Up Your Way with Barry Turtleneck
Posted: 09/07/2013 Filed under: Other stuff | Tags: Big brown cardigans, Fest Fest, Shaky Leave a commentUP YOUR WAY…
With Barry Turtleneck
Barry Turtleneck here, back with another edition of Up Your Way with Barry Turtleneck. The regular reader of this column will know only too well that Up Your Way with Barry Turtleneck, is an affectionate and nostalgic look back at the golden times, the by-gone days which have quite literally gone by over the years in our lovely county of Biffordshire.
The early 1980s was one such yellowy era, a time when life somehow seemed more innocent, more gay and a lot more colourful. Many of you may remember that the tiny village of Fest, a few miles outside of Clump, was thrust into the limelight back in 1982 when it hosted Biffordshire’s first ever music festival. Fest Fest as it became known, was a roaring success, due, in part, to the fantastic contacts and organisational skills of Derek Dropdownmenu, roadie to the stars. Here Derek, now aged 128, looks back at the very first Fest Fest, way back in 1982.
“What a time it was. I’d been out on the road for months with Motley Crue so I’d been busy leading up to Fest Fest. I got the call to come back and manage all the stars who had been booked for the event and, rock stars being rock stars, I had my hands and my feet full! I certainly had my work cut out for me, it was a big responsibility I can tell you.
The first act to show up at the playing fields behind Fest’s St David of Essex church, where we had set up the main stage, were Musical Youth. They were a lovely set of lads, but arrived at the venue looking really miserable. They slung their BMXes around the back of the Scout Hut and sloped over to me. While they were desperate to play, their Mum had told them in no uncertain terms to be back home for their tea – and there was no way they could play their gig in time. To make matters worse, Freddie had broken his left hand playing Connect Four, so passing the dutchie, or anything else for that matter, to the left hand side was out. I suggested they could pass the dutchie to the right hand side, given the state of Freddie’s hand. But the boys, artistes to the end, refused. As it turned out, the lads had pooled their pocket money for the past month to save up for a Huxley Pig Video they had seen in the Fest charity shop and were dead keen to get some lemonade on the go and to watch it all the way through in one sitting. I told them not to worry about the gig and to get themselves home for a spot of Huxley. That soon cheered them up and off they rode, giggling and pushing each other at the thought of having a lovely evening settled down in the front of their massive, three-channel TV. Musical Youth pulling out last minute left a gaping hole in the schedule and with the show just a few hours away I was starting to feel the heat.
As they disappeared around the corner, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Karen, the 6/10 one from Bananarama. Back then the girls used to travel around to gigs in a hot air balloon, but there was no sign of the tour balloon anywhere. Uh oh, we’re in trouble I thought, before remembering that was a song from the future by Shampoo. Thinking the girls were here for their sound check, I ushered them towards the scout hut, which was doubling up as the stars’ changing rooms for the bash. But before I could speak the girls piped up in unison telling me that there was a major issue I needed to sort. They led me around the corner and there on the roof of the vicarage was Billy Ocean. I couldn’t believe it. Caribbean star Billy was sat with his legs dangling off the guttering, crying his eyes out. That’s all I need I thought – the top act at Fest Fest 82 throwing a wobbly. I managed to find a ladder and climbed up determined to find out why Billy Ocean was throwing a major sulk. It transpired that Limahl and he had had a falling out when the Kajagoogoo singer had drunk all of Billy’s Tizer. Sighing, I managed to track down Limahl who explained that he thought that it was his Tizer, although to be honest, Billy had taken the trouble to stick an Elastoplast on the bottle with the word ‘Billy’s’ on it, so I don’t think Limahl had much of a leg to stand on to be fair. Anyway Limahl launched into a long tirade about what he said was an innocent mistake – you could say it was a real never ending story, except the subject matter was Tizer! Anyway, I managed to coax Billy down and the lads shook hands to put an end to the whole sorry saga.
