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Archive for the ‘Christmas’ Category

Hello,

Happy New Year. I hope you enjoyed Christmas.

I got the box set of Smokey And The Bandit and a jumper. I wore the jumper down to the Pickled Filtrum for the Xmas lunchtime pint. My mate Stabman used it to wipe blood up from the pub floor. He saw a man drinking Guinness. He has a thing about people drinking Guinness in confined spaces.

It was nice to have our son Lawrence home from the Young Offenders Institute for the day. You should have seen his face when he unwrapped the Ankle Tag cover Shirley had knitted for him! (he appreciated the crafty stash pouch hidden in Santa’s beard.) Thinks of everything does Shirl.

As I nipped in to the smallest room to unburden myself of the Brussels on Boxing Day, Shirl stops me at the door, thrusts a can of Haze “Scent Of The Forest” into my hand and said, “A liberal squirt please. Remember we are going shopping in 10 minutes.” This didn’t give me the time to study racing form. I had to settle on Substance Abuse in the 2.30 at Kempton (I thought Lawrence being home was an omen regarding drug use). It romped in. Seventh.

Why town? Shirley wasn’t too impressed with the gifts of a toasted sandwich maker and a wind up torch. Handy, practical and self cleaning gifts never go down well. But I should have learned after the retractable rolling pin last year.

Burt Reynolds was wonderful in Smokey and the Bandit by the way.

Christ he’s hairy. Felt like throwing him a stick to fetch at one point.

Laters.

Bob

You can read more of Bob’s musings whilst on the pot here and here. Your lives will be infinitely richer for doing so.

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My Dearest food lovers. I remain in prison in Nice, awaiting sentence for truffle smuggling. My appeal has fallen on deaf ears it would appear although it would my truffle remains highly prized by La Randy Prison Gouveneur! Which naturally leads to a question about sprouts.

Joyeux Noel to you all.
Le Fanny Rougecrack
Dear Fanny,

Sprouts Fanny, sprouts? Why oh why?

On what’s supposed to be the happiest day of the year, why do we have to sit with a steaming mash of stinking green sludge on the dinner table? We never eat them any other time of the year. By the smells emanating from our dog during The Queen’s Speech, he’s the only one in the family who eats them.

Can you let me know how to jazz them up a bit.

Mary, Bromsgrove.
Dearest Mary,

Ever since I was force fed them as a little boy, I’ve had nightmares about the horrid little things. But all is not lost my dear. For I have created a recipe that will have the whole family crying out for seconds!

Using a food processor, finely slice your sprouts and set aside.

Add a little olive oil to a hot pan and add some smoked diced bacon.

Fry until the bacon is crispy and remove from the pan.

Tip away any excess fat.

Add chopped shallots, half a glass of dry white wine to the sprouts and chuck in the frying pan.

Simmer for a few minutes then add a half pint of chicken stock.

Simmer for a further 6 minutes.

Stir in a tablespoon of creme fraiche, add the bacon and serve.

Delicious!

Les Miserables Fanny (Hugh Jackman! What a dish!)

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“Kiamn vi atingas perfektecon ĉiutagan kiel mi far, estas bone ..i havi defiojn. Pasintjare mi neniu estas antan la celo de faranta perfekta fromaĝo sur tost. mi atingita ĉi tiu celo. Mi lek miaj antaŭbrakoj ĉiutaga al rememorig min kiel mirinda mi estas. Fromaĝo Esperanto? Senĝena por mi!”

Translation;

(*“When you achieve perfection everyday as I do, it is good to have challenges. Last year I set myself the target of making perfect cheese on toast. I achieved this aim. If I can grill cheese then I can certainly teach the world to speak the same language. By Thursday tea time at the latest. Cheese to Esperanto? Not a problem for me!”)

Simon Cowell made the moon and created meat. Strangers suck his forearms.

He now wants the world to speak Esperanto.

rythmnsimon

The following is a sneak extract from the new series of Heaven’s Got Talent In Esperanto. Simon is judging God’s plate spinning act,

“Dio, la malfacileco mi havas kun via ago estas tio, ke mi ne povas vid granda mendado de telero spinners nunmomente. Certa, vi povas akiri koncerton sur Meditteranean kroz aŭ du sed sur nacia televido? mi hav miaj duboj. Mi vere kredi ke vi havas aĵon pri vi kvankam Dio. Mi havas okulon por ĉi tiuj aferoj! Mia konsilo al vi estas tio, ke mi vid vin pli kiel giganta koko prefere ol telero spinner. Don ĝi iuj penso, reven pli malfrue en la montr kaj RAV ni!”

