Restaurant où les porcs ne voulait pas manger

Restaurant  où les porcs ne voulait pas manger

Ah bienvenue a la Restaurant où les porcs ne voulait pas manger. Nous sommes delighte to bienvenue de le restaurant, quand le residents d’Biffordshire aime tout suite. Notre menu est superb et il est tout de bon things to mange. Ouevre pour le petit-dejeuner and le grand dejeuner et les repas in between de la Huit heures Am until la evening time. Plus Tard by arrangements. Voici la menu en Anglais pour vous, vous anglais idiots et bastads. Tres bon!

Les entrees

  • Pig insecurities pan fried in a special Jonathan Ross sauce. Served with oak smoked bat chips and a sympathy of garden vegetables
  • Grandad’s war medals crushed in front of him, drizzled with Maroon 5 jus and spun around the block in Gustav’s Citroen 2CV. Served with a shouting of dead wildebeest horn, shaved and erected to your liking
  • Chicken chop sticks straightened with an aubergine ruler and splashed with nocturnal liquids. Hand badgered until medium rare and presented on an anxious nine year-old’s duvet cover.

Les main

  • HAND reared Les Dennis, matured over balsa wood for extra tenderness. Served with a medley of David Hockney examined vegetables and a view of the Norfolk Broads, binoculars optional
  • MUSICAL Youth style jerk off beef. Pan fried until screaming in a David Blunkett flavoured butter sauce. Served with a blanket and a three day old bus ticket stopping at Whump, Feeble and Cock-on-the-Mold
  • LAMB shanks, startled to your taste and infused with a suppository puree. Choose from baked potatoes or a three year call of duty service in Northern Belize
  • MONKEY Lungs – forced up against a wall against their will. Strenuously denied in front of a live TV audience and drizzled in a Blankety Blank sauce. Served with un peu de stink of creamed back hair and a month long XBOX live pass.

Et pour les desserts

  • WRANGLED cream, shot at close range with the chief’s butter gun. Ransomed gently over a low flame and beaten to make it look like an accident. Dripped with fresh fruit puree instilled with disappointment
  • PAPAL turnover – traditional Vatican dessert, stripped and oiled to your liking. Cooked aggressively over a high heat before being gently neutered in the larger of our two fridges. Served with a panacotta of goat complaints and a David Dimbelby jus
  • LES Chats est non importante – enjoy a taste of Spain with our speciality. Cats are not important pudding is secreted from live ginger toms before being worked into a light and frothy muffin. Delicious served with broken toast and a bag of forgotten aspirations
  • ARTHUR C CLARKE – exhumed lovingly by our resident chef de partie and served with warm custard and flavoured oxygen
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Rockstars in the morning

Rock stars in the morning

Number 78: Bob Geldof

Bob Geldof’s mum: “Come on Robert, get up now, it’s time for school’’

Bob Geldof: “Aww bleedin hell ma, it’s too early.”

Bob Geldof’s mum: “Come on – the Curiously Cinnamon is already in the bowl going soggy”

Bob Geldof: “Aw Jaysus ma. Ma?”

Bob Geldof’s mum: “Yes Robert?”

Bob Geldof: “What day is it today?”

Bob Geldof’s mum: “Oh, well it’s erm… Tuesday Robert, it’s Tuesday.”

Bob Geldof: “It had better not be Monday ma…”

Bob Geldof’s mum: “Of course it’s not, it’s erm definitely Tuesday, yes Tuesday. Now hurry up.”

Bob Geldof: “Okay ma, I’m coming, as it’s Tuesday….”

 More rock icon early morning slash breakfast time fun next time folks!


Poetry corner

Flan was bought – by Wendy Bendy

Flan fun

Stan’s flan. No Jam.