As it turned out that was just the start of my troubles and there was more fizzy pop worries ahead of me! I thought I had better check on some of the other stars, who by now should have been all getting changed over at the Scout Hut ready for the gig to begin. It was a chaotic scene. Shakin’ Stevens had arrived in good time, but to my horror I saw his denim jacket and jeans were still hanging on their peg by the serving hatch. His white shoes were also still there, so god knows where he was. As it turned out he’d been upsetting Manhattan Transfer by getting all their Lilt out of the fridge and Shakin’ the cans around before handing it to the Chanson D’Amour stars. He was rolling around laughing as one by one, members of the group got sprayed by the sugary Caribbean-themed liquid.
I made a mental note to have a little chat with Shakin’ before he went on stage, but there were more problems I had to deal with right there and then.
Lilt… with it’s totally tropical taste. LILT!
I have to say I expected a lot better from Renee and Renato. The pair were huge back then and I thought I could rely on them to at least bring a little bit of mature decorum to the proceedings. How wrong, was I?? Hailing from Italy, Renato had never seen space dust before and it wasn’t long before he saw the practical joke opportunities the fizzy snack offered. I had been away trying to fix a puncture and the squeaky brakes on the Bee Gees’ Raleigh Burners, when I heard a loud rumpus coming from the scout hut. I burst in only to see Renato holding on to his allocated peg crying his eyes out with laughter. As I found out to my horror, he had crafted a paste of water and space dust and delighted in rubbing it into the crotch of Midge Ure’s swimming trunks, when the Ultravox star’s back was turned. Midge had opted to take a pre-gig dip in the Fest community pool, but was now hopping around the scout hut grabbing and itching at his crotch. Everyone was splitting their sides laughing and Siouxsie Sue was almost unconscious with mirth.Thankfully the stars were all professionals and the show went on. I was relieved when the whole event finally got under way. I even got a thank you card at the end from Thomas Dolby to thank me for having him. It was a relief to get the acts back to the scout hut after the gig. Soon their mums were there to pick them up, so I handed out the party bags, gave each of them a balloon as a souvenir and poured myself a long drink. Never again until Fest Fest ‘83!”
Births, Deaths and Marriages
Posted: 09/07/2013 Filed under: deaths and marriages | Tags: aardvark, Frank the goose, pampas grass Leave a commentBIRTHS, DEATHS AND MARRIAGES
Monkeybroth is deflated to bring you the latest round up of personal announcements from across Biffordshire. The county clearly has got it going ON. We need to add our own sad news to these announcements. Frank, the office goose here at Monkeybroth Towers, passed away gently in his sleep on Friday night. He was six and leaves behind a wife Gloria and 234 goslings. We used to hook Frank up to the office fax machine and took great delight in pulling the archaic communications from his beak. He was a real joker and used to make great cappuccinos. A sad, sad loss. Still never mind, we can’t sit around here all day crying over dead geese.
A SON! Mr and Mrs Michael Go-Cat of Trumpet Avenue, Badcheek have found a baby under the pampas grass in their front garden. While the Go-Cats are keen roundabouters they don’t think it’s been there since their last roundabout party with other couples from the neighbourhood, nine months ago. Anyway, they have provisionally called the baby Eczema, so if it’s yours come and claim little Eczema by ringing Badcheek, 69696969
ANOTHER SON! Barry and Petunia Pink-Floyd of Grassyknees, Biffordshire are delighted to announce the birth of their son Aardvark, a brother to the couples’ twin daughters, Ant-Eater and Jane. To celebrate, the family are hosting an open event in the grounds of Stuart Hall, Grassyknees’ sumptuous Elizabethan house. All are welcome, but asthmatics are asked to book in advance.
MR ARTHUR CABINET of Whisk is saddened to announce the sad passing of his mother. Varnish Gladys used to work at Woolworths where she would lick the flying saucers before placing them in the pick ‘n’ mix buckets. A former test pilot for NASA, Varnish went into steady decline over the last few months although still managed to delight younger family members by inviting them to find the Cornettos she had hidden around her body. Donations to the British Fart Houndation please.
