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Hello Oily

As a man who knows about classy erotica, would you put pickle in a cheese sandwich?

Gert, Munich

Oily Replies,

Hey Gert,

In the lather-me-in-mayo-and-spank-my-bare-botty market that I cater for, a cheese and pickle sandwich is staple fare for actors and crew alike.

In fact it is a well known but mainly ignored fact that when sandwiches were invented in the 16th Century by rakish dandy, the Earl of Pastie, sex didn’t exist. But if it did he doubtless would have enjoyed such sumptuous fare

Anyway you are getting me reet peckish, I need my own particular sandwich.

Kirsty! Tabitha! it’s Banana Splitz time. I got the banana, my sweet little eye candies.

Oily

 

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Somebody asked to see the Pope with a pork pie on his head image again – happy to oblige!

Pope Pius 23rd

Pope Pius 23rd

Somebody asked to see the ginger Sphinx image again – happy to oblige!

Wonder what it makes of it all?

Somebody asked to see the ginger Al Jolson image again – as always happy to oblige!

jolson

Somebody asked to see the cute Polar Bear image again – as always happy to oblige!

polarbear

Somebody asked to see the Shane McGowan dancing in Riverdance image again – as always happy to oblige!

Somebody asked to see the Saturday Night Fever Disco Chicken again – as always happy to oblige!

Somebody asked to see Ali with a chicken on his head again – as always happy to oblige!

He Was Forty Years Ahead Of His Time

Somebody has asked to see Nelson Mandela with a walnut whip on his head again – as always happy to oblige!

Lovely

has asked to see the David Niven With A Wagon Wheel On His Head Image again – as always happy to oblige!

A Sad End To A Great Career
 

Last week somebody asked to see Picasso smoking his fishfingers……What a strange world we live in.

By The End He Was On 20 A Day
During His Fish Period

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I am Barry Belcher. I am a Milkman. I am Psychic. I have been predicting predictions, with various degrees of accuracy for a number of years now.  Previous predictions can be read here.

I am up with the Lark, delivering milk in my hometown of Devizes. I also deliver eggs, orange juice, potatoes, bread (wholemeal mostly but the occasional white sliced) and yoghurt. I used to deliver babies as well. Not any more though. Political correctness gone mad in my opinion.

So, without further ado…….Milk Bottle of Mystery…….what does the future foretell?

1. Cous cous will become the carbohydrate of choice for the discerning.

2. Vowels will be banned in France to save money.

3. At least 48% of Barry Manilow will melt in the Spring.

4. Prince Harry will get his todger out. Again.

Will these prove accurate readers? Only time will tell………

Now it is time for messages from “THE OTHER SIDE” –

Francoise, Paris,

Papa says you always look lovely in Bleu!

Hanif in Karachi

Imran wants to let you know that the Asif borrowed his puncture repair kit and still has it. Nip round there and get it off the thieving dog.

Liang Bo in Shanghai

Bo Bing thinks you left the back door open.

Norman in Totnes

Maureen wants to let you know that she is fine and doesn’t blame you for running over the cat last year. And her come to that.

IF YOU KNOW ANYONE WHO MAY BENEFIT FROM HEARING THESE MESSAGES PLEASE PASS THEM ON….

Well folks, the Milk Bottle of Mystery is being returned to the Crate of Destiny.

Until next time……….

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‘Taint No Fun Burning in Der Sun

Every year Gfb leaves The Crib for a few days for the Sun. Every year, “Be careful. Cover up. Factor 50 minimum.” Every year rogue rays pierce my Maginot Line like defences and turn my dermis into pork scratchings.

Jesus it was hot. My brains were melting and dribbling out of my ears.

Gingers and the Sun? No!

Bastard Sun. Bastard Heat.

Under a parasol, thirty seven feet in diameter, dressed in a Burkha and propped up in a lead lined coffin for extra protection.

Burn Baby Burn

Still copped it though. Top of the thighs. Right ear. Left ankle and Neckline.

“Ooooh, ooooh, aaaaah, aaaaah,” goes the song at night as I turn in bed. Cotton sheets cling to me like a rejected lover just to inflict further rubbed ignominy.

Bastard Mosquitoes too. Like Drones in Helmand they were. Despite the copious application of Agent Orange (the stuff strips skin in a fashion Hannibal the Cannibal would have been proud of) they kept on a coming. Strafed and chaffed for hours until they sated themselves on my olive oil enriched blood cells.

Mediterranean diet me arse.

“I didn’t get bitten!” Ma Fightback chirped. That’s alright then.

Day 2. To the beach. Prop my coffin under the 78 feet diameter parasol. He’s there.

6′ 3″. 16 Stone. Early 60’s? Very tight trunks. Extremely tight trunks.

Stands in the Sun, hands on hips, legs slightly akimbo. He’s the man he’s telling the beach. I hear him speak.

German.

“Ich bein ein bein einstein knacke der Ooompah Band,” or some such he says to his wife who is on a lounger looking at pictures of Princess Kate’s breasts.

“Ja,” she replies. He stands over her. His foot on the edge of the lounger. He’s proud of his trunks. His very tight trunks. He plays with his hair. Flicks it. Shapes it. Teases it. He has mullet memories.

Beads of sweat form inside my Burkha.

“Wasser for dippen,” he says.

“Ja.”

He changes trunks. Yes I know. The tight, very tight trunks are removed with the aid of a block and tackle rig and support of a passing sunglass peddler.

Budgie smugglers now adorn his crotch.

