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!


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


Thought of the week with the very Reverend Dr Robert Carolgees

 

As I sit reclining in my solid oak chair with its upholstery stuffed with the fur of a now deceased troop of lowland Gorillas, I am reminded of the time when the church was regarded by the common sod as the great provider of not only spiritual, but also political guidance.  That year was 1981 and I was but a youngish man who spent his time catching butterflies in a shrimping net, drinking cherry pop and bopping along to the latest record from that Sunday night’s hit parade countdown, possibly hosted by Bruno Brookes, although Bruno’s rise to become the go-to DJ at Radio One may have come much later, I don’t really recall.

The haze my father’s bi-annual garden clear-up bonfire created back in those days may also have clouded my current musings on Bruno’s rise to fame. What is certain is that the bonfire used to cause our neighbours at the time, the Fortiscue-Cummers, all manner of issues. Strictly speaking, Mr Fortiscue-Cummers was a Major, a title afforded to him during his time serving as a Chaplain in the Korean War, where he scattered pastoral comfort to the men of the Royal Artillery like a buck-toothed farmer spreads his seed.

Mr Fortiscue-Cummers and his good lady wife, Davina, took every opportunity the daylight hours offered them to praise and worship our Lord. So devout were they that they often eschewed clothing in order to be ‘close to Adam’ and ‘close to Eve’. Mr Fortiscue-Cummers would often lean over the garden fence, dressed only in a Tyrolean felt hat and a swirl of Old Virginia pipe tobacco smoke, to offer my father good-natured instruction as he bent and stooped to gather the garden detritus ready for the autumnal blaze we all so enjoyed.  Given I was but a lad, the hole in the fence created when a knot of wood fell from it during a winter storm was at a rather disadvantageous height and, had I dared to peek through, it would have no doubt revealed a lot more than Mr Fortiscue-Cummers’ stance on the teachings to be found in Deuteronomy.

Sometimes on a Saturday afternoon, Mr Fortiscue Cummers would order Davina to prepare hot crumpets and tea and would invite me around next door for a bible reading. In fact my first ever bible still resides with me today in my parochial lodgings so beautifully furnished for me by my parishioners. It rests on the book shelf above the tank holding Moses, my pet Amazonian Catfish which was a gift to me from the diminutive and quite aggressive South American tribes people I spent time with during my years in the missionary position in their village. By the time I left their rare and exotic homeland they had had fibre optic broadband installed so I felt proud that my time there had helped them to progress spiritually. Being there and assisting them on their journey to find the Lord had really been all the thanks I needed, but the gift of  Moses was a pleasant if slightly awkward token of their thanks to me. He is looking quite sad these days, and Gumpert, my live-in helper, has clearly decided that caring for Moses is no longer his responsibility judging by the green dankness sliding down the poor part-amphibian’s glass tank walls.

Just as I made a mental note to speak to Gumpert about Moses’ dishevelled quarters, he burst into my conservatory-cum-nook looking beetroot red with agitation. With his hair looking lank and with rather large dark circles under his eyes, Gumpert appeared to be in no better state than poor Moses, who just at that moment had glooped lazily to the surface of his slime tank to grasp what turned out to be an imaginary morsel of food. I could only think my sinewy companion was exhausted from his endeavours the day before. It had been another wet day across Biffordshire and Gumpert had plumped to spend it in his room choosing a new wallpaper and duvet set with the man from the Haberdashers in the village. They certainly had been hard at it given the thumping and banging which emanated from his quarters for the best part of the day.

My lithe South American domestic took no notice of poor Moses’ mucoid mouthings and proceeded with very little ado to explain the cause of his ire. As he did so he gesticulated that I should follow him pass the oak landing tablette, so generously provided to me by my parishioners, over the Persian carpeted stairs, past the mahogany style portmanteau at the foot of the stairs and into the living room, which was now bathed in the most glorious mid-afternoon light. Gumpert, who had managed to multi-task by walking down the stairs while rolling one of his foul smelling Moroccan cigarillos, had slumped into an arm chair and simply nodded towards the cause of his irritation. Following his gaze I could see that a small bird, a tit, if my ornithological senses were correct, had managed to somehow secure access to the house and was now sitting atop the oak Grandfather clock so kindly provided to me by my parishioners. Wisely Gumpert had already opened the large bay window, through which such excellent views of the Biffordshire Downs are afforded. Despite Gumpert’s best efforts to coax the flighty creature from its perch using a towel and an overripe avocado, a gift to the bird he later explained, it had refused to budge.

