Latest Acquisitions for Glossop Museum of Pictures an' That

Ten Things You Didn't Know About People Who Are Actually Very Important Indeed.

1. Rommel was a skilled embroiderer. During the battle for Tobruk he made six very attractive coasters as a birthday present for Adolf Hitler.
2. Dame Margot Fonteyn could spit small objects more than 50 feet. Once, during a performance of Les Sylphides, she propelled an olive pit from the back of the stage, hitting the percussionist between the eyes. This feat measured 54' 2".
3. Dame Judy Dench once suffered from Tourette’s Syndrome which, in her early years, made soliloquies very interesting, e.g. “The quality of mercy is not strained, ARSE! It droppeth as the gentle rain from ARSE! ARSE!” etc, etc.
4. H.M. The Queen is scared of mushrooms.
   
5. UKIP leader Nigel Farage can get four Granny Smith apples in his mouth.
6. Peter Andre, one time partner of Jordan is, in real life, even more boring than his music.
7. Nelson Mandela once got into a fist fight with Archbishop Desmond Tutu about a missing bag of Maltesers.
8. Because of his missing arm, Admiral Lord Nelson needed assistance with his on-board toilet arrangements. This duty was carried out by able seaman Willie Holder.
9. Jeremy Paxman winds down after gruelling television interviews by lying in a bathful of cold Horlicks.
10. Winston Churchill used to fart “Land of Hope and Glory” as an after-dinner party piece.

Between the Covers

Our Literary Editor looks back on an eventful year in publishing and takes his pick from the lists for the year to come.

Another season, another year and already it's time to be checking out the runners and riders in the coming round of Literary Prizes. Last year was the year of Daphne Arnott with I Never Kissed the Dandelions, her heartfelt monologue on the pains of growing up in a family of writers and agents, all within screaming distance of Muswell Hill. This year sees the publication of its eagerly awaited sequel, And The Moon Cried Too, a moving memoir of sibling rivalry and the constant pressures on a gifted child in a high-aspiring household.

Daphne and her sister Chloe were co-founders of the Sauvignon Prize, set up to recognise the work of established women writers working in the genre of semi-autobiographical fiction. Expect sparks to fly during the deliberations of the jury for the Latte Prize, with both sisters named as judges to serve on this year's panel. Meanwhile, Chloe Arnott has herself been shortlisted for the Hartland Prize with Scratch, her funny, sad, searing account of powerful emotion and taut relationships in the family of a North London writer (pubd by Snicket & Tongs).

From the same publishing house comes Thrusday, a harrowing chronicle of the author's long battle to come to terms with a writing disorder for which there is no known cure. It is by Phoebe Arnott, stepsister to the above (and wittily dubbed by critics Arnott Another).

Writing problems were at the heart of last year's other big hit, They Couldn't Even Write Their Name by top ghostwriter Norm de Plume. Winner of the prestigious Mimi Prize for Autobiography, Plume wowed audiences at Literary Festivals with his warm and touching revelations of the private lives of stars from television and sport and their struggles to put pen to paper.

No doubt these celebs will soon be lining up to buy Apostrophe's Calling, Philippe Lonquaire's warm-hearted discourse on the busy life of the ubiquitous little mark. This follows the publication last year of Semi-Colon by the same author, a monolithic study of the uses and abuses ('semi-colonic irrigation') of the oft misunderstood dot-comma, bringing with it unusual insights into the role played by the semi-colon in world history.

Ending on a lighter note, with popular choices for bedside reading, Stacey Arnott's Writer's Bonk takes an affectionate peek at what goes on behind the scenes at some of this country's best-loved literary festivals. And finally, with Willie Wonga Does It Again (by Hilary Whynott), fans of the libidinous banker can immerse themselves in the further outpourings of the Casanova of Canary Wharf.

Happy Reading!

Pangolin Newsflash: Abandoned Plague Ship Spotted Off Coast of Glossop

Reports had reached us... 'A ghost ship filled with cannibal rats is floating somewhere off the coast of Glossop, ready to crash ashore and unleash its disease-ridden cargo of starving rodents.' 

Pangolin Science Reporter, Prof Anna Prongg, was most impressed at this news and set off to investigate:

Historic GLOS transport

Perhaps disappointingly, it just turned out to be Glossop Light Operatic Society having a bit of a cruise as part of their annual outing.

Captain Benedict Squealer

Pangolin had an exclusive interview with Captain Benedict Squealer, skipper of the ship and devoted baritone.

"Well, there's some truth in the cannibalism I suppose. But of course nobody needs fear hundreds of rats descending on Glossop any time soon. After all, if you stop to think about it, the logical conclusion of all this cannibalism is that only one rat will be left.

And that, a-hem, is ME!

We do like to maintain a high level of authenticity in our performances, you know, and perhaps 'Sweeney Todd' wasn't the best of production choices. Well not if you want to ensure the long-term continuity of the Society.

As for 'disease-ridden' - my ****. I once had a bit of tooth decay back in 1961 but, as you know, our teeth never stop growing and I soon outgrew it."




Meanwhile, Glossop Light Operatic Society are keen to recruit new members. No experience of singing necessary, but preference will be given to applicants who've belonged to some kind of organisation with 'rat' in the name.

