Fam and Fufan by Benny Hill

Benny Hill wrote this (Although he writes it as if it were by Foloman Faint John) This won't be funny if you don't understand how the letter S was written as an f in English way back when.

"Fam and Fufan by Foloman Faint John

Fam the Blackfmith tollf the bellf with ftrong and finuey handf
He haf loft hif heart to Fufan but alaf fhe if too grand
Fufan waf ftrolling by the ftream liftening af the church bellf rang
They founded fad, but not af fad af the fong that Fufan fang

Fuddenly the fun came out, funfhine alwayf made her gay
Fhe faid, "I think I'll have a fwim, it'f fuch a funny day."
Af Fue took off her bloufe and flip and corfet fo that fhe could have a fwim
Fid the Faddler fpied on her, but Fue could not fee him

Flowly Fue took off her fhoef and fockf and when fhe waf undreffed
Finful Fidney felt hif heart abeating in hif breft
The Fun Fone on the Filky Foftneff of her golden hair
It cafcaded paft her fhoulderf and refted on her boffum there

Hif heart waf filled with luft af Fue fauntered acroff the graff
He longed to ftroke that tiny waift and that large well rounded aff
Af Fue flid into the water Fid revealed himfelf to her
He ftood befide her clothing, determined not to ftirr

Fufan who waf flightly fhocked faid, "Fir pleafe go away."
But Fidney full of farcafm faid, "I'm here and here I ftay."
Fufan picked up a faufepan, and ufing it to hide
Her feminine embarraffment ftrode up to Fidney'f fide

"Fir," fhe faid, "Do you know what I think, you filly clot?"
He faid, "You think that faufepan haf a bottom, it haf not."
The fcene waf fet for feduction when blackfmith Fam appeared
"Oh fave me Fam," faid Fufan. Fam grabbed at Fidney'f beard

They wreftled and they tuffled and their mufclef fhone with fweat
Fid flipped and did a fummerfault, diflocating hif neck
Af Fam held Fue in hif ftrong armf he felt her foftly figh
"I'm yourf. Feel it with a kiff. I'm yourf until I die."

Now they're married and have fixteen children and they've juft purchafed a new pram
Af I've faid before there'f no one who can ring the bell like Fam"

(Do you know how difficult this is to write out.)

Monty Python's "All Things Dull and Ugly"

All things dull and ugly,
All creatures short and squat,
All things rude and nasty,
The Lord God made the lot.

Each little snake that poisons,
Each little wasp that stings,
He made their brutish venom.
He made their horrid wings.

All things sick and cancerous,
All evil great and small,
All things foul and dangerous,
The Lord God made them all.

Each nasty little hornet,
Each beastly little squid--
Who made the spikey urchin?
Who made the sharks? He did!

All things scabbed and ulcerous,
All pox both great and small,
Putrid, foul and gangrenous,
The Lord God made them all.

Amen.

-o0o-

A SPANIARD IN THE WORKS

(c) John Lennon, 1965
 

CONTENTS

A Spaniard in the Works
The Fat Budgie
Snore Wife and some Several Dwarts
The Singularge Experience of Miss Anne Duffield
The Faulty Bagnose
We must not forget the General Erection
Benjaman Distasteful
The Wumberlog (or The Magic Dog)
Araminta Ditch
Cassandle
The National Health Cow
Readers Lettuce
Silly Norman
Mr Boris Morris
Bernice's Sheep
Last Will and Testicle
Our Dad
I Believe, Boot...
 
 

A SPANIARD IN THE WORKS

Jesus El Pifco was a foreigner and he knew it. He had imigrate-
ful from his little white slum in Barcelover a good thirsty year
ago having first secured the handy job as coachman in Scotland.
The job was with the Laird of McAnus, a canny old tin whom
have a castle in the Highlads. The first thing Jesus EI Pifco
noticed in early the days was that the Laird didn't seem to have
a coach of any discription or even a coach house you know,
much to his dismable. But - and I use the word lightly - the
Laird did seem to having some horses, each one sporting a fine
pair of legs. Jesus fell in love with them at first sight, as they did
with him, which was lucky, because his quarters were in the
actually stables along side his noble four lepered friends.
  Pretty polly one could see Jesus almost every day, grooming
his masters horses, brushing their manebits and hammering their
teeth, whistling a quaint Spanish refrain dreaming of his loved
wombs back home in their little white fascist bastard huts.
  'A well pair of groomed horses I must say,' he would remark
to wee Spastic Sporran the flighty chamberlain, whom he'd had
his good eye on eversince Hogmanose.
  'Nae sa bad' she would answer in her sliced Aberdeen-martin
accent. 'Ye spend more time wi' yon horses than ye do wi'
me,' with that she would storm back to her duties, carefully
tying her chastity negro hardly to her skim.
  Being a good catholic, Jesus wiped the spit from his face and
turned the other cheese - but she had gone leaving him once
small in an agatha of christy.
  'One dave she woll go too farther, and I woll leaf her' he said
to his fave rave horse. Of course the horse didn't answer,
because as you know they cannot speak, least of all to a garlic
eating, stinking, little yellow greasy fascist bastard catholic
Spaniard. They soon made it up howevans and Jesus and wee
Spastic were once morphia unitely in a love that knew no suzie.
The only thing that puzzled Jesus was why his sugarboot got so
annoyed when he called her his little Spastic in public. Little
wonder howeapon, with her real name being Patrick, you see?
  'Ye musna' call me Spastic whilst ma friends are here Jesus
ma bonnie wee dwarf' she said irragated.
  'But I cannot not say Patrick me little tartan bag' he replied
all herb and angie inside. She looked down at him through a
mass of naturally curly warts.
  'But Spastic means a kind of cripple in English ma sweet wee
Jesus, and ai'm no cripple as you well known! '
  'That's true enough' said he 'but I didn't not realize being a
foreigner and that, and also not knowing your countries culture
and so force, and anywait I can spot a cripple anywhere.'
  He rambled on as Patrick knelt down lovingly with tears in
her eye and slowly bit a piece of his bum. Then lifting her face
upwarts, she said with a voice full of emulsion 'Can ye heffer
forgive me Jesus, can ye? ' she slobbed. He looked at her strange-
ly as if she were a strangely, then taking her slowly right foot
he cried; 'Parreesy el pino a strevaro qui bueno el franco
senatro! ' which rugby transplanted means - 'Only if you've
got green braces' - and fortunately she had.
  They were married in the fallout, with the Lairds blessing of
course, he also gave them a 'wee gifty' as he put it, which was a
useful addition to their bottom lawyer. It was a special jar of
secret ointment made by generators of his forefingers to help get
rid of Patricks crabs which she had unluckily caught from the
Laird of McAnus himself at his late wifes (Lady McAnus') wake.
They were overjoyced, and grapenut abun and beyond the call
of duty.
  'The only little crawlie things we want are babies,' quipped
Jesus who was a sport. 'That's right sweety' answered Patrick
reaching for him with a knowsley hall.
  'Guid luck to you and yours' shouted the Laird from the old
wing.
  'God bless you sir' said Jesus quickly harnessing his wife with
a dexterity that only practice can perfect. 'Come on me beauty'
he whispered as he rode his wife at a steady trot towards the
East Gate. 'We mustn't miss the first race my dear.'
  'Not likely' snorted his newly wed wife breaking into a gull-
up. 'Not likely' she repeated.
  The honeymood was don short by a telephant from Mrs El
Pifco (his mother) who was apparently leaving Barcelunder to
se her eldest sod febore she died laughing, and besides the air
would do her good she added. Patrick looked up from her
nosebag and giggled.
  'Don't joke about Mamma please if you donlang, she are all
I have loft in the world and besides your mother's a bit of a
brockwurst herselves' said Jesus, 'And if she's still alive when
she gets here we can throw up a party for her and then she can
meet all our ugly Scottish friends' he reflected. 'On the other
handle we can always use her as a scarecrab in the top field' said
Patrick practically.
  So they packed their suitcrates marked 'his and hearse' and set
off for their employers highly home in the highlies.
  'We're home Sir' said Jesus to the wizened tartan figure knelt
crouching over a bag of sheep.
  'Why are ye bask so soon?' inquired the Laird, immediately
recognizing his own staff through years of experience. 'I've had
some bad jews from my Mammy - she's coming to seagull me,
if its all ripe with you sir.' The Laird thought for a mumble,
then his face lit up like a boiling wart.
  'You're all fired' he smiled and went off whistling.
 
 

THE FAT BUDGIE

I have a little budgie
He is my very pal
I take him walks in Britain
I hope I always shall.

I call my budgie Jeffrey
My grandads name's the same
I call him after grandad
Who had a feathered brain.

Some people don't like budgies
The little yellow brats
They eat them up for breakfast
Or give them to their cats.

My uncle ate a budgie
It was so fat and fair.
I cried and called him Ronnie
He didn't seem to care

Although his name was Arthur
It didn't mean a thing.
He went into a petshop
And ate up everything.

