Sunday, 28 September 2014
Desperately seeking Nelson's nose, missing piece in Heritage Jigsaw (series 7), 50,000-piece (currently 49,999-piece) edition. Urgently needed. PO Box 14, Lamorna Cove, Cornwall.
Ava Gardner lookalike: our eyes met on the Northern line out of Waterloo, 5.49 pm, 6th Nov 1956. I had a new umbrella and glasses steamed up in the crush. We need to talk.
Box 549, Leamington Spa.
Coal-fired 12" lawnmower, furnace door and stove-pipe chimney need some repair. Offers. Fogarty, Stoke Poges.
New home wanted for lifetime collection of used scourer pads (missing years 1947, 1963). Must be kept together. Clackett, Stoke Farthing.
Wanted: pre-war pipe-cleaners. Also ferret thongs. Tussocks, Stoke D'Abernon.
Book now: Uncle Des, clown, entertainer, children's parties, balloons. Available on day release in 4 months' time.
For sale: Napoleon's nose, Heritage Jigsaw piece. Buyer collects. McCuddy, Mainland, Orkney Islands.
Flood damage sale of stamp hinges. For further information sae to Box 105, Aberglochsoggin, Wales.
Trace your Ancestry. Reveal your Royal Lineage. Registered expert, formerly Garter Poursuivant in the College of Ordinaries, able to trace all lines back to Thangwin the Fecund, King of Mercia. Box 19c, Wolverhampton.
Pet Portraits. Your pet immortalised in oils. Stick insects a speciality. Joshua Raynolds, The Studio, Stationside, Croydon.
Need a new life? Want to break into publishing? Swap with me. Anything considered. Contact Editor of Small Ads, Pangolin Villas.
Thursday, 25 September 2014
There has been a recent spate of celebrity nude photo hacks - memorably called 'Celebgate' and the 'Fappening' - as youthful indiscretions of nubile people are waved around the web now they're famous - at least to viewers of pop videos.
However, this has taken a new and sinister turn, as photos were taken without the knowledge of the Communities Secretary as he basked on the beach with the other elephant seals in Tenerife. David Cameron et al were horrified to learn that these grotesque images were going to sully the otherwise pure waters of the web, especially given the current war on obesity.
'It took a while to find the @$$holes behind this conspiracy,' conceded a government spokesman. 'Turns out it's the EDL. They'd originally read 'Communities' as 'Communists' and are too thick to realise the difference. Their photographer is now in hiding with PTSD though, so it's not all bad news.'
Wednesday, 24 September 2014
Dear Mr Wuss,
I have seen your alarmingly unhinged and sinister Pangolin Blog creation on several occasions. It has been brought to my attention by my unhinged, sinister, idle and admittedly left-wing nephew who appears determined to have me laugh at it. Obviously, I cannot do this because your blog pokes fun at people like myself who have a natural sense of social responsibility.
It is with that in mind that I must register my amazement that your organ which, according to my nephew, is viewed by millions of people worldwide every day, makes no mention of the rising tide of insurrection flowing menacingly from the Middle East. I am a retired military man. I have seen this sort of thing before. My forebears were also military men. Even my wife is a retired military man.
There was a time when uprisings were crushed simply by sending a gunboat up an appropriate river. Foreign Johnnies soon threw down their flintlocks when they saw his or her Britannic Majesty’s ensign fluttering above the dunes. Often, the skirl of the pipes and the swing of the kilt spread fear and alarm in strange places of which we know little.
So as an ex-military man and, I might add, Captain of Throbe Magna Golf Club, I urge you to use your blog to pressure our limp-wristed government into finding what few gunboats remain and to direct them forthwith up the Foreign Johnnie’s waterways.
Major (retd) Randolph Gonad-Heaver, M.C.
Saturday, 20 September 2014
Justin here. Or rather, perhaps I should say “Och Aye, McWebly here!” on this, the eve of the Scots referendum vote. But I jest. By the time you scan these few words dear reader, a huge decision will have been taken.
Of course, my stance on these matters is difficult. My office extends to the whole of the still United Kingdom. In the event of Scotland gaining independence, the Scots would have to create their own Archbishop. Of what ? Largs, Dalkieth, Glasgow, Lerwick, Cromarty, Loch Ness?
I have resisted the temptation to offer my own personal opinion on this matter until now because I have to be all things to all men. And ladies. However, I feel honour bound now to speak my mind. I am sick to the back teeth of the independence craze, and the self-styled leaders of so many wrong – headed Scots. As you might imagine, I have little so-called spare time and my viewing of television programmes is limited. I quite like Antiques Roadshow and Midsomer Murders, but lately, wherever I point the blipper, the deeply irritating Mr Salmond pops up, being extraodinarily rude about anybody who disagrees with him. He was horrid to the mild-mannered Mr Darling and has shown no respect for Her Majesty the Queen. In fact, I would go so far as to say that in the event of Scotland becoming a separate country we non-Scots must expect a fairly bleak welcome in the hillsides. Oh no. That’s Wales. But you get my drift, as the young man with the wire in his ear would say.
