Arts Scene – With Terry Cotter The Potter

Hello,

My name is Terry Cotter. I’m a potter.

I have been potterising for nearly two decades now. I stock a wide range of ceramic goods in my shop The Potter’s Reel, down here in Lower Swell. The shop is named after my potter’s wheel which goes round and round. Like a reel.

Here are some reviews of some of my favourite bits from the world they call “Art”.

1. Painting

The Last Supper –  Da Vinci’s masterpiece. The last supper I had was a cheese sandwich and a slice of pork pie. Very tasty it was although the pork pie repeated on me for a while and the cheese gave me nightmares.

2. Movies

Exodus – Batman takes the Jews on a long walk. Goes on a bit.

3. Literature

Little Women – Louisa May Alcott’s book about midget females. Lacks lesbian love lust. Goes on a bit.

4. Musicals

My Fair Lady – From “Cor Blimey Guv’nor!” to “High Nigh Brine Cow” in 3 hours! Lovely frocks too! 

Village News 

5. Zumba Club

Tomorrow’s Zumba Club will now take place in the Frozen Foods aisle in Spar and not as previously advertised in the World Foods aisle. Someone dropped a bottle of Soya Sauce and Sally won’t get round to clearing it up until tomorrow.

TCTP

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Zumba On The Toilet? – Bob On The Pot’s Guide To Fitness

Hello,

My lovely wife Shirley has taken up Zumba.

Yesterday, I was on the pot studying the racing form.  She was bomping about upstairs. To that bird who married Russell Bland, Katie Rihanna or some such.

I decided to put a monkey on White Supremacist in the 2.30 at Ascot when, in mid wipe, I heard a loud crack and a Reebok clad foot appeared in the ceiling overhead. It was Shirley’s foot.

“Get your big arse up ‘ere and help!” She cried, her foot wiggling in despair over me. Like the sword of Damocles it was (I’ve got a box set of classic Greek myths all starring Kevin Sorbo and that girl from ER; the one who had a crutch, I found out she doesn’t use one in real life  – now that’s what I call acting!)

Part of my pellet remained despite three flushes but I figured where my priorities lay and bolted upstairs to help Shirl out of her predicament.

She was like a lycra clad Rumpelstiltskin.

“I was gonna get round to fixing that.”

“Useless twat.” She said as I pulled her out. Sadly the Reebok (A Chrissie prezzie from Yours Truly) came away and landed in the bowl amongst me business.

It took ages to flush.

White Supremacist romped home though!

Laters.

Bob

You can read more of Bob’s musings whilst on the pot here and here. Your lives will be infinitely richer for doing so.

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When Bob’s On The Pot He Likes to Read A Lot (It’s A Man Thing!)

Hello,

As the years come and go and my rash shows no sign of clearing up, a man starts to think about his mortality.

My lovely wife Shirley has taken up Zumba to get fit. Yesterday I was answering a call of nature and was studying the racing form She was bomping about upstairs. To Rihanna.

I decided to put a monkey on White Supremacist in the 2.30 at Ascot when in mid wipe I heard a loud crack and a Reebok clad foot appeared in the ceiling overhead. It was Shirley’s foot.

“Get your big arse up ‘ere and help!” She cried, her foot wiggling in despair over me. Like the sword of Damocles it was (I’ve got a box set of classic Greek myths all starring Kevin Sorbo and that girl from ER; the one who had a crutch, but she doesn’t use a crutch in any of these – now that’s what I call acting!)

Despite three flushes, I figured where my priorities lay and bolted upstairs to help Shirl out of her predicament.

She was like a heavily breasted lycra clad Rumpelstiltskin trying to heave her left leg from the rotten joist.

“I was gonna get round to fixing that,” I said.

“Useless twat.” She huffed as I pulled her out. Sadly the Reebok (A Chrissie prezzie from Yours Truly) came away and landed in the bowl amongst me business.

It took ages to flush.

White Supremacist romped home though!

Lowering the lid after use may prove a useful starting point in the search for life’s eternal mysteries. I’ll ponder this.

Laters.

Bob

You can read more of Bob’s musings whilst on the pot here and here. Your lives will be infinitely richer for doing so.

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Is Morris Dancing The New Zumba?

"I'm gonna fackin' brain you Cameron"

Morris Dancing, the age-old English folk dance beloved by men forbidden a  train set by their wives, is set for a boost in the popularity stakes as the evil death cult of Zumba wanes.

Speaking to style guru Helena Knobbly-Knee,  Gfb has learnt that the number of participants in Morris Troops (known in the vernacular as a “Sad of Morrisers”) has grown in the past few months. “Ya, ya,” Helena muttered through her wooden horse head, “Mowwis Dancing is all the wage this yaar. So errfy, so twibal.Vewwy vewwy exciting.”

Gimp Morrising

Trelawney Hose, Chief Bladder Basher of the St Ives Morris Troop, based in Cornwall, England, explained the growing popularity of Morris in cities, “Fiddly dee, foddly doh tippity tippity la, la, la.” He said before bashing himself with an inflated pigs bladder and then projectile vomiting the 23 pints of Throbwell’s Ringroaster he had drunk as a traditional warm up. “Fertility symbol I am,” he mumbled somewhat implausibly before staggering away, his bells peeling a jaunty refrain.

There are signs that Morris Dancing is set for a street revolution with a number of Morris “Crews” springing up in the tough ghettos of East London. MC Nonny Hay Hay, when interviewed by Gfb said, “It’s sick innit? Hey nonny nonny, nonny hey hey, aks me some respeck Bro or I’ll shank ya with me Cumberland sausage.”

"With a Sim and Slim and a Slim Salabim..."

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