Dio respond, “Vi estas tre saĝa Sro Cowell,” (Cowell kapjesoj en mecenateco) “Sed eĉ vi ne povus ĉefinstiginton Novajn Infanojn Sur la Bloka reveno, ni agnosku, ke, eĉ mi ne povus estas farita tio. Tamen, mi estos revenigi kiel koko! Susan Boyle estas seksalloga! seksalloga!”

Cowell “dir-is, ke mi estas ĝoj vi hav vid sento Dio.”

Translation;

Cowell, “God, the difficulty I have with your act is that I can’t see a great demand for plate spinners at the moment. Sure, you may get a gig on a Mediterranean cruise or two but national television? I have my doubts. I genuinely believe that you have something about you though God. I have an eye for these things. My advice to you is that I see you more as a giant chicken rather than a plate spinner. Give it some thought, come back later in the show and WOW us!”

God; “You are so wise Mr Cowell,” (Cowell nods in munificence) “But even you could not mastermind New Kids On The Block’s comeback, let’s face it, even I could not have done that. However, I shall return as a chicken! Susan Boyle is sexy!sexy!”

Cowell; “I am glad you have seen sense God.”

Saluton!

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Aunty Bill - A Tin Opener Short

Here To Help – Here To Care

The Milk Of Human Kindness

Aunty Bill,

My mum sold me to the milkman in order to buy a shoe horn the other week.

Do you think she is trying to tell me something? I weigh 87 stone and recently ate our roof by mistake. It made a healthy alternative to cheese in a sandwich.

Yvonne, Winchester

Aunty Bill Replies;

Dear Yvonne

The shoehorn is merely a metaphor for shoe horning you out of the door and out of her life (although at 87 stone she’s got a job on her hands and will need a bigger horn or lots of smaller ones).

At least she sold you to a milkman.

Milkmen (and women) have over the years demonstrated a deep affection for fat people. Before the days of the milkfloat, they could be seen across Britain pulling the wagon while milkmen jumped on and off delivering the nation’s favourite drink.

Hopefully he will put you to work and you’ll see the pounds fall away and be in a position to replace the roof over you dear old mum’s head which you so thoughtlessly ate.

Chink! Chink!

AB

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Five hares on a morning field

Five ways to wake early

To glorious sunshine.

Spring’s clocks springing forward

Bringing me stumbling out early across the yard

My myopic squintings

Saluting the sun.

To be

Startled at the springing forward of the hares,

At their desperate hurtling away

And them disappearing into the back bog.

From where I was never to see them again.

Binoculars squinting serving only to point out

‘..the difference between a Hare

And a rock in a field?

If you see it move it’s a rock’.

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Aunty Bill - A Tin Opener Short

 

Dear Aunty Bill

I recently became a Father for the first time. Is it normal for your first born to be a Penguin?

Dense Des,

Des Moines, Boing Boing, Idaho, USA

Aunty Bill Replies;

Dear Des,

One of the side effects of global warming is the migration of animals from their natural habitats.

Recent cases have included a women from Sale who gave birth to a whale, a young lass from Ware who gave birth to a Hare and a lady in red who gave birth to a bed.

You’ll be asking yourself;  “How did my wife meet a penguin?”

It is likely that in its long migration from colder climes, little Pingu got lost, swam up your soil stack and bit your wife on the bottom as she was performing her daily ablutions.

This is how Penguins procreate and it is likely that he mistook your wife’s rear end for a mate.

Penguins make a great addition to any family. Their staple diet is sardines on toast so they are cheap and easy to feed. Just make sure that the bath water is not too hot when you put him to bed.

Bottle feed rather than breast.

All The Best
Aunty Bill

 

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Hello!

“All the world’s a fence.”

Like doubts, we all have them or know someone who has them. Fences that is.

What does your Fence say about you?  Secondary Picket? Loosely Hinged? A Godfather? Weak Footings?

Who knows? Who cares! 