The doctors looked inside him,
To see what they could do,
But he had been too greedy
He died just like a zoo.

My Jeffrey chirps and twitters
When I walk into the room,
I make him scrambled egg on toast
And feed him with a spoon.

He sings like other budgies
But only when in trim
But most of all on Sunday
Thats when I plug him in.

He flies about the room sometimes
And sits upon my bed
And if he's really happy
He does it on my head.

He's on a diet now you know
>From eating far too much
They say if he gets fatter
He'll have to wear a crutch.

It would be funny wouldn't it
A budgie on a stick
Imagine all the people
Laughing till they're sick.

So that's my budgie Jeffrey
Fat and yellow too
I love him more than daddie
And I'm only thirty two.
 

SNORE WIFE AND SOME SEVERAL DWARTS

Once upon upon in a dizney far away - say three hundred year
agoal if you like - there lived a sneaky forest some several
dwarts or cretins; all named - Sleezy, Grumpty, Sneezy, Dog,
Smirkey, Alice? Derick - and Wimpey. Anyway they all dug
about in a diamond mind, which was rich beyond compere.
Every day when they came hulme from wirk, they would sing a
song - just like ordinary wirkers - the song went something
like - 'Yo ho! Yo ho! it's off to wirk we go! ' - which is silly
really considerable they were comeing hulme. (Perhaps ther was
slight housework to be do.)
  One day howitzer they (Dwarts) arrived home, at aprodestant,
six o'cloth, and who? - who do they find? - but only Snore
Wife, asleep in Grumpty's bed. He didn't seem to mine. 'Sam-
body's been feeding my porrage! ' screams Wimpey, who was '
wearing a light blue pullover. Meanwife in a grand Carstle, not
so mile away, a womand is looging in her daily mirror, shouting,
'Mirror mirror on the wall, whom is de fairy in the land.' which
doesn't even rhyme. 'Cassandle!' answers the mirror. 'Chrish
O'Malley' studders the womand who appears to be a Queen or a
witch or an acorn.
  'She's talking to that mirror again farther?' says Misst
Cradock, 'I've just seen her talking to that mirror again.' Father
Cradock turns round slowly from the book he is eating and ex-
plains that it is just a face she is going through and they're all
the same at that age. 'Well I don't like it one tit,' continhughs
Misst Cradock. Father Cradock turns round slowly from the
book he is eating, explaining that she doesn't have to like it,
and promptly sets fire to his elephant. 'Sick to death of this
elephant I am,' he growls, 'sick to death of it eating like an
elephant all over the place.'
  Suddenly bark at the Several Dwarts home, Snore Wife has
became a firm favourite, especially with her helping arm,
brushing away the little droppings. 'Good old Snore Wife! ' thee
all sage, 'Good old Snore Wife is our fave rave.' 'And I like you
tooth! ' rejoices Snore Wife, 'I like you all my little dwarts.'
Without warping they hear a soddy voice continuallykhan
shoubing and screeging about apples for sale. 'New apples for
old! ' says the above hearing voice. 'Try these nice apples for
chrissake!' Grumpy turnips quick and answers shooting -
'Why?' and they all look at him.
  A few daisy lately the same voice comes hooting aboon the
apples for sale with a rarther more firm aproach saying 'These
apples are definitely for sale.' Snore Wife, who by this time is
curiously aroused, stick her heads through the window. Any-
way she bought one - which didn't help the trade gap at all.
Little diggerydoo that it was parsened with deathly arsenickers.
The woman (who was the wickered Queen in disgust) cackled
away to her carstle in the hills larfing fit to bust.
  Anyway the handsome Prince who was really Misst Cra-
dock, found out and promptly ate the Wicked Queen and
smashed up the mirror. After he had done this he journeyed to
the house of the Several Dwarts and began to live with them.
He refused to marry Snore Wife on account of his health, what
with her being poissoned and that, but they came to an agree-
ment much to the disgust of Sleepy - Grumpty - Sneeky -
Dog - Smirkey - Alice? - Derick and Wimpy. The Dwarts
clubbed together and didn't buy a new mirror, but always sang
a happy song. They all livered happily ever aretor until they
died - which somebody of them did naturally enough.
 

THE SINGULARGE EXPERIENCE OF MISS ANNE DUFFIELD

I find it recornered in my nosebook that it was a dokey and
winnie dave towart the end of Marge in the ear of our Loaf
1892 in Much Bladder, a city off the North Wold. Shamrock
Womlbs had receeded a telephart whilst we sat at our lunch
eating. He made no remark but the matter ran down his head,
for he stud in front of the fire with a thoughtfowl face, smirk-
ing his pile, and casting an occasional gland at the massage.
Quite sydney without warping he turd upod me with a mis-
carriage twinkle in his isle.
  'Ellifitzgerrald my dear Whopper,' he grimmond then sharply
'Guess whom has broken out of jail Whopper?' My mind imme-
diately recoughed all the caramels that had recently escaped or
escaped from Wormy Scabs.
  'Eric Morley?' I ventured. He shook his bed. 'Oxo Whitney?'
I queered, he knotted in the infirmary. 'Rygo Hargraves?' I
winston agreably.
  'No, my dear Whopper, it's OXO WHITNEY' he bellowed
as if I was in another room, and I wasn't.
  'How d'you know Womlbs? ' I whispered excretely.
  'Harrybellafonte, my dear Whopper.' At that precise mor-
man a tall rather angularce tall thin man knocked on the door.
'By all accounts that must be he, Whopper.' I marvelled at his
acute osbert lancaster.
  'How on urge do you know Womlbs' f asped, revealing my
bad armchair.
  'Eliphantitus my deaf Whopper' he baggage knocking out his
pip on his large leather leg. In warped the favourite Oxo Whit-
ney none the worse for worms.
  'I'm an escaped primrose Mr Womlbs' he grate darting frane-
tically about the room.
  'Calm down Mr Whitney! ' I interpolled 'or you'll have a
nervous breadvan.'
  'You must be Doctored Whopper' he pharted. My friend was
starving at Whitney with a strange hook on his eager face, that
tightening of the lips, that quiver of the nostriches and consta-
pation of the heavy tufted brows which I knew so well.
  'Gorra ciggie Oxo' said Womlbs quickly. I looked at my
colledge, hoping for some clue as to the reason for this sodden
outboard, he gave me no sign except a slight movement of his
good leg as he kicked Oxo Whitney to the floor. 'Gorra ciggie
Oxo' he reapeted almouth hysterically.
  'What on urn are you doing my dear Womlbs' I imply; 'nay
I besiege you, stop lest you do this poor wretch an injury! '
  'Shut yer face yer blubbering owld get' screamed Womlbs
like a man fermented, and laid into Mr Whitney something
powerful wat. This wasn't not the Shamrock Womlbs I used to
nose, I thought puzzled and hearn at this suddy change in my
old friend.
  Mary Atkins pruned herselves in the mirage, running her
hand wantanly through her large blond hair. Her tight dress was
cut low revealingly three or four blackheads, carefully scrubbed
on her chess. She addled the final touches to her makeup and
fixed her teeth firmly in her head. 'He's going to want me to-
night' she thought and pictured his hamsome black curly face
and jaundice. She looked at her clocks impatiently and went to
the window, then leapt into her favorite armchurch, picking
up the paper she glassed at the headlines. 'MORE NEGOES
IN THE CONGO' it read, and there was, but it was the Stop
Press which corked her eye. 'JACK THE NIPPLE STRIKE
AGAIN.' She went cold all over, it was Sydnees and he'd left
the door open.
  'Hello lover' he said slapping her on the butter.
  'Oh you did give me a start Sydnees' she shrieked laughing
arf arfily.
  'I always do my love' he replied jumping on all fours. She
joined him and they galloffed quickly downstairs into a harrased
cab. 'Follow that calf' yelped Sydnees pointing a rude fingure.
  'White hole mate! ' said the scabbie.
  'Why are we bellowing that card Sydnees? ' inquired Mary
fashionably.
  'He might know where the party' explained Sydnees.
  'Oh I see' said Mary looking up at him as if to say.
  The journey parssed pleasantly enough with Sydnees and
Mary pointing out places of interest to the scab driver; such as
Buckinghell Parcel, the Horses of Parliamint, the Chasing of the
Guards. One place of particularge interest was the Statue of
Eric in Picanniny Surplass.
  'They say that if you stand there long enough you'll meet a
friend' said Sydnees knowingly, 'that's if your not run over.'
  'God Save the Queens' shouted the scabbie as they passed the
Parcel for maybe the fourth time.
  'Jack the Nipple' said Womlbs puffing deeply on his wife, 'is
not only a vicious murderer but a sex meany of the lowest
orgy.' Then my steamed collic relit his pig and walkered to the
windy of his famous flat in Bugger St in London where it all hap-
pened. I pondled on his statemouth for a mormon then turding
sharply I said. 'But how do you know Womlbs? '
  'Alibabba my dead Whopper, I have seen the film' I knew
him toby right for I had only read the comic.
  That evenig we had an unexpeckled visitor, Inspectre Basil,
I knew him by his tell-tale unicorn.
  'Ah Inspectre Basil mon cher amie' said Womlbs spotting
him at once. 'What brings you to our humble rich establish-
ment?'
  'I come on behave of thousands' the Inspectre said sitting
quietly on his operation.
  'I feel l know why you are here Basil' said Womlbs eyeing he
leg. 'It's about Jock the Cripple is it not?' The Jnspectre smiled
smiling.
  'How did you guess? ' I inquired all puzzle.
  'Alecguiness my deep Whopper, the mud on the Inspectre's
left, and also the buttock on his waistbox is misting.'
  The Inspectre looked astoundagast and fidgeted nervously
from one fat to the other. 'You neville sieze to amass me Mr
Womlbs.'
  'A drink genitalmen' I ventured, 'before we get down to the
businose in hand in hand?' They both knotted in egremont and
I went to the cocky cabinet. 'What would you prepare Basil,
Bordom '83 or? '
  'I'd rather have rather have rather' said the Inspectre who
was a gourmless. After a drink and a few sam leeches Womlbs
got up and paced the floor up and down up and down pacing.
  'Why are you pacing the floor up and down up and down
pacing dear Womlbs' I inquiet.
  'I'm thinking alowed my deaf Whopper.' I looked over at the
Inspectre and knew that he couldn't hear him either.
  'Guess who's out of jail Mr Womlbs' the Inspectre said sub-
benly. Womlbs looked at me knowingly.
  'Eric Morley?' I asked, they shook their heaths. 'Oxo Whit-
ney?' I quart, again they shoot their heaps. 'Rygo Hargraves?' I
wimpied.
  'No my dear Whopper, OXO WHITNEY!' shouted Womlbs
leaping to his foot. I loked at him admiring this great man all
the morphia.
  Meanwire in a ghasly lit street in Chelthea, a darkly clocked
man with a fearful weapon, creeped about serging for revenge
on the women of the streets for giving him the dreadfoot V.D.
(Valentine Dyall). 'I'll kill them all womb by womb' he
muffled between scenes. He was like a black shadow or negro on
that dumb foggy night as he furtively looked for his neck vic-
tim. His minds wandered back to his childhook, remembering
a vague thing or two like his mother and farmer and how they
had beaten him for eating his sister. 'I'm demented' he said
checking his dictionary, 'I should bean at home on a knife like
these.' He turned into a dim darky and spotted a light.
  Mary Atkins pruned herselves in the mirrage running her
hand wantanly through her large blond hair. Her tight dress
was cut low revealingly three or four more blackheads carefully
scrubbed on her chess. Business had been bad lately and what
with the cost of limping. She hurriedly tucked in her goose-
berries and opened the door. 'No wonder business is bad' she
remarked as she caught size of her hump in the hall mirror. 'My
warts are showing.' With a carefree yodel she slept into the
street and caught a cab to her happy humping grounds. 'That
Sydnees's nothing but a pimple living on me thus' she thought
'lazing about day in day off, and here's me plowing my train up
and down like Soft Arthur and you know how soft Arthur.'
She got off as uterus at Nats Cafe and took up her position.
'They'll never even see me in this fog' she muttered switching
on her lamps. Just then a blasted Policemat walked by. 'Blasted
Policemat' she shouted, but luckily he was deaf. 'Blasted
deaf Policemat' she shouted. 'Why don't yer gerra job!'
  Little did she gnome that the infamous Jack the Nipple was
only a few streets away. 'I hope that blasted Jack the Nipple
isn't only a few streets away,' she said, 'he's not right in the
heads.'
  'How much lady' a voice shocked her from the doorways of
Nats. Lucky for him there was a sale on so. they soon retched
an agreament. A very high class genderman she thought as they
walked quickly together down the now famous Carringto
Average.

