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Posts Tagged ‘War’

Agnes DuPont tells us more about her previous lives!!!!!! Read other lies here and here!.

To connect with previous lives, Agnes eats cheese and brocoli. Separately.

Hello People,

Last Wednesday I was in the Greengrocer’s buying apples, oranges, parsnips and bananas.

As I was handing over my money to Barney the Greengrocer, a very nice man with knock knees, I felt a tad woozy and wobbly. When it had gone, I was on the floor, legs akimbo, surrounded by root vegetables, but with an overwhelming urge to conquer Europe.

The spirit of Napoleon Bonaparte had entered me!

He really is a cheeky little Corsican is Boney! Before I could say “Not tonight Josephine” I boarded the 149 bus and set an eastward course to conquer Austria and Hungary whilst at the same time devising a metricated measuring system and perfecting the kiss curl.

I think i was accompanied by my Imperial Guard – all fine brocaded men sporting heavy calves and brandy breath.

As I hummed the fine Abba tune “Waterloo”, (little was I to know!) my epic journey of conquest was cut short when the bus broke down outside the Duke of Wellington in Shoreditch High Street. Ironic really.

I had to walk home but finally understood the wonders of the metric system.

No longer will I be enslaved by the ounce!

You may think I am a fantasist who eats cheese and broccoli long into the night……….I would beg to differ.

Regards,

Agnes

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I had really enjoyed my first pottery class. Clive the course tutor had been very patient and even though my first “throw” was a little wonky in places and the handle had fallen off, I was quietly proud of my efforts.

Unfortunately I spent too long listening to Clive’s views on ceramic glazing and despite running all the way to the station missed the train for home. It would be at least an hour’s wait for the next one.

After five minutes or so I needed a pee and made my way along the Platform to the toilets. The Gents toilet had a heavy wooden door painted cream with the word “Gentlemen” painted in racing green on it.

I seized the large brass doorknob and pushed. It was an effort to open. As the door succumbed to my efforts I noticed that the toilets still retained splendid and ornate Edwardian finishings. White ceramic tiles with blue grouting, heavy brass piping to and from cisterns and intricately patterned wrought iron splash pads for the more athletic bladder. The conveniences were a gem of their kind. A real find.

I was admiring the ornate flourish of the manufacturer’s logo on the porcelain urinal when there was a rustling noise behind me. I ignored it and carried on with my tinkle. The rustling continued and was now accompanied by the sound of aged hinges creaking. I finished my business just as the shrill cry reverberated around the cool tile finish of the lavatory;

“Aiieeeee! Banzai! Banzai!”

I turned quickly, fumbling to rehouse my winkle. Again the shrill scream advanced towards me,

“Banzai, Todo, Todo. Aiieeeee!”

In front of me stood a member of the Imperial Japanese Army. He was in his late eighties and was dressed in ragged, patched battle fatigues but with a pair of Velcro fastened Reebok training shoes on his feet. He bore the insignia of a non-commissioned officer.

The soldier gurned with menace at me, baring four rotten teeth in the process. His dental hygiene regime was not of the highest order.

More worrying than halitosis was the aged rifle he pointed at me. A large steel bayonet wobbled precariously atop the barrel. Again he screamed and lunged forward. As he did so the bayonet drooped from its fastening and clattered on the floor.

My assailant muttered, probably an expletive in Japanese, bent down picked up the bayonet and began to berate it in a world weary manner. He lost interest in me and retreated to the toilet cubicle, closing its squeaking door behind him. He fumbled with his rifle. Again the bayonet clattered to the floor. Again he swore. A small wizened hand scurried around the cubicle floor until it seized the bayonet.

Even in all this excitement I remembered to complete my ablutions and gave my hands a thorough soaping and rinsing. A Dyson hand dryer had recently been fixed to the wall. Although out of keeping with the ambience of the rest of the toilet my hands were dried in an instant.

Had the fitter been confronted I wondered?

The sign on the ticket office window said “Back in 5 Mins”. Fully seven minutes elapsed before a man appeared. A bucked tooth harridan who could eat an apple through a letterbox.

“Yes sir, how can I help?”

“Did you know there is a Japanese Soldier in your toilet?”

“Met him then? Old Hidetoshi. Lovely old feller ain’t he?” The man replied in a broad West Country accent, “Been here since 1942 or summat like that. Still a few of them dug in on the Somerset border apparently.”

“Haven’t you told him the war’s over?”

“Countless times. The fact of the matter is – he’s can’t face going home defeated. Reckons he will bring shame on his family. So he lives here. In the toilet cubicle.”

There was a cruel matter of factness about the man’s attitude. “Besides,” he continued, “Hidetoshi is a dab hand at the old Bonsai malarkey. He’s helped us win the Station in Bloom competition for the past twenty years now. Wiped the smile off Reg Belcher’s face down at Cam and Dursley I can tell you. Go and take a look. Down at the bottom of Platform 1.”

