British PM David Cameron has played a dastardly final card in his bid to cling to power.
BANNING GINGERS FROM PUBLIC VIEW!
As he trails pointless oaf Ed Miliband in the polls, the posh boy “Who cares deeply” has decided to make Gingers a key plank of his 2015 election campaign.
In his speech today to the Idiocracy that is the Conservative Party, Cameron will say, “Look here Chaps, we’ve fucked over the poor, propped up the Bankers, divided old from young, gay from straight, black from white and STILL people don’t like us! Even giving pooftahs the right to marry hasn’t helped. I can only reach one conclusion. Gingers are to blame!”
To gasps from his dribbling, incontinent audience he blurted, “Banning Gingers from public life and stopping them using the internet to spread their gingery thingymajigs is all that is left to me. Polish my brogues please Fotheringham. Where is my fag?”
Last year, Gfb’s correspondent Gail Force-Winds revealed Tory plans to impose Burkhas on Gingers were shelved due to the fact that it was stupid. However, with the lads firing up in Iraq again and a need to appear to have some semblance of control domestically and internationally, the Ginger Question has been brought back.
Cameron’s comments put him at odds with President Barack Obama who, in a speech in Grimsby this month said, ‘We. Are not. Going. To tell. People what colour. Their hair. Should. Be.’
He Is A Red!
Ed Miliband’s reply was, “I have forgotten what I was going to say. Blah blah blah.”
Here’s The full version of Train Travel Tale #47 Mimico.
Thanks for all the kind comments last week!
Mimico
The train track hugs the coast like a coddled infant as it skirts bays, coves, inlets and headlands. At some points, trains run so close to beaches that it is possible to watch people paddling, beach combing or throwing sticks for excited dogs to chase after into the surf.
As a spur line off the main Inter City route, I am surprised that it is still going after all these years, whittled as it is to just a train from Big Town to Home Town in the morning and from Home Town to Big Town in the late afternoon. But the line thrives in its small understated way. Passengers know each other by first name, can always get a seat and even chat with the Guard enquiring after loved ones and mutual acquaintances.
I was going home after a few days in Big Town where I work in a hotel. I’d also visited the dentist for my annual check-up. Got the all clear.
Not a lot goes on in Home Town. In fact nothing of note goes on, unless you count the ice cream van doing its rounds each Thursday. And that is only during the summer. I love the van’s Greensleeves jingle and nearly always treat myself to a 99.
The only other passengers sharing the carriage with me were an elderly couple sitting several rows in front.
The first stop on the line, Tiddle was soon reached. There was a human statue on the platform. The ability to stand still for hours at a time is a highly under rated skill in my opinion. As the train drew to a halt I noticed that it was The Statue of Liberty, my favourite statue.
A woman was standing on the platform. She unfurled an umbrella, even though rain wasn’t forecast and gingerly walked in a straight line, her face gripped with concentration as she carefully slid one foot directly in front of the other.
She would teeter and wobble, using the umbrella to help her balance. I was nervous for her, at one point hiding my face in my hands as she tottered violently for several seconds. Finally she stopped and flourished her brolly triumphantly to signal the success of her ground level high wire walking act.
She walked back to her starting point to repeat her actions. As the train pulled away and rounded the infamous Tiddle bend, I saw her teetering precariously once more. I worried for her.
A man appeared in the carriage. Rouge had been applied to his cheeks and liner daubed haphazardly around his eyes. A battered straw hat sat askew on his head. He was carrying a heavy load, invisible to the human eye. He came to a halt at row Row 45, opposite me, stood on the seat and heaved the invisible suitcase into the overhead shelf, jiggling with it to ensure it was safely stowed. Stepping down, he pulled out an imaginary cloth, pedantically dusted his seat with it and then sat, protecting the crease in his trousers as he did so.
He smiled at me and mopped his brow with the faux handkerchief to signify his labours. I noticed a piece of sweet corn stuck between his front teeth.
Once comfortable in the seat, he unfurled what appeared to be a newspaper. Of the transparent variety. He licked his right index finger to turn the pages and sighed with outrage at the information contained within.
My gaze returned to the sea, where I watched a small mackerel smack puttering its way towards Tiddle’s compact harbour.
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.
A teenage girl, wearing rouge, eye liner and a clown’s nose stood on the platform. She was holding a dog lead. With no dog attached. The lead busied itself around the ghoul’s plinth.
She greeted the elderly couple as they left the train. The man was still red faced from his dalliance with a breast and a potential satan whilst the woman bent down and petted the lead saying, “Hello Bobby, you do look well!” They walked toward the station exit with Invisible Bobby dragging its owner along.
The train guard appeared shortly after departing Widdle. He was a tall powerfully built man, his hams in particular were a sight, dressed in an ill-fitting liveried suit. He checked the imaginary ticket of my neighbour and handed it back with a smile.
