Thursday, 12 May 2016

Pangolin Newsflash!

Glossop Secretary sent home with No Supper for refusing to wear Bondage Gear at work

Legal secretary Gertrude Peng (78) has been sent home with no pay from her £8,500 per annum job with Greebo, Perv and Leer Solicitors of Glossop. It has emerged that the directors of this legal firm made it a requirement that their staff should be 'appropriately dressed', and Eggbert Greebo (142) told The Pangolin that it was important the clients should realise that high standards of discipline and restraint were paramount in this company. Of course, being a legal firm, they have totally failed to issue any contracts of employment and have since denied that they'd ever seen Ms Peng.
© Raimond Spekking / CC BY-SA 4.0 (via Wikimedia Commons)

"It was awful", Ms Peng told The Pangolin. "How was I supposed to do my nails and stare out of the window dressed like that?"

Unfortunately, her troubles have not ended there. Her sorry tale of working as a receptionist at Cadaver, Necro and Cadaver Funeral Parlour of Wincy Street, Bletchington, will be covered (or uncovered) in a future article.

Sunday, 8 May 2016

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

Hullo, Justin here…
                                   
What a week it has been! First and foremost on my To Do list was finalising arrangements for our Spring Fayre, including the first public appearance of a local beat combo called “God is Dead”. I must admit that I found their name something of a problem, but happily, after a swift private conversation with Mr Hassan and the young man with the wire in his ear, they agreed to appear on the programme as “God is Quite Possibly Not Dead”, which for me at least was something of a relief. 
When I later enquired of Mr Hassan how so swift a solution had been found, he replied somewhat archly, that he had threatened to cut their amp jacks off. Whatever that might mean. 

My lady wife’s organizing of the Lambeth Speed-knitting teams was faultless. It was a close-run thing with Palace Purls just edging out late entries Westminster Cast-Offs with an utterly splendid 37 metres of Fairisle scarf. 

The following morning I woke early, to be briefed by the young man with the wire in his ear about our breakfast guest – none other than President Barak Obama! The young man with the wire in his ear was terribly excited. After insisting that I wore an anti-stab vest, he, my lady wife and I stood and watched The President and The First Lady and their entourage enter. The young man with the wire in his ear kept nudging me whilst surreptitiously pointing at various members of Mr Obama’s group, and whispering things like, “Glock 19, Smith and Wesson 44, Browning Hi-power". I am pleased to say that no weapons of any sort were seen during our simple repast. Mr Obama put us all at our ease and even cracked jokes, likening the offered Shredded Wheat to roof insulation.
   
Then, of course, he and Mrs Obama had to leave the Palace and travel to another royal residence, there to congratulate our Queen upon her 90th birthday. I am of course sworn to secrecy with regard to what happened during that momentous coming together although I can confirm that whilst a dog bite was suffered by the bearer of the Glock 19, no animals were shot. Apparently, he missed. So, in the words of The Bard – all’s well that ends well!

Pip! Pip!

Justin.

Saturday, 9 April 2016

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

Hullo,
         
Justin here.
                           
Oh my goodness – where to start? Just as I was coming to terms with my need to deliver sermons with rather more vim and vigour than hitherto, I am confronted with depressing world issues which demand responses.
                          
Let me begin with Mr Donald Trump, the American would-be president so apparently beloved by an alarming number of his fellow countrypersons. I have listened attentively to his policy speeches and sadly, can only assume that he is conducting a rather long-winded practical joke, or indeed, that he is a narrow-minded super-rich bigot. My Mr Hassan and the young man with the wire in his ear have both offered their opinions but I simply cannot publish them here.
                       
And I do feel for the poor Port Talbot steel workers and their families. It is indeed ironic that the owner’s name, Tata, is a diminutive of “goodbye”. I do hope not.
                      
But as my lady wife will attest, I have been plunged into the slough of despond by England’s cricketing loss to the West Indies. Frankly, I am not a fan of the limited 20 over version of the game with its rather brutal hit and hope philosophy. For me at least, a game between two teams of professional cricketers should last three days. It should be interrupted at least twice by rain and/or bad light. Batsmen should score thoughtfully, glancing the ball delicately, unencumbered by body armour and high-impact helmets, whilst the crowd should be large enough to be heard occasionally , never indulge in coarse shouting and never rejoice in names like “The Barmy Army”. But those days are dear, dead and beyond recall. Nevertheless, I do feel for honest toilers like Ben Stokes – so reminiscent of the fast-bowling village blacksmith of days gone by and who was clouted for six four times in his final over.
   
What would Jesus have done? Well he would probably have stoically accepted the result and moved on. Which is exactly what I shall do. There is much to arrange here at the Palace especially with regard to the imminent Palace Spring Fayre. I shall need all my diplomatic skills to avoid the inclusion of events like The Archdiocese Wet Tee-shirt Contest and a performance by a local pop-group called, apparently, “God is Dead”

Pray for me.

Pip, pip,


Justin

Tuesday, 22 March 2016

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

Hullo,
          
Justin here. Last Saturday, joy was boundless in our home thanks to the Herculean efforts of the English Rugby Union team. I say boundless although our Mr Hassan seemed unimpressed, calling the game “an imperialist power struggle”. Whilst I don’t quite see it that way, I must confess to relying upon my lady wife and the young man with the wire in his ear to explain the finer points to me. I, of course am a devotee of leather ‘pon willow.
         
Nevertheless, the English victory and the passions aroused thereby served to remind me that I had resolved to inject my Sunday sermon with, for want of a better term, a bit more vim.
       
Now, I am ever mindful that our God is a forgiving God. What would Jesus have done, I wondered. However, like Our Lord when faced with moneylenders in the Temple, I decided not to mince my words. I roundly condemned political double-speak, the reduction of disability allowances, badger culling, soccer players’ salaries, the fox hunting lobby, pornography, paedophilia, the cost of HS2, and people traffickers, pausing occasionally to strike the lectern in front of me.
      
The effect was stunning. I saw with my own eyes transfixed parishioners, several biting their hassocks. The service concluded with “Onward, Christian Soldiers!” and my hand was shaken so often that as I type, I wear an elastic support. I confess that afterwards I lay in a darkened room for a while. Forgiveness is far less exhausting than hell and damnation.

Pip, Pip,

Justin