  'I tell yer she whore a good woman Mr Womlbs sir' said
Sydnees Aspinall.
  'I quite believe you Mr Asterpoll, after all you knew her
better than me and dear old buddy friend Whopper, but we
are not here to discuss her merits good or otherwives, we are
here, Mr Asronaute, to discover as much information as we can
about the unfortunate and untidy death of Mary Atkins.'
Womlbs looked the man in the face effortlessly.
  'The name's Aspinall guvnor' said the wretched man.
  'I'm deleware of your name Mr Astracan.' Womlbs said look-
ing as if he was going to smash him.
  'Well as long as you know,' said Aspinall wishing he'd gone
to Safely Safely Sunday Trip. Womlbs took down the entrails
from Aspinall as quickly as he could, I could see that they
weren't on the same waveleg.
  'The thing that puddles me Womlbs,' I said when we were
alone, 'is what happened to Oxo Whitney? ' Womlbs looged at
me intently, I could see that great mind was thinking as his
tufted eyepencil knit toboggen, his strong jew jutted out, his
nosepack flared, and the limes on his furheads wrinkled.
  'That's a question Whopper.' he said and I marveled at his
grammer. Next day Womlbs was up at the crack of dorchester,
he didn't evening look at the moaning papers. As yewtree I
fixed his breakfat of bogard, a gottle of geer, a slice of jewish
bread, three eggs with little liars on, two rashes of bacon, a
bowel of Rice Krustchovs, a fresh grapeful, mushrudes, some
freed tomorrows, a basket of fruits, and a cup of teens.
  'Breakfeet are ready' I showbody 'It's on the table.' But to my
supplies he'd already gone. 'Blast the wicker basket yer grannie
sleeps in.' I thought 'Only kidding Shamrock' I said remember-
ing his habit of hiding in the cupboard.
  That day was an anxious one for me as I waited for news of
my dear friend, I became fretful and couldn't finish my Kenno-
meat, it wasn't like Shamrock to leave me here all by my own,
lonely; without him I was at large. I rang up a few close itamate
friends but they didn't know either, even Inspectre Basil didn't
know, and if anybody should know, Inspectre Basil should
'cause he's a Police. I was a week lately when I saw him again
and I was shocked by his apeerless, he was a dishovelled rock.
'My God Womlbs' I cried 'My God, what on earth have you
been?'
  'All in good time Whopper' he trousered. 'Wait till I get my
breast back.'
  I poked the fire and warmed his kippers, when he had mini-
coopered he told me a story which to this day I can't remember.
 
 

THE FAULTY BAGNOSE

Softly, softly, treads the Mungle
Thinner thorn behaviour street.
Whorg canteell whorth bee asbin?
Cam we so all complete,
With all our faulty bagnose?

The Mungle pilgriffs far awoy
Religeorge too thee worled.
Sam fells on the waysock-side
And somforbe on a gurled,
With all her faulty bagnose!

Our Mungle speaks tonife at eight
He tells us wop to doo
And bless us cotten sods again
Oamnipple to our jew
(With all their faulty bagnose).

Bless our gurlished wramfeed
Me cursed cafe kname
And bless thee loaf he eating
With he golden teeth aflame
Give us OUR faulty bagnose!

Good Mungle blaith our meathalls
Woof mebble morn so green the wheel
Staggaboon undie some grapeload
To get a little feel
of my own faulty bagnose.

Its not OUR faulty bagnose now
Full lust and dirty hand
Whitehall the treble Mungle speak
We might as wealth be band
Including your faulty bagnose

Give us thisbe our daily tit
Good Mungle on yer travelled
A goat of many coloureds
Wiberneth all beneath unravelled
And not so MUCH OF YER FAULTY BAGNOSE!
 
 

WE MUST NOT FORGET ...
... THE GENERAL ERECTION

Azue orl gnome, Harassed Wilsod won the General Erection,
with a very small marjorie over the Torchies. Thus pudding the
Laboring Partly back into powell after a large abcess. This he
could not have done withoutspan the barking of thee Trade
Onions, heady by Frenk Cunnings (who noun has a SAFE
SEAT in Nuneating thank you and Fronk (only 62) Bowels
hasn't).
  Sir Alice Doubtless-Whom was - quote - 'bitherly ditha-
pointed' but managed to keep smirking on his 5oo,ooo acre
estate in Scotland with a bit of fishing and that.
  The Torchies (now in apperition) have still the capable
qualities of such disable men as Rabbit Bunloaf and the very
late Harrods McMillion. What, you arsk, happened to Ans-
werme Enos (ex Prim Minicar) after that Suez pudding, peaple
are saying. Well I don't know.
  We must not forget the great roles played out by Huge Foot
and Dingie in capturing a vote or tomb. We must not forget
Mrs Wilsod showing her toilets on telly. We must not forget
Mr Caravans loving smile on Budgie Day as he raised the price
of the Old Age Pests. We must not forget Mr Caravans lovely
smile when he raised the price of the M.P.s (Mentals of Parlia-
ment) wagers as well also. We must not forget Joke Grimmace
(LIB). We must not forget to issue clogs to all the G.P. Ostmen
who are foing great things somewhere and also we must not
forget to Post Early for Christsake.
  Lastly but not priest, we must not forget to put the clocks
back when we all get bombed. Harold.
 