I decided to hold out an imaginary ticket for inspection.
“Sorry sir, this ticket is no good.”
“Why not?” I asked. I had a real ticket in my pocket and wished I had not been so cocky now. My neighbour rattled his translucent newspaper with purposeful indignation at my fare dodging antics.
“This takes you only as far as Piddle, two stops back. I’m afraid you’re going to have to pay a penalty fare.”
“How much?”
“Thirty pounds.”
I thought this a bit steep but looking at his stern features and enormous hams I knew there was little point in arguing. But I had an idea………
“Thanks very much sir, here’s your ticket.” The Guard handed me an invisible ticket along with a crisp real ten pound note as change for the two imaginary twenty pound notes I had handed him.
One born every minute I mused.
The Guard moved on and stopped to talk to the knitting woman, still furiously casting off. They spent a few moments in conversation before she held her design up against The Guard’s thick set arms. Perhaps her bogus knitting was for him? The colour certainly suited him. But alas I never found out. It still rankles.
A voice, Ghostly, almost ghastly to the human ear then filled the Carriage. We all turned our heads to see the evil being that uttered these sounds. The voice was accompanied by the sound of heavy chains rattling their miserable tone. A smell of rotting flesh pervaded. The wraith’s voice grew louder as it neared and spelled out its doom laden message, “Hot drinks…….snacks…….. beverages……….peanuts?”
It was the headless Ghoul from Widdle station, mimicking the act of pushing a heavy trolley. The Ghoul had donned a vivid red waistcoat which bore the title “Andy – Customer Service Assistant.”
My neighbour stopped him, “Tea please Andy, Everything OK?”
“Fine thanks, El Mystico. Running around like a headless chicken this morning.” He went about his business with relish, pouring imaginary liquid into a nonexistent cup, although how he saw, being headless was beyond me.
“Milk and sugar?”
“Yes please.”
“Be careful it is very hot.”
El Mystico blew into his tea to cool it before taking a sip.
On the Ghoul trundled on, calling out in that beastly voice if anyone else wanted comestibles, the heavy chains scuffing the floor.
My bladder nearly gave out with the excitement, so I traipsed to the toilet in the adjoining carriage. A Charlie Chaplin lookalike doffed his tattered bowler and waddled up to me in that famous comic gait. He offered a cheeky grin before tripping over some invisible object only to be saved by hooking the armrest of a nearby seat with his walking cane. He repeated this several times until it became a tad tiresome.
The toilet was being vacated by a man painted silver, sporting a Tricorn hat and wearing Eighteenth Century costume. I had no idea who he was depicting, but the cubicle reeked of cigarette smoke and he had not flushed his ablutions. I gave him a beady stare as I stepped over the prone Charlie Chaplin and returned to my seat.
The train rumbled through the stations of Tinkledrop, Bladderton and Tapper, where the mother and Invisible, possibly satan, Baby Geoffrey alighted. Andy, the Headless Ghoul Customer Service Assistant adopted a pose on each station platform presumably hoping he could earn a bob or two from passers by.
It was in the Tapper tunnel, now less than five minutes from home that I caught my reflection in the carriage window. My face had rouge and eyeliner roughly applied and cabbage had become stuck between my teeth. Feeling liberated from the strictures of the Oral World, I stood and pretended to climb a rope and then, despite my back injury, aped shuffling along a wall, towards the woman to enquire if she needed help with her luggage again.
“Thank you, most kind,” She said. We smiled at each other revealing the trapped vegetable matter between our teeth. I watched her stow her invisible knitting away.
“That’s coming along nicely.”
“Thank you, most kind.” She failed to tell me for whom the finished garment was intended. It still rankles.
The train pulled into our destination. Mimehead Station.
I walked to the Station car park. I don’t own a car, but in the world of The Mimico all that matters is imagination and a reasonably believable body position.
So, I fired up the Lamborghini and sped off to buy an ice cream from the van, humming Greensleeves as I drove.
I Hope You Enjoyed The Story – here is a musical interlude
Ginger troubadour, Ed Sheeran recently spoke to Gingerfightback about music, his lucky sausage Dennis and his love of sheep and coach holidays.
46 year old Ed, whose new single “I Haven’t Told You Lately That I Love You Because I Mumble,” is released next week, told Gfb’s showbiz correspondent Barry Island, “I wasplaying gigs in kennels and cycle racks when Dennis, my lucky sausage approached me and reckoned we should team up. I thought it strange that a talking sausage had rock n roll pretensions, but thought why the hell not? I wrote a song entitled “The Sausage I Love”. It was a massive hit on You Tube and the rest is history.”
Ed’s first album + has sold by the bucket load all over the place. Ed said, “I was going to call it “Thank You Dennis My Lucky Sausage,” but those corporate pigs at the record company changed it to +. It has been number 1 in 46 countries including Belgebourg, a place that doesn’t even exist! I owe it all to Dennis.”
