Rise Of The Planet Of The Apes – Exclusive! Caeser is a Ginger!

Hello,

Gingerfightback’s film critic Mark Commode, has discovered that the central character in the Rise of the Planet of the Apes – Caesar  – was originally going to be Ginger as the film’s producers believed it would make the whole thing more realistic.

 

Ginger and ever so angry

The next instalment, provisionally titled, “Early Morning On The Planet Of The Apes – Kippers for Breakfast” will feature a spectacular bicycle  chase  modelled on the attached outtake from, “Late Afternoon On The Planet Of The Apes – Not So Warm When The Sun Goes In Is It?”

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“My Girl Wears A Kettle On Her Head – Am I Wrong To Love Her Aunty Bill?”

 

Dear Aunty Bill,

My girl Polly means the world to me. She has a lovely personality, speaks several languages and is, in the vernacular, a bit of a looker. I want to ask her to marry me and bare my offspring.

She suffers from the very rare “Pollyputthekettleon Syndrome” which means she cannot leave the house without a full kettle perched on her perm and she can never be more than 5 metres from a plug socket to ensure the water is always boiled.

Do you think if I bought her a flexi-lead to increase her roaming distance she would walk down the aisle with me?

Carlton, Stovely

Aunty Bill Replies;

Hey Carlton!

You lucky man, sounds like the girl of my dreams as well. I love a cuppa and with her there’s never one far away!

Rather than go to expense of trailing sockets and extension leads, how about an asbestos hat as featured in this month’s edition of “Practical Millenary”?

One of these titfers, a small can of lighter fluid and you are away. Simply spray the fluid on to the hat, ignite and place the kettle in the cradle provided. Within minutes you’ll have a nice steaming brew!

But ask her to let you know if her head is getting too hot.

These hats are designed to withstand temperatures of 200 degrees for up to five minutes (so it says in the brochure), ample time to boil a kettle, although if you detect any scalp disfigurement extinguish immediately.

How about some matching gloves to go with the hat? That way your steaming brew will remain hotter for longer (so it says in the brochure).

Remember not to ignite the gloves.

Sup up!

Aunty Bill

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Old Tales Retold – Train Travels #6 – An Eye In Your Tea Sir?

The man checked his watch. Another hour or so to London.

There was widespread opposition to the road widening scheme. The Public Enquiry would expose these. He knew he needed to affect a cautious, yet professional manner in front of the Planning Inspector, extolling the benefits of the project; improved traffic flow, reduced bottlenecks and carbon savings. His evidence would counter the emotional arguments the community groups were promoting in opposition.

He had given evidence at similar enquiries. The Inspectorate had always concurred with him after their deliberations. He was quietly confident that they would do so again and that finally, after seven years of tortuous negotiation, protest and funding crises work could begin.

He was thirsty. The trolley attendant was making her way towards him. He caught her eye. She smiled at him.

“Tea please” he said.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“Yes please,”

As she poured, he looked out of the window at the monotonous landscape of eastern England. The trolley attendant sneezed.

“Bless you,” he said.

“Thanks.”

She placed the cup down on the table in front of him and provided a napkin, two cartons of UHT milk, two sachets of brown sugar and a plastic stirrer.

“£1.50 please.” He held the exact money out for her, all the time staring out of the carriage window.

She moved on. Instantly, there was a scream. A scream of such dark terror that it shook him from his thoughts. He looked for the source of the scream. In the next row a catatonic, but smartly dressed, middle aged business woman was shaking with terror.

“Excuse me sir,” the trolley attendant said.

“Yes?”

“Is there a glass eye in your cup of tea?”

“Sorry?”

“A glass eye. I appear to have mislaid mine.” He looked up at her and recoiled at the sight of her left eye socket, bereft of an eyeball.

He peeled back the plastic lid of his cup and there, bobbing in his beverage was a glass eye. It had a slightly peevish air about it.

“What colour is your eye?” he asked.

“Blue,”

“This one is brown.”

“Oh,” she said, “Never mind, I must have dropped it somewhere else.”

He again looked into her gaping eye socket. The socket’s muscles twitched feverishly.

“Have you got any biscuits?” He liked a biscuit with his tea.

“Shortbread or Gingernuts?”

“Shortbread please” She handed a packet to him.

“£1 please”. He handed her the exact money once more.

He fished the eye and then the tea bag out of the cup. He examined the eyeball. It was heavier than he imagined.

The tea tasted funny.

But the biscuits were tasty.

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Ginger Art – Our First Commission!

Well,

We’ve arrived!

“Daring, Brave, Challenging, Decisive, Bold, Witty, Urbane, Erotic, Erratic, Cobblers, Genre Defining, Lithe, Nibble and Chomp” – all words used to describe “Ginger Wig And Biscuits – Dunk Me” our first foray into the previously little known sub genre art of wigs and biscuits on plates next to eachother.