 

BENJAMAN DISTASTEFUL

Benjamin halted his grave flow of speach and lug off a cigarf he
knew where peeky boon! He wretched overy and berlin all the
tootsdes.
  'It were all nok a limpcheese then a work ferce bottle. Ai
warp a grale regrowth on, withy boorly replenishamatsaty
troop, and harlas a wedreally to fight. We're save King of pam-
pices when all the worm here me aid.' I inadvertabably an un-
obtrusive neyber had looke round and seen a lot of goings off,
you know how they are. Anywart, I say get a battlyard puss-
load, ye scrurry navvy, I beseige of all my bogglephart, way with
his kind farleny and grevey cawlers. But Benjaman was a
rather man for all I cared. I eyed he looking, 'Ben' I cried 'You
are rather man.' He looked at me hardly with a brown trowel.
'I know' he said, 'but I do a steady thirsty.' I were overwhelped
with heem grate knowaldge, you darn't offer mead and monk
with all these nobody, I thought. A man like he shall haff all
the bodgy poodles in his hands. 'Curse ye baldy butters, and Ai
think its a pritty poreshow when somebottle of my statue has
to place yongslave on my deposite.'
  'Why - why? ' I cribble all tawdry in my best sydneys.
  To this day I'll never know.
                             THE END
 
 

THE WUMBERLOG (OR THE MAGIC DOG)

Whilst all the tow was sleepy
Crept a little boy from bed
To fained the wondrous peoble
Wot lived when they were dead.

He packed a little voucher
For his dinner 'neath a tree.
'Perhumps a tiny dwarf or two
Would share abite with me?

'Perchamp I'll see the Wumberlog
The highly feathered crow,
The larfing leaping Harristweed
And good old Uncle Joe.'

He packed he very trunkase,
Clean sockers for a week,
His book and denzil for his notes,
Then out the windy creep.

He met him friendly magic dog,
All black and curlew too,
Wot flew him fast in second class
To do wot he must do.

'I'll leave you now sir,' said the dog,
'But just before I go
I must advise you,' said his friend
'This boat to careflee row.'

'I thank you kindly friendly pal,
I will,' and so he did,
And floated down towards the land
Where all the secrets hid.

What larfs aplenty did he larf,
It seeming so absurd;
Whilst losing all his oars,
On his head he found a bird.

'Hello,' the bird said, larfing too,
'I hope you don't mind me,
I've come to guide you here on in,
In case you're lost at sea.'

Well fancy that, the boy thought,
I never knew till now
That birds could speak so plainly.
He wondered - wonder how?

'What kind of bird are you sir?'
He said with due respect,
'I hope I'm not too nosey
But I didn't not expect.'

'I am a wumberlog you see,'
The bird replied - all coy,
'The highly feathered species lad,
You ought to jump for joy.'

'I would I would, if only, but
You see - well - yes, oh dear,
The thing is dear old Wumberlog
I'm petrified with fear! '

'Now don't be silly' said the bird,
'I friendly - always - and
I'm not like Thorpy Grumphlap,
I'll show you when we land.'

And soon the land came interview,
A 'tastic sight for sure,
An island with an eye to see
To guide you into shore.

'Hard to starboard' said a tree,
'Yer focsle mainsle blast
Shivver timbers wayard wind
At last yer've come at last.'

'You weren't expecting me, I hope'
The boy said, puzzled now.
'Of course we are' a thing said,
Looking slightly like a cow.

'We've got the kettle going lad,'
A cheerful apple say,
'I'll bring a bag of friends along
Wot you can have for tay.'

A teawell ate, with dog and tree
Is not a common sight,
Especially when the dog himself
Had started off the flight.

'How did you get here curlew friend?'
The boy said all a maze.
'The same way you did, in a boat,'
The dog yelled through the haze.

'Where are all the peoble, please,
Wot live when they are dead?
I'd like to see them if I may
Before I'm back in bed.'

'You'll see them son,' a carrot said,
"Don't hurry us; you know
You've got to eat a plate of me
Before we let you go!'

Then off to see the peoble whom
The lad had come to see
And in the distance there he saw
A group of tweilve or three.

A little further on at last
There were a lot or more,
All digging in the ground and that,
All digging in the floor.

'What are you digging all the time?'
He asked them like a brother.
Before they answered he could see
They really dug each other,

In fact they took it turns apiece
To lay down in the ground
And shove the soil upon the heads
Of all their friends around.

Well, what a sight! I ask you now.
He had to larf out lnud.
Before he knew what happened
He'd gathered quite a crowed.

Without a word, and spades on high,
They all dug deep and low,
And placed the boy into a hole
Next to his Uncle Joe.

'I told you not to come out here,'
His uncle said, all sad.
'I had to Uncle,' said the boy.
'You're all the friend I had.'

With just their heads above the ground
They bade a fond goodbye,
With all the people shouting out
"Here's mud into your eye! '
(And there certainly was.)
 
 

ARAMINTA DITCH

Araminta Ditch was always larfing. She woof larf at these, larf
at thas. Always larfing she was. Many body peofle woof look
atat her saying, 'Why does that Araminta Ditch keep larfing?'
They could never understamp why she was ever larfing about
the place. 'I hope she's not at all larfing at me,' some peokle
would say, 'I certainly hope that Araminta Ditch is not larfing
at me.'
  One date Araminta rose up out of her duffle bed, larfing as
usual with that insage larf peojle had come to know her form.
  'Hee! hee! hee! ' She larfed all the way down to breakfart.
  'Hee! hee! hee! ' She gurgled over the morman papiers.
  'Hee! hee! hee! ' Continude Araminta on the buzz to wirk.
  This pubbled the passages and condoctor equally both. 'Why
is that boot larfing all the time?' Inqueered an elderberry pas-
sengeorge who trabelled regularge on that roof and had a write
to know.
  'I bet nobody knows why I am always larfing.' Said Ara-
minta to herself privately, to herself. 'They would dearly love
to know why I am always larfing like this to myselve privately
to myselve. I bet some peoble would really like to know.' She
was right, off course, lots of peotle would.
  Araminta Ditch had a boyfred who could never see the joke.
'As long as she's happy,' he said. He was a good man. 'Pray tell
me, Araminta, why is it that you larf so readily. Yeaye, but I
am sorly troubled sometimes when thy larfter causes sitch
tribulation and embarresment amongst my family and elders.'
Araminta would larf alI the more at an outburp like this, even
to the point of hysteriffs. 'Hee! hee! hee!' She would scream as
if possessed by the very double himself.
  'That Araminta Ditch will have to storp orl these larfing; she
will definitely have to storp it. I will go crazy if she don't storp
it.' This was the large voice of her goodly neighbore, Mrs
Cramsby, who lived right next door and looked after the cats
whilst Araminta was at work. 'Takes a good deal of looking
after these cat when she's at work - and that's nothing to larf
about! '
  The whole street had beginning to worry about Araminta's
larfter. Why? hadn't she been larfing and living there for nye-
bevan thirty years, continually larfing hee! hee! and annoying
them? They began to hold meters to see what could be done -
after all they had to live with her hadn't they? It was them
who had to always keep hearing her inane larftor. At one such
meetinge they deciple to call on the help of Aramintas' boy-
fiend who was called Richard (sometimes Richard the Turd, but
thats another story). 'Well I dont know dear friends,' said
Richard, who hated them all. This was at the second meetink!
  Obvouslieg samting hed tow be doon - and quickly. Ara-
mintas' face was spreading aboon the country, peochle fram all
walks of leg began to regarden her with a certain insight left.
  'What canon I do that would quell this mirth what is gradu-,
ally drying me to drink, have I not bespoken to her often,
betting her to cease, threatling - cajolson - arsking, pleases stop
this larftor Araminta. I am at the end of my leather - my cup
kenneth conner,' Richard say. The people of the street mub-.
bered in agreement, what could he do? He was foing his vest.
'We will ask the Vicar,' said Mrs Crambsey, 'Surely he can
exercise it out of her? ' The peodle agreed - 'Surely the Vicar
can do it if anybotty can.' The Vicar smiled a funny little smile
wholst the goo people splained the troumer. When they had had
finished speaching he rose up grandly from his barthchair and
said loud and clear 'What do you mean exactly?' The peodle
sighed an slowlies started to start again telling him about the
awful case of Araminta's larfing.
  'You mean she just keeps larfing fer no a parent season?' he
said brightly. 'Yess that's it fazackerly Vicar,' said Richard,
'morning noon and nige, always larfing like a mad thin.' The
Vicar looked up from his knitting and opened. his mouths.
  'Something will have to be done about that girl larfing all the
time. It's not right.'
  'I really doughnut see that it is any concervative of thiers
whether i larf or nament,' sighed Araminta over a lengthy vic-
tim. 'The trifle with the peomle around here is that they have
forgoden how, I repeat, how to larf, reverend, that's what I
think anyhow.'
  She was of corset talking to the extremely reverend LIONEL
HUGHES. She had gone to see him in case he could help her
in any small way, considering he was always spouting off about
helping peouple she thought she'd give him a try as it were.
'What can I say my dear, I mean what can I say? ' Araminta
looked at the holy fink with disbelief. 'What do you mean -
what can I say - don't ask me what to say. I cam here to ask
you for help and you have the audacidacidity to ask me what to
say - is that all you have to say?' she yellowed. 'I know exactly
how you feel Samantha, I had a cousin the same way, couldn't
see a thin without his glasgows.'
  Araminta stood up in a kind of suit, she picked up her own
mongels and ran seriously out of the room. 'No wonder he only
gets three in on Sunday! ' she exclaimed to a small group of
wellwishers.
  A year or more passedover with no changei in Araminta's
strange larfing. 'Hee! hee! hee! she went drivan herself and
everone around her insane. THERE  SEEMED  NO  END  TO
THE PROBLEM. This went on for eighty years until Araminta
died larfing. This did not help her neighbers much. They had all
died first, - which was one of the many things that Araminta
died larfing off.
 