I haven’t seen him,
Said the man,
The man,
That bought flan,

Not for weeks,
Said he who speaks,
For weeks,
He repeats

Tried the gym?
Said him,
Keeping trim?
Not like him

Flan was bought,
Without thought,
Special flan,
Bought by man

Flan with jam,
Made by Stan,
How convenient
That rhymes

I don’t like the man-bought flan,
I will not eat it Stan flan man


Public service announcements cum Classifieds

Here, nestled in the sweet bosom of Monkeybroth Towers we like to look after you dear readers. We’d towel you down after a wet walk in the countryside if we could. Caress your forehead to soothe away the aches and stresses that your job as Budgens Regional Manager entails. We’d plump your cushions if only we were able, make you a hot chocolate with squirty cream, give you a rough and tumble style Chinese burn. Watch you while you sleep. Unfortunately, we can’t do any of those things, but consider the following public service announcements cum classifieds as our playful slap on your bottom…. you complete us and we heart you. Both of you.

CELEBRITY FANS! If you are a fan of celebrities, then you’ll love celebrity fans! We are Biffordshire’s foremost celebrity fan stockist, well; we will be after Star Fans burns to the ground in a mysterious blaze next week. Anyway, you need look no further than the end of your nose for all your celebrity fan needs and requirements – birthdays, weddings, unexpected and sudden deaths, we can cater for any joyous occasion. Call Barbara Hugedong on Wibble 456546 or tweet your enquiry to #smellofpetrolonmyhands

STAR BRAS! If you are fan of the stars then show your enjoyment of all things celestial by donning a bra shaped into your favourite constellation. We’ve got every bra shaped in a constellation under the moon – special offer this week on balconette Orions in 34DD only or, due to flood damage, why not take advantage of the amazing discounts in our lace, whale-bone, Cassiopeia range – complete with AAA battery compartment and working mineshaft. Call Fiona Grimtinkle on Slapp 67676767 for more information today!

ANT AND DECKING – Does your garden need a makeover? Why not have a think about a North-Eastern England themed design? Graham’s Gardens, Biffordshire’s foremost landscape gardeners will happily come around to your house and turn your lawn and flower beds into a Tynetastic homage to the North East. You can be Geordie Shore of it! Don’t take our word for it? Read some of our fantastic reviews from our happy customers

“I wasn’t sure what to do with the garden and I still don’t”Fred Thatchstiff, Glump

“I’m thrilled with the service – I now have empty Newcastle Brown Ale bottles all over my decking and Cheryl Cole themed plant pots. The highlight though has to be my new Jimmy Nail lawnmower. It’s greeet man! Thanks Graham’s Gardens!”  Marge On-Abigpole, Stump

“Who? No I haven’t had any gardening work done. Sorry, think you have the wrong number.”  ANON, Whump

COCKTAIL SIR? HOW ABOUT YOU MADAM? Due to a YTS apprentice falling asleep on the computer and pressing the wrong button, we’ve got far too much stock than we could ever possibly sell. That won’t stop us from trying though! We wanted to order some cool cocktail glasses to sell, but due to the slumbering student and his idiotic elbows this was entered as mole. Yes, we have 7,898 mole shaped cocktail glasses for sale. Why not have an underground mammal party with your friends and relatives? They’ll be wowed by that and will not stop going on about it. Please give us a ring. Please. Call Owen Foxtrench on Glitter 7777686866

VW FOR SALE – Got my nice VW POLIO for sale. 1.2 litre only 36k on the clock, FSH, VGC and a good sense of humour. Both passenger side tyres are smaller than the driver’s side and won’t inflate for some reason. Anyway VW POLIOs are good little runners. Well, not that good. Call me Amy – Thingulike for a test drive.

CLOWN CLONE – Want a clown cloned? Call Clown Clone today. Don’t be satisfied with owning one clown, own more. Fully secure 24 hour service. Clown Clone won’t appear on your bill, instead it will say ‘Big Jubbers Inc’. Unfortunately due to their genetic make-up clown car horns cannot be cloned, however contact us to discuss your water-squirting flower or door-falling-of- car requirements. Clown Clone – we are not joking around alright?  Call Stanislav O’Grundy on Fecklip-on-Flange 45343444

THAT’S SHOE BUSINESS! – Predict the future with a pair of Nostradamus Desert Boots. Fully lace upable and with a sole. To predict the future slip them on in the morning and think about your favourite pony until you are called down for your breakfast. Please be aware the value of your dreams can go up as well as down. Your hopes are at risk if you do not keep up repayments. Call Future Shoes and ask for Derek Smallpipe.


