Mad Aunt Bernards Tortoise Poetry

Mary Cowbag-Thing and The Unmentionable Word

2011-10-27T19:04:00.010+01:00

I've been considering the core of the world's ills this week and I think I have come to the conclusion that there is one word responsible for every blunder, cover-up, scandal, disaster and crisis. It is a special word that I have had the misfortune to be associated with for almost two years. You see, it is also the cause of male pattern baldness, grey/white hairs (wherever they may be...), nervous tics, punching people, shouting and swearing, excessive pointing and eventual lunacy. This is the first time I've posted since freeing myself of this abhorrent condition.

Look at the woman in the picture on the left. Her name is Mary Cowbag-Thing. She is on a committee, you can see by the way that she is clearly farting about when there is plenty behind her that needs doing. She is looking at the camera and basking in the attention, whilst leaving others to pick up her slack. She will have more cups of tea that others, and talk piffle to appear knowledgable. Her bland clothing hides a danger most horrid.

This is a very good friend of mine who is suffering the devastating effects inflicted by Mary Cowbag-Thing and her kind. Unfortunately, my friend looks like this all the time. We cannot tell which way round she is any more. It's tragic. This all came about from the sheer strain of having to organize the tasks around Mary Cowbag-Thing. Communication is when this horrific kind of symptom is inflicted, and there is no known cure.

The grey hair is excessive here, due to overstimulation of the area of the brain that copes with futility and frustration. The only way this woman could have saved herself was by employing the aid of a cudgel. However, with Aunt Vom in the nick again, no-one heard her cry for help. Bless her - she is in all our prayers.

I will not write the appalling word out in it's entirety, but so that you may guard against this peril, I have made a vertical acronym to soften the blow. Even so, be careful and keep a darkened room and a cool flannel nearby.

Cultivators

Mournfully

Meagre

Intelligence

Throw

Together

Empty

Excuses

Numpties, Arseholes and Dickheads

2011-03-26T14:39:00.003Z

In Trebollocks this week it's National Numpty Day, and we're invited to vent our spleen on the issue in the form of poetry, creative dance and abstract music. Well, my dancing days are over, as most of me is wooden, and the tortoise hates music, but I'm a dab hand with a quill. This is dedicated to any annoying people you may know, or who may have affected you lately. Feel free to copy and paste this simple, moving poem. Yes, copy and paste it, paste it on someone's front door after they've got up your nose, or better still on their forehead.

It's an awareness week of helping those people who continually talk utter bollocks and get on your tits to really recognise their full potential and leave you alone. Join in, and really let someone know you'd like to hit them with a frying pan today. Because you're worth it.....

Whether you're whingeing or moaning or what,

It really doesn't matter to me, no, not a jot.

Just pass me your nicest most favourite cup

And I'll make you a hot brew of Shut The F**k Up!!'

Captain Pilchard! Trebollocks Superhero!!

2011-01-05T21:46:00.004Z

Exciting stuff! We have a proper Superhero in Trebollocks....no not that Spiderman numpty who snapped his rope (there's irony there), but a real live masked, swimming trunked hero who flies about.

His name is Captain Pilchard, he's the 'Hero of the Home Counties' and dishes out common sense and 'flat bugles' to anyone who dares not wind their neck in.

Aunt Bench wants his autograph, Aunt Vom has posters of him on her cell wall, and Aunt Mary-Jaffa is terrified of him. He is not sympathetic to a fear of citrus and throws clementines at her to sort her out. Here goes, this is my record of his visit.

Captain Pilchard and The Flat Bugle

Captain Pilchard flew in today,
To rescue the direst situation.
He fights against numpties, dickheads and planks
With ideas well above their stations.
The Home Counties answer to Spidey,
But much, much gobbier by far,
If you cross him he'll shave off your eyebrows,
And most likely wee up your car.
A fight over who holds the telly remote,
Has turned to a murderous battle.
Checking the anti-twonk radar, he flies
Over fields of worried looking cattle.
Then calmly down to earth he descends
Both fists planted square on his hips.
To the woman 'Give your head a shake, love'
Are the worldly wise words from his lips.
He faces the man with a fist held up
And say's ''D'you want a flat bugle?
You take me for some sort of pilchard, son,
And my patience is a tad bloody frugal.''
Captain P gives him an Aylesbury kiss
"Let her watch Up Close: Celebrity Rings"
"And you love, simmer down and stop snivelling,
I don't do hormones or 'Women's things'"
Argument done and one busted nose
The husband still grovelling and pleading.
"Right I'm off," he says "off down the pub -
You lot are doing my swede in."
He's no sort of Pilchard, our brave hero,
Saves houses from marital strife.
We clamour for autographs and photos,
While he runs for his flappy-caped life.
Off into the sky he flies once more,
To dish out blunt blokeish advice,
And give the odd dickhead a dry slap or two
And be home for a korma and rice.

Keep an eye out for Captain Pilchard near you, and if he stops, give him a decent cuppa. None of that weak crap where the tea bag just meets the water. He's also partial to garlic prawns if you fancy chucking some on. Go on, you know you want to....

Aunt Chuffer-Dandridge and her Big Shoe

2010-12-30T01:08:00.003Z

Ok, here's the crack. I've been inundated with dreadful, violent deviants from all three corners of the British Isles (not Welsh) - and they're all relatives.

Now the time of Hogmanay is nearing, we have our visitor from India on her way. She's steaming her way to us via the train from Rawalpindi as we speak, and personally, if I cared less about her visit, I'd pass out. But there you go.

Here's a poem, have a read. Don't mind me, but I have a stinking case of the Plague and I've got a Bergerac box set to get through and three more mince pies.

Aunt Chuffer-Dandridge...And Her Big Shoe

Aunt Gwendolene Chuffer-Dandridge
Comes from our Scottish line,
She's lived in Rawalpindi
Since eighteen-eighty-nine.

She likes the Raj and plenty of wicker,
Straight from the Empire she's come.
All wallas and cricket and darjeeling tea,
And maybe the odd snifter of Rum.

She walks lop-sided up and down
On a very built-up big-shoe.
The base of her foot was chopped clean off
In the Sword Dance at Loch Dhu.

Her wallas are her most faithful aides,
A book walla to read her Dickens.
There's a tea walla too, with an excellent brew,
And a cock walla - for the chickens.

She's a mean shot with a rifle, our Gwendolene,
Drops an elephant at 500 yards,
She owns a palace with snakeskin floors
Cos she cheated the Sultan at cards.

So now she descends on Trebollocks
In a big shoe and a riot of tartan.
I fear she may have the hump though,
As my home is awfully spartan.

But the New Year will go with a bang, I'm sure,
Amid beautiful wintry flurries.
With old Chuffer and Tossa McGurk both here,
Bloody Folly is the least of my worries.

Wishing all of you a wonderful New Year, and hoping you've all had a good Christmas/Yule. Thankyou for you're insane support, your unbending commitments to things not really very tortoisy, and all highly sensible comments, you all make my day. Kisses and plague stuff. x MAB

Aunt Tossa McGurk's Yuletide Visit

2010-12-07T15:33:00.006Z

This is Aunt Tossa McGurk. She's on her way down for Yuletide. I've written a poem about her, so you'll know when you read it why Aunt Vom is in seventh heaven, and Aunt Mary Jaffa is in hiding in the Pennines.

Folly is totally oblivious to the dangers of this woman, so I've encouraged her to sit next to her at the dinner table.

She is firmly rooted in the Scottish branch of our family tree, and a direct descendant of Old Fintan McGribble, who lived alone on Benbecula studying cheese. Nobody liked him.

It's almost Yule, the tree is dressed,

Aunt Tossa McGurk's on her way.

Down from Ecclefechan she comes

On a ravening-hoard driven sleigh.

A champion at throwing cabers she is,

She's won every trophy in town.

She eats haggis with thorns for breakfast,

And her favourite sporran is brown.

She'll greet us all with the classic shout, of

'Alreet, there, by the wee!'

Her affections are shown with a headbutt -

Considered polite in Loch Pee.

Tossa McGurk is the bravest,

Scaring invaders away with her breath.

By shouting - a blast of rancid wind

Will put any army to death.

Defeating marauders she triumphs,

Booting them all off her land.

The stench from her braided armpits,

Was more than her enemy could stand.

Her band of Ecclefeckineejits are feared,

All wooden eyes and stone teeth.

They're reknowned for toughness and being well hard,

As they wear no socks or shoes on the heath.

Their hobbies are charging and battle,

They indulge in themselves in great fights,

Folly once spent months in hospital,

After poisoning from one of her bites.

So she's coming for Yuletide this year,

And she'll stay in the attic with Aunt Vom.

She's bringing a broadsword, a claymore, a mace,

And more than likely - a Bomb.

But I'll make her feel at home this year,

With polite chat about her hedgehog farm.

But if she offers me a cracker to pull, I'll decline,

Or I'll lose my right arm.

(Here's wishing all my blog friends a wonderful Yuletide, and I'll raise a glass to all as we celebrate with all our loved ones. Including the Folly's and the Aunt Bench's of this world!)

Madam Bernard's Hedge Dispensary

2010-10-16T13:57:00.007+01:00

Winter's coming. Do you suffer from the cold, damp days? Does catarrh plague your every waking moment?
I have been working in my hedge, harvesting ingredients for my 'alternative chemist shop'. I will be dispensing various splendid things to people with hocking, retching, snot-flinging colds and basking in the plethora of compliments that result. This one's a cracker, been using it all week.

Number One - Simple Cold Remedy. This was passed to me in Reims, 1940, by Sardine Gadois. As a member of the resistance, she was always meeting men up very dark alleyways, collecting money and getting colds....at least I think she was resistance. She always wore a shiny black mac.

You will need:
1 cup gunpowder or pyrodex
50 fluid ounces bacardi breezer (melon)
A whole brazil nut
A cup of soil from the rockery of a librarian
Two rooks claws.
Grind in a pestle and mortar, mix with linseed oil and rub on the soles of the feet and the buttocks. Down two stiff gins, run a hot bath and you'll feel much better. If you cannot find two rooks claws, you can substitute them for three marbles.

Next week, I will be tackling impetigo. Not on my blog, but in reality, I have some nasty dry patches developing. Also, I'm working on a cure for lack of feet - Folly keeps blowing her feet off in the garden after Aunt Vom lent her some semtex.

I haven't been able to cure Aunt Mary Jaffa's fear of satsumas, and regrettably she is already distressed with the approaching Christingle service at church this christmas. Oh well, if she passes out, we'll stuff her under a pew.

Still, with hallowe'en on the way, there is festivity afoot. Once again we can annoy the council folk by dancing and singing on the hillside, and worrying people with big bonfires. Glee.

Pip pip, for now, and if you're coming up the hill, don't wear your best cloak.

The Portaloo Question?

2010-08-10T21:23:00.005+01:00

I've been re-enacting now for three years, and I have a question that buzzes around my dried kernel of a brain....Why are there thousands of portaloos for construction workers/festival goers/people on mountaintops, but two for around fifty re-enactors?

We folk of the quirky nature that like dressing up as people from the days of yore are no more hardy than the rest of you. I may have knelt in a cowpat for my art at Langport last year but I do like comforts and in plentiful supply.

Portaloo

The act of 'a nip to the loo'
Should be a simple old task.
Quick in, quick out and "that's better"
Isn't a great deal to ask.

But folk who dress up in old clobber,
To act and play dead and make bangs,
Find the whole thing so traumatic
They tackle the loos in big gangs.

What about ladies in finery?
All feathered and ticketty-boo?
You arrrange every hem
To keep out of the way,
Yet the chemical dye turns it blue.

Consider the knight of the realm,
How does he cope with the drama?
How does he hold up his chainmail
And avoid accidents in his armour?

Then there's the wretching old hags,
All wood teeth, scabs and straw hair.
These crones are very germ conscious,
And normally hover mid-air.

But what of the trail-hardened cowboy -
Used to squatting in various places?
He hates portaloos when he sits,
Then remembers he's still wearing braces.

Named by the Romans 'Shitus Uncomfus',
By the Greeks 'Craponica Restraina'
They're famous world-over for misery,
By the re-enacting, regular complainer.