I sauntered to the end of Platform 1. The man was correct. The small garden with bonsai trees, maple timber decking and a very attractive miniature water feature really was a sight to behold. The pebbles surrounding the trees has been individually shaped to provide a pattern of doves in flight. Tranquillity personified.

I walked back to the ticket office. As I walked past the toilet door I noticed it was slightly ajar. An aged rifle and bayonet protruded. Again the bayonet fell to the floor. Again I heard Japanese expletives.

The “Back in 5 Mins” sign had been put up in the ticket office window once more. I sat in the small waiting room and turned my attention to the mysteries of ceramic glazing.

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We like a trip to the pictures. Nothing can replace the Big Screen in terms of excitement, magic and bigness. But we have noticed something odd. No chickens.

Sharks, horses, monkeys, turtles, dolphins, Jeez Louise even Ants have had films made about them.  But Chickens? Only that animated effort Chicken Run. No chicken road movies,  chicken lurve, no chicken coming of age stories, not even a chicken in a war movie. Chick flick? me arse. A poultry effort.

Gfb has dug into cinema archives to bring back to your attention a number of classic Chicken Movies that were sadly overlooked by critics and moviegoers alike.

#1 Black Chicken Down

Ridley Scott’s powerful drama set in the mean streets of Mogadishwasher. Can Chopper Chicken rescue the soldiers trapped in this hell hole?

“You’ll believe a chicken can fly” – The Times

“The most realistic portrayal of chickens in war I have ever seen” – The Delaware Doubter

“Chopper Chicken is already a movie legend” – The Sydney Morning Herald

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Azteca Stadium – Mexico City, Mexico- 1986

He was small. He was stocky. He had a lovely mop of hair. He had it all. And he did it in tiny, shiny shorts. He was Diego Armando Maradona.

England. Sturdy. Yeomen. Thick. And two words to gladden the heart of any forward player on earth. Terry Fenwick.

It was a clash. Not only of cultures and values but also hairstyles. England permed and mullet topped to the nth degree. Argentina, long flowing locks, feather cuts a plenty  and a luxuriant back comb or two. Boy, did they give the volumizer a bashing at half-time.

A war had divided the two nations. But one thing united both teams. Exceptionally tiny, tight shorts with a lovely homo-erotic satin finish.

As Peter Reid, the doughty Liverpudlian midfield enforcer, with a lovely wavy bonce, said about the second goal, “I just couldn’t get near him, me shorts had cut of the blood supply to me knackers. I can’t have no kids ‘coz of dem shorts laa.”

Apart from this procreative downfall, England could not cope with the titchy Buenos Aires Barrio boy. He could nutmeg a gaggle of riot police in a Paddy Wagon and sell the perfect dummy at a mannequin convention. Yes Diego was that good. But he was also a cheat. A cheat who drew inspiration from God.

THE HAND OF GOD.

Perm One From Three

As these photos display the infamous first goal, when he punched the chicken into the net over the head of the perma-permed Shilts (note the early signs of a tear in the seam of Shilt’s shorts) to put his team ahead. From a different angle the chicken looks suspiciously like a boiled ham. If that doesn’t scream Ham Ball we don’t know what does.

You've Got To Ham It To Him!

The result? Argentina won the game and went on to lift the World Cup of Footbally Bally.

In Scotland there was great rejoicing. As Jock “McJock” Boilinthebag said “That was better than this year’s Andy Stewart’s Hogmanay TV special! All we need now is for Mel Gibson to cry FREEEEEEDUUUUMMMMM! and we will be an independent nation”.

Years later, Pop Queen Madonna parodied the whole episode in her live show, when reprising “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina”. We were never convinced that she was the right person to play Evita.

Although she may have made a useful inside forward….

"Livin' Evita Loca!" (Sorry Ricky)

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The Endgame 

Gfb can bring exclusive access to evil hell hound Gadaffi’s final moments.

Fortunately, our reporter Tanktop McBain was travelling with Gaddafi’s entourage as part of a package holiday booked with Totalitarian Tours. Tanktop recorded the following conversation between the Colonel and his henches.

“Sim Salabim! Open Cesame! They will never find me in this caravan! I the great carrot of defiance have fooled these ramshackle jackals and monkey worriers into thinking I am just another tourist!”

We Still Think He Stood Out A Little

When the NTC patrol approached his caravan, Gaddafi cried, “Pull over here. I spy a drain to inspect. As the Bedouinininininin saying goes “See a drain, take a look, smell a sewer, broken manhole cover.” See off these corrupt gerbils and budgies!”

Gaddafi continued, “In all things I am merciful. Is my mercy not most aptly demonstrated by the quality of Libya’s drainage system? I, the great ball-cock of the Arab world will guard this most beautiful of drains. From inside. Checking for leaks. Drains or death!

Whoops a daisy.

No Longer A Bounty On His Head

 

But Tony and the man who helped him make his millions had the last word………

Tanks For The Memories

The results have been shown in gruesome detail on the world’s media. Gingerfightback has a lot of readers who are children, at least in outlook.

We do not wish to give our readers nightmares. Instead please enjoy this tasteful image.

Just Lovely

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