This month sees Peter Capaldi fill the boots of the Time Lord and begetter of utterly incomprehensible, contrived and convoluted plots – Doctor Who!

The BBC allowed Gfb’s Sci-Fi correspondent, Cedric Must-Get-Outmore, access to the Set and he managed to take this snap of The Doctor fighting new baddies The Creosoters.

 

docwho3 copy

My fence is Ronsealed!

Last time Benedict Cumberbatch shared his Closed Border Fence with us. Looks like he and the Doc share a passion for the CBF!

 

cumberbnatch 2

Boo Bono!

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Hello Oily

Which do you think is more likely to make a comeback as a hairstyle for men, the perm or the mullet?

I like Jon Bon Jovi’s locks – they are teased, tousled and perfectly match his cock rock power rock ballads about being a dead or alive cowboy on a steel horse whilst keeping the dream alive and our love will never die cos we were meant to be together and holding on together ‘cos he rides a steel cowboy often in the rain.

Bet his hair never gets wet though.

Toby, Moray

Oily Replies,

Toby,

I go for the sleek and sensual Silver Fox look. Easily maintained and always stays in position even when I have my ‘watersports’ weekends with the Compton Fetishist Society here in Crazy City.

Yes, my sexual proclivities are not bound by class creed or colour. Or species, if you believe the tittle tattle written in the Catholic Herald this week. But I deny those charges vehemently.

Was simply a misunderstanding.

Woof Woof.

You really know the lyrics of Bon Jovi don’t you. Well done and have a biscuit.

I love Twisted Sister – the relation not the band.

Regards, Oily

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Hello,

I hope you enjoyed Christmas.

I got a new ointment for my rash, the box set of Smokey And The Bandit and a jumper. I wore the jumper down to the Pickled Filtrum for the traditional Xmas lunchtime pint. My mate Stabman used it to wipe blood up from the pub floor. He saw a man drinking Guinness. He has a thing about people drinking Guinness in confined spaces does Stabman. This and his psychotic condition make for uneasy bedfellows.

It was nice to have our son Lawrence home from the Young Offenders Institute for the day. You should have seen his face when he unwrapped the  Ankle Tag cover Shirley had knitted for him! (he appreciated the crafty stash pouch hidden in Santa’s beard.) Thinks of everything does Shirl.

As I nipped in to the smallest room to unburden myself of the Brussels, Shirl stops me at the door, thrusts a can of Haze “Scent Of The Forest” into my hand and said, “Use this and get yer arse into town in five minutes.” This didn’t give me the time to study racing form. I had to settle on Substance Abuse in the 2.30 at Kempton (I thought Lawrence being home was an omen regarding drug use). It romped in seventh.

Why town? For some reason Shirley wasn’t too impressed with my gifts of a toasted sandwich maker and a wind up torch. Handy, practical and self cleaning gifts never seem to go down well. But I should have learned after the compost bin last year.

Burt Reynolds was wonderful in Smokey and the Bandit by the way. Made my Christmas.

Laters.

Bob

You can read more of Bob’s musings whilst on the pot here and here. Your lives will be infinitely richer for doing so.

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Hello

Here is the final part of this story – thanks for sticking with it.

To make sense of it all;

Part One is here

Part Two is here

Part Three is here

Part Four is here

Part Five is here

Part Six is here

Part Seven is here

Part 8 – Pitlochry Station

When they met at Pitlochry Station, Eunice had to admit that Tibby McVitie’s appearance had barely changed. The ruddy distilled complection remained and the warm bountiful eyes still conveyed that awful bonhomie that a D’aubisson despised. It had been nearly forty years since they last met.

Tibby’s was drinking coffee. From a cup. In public. Her Father’s considered view of the relationship between homosexuality and public displays of coffee drinking once again surfaced in Eunice’s mind and she wondered if Francis had exiled her to some sickening octogenarian lesbian Stalag.

The only visceral memory of Tibby that Eunice possessed was that the woman smelled of disappointment. That smell still lingered when she recoiled from Tibby’s gratuitous hug of welcome and warm words that focussed on Eunice’s journey and the inordinate amount of time since they had last met and how Eunice still looked remarkably well. For a woman of her age.