Suddenly a beam of ethereal light shone in through the open bay window and struck the face of the Grandfather clock, before it slowly moved down to reflect gloriously from the clock’s chiming mechanism. My path suddenly became clear. Why, just waiting for the venerable and well varnished time piece to strike would surely be enough to encourage the tit to accept the chance of freedom so graciously provided to it by Gumpert.  As I looked at Gumpert, my heart fair burst with pride at his empathetic stance towards our unheralded visitor, particularly as small, feathery birds are quite the delicacy in his home village. Within moments, the clanging chime of the clock struck and the tit raced through the open window and into the bright afternoon sky. Verily, the Lord doth move in mysterious ways!

  • The Very Reverend Archbishop Dr Robert Carolgees will be signing copies of his new book Bath time with the Angels at the Clump Cineplex, Bowling and Tiddlywink Alley next Friday. Asthmatics are asked to book in advance.

Poetry corner…. because you’re worth it

Bees

By Arbuthnot Turbo

 

Bees, Bees, Bees

Are quite blind did you know?

I do experiments on them see, put them all in a row

I’ve made a little sign out of wood and chalk, didn’t cost much money

In tiny writing I’ve scrawled ‘Over here if you want free honey’

I then asked them to move that way if they were able

But not one bee, not one! responded

In hindsight, perhaps I shouldn’t have nailed them all to the table

 

My life is a rollercoaster

By Sue Pernoodle

 

Foxes, Foxes, Foxes

Foxes, Foxes, Foxes, Foxes, Foxes, Foxes

Foxes

My life is a rollercoaster,

Foxes, Foxes, Foxes

Foxes?

Foxes!

 


Dishco Pig……..

Tulip DJ

No sterotyping here…

Hi folksh, yesh itsh David Vienetta, top Anglo Dutch DJ and all around the place good guy. With my blonde good looksh and muschcular frame I’m a hit on the danchefloor as well and not unincluding the ladiesh in that deshcription. You bet your asses on that one. Oh yesh.

Itsh great that Discho Pig hash given me the opportunity to big up my next DJ set. Uh huh oh yeah for shure I am looking forward very much to rocking it out at the Clunge Village Hall nextsh Tuesday afternoon. Apparently I am booked in to play for the Clunge’s Women Inshitute and for that I am totally shtoked! Itsh going to be a rocking afternoon oh yeah for shure. Anywaysh, Discho Pig saysh to me, David Vienetta, you gotta give my loyal readersh a taste of your shet for the gig! You may not know but I met Discho at a Rotterdam rave way back in the late 90sshhhh. He wash just a young piglet shtarting out in the buishness, but onsh he got his trottersh on the decksh I knew he wash a natural. Oh yeah for shure.

Anyway without further adosh, here ish my shet for Clunge. Itsh gonna ba a paaaaaarrrttttaaaaayyyyyy

 

Drool & The Gang – Just had an injection at the dentist

Indeep – Last Night A Dj waved at my wife

Bobby Brown Stain – Can you pass me the Vosene Gladys

Luther Dandruff – Never Too Much, unless I have enough already

Rufus And Chaka Can – Ain’t nobody, just a head in a glass jar

Camel-o – Lemon curd up!

De-houseboat – Rhythm Of The Kite (it flaps around in high winds)

Black Fox – Hide On Time (I’ll close my eyes and count to ten)

Rockwell – Somebody’s Washing Me but I’m allergic to soap

 Salt-N-Vinegar – Push It (starter motor is knackered)

 Rainmack & Rainmack – Raindrops look like my tears after I stubbed my toe

 Shalacar – A Ford Cortina to remember

The Whispers – What? You’ll have to speak up love, I’m a trifle deaf

S.A.S. Band – Gonna storm the embassy

Robert Kilometres – Children (don’t know they’re born these days)