Aiiieeeee hoof, hoof, hoof… yes folks it’s the biggest night of the year innit! Disco Pig is back with the beats from the renegade master – dey told me I can’t play bass and dat I can’t play drum, but I am ere to tell ya that I’m here actually innit. I’m not a Yankee, I’m a Londoner innit, and on da playground was were I spent most of ma dayze. I got in one little fight and Mrs Disco Pig got scared so she sent me to my Auntie and Uncle’s in Walfamstow innit!
Anyway, der fond trips dahn memory alley asides, Disco Pig is ere to give ya all the bangiest playlist for da bangiest night of the year – Noo Year’s Eve, innit! Disco Pig was in da big demand dis year and as had to turn down some big gigs, including one at dat O2 in his home tahn of Londan innit. Stoked though, cos I is now rocking the bins at Biffordshire’s biggest nightclub – Da Sugar Shed, just outsida of Moistbury on da A67, if you go past der Lamb and Foreskin pub you has gone too far innit. Turn around and hed back a bit, bit more, on da left innit. Yes, da place wiv da big sign up at the front.
Anyways, it’s free Bacardi Breezers all night for da ladies, so get in quick and you might even pull a Bacardi Geezer, that’s me innit!! Nah, don’t fink dat Disco is being all up and unfaithful to da missus and shizzle – she’s out of tahn visiting her poorly piggy gran in Colchester so while da missus is away visiting her poorly piggy gran in Colchester da Disco Pig will play… da top tunes all night innit! Ha ha…
Seriously d’oh Disco Pig is all loved up an dat so it would have to be somefink special to turn his eyes onto anover lady pig innit. Like a couple of drinks and some heavy petting behind da stage innit! Disco knows you ladies will be forming an orderly queue to get ya hoofs on dis bit of quality bacon, but I ain’t bovvered. Da lady I as is da love of me life innit – plus her gran is a lovely lady piggy. She was in da war and all dat. She was an air-raid piggy – ad to squeal when she saw any of dem Nazi planes and dat flying overhead – pwoper hero she was. Her passing, if it should come to dat, would be a sad day in da Disco household innit… mind you she’s facking loaded so let the good times and da turntables roll!
Anyways, listen to me cracking on about nuffink – I has got some vinyl to dig out for tonight’s sugar shed shenanigans! Get der early Pig fans it’s going to be a crackling night of porky phat phun!
Waste of Time ft The Delighted Landlord – £15 just to get into my own local
Eric Pickles and the Cheese Crew – Leave it Barry, let’s just all have a drink yeah?
What’s the Point? – In bed by 10.30
FredMau5 – Right said Fred
Tinnie Tiddly Ft MC Shoehorn – Can’t Make Luv Tonight
Robert Kilometres – Bowl Clutcher (Hold back my hair)
The Over Friendly Strangers – What you looking at (it ain’t got no label on it)
West Street Boyz – Lager on my whities, vodka on my loafers
Phat Boy Phat – It’s raining (door) men
The Checked Shirts – Don’t encourage him, Sandra
Calvin’s Klein’s – Pants up high, trousers down low
The Bog Gropers Ft MC Smarm – Hanging around outside da Ladies
Disorientated Scoundrel (Ft Almond Van Nut) – Conkers
Rogan Josh Project – Infinity Naanty Naanies (time for a Ruby)
The Kebab Krew – You want everything on, boss?
Street Fighters (Ft DJ Punch Drunk) – Oh heavens, Andrea, I appear to have dropped my chips
The Beer Scooters – La, la, la, la, la, lager, bit, bit, bit, bitter, vod, vod, vod, vodka, she, she, she, sherry
The Misguided (Ft MC Testosterone) – Yes, she probably IS a lesbian, Stuart
DJ Morning After – Very dark in colour, but it floats
As I sit here reclining in my solid oak-backed chair, so kindly provided to me by my parishioners, I can’t help but recall one of the most memorable nativity plays that I very nearly saw. As you may know my work as an Archbishop has taken me across the globe, indeed many of my travels are documented rather lusciously in my book; Bathtime With the Angels, available now from chains of Glossop’s Books ‘n’ Fags in Fudgebury, Cleft, Moistbury and many other leading Biffordshire settlements. That notwithstanding this particular moist-eyed trip down Alzheimer’s lane finds me ensconced in the front row of the aforementioned nativity play back in the mid-1980s. It had been a bitterly cold morning if my memory serves me well, and my Madonna inspired lacette gloves had done little to wear off the biting December wind. Blessedly, this particular nativity had been arranged for charity and some days before I had managed to cajole the organisers to direct all the proceeds from ticket sales and the rather odd mulled ginger beer to a cause close to my heart – the fallen women sanctuary I had set up a few months before.