Redhead Ed, 33 also told us that he is knackered and needs a holiday. “The strings on my guitar have gone a bit wonky. So I’ve booked a two week coach trip around the Lake District for me and Dennis to watch sheepdog trials and sheep at rest. I like sheep especially when they are woolly. Baa, baa.”
Is it a case of Sheeran’s, Shearings shearing holiday we wonder!
The drama teacher says my acting career will never amount to more than a hill o’ beans. Despite not knowing what that means, I’m assuming it ain’t positive as she always gets the class to laugh at me whilst I’m taking my turn on stage.
I have done all the classes and got top marks like, but my protruding tooth, flaming ginger hair and the mole sitting on the end of my nose are a hindrance. Any tips?
Bob, Holness-on-Sea
Oily Replies
Hi Bob,
A sad story, but there is inspiration out there. My fellow BAFTA award winning actor Ron Jeremy is no oil painting as you seen from his role in genteel Sunday night period drama, Go Down on Abbey.
With his pot belly, webbed toes and dubious taste in sandals, Ron is no Ryan Gosling, yet pneumatic, breathy, stiletto wearing, badly dubbed girls the world over have loved him dearly. Frequently. All at once.
A very reasonable signing up fee and a choice of a Crossbow, The Plague or Witchcraft as a free signing on gift! I chose the Crossbow, it was made of plastic and sadly hasn’t lasted.
Among the matches from Have We’ve Met B4? was Terry, a very nervous Visigoth with dandruff, Clancy a hirsute Victorian Chimney Sweep (First man I met who platted his nasal hair) and Andrew, whose incarnation as Archimedes meant our date was a discourse on the importance of the bath plug.
Tonight I’m cooking dinner for Neville, who was a 4th Century Corsican Pirate plying his evil trade on the Barbery Coast, pillaging, wenching and ravishing as he went.
He’s in Telesales now is allergic to brushed cotton and is convinced that only a a reformed New Kids On The Block can save the world from militant Islam.
Sounds a catch. If a touch deranged. Hope he likes soup. I love soup. Slurp, slurp.
Last week I married the man who I thought was the love of my life. Today he has left me for another man. My Dad. Dad lives in an iron lung and is mute. How can I cheer myself up?
Alison, Gloucester
Aunty Bill Replies;
Alison,
This must have come as terrible shock to you but the darkest hour is before the dawn and for you the dawn is going to be incredibly bright (sort of).
To lose your Husband to your Dad needs a firm course of action and this is what you must do.
Visit the pair of them and let your feelings be known – Dad is mute so he won’t be in a position to answer back anyway.
Check his iron lung. The chances are it is a Casio TW122Windjammer. Look for the Negative Pressure Ventilator (this should be situated adjacent to the Tank Respirator although on earlier models is linked to the aerator valve).
Turn to maximum pressure, retire to a safe distance (I’d recommend at least a third of a mile) and watch that baby go! Both problems solved at the turn of a valve.
There’s a slim chance the police will come a knocking. May I recommend Sioux, Grabbit and Runne solicitors who, for an unreasonable fee, will represent you should matters take a turn for the worse.
I’m in a spot of bother with the local Constabulary.
As you know Fanny, the present food trend is to forage for one’s own herbs. After a night taking part in a little wild garlic gathering on Hampstead Heath, I found myself on the wrong end of a policeman’s truncheon. After a bit of a kerfuffle, he summoned the help of his uniformed friend, whose helmet I managed to grab with both hands before giving it a rather tight squeeze.
This only enraged the young officer. He handcuffed me to a tree where his chum layed into me good and proper! I was released and returned to my car which was illegally parked. I’ve since received a rather large vehicle recovery bill from the local force.
Do you have a nice recipe using wild garlic?
Benny
Fanny Replies;
Ah the joys of foraging! Believed to be invented in 1983, foraging has once again become a must for all celebrity chefs.
From Hesgota Bloomincheek to the little fat Ginger Cooking God that is Anthony Whata Thieving Tosspot. They’re all at it! JUST BUY SOME F@CKING HERBS YOU TIGHT BASTARDS!
Anyway, your recipe Benny.
Nettle & Wild Garlic Soup.
Ingredients:
Large bunch of nettles.
Ditto wild garlic.
1 sliced leek
1 finely chopped onion
1 bottle of chardonnay.
1/2 litre of vegetable stock.
Large slug of brandy.
Cream
1 large spliff
Chill.
Make the soup…..in a pot….with all the soup stuff….
Copyright @ Jim O'Sullivan, 2012 (including Gingerfightback). Unauthorized use and or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the blog’s author and/ or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links can be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jim O'Sullivan (including Gingerfightback) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
gingerfightback.wordpress.com 