Sausage 350

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which rinses, but doesn’t repeat

READER: Have you been watching the World Cup?

MYSELF: Are you are referring to the MAGA World Series of Sarka?

READER: Sarka? What are you talking about? Its the FIFA World Cup

MYSELF: Ha ha, don’t you see what they’re doing with these so-called hydration breaks? Next thing you know they’ll be changing the O-Fensive team to a D-Fensive team every ten yards.

READER: Oh come now. Its very hot out there, they’ve got to drink lots of water.

MYSELF: Yes, especially with all that air-conditioning.

READER: Relax! It’ll all go back to normal after this.

MYSELF: Trust me, those ‘hydration’ breaks will stay, and they’ll get longer because FIFA wants to expand into the USA so they can make even more money, which means they’ll have to introduce crash helmets, cheerleaders, wider goals, bigger balls and a spectacular half-time show. They know the Yanks can’t watch anything for more than a few minutes without seeing some offensive commercial for fat injections or pills that take the edge off your other pills. Curiously, always followed by a long disclaimer listing all the different ways you can die from them.

READER: Killjoy! Well I’m enjoying it anyway and I’m having £50 on England to win at 100/1

MYSELF: A brilliant choice if I may say so, which will net you £5,000…

READER: Exactly

MYSELF: …Assuming that all pigs suddenly take flight, Nigel Farage tells us the truth about his £5m bribe and they find Lord Lucan.

POETRY NOW
Featuring members of the Upper Dicker Poetry Society
Poor Roger
by Hugh Sportswash

Poor Roger McGough
He’s never off.
His ubiquitous head.
Jammed.
In his poetry
anus.

The Boy
By Lydia Cartilage

The boy stood on the burning deck
when all had fled but he
His tip?
asbestos underpants
and flameproof herbal tea

Due to overwhelming public demand,
we present this special edition of…

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF HOLMES & WATSON

With a respectful tip of the hat to Myles na Gopaleen (the da)

No. 471. The Baffling Case of the Unconsecrated Bishop
It was a hot August morning, during the great sausage meat shortage of 1887 and Holmes, having just slept off a weekend cocaine binge, was not in good spirits. The only sound was the gentle whirring of the electric fan as he sat glumly in the dining room of 221b Baker Street, the apartment he shared with his companion Dr. Watson. The hungover sleuth was trying his best to enjoy the breakfast served up by Mrs O’Hara the housekeeper – but it was a frugal breakfast, his beloved Fortnum & Freemason Cumberland Pork Sausages being noticeably absent. “Damn this shortage!” rasped the famous detective as he herded the solitary, staring egg around his plate.
Watson, a vegetarian who suffered no such sausage longings, happily tucked into his second helping of grilled tomatoes whilst perusing Monday’s copy of The Times, which he had folded in half and propped up against the sugar bowl.
“Aha!” he ejaculated suddenly, causing Holmes, his nerves jangling, to hurl his lightly gripped fork into the air, where it became trapped in the blade of the electric fan. The marvellous new invention, which normally wafted cool air around the stifling premises with a soothing whirr, now sounded like a misfiring road drill.
“Listen to this Holmes”, said the Doctor, oblivious to the racket, “Police in Brighton, investigating the recent mysterious disappearance of protected seabirds have arrested someone. A German butcher by the name of Dieter Klansmann was spotted lurking near some arctic terns congregating on the beach. He was reportedly seen lassoing the largest of the birds, putting it into a sack and running off with it”.
The horrible cacophony ceased as Holmes, who had received a mild electric shock whilst retrieving the fork from the fan, sat down and sank further into despair.
“The very next day,” continued Watson rhetorically, “what do you suppose Herr Klansmann had on display in his butcher’s shop window?”
Holmes, failing to look interested, shook his head.
“Sausages!” he cried, “
The great detective’s right eyebrow shot up, as though still receiving current from the fan. “But what about the….”
“Listen!” interjected Watson, “Police later discovered that those sausages were manufactured using the minced flesh of that kidnapped bird!”
Holmes thought for a moment, then reached for his tobacco pouch containing Tutenkahmen’s Fine Olde Pharoe No.2 Shag, a mixture specially made for him by Pearson’s of Piccadilly. He lit up a pipeful which, much to the doctor’s annoyance, soon filled the dining room with noxious black smoke.
After a few puffs, the famous detective appeared noticeably relaxed. “Let me have a look Watson” he said, picking up the folded newspaper and perusing the court report through the lens of his magnifying glass. Handing The Times back to his friend with an expression of unimpeachable smugness, he jabbed at it with the stem of his pipe. He was pointing to the defence’s plea of diminished responsibility, where Klansmann’s barrister had firmly blamed the incident on his client’s inherited mental instability, a condition over which he had little control.
Watson, whose suspicion of modern psychology was well known, looked suitably unimpressed. “What piffle!” he declared, wafting at the thickening smoke and hurling the newspaper to the floor. “That German cad clearly knew exactly what he was doing, and should be jailed.”
“Have you no empathy?” enquired Holmes, his bushy, beetling brows scarcely concealing an air of muted triumph. “You, a doctor, would incarcerate that poor sick man simply because he had taken a tern for the wurst?”
Watson bit his lip and remained silent but later could be found crouched in the corner of Holmes’s music room, weeping softly as he carefully filled the detective’s priceless Stradivarius with quick-drying cement.

FIFA WORLD CUP LATE RESULTS:
VATICAN CITY 0 HAMILTON ACEDEMICALS 8
LEICHTENSTEIN 5 EASTER ISLAND 2
ENGLAND 0 ENGLAND 0

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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