Posts Tagged ‘Fish’

The great man enjoying a drag on his breadcrumbed fish fag!

No wonder all his faces were a bit wonky.

By The End He Was On 20 A Day

During His Fish Period

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Vermeer_The_Girl_With_The_Pearl_Earring_(1665) copy

Hello Aunty;

Where I come from, a woman selects her life partner by slapping him/her with a wet haddock. Sadly, due to Climate Change, warming oceans and over fishing, the wet haddock shoal has all but disappeared.

The only thing I can lay my hands on now is a 15 lb lump hammer and am worried that the man I have chosen for the rest of my life, known locally as Ted The Runt, may not withstand the tap of love.

Any tips?

Big Elsie, Stockport

Dear Elsie;

Stop! In the name of love!

Before approaching Ted with the lump hammer (although it sounds like he’s not adverse to a smack on the chops with a heavy implement) have you considered the alternatives?

Haddock does seem to have had its chips but there are a wealth of bottom feeders out there that will adequately do the job. Cheap, ugly and prone to instant decay if not used promptly (bit like Ted’s gnashers I hear) they would make any man fall gratefully onto your ample, heaving bosom (if not shove a couple of pickled eggs up your blouse, goes well with the fish).

Alternatively if you’re having trouble sourcing bottom feeders, a family sized bag of Asdas frozen whole tail scampi should suffice. Cheap and if swung with sufficient force it will have a similar effect to a 15lb hammer.

How about adding a few jars of tartar sauce to the bag for extra effect?

Tartar for now!


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To make sense of this story read Part 1 here.

Our hero continues his journey to Home Town…………..

My attention was drawn away from the mackerel smack, which had begun to list heavily, by a woman who had appeared at the entrance to the carriage. She too wore white foundation and poorly applied black eyeliner and was dragging rather theatrically, a large invisible load behind her. My neighbour peered over the top of his newspaper to watch.

As befits a gentleman I stood up.

“Would you like some help?” I said.

“Thank you, most kind.” She smiled. There was a pea stuck between her front teeth.

The imaginary suitcase was much heavier than it looked and I struggled to stow it in the overhead rack, jiggling with it repeatedly to ensure a secure stowing had indeed been effected. After I had managed to do so, I dabbed my forehead with a faux handkerchief. She nodded her thanks, sat and became engrossed in imaginary knitting; casting off and pearling like a good ‘un. I think it was a scarf or maybe the arm of a jumper or cardigan. I could not be sure.

I felt a twinge in my back as a result of my muscular chivalry. Been a martyr to my back since an early age.

I looked out to Sea and noticed that the spot where once a Smack puttered homeward, was now merely a glut of dead mackerel floating on the water’s surface. Gulls swarmed around this unexpected feast. The crew were now confined to Davey Jones Locket. Or is it Locker? I always get the two mixed up!

We pulled into Piddle Station, where another human statue was located on the platform. It was Napoleon.  My favourite tyrant. The artiste bore an uncanny resemblance to the pudgy faced Corsican.

A woman boarded at Piddle. She spoke, “There, there Geoffrey, I’ll feed you in a minute.”

The woman wore rouge, eyeliner and also a shiny red clown’s nose. She carefully guided an imaginary pushchair down the aisle and spoke softly to its occupant, presumably Baby Geoffrey. Who was invisible.

She sat near the elderly couple and carefully picked up Invisible Baby Geoffrey, cooing to him, even bouncing the tot up and down, smiling as she did so. There was a baked bean stuck between her teeth. The old couple joined in and all three of them pulled strange faces and made gurgling noises at the fantasy infant.

“Do you mind if I feed him?” the woman asked.

“Not at all!” replied the old woman, although the old man flushed when it became apparent that Invisible Baby Geoffrey was still on the breast.

The old man looked at his wife and exclaimed, “Maureen look, the child carries the number of the beast!”

The skies blackened for a fleeting moment as Invisible, possibly satanic, Baby Geoffrey stared at me. If I could have seen his face no doubt I would have been very shaken.

Luckily, things settled down and the train rumbled along. The clouds were darkening further out to Sea and the terrain turned rockier and harsher. Inland was the old quarry and the ancient stone circle near Squelch where local legend tells of human sacrifices being carried out as recently as last Wednesday.