 
 

CASSANDLE

Y o u   a l l   k n o w   m e

How many times have I warned you all about my telephone?  Well it
happened again! Once more I couldn't get through to my Aunty Besst, and
yet again I nearly didn't get my famous column with a picture of me
inset through those damn blasted operators! YOU know how I hate
those damn blasted operators. You all know me. THIRTY TWO times
I tried to get through with my famous column and thirty two times I
was told to 'Gerroff the line yer borein' owld gassbag!' When I told
a colleague or two, they couldn't not believe it, after all hadn't I
been writing the same thing for sixty years? You all know me...
 

T h e   w a y   I   s e e   i t

How many moron of these incredible sleasy backward, bad, deaf mon-
keys, parsing as entertainers, with thier FLOPTOPPED hair, falling
about the place like Mary PICKFORD, do I have to put up with?
The way I see it, a good smell in the Army would cure them, get rid of a
few more capitalist barskets (OOPS!). Not being able to stand
capitalism, I fail to see why those awful common lads make all that
money, in spite of me and the governrnent in a society such as
ours where our talent will out.
I know I'm a bald old get with glasses (SEE PICTURE). Maybe I ought to
be thankful, but I doubt it...
 

K o m s   d e r   r e v o l u t i o n

Caviare is collected for me with Hollywood. Do you rernember when I
had dinner with that super spiffing showdog Mike 9 (Round the Wall in
Eighty Days, the late) Toddy? Well he loved caviarse/great pots of
it/ and he assulmed derry boddy elf did and if they didn't, they should
damn it (OPPS!). You all know me, well I don't like it, and I find myself
(somtimes) fighting a fierce and wonderfull verbal battle as to
whether I should be forthed against my will to eat this costly delicasy
from the Caspian Sea. Quite orften I lose, but thats Socialism. (You
know me).

Mike (Round the Worst in A Tall Canoe,
the late) Toddy would have liked me.

I suppose a lot of you have never had the chance of refusing this costly
delicacy, believe me fans, you never will if we keep building all those
bombs...

Until tomorrow friends when I (YOU ALL KNOW ME) will be back with
the same picture, but a DIFFERENT QUOTE brothers.

Good Day, (The way I see it!)
 
 

THE NATIONAL HEALTH COW

I strolled into a farmyard
When no-one was about
Treading past the troubles
I raised my head to shout.

'Come out the Cow with glasses,'
I called and rolled my eye.
It ambled up toward me,
I milked it with a sigh.

'You're just in time' the cow said,
Its eyes were all aglaze,
'I'm feeling like an elephant,
I aren't been milked for days.'

'Why is this? ' I asked it,
Tugging at its throttles.
'I don't know why, perhaps it's 'cause
MY milk comes out in bottles.'

'That's handy for the government,'
I thought, and in a tick
The cow fell dead all sudden
(I'd smashed it with a brick).
 
 

READERS LETTUCE

Dear Sir,

    IF Mr Mothballs (Feb, 23 Sun'Taimes, page 8. col 4),
thinks that the Hon gentleman (Norman Ccough). Well I'm
here to tell him (Mr Mothballs) that he has bitten off more
than he can chew. How dearie imply that Mr Ccough is
socially inpurdent? Was it not Ccough whom started off the
worled wide organiseationses, which in turn brought imidiate
response from the Western Alliance (T. U. R.). If Mr Smith-
barbs sincerely imagines that Indonegro is really going to
attack the Australian continent with the eyes of the worled
upon them I can only asulme that he (Mr Smallburns) has
taken leaf of his sentries! Has he forgetting Mr Ccough's
graet speek at the Asembly of Natives? Is he also forbett-
ing that hithertoe unpressydessy charter - the Blested Old
Widows - which was carried through the House with a Majollity
vote?

    In future I hobe thet Mr Smellbarth will refrian
frog makeing wild and dangeroo statemonths.

    I remain still,

        yours for the arsking,

            Jennifarse Cough (no relations).

P.S. CAN I HEVE A PHOTY OF WINDY STANDSTILL ?

Editors Football.
-----------------
Well maa'mm, the old Coblers think you're a very plucky
christion. Wish there were a few more like yourself maa'mm!!!
 
 

SILLY NORMAN

'I really don't know woot to mak of these,' said Norman, as
he sorted through him Chrimbas posed. 'It seem woot I git
mower litters und parskels than woot I know peoples, it supli-
zeses moi moor et moor each yar, as moor on these pareskle
keep cooming. I really doon't knaw whew all they body are -
seddling ik all this.' He clab quitely too the fire, sheving a few
mough ruddish awn. 'It's came tow a pretty parse when I don't
evil knew where they cam frog.' Norman coop an stetty keel
and promptly wed intow thee kitcheon tow put up thee kettle
orn. 'I might as welsh mak me a cooper tea, I night as welp
hev a chocolush birskit as well, wile I do noddy.' So saying so
he marshed offer to that teapod and tap it to that sing: bud to
he grey suffise - what! - bat noo warty. 'Goob heralds! what's
all of thiz goinge awn? Doe mein ice desleeve me? Am I knot
loofing at me owen sing-unice, and there be know warty?' He
was quait raight, lo! the warty didn noo apear, trey as he may-
be.
  Off course we all know whey this warty do no coomb, be-
courgh the tangs they are awl freezup, awl on they, awl they
freezop. Norman dig knort know that, for Norman him a silly,
man - yes - Norman is sorft. 'OH deally meat! oh woe isme,
wart canada, ther are nay werters toe mick a caper tay, ange me'
moover she arther cooming ferty too. I shall heave two gough
nextador, perhats they might hall hefty.' Sow Norman he gentry
poots his had hand coat orn makeing sewer to wrave hisself op
like he moomy tell him, broosh beyond the ears and out of that
frant door he ghost. To him truly amasemaid, he fainds nought
a houfe nought a hough inside! Wart on earth is heffering? -
why - there iznot a hug tobeseen, not anyway fer miles aboot.
Goody Griff, which artery in HEFFER harold by thy norm!
is these not thet enid of the worm? Surely to goosestep I am nit
that larst man on earn?' he fell suddy to the ground weefy and
whaley erizeling tuber Lawn aboove to savfre him or judge
spare a friend or to. 'I wilf give of awl my wordy posesions, awl
me foren stabs, awl me classicow rechords, awl me fave rave
pidgeons of Humpty Littlesod thee great nothing. All these oh
wondrouse Sailor up above, I offer ye if only yer will save me! '
  Normans mather, who you remembrane, was a combing
tooty, was shorked when she cam acroose him lyinge awn the
floor thus crying, 'My dear NORMAN!' she screege, 'Wart
in Griffs' nave are you doing, why are you carroling on this
way? ' She wogged slightly over to her own son, with a woddied
loof in her eye. 'Police don't garryon like this my son, tell
Muddle werts the metre.' Norman raved himself slowly and
sabbly locked at her. 'Carrot you see, mubber, Griff have end
the worled. I only went to guess sam warty, and then it dibble
wirk, so I went to go necktie to a nebough and I saw wit had
happened - GRIFF had ended the worl. I saw nothing - every
where there where no neybers. Oh Mather wet is happening?'
Normans nither take won loog at he with a disabeleafed spres-
sion on her head. 'My Golf! Norman wit are yuo torking about
turn? Donald you member thet there have been nobodys liv-
fing here ever? Rememble whensday first move in how you say
- "Thank Heavy there are no peoplre about this place, I want
to be aloef?" have you fergit all thistle?' Norman lucked op
at he mam (stikl cryling) with teeth in his eye, saying - 'Muther,
thou art the one, the power ov atterny, for heavan sakes amen.
Thank you dear mether, I had truly forgot. I am silly Nor-
man! ' They booth link arbs and walk brightly to the house.
  'Fancy me ferbetting that no-bottle lives roynd here mother!
Fantasie forgetting thet!' They each laff together as they head
four the kitchen - and lo! - that warty runs again, the sun-
beefs had done it, and they booth have tea, booth on them.
Which jub shaw yer - -
        'However blackpool tower maybe,
         In time they'll bassaway.
         Have faith and trumpand BBC -
         Griffs' light make bright your day.'
         AMEN (end mickaela dentist.)
 