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

Hullo,
           
Justin here, readily admitting that my topic for today is one I would far rather not address because of its distasteful nature. The young man with the wire in his ear finds the subject hilarious, but I feel that it is, well, distasteful, dealing as it does with matters sexual. So I asked myself, what would Jesus have done? Our Lord would have grasped the nettle – that’s what! And so must I. I must put behind me the strictures of middle class respectability and fearlessly address the frightful mess facing the LidDems.
        
The young man with the wire in his ear remarked only yesterday that a once great political party is now “in the **** and no mistake”. I may not approve of his terminology, but I do rather see his point.
          
Despite my regular attendance at the House of Lords, I know little of the peer at the centre of this storm, beyond a smile and a nod in passing. However, he is accused by a number of ladies of inappropriate touching. Like you, I find this difficult to believe. After all, his status was conferred by no less than Her Majesty the Queen, who, as far as I know is not in the habit of condoning gropery. My lady wife is similarly puzzled and upset. I can only surmise that these “inappropriate touchings” were the results of some sort of nervously induced physical spasm brought on by overwork and dedication to duty. Why, I remember the comedian Jack Douglas making this sort of unfortunate disability part of his act. When approached from behind by say, Benny Hill, Douglas would convulse and shout, “Phwheyyy!”, causing gales of laughter. Indeed, Benny Hill himself was often the victim of a misinterpreted pat on the bottom. I put this theory to the young man with the wire in his ear. He muttered, “Bo**ocks!” But then he is far too young to appreciate the innocence of those far off days.

As might be expected, the nobleman at the centre of this furore is denying any wrongdoing and refuses to apologise for knee-trembling he maintains never took place. So perhaps the hapless must attack the problem from a different angle and Mr Clegg might consider, for the greater good, one of two options. He and his lady wife are very wealthy. Arrangements might be made for considerable sums to be paid into the offended ladies’ bank accounts in return for them taking the affair no further. By way of balance, the peer in question could be persuaded to wear stiffened mittens and lengths of four by two down his sleeves. It's an old trick, but it might just work.

The other way is far riskier. Young Mr Clegg could wheel out the old “pot and kettle” routine and suggest that the accused nobleman’s alleged indiscretions are no worse than our devil-may-care Prime Minister hacking out on a horse provided by a lady presently the accused in a criminal trial, and signing his text messages to her, “LOL”. As the young man with the wire in his ear might say, "’Nuff said."

Yours in fellowship and ladyship,

Justin.

Pangolin News Flash! Winner of Pangolin 'Beautiful Baby' Contest!

Well, there really was no contest here!

Actually, that's true in a literal sense, as all the details were kept secret from everyone except the sole entry. And that's chirpy young Colton Bolton-Plunge, pictured here! Isn't he a cutie?

Colton himself is delighted to receive the award. He told us: "I've never tried gold-plated nappies before, and I'm really looking forward to filling them and then throwing the results around the room. In fact, it's one of my favourite pastimes.

I was particularly pleased to receive the prize because strangers usually peer at me when I'm in the pram, turn white and run away. So it's really thrilling to be on the front page of such a prestigious online publication like The Pangolin, and I'm hoping this will be merely the start of a successful modelling career.

I think my first assignment will be for a plastic surgeon offering ear-reduction surgery, but then we'd better wait and see, hadn't we?

Also, my mum reckons that I might be related to Prince Charles - but keep that one under your hat for now!"

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

Hullo,

Justin here, and I expect that, like me, you are dismayed and disappointed at our Men's Cricket team’s disastrous showing in Australia. I mean, this is our national game, is it not? “No!”, some might say, Association Football is, and indeed that game may have some claim to the title, but cricket, for me at least, has always represented the finer side of English life, embodying sporting skill, a sense of fair play and huge physical acumen.

I also like to think that the Australians were beaten in the last Ashes series not just by England’s superior technical skill, but by certain difficult to define aspects of the English game. Cucumber sandwiches at tea; trousers held up by an old school tie; colourful caps; never arguing with umpires and the spontaneous cheering of an opponent’s stand – “Oh, I say, well played, old boy!” – even against the dreadful mutterings and bodyline attack from a fast bowling blacksmith... and the way that the Great Game arrests time itself... "Stands the church clock still at ten to three?”

And lest we forget, England invented the game. The Australians are the Johnny-come-Latelys here. And they’re a rough lot, are they not, with their coarse accent and their win-at-all costs attitude? Many of the nicer, more gentlemanly aspects of the game have simply not rubbed off on the Australians.

So, what would Jesus have done? Well, he might just have considered the fact that the English Women's team are in the process of beating Australia hands down. Who could possibly object to a mixed Test side? It would certainly wrong-foot the average chauvinist male Australian cricketer. Sledging would take on a whole new aspect. Just as a batsperson was taking strike, a slip fielder might mutter in a stage whisper, “Blimey, your bum looks huge in that!” Third Man would become Third Person and certain changes in shower arrangements would be called for. Or not, depending upon the level of team–bonding which had taken place on the bus.

Of course, my question as to who might object to a mixed side was rhetorical. There would be shrill, deeply offended – outraged even – calls from the Members’ Stand at all our great grounds to prohibit the notion – just as the moneylenders and badhats squealed when Our Lord heaved them out of the temple. But I’d like to think that my fellow bishops – and soon m’lady bishops might bring some influence to bear here in the House of Lords. It would be sexual equality writ large. And I don’t mind admitting that I personally have a fine googly.