A DAUGHTER! George and Mildred Thunderstorm of Barrygibb, Biffordshire are pleased to announce the birth of their first daughter, Steve, a sister to the couple’s sons, Angela and Octavia. The Thunderstorms are delighted to have a daughter after all this time and they have already enrolled young Steve in the Barrygibb Academy for Ladies with Boys Names. The Christening takes place next Tuesday when Archbishop Dr Robert Carolgees will be officiating. He’s doing it in his new leather jacket, kindly provided to him by his parishioners.
Poetry corner
Posted: 24/05/2013 Filed under: Poetry corner | Tags: cardigans make me look fat, Cor blimey guvnor, I've lost my sausages Leave a commentThe Golden Rush
by Bertram Tool
Ah, the involuntary fart at the urinal
It gives no warning of its arrival
Old Charlie is released into the open air
All fresh, free, naked and bare
All geed up for that first push
And that lovely relieving golden rush
Wandering minds turn to sport
Or that worrying day in court
As the spray foams around the pan
It’s a lovely time for any man
But then suddenly you become a little hot
What’s that tension around the bot?
A quick look around; is anyone there?
Can I really do a fart in here?
There really is nothing to be done
To stop this train, it’s no fun
Panic stricken clenching is the last resort
Keep telling yourself you’ve got to stay taught!
But Mother Nature she knows better
Just pray to your god that it won’t be wetter
Than the one you did when being examined by that nurse
That was bad, this could be worse!
For the love of Christ what is this curse?
It’s a battle in your pants the scale of Waterloo
Here it comes; choo, chip, chip, choooooo…
The smoke is clearing, the battle is done
Did you lose or was the fight won?
Another look around; the cubicles are free,
Until the next time you pop for a pee….
Monkeybroth Classifieds
Posted: 17/05/2013 Filed under: Monkeybroth classifieds | Tags: Cardigans are great aren't they, Mmm cream teas, My vicar has an erection Leave a commentHALF A RAT for sale. Back end. Unwanted gift so priced to sell. Would suit owner of front end of rat, looking for the back end of a rat to make one rat. Alternatively it might be useful for someone who had another back end of a rat who wants a pair of back ends of rats. Call A. Taxi on Grunton 345556433.
AIR for sale. For some reason I seem to have loads of spare air just floating about the house. Got more than enough for personal use; hence this reluctant sale. First to see will buy, but good luck with that as it’s air I’m selling. And it’s very difficult to see. Call Alex Ferguson on Badguff-on-Mold 435666433.
CORDUROY iron – need to add corduroy to your everyday items? I am the managing director of a large multinational corduroy iron company but am taking out a small classified ad to make this offer appear more genuine. We all need more corduroy in our lives and a corduroy iron can go ahead and add that corduroy. Just iron over the item you need corduroy on and within a few minutes the item you wanted corduroy on will have corduroy on. Corduroy Iron – it will have you in creases! Call Bob Satan-Marigold on Clots 45343232112211
OTTER DUNGAREES – Due to a heavy electrical storm I have up to eleven pairs of stylish denim otter dungarees. All clip fastening, these lovely items are presented in their original cardboard box complete with collectible ‘Lidl meat’ printed on the side. Due to a heavy cold these dungarees are not yet waterproof, but don’t let that put you off making a purchase for the otter (or eleven) in your life. Call Garry Baldi on Fortescue Major 4311998009
HOLIDAYS WITH PETS – Looking for the perfect getaway this summer? Since being committed last year but subsequently released with an electronic tag I know I am! How frustrating is it though to book a lovely hol only to hear that pets are not allowed? Very I should say. Well, now that disappointment no longer needs to be a thing of the past. I’ve got the keys to two lovely Biffordshire cottages just a few metres from the Keeley Kidney Stones, Biffordshire’s most ancient monument. Please note that the cottages are not suitable for pets. Call Whump on 8877665 and ask for Barry Ungulate.
