Posted: 14/04/2014 | Author: monkeybroth | Filed under: Poetry corner | Tags: Patrick Duffy, poetry, rags, snake |
No chance for David – By Dominic Falafel
Rags plainly borrowed not bought,
His gusset was so clearly fraught,
Shirt flailing against waist,
His sense of unpleasant taste,
Tie like a broken snake,
Over shoulder in his wake,
Brogues cracked through soles are felt,
His gut restrained by tired belt,
David thought this interview,
His threads have likely cast askew,
Posted: 11/04/2014 | Author: dolphinbladder | Filed under: Thought for the week | Tags: burly zoo keepers, Buttons, cardigans |
As I sit reclining in my solid oak chair, enthused with its leatherback turtle armrests and panda fur cushioning, I can’t help but think of the commercialisation of Easter. Perhaps it’s because it is nearly Easter that I am thinking about Easter, perhaps not. I was discussing the commercialisation of Easter just last week with Jensen Button, the famous Formula One racing car driver, when I bumped into him in Cleft High Street. Gumpert, my sinewy South American live-in help had announced that morning that he was confining himself to his quarters to best combat a nasty injury to his groin he had picked up after a particularly rambunctious evening at the new Otter and Trombone chain pub which opened a fortnight ago. Due to Gumpert’s crippled abdominal area I had been forced to forgo that morning’s Guardian crossword in order to visit Cleft and stock up on the various groceries and goods required to sustain a large parochial house. Given that I rarely venture into the wide world of retail outlets, I did purchase rather more than I had intended too and had bought, quite by impulse, Noel Edmonds’ autobiography, Beards, Jumpers and Anthea Turner On Fire.
So keen was I to get stuck into the tome that I was mindlessly turning the pages while walking and didn’t see the 15 F1 race-winning superstar as he left Snowy’s Tobacconists near the main village car park. Our collision was inevitable and, as we clashed, my newly purchased volume went flying high into the air. Jensen, being bearded himself at the time, was obviously very much in tune with the author of my newly bought volume as he caught it one handed, before it could land on, and no doubt be ruined by, the grimy streets of downtown Cleft.
Obviously one cannot let such an act of kindness pass without comment and the McLaren-backed speedster and I spent a good few hours chatting right there on the High Street about all manner of life’s little nuances. I had no idea, for instance, that Jensen learnt to drive in a Ford P100 pick-up van at the age of three months, nor did I realise that his beloved father, Barry Button, had once lived in a beaver dam in the woods of Wisconsin for a year. Our fascinating and enlightening discourse was rudely interrupted by the muffled sounds of Motorhead’s Ace of Spades coming from my ecclesiastical gown pocket. Jensen was clearly startled by my choice of ringtone and I made a mental note to change my passcode to prevent Gumpert from interfering with my personal equipment.
As if to speak of the devil it was Gumpert himself on the phone, and I had to unfortunately break off my discussion with the gallant Jensen to engage with my live-in help as he demanded extra provisions he had left off his list for me. I had to make my apologies to the Santander advertising hero and reluctantly returned to Tesda to pick up the moistened toilet roll, cigarette papers, muscle emollient, baby oil and something called KY Jelly, all of which Gumpert had rather moodily grunted that he now required during our telephone call.
Once I had climbed the steep hill from the village back to the parochial house I shared with my incapacitated home help, no mean task with three Tesda shopping bags groaning with oil-based provisions, I discovered the front door was wide open and there were muddy paw prints all over the Harrods hessian door mat, so kindly provided to me by my parishioners. On further inspection I could clearly see two dark and very flat objects protruding out from underneath the kitchenette door. I called for Gumpert to rouse himself from his groin-injury induced slumber so that we could investigate the strange objects together, which, I noticed, where now very slowly slapping up and down on the parquet flooring, a gift I should add, from Mrs Beagle, a parishioner of mine.
Mrs Beagle had been so grateful to the support I offered her when her hydrangea died suddenly overnight a few months ago, that she insisted on re-flooring the kitchenette for us, despite my eager protestations. Gumpert had also shown great kindness to Mrs Beagle’s nephew, Matthew, and would often invite the downy-faced student up to his room, sometimes quite late at night to help him overcome his grief. Matthew clearly felt the loss of his mother’s hydrangea quite keenly given the low moans and grunts of what I thought must be pure disconsolation emanating from Gumpert’s quarters.
