MonkeyBroth Public Service Announcements!

Do you have any idea just how seriously we take our public service commitments? I’ll bet you don’t. But let me tell you, it’s all straight faces and grim determination here at MonkeyBroth towers when it comes to bringing you, not just the cutting or bleeding edge information, but the blubbing-whilst-mummy-puts-a-plaster-on-it edge information.

Who you gonna call? Ghost Scissors that’s who! If you’re scared of ghosts, ghouls and poltergeists then Ghost Scissors can help! A pair of these, lodged at just the right angle to jam your kitchen drawer, will do all the hard work. They also work on Headless Horsemen, things under your bed, the monster in the cupboard, zombies, Daniel Radcliffe, werewolves and werewomen, even sealed packaging and paper! Yes, Ghost Scissors truly are the answer to that question that you asked in your head last week while waiting in that haunted branch of Budgens. Terrified of spooks? Cut it out!

New from MonkeyBroth games, Clap Trap is the word association game for all ages from 34 to 36. Clap Trap combines the smugness of Trivial Pursuits with the pointless hours of setting up a rickety, barely functioning, plastic, mechanical contraption that contains exactly eight seconds of ‘fun’ once triggered. Laugh at your friends’ ignorance as they don’t know what the Fibonacci sequence is. Grimace as the plastic gerbil attached to the submarine pops off the spindle without pushing the coffee maker into HMS Invincible. Laugh as you find the intangible rulebook under the settee almost a decade after buying it. Clap Trap. Only a letter away from the truth!

Hengleberb Mankledink returns with his masterful comeback album, Shimplederk – Klankle Hearts Rejoiceickle. Come closer than ever before to Memplebarb’s soulful rendition of ‘Baby Got Back-shumple’. Immerse your lobes on his re-imagining of ‘I Ain’t Goin’ Out Like That-umpa’. Drop into a solemn pool of sound with his cover of ‘Wait and Bleed-huffle’. Also contains the finale of his incredible trilogy, ‘Euro, Euro, Euro, Bang, Bang, Bang’. Flanklebend Hyperburp – Klankle Hearts. Out now only on Prey-Tel.

Diiiisssscccccoooooo Piiiiiggggg – shuwumna, shuwumna, hum…

It appears Disco Pig has been away… here the man himself picks up the story…

The disco pig

He ain’t nickin’ no Sony X-Plods!

Aiieee – what is da matter wiv dem five-os innit? Disco Pig ain’t been able to update his loyal ungulate followers cos he has been banged up in da slammer innit. On some trumped up charge innit. Dey say, da five-os dat is, dat yours truly was out smashin’ up ‘is hood and rioting an lootin an that when da weather was blazing hotter than blazing squad’s underpants over da weekend. Dey say I knicked two car stereo and dat washing machine innit from Curry’s flecking digical. Disco Pig were nowhere near da joint! Dem stereos were all legally purchased and that for ma sistas birfday. Sheet – Disco Pig ain’t talkin to da haters man – talk to da trotter cos da snout is on holidays, camping in Cornwall or sumfink…sheet

Anydeways er is da bossin, basin toons from my time in da slammer over de summa hear me know my little piglets of passion – get your ear toobes around this stonkers…sheet


DJ Vaseline feat MC HardofhearingSmooth it in easy rider

The Sheds of BromleyWhy won’t Rosemary come down from the roof (it’s going to rain)

Machine Gun NoisesAck, ack, ack, shakka, shakka, ack, ack, ack

Trail of SnacksFrazzle, Pork Pie, Wotsit, Wotsit

The MotherflumpersFlump You, Motherflumper

Tinchy TemperIt takes a lot to get me cross, but when I go.. goodness me!

Gastric Band ft The HulkThat’s three ripped shirts this week, I think you’re stressed

The MuggsAre you mugging me off in the mug shop, mug?

The Otter KneesHa ha you fell off your BMX ha ha

Gum Rash feat. DJ CorsodylCan’t eat my vegetables can I go to Bicester now?

Trip to A&ECaught my Jacobs on a slated bench

Banglebert StumpydickEuro, Euro, Euro, Bang, Bang, Bang (Part II)

Lawrence and his Arabian MachineBlowfish sweat, blowfish die

Directions to the chemistTurn right at the roundabout, just next to Budgens

The Acid KingsWeeee are the National Westminster Bank Piggeeeess

DJ ChicksticksIf you don’t, you’ll regret it

MoterhomeThe Ace of Shovels

Fishbender and the wonky finsAmanda, the Findus Crispy Pancakes are too hot

MC Mitchell BrotherIt’s Kelloggs Fruit and Fibre every day

 Mmmm… well ,quite. More phat-tuned porcine piggery-jokery next time folks…..

Poetry corner

Gary did it – By Jimmy Spaff

Toy lion

A lion. For no particular reason.

He did you know,
I saw him too,
Gave him legs,
Of daring do,
He swims like crayons,
In seas of Rainham,
Gary did it,
In the Planetarium

He folded the cheese,
Like a Spaniard cake,
I based his head,
On Quentin Blake,
Sun bleached quads,
Of furious moles,
Gary did it,
On gout-filled shoals

Did you see him,
Does he know,
Boats are chasing,
His old baby grows,
Most like a fleeting,
Of chaps looking grim,
Gary did it,
I bloody well saw him

More, yes more musings from the terribly reverend Archbishop of Toad-in-the- Wold…

Thought of the week

 With the extremely and hugely reverend Archbishop of Toad-in-the-Wold, Dr Robert Carolgees…

 As I recline in my antique calf-leather backed oak chair drinking in the view afforded me from the open rolling fields and open rolling cattle of the Toad-in-the-Wold countryside, I am minded of the church’s stance on Formula One racing.