Could they be bigger? Or wider?
Hooped undies held up with a hook?
Or room to take off bits of armour,
Drink tea, surf the net, read a book?

Alas they were designed for us skirmishers,
To fit the average grown knight.
That is, in 1500 or thereabouts,
When 4'9" was the average height.

Ok chaps and kitties, I've been off for an awful long time. Truth is, i've bumped into one too many numpties this past month, and far from being the lovable Mad Aunt B, I've turned into an Aunt Vom replica. Most worrying, although much fun until you get arrested by East Sussex cozzers for interfering with the fence at Monkey World.
I'll be back to my normal self soon, Mrs Coddy is looking after the toads, and Aunt Bench is making me plenty of hessian biscuits and snibble cake to see me through.

(If you want the recipe for Snibble Cake it can be found here. Do not bake if you are allergic to any of the following: Snibble or Cake. It also has traces of Pyrodex and swarfega)

Glastonbury - And That

2010-05-27T17:16:00.002+01:00

Glastonbury - And That

Well, my little spring peepers, I am staying in a very comfortable holiday hedge in the Pagan heaven. The 'Celestial Mother' (Heather) is with me, and we've found all manner of delightful and wondrous things here.
I've written two poems. One is a long poem dedicated to the town of the free spirits, the other is about Toucans.

Town of The Free Spirits

Oh Glastonbury, with spirits old,
With many wondrous tales to be told,
And sights so magickal for my eyes,
Pure comprehension it defies.

We're in a lovely holiday hedge,
With a dingly-dongle for blogs.
It's perfect for wandering aimlessly here,
And wafting about in old clogs.

All sorts are welcome, whoever you are,
And you wear whatever you like.
You can buy birds feet and bags of woad,
And cart it all home on a bike.

There's bald heads here and blue hair too,
And some have it shaped into locks.
You can also wear flappy clothing,
With old sandals and old woolen socks.

Security is wonderfully calm round here,
It's all full of colour and bright.
I opened my aura on tuesday at dawn,
And forgot to shut it at night.

There's a man who rides bareback as well,
Down the street on a pony of white.
He wove through the streets at such speed,
Clutching the reigns with such might.

Then there's the old woolly flute man,
With the straggly beard like a goats.
He bends to lean into dark corners,
When hitting the lowest of notes.

There's the mammoth old Abbey,
With people in costumes all round.
But the best thing for me was a crow,
Who sat a while near on the ground.

We discovered massive trout in a lake,
While the tall reeds waver.
These fish do not like Pringles,
But were very partial to Quavers.

Some people march all through the town,
With staffs, wearing robes, feet bare.
Some flack herbs at the statues sometimes,
And no one, not one, turns a hair.

A man tips out runes on a cloth,
'Take this advice, if you're able -'
'Change your job, or your car or your husband',
Comes the advice from the signs on the table.

Chalice Well was a sight to behold,
I drank from the fountainy lion.
Then paddled a bit lower down,
Cos the water's got desposits of iron.

The belly dancing class was the best,
I wobbled and shimmied my booty.
But I fear I won't make a living at this,
I am warty, and not rich in beauty.

Off for adventures tomorrow,
We're going to walk up the Tor.
I hope the belly dancing wears off though,
As my buttocks and thighs are still sore.

Well I am glad I didn't bring Vom,
We earthy types get on her wick.
Last time she set foot in a witch shop,
She was rude and got cursed with a tic.

Well, back to my hedge at the weekend,
It's been such a divine inspiration.
The Celestial Mother has loved it, aswell
She is now into card divination.

It's my spiritual home here, I am sure,
This town most definitely rocks.
It's like me, you see, all full of the odd,
Cos it lives outside of the box.

The Toucan - This short poem is a Toucan of my appreciation for all who made my stay in Glastonbury so pleasurable. Thankyou, and blessings of oddness be upon you and yours.

Toucan, Toucan, I see you,
With your beak so big,
You need to balance on your twig.

Toucan, find some balance here,
Buy a heavy wig.
Now try balancing on your twig.

Told you that'd work. (Feckin' birds.)

Blessings to all of my blog friends, Happy Solstice, and mild apologies for the fact that parts of this are vaguely sensible. I'll be back to normal next week!

Vote -Slightly Unhinged Tortoise Party!

2010-04-22T22:34:00.006+01:00

I've been outside my hedge today
And seen some dreadful sights.
There's people with rosettes and things
All keyed up for a fight.

But the left one is all funny,
His nose is like untreated leather.
My granny wouldn't have voted him in -
Cos his eyes are too close together.

The right, well, he's a right one,
If one knows what one means.
He's all chinless grin and stick-out teeth,
And a little bit too full of beans.

The middle one, well, he's a puzzle.
Even his mother must ask,
A beardy weirdy anorak boy,
A trainspotter whose lost his flask.

Then you've got all the radicals,
The shoe banging, shouting old nutters.
That is until you ask a sensible thing,
And they pack up and pull down the shutters.

Or what about the odd ones out?
The ones with no pamphlets or blurb?
Only armed with "protection of nuthatches",
And the right to use certain old 'herbs'.

Well, I've had a right old basinfull.
I'm shutting the door on it all.
So when I'm down at the polling station
I'm setting them up for a fall.

I'm sending in Aunt Gourd to help with the forms,
To make sure the votes are all checked.
That way no slimy git will ever get in
As the hall in two hours will be wrecked.

Now I don't condone arson,
But sometimes you have to stand tall.
And when Tarquin McChav is the favourite,
It's time to burn down the town hall.

I do not feel guilty for being so bad -
In fact I'm laughing with glee.
The only candidate safe from the blaze
Is little old, warty old me!

(Anyone voting on May 6th - my policies are as follows:
*Free dog biscuits for everyone, even dogs.
*Beards to be encouraged in young women, whether engaged or married.
*Annual events in the town square to include tarring and feathering, toad flinging, quail stretching and stoat rubbing.
*Hats should not be decorative and must hide something dangerous. This can be checked by the police, however and may result in arrest. Penalty is 2 yrs for a trilby, 10 yrs for a beret, but only if there is a poison arrow frog under it.
*All men with moustaches need a proper license, which will cost £149.50, and a further £35.00 each time it is trimmed. Even at home. When no-one is looking.
*The public library will be open to women, who will not be arrested when looking at books in the 'clever' sections of history, business, and law. The renting of a book on law, by a woman, will no longer result in imprisonment.
*Note: The national anthem of Trebollocks is to be changed as the sharp 'c' in the second verse is considered politically incorrect. We are now adopting 'Lip Up Fatty', a hymn written by 'Bad Manners' as our new anthem. The dancing that goes with the song should be a moment of joy when the Pope visits.....)

Mark all votes with an 'X' and kick the rest in the knackers on your way out....aThankyou!!!
All donations gratefully accepted into the Mad Aunt Bernard 'Cinnamon Biscuit & Pringles Fund'.

A Four-Legged Child & Aunt Penid's Premonitions

2010-03-31T21:57:00.006+01:00

First of all, apologies for my absence, I've been given some new medication which interferes with concentration and rational thinking.....it's called shite weather. No really, I'm adjusting to some new weasel-skin pain-killing patches, and some anti-contrafibularity tablets. One causes hallucinations, one causes flying and other phenomenon. So I've been busy...yadda yadda yadda.
Right! Hello Faithful-But-Slightly-Off-Key People. It's been an eventful month. The March winds are always unpredictable, but they took my feckin' hedge! I moved into another one down the lane, but there was no socket in the tree stump for a microfilter, and when I mentioned Hedgeband 8meg to a BT supplier, the result was...change supplier. Gits.
Now I'm set up with my laptop, the toads are happy and will be home from school any moment. Life is good, or it was.
Aunt Penid rang on the yoghurt pot telephone the other day, apparently their daughter Vileda is ill, and needs country air to heal her ailments. Apparently, after drinking seawater and looking at a powerstation on the same day (they're very superstitious), she's grown an extra two legs.
Vileda has always been talented, in the picture on the far left she can be seen perching on her fathers' shoulder, like a parrot - something she'd often jump up and do to gain his attention. This backfired when he accidentally batted her off one day, after some tiresome pigeons had poupped on his suit. She's not sat up there since.
Aunt Penid is the stern woman in the wicker chair, she doesn't lick the lid of life. Her skills involve turbomancy. This is the lost Welsh art of predicting future events by rubbing turbots freshly pulled out of the water. Behind her are Cousin Imelda-Rabula (a world-champion slate layer and part-time coroner) and her husband Gimp (the less said about him the better....it never gets stuck there by accident).
They arrived on Tuesday, and I've had enough now. It's still Tuesday. I've written a poem about my feelings, on the suggestion of Dr Clangamunta from the Alternative Health Centre. He reckons I have a demon in my stomach. I reckon it was the squits after a madras, but there you go. This is what I wrote (it helps if you put it to the tune of 'A Bicycle Made For Two':

Dearest Family,
Please go and stay elswhere,
I feel violent
I could tear out my hair.
Cos you are all raving nutters,
With nowt' behind the shutters,
So pack and be gone,
And run along,
With ten legs between four of you.

Dr Clangamunta wanted me to fish out my inner bard. Codswallop, Shakespeare never got to the point, which was why he had so much trouble with women. If you look at a picture of him, it's obvious that he couldn't even tell a hairdresser what he wanted. Stick to cold, hard facts.
Vileda is a dreadful child, by the way, spoilt rotten. I'm glad she's got two extra legs, as they like me to take her on my walk in the morning - with two extra shoes to put on, it gives me a five minute head start.
So, folks, I'm going to sit out this horror, and be charitable. Maybe my inner poetry will take over where the tortoise left off (or has rarely been, there are only four proper tortoise poems on here...). I need something big to wonder on..... Aunt Penid can't read the turbot today, she's rubbed too many of them and they're hiding. So she's having a go at lousomancy. She's sitting by the woodpile and watching a plethora of woodlice and getting insights from their movements.
Aunt Penid has forecast that I will travel to the Moon next week, Aunt Vom will become more spiritually conscious, Aunt Gourd will think about something relevant for five minutes, Great Uncle Mandy will become manly, Folly will move out of home, and Aunt Mary-Jaffa will help out with the next Christingle Service. Yep...chinny-reckon, and on yer bike....
The woman's a crank!!!! .....

I will try and write something about tortoises next time. It's all very well having a blog that not very tortoisy as a joke, but this is taking the piss slightly...........

Local Elections In Trebollocks, Cornwall

2010-03-03T20:01:00.010Z

How do you get a town not to vote for a git?

I hate elections. I never know who to vote for but I've had to put my foot down this time. Pictured here is Mr Arthur Hemulen-Squiddy, the thicket-bearded, wind bag who has decided that women are to be seen and not heard.

I'm no longer permitted to teach at the college, so my teaching job is up the swanny. All the students of Shrieking Level 1, Advanced Hiding NVQ, and the Intermediate Tortoise Flinging classes are well annoyed.

I've got a good mind to run him over but I don't drive.

Mrs Coddy next door was issued with an injunction after she was spotted outdoors tending to her geese. She was supposed to be under the supervision of a man. The library are taking on all new staff, as all the female librarians are not only jobless but are in prison for having ideas well above their stations. There are now twelve male librarians with bad dress sense, B.O. and big glasses. Not much difference, really.

His policies are thus:

All women to be accompanied by men when outdoors (if in an all-female household - phone council to book male volunteer at a price of £60 per half hour). No women in the following establishments; bars, libraries, shops, offices, hospitals (unless seriously ill and not just fainting), etc,.

Any woman found with an idea, a book, or money of her own will be shot. Any man giving a woman an idea, a book, or money of her own will be imprisoned for 10 yrs.

Any man dressing as a woman will be imprisoned for 5 yrs. Any woman dressing as a man will be shot. Twice, if found holding a book.

Women are limited to 14 words per day (words include yawning and loud breathing). In the interests of Womens Rights, female campaigners are permitted 15 words per day, (if they are found campaigning they face imprisonment).

Women are not permitted to socialise indoors with other women in case they get ideas. Any circles of women who meet underground will be tarred and feathered. No women are permitted on the Trebollocks, Cornwall region of Facebook or Twitter. Any female found twittering without real feathers, a bill, and webbed feet, will be shot.