For her part, Eunice was glad of the company after the exertions of the train journey. Mingling with  children, the working classes, blacks and latent homosexual coffee drinkers had all but exhausted her. At least she knew Tibby’s name. Even if she had stolen Bertie from her.

“The car is parked just outside the station Eunice. Not far to walk. I hope you are hungry. I’ve bought some Breaded Cod for dinner. Francis said you liked it.”

“Breaded……” Eunice saw him. Walking towards them, waving as he did so.  It had been nearly forty years. He hadn’t changed at all in that time. The double chin, thinning hair with pronounced side parting, rounded shoulders and the slightly protruding front teeth.

“Bertie!” cried Eunice, “Bertie. My darling Bertie!” The years slid away and Eunice stood in front of her beloved Brother once more. She felt an emotion that she never thought she would experience again. Joy.

“Bertie. My Bertie.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Eunice, this is my son Archie. Bertie’s son.” Archie nodded and smiled. His teeth were even the same off white shade as Bertie’s.

“Son?  I didn’t know I -”

“- I only found out I was pregnant after Bertie’s death and you were not best pleased with me at the time to say the least.  I thought one day you would find out, that we could be reconciled, in truth I never knew what I had done to upset you so, but time then has a habit of making our decisions for us. But isn’t he the spitting image of Bertie…….” Eunice heard no more of Tibby’s meanderings and focussed on her Brother’s incarnation. All these years of sadness, anger, bitterness and longing for him now fell away like melt water. Even the thought of Breaded Cod did not fill her with ire. Bertie had returned to her.

She knew now. Knew that the fates had decided to test her, ask her to prove her love for Bertie by the one thing that tests all love. Separation.

The past and present  melded themselves into a contiguous whole as Eunice held her beloved brother’s hand in the car as Tibby regaled Eunice with tales of kindness and generosity of spirit. Eunice enjoyed them and readied herself to immerse permanently in the past.

She thought 1960 was going to be a great year. The best. A new dawn had broken in her life.

As Nanny used to say when calming the polio stricken Eunice’s fears of the dark, “Don’t worry Eunice, we need the night so the sun can have a rest. Ready to warm us and make us happy for the tomorrow.  Every day the sun giving us the thoughts, words, dreams, and hopes for us to live good Christian lives and the night to allow us to rest and reflect on our daily transgressions and seek atonement for them.  When I was younger, I had this dream of being able to live in perpetual daylight. Chasing the sun around the world on a magnificent Charger. Always chasing the daylight. Chasing the day. Now, I think I’d like to catch the dawn instead. Everything would be fresh, new, slightly dewy to touch as if you were in possession the keys to each and every day. I used to believe that the morning dew covering the fields and valleys represented the souls of all those young children who had died not baptized and were left in limbo. What a nice place to rest your soul, at the break of each day.”

Boxing Day 1996 – The House In Kensington

“Yes aunt. No Aunt. I’m sure Tibby is not a latent homosexual.  I’m delighted that Uncle Bertie is alive and well. No, I don’t think the McVities have any Negro in them – there is someone at the door. I have to go. I will speak to you tomorrow.”

Francis set the telephone down. He realised that he missed his aunt’s hate flecked speech more than he anticipated. She was all he had. But now was not the time for introspection or reflection.

He walked back into the Dining Room, stared up at the portrait of Great Great Uncle Percy and raised his can of cider to his distant relative. The calipers were now broken in; the initial discomfort now apparent when he bent over. On a couple of occasions they had become snagged in his dressing gown and his foreskin had been pinched on one painful, enjoyable occasion. He was pleased with his plan and concluded that this was the most memorable of Christmases. With luck the Old Girl would not be around much longer and he could set about encapsulating himself at will. Yes, it all added up to a marvellously peaceful, confined Yuletide.

He clambered into the box Terry had helped him locate in front of the television. Luckily Terry did not comment on this as Francis would have struggled to come up with a plausible explanation. It was probably because he was too busy counting out the £280 in loose change that Francis had paid him for the calipers. If he looked closely he would have realised that he had been short changed by 68 pence.

Francis closed the lid of the box and opened its grill. He admired his surroundings and toasted Percy once again and then bit into a date. He enjoyed the succulent sweetness of the fruit.

He waited for the final credits of Calamity Jane to roll.  The Sound of Music was on Television next.  It was his favourite film.

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