There is many a passage in scripture which depicts the art of racing around a bit of tarmac at high speed while women, many of them scarlet and wanton, parade around in the ‘pits’ in skimpy outfits gleefully applying motor oil to rubbing mechanical parts.

Perhaps the most famous of these comes from Psalm 1:1  Blessed is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked or stand in the way of sinners or sit in the seat of mockers. Not one other piece of scripture nor, I feel suitably emboldened to state, any other piece of classical literature quite sums up Jensen Button’s first place podium finish at the 2009 Monaco Grand Prix so succinctly.

As I mused, I was rudely interrupted by the soft drips of hot sweat from my live-in helper Gumpert’s brow who had stolen up to my desk in my conservatory-cum-nook. It had been the hottest day of a rather disappointingly moist summer and Gumpert was taking full advantage. I had heard him muttering and espousing all number of Spanish oaths just moments before as he rummaged through his antique teak wardrobe, so kindly provided to me by my parishioners, from his adjacent bedroom and living quarters.

His aim, as I was later to discover, had been to retrieve his pair of cut off denim shorts which had lain dormant, muddled in a heap of other assorted clothing, since he had donned them to bask in that unseasonal burst of sunshine which Biffordshire had so enjoyed towards the end the April just passed.

The soft drips emanating from my South American domestic’s brow now increased in their frequency as he stood there in his retrieved denim shorts and tight-fitting vest singlet. Knowing Gumpert intimately I realised at once that something had irked his ire, and resigned myself to putting on hold that morning’s Guardian crossword, as I sought to discover the source of his disgruntlement.

So enraged was he that he could barely talk and instead turned away from my desk and stomped childishly towards the landing. I noticed as he began to descend the stairs a pair of woolly leg warmers had been left casually draped over the bannisters. I could only surmise that the leg warmers had been left by one of Gumpert’s late night guests from the village, and I reminded myself to take issue with my lithe domestic about their presence. While my approach to scripture and biblical studies is renowned for its leniency, some might suggest I even go as far as being lassiez-fare about preaching the word of God during daylight hours; I cannot and will not tolerate leg warmers, woolly or otherwise in the Lord’s house.

Determined to be able to enjoy the afternoon, I followed Gumpert downstairs in a bid to offer him some much needed relief. He was, by now, slumped on the leather sofa, so generously provided to me by my parishioners, and was rolling one of his foul smelling cigarillos as his legs, draped over the arm of the sofa, bobbed up and down in clear and unbridled agitation.

Rather than lowering himself to talk to me, the willowy South American firebrand pursed his lips together to emit a rather soft raspberry at me before gesticulating with his elbow towards the downstairs lavatory.

It is, I confess, not a room I am overly familiar with, as I prefer the more luxuriant comforts of the bathroom on the third floor of my parochial house. It’s where the ordered-in toilet roll is kept and its skylight provides some breathtaking views of the crests of the renowned Biffordshire Downs. It’s a view best enjoyed while standing on tip toes with your feet firmly pressed against the foot of the bidet.

As I approached the downstairs lavatory, the source of Gumpert’s fury became quickly apparent to me. The cold water tap to the sinkette was clearly positioned to the fully on setting as streams of water were gushing all around the basin’s bowl, gurgling and spluttering up the sides and splashing over onto the carpet as it did so. It was a torrential rush of white water terribleness and I knew that dawdling would only moisten the deep shag pile carpet still further.

As I stepped back to draw up some plans to tackle the clearly stuck fast tap my eye was drawn through the patio doors by a glint emanating through the garden shed’s open door.

I do believe the Lord spoke to me at that very moment. For just at that moment, a strange and ethereal light had struck the metal shaft of a monkey wrench whose handle was poking, strong and with great tumescence from the rather tatty wooden tool box resting near the door of the shed. My path became clear.

I moved briskly and with renewed vigour towards the shed where I firmly grasped the shaft of the tool. It was most impressive and was heavier than I imagined. So impressive was it in girth and in length that I knew it would be the perfect instrument for me to tackle the onerous task ahead.

I moved back into the downstairs lavatory and with Gumpert’s loud tuts almost drowning out the sound of the raging torrent in front of me, I manoeuvred the tool around the stuck tap and simply, and without fuss, managed to turn the tap securely to the off position.

What surely would have taken many hours and the necessary but endless vetting of any number of tradesmen had been resolved in a matter of moments!

Verily the Lord doth move in mysterious ways!

Barry, can you write something up as a sign off line for that new Archbishop post? Nah it’s for Monkeybroth…What? No Monkeybroth. Cheers. You going out Saturday? Yeah thought I’d try that new Indian on the High Street….

Restaurant De Moda Gimp Piscines

Come visit! Bring the kids (unless they have behavioural issues), bring Grandma (unless she’s racist), bring a long-lost friend that you ran in to in Budgens recently and have harboured a passion for over many frustrating years.



Holy moley fish soley in a rolly polly guacamole sauce.

Grunting of Pete, from Donnington. Bones a certainty.



Spanking buttered goat boots. Very spicy!!

A championship of clams. *Please note clams may sing when served.

A wallet of notes flambéed at your table with a mwahahaha!!! side dish.

Donkey Waffles, smooth gravel and shavings of sweet, sweet doubt.


Pudding will be…

Muttering about the war.


Please book in advance as refusal is likely to be brutally expressed.