Cookery, tapestry, laundry, child bearing, and other female hobbies will be allowed.
A bonus three words will be allocated to each woman on Bank Holidays.

In the interest of Women's Rights, their campaigners are allowed 15 words per day.

Can you believe it? Apparently Aunt Bench didn't vote because she was out (?), Aunt Gourd voted for him by mistake (??), Aunt Mary-Jaffa didn't vote at all because she didn't like the look of any of them and said the other bloke looked like an owl. Aunt Vom didn't vote as she was in the nick after throwing flaming spears at Mr Hemulen-Squiddy's car the week before under the cover of a balaclava.....Aunt Vom, not the car...cars don't wear balaclavas.

Cousin Girda is unfortunately in love with Arthur Hemulen-Squiddy, which says it all. So I, along with Mrs Fowlpest, Aunt Whelk and Great Uncle Mandy are hiding in my hedge with a plan.

We've got a map drawn up, and we've stockpiled spoons and wood. I'm not sure how handy this will come in, but if you've got any suggestions, I'd be very grateful. The others aren't that clever, so I'm tempted to get a fake passport, shave off my beard and do a runner to Poland. It should be pretty empty.

But before I go, here's a photo of who I voted for: the champion of the Trebollocks Womens Movement and Gold Medallist in the Hedge Laying at the Southend-On-Sea 1884 Olympics, Mrs Brian Plankton-Chamberlain. But then it came out that it's a bloke in a dress who works for the opposition.

He looks nice, too.

Bloody politicians.

Mad Weebles And How To Spot Them

2010-01-28T17:44:00.005Z

This is a Mad Weeble.....he looks harmless enough, doesn't he?

Well be warned my friends, he isn't. Many of us find ourselves in the presence of at least one during the course of our lives, some of you may even live with one. Some of these characters appear charming on first contact, and seem relatively docile characters. Eruption can occur at the slightest trigger, and it's best to be prepared. Here are a few ways of recognising the Mad Weeble in your life, and the dangers to your sanity that they pose.

According to government researcher Prof. Hengist Gribble, most Mad Weebles find that the onset of their symptoms occur after retirement, and these symptoms are aggravated by things like common sense, reason, rational argument, and the desire to have fun.

The symptoms of a typical Mad Weeble are delusion, over-inflated self image, a massive ego, ideas of grandeur, fibbing, general unpleasantness, repetive verbal diatribes, witty anecdotes that aren't funny. Common sense responses to this behaviour do not work, it is pointless ignoring a Mad Weeble, as is arguing with one. Appearance is often importance in Mad Weeble recognition, many are vast in size, have little beards and bad breath.

Some famous Mad Weebles include, Stalin, Leo Sayer, and on occasion, Christopher Biggins. It is best not to put up a poster of a Mad Weeble, as this only serves to continue the feeding of the ego. Never phone one up for a quick chat - it is like listening to white noise and the receptors of your brain will never be the same again. Mad Weebles cause headaches and swearing fits in ordinary humans - lawsuits are particularly difficult as a weapon, and very costly unless your solicitor fund has come from your swearbox.

The toppling of a Mad Weeble is difficult - but it can be done. Although weebles generally wobble but don't fall down, they can be put on their arse like any other deranged nutter....if you know how.

The Seven Steps To Wobble A Mad Weeble

First - find and recognise your Mad Weeble, and determine their worst symptoms.

Secondly - warn others around you of these facts while not alerting the Weeble itself.

Thirdly - let the Weeble think you are stupid - this lulls it into a false sense of security.

Fourthly - once it shoots itself in the foot - admit you've known it's plan all along.

Five - watch the Weeble's face go white, and watch it wobble.

Six - laugh: this drives them nuts and sends them into a meltdown.

Seven - stand back, light your pipe, and admire your handiwork.

Although the Weeble doesn't physically fall down, it will not know it's arse from it's elbow for many a moon, which is the next best thing. It will now avoid you like the plague, and never cause you headaches and swearing fits again.

If you need further information: contact Mrs Giddy Kipper at the Manchester Frog Sanctuary who will be only too happy to help. With frogs, that is, unfortunately she knows nothing about Weebles.

I DON'T LIKE SPAM!!!

2010-01-13T21:54:00.009Z

I will not apologise for the any Monty Python references in this post, so if you don't spot them you really ought to buy the complete series DVD. Not just for my post, but because you need a proper education. I'm 'Pythoning' for therapy today after finding another four spam comments on my posts, one is a little rankled. Unfortunately, I have chosen to save comments for my own approval which I didn't want to do as I'm old and grickly and can't remember to check them. I know what you're thinking - Luxury! I was spammed 50 times before school as a youngun, beaten senseless and thrown to crocodiles, all before doing my homework.
Well, I have booby trapped my blog, with things to scare the pancreas out of your average spammer. It's booby trapped with sharp sticks with frog poison on, a motion sensor with a suspicious nature, and a song where Kerry Katona duets with Daniel O'Donnell.....pretty bad, I reckon. I don't think they'll be back.
So to the vacuous time wasters and internet fungi who spam people in emails, blogs and social networks - however off key my blog and I are, we will never be as off key as the likes of you.....may your shabby businesses and scams be plagued with disaster. May small cats pee on your keyboards and may small children unplug your modems while you're trying to find out what's wrong with your keyboards. Go back to your offline hobby of 'nutter on the bus', or 'staring bloke in pub' or even the 'mad git in the town that shouts at the pigeons'. Begone!
Yes! Once and for all - shallow gene pool swimmers - this Python quote is for you.....

I DON'T LIKE SPAM!!!

You know who I blame? Bloody Vikings!......

Ho! Ho! Ho! Poetry and Other Gubbins...

2009-12-21T14:00:00.004Z

Christmas always brings those family members out of the woodwork and reminds you that no, you're not being unkind, they really are that bobbins.
Aunt Trolly and her gobby-devil-child, Flatulanta, descended upon poor Aunt Gourd this week for a surprise holiday visit. Aunt Gourd has been cursing herself since for having the lights on and the curtains open when they knocked the door.

They travelled here on the good old TFE Poetry Go Kart. They complained bitterly about the refreshment car only serving Guinness, several varieties of Whisky, pizza and 'dreadful things' in a bowl.

Since Flatulenta decorated her mother in typical festive attire for the season, Aunt Trolly was inspired to write the following poem about Christmas and her deepest feelings about it. I'd like to point out that this is actually about to be published by a real person in January's 'Art Journal for Special & Talentless'

Yule
How I love the King and I,
Your bald head glimmering like a star.
In Westworld, I think, you truly shone,
but Taras Bulba was better.

I thought I'd have a go, as my hedge network is working again, thanks to my new twigless router:

Christmas Spirit
What is this season of joy -
this season of wondrous sights and laughter?
My heart fills with glee, standing and watching,
in amazement.
Two women, clawing, biting, scratching, slapping and punching each other,
After they both put their hands on the last turkey in the shop.
Then the Tesco manager arrived, then so did the ambulance.
Jolly-Dee, the season's here,
and my heart bursts with gratitude once more, for the existence of thick people.

Well, I don't know what Christmas holds for me yet, I'm trying to stop Gourd from plugging Aunt Trolly into the mains with the flimsy excuse that she looks like a Christmas tree. Cousin Girda has been on the yoghurt-pot telephone for an hour wailing that she's got a glis glis in her undercroft, I'm still not sure if she really has or if it's a euphemism for some sort of womens trouble. As for Aunt Mary-Jaffa - spare a thought for her, during this season of satsumas.

Folly Made Breakfast...

2009-11-21T21:26:00.008Z

Well, it's been an eventful few weeks, I'm posting this from my temporary accommodation provided by the government as we've had a little disaster. They've been very nice, keeping me wrapped up with blankets, and provided a special box for the toads. I get fed three times a day (no hessian crackers here, though, and no lungwort soup) but it's better than an iron boot up the arse.

It all started two days ago.....

Aunt Bench, in a desperate plea, left a note, pinned to her daughter, on the doorstep of Mrs Coddy from next door. Bench is suffering episodes of 'funny ideas' and 'wistful notions of sailors' again, and needs a break. So at 6am yesterday, she put Folly on Mrs Coddy's doorstep and said 'Wait here until she opens the door, darling, and don't be impatient and ring the bell'. Mrs Coddy finally opened the door at 1pm, and found Folly eating the cow parsley. Of course, not wanting to take in a renowned disaster magnet, she tactfully came to me on the grounds that 'family is better'. I could quite cheerfully kick Mrs Coddy up the arse...but she'll keep for now. No-one will look for her under her own patio.

I managed to keep Folly entertained and out of trouble for the first night. While she was distracted in destroying a perfectly good piano with grandfathers' mace, I had time to hide the matches, flammable liquids, and anything that could be set fire to or exploded. Once my task was completed and I'd taken the bolt cutters off her for the third time, I tried to teach her counting, which failed after she ate the flageolet beans I was using for demonstration purposes. Then I decided a game of Ludo would be nice, but she's eaten four green counters and two yellows, and Lord knows where the red one went. So I switched tack and we watched 'Snatch' on my new wooden DVD player that Weevil made for me. It's marvellous, a little grainy in the picture, but great for what I need. And Brad Pitt was in his most handsome, hunky role....

It's funny, but other than looking after the toads, I'm not very maternal. I have no yearning for creating socially dangerous people to go charging across our little village, so I find this 'mentoring' and 'nurturing' gubbins rather tiring.
I slept fantastically, and vaguely remember noises in the kitchen first thing. As soon as my subconscious shouted to me to get up and check on Folly, there was the most almighty 'BOOM!', followed by a cold wind and a rushing sensation.
The rushing sensation turned out to be my bed-bound airborne journey from my hedge, across the fields and byways of Trebollocks, and onto the roof of St Crapulent the Martyr's church in Skiddy-Under-Grundy, seven miles away. I thought I was on the set of Bedknobs and Broomsticks for a minute, until I sailed over East Bung and caught sight of Bench down by the docks.

According to the police, the fire department, and the bomb squad, a unique chain of events happened that defies human comprehension. But they gave it a title, and my heart sank when I read the heading of the report. It just said....'Folly Made Breakfast - NATO Class III Alert'.

Forensics said the damage was caused by three things: Trying to cook a gas bottle in a pan on a gas cooker (she'd even seasoned it with Jamie Oliver's Lemon & Thyme salt mill; poking dynamite into the toaster; and baking some petrol soaked halibut in the oven at gas mark 8 for 30 minutes. (The fish had a chilli and flat leaf parsley rub, and was garnished with roasted shallots and peppers.

I now have to find Bench and tell her that Folly is being 'counselled' by a nice lady with a big cardie, chunky beads and a tasselled skirt. The police have also told me that Folly is a death trap and must not be let out into the community again, at which point I was hopeful until the social worker whined on about rights. I was gutted. She's been released into my custody, even after licking the face of an old policeman.

Aunt Vom turned up and took her way, thankfully. When Vom got her home, she hung Folly up on a coat peg by the loop in her school blazer, and is leaving her there until the morning. I like to picture her there, with her little feet dangling below. I'm so grateful to Vom, but furious with Bench. My hedge is ruined, Mrs Coddy is livid as the blast flattened six of her geese. They're ok, but you can only see them when they turn side-on.
Trebollocks has issued a state of emergency, and thousands are homeless or living in dangerous conditions. The Royal Marines are being called in to clear up the mess. The mess was so scary, the Coldstreams ran away and told their mums.

The Home Secretary and the Ministry of Defense are monitoring Folly, and instructing Vom on her care. the Russians have already been on the blower to Number 10 and said whatever the bribe is for Folly, they don't want her. Bin Laden sent a text saying 'don't even ask, man'. The social worker popped in with advice on sharing and issues. Vom showed her her knife collection, and the woman went away with apologies.