THE STEAM OFF MY WEE – I’ve noticed a lot of steam comes off of my wee these days. Especially on cold days. An ideal bottled gift for the model train enthusiast or pervert. Call Arthur Stretch on Vagisil 6546443
Thought for the week with the very Reverend Archbishop Dr Robert Carolgees…
Posted: 09/04/2013 Filed under: Thought for the week | Tags: fudge, I've lost my cardigan no wait there it is, Toilets, Toxic Goo Leave a commentAs I sit reclining in my solid oak, high-backed leather chair in my study-cum-nook overlooking the majestic Biffordshire Downs in the distance, which are just lightly tipped with a sprig of early spring cloud, I can’t help but think of the hit ITV show This Morning. Hosted by the evergreen Philip Schofield and the impressively margined Holly Willoughby, This Morning offers Christians across the globe a moment to reflect and meditate on some of the deeper meanings of scripture.
Why, only the other morning on This Morning, they featured a fascinating ‘magazine style’ interview with a poor down-trodden lady who recently lost her husband. He died, tragically, while reaching for a tub of Vaseline which for years had been stacked behind various dental equipment in the couples’ delightfully appointed mock Tudor home.
The lady, fighting back tears told Philip, now leaning in to his interviewee so that the audience were made fully aware of his almost unnatural concern for the poor woman, that the tragic circumstances of her husband’s death occurred early one morning. And it was at that time when she felt his loss the keenest. In essence, she was mourning during the morning on This Morning. The poignancy of the whole tale was not lost on me, but before I could reach for a man-size tissue from the top of my solid oak cabinet, so graciously provided to me by my parishioners, to dab away the emotions which were swelling within me, I was interrupted by an all mighty crash emanating from the downstairs toilette.
Just a few seconds later, I heard the familiar stomp of slippered feet banging their way up the stairs towards my study-cum-nook. By now the owner of the feet had appeared in my doorway and the apparition which stood before me was bathed in sweat from his shoulders down to his ‘just there’ jogging shorts. I have lived with Gumpert, my lithe South American handy man, for many years and his daily battles with even the simplest of domesticated tasks has become part of my waking routine. Never before, however, have I seen him in such a state of unrest as he stood there grunting various Spanish phrases at me in an almost bestial low growl. It wasn’t his sweaty state; no doubt an over-reaction to a particularly spicy goat curry he had prepared for us the previous evening, or the fact that he had chosen to wear the briefest of his jogging shorts that morning which travailed me however. For in his hand he was holding a dripping and quite threadbare toilet brush.
I realised then and there that morning’s perplexing seven down in The Guardian would have to trouble me for a few hours yet as I followed Gumpert down the stairs to examine the cause of his agitated ire. My path from the last step on the stairs was blocked by general tradesmen’s tools dumped there, no doubt, by the builders who had been patching up the wall of the garden shed after Gumpert had, quite innocently, crashed through it after one of his many late evening ‘boy’s nights’ with some of the chaps from the Lamb and Duvet pub in the village.
The builders had been there for many days, and while, as a Christian, I am always keen to promote local trades, their seeming reluctance to finish the job had begun to sting my patience. Instead they seemed more interested in discussing blueprints and technical aspects of the build with Gumpert in his room often into the very small hours. I can only imagine they were creating architectural models of the plans for the shed, given the banging and groaning which had been emanating from Gumpert’s quarters.
In the spirit of my Christian values, I had given the builders full permission to use the downstairs toilette as they went about their construction duties, and I was wondering whether this may have caused Gumpert the stress he was only too happy to display as he waved the toilet brush in the general direction of the aforementioned convenience. My desire to discover the bone of his contention was set against the ungodly waft of thick pungent air which hit me full in the face as I approached the toilette. Undeterred, I pressed on and peered into the bowl of the toilet which Gumpert had been gesturing towards just seconds before.