My lithe South American home help had, by now, moodily stomped down the stairs to investigate the cause of my agitation. His injury had clearly done nothing to dampen his enthusiasm for his foul smelling cigarillos, the smoke from which pre-empted his arrival into the hallway. Together we crept towards the kitchen and to our surprise and horror we saw two beavers, tails flapping against the newly acquired flooring, each one nibbling on a separate table leg. The North American mammals appeared to be quite unmoved by our presence and continued to munch their way through the mahogany table, so kindly provided to me by my parishioners. What a shame that Jensen was not with me! Surely his father’s experience would have stouted our hearts and offered some timely and much-required beaver related advice. After all, what is one to do when presented with beavers in one’s kitchen?
Suddenly a beam of ethereal light came shining through the open front doorway and rested upon the Biffordshire Yellow Pages, kept for emergencies only on the telephone table. As I turned to retrieve the book a sudden gust of wind rustled the pages open until they rested right at the very end of the book under ‘Z’. I do believe the Lord spoke to me at that very moment. That first entry under Z depicted a picture of a large baboon with the phrase ‘Visit Cum-on-the-Nook Zoo’ and a telephone number which zoo-bound day trippers could call to find out more details about their planned visit. Thankfully, Zimbo’s Mystical Tent Experience had closed down many years before as surely theirs would have been the first entry on that particular page.
Suddenly my path become clear. Why simply calling Cum-on-the-Nook Zoo and asking them to fetch the beavers would alleviate our wood-chewing mammal infestation once and for all. A few hours’ later two burly zoo keepers had arrived and had retrieved the errant buck-toothed beasts, which we later discovered had escaped from a local brothel. So glad was Gumpert to be free of the animals that he treated both zoo keepers to a late night buttery crumpet feast in his bedroom which both fellows clearly enjoyed given the shrieks of delight coming from Gumpert’s room. Verily the Lord doth move in mysterious ways!
The Very Reverend Archbishop Dr Robert Carolgees will be guest presenting Biffordshire TV’s new game show panel, ‘Where’s my cardigan? Oh yes, there’s my cardigan’ next Sunday. Audience tickets are available on the day. Asthmatics are asked to book in advance.
Posted: 10/04/2014 | Author: monkeybroth | Filed under: Other stuff | Tags: Allo Allo!, endangered, funny, mice, mouse, nature, radar, trumpet, wildlife |
Once the plaything of the Victorians, the Radar Mouse – Biffordshire’s acoustically over-endowed small mammal – had one of the most obscure of all the roads towards endangerment.
Initially, they thrilled our ancestors with the discovery that, by forcing air through the mouse, a tune could be played. However, after the inventing of the mechanical mouse pipe, the fad of blowing small mammals quickly died out.
A rare Radar Mouse – residing in a sound-proof booth
Looking like a cross between a common mouse and the ear trumpet used by Madame Fanny in the BBC comedy, Allo Allo!, the Radar Mouse had long cut a curious dash amongst the woodlands of our fair shire.
The few that remain live a life typical to a common mouse but have evolved a curious survival technique. When threatened, they can reverse their talents and emit a loud noise similar to a Chinook gaining altitude. This shocks the approaching predator into thinking that they are about to be sucked into a whirling vortex of rotor blades, giving the mouse ample time to beat a hasty retreat.
Common belief holds that the decline of the Radar Mouse was due to an epidemic of Pirate Radio stations that cropped up in Biffordshire in the early 90’s. The Mouse, with its complicated attenuation was thought to have been able to pick up these off-piste shows over 30 miles away from their source.
Driven mad by the harmonics of Drum ‘n Bass ruff cuts, over 90 per cent of this native species were lost when a stampeding pack of Radar Mice threw themselves in to Buttercludge gorge.
Frank Leyspeaking, president of the Biffordshire Association of Failed Creatures, recalls the scene…
“It were horrible I tell you. They were cuing up to jump!
“It fair makes me shiver to think of those poor little mites, falling to their demise with nothing but the soundtrack of ‘Bump up da eeezee rider caaaaammmm down!!!’ playing in their little heads.
“All those tiny bodies…… Still, I had me wife knock up this lovely set of gloves with the remains. Look! She even kept their little noses on!”
Happily, the Radar Mouse is a creature very much on the bounce. Since the culling of the Pirate DJs back in 2010, the remaining mouse population (believed to have survived by corking their ear trumpets) has been on the rise with sightings cropping up regularly across Biffordshire.
We can only hope that the happy parping of these tiny creatures continues to become more common-place.