So, no Fawlty Towers omnibus for me, no quiet teas by the brambles, no crackly leaf carpet, no more hedge until it's been checked and sealed by men in plastic suits with 'creaky things' that read radiation. I'm only able to write this thanks to the emergency dongle, kindly provided by Major Ponsonby-Goppin, of Her Majesty's Royal Marines. They play nice music as well. As I was being airlifted off the church, they did a drum display to keep us entertained. We all clapped, except the Vicar, who'd lost a hand in the blast.

Sadly, most of my spiders didn't survive, but the Marines rescued Peadar, and have housed him in a little box in my sidebar. Though I wouldn't recommend pointing a cursor at him as he'll come after it and take it off to his web for tea. They also rescued Leopold and Erica, the tortoises, which are also in the sidebar, so point at them if you like, as they're too slow to catch anything.

I will report more when Trebollocks is a little better restored, and I'm safe in the knowledge that Vom has nutted Bench for her stupidity. Meanwhile, any ideas on how to re-decorate my hedge? Do I go rustic again, or street chic? And does Feng Shui really affect the happenings in the house? If so, is there a magic mirror to repel unruly children?

Madame Widdershins McMunter's Prediction!!

2009-10-31T21:20:00.014Z

Saints preserve us! Not content with a simple Wiccan ceremony this Samhain, my elder sibling has insisted that this swaying, rolling-eyed, seventh daughter of next door's dog of a psychic is foisted upon us all.

Aunt Gourd (pictured, left) has gone all mystical and wispy at the first sign of a fat moon, and decided that she'll follow in the footsteps of our clan. She became all premonitious on Wednesday, and went to see Madame Widdershins McMunter (pictured right with Uncle Nancy, reading his palm and telling him he's got Buckley's chance of finding a bird unless he shapes up and moves out of his mothers). Shrieks and wringing of hands claim that the woman is a marvel and totally accurate. (I'm not so sure, and as the neighbourhood kids say - chinny reckon...)
Not content with that, she invited her round to my hedge, along with all the others for a group reading....I was planning on a night in with X-Factor, a fresh brew of goats rue tea, and a lovely gator recipe from Jamie Oliver's cookbook, some prayers and blessings, but that idea has been totally buggered. I've stepped out of the excitement to post this as I'm bored and frustrated, so my readers are carrying the great weight of being my comfort in time of stress. That's both of you, by the way, so don't either of you sneak off.
It started at six, when they all arrived. Aunt Vom reckons the whole thing is bollocks but she's sitting on the bench anyway, just for a giggle (not on Aunt Bench, I might add). Folly is blessedly quiet at the moment, I've given her some hemlock and some dead stag beetles to play with. If she likes them, I might make her a gift of it for her 34th birthday next month. It's either that or anything non-explosive or flammable.
Aunt Turgid is cross, as she couldn't bring her lizards in, apparently lizards interrupt the mystical signals and attract negative deities. The lizards seem oblivious to this, but didn't mind waiting in the motorcar.
Aunt Mary Jaffa is ok, there are no satsumas (I won't even recall the Christingle service episode).
Aunt Bench is sitting worrying about whether she'll ever have another child. God help us....
Cousin Girda isn't here as she said, if they psychic was that good, she'd have known she couldn't make it and would have sent her a telegram with any relevant bits.
Aunt Claymore is not impressed, and boycotted the event under allegations of 'wickedness' and 'horror'.
So dear friends, my simple Wiccan ceremony of prayers, blessings and a little feast, has been hijacked and turned into a circus. The only genuine witch at the table is despondent, bored and can't wait for them to go.
The toads are fed up, too, and are quietly playing 'snap' in the corner with my special edition '007 Quantum of Solace' playing cards. They are so well behaved when Mummy's busy.
Madame McMunter started by getting us all to place a personal object on the table that she could grope in the slim chance of finding any vibrations. I doubt the woman would find any vibrations from an Ann Summers purchase, but there you go. In my opinion, she's all jingly bangles, rings, and gin breath and bugger all else.
I went first, and put my wooden teeth on the table. Apparently, I am a woman, I live in a hedge, and I have a predisposition to living in draughty places. My two children are ugly (I suppose you could count the toads). My three lovers are warring for my affections (!), and I am about to win the lottery. I have a strong connection to 'Albert' (a bat who lives locally) and a yen for chicken bhuna. I hope she doesn't know it was my bhuna that killed Folly's tortoise, but she then lost credibility when she said I would be on the cover of Marie Claire having beaten Cheryl Cole as the prettier option. Ok. Tell it to the Marines, Lady.
Aunt Vom put a set of nunchucks on the table, and the mad psychic said she is about to be repaid for her kindnesses to the community, she is viewed as an angel amongst sinners. I nearly peed my sack dress at this one, she's only just out of the nick for nutting a copper.
Aunt Mary Jaffa put a thimble down, and it was said that she is 'special'. Well, we knew that.
Aunt Turgid put her bicycle on the table, which really ticked me off as it's leaking oil. She is about to get a degree in astrophysics, and pioneer research into the function of the nostril. I could believe anything where she's concerned.
Aunt Bench put a wankel rotary engine on the table, and the woman got lots of messages from it. Unfortunately, none were for her except that she is to only have the one child (we all clapped at this bit). Sad for her, but when Folly starts setting fire to your feet under the table, this is no joking matter. What made me laugh was Aunt Gourds 'ooohs' and 'aaaahs' when Madam McMunter voiced quite accurately that the spirits told her that Bench's only daughter was a girl.
The upshot is, after a lot of guessing, and waving and wailing, was that the woman is a fraud. I did have a premonition when she arrived, which has proved to be correct. That was a hard earned £50 down the shitter.
I've booted them out, I've missed X-factor, but my ugly children are on my knee and we're watching 'Live At The Apollo' on 'Dave'. It will have to do.
Bugger the prayers and blessings, I've got a gator steak on the hot plate.....

(By the way....Madame McMunter's premonitions are not that good it seems. On leaving us in a clapped out motor decked with all manner of pentacles, gods, goddesses and owl talismans, she failed to predict an oncoming steam roller at the Trebollocks M5 roundabout and was promptly flattened. Rescue workers peeled her off the road, intact, and tucked her into a giant jiffy bag to be posted to the lab for investigation. With the postal strike, I doubt she'll get there before next Wednesday.)

Samhain blessings to you all, and may your gibbon snibblings be fruitious for the coming winter....
MAB x

Unofficial Cheese Rolling

2009-10-06T19:12:00.009+01:00

Great times! I have not posted for over a week, but I've had the best time! My cousin, Inga-Wilhelm has visited me from Schubel, in Germany.

I haven't seen her since we used to throw wellington boots at passers-by from our treehouse eleventy-two years ago. The fun we used to have.

I like Inga-Wilhelm immensely, she never minds sitting down to watch telly with the spiders, who now have their own clothes and sit with their children perched on their eight knees. She's a friendly, affable woman, and even likes Aunt Vom.
On Tuesday, we set of for Coopers Hill in Gloucestershire, for the St Vitus Clan Unofficial Cheese Roll. You can watch the official ones here, but we're much better.

With us came Aunt Vom, Aunt Turgid, Folly and Mary Jaffa. Mary Jaffa got nervous and wobbled most of the time, but I think it was because we'd driven past Tortworth Court Orangery, and her fear of satsumas reared it's ugly head. But we had a lovely surprise when Great Uncle Mandy (pictured right) turned up and agreed to be the CheeseMaster. He sat at the top in his top hat, beside all our chosen cheeses, and held his ceremonial staff with the mad cockerel on the top.

Aunt Vom went first, and we rolled a 2lb Sage Derby for her to chase. She tumbled down the hill wearing a traditional gown of violet taffeta and lace with a bustle and front apron. She'd left her jewellery and reticule at the top, for safety reasons. On reaching the bottom (at the same time as the cheese), she ploughed through the neighbouring garden fence and into someone's conservatory only to interrupt a coffee morning. There are no rugby-playing marshals to catch you at the bottom when we roll cheese - that is for lightweights.

Next up was Folly, who didn't wait for the cheese but skipped/tumbled arse over tit down the hill only to be hit by a 3lb Stinking Bishop. She wore a day dress of blue gingham with a bonnet to match. Bless - where Folly is around, disaster will follow. The broken nose was splinted by Vom, and badly because she was laughing so much and Folly was bawling so much. Bench will go spare.

Then it was me - I flew down after Great Uncle Mandy flung a German Weisslacker (a present from Inga-Wilhelm) in my path. Dressed in my best hessian dress, and favourite wooden shoes, I didn't get to the bottom before the cheese, but I was close, and my weight and rotund shape helped me bounce my way to the bottom. No-one clears stones or thistles from the path of the runners, and I couldn't help thinking of the man who'd gone down the hill last year in only a thong. Ouch! His little botty was covered in scratches.
Aunt Turgid flew down the hill on a moped, chasing a 2lb Halloumi, and almost won the match, but sadly took a swerve into some woodland and had to have a spoke removed by the ambulance people. She wore a cotton chemise, corset, and matching bloomers, with striped stockings and lace up boots.
Mary-Jaffa took a turn and cautiously went down the hill on her heels and bottom, chasing only a BabyBel. It took fifteen minutes, and the cheese was so small, a dog ran off with it before it hit the base of the hill. She wore a white cotton nightie, with over gown and lace cap. It's now green with grass stains down the back.
Inga-Wilhelm decided that she'd be different and summoned the throwing of a Farmhouse Llanboidy (I had some in the fridge and hate it so I donated it to the cause). Well, she flew. She wore a tweed suit with smart jacket and coulottes. Very smart. She has special shoes with spikes in to grip the turf, and her short, tubby, stature helped her methodically negotiate a quick path down the hill. And since the the Farmhouse Llanboidy got stuck on a tuft of grass, bounced, then fell down a small hole, she was the overall winner!
It was marvellouse. We had a picnic back up at the top of the hill and pointed at things in the distance while eating cheese and ham sarnies. Folly had a huge bruise and an egg shaped thing above her nose, I was covered in little cuts and bruises, Aunt Turgid showed her scrapes and grass burns to her lizards, and Aunt Vom just stood there and looked hard. Mary-Jaffa's wobbling stopped, until Vom wanted pudding and pulled a satsuma out of the hamper, at which point she fainted. You may remember that this is a problem, as the only thing that brings her out of a fainting spell is the smell of oranges or satsumas. But, the second she's awake, and realised the identity of the fruit, she faints again. This goes on for months sometimes. Great Uncle Mandy suggested putting a handkerchief soaked in citrus over her face, but we didn't think this would help. He is a bugger.
Inga-Wilhelm took photos and wrote in her little journal, so she could show it to her friends back in Schubel. They would be most pleased to read it, as it ties in nicely with the advent of the 'Sausage Flinging' on her return, which takes place on top of the matterhorn in Switzerland. It is a little more ambitious than our thingy. And a mite more dangerous, as most competitors die of exposure and frozen beards before they get to the starting point.
It was a wonderful visit, despite the earbashing from Bench about Folly's nose. We also went to the Staines Shrieking Festival and got drunk on WKD. We shouted obscenities at a march past parliament concerning the rights of toads in modern British households. We put cat poo in paper bags and placed it on my nasty neighbours doorstep, then set light to the bag, rang the bell, and ran away. Old proverb: He who stamps out burning cat poo will never get it off expensive shoe.
I will miss Inga-Wilhelm, and her tolerance of all things dreadful, she has been a breath of fresh air, I will visit Schubel one day, having been invited. I would like to see what they make of toad rubbing, and my new hobby of Weasel Stretching. One never knows how such things will be received....

The Women's Rights Movement In Trebollocks

2009-09-08T16:41:00.011+01:00

I had a letter this morning from Professor Crispin In The Meadow St. Bollow, informing me that my Shrieking Classes are no longer required at Trebollocks County College. I am fuming. I'm tryping (yes, tryping) away furiously on my laptop, out in the open air. I thought I'd hop onto Blogger to vent some steam. This is an evil ploy to remove the female teachers from the faculty. Men have played a huge role in setting up the college, and I think they are now threatened by their female colleagues growing popularity and stature. They are getting rid of me under the excuse that Level 2 Shrieking is not acceptable to be chosen on the same line as Advanced Chemistry or Grade 6 Leaping. There are too many social skill classes now, and others that shall be dropped include Papier Mache for the Nervous, Hiding Grade 3 & 4, and Working With Semtex: From A Creative Standpoint. I sat there, and politely thought....f**kers. All these classes are run by the women above, Ivy Fowlpest (far left) has been onto this ploy for 18 months, and has alerted the sisterhood and formed a plan, as you can probably tell from her sinister glare.