All my days as a clergyman, even that time I took a missionary position in a women’s’ enclave in Nigeria could not prepare me for the horrible sight which befell me. The entire rim and seat of the toilette was encased in a foul smelling thick fudge like morass of some other worldly substance, the origin of which escaped me. The stench was enough for me to mutter a Hail Mary under my breath and as I recoiled in the horror of it all, I noticed one edge of the sludge, which to my further horror appeared to have a peanut submerged in its brown embrace, had slopped and glooped off into the murky waters below. Gumpert’s sweaty exertions with the toilet brush had clearly not disturbed the ungodly toxic goo which was clinging joyfully to the toilette bowl in clear breach of my instructions to the builders not to pass solids into its pristine porcelain delicateness.
As I took a step back to consider our predicament a beam of ethereal light suddenly shone on a lead coming from the lawn near the now decrepit garden shed. I do believe the Lord spoke to me at that very moment. As the light moved along the hose I followed it with my gaze and realised it led to an old power washer which had lain dormant in the back of the shed for many years. My path suddenly became clear. Within minutes I was hosing away the builder’s fudgey sins of the flesh and turning the downstairs toilette back to its beautiful and untouched condition. Begone foul half-chewed Snickers bar!
Verily, the Lord doth move in mysterious ways, as do builders, it would seem!
- The very Reverend Archbishop Dr Robert Carolgees will be signing copies of his new autobiography The Missionary Positions I have Taken at Unks the Tobacconists on Cleo Lane, Marshwhip, Biffordshire, a fortnight on Saturday. Dogs welcome; but no Guide Dogs please.
Poetry corner
Posted: 12/03/2013 Filed under: Poetry corner | Tags: Bill Oddie, Ford Escort, kestrels, syrup 4 CommentsSugared Kestrels
by Bertram R Crumpet
I think I’m in love with Bill Oddie,
It’s not his beard or sinewy body
No, it’s not either of those as nice as they are
It’s not his Ford Escort although that is a nice car
What I love about Bill Oddie
Is the way he chortles and chirrups
Every time he pours out the syrup
So glad is he of the sugary snack
You’d think it was a lump of crack
Ah Bill Oddie and your sweet-toothed habit
He’s not a fan of a weasel or a rabbit
No it’s birds that he has on his brain
An owl, an ostrich or maybe a crane
Perhaps on a robin he should pour
Some syrup or sugar – more and more
His recipe is bound to be a hit….
Sugared kestrels and a caramelised tit
Hornbag public service announcements!
Posted: 26/02/2013 Filed under: Monkeybroth announcements | Tags: Glued to the phone, Hornbag, Shakespeare Leave a commentExciting stuff this week, Monkey Broth-ers. We’ve just received official news that Hornbag, Biffordshire, has been selected as Duvet Times and Blanket News’ official page three village! It’s a real honour for the good folk of Hornbag, who are rightly proud of their picturesque and quintessentially picturesque village. Nestled between the Busty Downs of East Biffordshire, Hornbag is a village steeped in picturesque history. If you get a moment, do visit Old Ma’s Spring museum showcasing different types of spring from across the village. Once you have seen both springs, then enjoy a much needed reviver at the The Crow’s Crack Inn on Whump Avenue, just opposite Budgens. Hornbag, come for a day and stay for a day!
To celebrate Hornbag’s elevation to the dizzying heights of becoming Duvet Times and Blanket News’ page three village of the month, we’ve dedicated our public services announcement to all things Hornbag. So if you are in Hornbag, BE in Hornbag by immersing yourself in everything this quintessentially picturesque village has to offer!
