Glass Warriors – by Romily Whirt
Lined up on the doorstop,
Soldiers without their foil top,
Small see-through battalions,
Stripped of their medallions
They’d fought the war of Cocopops,
The skirmish of hot chocolates,
The battlegrounds of tea,
For coffees paid their fee
Locked up in a cold dark gulag
They could not hoist the white flag,
White blood chilled for freshness,
Both pasteurised and restless
The screech of a an opened gate
The journey rattled in plastic crate,
To Valhalla they think and out of the hunt,
Alas to dairy then back to battlefront
The roughage grows dark – by Minty Boffle
Once it may have been true to a point,
That the roughage was rough and the flample was goint,
But when looked down on it’s true that you see,
The flample was pample and goadingly droit
It once looked quite pretty when viewed in the dark,
The roughage, the pample, hung out in the park,
For sitting on swings and going all weeee,
But the droit came upon them and cut them a’grark
The pample did stample and the roughage did yank,
And across the sandpit the pair they did sank,
To rid them both ever of the nether-seen droit,
They pitched up a coodle and had a stout plank
But the roughage not covered beneath the pitch coodle,
Was exposed to the droit right on to his noodle,
And the pample did peek out a safe word to utter,
But the roughage was lost with it’s memory a doodle
MonkeyBroth’s own life-style guru, agony aunt and part time goat hunter, Simon Thrombosis helps you with those tricky life decisions and problems. And with no formal training too!
Darby Dale of Flab Corner writes: Dear Si, I’ve recently started having panic attacks when presented with mushrooms and other fungi. For most, this wouldn’t be a problem, but my work with the Forestry Commission means that these things are part and parcel of my day. It’s become so bad that during the scoping of a fire break project in Ashdown forest, I came face to face with a plate fungus and ran for over 4 hours to get away from it, eventually taking up a hiding place under the table of the Red Lion pub in Chelwood Gate. I laughed it off as a prank to my colleagues, but I’m not sure they bought in to my explanation. Please help!
Si writes: Hey Darby, irrational fears are so named because they are both fears and irrational. That’s a fact! But, we have to trace the fear back to its nucleus. I suspect that you had an occurrence such as a break in by burglars disguised as Toad from Super Mario or some such. Without that centre, it’s difficult to help, but can I suggest that you tell your colleagues? You may run the risk of being forever ridiculed, losing your job and the respect of your peers, but needs must eh? You’re welcome.
Dekin Dumpvalve from Leaky Grange writes: Since I was a boy, I always feared that my thumbs are plotting with my spleen to take over my cognitive functions and cause carnage. I swear that I can hear them whispering to one another just before I fall asleep. Does this happen to other people or am I special? I’d love to be special.
Si writes: OK Leaky, this may sound a little strange to you, but usually in these occasions, it’s your bladder that is the puppet master and the thumbs and spleens are just henchmen doing its bidding. I’d say go with it. The bladder is actually quite an astute character and I know number of high-profile celebrities that gave over control and never looked back. They do tend to spend quite a lot of time in the lavatory, but you have to take the rough with the smooth. Happy to help.
Jervis Practicalmouse from Skive writes: Last month, I lost my entire collection of Roy Hattersley signed prints in a house fire caused by a faulty cheese grater. Somewhat understandably, I’m distraught as the collection was both irreplaceable and implausible. Last week, I physically harmed a man who was loudly talking derogatively about Roy’s time working under Dennis Healey whilst shopping in Budgens. I feel it’s now somewhat out of my control. Stop my grief. Make the pain go away…
SI writes: I’m very sorry for your loss Jervis. I’m afraid that the grieving process has to be carried through before you can feel better. But in the meantime, can I suggest you avoid situations that are likely to present Roy as a subject of everyday conversation? Your trip to Budgens was particularly risky when viewed from that perspective. I’d also avoid steelworks. Glad to have been of assistance.
Well, that was concise and well advised as usual. Si will return mainly because we believe he’s found somewhere to live in the heating system and maintenance has been unable to flush him out.
Hubbida hubbida, wik, wik, wikki, wha, full on BOOOOM! Ya, da pig return for moar mayhem init!
Disco pig been away on one of dem foreign exchange programmes. Big up to ma main Frenchies Monsour et Madam Porc who bin puttin’ up wiv me for six months while Disco Pig been improving meself. Da ladies love da French talk init! C’est combien mon pretty pretty? Guaranteed pullin’ powwa!
Anyway, me still bin keepin’ up with all da latest choons so here’s ma chart throw down…. Frappant Mélodie!
Peter Fry up and the Desk Clocks – I got that feeling of goat in me
PoorlyR4t – Mocha latta chatter flatter platter
Captain Spoonwright – What’s good for the moose is good for the Flanders
Hurdy-Schmurdy-Glockenspiel – The fox obviously says ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH’
The Dickinson – Tan come, Tan go
Massive Economic Landslide Panda Car Collective – You can’t crack nuts with celebrity butts
The Focaccias – Honestly Betty, I thought it was going to stain the wilton.
