When Monkeybroth was a lad, we used to have this old collie dog. She was called Arthur. We spent many happy years with Arthur, gambolling in the nearby fields, playing ball and swimming in the Rebecca Brooks, that lovely nature reserve which Biffordshirians are only too pleased to call their own. Arthur was more than a dog to the downy-haired and puffy-faced adolescent Monkeybroth. She was a friend, a pal, a mate, a dear and trusted confidant. Tragically, Arthur was killed during the Owlford Riots of 1989, that terrible hot summer which shames the Biffordshire Women’s Institute to this very day.
Monkeybroth held Arthur’s paw as she lay there in amongst the glass and shattered dreams on the pavement just outside Owlford Budgens. With her last breath she seemed to whisper; ‘make sure you carry on with the public service announcements as they provide an extremely vital service to communities across the county, particularly for the old and infirm who are unable to get out and about as much as they like to and who, perhaps, might have fought in the second world war or the Falklands conflict at the very least’. Those then were Arthur’s last words.
So please find below the latest harvesting of public service announcements from across this emerald and fragrant county of Biffordshire. This week dedicated to Arthur. The collie dog. May she rest in peace.
DUE to a mild case of athlete’s foot back in 1988, I have a 13 boxed Mark Knopflers for sale. Each Knopfler comes with interchangeable coloured headbands and authentic face-like-a-depressed sardine expression. So, if you are in Dire Straits, then. Erm. Call Fiona Cockgrumble on Vagisil-on-the-Mold 6787665678
PLEASE rehome an onion today. One-Yon Onion Rescue in Cleft has dozens of abandoned onions all looking for a loving new home. Many of our onions have been left to fend for themselves, living off scraps they find in the streets. Take Misty for instance. Misty was found by our volunteers with several layers of skin peeled away, foraging for scraps round the back of Budgens in Cleft. For an onion of her age and size she was desperately underweight and was terrified of humans. With our love, care and attention, we’ve turned Misty into the faithful loving onion we knew she could be. So please, if you are thinking about getting an onion, whether it be spring, red or the other sorts, call in and view our ready to home onions today. It will be a real tear jerker! Call Cleft 19191919 and ask for Shirley Youcantbeserious.
ARE YOU plagued by blood-sucking fruit and vegetables coming out at night and attacking your livestock? We can help. Here at Vampire Lemons we offer a 24 hour service to prevent fruit from going bad. And we mean really bad. In 2008 nearly two people were attacked in their sleep by blood thirsty fruit and veg. One person died just three weeks later after being bitten by a sharp-toothed pear in a big cape late at night. The pear had a big widow’s peak and no reflection, everything! The bloke who died was hit by a car to be fair, but the police did think it was suspicious. Too right it was! Vampire Lemons, helping you to take a bite out of your vampirical fruit bowl. Call Wayne Surgery on Minge 66666999999
THERE’S more than one way to skin a cat. So the old saying goes. Well I’ve got three fridges for sale. Two of the fridges are in the shape of Bob Holness off of Blockbusters. The third fridge is the same height and shape as Ronnie Corbett, ideal for keeping beer, other alcoholic drinks or soft beverages cool and icy during the hot summer months. The spectacles on the Ronnie Corbett fridge will need adjusting from time to time in order to keep the fridge in peak working condition. All three fridges come with a guarantee that once you have paid for them you’ll be able to take them away. Call Richard Stillgoe on Owlford 343434343
SINCE 1967 I’ve been predicting the future. Now let me do it for you. Hang on… I predict you will shortly be making a telephone call having seen an ad on Monkeybroth.com. See? I’m brilliant at it. Call Mystic Kevin on Flump 343343434. I am waiting for your call. Or am I?
FOR SALE. I have four sails for sale. Call Sally and ask about the four sails Sally has for sale. Please do as I really need to sell the four sails I have for sale. I’ve knocked £20 off the asking price so you could say there is a sale on the four sails Sally needs to sell. Anyway, when you ring you’ll need to ask for Sally who has the four sails for sale. You’ll need to be quite specific as my flatmate passed away three years ago and, to be fair, she isn’t great at taking messages any more. She smells a bit too if I’m being brutally honest.
FRANK-INCENSED. Are you alone tonight? Got nobody to talk too? Enjoy the sound of people getting angry? Call FRANK-INCENSED tonight for the ultimate in over-the-phone-listening-to-someone-being-really-angry relief. Choose option one to hear Frank scold an otter for having the stereo up too loud. Option Two to hear Frank give next door’s cat a right telling off for weeing on his shallots or Option Three for Frank’s rather agitated exchange with the paper boy, after he delivered Shoot Magazine instead of Flange Monthly one Friday morning. Call FRANK-INCENSED on Wipe 3454454543.