Whilst it's true that centuries ago we English were pretty beastly to the Scots, we have been very nice to them in the interim with our rugby players going easy in matches so that the Scots didn’t lose too badly, and allowing them to look after our nuclear submarines. An independent Scotland really will have to look to its defences. Scots paratroops leaping from planes should be shown the results of doing so whilst wearing a kilt. The updraft can be fatal.
Nevertheless, I note that my lady wife, always on David’s side against Goliath, has bought in an impressive array of health-giving drinks and chilled egg mayonnaise sandwiches to sustain herself during the (doubtless) blanket coverage of the vote. She and the young man with the wire in his ear have taken to wandering about the place whistling or humming “Scotland the Brave” and “Bonnie Annie Laurie”. And so, as I type, dear reader, I feel somewhat besieged. I also wonder that if, as the pollsters tell us, the Nos and the Yesses are too close to call, the Yesses win by a tiny majority, will there be civil war in the world’s newest country? What would Jesus have done, I ask myself....
Thursday, 18 September 2014
The Pangolin’s Resident Scientific Adviser Dr P J Whimbrel:
Good Morning. Or Evening. Depending on where you are. In Glossop and certain parts of Birkenhead, its yesterday. Time’s a bugger isn’t it? No matter. I have been asked to say something about recent recommendations made by a Mr Andrew Burnham, MP, Shadow Health Secretary, about the food we eat and the road to obesity. I strongly suspect that Mr Burnham (5 stone 6 wet through) is not unlike my cousin, the celebrated gong soloist Pip Whimbrel who eats huge amounts, especially of raw suet, but never gains any weight. Dear Pip’s been 19 stone since he was three. You see, its all to do with something called metabolism. Or Mr Burnham’s got worms.
It may be apposite at this point to draw your attention to some very interesting research I have been conducting into the relationship between humour and weight. We took two cartoons labelled ONE and TWO (TWO referring to the second one).
We showed these cartoons to a randomly selected group of people brought together by my colleague Prof Anna Prongg who hung a sign saying “BIG HANDFULS OF FREE MONEY IN HERE” outside Pangolin’s research HQ.
The results are interesting. All the fat mouthbreathers thought cartoon ONE was hilarious. Some collapsed in blobby heaps, weeping with laughter whilst others applauded and shouted, “****ing hell! That’s the funniest thing I’ve seen since the one with the bloke and the banana skin!”. The same group were perplexed by cartoon TWO. Some tried to eat it. Others shouted, “Where’s the money, then?” But not one cracked a smile.
Conversely, the thin, rail-like members of our randomly selected group, some sporting tattoos saying “Bilderberg! Find! Kill!” dismissed cartoon ONE out of hand with shouts of, “Shameful working class parody!” and, “Ooh – er Missus, domestic violence is a crime!”
Upon being shown cartoon TWO, however, thin group members all nodded knowingly. Prof. Prongg noted at least three faint, sardonic smiles and several remarks including “Cool” ,“Wicked and, “Zebulon? What sort of a ****ing name is Zebulon?”
Sadly, at this point security had to be called as it turned out that one of the fatties was called Zebulon McHeftie.
Nevertheless, this unfortunately truncated piece of research does strongly suggest that if you like seaside postcard humour (cartoon ONE), you’re a fattie. If, on the other hand, you prefer cartoon TWO, you’re a pretentious conspiracy theorist and poor company to boot.
And next week, my distinguished colleague, the very lovely Prof.Anna Prongg, will tell us where all the money went.
Monday, 15 September 2014
Our gardening expert writes:
I've been brought up to believe that statuary can bring a touch of class to any garden. Classical nudes are usually the best (providing they have all the right bits in the right places) and can be handy for hanging your jerkin on if things get hot while busying yourself in the undergrowth. I've got Aphrodite round the back, clutching a conch shell (which is where I keep the Slug Death). Artemis, in another corner, has a prominent right nipple on to which Mrs Dibstick hangs her bag of clothes pegs.
They're a funny lot, Greek gods and goddesses. If you're thinking of having one in to your garden, it may be worth spending just a few moments looking up details and background to see what you are getting, before you install in the shrubbery. Dionysus (or Bacchus to the Romans) was god of wine, parties, chaos, drunkenness, drugs and ecstasy, which makes him an ever popular choice for the patio. But he was also the god of wild vegetation, meaning that may not be such a wise addition to the Cotswold flagstones after all. Apollo, with his long hair and ideal physique, was, among other things, god of manly beauty. On the head of our Apollo, out the front, is where I often place my gardening cap and, I have to say, the resemblance is remarkable. But he was also god of plague.