Blink One One Eight – Repetitive, irritating, meaningless and moustached
Tiresome – They appear not to be at home Samual
Goodwood Illness – Throwin’ up in a Yaris
The Rubbish Bodgers – A colander does not a good boat maketh…
Literal Steve – This is a song that I wrote about some emotions that I once experienced
Data Moth – Light bulb binary
Often overlooked due to their dour markings, the Pocket Snake is surely one of our most fascinating indigenous Biffordshire creatures.
The uninteresting skin of the Pocket snake is, in fact, one of its greatest defences. In the 1920s, the dandy Biffordshire blades around town would use the quality of their belts as a mark of their aristocratic social status. Only a lowly social climber would ever stoop to a belt made from the pelt of the dowdy Pocket Snake meaning their numbers remained high.
Due to their commonality, and their unusual preferred habitat, they are regarded as a pest by many. The Pocket Snake is attracted by the strong odour of ammonia and thus tend to take up residence in men’s toilets. Indeed, I’m sure you’ll agree that it is almost impossible to use the lavatories at a public house with seeing a Pocket Snake or two.
Because of their unusual choice of residence, the Pocket Snake has developed an extraordinary diet, feasting as they do on urinal cakes. This has caused the species to become the focus of a number of studies headed by the Biffordshire Polytechnic College.
Bryan Flocculation – Assistant Technician explains – “When we first heard reports of the Pocket Snake’s evolving eating habits, we couldn’t understand how the creature had adapted its biological makeup to safely digest urinal cakes. What’s more interesting is that we still don’t. Possibly never will. That’s why we’re studying it I suppose.
“We’ve currently setting up test centres within over 10 local pub toilets so that we can study Pocket Snakes more closely.”
Due to their docility, Pocket Snakes are becoming the pet of choice for trendy youngsters. Many clubs have sprung up to cater for this latest fad and are fast becoming a favourite hangout for the Biffordshire youth.
Dylan O’Ermatron of the Cleft Pocket Snake Handlers explains the attraction – “We get together as often as possible to show off our Snakes. They are such affectionate creatures and love to be stroked and played with.
“They are the perfect pets as they generally don’t grow too big to manage, although our treasurer Clifford has a fully grown adult that is over 12 inches long! That is quite a size for a Pocket Snake!
“They are addictive and difficult to put down as they are lovely to handle – so smooth and sleek. Although I do have to put ‘Little Dylan’ away at dinner time as my Mother won’t let me have him on the table.
“A word of warning to anyone thinking about owning a Pocket Snake though, is to not buy one off the street. I was offered one by a man in a long coat who was hanging around the park the other day. I’m not sure what it was that he showed me, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a Pocket Snake. It certainly wasn’t any species that I’ve ever seen before as it only had one eye.”
Going cheap – Chicks!
Geddit?!? Eh? Ay?!? No seriously, we have some chicks for sale and they are reasonably priced.
Call Ben Whitecliffs on Bletch 784 523
Ford Ming 19.1 L, 17 valve
In suspicious fawn with full veneer and artichoke interior. FSH. 6 sleeve gearbox, Elastic windows, Icyfox seats, Front frogs, Artbags and alloy weevils. CL, GSOH, WLTM, LOL, TL;DR, AFAIR. Comes with 12 mins MOT and Tics.
Call Dunkly Musk on a phone if possible
Concrete driveway for sale
Due to having my driving licence taken away from me, I have no need for my driveway. Much loved but has to go to make way for a bike rack. Buyer collects.
Call Mungo on Upper Crunge 564 125
For sale, my Complete Works of Danny Dyer box set. Includes ‘My F#$kin’ Britain’, ‘Sh*t me it’s a Weasel’ and his much loved ‘Christ I C@cking’ Love Bridgend trilogy. I’ll throw in a rare first edition of ‘Knitting Sh*te for Geezers’ for the right price.
The Soon Spoon – by Hilliard Ever-Soslightly
Oooo wasn’t it a bendy spoon,
It made light and yet made gloom,
It stayed all bendy until noon,
And then became so stiff
With a spoon like that you’d be the boss,
You would never suffer loss,
If you did you’d barely give a toss,
And should you care – you shouldn’t
When stiff it could become a sword,
When bendy makes you feel a Lord,
Your subjects ever overawed,
That spoon could crumble empires
Destroyer of worlds the spoon became,
Sheer power of it never tamed,
And you will never be the same,
Now you are in its thrall.
A weapon beyond the realms of man,
It weighs a tonne and yet a gram,
You borrowed it from your old Nan,
Part of her picnic hamper
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…