I did some detective work, and put on shoes made from underpants to muffle my footsteps. Then in the dead of night, I broke in through a window by throwing a brick through it. Any stealth factor attributed to my special shoes was at once rendered utterly pointless by the sound of shattering glass. Bugger, I cried. After a long chase with the filth and their sodding blue lights flashing, I hid and examined a bunch of papers I'd grabbed just as the alarms were going off.

Well, the document I found is very interesting. And if I dare resurface and risk arrest, I shall submit it to the Board of Long Discussions and Frowning next Tuesday. It reads as follows....

Women have long been a part of building Trebollocks County College, and in the early days when they knew their place, this was a positive and welcome part of our team. The offices had fresh flowers, home made cake to eat, and I had a new tank top every christmas. However, recent developments within the voting system have allowed such women to have a voice in how our county is run. Women are now allowed to drive a motor car, own up to two goldfish, and they have been campaigning behind our backs to be allowed indoors at lunchtime when it is raining. The woman in the photograph to the left, has been happy to squat and kneel for the last seven years of her employment. But other women, like the one standing in the background, has filled her head with hormonal nonsense. She has been encouraged to learn to read and write, and not simply just fish cards out of a draw haphazardly and offer it to an important man at a desk. Women have formed a secret committee within the area, where they try hard to have their own ideas, develop them whilst drinking tea, and write them down on some sort of doily, probably. Due to the horribly liberal attitude of local councillors, no less than three women are now teaching in the college. This must be stopped. Have they no dignity? Have they no self-control? Have they no housework to do?

In Ireland, there was an even more worrying case. In The People's Lost Republic Of Eejit, this photo was taken. It seems the gentleman in charge of the local library left the door unlocked one evening and two women got in and got hold of a book. This picture shows the two females and their curious and bewildered expressions as they grab the book and try to understand it. Security showed them taking forty two minutes before they turned the book up the right way. The shocking thing to note, is that the woman on the right clearly thinks the situation is amusing. They were jailed for three years each, after they were found in the homes of other women, telling them what they had seen in the book. Had the book been about babies or cookery, the sentence would have been less. But the book was about money, and investments. One of the women later went to a the bank for advice (I ask you!) on an account for her family savings, thus shaming herself and her husband in the process. Her husband has cut all ties with her, branding her hysterical and unbalanced. The library is now locked at all times, except for the entry of gentlemen with special members keys. A gun sentry has been set up in the event of more women trying to get into the library.

I therefore am taking an axe to these female teachers, and their fluffy-headed classes. I am sure, Sirs, that you are in agreement and that I can count upon your support. I have an article from Dr. Unctious Moog, stating that women are a danger to themselves and others when in the possession of information. He is submitting the brain scan results of a woman studying for a degree, which clearly shows extensive damage to the brain cells, and shows an overload of information stored in the Piffle Gland. This overload causes hysteria, solitary decision making, hormonal outbursts, answering back, and other alarming symptoms.

Yours,
Crisp.

So, I'm torn between blowing the whistle, and getting arrested. I figured I'd hide somewhere they'd never find me, and decided to kip the night on the roof of the local nick. The trouble is, it's started to rain and I need a wee.
If any of you are nearby, could you pop down and pick up the paper for me, then I can run back to my hedge and claim the whole thing is a mistake. At least as a woman, if I am indoors doing some cleaning, it might go in my favour....? In fact, I think I've left the iron on....

Monday Poem - BT Call Centre

2009-09-03T00:18:00.003+01:00

Well, I have been busy tidying my hedge - the wind plays havoc with it at the change of the seasons, and the contents of my sock draw has been strewn all the way from Trebollocks to North Bum. Feck has called for a Monday poem at 7pm, and this is precisely what I wrote but I'm late posting it as Folly decided that a game of twister was called for and invited 2,541 hells angels to join her in Bench's living room. Bench kicked off big stylee and found a crossbow in the loft. I won't elaborate.
I've writted about a dreadful thing that happened Monday morning. I found to my utter disgust that my BT yahoo account had been disabled without prior notice - all my pupils for the shrieking classes, the toad rubbing contacts and the tortoise flinging federation people were suddenly lost. I phoned BT and they happily provided me with the following inspiration.....
You must sing it to the tune of 'It Ain't Half Hot Mum'...it was a fluke, as I didn't realise until the last line was penned, just how apt it was.

Oh! Meet the twats 'cos the twats are here,
The twats to f*"k up your day.
No braincells, no manners, or courteous way - But!
They'll take all your money with a Hey, Hey, Hey!
There's crappy, shite music, when on hold for two weeks -
But you're through to complaints and six different geeks...SO!
Meet the twats 'cos the twats are here,
The twats to f*"k up your day.....
T...W...T..W..A..T
Twats to f*"k up your day!!!
(With sitar music and appropriate accent) Land of hope and glory.....SHUUUUTT UUUUPPP!!!

'Deliverance' City Farm - Family Day Out, My Arse...

2009-08-21T17:25:00.002+01:00

Imagine a little city farm,
With goats and pigs and hens.
With visitors coming every decade,
And flocking in their tens.

Now have you seen 'Deliverance'?,
With the creepy backwoods folk?
Imagine a cross with Steptoe & Son,
And you'll pretty much get the joke.

Around the edge of the little farm,
Were pens for all the creatures.
A pig, a burnt-out bedstead, and
A cockerel with' special' features.

The only culture at the farm,
Should be grown in a petrie dish.
From the looks of the men, (the women are worse)
They're directly descended from fish.

We wondered where to park our car,
I asked one of the men.
He pulled up his dungarees and said
(At least I think it was) Mhnhnn.

I asked a question, he replied,
With grunts and Mweh's and Hng.
I smiled and nodded - bad idea!
He lunged with a one-tooth grin.

They pointed to a derelict barn,
We parked and locked up tight.
Three folk on rocking chairs looked on,
Five eyes all left and right.

The smell was rank and bilious,
It was a filthy, filthy place.
I wondered if we'd ever get out,
Or if the world even knew of this place.

If we were stuck here, just how long
Would the fuzz stay on the trail?
Sixty years, I reckon they'd take,
By then I'd have grown a tail.

The owner knew some words that
I could clearly understand.
His hobbies included scratching, staring,
Scratching and smelling his hand.

We got out in the end, thank God,
And were not chased out of the place.
But if you go to the city farm,
Leave the engine running, just in case.

This is a little poem about a place I had the misfortune to visit with a group I work with. Scary, scary, scary pants - run away, run away, run awaaaayyyyy!

Christening 'N' That.

2009-08-13T11:40:00.010+01:00

Well, the day went off without any arrests, and dear Ruprecht Widdy St. Vitus was named. And no-one got hurt. Aunt Vom and I were a little crestfallen, to tell you the truth, it was a rather stuffy affair with ridiculous bonnets and snakes-bum-in-a-sandstorm smiles. So, to water down my ascerbic tone, I'll describe the christening in verse. And hopefully it will come out nice.

Well, don't we look a happy bunch,
All dressed in black and grey.
All clipped and preened and washed and plucked
For a happy, jolly day.
.
Aunt Bench conditioned her little beard,
And I 'Ped-Egg-ed' my chin.
Folly brought a dead hedgehog,
Aunt Bench put it in the bin.
.
Aunt Mary Jaffa fainted once,
Aunt Turgid read books to some dogs.
Cousin Girda threw an absolute fit,
When she shared my bath with some frogs.
.
Aunt Claymore thought the whole thing crap,
Aunt Gourd did not come at all.
'It's the work of the Devil' she cried down the phone,
And ran and hid in the hall.
.
Aunt Weevil made the christening robe,
From Balsa and Scot's Pine.
Uncle Colobus disapproved of anything wood,
Then the priest got us all in a line.
.
We walked to the barn with the phoney priest,
A one-man-band led the way -
Playing 'Who Do You Think You Are Kidding, Mr Hitler'
And an excerpt of 'Whip-Crack-Away'.
.
When the childs name was first read out,
A snigger came from Aunt Vom.
Then Aunt Blenny spun round and glared at her,
So she quickly sat up with aplomb.
.
Then, amazed I was at the Godmother -
As Folly's name was called out by the priest.
What possessed the lunatic pair?
To trust a thirdwit with their snotty beast?
.
Uncle Truss was snivelling proudly,
And wiped his nose on his wife.
And worst of all, on their family side -
Scrofula is awfully rife.
.
Mrs Stiff Black Hat with her earrings,
Called for a church bash, with one finger jabbing.
A knife then appeared from under Vom's skirts,
But I stopped her, I couldn't do with a stabbing.
.
At the end of the day, the photo's were done,
But we were not asked to join in.
So the black suits and pursed lips sat together
Looking like they'd collectively sat on a pin.
.
Back to my hedge for some drinkies,
And their noses turned up at the door.
They weren't comfy in my little hovel,
With the webs and the leaves on the floor.
.
Stiff Black Hat doesn't like cuckoo spit,
And the hessian crackers weren't nice.
But the Old Earwig's Reserve went down lovely,
And stopped them all moaning about mice.
.
After six long long hours they left,
Young Ruprecht happily screaming away,
His beloved moustache was shaved off,
He'd pined for it most of the day.
.
Thank Heavens they're going at last,
I couldn't be polite if they'd lingered.
As their car drove off into the distance -
All us girls held up one middle finger.
.
Well, that was nice, wasn't it...?
(For those unfamiliar with the product, a 'Ped-Egg' is the cheese gratery thing you use for extra hard skin on your feet. No affiliation.)

Bright Shiny 'Fings' - Award Time

2009-08-07T22:40:00.006+01:00

It's award time again! Apparently, if you wish to accept the award the rules of acceptance are:

List five current "obsessions".

Pass the award on to five other fabulous blogs.

On your post of receiving this award make sure you include the person that gave you the award and link back to them.

When you list your five winners of the award make sure you link back to them.

Let your five winners know they are in receipt of the award by leaving a comment on their blogs.

I had a lovely awardy-pressie from Menopausal Musing which I've got on the sideboard over there >>.
Nice isn't it. When the hedge gets windy in the autumn, it'll be kept in the cheese box for safety. I like Menopausal Musing, her blog has a familiar, social feel to it whilst being absolutely alive with texture, colour and all sorts of lovely things.

Alright - my five current obsessions.

1) The worrying question of sultanas and their rightful place within muesli - a valid position? Or outdated?

2) Brian Blessed - he is a legend in the world of shrieking (he is on advanced booming Level 3 NVQ)

3) Cowpats. I'm always thinking of them. They are so versatile. One minute a slightly damp frisbee, the next - a fashionable hat.

4) My heartthrob, Mr E.B. Farnum from the TV series 'Deadwood'....the man's hot stuff.

5) Poking things down holes with my favourite stick. It doesn't matter how many times I get stung, chased or arrested, I will never surrender my poking/thwacking stick to any cozzer/man with growly dog.

6) Men in 1800's combinations with the trapdoor at the back....and no I can't count.

Now, I shall be passing these on to five folks I like.....

Alcoholinky because her blog is filled with some lovely vintage images, with the most beautiful colours you can imagine. Her work definitely displays the moods she's captured so well.

Mimilove as her blog has serious cowbell! Go look at her green and yellow cow! Her work is full of colour, and so clever, go take a peek. You'll be a regular visitor.

The Nature Of Woodpeckers because Professor Yaffle is a splendid chap. His wonderful descriptions of wildlife in and around his garden are enchanting - and his fabulously silly comments on my blog are worthy of a book on their own.

Facts Are Strictly Optional Great stuff! The most ascerbic wit you'll find on Blogger, the woman cracks me up and has my sympathies with life in general. Whenever I think I'm being taken for a soft touch, I read her blog and get my bovver boots on.

Jane And The Happy Crow Again, a beautiful mixture of all sorts of lovely treasures, whether artwork, photographs or 'bits'. A lovely blog, and it has the word 'Crow' in the title, which is what drew me to it.