Hornbag’s Premier Indian Restaurant, The Harvest Moon, is just too pleased to announce a new addition to our most popular menu. After much pleading by Hornbaggians we’ve turned the famous local Hornbag delicacy into a curry! Yes, for the first time, you can now enjoy overweight, sweaty paper boy masala or, for a special creamy treat, why not plump for overweight, sweaty, paper boy korma! Hornbaggians receive no discount so get along to the Harvest Moon, situated just yards from this theatre! Call the Harvest Moon on Hornbag 7688976. You’ll have reservations about visiting!
Having a dinner party? Great! So am I! Call Gordon Bleu on Hornbag 558737 for more details.
Need to look busy at work? Well, let us glue a phone to the side of your face! Glue Phone has been operating out of Hornbag since 1887 and we are fine purveyors of glue and phones. If you have a big meeting coming up but don’t fancy it, simply give us a call and we’ll glue a phone to your face, right there and then! Ideal treat for the busy corporate executive in your life! Not to be confused with Glued To The Television Company in Cleft.
Moles – Huh! What are they good for? Absolutely nothing! So goes the famous poem by William Shakespeare. But that’s where you are wrong, because here at Moles to Poles we know much better than you! Turn your unwanted moles into poles today. No mole too small; so whether your tent needs much needed restoration or your daughter is getting married and the spoilt little cow wants the big showy wedding, and guess what Daddy, you’re paying for it, and you need a marquee put up quick then let us know. Why buy expensive poles when we can turn your unwanted moles into poles for you? Some self-assembly is required. Hornbag 45454545
Giant Inflatable Kittens – have been hitting the news recently and why not? They are only too adorable. Often the preserve of the rich and famous, now you too can own and enjoy a taste of Hollywood’s latest craze. For a quite a big fee actually we’ll happily lower giant inflatable kittens on to your roof. 24 hour emergency call out rate applies, roof owner must supply own gas in order to inflate giant kittens.
Entries now open for the annual Biffordshire Summer Games 2013®!
Posted: 13/02/2013 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: frogs, giddy and aroused, summer 2013, summer events, tug-of-war Leave a commentBiffordshire… ah Biffordshire. Its rolling green and pasture rich hills, its sweet bubbling brooks and the song of larks in the air. Biffordshire… ah Biffordshire.
It’s an ancient county, steeped in gloriously thick history. It’s as thick as, ooo we don’t know, mud, or nutella mixed with cornflour, perhaps. Maybe it’s as thick as a good pair of loyal corduroy trousers or otter fur after it’s been for a dip in one of Biffordshire’s sweet bubbling brooks. Anyway, part of Biffordshire’s ancient traditions is the Biffordshire Summer Games® and this summer we are saying let the games commence!
Open to all residents of Biffordshire, the Biffordshire Summer Games 2013® offer Biffordshirians across the glorious county the chance to meet up and take part in some sweaty and oh-so-healthy competitive sports. And now Monkeybroth is underwhelmed to announce that entries are open and are very much actively being sought for the event, to be held at Gangly Manor in June. Full details on the various challenges and how to enter are below. But first, to get you all giddy and aroused, here’s a rallying call from the Biffordshire Summer Games 2013® chairperson Marjorie Go-Getem, who says with lots of fantastic challenges to choose from, this year’s games will be better than ever! “With lots of fantastic challenges to choose from, this year’s games will be better than ever!” she said.
Biffordshire Summer Games 2013 challenges
Frog Bonding – a tricky challenge for even the most gifted of amphibian smooth talkers! The games’ organisers have selected five pairs of brooding frogs, all of whom have fallen out considerably over the years and are now no longer talking. The challenge will involve getting them to communicate with each other once again, perhaps through a series of open and candid sessions where they can revisit the reasons why they met and fell in love in the first place. Please note our frog pairings are close to divorce – you could say they are at frogger-heads, so only serious and experienced Frog Bonders should think about taking part. For details, contact Arthur Combine-Harvester on Moistbury 789766.
