Posts Tagged ‘AC/DC’

Hello Folks,

Well we are back from our trip “Down Under”. I enjoyed Australia. We stayed in the resort of Wollombonggongerianty. The town’s slogan was, “Playground For Functioning Illiterates”.

Oz water swirls in a anti-clockwise direction! Watching a floater bravely battle for survival in an unusal direction fascinated me for several hours.

“Magnetic Pole”, Bruce our taciturn concierge told me. He still mourns the death of Bon Scott.

So ever the one with a scientific mind, when I returned home I sought to place a spoon Geller like, on the forehead of Zgbniew Zzzzzgmrboniak, our local Polish builder. Safe to say the spoon fell off.

Magnetic Poles my arse.

I am back at work.

I was involved in a repossession.

Sir Amethyst Yeast-Gravel had failed to pay his Council Tax. The poor old chap is potless. Should take a leaf out of my cousin Terry’s book and consider armed robbery as a career option.

Anyway before I took possession of goods to the value of what Sir Yeast-Gravel owed, his noblilityness kindly allowed me to use his facilities.

You could tell he was posh because of the a copy of Horse and Hound as the in-store reading material.

I like horses. Legs, Necks, Tails. They’ve got the lot.

Couldn’t ride a horse though. Suffer from Stirrup Ankle.

But at least the water in the bowl swirls in the direction it should. Bloody Australians taking liberties with my evacuations. You can tell a lot about a country by the way it treats its sewage.

My Dad used to say to me, “Your stool is your best friend.” I don’t have a clue either.  Strange man was Dad. He thought he was 3 parts human and 1 part pigeon.



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Our arts correspondent Terry Cotter The Potter and his unique insight into the world they call “Art”.


My name is Terry Cotter. I’m a potter.

I have been potterising for over 20 years and stock a wide range of ceramic goods in my shop The Potter’s Reel, down here in Lower Swell. The shop is named after my potter’s wheel which goes round and round. Like a reel.

1. Painting

The Creation Of Adam – Michelangelo stuck this on the roof of the Sistine Chapel. I  got a crick in my neck looking at it. Why didn’t he paint it on the wall?

2. Movies

The Exorcist – Devil visits a girl, she vomits pea soup, is potty mouthed and finds a new way to use a crucifix. Max Von Sydow sorts it out. Goes on a bit (I think – had me eyes closed most of the time. Slept with the light on that night!) – by the way Devil spelt backwards is lived.

3. Music

Back In Black – AC/DC – Titchy Australian dresses up as schoolboy and a dwarf Geordie in a cap perform songs about their giant penises and the pleasure their todgers bring to women whilst they down fifteen bottles of whiskey a night. Goes on a bit.

4. Literature

War And Peace – Tolstoy – There’s a bit of war then a bit of peace. Then a bit more war and then a bit more peace. Goes on and on and on and on and on for a bit.

Village News

The vicar’s wife has darned the net and so the annual table tennis tournament will take place this weekend in Budgen’s frozen food section. First prize will be a packet of Quorn Sausages.

‘Til next time – The Wheel Keeps On Turning!


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The day had been a long one. The uppity Sales Director had sought to ambush me at the Monthly Review. Thankfully, the large order for flannels from Poundworld the previous day had led me to exceed my orders target and had spiked her MBA sharpened guns.

I looked forward to getting home, putting on my new pair of corduroys and cracking open a can of cider.

I gave a silent prayer of thanks to the flannel. Like the wheel, cup and shovel, it is immune to technological advance. Of course, the firm was in a tizzy over the introduction of disposable wipes, but flannels have stood the test of time. The average person in Western Europe has six flannels. That adds up to nearly two billion. An impressive number.

As my old boss Melvin told me on my first day, “Men and woman will always have nooks and crannies to clean.” He was a wise man. Such a shame about the chainsaw.

The Buddhist monk sitting next to me was a very pleasant chap. Not what you would expect of a Buddhist monk, being heavyset, fair skinned and speaking in a broad Mancunian accent. His robes clad him spectacularly.

We spoke briefly.

“I’m still a heavy rock man, proper Fookin’ Rock n Roll,” he said. He continued to prattle as I drifted off into the land of nod.

I dreamed of a being in a Kung Fu fight with Roger Moore’s James Bond. I always thought Timothy Dalton deserved more outings as 007, but there you go.

Moore was holding a large black pudding in a menacing manner. He was about to aim a kick towards my nether regions when I awoke with a sharp pain in my right foot. I had kicked the back of the seat in front of me in a bold defensive blocking manoeuvre.

“Ow!” I cried. The pain was sharp. Intense. Avoidable.

“Oooooohhhhhhmmmmmm,” My Buddhist neighbour uttered in a low, guttural tone. His eyes were closed. He was in the Lotus position. His large left knee touched my thigh. It was a remarkable joint.


Several passengers, looked up from their spreadsheets, like a colony of commuting Meerkats to locate these primal, nasal Mancunian urgings.

“OOOOOOOOOHHHHHMMMMM!” He repeated, more forcefully. He levitated a full two inches above the seat, softly breaking wind as he did so. All that effort I suppose.

I stared in awe as he descended several seconds later, unfolded his legs and then smiled at me and said,

“If you ask me, AC/DC were never the same after Bon Scott died, even if Back in Black is a great album.”

Flabbergasted, I nodded my assent and clutched a sample bag of flannels to my side.

“Tickets from Stonehouse please,” said the Guard.

The Buddhist was put off for fare evasion.

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