 

MR BORIS MORRIS

However Mr Boris Morris was morgan thankful for his narrow
escape is largely put down to his happy knack of being in the
right place at the right place. For stance, Boris was the one
whom cornered Miss Pearl Staines at her impromtu but light-
hearted garbage partly.
  'Miss Staines' he had shouted 'how come you never invited
yer sister to the do?'
  'For the same reason I didn't invite you Mr Morris' she re-
plight reaching for anoven helping.
  Boris was no fudge, he quickly melted into the backcloth
like an old cake, slighly taking candy shots of Miss Staines with
her relatively.
  'She won't invite me to the next do either' he remarked out
loud with above average clarity.
  Boris was elsie the man whom got the photies of the Dupe of
Bedpan doing things at the anyearly jap festival, much to the
supper of the Duchess set. Thus then was Boris Morris a man of
great reknown and familiarity, accepted at do's of the wealthy
and the poor alike hell. He was knew as the jew with a view,
and he had. Not long after one of his more well known esca-
pades, he was unfortunable to recieve a terrible blow to his
ego. He was shot in the face at a Hunt Ball but nobody peaple
found out till the end becaugh they all thought it was a clever
mask.
  'What a clever mask that man has on,' was heard once or
twig.
  It was not the end of Boris as you might well imargin, but
even before his face set he was to easily recognizable at most
places, with peaple pointing at him saying thing like 'What a
good shot' and other. All this set Boris thinking, specially in the
morning when he was shaving his scabs, as only he knew how.
  'Must fix this blob of mine' he'd smile over a faceful of blot-
ting paper.
  'You certainly must dear' said his amiable old wife, 'what
with me not getting any younger.'
 
 

BERNICE'S SHEEP

This night I lable down to sleep
With hefty heart arid much saddened
With all the bubbles of the world
Bratting my boulders
Oh dear sheep

I slapter counting one be one
Till I can cow nomore this day
Till bethny hard aches leave we
Elbing my ethbreeds
Dear Griff's son

What keeps me alberts owl felloon
That is earl I ask from anybottly
That I grape me daily work
Cronching our batter
My own basssoon.

Can I get a gribble of me
Should I heffer alway sickened
Should you nabbie my furbern
Wilfing their busbie
Oh dear me.

No! I shall streze my eber-teap!
With lightly loaf and great larfter
With head held eye and all
Graffing my rhimber
Oh dear sheep.
 
 

LAST WILL AND TESTICLE

'I, Barrold Reginald Bunker-Harquart
being of sound mind you, limp and bodie,
do on this day the 18 of Septemper 1924th,
leave all my belodgings estate and brown
suits to my nice neice Elsie. The above
afformentioned hereafter to be kept in a
large box untit she is 21 of age, then to be
released amongst a birthdave party given
in her honour. She will then be wheeled
gladly into the Great Hall or kitchen,
and all my wordly good heaped upon her
in abundance. Thus accordianto my will
will this be carried out as I lie in the
ground getting eaten.'

This then was the last will and testicle of I Barrold Reginald
Bunker-Harquart, which was to change the lives of so many
peoble - speciality little Elsie whom was only thirteens.
  'Are you sure I have to stay in the box?' asked Elsie child-
ishly.
  'Yer not deaf are yer?' yelled Freud Q.C. what was helping.
'Yer 'eard the familias solister as good as we didn't yer? '
  'I was only makeing conversation' replied Elisie who was only
thirteen.
  Just then Elisies dear Old Nanny Harriette broke down in
tears and everybody walked quietly out of the room leaving her
to her grease, except Dr (not the) Barnado.
  'There there Harriette, that won't bring the Mastered back' he
said knowingly.
  'I know I know' she bluttered 'its not that, its where are we
going to find a box to fit her foot? tell me that, where are we
going to find a box to fit her foot?' Luckily the Dr knew a
carpentor in the village who was A  W O N D E R   W I T H
W O O D. 'I'm wonder with wood.' he used to say, as he sored
his way through life - with a naiI in one hand and polio in the
other (his light hand being stronger than his lest). 'Children
should be seized and not hard' was something Uncle Barrold
had always said and even Old Nanny had always replied
'Overy clown has a silver lifeboat' which always dried him ap.
  Anywait, Elisie was soon entombed in her made to marion
box, and people from miles adavies would come and visit HER,
but only when it was sunny - for she was kept rightly in the
garden. 'At least she'll get some fresh air.' argued Old Nanny -
and she was right.
  Three years parst and a great change had come over Elsie. Her
once lovely skin was now roof and ready, some say it was that
last bitter winter, others say it wasn't. Her warm smile which
made one forget her hairlip was now a sickly grin, but enough
of that.
Less and lessless people came to visit Elsie especially since
Old Nanny had put the price up. The Dr had kindly devised a
scheme whereby Elsie could call for anything she wanted. It
was a primitive affair, but effective - just a simple microphone
tied into Elsie's mouth. This was attached to a louder speaker
in the kitchen. Of course when Old Nanny was away on holi-
day, she would turn the speaker off. 'No point in her shouting
if I'm away" she would explain.
  The years flew by for Elsie in her own box, sooner no than
it was coming round to her twenty-first burly. 'I hope I get the
key of the door' she thought, forgetting for a momemt she was
getting the whole house. The place was was certainly in a state
of anticipatient on the ear of Elsie's birthdaft, and Old Nanny
celebrated by bringing her into the house for 'a warm by the
fire' as she put it. Unfortunately Old Nanny seemed to place
birthday Elsie too near the big old fireplace and her box caught
alight with Elsie still wrapped firmly inside like her Uncle asked.
  'She didn"t even eat her cake,' said Old Nanny tearfulham
to Dr (not the) Bernardo the next morning.
  'Never mind' he wryled. 'we'll give it io the dog, he'll eat
anything.'
  With that the Dr leaped over and gave Old Nanny a
thorough examination on her brand new carpet.
  'You can't have your cake and eat it' said a cheerful paying
guessed adding, 'Statistics state that 90% of more accidents are
caused by burning children in the house.'
 
 
 

OUR DAD

It wasn't long before old dad
Was cumbersome - a drag.
He seemed to get the message and
Began to pack his bag.

'You don't want me around,' he said,
'I'm old and crippled too.'
We didn't have the heart to say
'You're bloody right it's true.'

He really took an age and more
To pack his tatty kleid.
We started coughing by the door,
To hurry him outside.

'I'm no use to man nor beast,'
He said, his eye all wet.
'That's why we're getting rid of you,
Yer stupid bastard, get.'

His wrinkIed face turned up to us
A pleading in his look;
We gave him half-a-crown apiece
And polished up his hook.

'It's not that we don't like you dad.'
Our eyes were downcast down.
'We've tried to make a go of it
Yer shrivelled little clown! '

At last he finished packing all,
His iron hand as well.
He even packed the penis
What he'd won at bagatell.

"Spect you'll write a line or two?'
He whined - who could resist?
We held his face beneath the light
And wrote a shopping list.

'Goodbye my sons and fare thee well,
I blame yer not yer see,
It's all yer mothers doing lads,
She's had it in for me.'

'You leave our mother out of this!'
We screamed all fury rage,
'At least she's working for her keep
And nearly twice your age!'

'I'd sooner starve than be a whore!'
The old man said, all hurt.
'Immoral earnings aren't for me,
and living off her dirt.'

'She washes everyday,' we said
Together, all at once.
'It's more than can be said for you
Yer dirty little ponce!'

At last upon the dooistep front
He turned and with a wave
He wished us all 'Good Heavens'
And hoped we'd all behave.

'The best of luck to you old dad!'
We said with slight remorse,
'You'll dig it in the workhouse man.'
(He wouldn't though of course.)

'Ah well he's gone and thats a fact,'
We muttered after lunch,
And hurried to the room in which
He used to wash his hunch.

'Well here's a blessing in disguise;
Not only money too;
He's left his pension book as well
The slimy little jew!'

'What luck we'll have a party
Inviting all our friend.
We've only one but she's a laugh
She lets us all attend.'

We never heard from dad again
I 'spect we never shall
But he'll remain in all our hearts
- a buddy friend and pal.
 
 

I BELIEVE, BOOT...