Dog Guessing – pretty much does what it says on the tin. We’ll be putting various items into a big sack cloth and you have to guess whether each item is a dog or not. As in previous years, participants will only be able to handle each bag for five seconds and must shout clearly ‘DOG’ or ‘NOT DOG’ in order to be properly judged. If you own a dog, and don’t mind it being tied up in a sack all afternoon, please get in touch. No Pekinese please, as they feel too much like toasters through a heavy cloth sack. For more information, contact Group Captain Edward Even-Love on Cleft 237888
Hazelnut Shy – Come and have a go at knocking off hazelnuts which have been glued to bits of bamboo 12 feet away! We’ll provide you with the subbuteo balls to throw at the hazelnuts; you just need to bring your hazelnut knocking-off skills. Due to expected demand, please register with Gordonette Dingle-Dangle on Orifice-on-the-Mole, 333879
Tug-of-Whore – Biffordshire’s finest will be out in the sunshine for a change for this test of strength and dexterity. We currently have two teams booked for the event; Mrs Marplewhip’s ‘£10’ crew and an as yet unnamed team from the house of ill repute on Clam Street, Orifice-on-the Mole. Come on ladies and brothel runners – the good name of your establishment is on the line! For details, and to hear me fix my lawn mower dressed only in a boiler suit and trilby, call Monica Badcheeks on Titbury 696969. This year’s competition has been kindly sponsored by the Our Lady of David Essex Church, Hornbag, Biffordshire.
Seagull arranging – Biffordshire WI are once again delighted to be running this year’s seagull arranging competition in the main marquee. We are now open for registration, so whether you are an experienced seagull arranger or have never even touched a Guillemot before why not come along and see what all the fuss is about? Last year’s supreme champion Annabelle Ihavenobeard will be demonstrating her seagull arranging skills all afternoon, so pick up some tips and get involved why don’t you? For more details and to arrange a delivery of complimentary seagulls for arranging, call Mrs G Dimpled-Thighs on Surecock 4567888.
Your dreams explained… with Ethel Sprout
Posted: 10/02/2013 Filed under: Your dreams with Ethel Sprout | Tags: BMX, dreams explained, oops what's that parsnip doing there, sprouts. my dreams, Sweet sherry 1 CommentYour dreams explained… with Ethel Sprout
Hello, Ethel Sprout here, Monkeybroth’s resident dream-monger and all round astral projecting, subconscious examining harbinger of hope.
Oh dear Monkeybrothers, I am sure many of you have heard of me as I am truly the dream explainer to the stars. You name them, and I have charged exorbitant amounts of money to go through their night time mind wanderings to come up with some two-bit explanation which really bears no resemblance to the true meanings of their sweaty nocturnal expirations, all carried out in the back room of my flat just off the Ealing Broadway. John Cleese? Well, no not him. Timothy Spall, no, not him either. Cherie Blair? Look…shall we just get on with this for Christ’s sake?
Thank you to all those who have already written in to me. I am now preparing myself to open my third eye, to raise myself to the level of the subconscious, to find my inner karma and to reveal to you, dear Monkeybrothers, the true meaning of your dreams. For further help please do get in touch – oh you dear confused rabbits, no I don’t need my palm to be crossed with silver for me to aid you. I am, however, partial to a drop of Budgens own brand sweet sherry. In fact it’s essential for me to truly find my zone and explain your dreams in your dreams explained with Ethel Sprout.
Dear Ethel,
A couple of nights ago, I dreamt that a winged tortoise flew in through my bedroom window and circled above my head, before ever so gently defecating into my husband’s open and snoring mouth. He did not stir throughout the whole terrible experience, but woke the next morning with a terrible thirst and a hankering for Findus Crispy Pancakes –chicken and mushroom flavour. What does it all mean?
K. Creole, Gammon Rind, Piffleshire
Dear K
Truly troubling times in the Creole household. Tortoises, in my opinion, are not as good as turtles who can swim, giving them a serious advantage in an underwater environment. Yes, tortoises have small legs with claws, but surely the turtle’s magnificent flippers are superior in every department. The fact that the tortoise gently defecated in your husband’s mouth is key to unravelling the mystery behind your dream. He’s having an affair poor, poor K. Kick him out now and if you start dreaming about him having aubergines in his pocket then we really do need to talk.