We drew into Widdle station to be greeted by the ghoulish apparition of another human statue, a dust ridden headless spectral with rusted chains sprouting around its legs and dripping from its arms. It was a very impressive display, the best one yet. I wondered where the performer’s head was in the costume and how he or she kept cool in hot weather.

Part 3 tomorrow……..


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Somebody has asked to see the Picasso smoking a fishfinger picture again – as always happy to oblige! If you want to buy the original send a cheque for £5,000,000 and it is yours!


By The End He Was On 20 A Day

During His Fish Period

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This is the third and final part of the Sunburn diaries. Every word written here is true. Part 1 and Part 2 can be found here and here!

Part 3

I once went out with a girl from Finland. Trainee javelin thrower. Sadly she chucked me.

So, in Greece doing a very passable impression of a snow globe. There was a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and there he stood. Bespectacled, bearded and wearing a duffel coat. It was 35 degrees Celsius.

“Hicky kovelainenen nokia hup hup heniekenb basta Lasse?” he asked. My javelin thrower dalliance stood me in good stead (Foreplay was a tad traumatic, what with her arm strength) as I recognised the Finnish language.

He held a can of tuna and began to twang the partially opened lid like a dolphin friendly juice harp.

“Twangly twang ikeloien pente arrikola?” He asked

“Mumbeerlenksi suomi arkande prestatyn,” I replied, hoping that telling him that I don’t like butter on bread rolls would suffice.

He smiled, raised the tin and twanged some more. The twang of his can became the signature tune of the holiday.

How Ma Fightback and I guffawed when we heard him in our vicinity! Although it was a different story when he was twanging his can at 3 in the morning outside our bedroom window.

Think of Deliverance’s duelling banjos and you will start to understand our concerns. Twanged canned tuna possesses a a sinister sound.

A Final Tip For Gingers In The Sun!

Always carry a fridge magnet of Roy Orbison with you.

When in sunny climes, look for a cave. A spot of troglodyte existence is always enjoyable and the cave is dark and cool.

The best caves, the ones with stalagmites and stalactites to watch during your stay, are normally occupied by hermits.

Often a broken heart has caused their hermityness. She done him wrong, upped and left with the milkman, baker, butcher or cobbler etc. The poor lad can’t cope and so naturally finds a cave to sit and mope in.

This is where the fridge magnet of THE BIG O comes in handy.

Place the magnet at the entrance to the cave. Then hum “Dum Dum Dum Dum Doo Wah”.

Hermit will have heard Orbison warble about the broken heart and he will be drawn to this sound. When at the entrance to the cave he will find the fridge magnet, pick it up and venerate it like an Orthodox Icon.

Then nip in, nab his perch in the cave and so have a Sun free holiday watching those naughty stalactites and stalagmites grow!

You will have to share the perch with a rather hirsute skinny bloke but at least you can perfect your Travelling Wilbury’s back catalogue.

But make sure you leave after two weeks. There is a danger that twelve or so years down the line the old Orbison Fridge Magnet Trick may be played on you.

“Alas,” said he to himself, “what kind of people have I come amongst? Are they cruel, savage, and uncivilized, or hospitable and humane? I seem to hear the voices of young women, and they sound like those of the nymphs that haunt mountain tops, or springs of rivers and meadows of green grass. At any rate I am among a race of men and women. Let me try if I cannot manage to get a look at them.”

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Hello Folks,

Bob Lewington here again.

When I’m on the pot, I like to read a lot. It’s a man thing!

I popped round to my mum’s this morning to put some new shelves up for her. I’ve got a drill. Don’t use a spirit level though. Don’t trust bubbles. Sinister things

Sunday’s cabbage worked its magic and I needed the facilities. I read about Neil Armstrong in The Sun.

I remember that July day in ’69. Dad had got me up at 4 in the morning to watch him walk on the moon. Armstrong that is. Not Dad. He was in his pants and vest on the settee next to me watching the telly.

Dead impressed I was. I stuck the goldfish bowl over me head pretending to be Armstrong. There were half a dozen lads in Gravesend A and E  all wearing goldfish bowls.  A lot of goldfish must have come to a sticky end that day.