Aman came up to me the other day and said - 'Tell me
vicar - tell me the deafinition of sin?' - and you know, I
couIdn't answer him! Which makes me think - do you ever
wonder (and what do we mean by the word wonder?) what
an ordinary man (and what - I ask myself do we mean by
an ordinary man?) who works in office or factory - goes
to church ont Sunday (what exactly do we mean by
Sunday?) who is also a sinner (we are all sinners).
People are always coming up to me and asking - 'Why, if
Griff is so good anb almighty - why does he bring such
misery into the worId?' - and I can truthfully say St.Alf - ch
8 verse 5 - page 9. 'Griff walks in such mysterious ways
His woodwork to perform' (what do we mean by perform?)
Which leads me neatly, I feel, to our next guest for tonight-
A man whom is stickle trodding the pathway to our beloveb
Griff - slowly but slowly I am here to help with the bridges he
must surely cross.- 'Welcome to our studios tonight Mr
Wabooba (a foreigner)'

Mr W. 'Hellow you Rev boy.'

Rev.  Well! Mr Wobooba - may I call you Wog? What is
      the basic problem you are facing? (He smiles)

Mr W. 'You! white trash christian boy.' (He also smiles)

Rev.  Hmn! can you hallucinate? (He colours)

Mr W. 'I can.' (Colouring too)

Rev.  Well? (He smiles)

Mr W. 'Wot ah want to know man - is why almighty Griff con-
      tinooally insists on straiking ma fellow blackpool inde
      fayse?'

Rev.  A man travelling on a train - like you or I - to
      Scotland, had two or two bad eggs in his pocket -
      and you know - no one would sit by him.

Mr W. 'But ah dont see dat yo' christship. Ah mean, ah don't
      see de relevence.'

Rev.  'Well, Wabooba - let me put it this way. In Griff's
      eye, we are all a bunch of bananas - swaying in the
      breeze - waiting as it were, Wabooba - to be peeled
      by His great and understanding love - some of them
      fall on stonycroft - and some fall on the waistcoat.

Mr W. 'Well yo' worship, ah says dat if de Griff don't laike de
      peoples in de world starfing an' all dat c'n you tell me
      why dat de Pope have all dem rich robesan' jewelry an
      big house to live - when ma people could fit too tousand
      or mo' in dat Vatican Hall - and also de Arch bitter of
      Canterbubble - him too!'

Rev.  Ai don't think that the Arch bishoff would like to live
      in the Vatican with that many people Mr Wabooba
      - besides he's C. of E.

Mr W. 'Ah don't mean dat you white trash christmas imperial-
      ist !'

Rev.  No one has ever called ME an imperialist before,
      Mr Wabooba. (He smiles)

Mr W. 'Well ah have.' (Smiling too)

Rev.  You certainly have Mr Wabooba.             (He turns
      other chin and leans forward slowly looking at Mr
      Wabooba rather hard. Mr Wabooba leans forward rather
      more quickly and they both kiss.)

Mr W. 'Ah forgive you in de name of Fatty Waller de great
      savious of ma people.' (He smiles)

Rev.  Ai too am capable of compassion dear Wabooba -
      and in the name of the Father, Sock and Micky
      Most, I forgive you sweet brother.
      (With that they clasp each other,in a brotherly way as if
      forgetting they are still on camera.)

Rev.  Have you ever been to Brighton dear Watooba?

Mr W. 'Ah jes' got back sweet christian friend non de worse
      for wearing.' (They get up glassy eyed and linking arms
      slowly walk out of the studio to the very left proving
      that arbitration is one answer to de prodlem.)

    F A D E   O U T   O N   S U I T A B L E   C H R I S T I A N

                         C A P T I O N S
 
 
 

THE END
--
Linda forever,
Aya.
"Quand on veut un mouton, c'est preuve qu'on existe."

Ode to Epicurus by Lucretius 99-55 BCE

Long time men lay oppressed with slavish fear

Religion's tyranny did domineer

At length a mighty one of Greece began
to assert the liberty of man

-o0o-

Thwarted, For Now - Sita Suzanne 2012

Looking down,
this is not how I pictured it,
my conquest of you.
I think I got stuck in the bible belt,
the not quite gritty spaces.
I think I wanted the angrier bits.
Maybe just a taste of your shinier, fleshier opulent skin.
This just feels too ordinary.
Show me something extraordinary won't you?
Your angry underbelly where the carnival freaks reside.
I want to roll in worn sheets with you.
I want you to leave me tousled and out of breathe, damp in my own juices.
Instead you deny me, remain clothed and impenetrable.
You welcomed me more when I was just passing through.
For now I am forced to remain polite, to leave you your reserve,
but I'l have you yet, naked and pulsating,
kicking out from under me.

-o0o-

Poem by my friend Sita Suzanne. For this poem and more of Sita's writings see:
http://mercurialsiren.blogspot.com/2012/03/thwarted-for-now.html
http://mercurialsiren.blogspot.com/

Not Perfect - Tim Minchen

This is my Earth
And I live in it
It’s one third dirt
And two thirds water
And it rotates and revolves through space
At rather an impressive pace
And never even messes up my hair
And here’s the really weird thing
The force created by its spin
Is the force that stops the chaos flooding in

This is my Earth
And it’s fine
It’s where I spend the vast majority of my time
It’s not perfect
But it’s mine
It’s not perfect

This is my country
And I live in it
It’s pretty big
And nice to walk on And the bloke who runs my country
Has built a demagoguery
And tought us to be fearful and boring
And the wierdest thing is that he is
Conservative of politics
But really rather radical of eyebrow

This is my country
And it’s fine
It’s where I spend the vast majority of my time
It’s not perfect
But it’s mine
It’s not perfect

This is my house
And I live in it
It’s made of cracks
And photographs
We rent it off a guy who bought it from a guy
Who bought it from a guy
Whose grandad left it to him
And the weirdest thing is that this house
Has locks to keep the baddies out
But they’re mostly used to lock ourselves in

This is my house
And it’s fine
It’s where I spend the vast majority of my time
It’s not perfect
But it’s mine
It’s not perfect
But it's mine

This is my body
And I live in it
It’s 31
And 6 months old
It’s changed a lot since it was new
It’s done stuff it wasn’t built to do
I often try to fill it up with wine
And the weirdest thing about it is
I spend so much time hating it
But it never says a bad word about me

This is my body
And it’s fine
It’s where I spend the vast majority of my time
It’s not perfect
But it’s mine
It’s not perfect

This is my brain
And I live in it
It’s made of love
And bad song lyrics
It’s tucked away behind my eyes
Where all my screwed up thoughts can hide
Cos God forbid I hurt somebody
And the weirdest thing about a mind
Is that every answer that you find
Is the basis of a brand new cliché

This is my brain
And it’s fine
It’s where I spend the vast majority of my time
It’s not perfect
But it’s mine
It’s not perfect
I’m not quite sure I’ve worked out how to work it
It’s not perfect
But it’s mine

-o0o-

Mitsubishi Colt - Tim Minchen

He looks at me intensely
Contact lens green with artifical envy
Cocks his head and fixes me with a condescending stare
Flicks his bleached, blond tipped hair
And theorises thus

You know what I reckon?
Pause for effect
Adjusts his tackle as if it’s semi-erect
I feel I’d better give him what I know he expects
What do you reckon?

A hand on the shoulder
An avuncular wink
Sips his lemon drink
Spits out the pips
Hands on hips
Licks his lips
Like a wolf near a flock
Yet again adjusting his fantasy cock
He delivers his philosophy

I reckon it don’t matter
It don’t mean squat
What you earn or what you got
Or the style of your hair
Or what you wear
It matters not

Like what do you care
That I live on a hill with views of the beach
That my chick and my dogs have an en-suite bathroom each
That I’ve already reached my first million and I’m only 26

You’re as thick as two bricks
If you think you can fix
What is broke in your life with money
And the funny thing is
And I shit you not
That I’d give it all up like that

He leaves me to ponder his wisdom for a bit
And with a click of his fingers
Beckons the blondest, bimbo-est barmaid
And grinning ridiculously
Orders a G and T
And a beer, for me
And before I can escape
He’s back saying

Cos mate, the thing is
All of that crap
It’s all superficial
It’s all just a front
Anyone can be a rich cunt
But the thing we all want
Can’t be bought with dosh
You know what I mean boss?
Cos you don’t give a toss
That when I want to get slim
I’ve got my own private gym
And a personal trainer called Danielle or Darlene
She’s got tits
Like those chicks
In Ralph magazine

And it’s not like you care
That I own the controlling share
Of an overseas company
That builds accounting software
It matters not one bit
I mean who gives a shit
That I earn six hundred grand
And drive a brand new land rover
You know I would hand it all over like that

He pauses for a beat
Long enough for me to retreat to a seat
And sit, elbow on the bar
And contemplate this guru
With his white teeth and big car
And ponder silently my belief
That genius comes in many a form
And that this postulating, peroxided porn-star prick ain’t one of them

My specultaion cut short
As he reforms
Like Terminator II
And before I have time to abort
He descends upon me and snorts

I guess what I’m trying to say
In my own little way
Is that I reckon that musos and artists and that
Well I reckon they’re great
I know some people reckon you guys just sit on your bums
And don’t get out of bed til the pizza man comes
And smoke cones
And take crack
And wack-off all day
But I don’t care what they say
And I don’t listen to people
Who say that all actors are gay
Not that I don’t think that’s OK
As far as I’m concerned
Although it’s not my bag
If you wanna be a fag
Be a fag y’know?
Who am I to say
Where you come
And where you go
In the privacy of your own homo
Ha ha
Homo
Ha ha
Homo
Ha ha
He’s shitting me now

