revelations...

Bertha - who also uses the name Bertha Pang - has been pictured with Frogsborne in the same room as a pile of white powder. He swears blind it is icing sugar, and when questioned more closely about coke, repudiated all allegations. "Of course I don't use coke. I tried it once and it made me burp - and with a vocal chamber the size of mine you can imagine the repercussions two counties away."

Ms Payne claims that Frogsborne has "been on all fours before me, taking massive amounts of drugs as I whip him senseless."

Frogsborne claims never to have met her before, and totally repudiates the claim made by some left-wing newspapers that his ritual humiliation gave him the inspiration for the swingeing cuts and other types of pain he has inflicted on the rest of us. 

Ribet.

On This Day

Eighty-Five Years Ago

Business developer Reginald Scoggins unveiled to a sceptical press his new system of road navigationalism for motorists. This came in the form of a network of smartly uniformed ladies for hire, equipped with large maps and commanding voices, suitable for giving directions and instructions at every point of the way. Hatnav, the Motorist's Friend (named after the inventor's wife, Hattie), was stated to be near foolproof, ready for roll-out and soon to be seen as standard on all journeys.

The tycoon from Tidworth dismissed as early teething problems reports from around the country of systems failure and human error resulting in large vehicles getting stuck in muddy fields, private gateways and a small cave in a rocky outcrop off the Pembrokeshire Coast.

Ninety Years Ago

Wigan eccentric Wilfred Arkenshaw was refused admission to the local football derby with Accrington Stanley, when he appeared at the turnstile not wearing a cap. Defending the action of the club, Board Member Alderman Trussington Smythe put the question, 'What if they all did this?'

One Hundred Years Ago

A collision in poor visibility on the Great North Road (A1) near Hatfield brought traffic to a standstill, causing a tailback of vehicles in each direction of almost thirty yards.

Interestingly, a letter from a follower abroad:

Ellithin Pangolin,

G’han Naafhanga mot loosery loosery threrk. Bimmick araher bimmick! Montoolie fenge orcanpetz flayb. Ah fleyb, fleyb Shrigley, fleyb, fleyb. Mot d’haha schminge pitoon loosery. Yal, mot orcanpetz fenge!

Drogues,

Gorumbar Hefti

Relax. Remember, it's more frightened of us than we are of it.

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

Hullo,

Justin here, and my lady wife has just taken me to task for my continuing use of “Hullo” instead of the more commonly employed “Hello”, which she maintains is a more approachable, friendlier greeting. She might be right. The young man with a wire in his ear seems not to have an opinion, but he does tend to say “Yo, Archie” anyway.

But the hullo/hello debate did set me thinking. I can’t help saying and typing “Hullo”, despite it being, according to my lady wife, a bit upper class. Let’s face it, my life to this point has been definitely a bit upper class. Does that make me less approachable for the – dare I say it – lower classes? I do hope not. I try jolly hard to be approachable.

One of the biggest problems facing our present government is that of approachability. From Mr Cameron downwards, they are predominantly upper class, with a few oiks like the dreadful Pickles person thrown in to leaven the mix. This is a very good example of Mr Cameron trying ever so hard to make his administration approachable. After all, he, the Chancellor and the vast majority of ministers ARE upper class, so this must be seen as an insightful move, especially as a significant number of Mr Cameron’s government are not only upper class, but complete twerps to boot, q.v. Mr Gove aka Mr Bean.

      

That said, I find some of the decisions taken by this government do tend to fly in the face of approachability, fiscal wisdom, and plain common sense. I refer, of course to Mr Cameron’s stubborn refusal to abandon the utterly useless and cripplingly expensive High Speed Train project. The recent reshuffle in the HST camp includes drafting in a minister called “Goodwill” and a certain Baroness Kramer who, before elevation was a LibDem MP very keen on the evils of the plastic bag. This, I suggest, will not bring about a sudden surge of support for the pointy, shiny, sexy trains which so engage Dave and his chums. I have met Ordinary People who will lose SO much when work starts on the new line. Why, Mrs Marjorie Blebb [71] of Pewsey Major will say goodbye to most of her lupins, whilst Major[retd] R. G.H.L. Fairweather-Bangs’ family home for 37 generations, Gropey Hall, Nether Gropey, will fall to the wrecker’s ball.

I very strongly suspect that Mr Cameron would dearly like to cancel the project forthwith. Its doing his approachability rating no good at all. But he simply cannot bale out now, bearing in mind all the nod, nod, wink,wink assurances doubtless made to the owners of wrecking balls, the keepers of bulldozers and the carters of concrete in this Blessed Isle.

He means well, Mr Cameron, but in HST he’s got himself, as my dear mother used to say “a right old prune”. So what can he do? Well, he could stop the Baroness and the Goodwill chap saying ANYTHING, anything at all about HST, publish plans to invade the Channel Islands, and people will forget HST pdq.

And, my dear flock, I can hear you asking, “What would Jesus do?” Well, you know the answer. Jesus would stand tall in the light of justice and honesty, condemn his own fiscal stupidity, admit his mistakes, and propel HST into the long grass with a mighty kick from his Holy Foot. And lose the next election.