Dear Ethel,
Please help me; I don’t know what else to do. A few nights back I woke in a cold sweat after dreaming that my son’s BMX came to life and began flirting with me outrageously. It would drop various items from its handlebars, such as its bell and speedometer, before asking me to bend down in front of it and pick the items up. As I did so I could hear air escaping from its tyres in a sort of ‘phwoar’ sound. This happened over a number of days in my dream and came to a head when I bent down to check it’s tyre pressure. It then clearly honked the words ‘while you are down there, love’. Night after night I dreamt I was being viciously verbally and sexually assaulted by my son’s BMX. What does it all mean? For the record it’s a Diamond Back Pro bike with yellow mag wheels and integrated suspension. It cost a lot of money so I have to say I expected far better from it.
Gloria Office-Printer, Table-Cloth-On-The-Hill, Shireshire
Dear Gloria,
How awful for you dear Gloria, or may I call you Glozza? You know, many of my clients ask me if they should act on their dreams. They say, Ethel, should I follow my dreams? I say you’ve got to have a dream; otherwise I would be out of a job and evicted from my Ealing flat. We have a laugh about that one, me and the stars. This is a perfect example of following your dreams, Glozza. You are clearly attracted to your son’s BMX and your dream is a nocturnal projection of your desire. Run away with it, Glozza ,and surely your love will be cemented in a golden future of pedalling, endos, bunny hops and grazed knees and elbows. Oh how I envy you Glozza.
Dear Ethel,
Last night I dreamt, bow, di bow, di bow… that somebody loved me
Morrissey, Salford
Dear Morrissey,
For the love of creosote, grow up man. Oh and I have spoken to the council about that punctured bicycle of yours on the hill side. Get it moved by Tuesday or I shall speak to the police, it’s blocking my drive.
Dear Ethel,
My god, I’m in a terrible state. My recurring dream is about dolphins. Many Monkeybroth readers may well say how lovely that would be. After all, the playful aquatic mammals are one of Mother Nature’s most charming and endearing organisms, all intelligent like and brainy. However, my dream is horrific in its nature. I’ve weed the duvet in fear on many occasions, I don’t mind admitting. Nearly every night I dream I am driving along a deserted road, when I see a clearly down-on-his-luck dolphin hitchhiking by the side of the road. This dolphin is dishevelled, bearded and dressed in a long rain mac with a trilby pitched at crooked angle on his head. His flippers are wrapped in plastic bags tied up with bits of string. Every night I pick the dolphin up and we drive to the nearest Little Chef, the convenient and often well placed roadside eatery.
The dolphin orders the full Olympic breakfast while I make do with a white coffee and a toasted teacake. To pass the time before our order arrives we play a game of travel twister, which the dolphin takes great delight in slowly unravelling in front of my horrified eyes. Every night I lose this game of mammal- on -man Twister despite the reach of my limbs being far superior to his own appendages. What does it mean, Ethel? Please help me.
Duncan Brush, St Potato-on-the-Waffle, Biffordshire
Dream on… with Ethel Sprout
Dear Duncan,
I am so sorry to hear that you are having a dream about dolphins. How awful for you. I don’t think you realise just how wonderful dolphins are. They swim, they lark about, they rescue divers from secret underwater lairs. They can read and write and book package holidays the whole family will enjoy. They are excellent knitters and many are quite musical. One dolphin I know reached Grade Four Clarinet, just weeks after picking it up for the first time. How dare you dolphin bash Duncan, how dare you.
To get to the bottom of your dreams, write to Ethel Sprout, enclosing a bottle of Budgen’s own sweet sherry, to Ethel Sprout c/o Monkeybroth Towers, Biffordshire. We are sorry but we cannot return any of your pictures.
monkeybroth 