Wednesday, 15 April 2015
|Throbbington-Trouser: "The deceased are a waste of space"|
Declaring that dead people are 'nothing more than a waste of space' he is now urging government to order the deceased to find gainful employment, or risk losing their holes in the ground.
With space at a premium in the City of Westminster, he has announced that the country can no longer spare the room for all these dead weights and that they 'jolly well ought to start making themselves useful'.
Amid accusations that Nazi Germany had similar ideas, and that their lampshades ought to be examined more closely, Throbbington-Trouser refuted absolutely any assertion that he was a heartless whackjob bastard.
'Why', he intoned to a BBC reporter, 'They could easily get jobs as exam invigilators, or even sit in the House of Lords. They'd fit in immediately.'
Tuesday, 14 April 2015
And first, let me thank all of you who sent their sympathy and wishes for my speedy recovery in the matter of my bad back. I am pleased to say that thanks in no small part to the young man with the wire in his ear who appears to have access to all manner of powerful analgesics, the discomfort has lessened somewhat.
Interestingly, my PA, the ever resourceful Miss Gittins, discovered that I am eligible for the C of E Clerical Physiotherapy Service and last Thursday, a substantial young woman named, if I remember correctly, Gudrun, presented herself, satisfied the young man with the wire in his ear as to her identity and, for want of a better word, attacked me, bending me over one sturdy knee whilst intoning “Ahh, that is good, no?” Eventually, my cries were answered by the young man with the wire in his ear who was able to persuade Gudrun to put me down, by levelling his automatic pistol at her.
Fortunately, no damage seems to have been done and after embarrassed apologies all round, Gudrun made her exit, muttering, “Huh. Must go. Curate. Hackney. Sleeped disc”. After two rather attractively coloured purple tablets from the young man with the wire in his ear, I felt much better, quite elated in fact, and went about my daily round.
In fact, an incident occurred during those duties which I will relate to you now. As I was leaving my private vestry, I sensed someone behind me. I turned and beheld a handsome though troubled-looking man in, I would guess, his forties. He was perspiring slightly and his well-cut suit was rumpled; his corn-yellow tie definitely off centre. He seemed somehow familiar. “Yes?” I said, “How may I help you?” He looked furtive, glancing from right to left then suddenly blurted, “Your Grace, your grace! Everybody hates me. Call me a traitor. They want me out! I’m gonna lose my job! I wonder – can you put in a good word for me with, with, you know….”
At this he pointed to the ceiling. Suddenly, around the corner strode the young man with the wire in his ear, fixed the distressed stranger with an icy gaze and said, “Right, you’ve had your two minutes. Now, on your way!” With a sob, the stranger went. I was staggered. “Who on earth was that?” I asked.
“Oh him?” said the young man with the wire in his ear. “Coughed up 50 notes for the Widows and Orphans Fund for two minutes of your time."
“Yes, yes," I said rather testily, “But who is he?”
“Name of Clegg” came the answer. “Nick Clegg.”
Thursday, 2 April 2015
Please allow me to confess at the outset that these few words reach you via the good offices of the young man with the wire in his ear who not only typed out my wobbling scrawl, but also climbed on to his powerful motor bike and delivered my Thought for the Day to the Pangolin Offices, for I, dear reader, am hors de combat.
I have often heard people say they have a “bad back” and I have thought nothing of it. Not now. It is most unpleasant. My doctor thinks it very unusual for one so wiry and fit to succumb in this way.My lady wife and I regularly engage in somewhat aggressive games of ping pong.
My principles prevent me from seeking private treatment, so I and the young man with the wire in his ear caused something of a stir in the waiting room at St Edna’s, our local NHS hospital. I was asked several times if I’d come to perform the last rites and autographed at least six plastered arms and legs.
And so, my dear friends, this missive to you is necessarily shorter than normal but I should like to sign off with a thought I had last week. It concerned the reburial of Richard III and the thousands of people who queued round the block to pay their respects. I found it strangely moving and uplifting.
Richard had a bad back, didn’t he?