Right, you five, take your awards and go make a crumpet, a pot of tea, and sit and enjoy in a self-congratulatory way. Perfect your smugness by studying this photo. Especially the bugger on the left...

St Vitus Has A New Arrival.....God Help Us!

2009-07-28T10:42:00.008+01:00

This is what happens when two people are attracted to each other across a crowded room.......
Last week, my yoghurt pot phone was ringing it's string off, only to convey the cheery news (!) that there is a new addition to the St Vitus clan. That means I've got to go into John Lewis again and nick another christening robe. After the problems I've had with the filth, I reckon they've got a bloody cheek asking.

Aunt Blenny and Uncle Truss (pictured), met two years ago at a Wasp Hiding Course in Hemel Hempstead. Apparently their eyes met and, after his spastic colon pains subsided and Blen stopped singing, they got on like a house on fire. They married in a coal-hole three weeks later, and I was allowed to be bridesmaid with my bestest brown sack poncho thingy and pretty wooden shoes. I even had some goosegrass fashioned into a lovely Sticky Bob ball to hold, and a plantain in my hair. It was rather sickly affair, they are both a bit wet to be blatantly truthful. And there is nothing manly about Truss.

They had a bloody baby. A boy. They've already got one boy, Dimity - a child with too much snot in my opinion. And now we have Ruprecht Widdy St. Vitus. Aunt Vom nearly choked when she heard the name, then cacked herself laughing. Aunt Mary-Jaffa thinks it's sweet. And Aunt Turgid is still preoccupied with her lizards. Aunt Weevil reckons the baby will turn out to be a deviant....? I must ask her on her reasons behind that thinking. Aunt Gourd thinks it's unnatural, as there was no bread van to deliver the baby - she's written the whole thing off as the work of the devil and won't be attending the christening.

Great Uncle Colobus will be pleased as he often said marital couplings should involve BOTH parties.. He thought Truss wouldn't produce a child as he always did it on his own, so that Blen wouldn't have to down tools (pardon the pun) and stop cleaning.

The rellies are coming over from Crackton-on-Butt in the next hour, I've got 62 baps to butter and a vat of Old Earwigs Reserve. It will have to do. Aunt Bench is feeling broody apparently and spent a lot of time at the docks in hope of jiggy-jiggy. My palms are slick with dread at the thought. Just as I asked if she could cope with another one, Folly managed to blow her feet off in the garden after playing with some cotton reels and some old semtex. I rest my case. The only time Bench 'rode the hobby horse' with anyone, she became infatuated, wrote him six love letters each day, and followed him everywhere until the old bill told her not to. And that was thirty-two years ago.

But I couldn't let you go without seeing Ruprecht. The little darling. We will be welcoming him to the town, by marching in a line behind a one-man-band. Then when we get to the barn, the backstreet bishop will perform the service. He's not a real bishop, but he's good at fishing, and Uncle Colobus slipped him a bit of bunce for his troubles. Ruprecht takes after his mother, with a fine moustache already in place.
Born at three years old, he can already tie his shoes (which he came out wearing), and is a marvel with quadratic equations. I might ask him about the woodchuck question.

SOS! I've Committed Tortoisecide!!!!

2009-07-13T22:12:00.008+01:00

Made the gravest mistake today -
Folly is off on a Hiding Weekend
With the 'Nervous Branch' of the Girl Scouts.
Bench got all 'hissy' on the yoghurt pot phone and
I was conned into agreeing to look after Wesley.
Wesley is a Tortoise.
He looks like Douglas Hurd, thinking about something very carefully.
I'm so frustrated as he doesn't 'do' anything.
Well he did, at first. But he's gone dreadfully quiet.
Bench should have had him, as it's her daughter's pet.
But she's at a spa this week with Aunt Claymore and Cousin Girda.
Aunt Claymore is being waxed, Cousin Girda is being waned, and
Bench is having some conditioning jollop carded into her beard.
So I'm lumbered with a sedentary tortoise. He doesn't like fun.
I decided to ditch the 'flinging' idea at two o'clock, in the
Hope he might like some music,
So I put on La Tapatia radio from Mexico,
But he didn't move.
Then I did shadow puppets, made a batman mask by turning my
Hands up the wrong way over my eyes, and did the hand trick 'Here is the church,
Here is the steeple...' but the little shelled sod gave bugger all.
So I thought - food.
I had flageolet beans with goat's rue and tree bark for dinner.
And thought he might like some..........................

WHAT AM I GOING TO TELL THEM!?!?!?
My shrieking classes start in a week, and I'll be done for Tortoisecide.
Imprisoned for taking the life of a small rough dry thing (by mistake), but
It won't stand up with the Cozzers.
I can't use the 'hibernation' excuse, as I did that with the last one.
I can't say he ran away, as he's got a tracker built by NASA.
I can't say he's dead because Bench will get Vom to get a
Triad to kill me.
Need options.
Have killed tortoise with either flageolet beans, goat's rue or tree bark.
Or all three.

I've blown the candles out, I'm sitting in my hedge with an emergency torch
And the Radio Times and some Bovril, because I'm in hiding until I
Know what to do. I've also got my hands over my eyes so no-one can see me.
If anyone has any suggestions, please tell me - I've still got time on my side.
Bench isn't back for three days, and Folly's weekend hiding only ends
When someone finds her.

Yours in fearful imancipation,
MAB

p.s. if anyone could post some Jaffa Cakes I'd be well chuffed. And if you have a
yoghurt pot phone, my number is St Vitus 201 (I'm on O2, so they'll fleece you for the call).

Note: The phrase 'conditioning jollop' is courtesy of mimilove whose blog has serious cowbell, man!

Ode To Father - Mr Scrimpton Buff-Orpington-Brown

2009-07-06T22:20:00.003+01:00

I will explain a few things about father,
He is known to many in town.
Trebollocks would be blander without him,
Mr Scrimpton Buff-Orpington-Brown.
His eyebrows sweep rubbish from the streets,
He's erratic and changes directions.
He is a master woodworker, but strangely,
No-one wants to see his erections.
The smell of his clothing is legendary,
Like cats pee mingled with cloves.
He likes to break wind in the library -
And send out the public in droves.
Everything is labelled with Dymo,
Even the Dymo labeller itself.
It's kept in a box marked with Dymo,
On a clearly marked ricketty shelf.
He knows when the freezer was defrosted,
By a Dymo label, he's told.
But he doesn't know the fridge-life of cheddar,
As the date is obscured by grey mould.
The man has pamphlets on everything -
From scrofula to chronic amnesia.
And he's been up to Slimbridge ten more times
Than a Canada Goose with a Visa.
Proper poetry must always rhyme,
Or he's totally unblattidly appalled.
Pam Ayres rules, Plath is pants,
and Spike Milligan had no talent at all.
To build his collection of objects,
He fishes strange things from a skip.
Then keeps them ten years for good measure,
And takes them off down to the tip.
Famous he is, and a legend in town -
He's unbeaten in oddness by far.
And he'll offer you a lift, when it's raining,
If he remembers where he parked the car....

Gran Canaria Tortuga Bonanza!

2009-06-24T20:18:00.016+01:00

!Gran Canaria Tortuga Bonanza!

Hola! Mantequilla! Zapatos! Orificio Nasal!
'Tortuga' is Spanish for tortoise, I'm told, so it's my new word. I'm home after a whirlwind surprise holiday in sunny Gran Canaria. I won a prize after entering a competition on a box of fly papers and answered the following question correctly....'When is it considered acceptable to electrocute a sleeping relative?'. And would you believe.... Jolly Dee! I won! (Weev is fuming as I tore up her entry and copied her answer, she's now telling everyone I was in the nick - no doubt she'll get me back...my wart insurance is due for renewal soon...)

I flew out from St Vitus on a sort of pedaloe with wings, and sat next to the gunner. It was a pleasant flight, with the bugs hitting my goggles and a crap view of the sea. I landed in Bahia Feliz in the early hours of Sunday 14th. The temperature was still very warm, and I found a new level of stench in my sack attire. Nice.
My company was fabulous, a collection of ten of us who enjoyed annoying other tourists, eating everything in sight, and drinking almost anything that was labelled (and some things that weren't). We haggled in markets with the looky-looky men selling dreadful sunglasses, swam in crystal blue pools (a far cry from the ditch I live near), and poked fun a people changing under small beach towels.

Well, the bonanza was fabulous. Juan de la Vega (left) was there with his matador act. He is my hero. I got his autograph, and he shook my hand. I shall not wash it again, although he washed his very quickly after. He was mildly impaled by one tortoise, but it was only a flesh wound. We were hoping for something more, as the Arguineguin Tortoise Flingers were late, and the act was getting a little stale.

The Arguineguin Tortoise Flingers finally arrived, and broke not only a Canarian record, but a World Flinging record of 320.8ft. The longest fling in history since Edward II had a go, and fibbed about the result.
After tortoises are launched off the cliff, they gather at the bottom to come back up and take their places for the next flinger. This picture is a birds-eye view of the lift coming back up after the first round. The tortoises pictured are multi-lingual, and are all sponsored by Speedo and San Miguel beer.

This was the picture I took of Juan de la Vega's tortoise, after it went on the rampage. It is a particularly aggressive species and broke free of its moorings several times. It ate an old lady called Renata. The x-ray I saw clearly shows her in the beasts stomach, still knitting away. Bless.
Apparently it had been fed peanut kit-kat in addition to breakfast, and that is not a good idea.

Then we had music. First were the Fataga Reptile Orchestra accompanied by a small singing gecko from Sioux City. Next up was a variation on 'Lip Up Fatty' from the Maspalomas Naked Singing Troupe....nuff said - a little twee for my tastes. Then we were charmed by these two delightful children, Maria and Miguel Vileda, played the tortoise for us. Maria is pictured tuning the tortoise, while Miguel is on standby to hold the legs and begin playing.
Although this picture seems full of jollity, I was suspicious that it was a case of the children fulfilling the dream of the parents. Maria confided to me that all she wanted in life was a bloody Nintendo DS.
Miguel didn't comment. His face says it all.

So, I finally flew back in to good old Blighty on Sunday, and they didn't even bother to land. Just pushed me out over the airport with only my double chin as a parachute. Charming. Passport control below got very crabby when I 'didn't look like my photo', and it appears that my unshaven appearance had fooled them. I usually keep a smooth chin (despite the odd habits of my sisters), and a three inch of growth like a pampas grass meant I was immediately whisked off to an office for interrogation as to the whereabouts of thirty pounds of semtex. At that point, I remembered last month that I couldn't find my passport. At the same time, Aunt Vom had been on a 'weapons run' to Ineedastahn, and I just bloody knew she'd stitched me up.
Well, after a bribe with some Honey Rum laced with cuckoo spit, and a naked picture of Jeremy Spake, the customs bugger let me in.

I hope to be back in good old G.C. soon, and take my perfected shrieking act to the Spanish masses. You never know, if you're familiar with the island, you may well see a haggard, warty, stinking old bat shrieking professionally one day from the top of Roque Nublo. Pip pip and glad to be back with you all! Missed you like buggery....well, not quite like that.

Aunt Bench Of The Week!

2009-06-05T20:57:00.004+01:00

It's Friday and it's 'Bench Of The Week', so for those among you who've not met her - here is Aunt Bench.

Aunt Bench is one of my elder sisters, and lives in East Bung, with her only daughter, Folly. Bench has never quite recovered from a difficult birth experience, as Folly was delivered by tractor pulling. Even now, the trauma has left Bench with a terrible addiction to licking fly papers, and we frequently find her slumped by the pantry cupboards, stuck to several sheets of it, in a state of delirium.

Folly is now 32, but I fear Bench will always feel the need to leave her under the beady eye of Mrs Coddy, who in my opinion is like the SS branch of neighbourhood watch. Bench enjoys several hobbies, including staring at people in public, beard shows, barking classes, quilling and looking at the letter 'o' (some folk really are odd, you know).