Poetry in the corner. Poetry corner then really….

Bengal

By Whiskas McGhee

There was a young man from Bengal

Who didn’t really get Limericks at all

 

Buffet belly

By Sainsburys O’Keefe

Oh my goodness I don’t half love a buffet

I could stay for hours and just scoff all day

From pickley pork pies to cheese and onion rings

A buffet must be one of my favourite things

I drool as I stare out over the table

Everything’s lovely and very digestible

Cheese and pineapple on sticks are so tasty

But they can be sharp so not good for health and safety

I once consumed a whole red onion

My tummy afterwards was a bit of a funny’un

That’s the only real downside I can make out

It turns my insides over of that there’s no doubt

They are great at Christmas perhaps after tobogganing

But too much of the good stuff and I’m back in the bog-again

Scotch eggs are the worst they go straight through me

Once I ate 47 in under an hour, and wolfed a load of Caerphilly

I swigged down the lager and ate a whole gammon

I downed 18 pies my bot was like a horrid brown cannon

My head was spinning and it was all a bit surreal

But blimey it wasn’t half a cracking funeral


Life of Si

Our resident lifestyle guru, Agony Uncle and part time Tosher, Simon Thrombosis, returns to help you with life’s little problems. Not that little rash though, that’s your fault for eating strawberries. We told you not to.

 

Some Twiglets

Attractive

Calvin Horsewhip of Lower Grunting writes – Dear Si, I’ve recently taken up weightlifting but I’ve found that my lovely wife seems to have lost interest in me recently. I have noticed that she has been catching the eye of the lad at the fishmongers who is built like a Twiglet. Why is this happening when I’m getting increasingly buff and bulked up?

Si Writes – Oh dear Cal, I’m going to guess that your wife is massive. At the end of the day, biffers go for their weight-opposite in a futile attempt for cosmic balance. Many believe that this is due to a built-in primeval belief that, in the event of spawning offspring, the resulting child will be genetically pre-programmed as a mean average of the parent’s weight. Personally I think it just ends up with fat kids. The fat gene is clearly dominant. Either you need to skinny-up or she does – either of these will balance the seesaw.

 

Well, it's a cushion.

Addictive

Terry Tuppence of Hairy Mole writes – Hope you can help Si. My partner is driving me mad with his obsession for scatter cushions. Seriously, we are drowning in them and he keeps bringing more home! Our sitting room has over 2,000 of them lying around and the couch collapsed last week from the soft-furnishing onslaught. I think he has a problem. Please help – I’ve just found more in our Fiesta!!

Si Writes – Terry, sadly this type of obsessive behaviour is increasingly common. Just last week, I was called to the house of a farmer who had an almost unshakable addiction to lace doilies. When the fire-crew finally dragged him out of his cottage he was still desperately browsing the Selfridges website trying to buy more. Very sad. The best way forward is to try and displace the obsession with something less material. Some of the best recoveries have been made by transferring the victims on to another fad that has no physical presence such as imaginary friends. It’s an ideal scenario for all as they don’t take up any space and are easy to collect. Best of luck Terry.

 

Tiny pint

Giveaway.

Amanda Tubes of Weighsaton writes – Si, last week the current Mr. Tubes asked me where we are going on holiday. I’ve been hiding the fact that I spent our holiday funds on Laura Ashley print dresses and Airfix Messerschmitts (my own personal vice). I’m not sure what to tell him to be honest, as there is only £80 left in the kitty and I can’t see that going far in Cephalonia. What can I do?

SI writes – Frankly, I’d be surprised if your husband doesn’t know already as I imagine the smell of drying Humbrol paints is a giveaway. This reminds me of a startlingly similar situation with a former client of mine. He spent the electricity money on model tanks. He didn’t know what to tell his wife so he covered himself in the camouflage decals for the tanks and hid down the garden in amongst the Pyracantha. Eventually, I managed to coax the badly wounded chap out and off to hospital. In your case, I would sit down and explain to your husband that you’re going to make a den under the dinner table using an old blanket and you are both going have a holiday in your own house using your imaginations. Hey Amanda, it might actually be fun!

 

More of Si’s unqualified (as we’ve found out) advice soon folks…