SAUSAGE LIFE 327

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column that believes in pan-dimensional ambiguity even though there is no such thing

READER: Have you been following the golf?
MYSELF: I have not been following the golf, nor have I been pursued by it. Why the sudden interest in golf?
READER: It’s The Masters. And anyway, I’ve always loved golf.
MYSELF: Golf? You? But you couldn’t hit a barn door with a medicine ball.
READER: You don’t have to play the game to love it. It’s the drama, the pressure, the lifestyle, the ejaculating champagne.
MYSELF: The enormous amounts of money?
READER: Don’t be so cynical. No doubt you’ll be moaning on about the Grand National next, another great institution.
MYSELF: Of course I forgot about the great horse bullying jockey fest which, along with the London Marathon are my two favourite events. Apparently due to budgetary restraints caused by the war in Ukraine and the custard shortage, certain Grand National rules will be shared with The Marathon this year.
READER: Such as?
MYSELF: Anyone falling over will be shot. Nursery rhyme characters and pantomime horses will be excluded to avoid alarming children. Also, both events will be be sponsored by Pets in a Pickle
READER: The veterinary insurance company?
MYSELF: No the condiment manufacturers
READER: Condiment manufacturers?
MYSELF: Yes, you know. Pets in a Pickle, the perfect accompaniment to that vegan meal you are eating to impress your carnivorous friends. It spices up anything.
READER: Really? What’s in it?
MYSELF: Pets in a Pickle contains vinegar, onion, garlic, tamarind, monosodium glutamate, hamster, goldfish, tortoise, bunny rabbit, baby moo-cow and kitten.
READER: You’re a monster.

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

MONDAY 3^RDMondays always fill me with feelings of Ennui, which is my favourite new word at the moment. I have decided, on a whim (good word!), to add a new one to my vocabulary every day. Gazing vacantly out of an upstairs window, I spot a white van clearly marked “Zoological Gardens”. It is parked in the road with a uniformed man in the driving seat sipping coffee and eating a doughnut. Panic sets in. Was my impulsive act at the aquarium with the ant’s eggs a step too far?

TUESDAY 4TH
Much more cheerful this morning, as decision not to eat a cheese and tuna sandwich just before bed appears to have put a stop to my recurring nightmare (the one where I am the captain of the Titanic, and deliberately ram an iceberg). I impulsively go upstairs and peek out of the window. The Zoo van is there again! I fetch my opera glasses and study the driver. This morning he is clearly eating a Marks & Spencer sandwich, and I can see from the discarded packaging on the dashboard that it is cheese and tuna! I shudder at the terrifying coincidence. Is this an omen? New word for today: Terpsichorean.

WED 5TH
Woke early in a cold sweat, my pyjamas soaked through. Despite not eating my bedtime sandwich, horrible Titanic dream has returned. This time I am not the captain, but the tuba player in the ship’s band. I manage ok at first, but then, as the ship lists, the rising water level causes my embouchure to collapse, and I ruin Nearer my God to Thee with a triple-tongued glissando in an unrelated key during the 3^rd verse. Discover I have left a tap running in the upstairs bathroom all night which has overflowed and is dripping through the ceiling. New word: Douche.

THURS 6^THCelia Badwig calls unannounced. She mentions the Zoo van outside, but I pretend not to have noticed it. This whole business has left me with a curious sense of fish-nostalgia, or is it just wind? Resolve to donate £10 to aquarium. New word: Ovoviviparous

FRI 7^THGo to see “art” exhibition at the coal miner’s trade union hall. All terribly ghastly and modern. Why on earth would anyone want a portrait of Michael Jackson made from pie crusts? Thought strikes me that there is no history of coal mining in Hastings, is it all some elaborate hoax? I get buttonholed by Twollet the greengrocer, who declares; “Its all a load of old Jacksons isn’t it?” I looked at him blankly, “Jacksons! Jackson Pollocks!”. I smile and nod, but I haven’t the faintest idea what he is talking about. Today’s word: Juxtapositional

THE UPPER GLASSES
We recently attended a meeting of the Eurosceptic Institute for Mumbo Jumbo, Baloney & Contemptible Bunkum, where we asked chief mannikin Jacob Rees-Mogg, what possible reason there might be for a man of his social position to be not wearing a monocle?
The top-hatted, tripe-warbler replied, with an arch, patronising half-smirk,
“Oh, but that is where you are quite wrong!”
Utilising a delicate pink aristocratic thumb and forefinger, he adjusted what we had mistakenly assumed until then to be his spectacles:
“As you can see, I am wearing not one monocle, but two. It is no secret that I am, at the very minimum, twice as posh as an ordinary posh person. With that in mind, I instructed an old family friend, the late Bertram Pauper, head jeweller at Bertwhistle & Scrivener of Mayfair, to weld together a pair of antique gold-rimmed monocles.”
Pausing to gaze, stony-faced at a nearby camera, he performed a smile and continued,
“My intention was to secure them to my face using the normal monocle-gurn, but unfortunately, that made me resemble an owl chewing a scorpion. Clever old Bertram came up with the ingenious idea of attaching a thin, hooked rod to either side, which, when anchored to my ears, securely clamps the two monocles to my face.“
Magnified by his double monocle, the noble eyes dimmed like over-poached eggs, as he added gravely, “The Pauper family has enjoyed a long tradition of faithful service to my family, spanning many generations. In this centennial remembrance of the sacrifices of 1914-18, it is worth noting that Bertram’s great uncle, Wilfred Pauper, threw himself on a land mine in order to protect his commanding officer, my maternal Great Grandfather Lord Montague Mountjoy-Pemberton, as he bravely ordered his men ‘over the top’ at Ypres. Betram went to his grave unselfishly knowing his place, little realising he had unconsciously facilitated the botoxically inscrutable, yet obsequiously patronising, gargoyle-gaze, with which my public is now so familiar.”

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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