As a young child, she was a skilled competitor in our local dance competitions, and would frequently wow judges with her own slant on the St Vitus Dance, a regional favourite. Her fears and phobias include brown windsor soup, question marks, woad, and Folly, her daughter. She has favoured the more delicate beard, in contrast to Vom and Turgid, who do not like using the thinning scissors. Bench likes the feminine look, which also causes her to wear sleeves as she does not care to display her Navy tattoos in public.

As a member of the RSPB, she fosters abandoned wrens, which she allows to nest in her hair. The bun allows them warmth, shelter, and security. When on a bus into town, or in the vets to get her jabs, you could be forgiven for thinking she's innocently adjusting a hairpin, when actually she is often posting in a mealworm that she's stealthily taken from her handbag to feed her adopted brood. Also a member of Crow Lovers United, she has made an effort to learn their language. She is often observed on other people's television aerials 'kaaarking' her head off, stealing chip papers from bins and rampaging across car parks to rip off windscreen seals with her 'pretend' beak.

A fascinating, odd, troubled soul. Many a time I could cheerfully take a plank of wood to her, but that's family. Well, it's mine, at any rate. But although, like Bagpuss, she is a baggy, and bit loose at the seams, Emily loved him. And we love Bench.

Toad Rubbing and Other Delights

2009-06-01T15:10:00.008+01:00

Well! What a week of glee...it was my birthday on Saturday, and dear Weevil paid for us to go to the Toad Fondling Festival in Maiden-Up-The-Duff, Fife. She's so thoughtful, and knows exactly what sort of birthday treat I like. The weather was perfect, we took a picnic and sang songs of plague and pestilence on the way!

The festival was marvellous, so many exhibitors. The West Wankel Wood Turners were there and there was quite a tense atmosphere before we knew what they were going to turn the wood into. It was wine! That set the day off with a bang! I was three sheets to the wind before 10.00AM and had received my first police warning by half past. Weevil was bladdered before I picked her up that morning.

We started the day with a visit to the Trebollocks Toad Rubbing Association and said hello to a few acquaintances (after a short trip to the Gin Tent). It's become quite the new sport, with specialist glove stands everywhere that have caught onto the craze and charge the earth.
Safety levels were at a maximum, with a small St Vitus Ambulance stall next door. They had a special poison unit attached which has been a godsend at past festivals when I've taken Folly with me. She will not learn to hold toads without licking them. Bloody tongue the size of an avocado, but never mind - that's forgotten.
I did learn from Professor Rimsky-Spatula that a highly rubbed toad can be jettisoned from the hands at speeds of up to 150km/hr. The spectacle in the rubbing arena was phenomenal. Only two fainted, and only one black eye from a flying toad.

The Quedgeley Toad Balancers were there, too. A mainly male organisation that specialised in spoon balancing on noses and other body parts - they have just branched out into toads to jump on the band wagon.
I do think they are rather arrogant with their 'UK Champion' banner as they've not won anything yet. Such arseholes plague these events.

However, one young lad from our neck of the woods balanced this toad for 52 hours which was most impressive. He only put him down by mistake when someone handed him a Guinness. I took a photo.

There weren't many tortoise flingers this year, I was so terribly disappointed and so was Weevil. She really kicked of big style. The organisers told her that she should calm her temper and stop spitting, and then a policeman appeared so we wandered off hastily for another gin. Good job Aunt Vom wasn't there, really.
The only one flinging our shelled-reptile friends was an elderly lady of 84, who didn't seem very focused on where she was flinging the tortoises. They seemed to just whizz off into the woods, the next field, and the boot of someone's motor car. Weev said it was pointless but I think the local children enjoyed it.

And this photo (left) is Derek. He is the champion toad, trained by Mrs Nora Chunderly of the Gloucestershire Toad & Frog Rubbers. It's a very shiny toad, as she has rubbed him every day since he grew legs. I was fascinated by the range of noises he makes when he takes off. It was like a bullet from a gun.
On propulsion, he will go from 0 to 60 in 5 seconds which is a British world record.
She gave a talk in the afternoon, not really sure what it was about though. I was pretty bollocksed by then and Weev was asleep under the table.

But all in all, a wonderful day. I am going home with my new toad-rubbing manual to try some new techniques. All I need is some almond oil apparently......

Aunt Vom's Poem From Worthing Nick

2009-05-21T23:30:00.001+01:00

This is Aunt Vomica. She's the next sister below me. I am posting on behalf of her as she has been writing poetry to pass the time in Worthing nick after an altercation with an MP. We've always been close, but her behaviour is volatile and trying at times. Vom doesn't like our youngest sibling, Mary-Jaffa. It's because Mary-Jaffa is weak willed and delicate - she has a huge satsuma fear. So Vom pelts her with them at christmas and loves hiding them in her stocking. Mary-Jaffa faints, and the only thing that can bring her round is the smell of satsumas. Well, on waking, and being faced with a satsuma, she faints again. This goes on for months sometimes. It's a pain in the arse quite frankly but we love her dearly, you see.
Anyway - this was the poem she sent me, apparently it's called 'MP Scum and Violence Pays'.

I'm stuck in Worthing nick,
After lamping an MP.
His manner evoked the sharpest anger
Which I demonstrated forthwith.
He really took a liberty, expecting favours for free -
He got a Glasgow Kiss,
And a shoeing,
And a bony knee in the knackers.
I was furious, notwithstanding, and became outraged when
He called the cozzers.
The constabulary pulled us apart,
MP shouted 'lunatic' and 'freak'.
And I shouted 'Shut yer mouth, yer poncy twat' - which was not recieved well.
I became upset, emotional and feminine. And wished I had a gun or a thunderflash.
Then I remembered.
I pulled forth a chinese throwing star from under my skirt.
The filth didn't see that coming -
Neither did he. Took his ear off.
They said apologise, I said no.
They said - APOLOGISE, and I said - NO.
MP stood there and couldn't hear a bloody thing, bless him.
Well, if you want to claim expenses for a second-duckpond-owlhospital-fairycave-parquetfloorforthefishbowl-eggcoddler-cricketersbox-wigforthemotherinlaw....that's up to you, robbing git.
But don't expect a freebee from a woman on an innocent night out at the docks who's motto is 'Arse to all and I cheat at poker by spiking drinks'....
Well, that explanation didn't help.
I may be in the nick, and maybe MP thinks he's beaten me -
But he's the one with the bruises
and the headache,
and the limp
and a nose like a Fruit Winder.
And his expenses published on the internet.
Aaahthankyou.

Letter from Aunt Bench About Folly's...well..Moods

2009-05-20T13:32:00.000+01:00

I've had another letter from Bench this morning, dated two days (!) after Folly went home. The cheek of the woman exasperates me so I apologise for the clipped tone of this post but I really am as mad as a cut snake.

Why she comes to me I don't know, perhaps I am a soft touch? Are the luxuries of my draughty hedge-home too inviting? My hessian crackers and gin breakfasts too tempting? Whatever it is, I shall stop at once. My mother once said - Family are the most precious things, Bern, but remember they won't ALL fit under a patio.

This is the letter.....

Kindest Dearest Bestest B,
I need to ask a favour, dear. Folly is really trying my patience - I've had to call in some lumberjacks to tie her to a dining chair as she's had one of her heads on. To cut a long story short, she's poured custard into all my shoes and hidden small incendiary devices all over the house. Aunt Weevil and Doctor Prong have suggested I get away, so I will come to stay if the idea does not rankle with you?
Notwithstanding, it is quite doing my nut in, dear. I can't go to Aunt Vom as she's still in the nick, and Mary-Jaffa is unconscious. So I'm coming for a few -------- (typically, this part was illegible). As the carriage journey is so long, I've written this six days before I
leave so I should be with you in ten minutes.
Folly is being observed by our neighbour, Mrs Coddy, a dear soul. She can see our house from hers, since Folly stole the 7ft hedge last month. Well, see you shortly, pop a gin in a glass for me and I'll bring the hemlock shortbread.
Pip pip, and tatty bye
-Bench

The woman is absolutely the limit. Folly should have been encouraged to move out now that she's finished playgroup. For a girl of thirty-two, she should be doing normal things - vandalism, fighting and shrieking. I will write to Aunt Vom in Worthing nick - she is the fiesty one and will know how to advise. She sorts out a lot of her problems with something called Chinese throwing stars and Colt.45's, and swears by them. Perhaps she can put one in the post.

It's a pity about the mix-up with the cozzers, she's so unlucky with mistaken identity - it's the eighth time now. Well, no doubt it well get sorted out, they'll find they've got the wrong person, and the MP's ear can be put back on. He shouldn't have put in that £3,487 claim for a platypus sanctuary that doesn't exist, anyway.

An Unexpected Diary Entry...

2009-05-13T20:43:00.000+01:00

I do not usually approve of things with diary entries (in case you read anything highly alarming or rude), but I thought I should include one today. This week has been a horror! My laptop is playing up, the socket at the base of the tree I use has blown a piffle-fuse, I've had raging Weevil Flu, and it seems my sister, Bench (near left), has forgotten to come and collect her daughter who arrived for a week - over a month ago. I have written her a letter, and I'm posting the response I got this morning.

Dearest Bernard,

I am so glad you wrote, dear! Poor Folly! I'd had this nagging feeling that I had mislaid something. It was only when I read your letter that I realised that it wasn't the pinking shears I'd lost, but my own darling child! Do send her back, dear, and I am so sorry to have been such an imposition.

You know it's been a trial for me since she was born, and I honestly thought now she'd turned thirty that things would get easier. Tell me, has she grown much?

I await her return eagerly,

Love and apologies,

Bench

Well, I became a little exasperated of her at this point. Bench is terribly selfish, and gets so absorbed in the Weasel Stretching Foundation that she doesn't give a second thought to others. But I'm not entirely unsympathetic. Folly (above far left) is a treasure, but she's dreadfully thick for a girl her age, and playing with traps and poisonous spiders in the garden is asking for disaster. Only yesterday, she set fire to her own shoes then pushed them into a letterbox (the public one - so you can imagine I'm wondering if my letter to Bench has been collected at all!) Well, I can't do much more about it this evening, so we'll have a pleasant dinner. I've got an adder or two left in the freezer and some chicory that needs polishing off so I'll create something Marco Pierre White would be in awe of. Perhaps.

Aunt Turgid's Grand Day

2009-05-12T12:19:00.000+01:00

It was while she was in Turkey in 1902,

That Aunt Turgid found her gift, her calling.

To dispel boredom during a thunderstorm and a verucca outburst,

she began reading a child's book (Rare Infectious and Tropical Diseases).

Backwards, as it sounded better, and you could still look at the pictures.

Well, amidst the flashes of lightning, men selling carpets, smoking bubbly things,

and verucca socks,

A massive audience of lizards assembled before her.

They sat on warm rocks, tails up and wagging, eagerly awaiting the next sentence.

After a back to front chapter on Laughing Death and complications with rigour mortis,

The lizards grew in number to 650.

The more she read, the more lizards arrived.

The lizards carried away the little man with his overpriced rug (if you bought one, you were robbed!), discarded chairs, tables and tipped over a swimming pool.

By tea time, there were 3000 lizards, paying close attention to the procedure for

Restraining rabid husbands with dog bites (in reverse, you understand - so the more she read, the healthier people seemed to be).

When it was time for her to return to England, the lizards followed. And overran West Sussex.

The council was pretty crabby about it for sometime, until Aunt Weevil built a pen in the garden.

I don't know where she got all the bloody wood from, but there you go.

Lazy Witches

2009-05-03T20:13:00.000+01:00

Turn off 'Hells Kitchen' at once!
And get the toads off your lap.
Do some housework.
We're in such a state -
The cobwebs have got their own rent book,
And the bats are now on the electoral roll.
Tidy up your cloaks from the floor,
And put the cauldron in the dishwasher.
You've left runes all over the bloody garden again,
And stop using your tarot cards for poker matches.
Sweep up with your broom, heaven knows you can't be bothered to fly it anywhere.
Bloody student witches, whether still in their teens or
Our the mature 75 yr old student, you're all a plague.
Whether Maiden or Crone, your habits vex me.
You both dye hair purple.
You both have the telly too loud.
Both of you are deaf 'at times'.
One of you thinks I'm untrendy.
The other thinks I'm 'newfangled'.
One thinks I nag,
The other thinks 'too soft'.
Well..... Empty house spell, here I come,
So, pick up your brooms and away.
I've brought in the hemlock and vodka and coal and...oh, yes..C4 plastic explosive.
And you'll no longer annoy me at all.
Why people get scared of a witch at 50 going through the change, I will never know.

