Racing Mildred – by Norbert Twistgrip
Mildred was a bandy lass,
The speed that she could cover grass,
School sports days she was never passed,
Over hundred metres
One day she spied a nice pork pie,
Through the corner of her eye,
And truly could no more deny,
She fancied a bit of that
Fast forward on a decade more,
Mildred’s sitting on the floor,
Within her flat that she abhors,
Too heavy now to race
At first she never noticed signs,
The pies had slowed her record times,
Oft’ passed and lagging long behind,
With pork pie-induced stitches
The Commonwealth, Olympic games,
A distant dream with her to blame,
The bakery fed this hall of shame,
A sedentary life for Mildred
Mildred’s is a cautionary story,
If you yearn for running glory,
Avoid pies and you’ll be hunky-dory,
And probably sausage rolls
MonkeyBroth’s own agony uncle, lifestyle guru and part time Penguinologist, Simon Thrombosis sorts your life right out. More than likely. Possibly.
Bethan Moleskin of Winkie on the Rye writes – Dear Si, lately, I’ve become irrevocably addicted to retro comestibles. Just last week, I polished off over 60 bags of Burton’s ‘Fish and Chips’ baked snacks and I fear that it’s now getting out of control. The other day, I ate over 40 packets of Fizzers and, due to an enormous sugar high, was found passed out on the floor of our local aquatic centre spooning a puffer fish. My family are surprisingly unconcerned. Please help!
Si writes – Ah Bethan, snacks of the past eh! Remember that these rehashed favourites are never what they once were. I remember when a McVities Wagon Wheel was so large, you had to physically roll it out of the shop. It could then be used as a makeshift wheel for your BMX in the event of a puncture. Now, they are the size of a Jaffa Cake. The Japanese obsession with micro-engineering has a lot to answer for.
Back to your problem, every time you reach for a snack, just remember a deeply disturbing part of your childhood. Eventually, your brain will associate sweets of yore to your beloved cat dying or something. Good luck Bethan.
Monty Whirlygig of Mosely Grimp writes – I’m a direct man. I call a spade a spade and a hammock a tree-spanning sleeping sling. The trouble is that, for all of my honest, down-to-earth practicality and sound unsolicited advice, I just don’t seem to get along with people. I’m one of the world’s good scouts and have a 98% history of being right in all situations and I always take the time to tell people when they are wrong, which is most of the time. I’d like to get along with folks, offer my wisdom and maybe meet a lady to become Mrs. Whirlygig. I don’t expect you to be able to help as I think you’re a fraud, but hope springs eternal eh?
Si writes – I think you need to tone down your advice giving Monty. Being right all of the time is a tricky thing (I should know) and it unnerves people. Oh, and saying ‘I call a spade a spade’ is essentially just telling people that you are bloody rude.
For the record, I’m not a fraud Monty. Which means one of us is wrong.
Little hint, it’s not me.
Matthew Damppatch of Frottington writes – Hi Si, the other week, I day-dreamed that I was flying a hang glider with Graham Gooch. Since then, I’ve been able to think of nothing else. I’m not in love with Mr. Gooch,(impressive as his cricketing achievements are), or hang gliders (although I admit I adore the feel of ripstop nylon), but for some reason the thought of the two of us flying high above the wonderful Biffordshire countryside is impossible to shift. Help me Si, I can’t sleep and my work as a subeditor for Vauxhall Zafira Monthly is suffering.
Si writes – Oh Matthew, this is a difficult one. For some reason, it’s a mental image that really does stick in the old noggin. So much in fact, that since reading your letter, all I can think of is catching a warm current and soaring across the sky with Graham’s manly arms next to my own, stretched out in front of us and contrasting the azure blue of infinity…
Can someone go and get Si down from the roof please? Yeah, he’s up there singing that Berlin song again. No let him keep the cricketer effigy otherwise he starts sobbing…
Poetry corner. A bit like one of those yoghurt fruit corner things but with poetry instead of yoghurt. And the fruit corner bit.Posted: 02/05/2014
By Sophie Jumpersforgoalposts
Good morning little lamb have you sent that email yet?
And what about that spreadsheet? You haven’t even started it I bet…
What about that report for the chairman of the board? Come on, get it done!
And once you’ve done that I have some errands for you to run
We’ve got a meeting in an hour, have you prepared the lengthy agenda?
What’s the matter with you today, you lazy little blighter…
Come ON little lamb your appraisal is later today,
We have some feedback for you little lamb, about training and your pay
You need to show your finance skills and that you can work out the VAT
This is low hanging fruit for you lamb! Surely you realise that?
But his hooves, his hooves, his tiny cloven hooves,
Are supposed to be used for trotting on grass
Not renewing his monthly security pass
His hooves, his hooves, his tiny cloven hooves, so often they do fail
He can’t even open Outlook, let alone send any mail
His hooves, his hooves, his tiny cloven hooves
They can’t input data or create a PDF,
Come ON little lamb get it done, my god are you deaf?
Little lamb, little lamb, I want to see you in my office
We thought you were a senior pro, when clearly you’re a novice
Oh little lamb, little lamb to them you are just an ovine resource
Now shut up and get in the oven while we prepare the minted sauce…