He stands by the water’s edge. Hands on hips. Legs slightly akimbo. He wades into the water and then dives in. He is under for a few seconds and then Kraken like, he resurfaces. Without his hair. Worse still, the hair has been replaced by some used toilet roll.

He reminds me of a boiled egg. A Big Tuetonic Boiled Egg.

“Meinen syrup has kaput in der wasser. Scheissen schellotapen.”

“Ja,” mutters wifey now looking at pictures of Prince Harry’s testes.

He looks around in embarrassed fashion. No-one is laughing. A coffin shakes slightly though.

Eventually I spot it floating rather listlessly towards Crete. Is this is how the legend of The Golden Fleece was born millennia ago? The Golden Wig – now there would be a Greek Myth to spice the imagination.

Or maybe not.

“Thus spoke Minerva, and Ulysses obeyed her gladly. Then Minerva assumed the form and voice of Mentor, and presently made a covenant of peace between the two contending parties.”

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Hello Folks!

Thanks to those of you who spotted this gathering of Redheads in Holland recently.

The regular reader of Gfb will note it contains two of our favourite things;

Red Hair and the Dutch!

Show it givesh ush a chancesh to write somting shtupid to shound likesh der Dutsch whilsht showing lotsh of der nishe picturesh of der Gingersh!

Enjoy!

Gingerfightback!

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Hello!

To celebrate the start of the Football season and as I still can’t be bothered to write anything new, here is another old post relating to Football. And Chickens.

Chickens In Sport #4

1966 was a great year to be British. Dentistry had been bought in from the cold. Tinned fruit and roofs were becoming commonplace and plugs of all varieties were no longer in short supply! Brown and Bitter was a staple drink of the working classes and not a comment on inner city racial tensions.

On July 37th 1966 England won the World Cup for footballing.

Yet it was a game not without controversy!

The Queen is caught nicking fried onions from the burger bar at half-time but once again The Establishment cover up her chronic kleptomania.

But there is one moment that still counts as one of the great talking moments in a game of many moments.

Did the chicken cross the line?

This image that proves conclusively nothing at all.

Did The Chicken Cross The Line?

England claim success. The referee is unsure. He confers with the Georgian linesman. With a firm nod of his head Dimitri Yashmilli-Vanilli confirms a goal has been scored.

England go on to win the greatest prize in world football. In West Germany there is outrage. So angry are the Germans that they take revenge by developing a sustainable industrial base.

OUCH! THE BASTARDS!

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Recently voted the world’s most oiligible Bachelor in the famous German periodical “Dass Is Grossen Grossen,” Oily George is here to provide common sense advice in a mad mad world. From food to hair, Oily cares!

Hello Oily

As a man who knows about classy erotica, would you put pickle in a cheese sandwich?

Gert, Munich

Oily Replies,

Hey Gert,

In the lather-me-in-mayo-and-spank-my-bare-botty market that I cater for, a cheese and pickle sandwich is staple fare for actors and crew alike.

In fact it is a well known but mainly ignored fact that when sandwiches were invented in the 16th Century by rakish dandy, the Earl of Pastie, sex didn’t exist. But if it did he doubtless would have enjoyed such sumptuous fare

Anyway you are getting me reet peckish, I need my own particular sandwich.

Kirsty! Tabitha! it’s Banana Splitz time. I got the banana, my sweet little eye candies.

Oily

Hello Oily

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

Toby, Moray

Oily Replies,

Toby,

A combination of both really. Think 70’s Kevin Keegan meets…..quick check on google…….Billy Ray Cyrus. I think my fellow freak, the moustachioed porn star and occasional footballer Rudi Voller perfected the look in the late 80’s.

Personally as you will see from my pic I am going 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 now legendary 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.

Regards, Oily

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1966 was a great year to be British. Dentistry had been bought in from the cold. Tinned fruit and roofs were becoming commonplace and plugs of all varieties were no longer in short supply! Brown and Bitter was a staple drink of the working classes and not a comment on inner city racial tensions and the nation survived the great Barber lockout in March of that year. Long hair however was born amongst young men. And with it fancy ideas.

Yet there was more to 1966 than all this happy joie de vivre type stuff. For on July 37th in 1966 England won the World Cup for footballing.

Yet it was a game not without controversy!

Firstly, England coach Alf Lamb-Shank selected The Sound of Music Singin’ Sensation Julie’s Andrew in goal. Secondly, Her Majesty Queenie is caught nicking fried onions from the burger bar at half-time but once again The Establishment covered up her chronic kleptomania.

But apart from these moments. There is one moment that still counts as one of the great talking moments in a game of many moments.

No, we are not talking about the moment Franz Beckanbauer picks up a stray rasher of bacon from the sacred Wembley turf and claims a ham ball. We are of course talking about this talking point.

Did the chicken cross the line?

Gingerfightback has recently unearthed a new image that proves conclusively nothing at all.

The picture below shows the chicken moments after the German goal attendant Hans Knees-Andbumpsadaisy has been beaten by the power of Geoff Hurst’s shot and can only watch helplessly as the fowl fly’s towards the goal.

Did The Chicken Cross The Line?

England claim success. The referee is unsure. He confers with the Georgian linesman. With a firm nod of his head Dimitri Yashmilli-Vanilli confirms a goal has been scored.

England go on to win the greatest prize in world football. In West Germany there is outrage. So angry are the Germans that they take revenge by developing a sustainable industrial base. OUCH!

Read Full Post »

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