Not everyone is interested in what happened long ago, of course, regarding it all as old hat. If that kind of person is you, then take another look at some of the latest things now available from the catalogues of garden ornaments. Statues that move! It's marvellous what they get up to these days thanks to solar power: winking cherubs, Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, flexing her come-hither finger, young Ganymede getting rather excited. It's a lovely way to transform a quiet corner and to set the neighbours talking.
Next month: easy ways to keep your garden lit to daylight levels throughout the hours of darkness, such as every responsible homeowner would wish to do.
Thursday, 11 September 2014
Any invading cybermen are instantly shrunk to the size of a Barbie doll, where they can simply be disposed of by means of a car boot sale, or eBay.
"Well there was I, attempting world domination as is my wont on a Sunday afternoon - when all of a sudden there's this daft bint waving around a secret weapon and swearing.
I've never heard language like it. My Auntie Lucy would have been dead shocked, I tell you.
Then my world got suddenly and terrifyingly bigger. I just need to get out of this place. It's giving me warts and they'll be expecting me back for tea back home."
If you think you can help Ashley get back to Earth's twin planet, Mondas, please get in touch.
Monday, 8 September 2014
With Philippa Phinch
Dr Anselm Furtling. 1764pp Published by Lockjaw and Crowsfoot. £130.00
This is a startling book, not only for its weight – flimsy coffee table owners beware – but for its often technical explanation of the true nature of dust, for example, “Dust is bits of stuff which float about the place and needs to be got rid of in case relatives see it".
Dr Furtling tackles dust head on. He has a carefully catalogued collection at his home in Glossop. He takes no prisoners, saying “I have a tea-caddy full of dust from Buckingham Palace. Thorough analysis reveals it to be identical to samples taken at the local homeless hostel. Which is why I am a lifelong socialist.“
Elena Throat 82pp Published by Flabbre and Ghast £7.99
Tuesday, 2 September 2014
Despite the grievous and dreadful things happening all over the world, I have felt the need recently to preach about the ordinary, the mundane, the everyday. It seems to me obvious that a Churchperson of High Office such as myself is bound to call for world peace, and indeed, most do, but often, I think, great sins oft spring from tiny transgressions.
And so I determined to do what many millions of people do every evening and watch television. This is not as easy as it was, bearing in mind my lady wife’s recent obsession with Sky Sports – rugby league in particular – so I did my viewing via the far smaller set in my study. I was undisturbed for quite some time because the young man with the wire in his ear also favours the league version of the violent game I was forced to play at school.
So I settled back in the early evening with a comforting cup of Bournvita and tuned to a popular channel showing something called “The Great British BakeOff”. This programme boasted a delightfully simple format. Two professional bakers, one a chubby bearded fellow called Holyrood, and the other a very old lady whose name I forget, gave baking contestants difficult things to make. Now, my lady wife used to be an excellent baker until last Christmas when the seasonal cake she produced nearly did for the Bishop of Chelmsford. He had three slices. Fortunately, the young man with the wire in his ear, sensing that something was not quite right when he saw Chelmsford in conversation with the hall hat stand, ran and fetched his breathalyser. My Lord Bishop turned out to be four times over the limit, having drunk orange juice all evening. He stayed in the guest room.
However, the bake-off programme seemed comparatively innocuous and involved contestants having to make a Baked Alaska pudding. Initially, there was much scurrying about in an outdoor tented kitchen with two presenters making passably amusing comments at the contestants’ antics. Apparently, Baked Alaska features an ice-cream centre and the outdoor kitchen was very warm. Consequently, a place in the refrigerator for one’s ice cream was vital.
You can imagine my surprise when one of the contestants, a young bearded man with surprised-looking hair, found that HIS ice cream had been unceremoniously REMOVED FROM THE FRIDGE!
Worse was to come. His ice cream had been removed BY A FELLOW CONTESTANT! This turned out to be an hitherto very pleasant older lady. The upshot was that the young man with surprised hair threw his hopelessly melted ice-cream into the bin and walked away.
I found this all mildly disturbing. But only mildly so. It was only the following morning when I scanned the newspapers and listened to the BBC news and found that apparently the entire nation was up in arms about this incident. The older lady had received death threats and is now under armed guard at a secret location. The young gentleman with the surprised hair has had his name put forward to be the next Pope.
I was staggered. Staggered and saddened that in the face of the world’s real troubles, so much anger could be caused by a ruined Baked Alaska.
Nevertheless, I shall continue to base my sermons on common or garden day to day events for a little while longer, beginning next Sunday with a few words about someone called Simon Callow refusing to change his own child’s nappy for less than £10,000.
Goodness knows what Jesus would have done about that !