When the bowl was off, I got a slap round the head from the Nurses, Doctors and Dad. And a passing Policeman for good measure. Kids have it easy these days. A good beating did me the world of good.

Here’s to Neil Armstrong I thought as I reached for the toilet roll. He had reached for the Stars.

C’est la vie.

All the best,


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Ginger Sooty, GLOVE PUPPET OF DREAMS provides a daily round-up of events at the London 2012 Olympics that are, quite simply London 2012.

We are still basking in the glow of Sir Bradley of Wiggins Gold medal triumph! The sideburns of destiny have certainly done the trick.

You may have read about the Chinese, Korean and Indonesian Badminton players disqualified for trying not to win their games. I’ve had shuttlecock trouble in the past too! Penicillin sorted that one out! Not bad for a  glove puppet.

I visited the water polo yesterday too. It’s an old gag but worth it.


A couple of sports for you to look out for today.

1. The Big Lad Lollop –  Watch out for the Mongolian 7 footer Mangang Sorghum attempting to win his third straight Gold.

2. Fish Tickling – The Aquatic Centre will be teeming with fish life today as the qualifying heats gets underway. The favourite for gold is Poland’s Zgbniew Zaplinski, the only man who has achieved the holy grail of fish tickling by managing to get a guffaw out of a Koi Carp (a very shy fish). His main challenger will be from Italy’s Maureen Ambrosiani. Her digitally dextrous exploits with Rainbow Trout are the stuff of fish tickling legend.

Enjoy The Games!


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Fish is great and good for you. Fanny helps a reader with Puffer Fish…….

Dear Fanny,

I bought a couple of Puffer fish from a man in my local pub today and I’m not sure how to extract the poison from them.

I did ask the man who sold them to me but he ran away. He seemed a nice man. He had a hi-vis jacket on that said Health and Safety.

Maybe he didn’t like fish.

Can I have a signed photo please?

Doris Smallhead, Henley on Thames.

Dear Doris,

If you’re fortunate enough to find an expert to do this for you you’re a very lucky lady indeed!

I was fortunate to spend a night in a Puffer den in Northern Japan during my best-selling Asian book tour of  Asia.

The book of the tour “Pol’s Pots – Quick Snacks For The Workers” can still be found on Amazon.

If my memory serves me well he (the expert, not Pol Pot) boiled the sack of poison in a herb reduction and BOOM! Apart from the nightmarish flashbacks I get even now some 30 years later it was a rather pleasant experience.

Poach the remaining fish in white wine and serve with broccoli. Drink red wine with it.

Cheers Darling.

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I like the folderol of blue embroidery

On the white tablecloth’s cool brilliance

Today’s breakfast coffee spills join


Drips and crumbs of our meals together

Are lifted and shook out

Before the cloth is put away on it’s shelf

Ready to be smoothed out table set

For our next meal together

Or we’ll maybe wash it

And use the one with the fish and the chickens

They instead marking out

The songs of our days.

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He wore sturdy brogues and thick woollen socks. Nothing else.

On the table in front of him he had placed a goldfish bowl. A carp gazed at me with malevolence. It bore an uncanny resemblance to Elvis in The King’s final days.

Anger management issues I thought to myself.

“Crisp?” The Rambler proffered a packet of Smokey Bacon in a friendly manner. I politely declined. Best not to talk to him. I stared out of the window. We passed through a tunnel and his fleshy reflection loomed large in the pane. Crisp crumbs fell from his mouth, some of which landed into his pubic region. He picked a number of the larger pieces out and popped them  into his mouth.

“Turning nippy isn’t it?” he asked in his avuncular manner. The fish continued to stare.

The train came out of the tunnel and the guard announced that we were approaching Kemble Station.

“My Stop!” beamed The Rambler. He stood up, wiped the remaining crumbs away and reached up to the luggage rack to retrieve his luggage. A wind weathered scrotum dangled limply two inches from my eyes.

“Come on Lester, our stop!” The Rambler said as he picked up the goldfish bowl. He smiled at me as he walked toward the door. I noticed the imprint of the seat lining on his buttocks. The left cheek would benefit from a good quality emollient cream.

I put down my chicken salsa wrap, my appetite somewhat abated.

I doubt if Celia Johnson had experienced this in Brief Encounter.

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