As our regular arts critic Brian Sewer remarked, “Biscuits imply tea. Tea is liquid. Gin is liquid. Make mine a double Barkeep!”

If you have £2,500 it is yours.

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Train Travels 23 – Quack

I was parched and decided to buy a cup of tea. The Buffet had no chocolate chip cookies for sale, so I had to settle for shortbread. You can’t have everything in life.

As I walked back to my seat, I noticed a rifle, with telescopic sight, peeking from a toilet cubicle. The gun was being held by a man bedecked in camouflage. The sound of quacking emanated from within.

I thought it wise not to investigate further, but made a mental note to report it to the Guard the next time I saw him.

I reached my seat and sat down. I let the tea stew for a few minutes, I like a strong brew. I removed the bag and added two cartons of UHT milk. The tea was hot. Too hot to drink.

The train approached Kemble station where a large number of commuters alighted. Itching to dunk my biscuits, I took a sip of tea. Still too hot. 

“Quack,”

Was it the Hunter again?               

A  family of Mallards; Hen, Drake and seven ducklings waddled passed me and stopped at the Carriage’s automatic door.

“Quack! Quack!” the Drake said with authority. The door opened and they all trooped through, save for a dawdling duckling who became trapped on the wrong side of the door. The chick called for its parents.

“Quack! Quack!” The door slid back. The duckling was given a ticking off by the Ma Duck.

I took a sip of tea. Still too hot. I popped to the loo. As I returned to my seat after completing my ablutions, I heard,  “Quack! Quack!”

The Mallards were perched on my table. The ducklings were taking turns to hop into my cuppa and paddle, oblivious to the risk of a scalded bottom. 

Pa Duck had caught his bill in one of the empty milk cartons. An incongruous sight. “Mwack” he cried balefully before shaking himself free.

An old woman was throwing bits of bread into the cup. She smiled at me and said,

 “Aren’t they delightful! I love their annual southward migration from the Arctic. Reminds one of the cyclical  beauty of life and nature. Do you think anyone would notice if I butchered the Hen?”

 “Quack! Quack!” ordered the Drake. The Duckling in the tea hopped out and returned to its parents, leaving a trail of tiny webbed prints on the table.

 I felt cheated. My tea had cooled but was unfit to drink. Several tiny sodden balls of bread bobbed in it too. The old woman walked away muttering to herself about Duck death.

 “Ladies and Gentlemen the train is now approaching Stroud Station. For the Ducks in Carriage C, please note you should alight for the Wetlands Centre at this station. A bus is located outside the main station entrance which will take you the rest of the way.”

 “Quack! Quack!” instructed Pa Duck. 

 I watched them wander to the waiting bus, where an officious Pink Flamingo, standing on one leg, checked their names against a roster before letting them board. He refused entry to a Peacock who had tried to disguise itself as a Puffin.

I returned to the Buffet for another cup of tea.

The hunter’s gun still poked from the toilet cubicle.

“They’ve gone,” I said to him.

“Shit. Three weeks I’ve been here as well. And this toilet is backed up.”

The Buffet was closed. I will keep my biscuits for the next trip.

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Ginger Heartache With Aunty Bill

When Emotions Boil Over

Dear Aunty Bill,

My girl Polly means the world to me. She has a lovely personality, speaks several languages and is, in the vernacular, a bit of a looker. I want to ask her to marry me and bare my offspring.

She suffers from the very rare Pollyputthekettleon Syndrome which means she cannot leave the house without a full kettle perched on her perm and she can never be more than 5 metres from a plug socket to ensure the water is always boiled.

Do you think if I bought her a flexi-lead to increase her roaming distance she would walk down the aisle with me?

Carlton, Stovely

Aunty Bill Replies;

Hey Carlton!

You lucky man, sounds like the girl of my dreams as well. I love a cuppa and with her there’s never one far away!

Rather than go to expense of trailing sockets and extension leads, how about an asbestos hat as featured in this month’s edition of “Practical Millenary”?

One of these titfers, a small can of lighter fluid and you are away. Simply spray the fluid on to the hat, ignite and place the kettle in the cradle provided. Within minutes you’ll have a nice steaming brew!

But ask her to let you know if her head is getting too hot.

These hats are designed to withstand temperatures of 200 degrees for up to five minutes (so it says in the brochure), ample time to boil a kettle, although if you detect any scalp disfigurement extinguish immediately.

How about some matching gloves to go with the hat? That way your steaming brew will remain hotter for longer (so it says in the brochure).

Remember not to ignite the gloves.

Sup up!

Aunty Bill

Read Full Post »