And my eyes start to glaze
And through the haze of my anger
I notice his G and T is gone
And he’s starting to dribble
As he dribbles on and fucking on
But you musos are alright
I don’t know much about music
But I know what I like
And I reckon I’d throw it all in
To be like you Jim
I mean you might be poor in monetary terms
But what you earn spiritually
What makes you what you are
Just means so much more
Than what you earn from a really nice car
Or a tennis court
Or holidays in Greece
Or a house on the beach
Or stock market shares
Or twenty-one pairs
Of Calvin Klein undewear
Do you understand you are a wealthy, wealthy man
I mean I don’t want to piss in your pocket
But i’ve gotta say
Before I get on my way
That honestly, and I’m not having you on
I reckon on day you could play the piano as good as Elton John

The cops are still mingling
Though the crowd’s shuffled out
I’ve got ice on my hand
Where my fist met his mouth
And although I explained
That it wasn’t my fault
I’ve a five hundred buck fine
For aggravated assault
So before it gets worse
I reckon I’ll bolt
A wealthy, wealthy man
In a 1981 Mitsubishi Colt

-o0o-

Storm - Tim Minchen

Inner North London, top floor flat
All white walls, white carpet, white cat,
Rice Paper partitions
Modern art and ambition
The host’s a physician,
Lovely bloke, has his own practice
His girlfriend’s an actress
An old mate from home
And they’re always great fun.
So to dinner we’ve come. 


The 5th guest is an unknown,
The hosts have just thrown
Us together for a favour
because this girl’s just arrived from Australia
And has moved to North London
And she’s the sister of someone
Or has some connection.


As we make introductions
I’m struck by her beauty
She’s irrefutably fair
With dark eyes and dark hair
But as she sits
I admit I’m a little bit wary
because I notice the tip of the wing of a fairy
Tattooed on that popular area
Just above the derrière
And when she says “I’m Sagittarien”
I confess a pigeonhole starts to form
And is immediately filled with pigeon
When she says her name is Storm.


Chatter is initially bright and light hearted
But it’s not long before Storm gets started:
“You can’t know anything,
Knowledge is merely opinion”
She opines, over her Cabernet Sauvignon
Vis a vis
Some unhippily
Empirical comment by me


“Not a good start” I think
We’re only on pre-dinner drinks
And across the room, my wife
Widens her eyes
Silently begs me, Be Nice
A matrimonial warning
Not worth ignoring
So I resist the urge to ask Storm
Whether knowledge is so loose-weave
Of a morning
When deciding whether to leave
Her apartment by the front door
Or a window on the second floor.


The food is delicious and Storm,
Whilst avoiding all meat
Happily sits and eats
While the good doctor, slightly pissedly
Holds court on some anachronistic aspect of medical history
When Storm suddenly she insists
“But the human body is a mystery!
Science just falls in a hole
When it tries to explain the the nature of the soul.”


My hostess throws me a glance
She, like my wife, knows there’s a chance
That I’ll be off on one of my rants
But my lips are sealed.
I just want to enjoy my meal
And although Storm is starting to get my goat
I have no intention of rocking the boat,
Although it’s becoming a bit of a wrestle
Because - like her meteorological namesake -
Storm has no such concerns for our vessel:


“Pharmaceutical companies are the enemy
They promote drug dependency
At the cost of the natural remedies
That are all our bodies need
They are immoral and driven by greed.
Why take drugs
When herbs can solve it?
Why use chemicals
When homeopathic solvents
Can resolve it?
It’s time we all return-to-live
With natural medical alternatives.”


And try as hard as I like,
A small crack appears
In my diplomacy-dike.
“By definition”, I begin
“Alternative Medicine”, I continue
“Has either not been proved to work,
Or been proved not to work.
You know what they call “alternative medicine”
That’s been proved to work?
Medicine.”


“So you don’t believe
In ANY Natural remedies?”


“On the contrary actually:
Before we came to tea,
I took a natural remedy
Derived from the bark of a willow tree
A painkiller that’s virtually side-effect free
It’s got a weird name,
Darling, what was it again?
Masprin?
Basprin?
Asprin!
Which I paid about a buck for
Down at my local drugstore.


The debate briefly abates
As our hosts collects plates
but as they return with desserts
Storm pertly asserts,


“Shakespeare said it first:
There are more things in heaven and earth
Than exist in your philosophy…
Science is just how we’re trained to look at reality,
It can’t explain love or spirituality.
How does science explain psychics?
Auras; the afterlife; the power of prayer?”


I’m becoming aware
That I’m staring,
I’m like a rabbit suddenly trapped
In the blinding headlights of vacuous crap.
Maybe it’s the Hamlet she just misquothed
Or the eighth glass of wine I just quaffed
But my diplomacy dike groans
And the arsehole held back by its stones
Can be held back no more:


“Look , Storm, I don’t mean to bore you
But there’s no such thing as an aura!
Reading Auras is like reading minds
Or star-signs or tea-leaves or meridian lines
These people aren’t plying a skill,
They are either lying or mentally ill.
Same goes for those who claim to hear God’s demands
And Spiritual healers who think they have magic hands.


By the way,
Why is it OK
For people to pretend they can talk to the dead?
Is it not totally fucked in the head
Lying to some crying woman whose child has died
And telling her you’re in touch with the other side?
That’s just fundamentally sick
Do we need to clarify that there’s no such thing as a psychic?


What, are we fucking 2?
Do we actually think that Horton Heard a Who?
Do we still think that Santa brings us gifts?
That Michael Jackson hasn’t had facelifts?
Are we still so stunned by circus tricks
That we think that the dead would
Wanna talk to pricks
Like John Edwards?


Storm to her credit despite my derision
Keeps firing off clichés with startling precision
Like a sniper using bollocks for ammunition


“You’re so sure of your position
But you’re just closed-minded
I think you’ll find
Your faith in Science and Tests
Is just as blind
As the faith of any fundamentalist”


“Hm that’s a good point, let me think for a bit
Oh wait, my mistake, it’s absolute bullshit.
Science adjusts it’s beliefs based on what’s observed
Faith is the denial of observation so that Belief can be preserved.
If you show me
That, say, homeopathy works,
Then I will change my mind
I’ll spin on a fucking dime
I’ll be embarrassed as hell,
But I will run through the streets yelling
It’s a miracle! Take physics and bin it!
Water has memory!
And while it’s memory of a long lost drop of onion juice is Infinite
It somehow forgets all the poo it’s had in it!


You show me that it works and how it works
And when I’ve recovered from the shock
I will take a compass and carve Fancy That on the side of my cock.”


Everyones just staring at me now,
But I’m pretty pissed and I’ve dug this far down,
So I figure, in for penny, in for a pound:


“Life is full of mystery, yeah
But there are answers out there
And they won’t be found
By people sitting around
Looking serious
And saying isn’t life mysterious?
Let’s sit here and hope
Let’s call up the fucking Pope
Let’s go watch Oprah
Interview Deepak Chopra


If you’re going to watch tele, you should watch Scooby Doo.
That show was so cool
because every time there’s a church with a ghoul
Or a ghost in a school
They looked beneath the mask and what was inside?
The fucking janitor or the dude who runs the waterslide.
Throughout history
Every mystery
Ever solved has turned out to be
Not Magic.


Does the idea that there might be truth
Frighten you?
Does the idea that one afternoon
On Wiki-fucking-pedia might enlighten you
Frighten you?
Does the notion that there may not be a supernatural
So blow your hippy noodle
That you would rather just stand in the fog
Of your inability to Google?


Isn’t this enough?


Just this world?


Just this beautiful, complex
Wonderfully unfathomable, NATURAL world?
How does it so fail to hold our attention
That we have to diminish it with the invention
Of cheap, man-made Myths and Monsters?
If you’re so into Shakespeare
Lend me your ear:
“To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw perfume on the violet… is just fucking silly”
Or something like that.
Or what about Satchmo?!
I see trees of Green,
Red roses too,
And fine, if you wish to
Glorify Krishna and Vishnu
In a post-colonial, condescending
Bottled-up and labeled kind of way
Then whatever, that’s ok.
But here’s what gives me a hard-on:
I am a tiny, insignificant, ignorant lump of carbon.
I have one life, and it is short
And unimportant…
But thanks to recent scientific advances
I get to live twice as long 
As my great great great great uncleses and auntses.
Twice as long to live this life of mine
Twice as long to love this wife of mine
Twice as many years of friends and wine
Of sharing curries and getting shitty
With good-looking hippies
With fairies on their spines
And butterflies on their titties.


And if perchance I have offended
Think but this and all is mended:
We’d as well be 10 minutes back in time,
For all the chance you’ll change your mind.

-o0o-