Being of limited funds, I had to cram the poor destitute women of Biffordshire who came to me seeking refuge, into the shed at the foot of the garden. They were well appointed, despite the rather horticultural surroundings. I discovered that by moving the lawn mower a few metres towards the back of the shed I could fit in three more wretched souls. Hoisting my tandem so that it was suspended from the beams by some sturdy rope facilitated enough room for my latest arrivals, Honey Potwell from Clunge and Mary Quitecontrary who had fallen out with her husband following a rather nasty incident with a frying pan and some edible glitter. Despite my ergonomic re-arrangings, it was clear that if my women’s sanctuary was to succeed then further fiscal benevolence was required. The girls were getting restless and there was only so many times they could watch Poldark on a rather warped VHS on the portable TV I had secured from my parishioners by way of entertainment.
Therefore I had high hopes that the charity nativity play would provide such funds for me to open a rehoming wing and my plan was to offer these poor fallen souls up for adoption to members of the general public. However, just as the play was about to begin a stage light had crashed from the roof and had landed squarely on both the Krankees, who had driven down from Falkirk the night before to take part. Ever the professional, Fred Dinnage, who was due to play the Archangel Gabriel, was determined that the show should go on, particularly I suspect, as his mum had been up all night making wings out of a pair of her old tights. But my spirit to continue had been crushed along with the poor Krankees and despite Fred’s and Fern Britton’s enthusiasm to put the show on, I took the difficult but necessary decision to call the event off. It was a heart-breaking drive back to my parochial quarters although Jimmy Cricket’s anecdotes certainly made the journey go quicker. I was pleased I offered him a lift home, even though he insisted on wearing his back end of a donkey costume which he had been so looking forward to performing in.
My misty eyed reminiscences were unfortunately then interrupted by Gumpert, my live in help. Regular readers of this column will be only too aware of the lithe South American’s firebrand nature and his irritation this afternoon, the eve before Christmas, was as tumescent as I could remember. He had chosen to wear the new Christmas jumper his mother had sent over from South America for him as a present although the image of a guinea pig being roasted over a spit which adorned the front of it, was, to European eyes at least, not particularly festive. I had thought to myself earlier that morning that he may be a little jaded as I had heard him late into the night playing what I imagined to be Twister with his special friend from the village. I can only surmise the boys had been playing for some high stakes as there was certainly some enthusiastic shouting and grunting coming from Gumpert’s quarters until the small hours. Given that it was Christmas I decided to treat the pair of them to some late evening hot chocolate, but despite knocking on Gumpert’s door for a good five minutes it went answered. Pushing the door ajar I left the steaming mugs of cocoa on the chest of drawers. I could see that it was indeed Twister they were playing as Gumpert had managed to take a dominant position with both his feet straddled behind his kneeling friend. As they had both removed their tops I made a mental note to turn the heating down a notch or two, the poor fellows must have been boiling!
Now stood there in my conservatory cum nook, Gumpert imparted the cause of his ire and beckoned me downstairs. As I followed him into the kitchenette his discomforts soon became plain. There, wedged twixt the oven doors was our Christmas goose, so kindly provided to me by my parishioners. Gumpert explained in between drags of one of his foul smelling cigarillos that despite his best efforts the goose would simply not fit into the oven. He had, he explained, been whacking it with a rolling pin for the past ten minutes in order to reduce its size sufficiently for it to squeeze into the oven, so kindly provided to me by Witches Ovens of Clump. Our Christmas meal, it would appear, was doomed to failure before it had even started.
As I mulled over our Christmas conundrum, a sudden beam of light shone through the window before resting on my neighbour, Mrs Arbuthnot’s back door. I do believe the Lord spoke to me at that very moment. Suddenly my path become clear. Why, Mrs Arbuthnot’s huge AGA would offer plenty of room in which to roast our meagre bird. With a cheery hello Mrs Arbuthnot was only too glad to welcome us both in, particularly as I suggested doing so would merit her a mention in volume two of my upcoming autobiography. Mrs Arbuthnot and I spent a most joyous afternoon preparing the Christmas goose and sipping dry sherry, while Gumpert and Mrs Arbuthnot’s nephew, Clarence, busied themselves playing Twister in the front bedroom. What would have taken many hours of sweaty goose carcass machinations had, in fact, only taken an hour and a half on a high setting. Verily the Lord doth move in mysterious ways!
Volume two of Dr Robert Carolgee’s autobiography The Angels offer me Nutella will be available on pre-order next Wednesday and he will be signing copies at Glossop’s Books ‘n’ Fags from Thursday. Asthmatics are asked to book in advance.
Lifesyle guru, agony uncle and part time Maritime histologist, Simon Thrombosis helps you through the stress and anguish of the proper British Christmas.*
Nathen Cookworks from Scunge writes – Dear Si, Every year I dread Christmas. My partner tends to get drunk in the kitchen where she claims to be cooking the Christmas Feast, but she is in fact draining the festive stock of alcohol. She doesn’t drink at all for the rest of the year but is uncontrollable on the 25th. Last year it was so bad, she got totally confused, serving us dinner consisting of a packet of fig roles stuffed in a tramp’s vest. Just what can I do?
Si writes – I think you’re being a little unreasonable Nathen. Christmas day is all about guilt-free morning alcohol consumption, peaking at around 11.30am and quaffing just enough booze to keep you in a slightly fuzzy festive fug until you fall asleep in front of an animated children’s film at 3pm. Your partner is simply not used to acknowledging the peak and is instead, tipping ‘over the abyss’.