The Seagull (Chekov it isn't)

Joined in 'Any note you can scream I can scream louder' contest on garage roof. Got 'Highly Commended'. Dodged boot thrown by tosser at No.68. Went back and ate it. 

Flapped around looking for washing. There it was. Whammm!  Direct hit!

Was attacked by small fighter jet. Aimed for whites of the eyes. Went back and ate it.

Found copy of Daily Mail. Tore it into shreds - come in handy for nesting next spring; stuffed it down the chimney pot at No.37. That smoke's always a nuisance in the winter, and it'll keep the paper warm and dry.

Bad Hair Day?

Fairly typical education secretary; this one was
photographed in Kennington Lane, SE11.

Bad Hair Day?

Feeling like nobody's listening to you, too busily indulging in 'vapid happy talk'?

Bothered by all those teachers running wild after 3.30pm, wreaking havoc on the school bus and having holidays?

Even more bothered by the thought that young people might be indulging in messy activities like art, or dance, or drama instead of learning their times tables and proper dates?

Don't worry!

All this can be a thing of the past, just so long as you invest in a proper program of Wash 'n' Gove.

A timely application will mean that you can remember your numbers in the right order, and relate them to your fingers and toes. You will become familiar with approved literature, such as 'This little piggy went to market'.

Wash 'n' Gove miracle cure

You will have a proper understanding of laws. Especially scientific ones, and then you'll understand why cables from electrical goods wrap themselves round chair legs overnight, and why there are always too many dishes when it comes to washing them up, and not enough when it comes to eating off them.

English? You'll understand loads of proper words, and be able to translate the naughty stories by Chaucer and the like. Likewise languages, but you'll get to look at Balzac instead (very rude).

As for Geography... well, you'll not only be able to pinpoint Spaghetti Junction on a map of the world, but find your way round it.

All this, and lots more, can be yours when you get yourself a proper supply of Wash 'n' Gove. Available only from government departments.

And you, too, can end up looking like this:

The same education secretary, after a judicious
application of something or other.

Pangolin Gossip

Gertie Balloons has issued the following rebuke to Sheenagh-Shaunagh-Sheelagh O'Thing after the latter advised her to stop doing 'The Sausage Roll' in public and suggested she change her bin liner more often.

'Well yor a fat slag an i never liced yor music enyway an wen you had chickin pox wen you was six you was verry spotty an ugly an you was a four-eys in scool and Derrick Stikhorn never wanted to go out with you enyway.

So yar booo sux to yu an i'm gonna cary on waving my fish heds arouwnd were everwon can smel them.'

'Tweeet!'

Sheenagh-Shaunagh-Sheelagh O'Thing is reported to have rolled her eyes and commented that if that's how Balloons behaves in a demolition yard, 'I'm not letting her anywhere near my pumping station!'

Outlining the puddles on the days it doesn't rain.

In Honour of National Peotry Day, here's a Pome:

Master of faeries Richard Dadd

Was rather more than a Victorian fad

Placed in a cell with lots of padding

Because naughty Dadd done his dad in.

Ask Lady Violet

Dear Lady Vi,

Recently, my sweet ten year old niece made THE most awful gaffe during her first hunt. As custom dictates, The Master went to blood my niece with the expired fox’s tail and Jocasta, for that is her name, in a moment of confusion, ate it. Since then we have been shunned by all and sundry. What can I do?

Yours in desperation,

The Right Honourable Alice Fairchild-Twait

Lady V: My dear Alice,

My heart goes out to both you and Jocasta in your plight. Thank you very much for enclosing the photographic likeness of Jocasta - which instantly gave a clue as to how best to deal with this negative situation. I note that it is a proper photograph and not one of those ghastly images conveyed by those so-called ‘mobile phones’.

Simply remove the fox’s tail so that the end of it is no longer dangling out of her mouth. Better still, instruct one of the servants to do this. Tell them to be sure to wipe around her mouth to remove any telltale traces of its existence - dried blood, faeces, the odd scrap of fur etc - and your ‘shunning’ friends will forget the unfortunate incident ever happened. In all likelihood they will be too busy worrying that their teenage progeny are contemplating acts of violence against the establishment. Like getting a tattoo, for example.

Dear Lady Vi,

I have a pet horsefly called Ken. I have had him for ages at least three weeks but for the last two days he just lies on his back in his box and doesn’t move. I go to First Aid classes at Cubs and I tried the Heimlich (sic) manouvre on Ken. There was a sort of crackling noise but he still didn’t move. Mummy says he’s dead and why don’t I get a slug or something instead.

Yours fathfuly

Gavin John Punt (9)

Lady V: Dear Gavin,

I expect your Mummy calls you ‘Gav’, doesn’t she? I expect you eat at McDonalds and if you actually manage to get five French Fries - after your Mummy’s been at them - she probably thinks you’ve had your ‘five-a-day’, doesn’t she?

The only solution, dear child, is to put yourself up for adoption at the first available opportunity. Explain that your Mummy is in the habit of putting dead flies in your bedroom and that you wish to avail yourself of a family with decent moral values.