By Godfrey Butterwings
There is no light at the end of the tunnel
It’s just dark and empty, like Sally Gunnel
Must have been feeling when she lost a race
Disappointment and gloom is something we all must face
As we grow older, we’re supposed to get wiser
But I’m just getting mean and more of a miser
My portaloo hiring business has gone down the pan
Now I’m about as much use as Han
Solo without Chewbacca, that great big
Grizzly man bear, much better than Leia, just couldn’t hack her
I’m broke cos nobody wants to hire my lavatories
Just drifting along in my life like Denise
Van Outen without a celebrity bash to attend
This is what I’m facing, with what I must contend
Oh! I wish I could be a wookie, carrying a space gun
And having fur, that would be brilliant, but life isn’t fair
Otherwise my portaloo business would be doing well
Mrs Butterwings would love me, my life would be swell
But now like the band I have one direction
I must get a cure for my erection dysfunction
There is no light at the end of the tunnel
It’s just dark and empty with no hope of redemption
Time-travelling dishwasher tablets
FINISH QUANTUM POWERBALL DISWASHER TABLET: “Al? Speak to me buddy! Where have we leapt to this time?”
AL: ‘Ziggy’s got us pinned down to 23rd August in the year 79 AD. We’re somewhere in the Campania region, Italy and, looking at that giant smoking mountain, I’d say we’ve arrived in down-town Pompeii.’
FINISH QUANTUM POWERBALL DISWASHER TABLET: “That’s less than 24 hours before the place is enveloped by hot ash Al!”
AL: “That’s right Finish Quantum Powerball Dishwasher Tablet. Everyone in this city will die, frozen in time forever. Sorta’ like my ex-wife!”
FINISH QUANTUM POWERBALL DISWASHER TABLET: “How?”
AL: “I can’t think that they do, no.”
FINISH QUANTUM POWERBALL DISWASHER TABLET: “Probably best be off then.”
More adventures from FQPDT and Al as soon as is likely folks!
The Lonely Cardigan – by Joanna Diskettes
As I cling to this cold stair rail,
Alone but never mardy,
I contemplate my lifetime,
As your favourite Cardie
Was it that I didn’t fit right?
Not protect you from the chill?
Do I now offend your sight?
That was not my woolly will
A happier time from this – my worst,
From charity shop you bought me,
And though you weren’t by far my first,
You’re now my one and only
My fate it now seems signed and sealed,
A lifetime lost in limbo,
Come back my saviour I will plead,
All sweaters are just bimbos
It’s time for some more public service announcements from around Biffordshire. It’s always time for some more public service announcements from around Biffordshire at Monkeybroth Towers. That’s cos we love them and you, dear readers. We love you more than we love crumpets. We love you more than we love Virgil, the guy who fixes the fax machine for us. Virgil loves a crumpet or two!
SQUIRREL EXPRESS – Need a squirrel in a hurry? Call Squirrel Express today for an obliged to buy quote. All our squirrels are in a real hurry – many are dashing for trains or are staring impatiently at bus time tables. Alternatively, why not select our deluxe service and get a squirrel revving behind you in his car or attempting to overtake you on a bend? Call us today but hurry, because our squirrels in a hurry too. Call Bob on Groin-Cough 45873773
FAMILIES. Looking for a fun day out only part of the family will enjoy? The 13th Annual Mumford Otter and Cheese Show promises just that. Highlights for the Saturday include Mumford Otter Show-Off group’s performance of their hilarious rendition of Oh What a Lovely Otter, while later in the day, you’ll be able to play Asian Otter or Gorgonzola! over by the cheese-shaped Ferris wheel. Plus, don’t miss a fabulous display by the Red Arrows which, for this event only, will be piloted by otters eating Red Leicester! How apt! Please note that due to foreseen circumstances, the Cirque d’Otter will not be performing at this year’s event due to a suspicious phone call to be received in the week leading up to the event. It will sound like someone’s eating crisps on the other end of the line, but they won’t be. For more details call Tulip Sunrise on Mumford 433232111.
GOT A GARDEN? Then get a life. Issued by the Royal Anti-Horticultural Society of Great Britain. For details on garden protests in your area, visit www.lawnsarewherethedevilspawns.com
SURE, you may think you have enough spoons in your house but when was the last time you checked? Fire statistics reveal that nearly 8 out of every thousand house fires in the UK may have started due to a lack of working spoons. If you’re too busy or don’t care if you and your family are at risk from fire, then let Fire Spoons help. For a small fee and access to your underwear drawer we’ll check your spoons for you. This hassle free service only takes a few minutes but a fire caused by a lack of spoons could take a lot longer, couldn’t it? Ask for Agnetha on Sputum 8988768778
WANT TO TRY POETRY? But don’t know where to start? Try with a first line and go from there. For more poetry tips visit www.youcouldbeapoetifonlyyougotoffyourfatlegsanddidsomething.co.uk
FLOWERS Have small CCTV cameras in them linked to hell. The devil uses them to watch you. Issued by the Royal Anti-Horticultural Society of Great Britain.