Broke My Bike - An account of a Cycle Dive by my dear friend, Prof Reddish

2009-04-29T15:18:00.000+01:00

Mother is cross with me,
I broke my new bike.
We went to Worthing Pier -
such a marvellous day.
I came out of my bathing shelter
In my new combination costume.
It was a hit with the ladies,
I can tell you.
Well, naturally,
I rode Off the pier.
Like you do.
Now the bike is broken, because
I landed on the largest recorded
Turbot in history.
He is cross with me also.

(You wouldn't believe the bloody cheek of the photographer - I had to hold still in mid-air while he took the blasted photo. Well, that's what you get for having a sub-standard camera that comes with it's own cloak.)

Cow Pat

2009-04-28T18:09:00.000+01:00

Cow-pat, Cow-pat
you are flat -
I can't wait till you set.

You're crunchy top
can be picked off -
and turned into a frisbee.

Fling it full force,
at inferior numpties
who frequently cause you grief.

Then run like f**k
before they catch up,
and give you a class A shoeing.

Webbed Feet

2009-04-19T23:19:00.000+01:00

Oi! You!!
Codlegs!!
Stop milking the limelight with your webbed feet!
It's the 100m swimming badge today.
But I'm not scared.
You've got no more badges on your cozzy
Than I have on mine.
So, in the words of my grandfather,
I shall give you a jolly good trouncing.
One minute, you won't take your shoes and socks off.
The next, your the Pavlova of the Public Baths.
Well, I'll beat you. I'll beat you, my friend.
They should never have twinned Slimbridge with Nempnett Thrubwell.
It was a social argument waiting to happen.

For Arseholes Everywhere

2009-04-19T22:41:00.000+01:00

(kind of need to sing this to 'The Sun Has Got His Hat On)

You're head's stuffed up your bottom,
Your head is not quite right?
You've had a cob on all day long,
You're looking for a fight.

Tra-la-la-la-la-la,
Hee-he-he-he-he,
Run into my bunched up fist and
Mind my bended knee.

This is dedicated to arseholes everywhere. Read this and remember those who've touched your lives by annoying the living crap out of you. Rejoice at their utter utter stupidity, at their thoughtlessness and their unrelenting drivel. The unforgettable ones who steal your recycling bin, who let their dog poo on your lawn, who ruin your work day with stories of heartrending details of divorce or heartache. Bless. Bless their hearts. And bless yours by buying a crossbow.

Bumped Into Father In Town

2009-04-14T20:25:00.000+01:00

Ah, can you stop for a minute?
Well, I don't want to hold you up, but -
I've been talking to a man - you know the one,
called Bert
his wife,
Eileen - VERRRY ugly,
is eighty seven and has a wooden buttock. You've seen it.
Marvellous for her age.
Oldest woman in Trebollocks with a Glider's License.
And her son has a glass eye.
Well you know I told you about their eldest son, Bunstable -
well his new French wife, Sardine -
She's French.
And she knows an incredible amount of things about Trout.
She did a day course at Bibury Fish Farm,
where she got an honours in Fish Fondling. She's sought after,
But unemployed cos it's not the sort of thing you admit to, you know?
Well, I've got a leaftlet on it, if you want.
Anyway, I'll push off, got some pickled onions on the go and the cat needs a perm.

Woodchuck Work Ratio - For The Mathematically Minded

2009-04-09T15:07:00.001+01:00

This is a very hard sum, worked out for Heather, who commented on the fact that I should not ask questions about woodchucks and their work ratio with out the backup of advanced mathematics.

Pah!

Well, I've got the measure of you, lady, with your fancy ways! So, here is a very hard sum. I have calculated that 612 over 35-7 for the thing, needs to be timesed by a 4% drop in activity on a 16min tea break. Then times by a 124 degree beak ratio over a wide angle of 631.444 doobreys, divide by Widdy, and add the number of wankel rotary engines in a seven mile radius over a log pile of 619.

The result is: A woodchuck can clear 6 logs, 4 twigs, and clear 2 piles of leaf litter when he's almost finished.

(And yes, I have shown my workings!!! :-P)

Tortoises And Their Place In The Woodwind Section

2009-04-09T10:53:00.000+01:00

In the 1950's, before electronic guitars really took off, children were encouraged by music teachers to take up the tortoise. It takes two people to play a tortoise, as demonstrated in the picture.

One holds the body of the tortoise, the other manipulates the legs and taps the outer shell slightly and the fabulous effect is a deep sustained booming noise much like the bassoon.

Tortoises in the orchestra have never really received the credit they deserve, and they are very small so you cannot see them being played from an auditorium. They also do not appear in many orchestral performances as their fees are bloody exorbitant. However, if you are at a Wagner performance, look the the bassoon player very carefully. There is very often a hidden tortoise at the end of his bassoon.

Uncle Stinky's Ear Trumpet - on being offered a cup of tea

2009-04-04T22:03:00.000+01:00

WHAT? WHAT?
I can't hear you, speak UP!!!
A Bee?
Would I like? What?
A Wee? No, I've had one.
A Bee? Why would I need a Bee? For heavens' sake, I swear these people are funny in the head.
A Knee?
Knee. Knee?
No, I can't hear you.
The end of my trumpet is blocked with wax.
But I could do with a cup of tea, though. You haven't offered one for a while.

Buggers

2009-04-04T22:02:00.001+01:00

How dare you disrespect me?
You run me over on the zebra crossing.
Well, I tell you laddie,
I was at the Battle of Culloden
And I've aged a bit since then.
So I'll get you next time with your go-faster car,
and I'll tweak yer thrackles with a spiny spoon.

Brolly

2009-04-04T21:58:00.000+01:00

Those dreaded words -
drifting to our fearful ears through the garage door.
'Don't go out and buy a new one.....I can mend it!'
OH DOOM!! and deep bits with disaster!

Poor broken umbrella, very poorly, but not quite deaded.
Now you face you're worst nightmare.
You are grabbed and carted into the garage.
He is striding his death march - armed with
tape and glue and string and a snorkel and a dingy and oars.
Then hours later - he emerges with the proud smile.
'I've mended it!'
You've become a bent metal spider on a deformed cloth frame- pitiful.
Once a defender of raindrops and icy winds,
Now - well, I fear for you, Brolly.
A clattering, ricketty mess.
You fought the battle of the January storms of '87.
But the electrical tape, and the bailer twine has broken you, my friend.
Poor brolly. Father mended you.

Aunt Claymore's Here!!

2009-04-04T21:40:00.001+01:00

Oh rapturous Joy! You're here to stay!
And a whole week again?
I'm smiling with my smiley smile,
and forced 'I'm thrilled' face - but secretly thinking 'bugger'.
And all the while I help you with your bags,
And your hats and boxes and cupboards,
I'm thinking - Shit, I just know you've bought that bloody tortoise.

The Serious Note and Squirrel

2009-04-04T21:36:00.000+01:00

On a deeply serious note - sat a squirrel.
The note was written on parchment,
and had been blown by a desk fan into the street from a window.
There wasn't much written, to be honest,
just,
'O my deepest love - how the very fibre of my trousers rattle for you -
Just nipped up the bookies, back in 30 mins. Cheers.'
The squirrel, upon realising it wasn't for him,
Used it as a shopping list.

Mary Table

2009-04-04T21:34:00.000+01:00

Mary Table with your feet,
and hip and wooden eyes,
we know your coming round the corner
from your moans and heavy sighs.
At the bus stop you're the worst by far
much poorlier than the rest,
then you cough and retch all over us
and you don't even wear a vest.
With a Vicks Sinex up every nose,
and a Lemsip who knows where?
dressings and plasters on everything
and hot water bottles in your underwear.
Don't fly or you'll get 'DVD's' you say,
and the train gives you the flu,
and as for the woman dead from pneumonia,
she didn't have it as bad as you.
You're a medical oddity, you really are,
with the St. Vitus Dance you still stood,
and the Christmas Cholera you had last year,
that didn't stop you eating xmas pud.
You'll always have something dreadful,
a rash, or a deadly racking cough.
but be thankful you're still alive,
and that none of your bits have dropped off.

Local Interest (well, vaguely)

2009-04-04T21:33:00.000+01:00

Stroud, pipsticks, sandpit, clap,
Dursley, tunicle, wig.
Oxford A40, gourdy, wentletrap,
Chipping Sodbury, crumhorn, Fig.

Woodchuck

2009-04-04T21:32:00.000+01:00

Ok, I have been wondering about the Age Old Question.

How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

Before you submit comments, please consider the following....

1) How much wood needs to be chucked.
2) The strength of the woodchuck.
3) The working conditions of the woodchuck. (i.e. has he had a tea-break? are the weather conditions favourable? etc,.)
4) How exactly he would tackle the task. (i.e. a bird with no actual hands and could not easily operate a forklift)

Spider

2009-04-04T21:31:00.000+01:00

Spider
Is that you on the floor?
Doing your trundly dance?
Eight legs and eight hobnail boots
That hold me in fearful trance.

Spider
Is that you on the shelf?
Spying down at me?
Eyes on stalks and hairy legs
You move not naturally.

Spider
Is that you on my head?
Oh Shit! Yes! I am right!
Now you're flat 'cos I've hit you with my shoe
And my visions full of flashing lights.

Weevils

2009-03-19T16:41:00.000Z

You old lady with your deep cupboards
buy some airtight things.
There's an army of weevils
in your flour -
and you haven't seen the worst.
You think that's your husband in the front room,
but look a bit closer, old thing.
It's a giant weevil,
with a pipe and glasses.
And he's posing as your husband.
Did you not notice the six legs?
Or the slippers on just two of the feet?
And what about the dangling nose -
hidden by the newspaper it's reading?
Cast out your weevils before it's too late,
or your council tax will go up.
And your neighbours will moan, that their
Ryvita's are infested and no-one will ring your
doorbell.

Tortoise Day

2009-03-19T15:48:00.000Z

It's Tortoise Day, hooray hooray
I wish you'd come out of your shell.
You've been in hibernation for a
decade or two
although
I haven't stopped
to check
if you
are
still breathing.

Spontaneous Human Combustion

2009-01-28T08:08:00.001Z

I got very angry yesterday,
With my neighbours outrageous claims -
That I was a drug lord hiding from the fuzz,
So I flipped and burst into flames.

Haddock

2009-01-22T23:02:00.000Z

When there are people on my wick -
I pick up a fresh cold Haddock.
And hit them.

Tortoise II

2009-01-21T01:06:00.000Z

Tortoise get back in your box
and tuck in your little feet.
The grandchildren are coming for lunch,
And last time they played WW2,
and you didn't want to be a landmine.

Heavy Coat

2009-01-21T01:01:00.000Z

I was born in 1850,
Not yesterday like you think.
So you don't fool me with your pleading
About posting this heavy coat to Aunt Bench.
The buttons make it much too heavy you shriek,
And the weight will increase the price.
I'll cut them off like you think best,
But I won't send them seperately like you say.
So I've put them in the pockets instead.
The scales won't know where they are, will they?

Mastodon In The Backyard

2009-01-21T00:39:00.001Z

Oh! Come quick! It's a marvel!
There's a mastodon in the backyard.
I was planting Zinnias in the border,
And a bone popped up out of nowhere.
I thought it was part of something very large,
Then the penny dropped and I remembered.
I thought I'd lost it forever,
You know how it is when you put something in a safe place for later....

Townhouse

2009-01-20T23:36:00.000Z

Himbu tangit spimwee cloud,
Arthup sandis bot.
Wormo bundis figwind klee,
Townhouse, crumphorn, snot.

Tortoise

2009-01-20T23:24:00.000Z

It is a tortoise day, so I shall write about them...

Tortoise, Tortoise,
Please wake up,
Sister Gerts coming to stay.
And you haven't been out of your shell
Since I fed you a bit of that bhuna.