Maybe you can try keeping her off of the bucks-fizz for the morning, thus allowing her to complete the Turkey before she goes ‘past the post’.
Either that or you could stop being critical and cook it yourself.
Mavis Loaf from Buttercludge Ho writes – Maybe you can advise Si? My sister has a habit of buying inappropriate gifts for people. For example, our cousin, Bertie, has a terrible swede allergy, but last year, my sister bought him an elderly second hand SAAB. Another year, she bought a subscription to the Daily Mail for her friend who suffers from hypertension. I won’t go into her gift for the local Vicar, but I will say he’ll never look at a pair of mittens in the same way ever again. My sister seems entirely unaware of the Christmas carnage that she unleashes and she is a sensitive soul. How can I broach the subject to her?
Si writes – Mavis, I have seen this behaviour before. One client I counselled had paid to have an air rifle adapted to fire peanuts for his best friend who suffered an extreme allergy to them. Another had commissioned a local sculptor to create a nine foot statue of the devil for his staunchly God-fearing Aunt.
Indeed, I believe it to be a form of consumerist Tourette’s where the present buyer compulsively purchases the most offensive item regardless of the price. Sadly, I have yet to encounter an effective cure.
Warn everyone beforehand and expect the worse.
Jacqui Holepunch from Clevis-on-the-Pin writes – Festive greetings to you Si! I am a naturally happy go lucky gal who loves a good old laugh and is rarely even slightly vexed. But my problem is that I get cheeky little mood-swings whenever I encounter someone who is negative towards my positivity. Indeed, I put a man in hospital when he asked why I was so cheerful. He never came out again. So my teeny weeny problem could probably do with some of your lovely advice if you’d be a fine fellow? No pressure, but I do know where you live (love what you’ve done with the place)!
Si writes – Hey Jacqui!!!! Gosh, I can’t believe that people could be down on you for being cheerful!!!! LOL!!! Don’t change a thing eh? It’s all them and not you at all. Goodness no!
Hope everything’s well and goodwill to all men I say!!
Si will be back after the Holidays and when he’s had all of his locks replaced.
*Disclaimer – advice may not be either accurate or in any way useful. MonkeyBroth accepts no responsibility with the use or misuse of Simon’s comments.
Jingle da bells, jungle bellz, jingle da bellz. Stop. Swine-rewind!!!! Ya know it! It’s da pig coming at ya like a Lidl Stollen!
I bin getting the monies in ready fo Christmas coz I want to treat ma nan to a fierce foot spa dey got on special down at Boots. She totally worth it bruv!
Disco pig been working in one of those Christmas seasonal shops init. And man he be getting bored of Christmas songs on da shop stereo! Serious, if I hear Mariah Carey singin’ about what she want fo Christmas one more time, dere’ll be a crime. Nah, but serious, dere will…
Anyz, ‘ere’s da latest festive stampin’ tunez all wrapped up just fo youz.
Biff Clitchard – Time to buy a new calendar
Bradford Moped Group – Stop! Carry on.
Ashes Misery – I put five on it
Neonicotinoid Pesticides – Brian’s off to Lowestoft again
Megaquake – The thrill of cheese
Barry Goblin (ft. Frankie Ankles) – Shambolic log flume
Hemplegrunt Mupderspinch – Tra-la-la-la-la-faraldo-gadzooks-euro
Mincing Pies – Fabulously stuffed
Grumpy Dad – You can open them after dinner
High street Robbery – Seasonal price rise (saw ya comin’ reprise mix)
The Geordie Sores – Herod as a toad
Spatch! – No honestly Claire, I’ve always wanted a slanket. Lovely.
Unauthorised Entry – Stuck up your chimney
Coming to Spatchcock 20 December
Roll up! Roll up! (or walk) to what has been called the 3,568,543rd wonder of Biffordshire!
Back by occasional demand, Mungo Frimpley’s fantastical circus returns to Spatchcock! Laugh at a creepy clown on a trampoline, Marvel at the lax health and safety! Gasp at the price of candy floss!
- Mavis Bramley’s dancing girls! – Est. 1937 and still dancing!
- The deaf-defying mumbling man!
- The stripy horses with feathers on their heads!
- Bruce Force – The only strong man/midget combo in England!
- The Damian unt Frott show – Taming lions in white leatherette!
- Nevill Freeply and the world’s strongest grape!
- Bernadette and Bernard – The amputee trapeze artists!
- Nigel Curry and his ring of fire!
- Disco Monkeys – Yes they are actual monkeys! They dance!!!
- Bendy Brenda – The human contortionist!
- Things like pigs but massive and grey with really long noses!
- Bump & Grind – Mungo’s house clowns ft. Gary the exploding horse!
- Frank Hollers – He’s louder than Brian Blessed in a lift!
- Waffle shoving on ice and laser show!
.…and little more!
Venue: Behind the recreational ground in Grattles field. Follow the smell of faded grandeur.
Tickets available from Budgens in the High Street. Curtain opens at 11pm. No flash photography, normal everyday photography only. Show may contain disappointment, feelings of mild discomfort and peanuts.