FOUND. I’ve found my cat, Mrs Tinkle. Thanks to everyone who got in touch to help me find her. Particular thanks go to RAF Biffordshire Tornado Squadron who managed to shoot Mrs Tinkle down over Berkshire as she attempted to strafe Windsor Castle. I’m so embarrassed. I honestly thought her having a pilot’s licence would give her an interest and get her out of the house.
RHODENDRON BUSHES – are wigs for the devil’s demons, allowing them to go incognito and spy on you as you get undressed at bedtime. Issued by the Royal Anti-Horticultural Society of Great Britain.
The mighty oak – by Judy Juxtapositions
I threw my hand down hard,
Upon it’s gnarly bark,
It bit back with a shard,
A splinter like a shark
I’m desperate by now to see,
Its rings, its roots and fungi,
And difficult it is for me,
To fall for just any one tree.
Its filthy leaves and taunting trunk,
Beckoning like an oaky hunk,
Some think I should know better by now,
Oh those dirty-minded boughs.
To those that damn me – if they could,
Be out alone and spanking wood,
Their minds would change within a flash,
To come across a nice young Ash
Oh those waving hungry boughs…
Yeee haaaaa! Howdy y’all! My name is Country Pig and yep, you guessed it I am the rootin’ tootin’ cousin of your friend and mine Disco Pig, writing this all the way from my swamp hide out in southern Alabama. Disco’s got his trotters all mucky and has gone away for a few weeks. ‘Parently he had his beadies on a brand new Mustang motor car, but it had an owner. That didn’t stop Disco from taking it tho…yeee haaaa! Anyway, he got himself caught and is now banged up tighter than a rattlesnake in a match box. So he says to me Country? I says Yes… Will you take over ma musicical column on that there Monkeybroth for a few weeks? I says sure boy count me in!
Now I ain’t tuned in to all that high beat pumpin’ music that Disco’s in to. No sir. To me it sounds like a three legged grasshopper banging around in an old moonshine jar. Disco won’t mind if I give y’all a taste of real Southern Comfort, some proper rebel bluegrass tunes which will put you right in the mind for some lovin’ with those hogtastic lady pigs in your life. So strap down your gators folks, here comes Country Pig’s top tunes, they’re hotter than a bluejay burger with extra jalapenos….Yeee haaaaaaaaaa……..
Polly Darton – You ain’t so much fun (now you’ve quit drinking)
Shania Twine – Man, I feel by using nerve ends which send messages to my brain
Kenny Loggins – I just want some analytics, s’all
Box Car Barry – I got so much, so how comes I ain’t got nothin’?
Carsick Chris – Slow down on the bends or else I’m gonna hurl
Barry Ray Circus – You wanna a piece of my flaky tart, my flaky, flaky tart?
Alligator McBeal – Gonna put you in the hot box in the swamp (cos I love you so)
Fried chicken and grits – It’s not real grit in the pie, it’s potatoes
The Mother Frackers – The Sun is bakin’ and my heart is breaking (cos you’ve gone and grown a beard)
Lovesick Larry – Cos I can’t think of another country singer
Dukes of Hazard – Health and Safety is important y’all
The Confederates – Ain’t given up yet Lincoln you hear us boy?
The Diner Boys – I’ll eat till I puke, then I’m gonna eat some more
The Stretched belts – Gut to meet you liddle lady
Dressed All in Denim – Love hurts, that’s why you got you some black eyes
Gator wrestlers – Stand by your Nan, cos she gave birth to your mother y’all
As I recline in my high backed leather chair overlooking the emerald humps of the distant Biffordshire Downs, I realise what a lucky Archbishop I am. Regular readers of this column, in fact both of you, will no doubt recall the time I spent in the missionary position at the Kwicky Fitty Women’s refuge in darkest Africa.
As the only male in the refuge it was very much my responsibility to ensure a shoulder for the women to cry on and to rest their brow beaten, erm brows, was provided. It was important to me to spread the message of our Lord to these people and to welcome them in to my bosom. I worked tirelessly to offer them succour and to instil in them the Christian way, as I knew it would clean their souls and give them some direction as to how they could improve their lot. In fact, the hour I spent there will forever be etched into my memory. Very much like a brass rubbing, or an etch-a-sketch drawing, I often return to the memory to remind me of how much better off I am than them, those poor fallen ladies of Kwitty Fitty.
