SAUSAGE 326

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which thinks that tired, worn-out cliché is the elephant in the room

READER: I hope you are aware that I had to tear myself away from Wimbledon to appear in this stupid column.

MYSELF: You should be grateful. Only the terrifying spectacle of Gallstonebury is worse than the monotonous flip-flop-thwack of catgut against balls.

READER: Even though you don’t like it, surely you can appreciate the skill, poise and athleticism involved?

MYSELF: And the drugs.

READER: Drugs? At Glastonbury?

MYSELF: Don’t be ridiculous, I’m talking about Wimbledon. Didn’t you hear about Swedish hopeful Fjord Bjortina’s tearful post-match appearance following her first round defeat by 10-year old British prodigy Svetlana Molotova, when she admitted using a performance-enhancing substance recently banned by the International Tennis Association?

READER: I don’t believe it.

MYSELF: No? Allow me to read you this article from The Mail Online.

SPEED SWEDE
Dressed in a transparent French maid’s outfit with a low-cut blouse, Fjord Bjortina the blonde bombshell dubbed The Saucy Scandi revealed to drooling journalists that for the last five years she has been using the drug, marketed under the names Rapidone and Velocitum, which she claims was prescribed as legitimate medication for her numerous tennis-related conditions including Trioptic Glycemia, Hyperbolica Nervosa, Parkinson’s Disease and Screaming.

READER: There you go, I knew she was innocent.

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READER: Excuse me what’s this?

MYSELF: This is a paid-for advertisement, and therefore beyond your remit.

READER: I love an Essex Sausage as much as the next man, but Spiritual Flexibility? Incubate your biorhythms? Have you no shame?

MYSELF: None. How do you think I paid for this suit? Or did you mean “have I no shaman”?

READER: Sorry?

MYSELF: Never mind. Anyway, step aside, the ad’s not finished yet.

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DIARY OF A SOMEBODY
Compiled by Patrick Carabine
An occasional series in which we randomly browse the recollections of an anonymous diarist.

JULY
MONDAY 24^thMy eldest son, Tarquin, arrives unexpectedly from London. He tells me about the new craze sweeping town, consensual deafness. The proponents, usually bearded young men, are known as Deafsters and before going out they jam wads of cotton wool in their ears, which is, according to Tarquin, “to make conversation less predictable”. I tell him I think it’s a ridiculous idea, to which he retorts (rather sneeringly, to my mind): “Horses for courses”. Ironically, I mishear him and reply: “Obviously they do, that’s how they procreate”. This causes him to laugh uproariously, leading to a coughing fit so severe I honestly thought I might have to call an ambulance. Today’s new word: Anachronism.

TUESDAY 25^thCelia Badwig invites me to the theatre as she has been given two tickets to see the “alternative” comedy duo Smoulder & Burns. They are not to my taste, I’m afraid, and seem to dwell rather too much on bodily functions. At the bar, during the interval, I bump into Twollet, the greengrocer, drunk as usual. He is very enthusiastic about what he describes as “the new superfood” – black pudding. I’ve never tasted the stuff myself, but resolve to give it a try. New word: Scatalogical.

WEDNESDAY 26^thI buy some black pudding from Mr. Smalec, the Polish butcher, who curiously also tries to sell me some donkey spleen, something I have never expressed an interest in before. At home, I fry up the black pudding, which is certainly black, and although a little on the spicy side for me, quite delicious. Tarquin breezes into the breakfast room as I am eating it and, to his evident amusement, tells me it is made from pig’s blood! I humour him, but I’m not falling for it. Today’s new word: Didactic.

THURSDAY 27^thTake to my bed feeling nauseous, having looked up black pudding in the Encyclopaedia Brittanica only to discover it is made from pigs blood! Tarquin looks in as he leaves for London, and is barely able to conceal a smirk. He wishes me a speedy recovery, but I can hear him sniggering into his smartphone on the way downstairs. Resolve to ignore any future advice from Twollet. New word: Odium.

FRIDAY 28^thTo the library. I return How To Hypnotise Fish by Norma Glüsche, (fine: £1.25p, outrageous!) and extend my loan period for the runaway best seller Strange But Nearly True by fascinating Greek psychic investigator Dr. Sydney Halloumi. Examples: 1). the common newt, were it a nuclear weapon, would be five times more powerful than the bomb detonated above Nagasaki in 1945! 2). Ants are Freemasons, who control society with food additives and adulterated shampoo. Dr. Halloumi has been described as The New Nostradamus, and this marvellous book has given me an entirely new outlook on life. Word of the day: Ingenuous.

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READER: What? Another one?

MYSELF: One has to make ends meet.

READER: Your shameless. You’re like the GB News of columnists.

MYSELF: You’re like the Nigel Farage of non-existent characters.

READER: Do you think so? Really? I’m rather flattered.

MYSELF: As the hedgehog said to the Range Rover.

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Sausage Life!

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Photo credit: Alice’s Dad (circa 2000)

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JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

CHEMTRAILS ON MY MIND
MORT J SPOONBENDER

On September 11th 1958, José Popacatapetl, a retired tree psychologist who’s father was head gardener for the CIA during the cold war, was hitchiking through the Alberqueque desert when he was picked up by a black sedan driven by J Edgar Hoover’s ex-boyfriend André Pfaff head of FBI underhand operations and extra-terrestrial banking who once worked as a quantum mechanic for the KGB under the direct orders of the zombie reincarnation of Josef Stalin whose mummified corpse was kept in a secret underhand bunker in the basement of the Vatican.

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