Memories are very much like a favourite hanky, I’m sure you’ll agree. They are brought out and fondled at times of hardship and difficulty to help dab away the stresses and strains of everyday life. Why, just the other day I reached for my memory hanky when Gumpert, my live-in South American Houseboy, informed me that he had eaten the very last of the Frosted Shreddies. Nothing can beat me with the Lord in my heart and my memory hanky in my pocket!
Regular readers will by now no doubt be waiting for the aforementioned Gumpert to try and force his way into my intimate space, or conservatory as I prefer to call it. Right on cue my willowy man servant burst his way into my reminiscing with a look of pure agitated fury on his face. It had been raining and I noticed, as Gumpert thrashed his limbs around on my Persian rug, so kindly provided to me by my parishioners, that his short singlet was clinging tightly against his heaving chest. Gumpert had plumped for jogging shorts to complete his look for the day, which surprised me given that rain and heavy winds had been predicted to hit Biffordshire that morning. I couldn’t help but notice too that the clothes he was wearing had been the same outfit he had had on late last night when he had broken off his meeting with his friend from the village to grumpily bring me my steaming cup of Horlicks in bed.
I can only assume Gumpert’s agitation had stayed with him throughout the night as I was woken on many occasions by some loud banging and grunting emanating from Gumpert’s quarters. I knew he and his friend were planning to host a roller disco in the village hall in order to raise funds to replace Mrs Marshwhip’s Border Collie puppy, which had got itself entangled in a hot air balloon which visited the village last week. The boys’ willingness to help Mrs Marshwhip fair broke my heart and I overlooked the sounds coming from his room in order to offer my assistance to their efforts. I could only imagine that the two lads had climbed up onto Gumpert’s bed to perform a dry run of the roller disco itself, such was the squeaking and the creaking coming from my live-in help’s double divan.
They had clearly given their all to poor Mrs Marshwhip’s cause throughout the night as I noticed Gumpert’s friend leave in the morning looking very much the worse for wear. I offered him some thick white toast and a reviving beverage but so sheepish was he that he barely acknowledged me.
A few hours later and here was Gumpert wildly frothing at the mouth about some sort of domestic disturbance the root cause of which I was still to uncover. Gumpert had, by now, rather flounced out of the conservatory and had begun to roll one of his foul-smelling Moroccan cigarillos. I noticed how his eyes lit up on his first drag on the rancid stick and admired the way the smoke wafted and seemed to embrace the dark curls of his hair which flopped lazily over his brow. His shorts had ridden up around his thighs with the fury of whatever ailed him and his rancour had certainly brought him out in a light sweat.
As if reading my mind, Gumpert quickly adjusted himself and stood up to point towards the garden lawn while uttering some evil-sounding Spanish oaths under this breath. I had heard him earlier that morning hard at work in the garden and I had peaked out of my bedroom window to see him double bent and straining to rake up the leaves which had scattered themselves across the grass, doubtlessly encouraged by that morning’s strong winds and inclement rain. The neat pile of leaves Gumpert had so carefully created were now blown to all parts, and were clearly taunting my up-tight South American home help with their new found freedom.
As I peered out into the garden to ponder how we might resolve the chlorophyll-centred conundrum, a sudden beam of ethereal light caught my eye. As the light from above shone down it caught the handle of the kitchen drawer behind me. I turned to investigate further and after a few robust tugs on the handle discovered a rolled up bunch of bin liners nestled in the very heart of the drawer. My path become clear.
Taking the bin liners I marched through the drawing room and out through the patio doors, my Christian values preventing me from shooting the triumphant glance towards Gumpert that my darker inner soul was begging me to do. Not that Gumpert cared; he was now engaged on the telephone arranging another fundraising evening with his friend. They were meeting, by all accounts, in the Lamb and Duvet Pub before thrashing out further wheeled musical entertainments back in Gumpert’s room after closing time.
Not to be swayed by Gumpert’s social diary arrangements, I opened two bin liners and succeeded in stuffing the errant leaves into them, using a couple of boards which had miraculously appeared on the patio a few minutes before, to coax them into their plastic prisons. What would have taken many hours of sweaty leaf retrieval effort had been resolved in a matter of minutes. Verily, the Lord doth move in mysterious ways!
Archbishop Dr Robert Carolgees will be officiating at Biffordshire Speedway next Saturday. He’ll be blessing the Biffordshire Bandits’ bikes ahead of their crunch meeting with the Owlford Owls, and praying for a Bandit victory. Come along and touch the hem of his ecclesiastical garment and be cured! £5 for haemophiliacs, £10 per leper, £15 for gluten intolerants. Asthmatics are asked to book in advance.