Sausage 351

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which suggests that happiness is only depression with laughs

READER: What did you make of Nigel Farage’s mega sulk?

MYSELF: Mega sulk? Did you mean Hissy Fit?

READER: Yes. He’s so angry he’s resigning as absentee MP for Clacton which is going to delay the parliamentary investigation into the dodgy £5m donation until he’s elected again, when it will resume.

MYSELF: Unfortunately I’m not at liberty to comment. I was in Lourdes at the time judging a miracle contest.

READER: I heard about that. Did the blind boy who can walk on water win in the end?

MYSELF: Yes, predictably. Personally I much preferred the woman who bled milk out of her eyelids and cured tonsillitis

BY-ELECTION: GRAVY TO RUN IN CLACTON
After Nigel Farage’s shock resignation, Upper Dicker’s Ron Gravy has declared that he is breaking away from the British Gravytrain Party (BGP) and is currently in talks with Russell Brand, author of My Cocky-Wock and The Leather Trousered Philanthropist with a view to forming a new party, The Don’t Vote Party (DVP), in order to contest the Clacton by-election alongside Count Binface.
“The DVP will have a robust but flexible manifesto and will put forward no candidates.” he told us from his campaign caravan parked in Doggers Lane, a local Clacton beauty spot. “Let’s face it, Frogface is finished and Binface doesn’t stand a chance. Our analysis shows that the Clacton electorate are fed up with voting and we are confident of their support. Based on the greatest number of votes not cast, our algorithmic AI calculation predicts we will win by a landslide.”
During a barnstorming pre-election speech outside the recently demolished Clacton Atomic Astrodome, Gravy climbed on top of an abandoned car and, through a megaphone improvised from a Domino’s pizza box, declared; ” I hereby pledge on behalf of the DVP party that if elected, I will make it compulsory not to vote, and resign immediately!” a promise which drew a standing ovation from a passing traffic warden, although, to be fair, he was already standing.
Mr Gravy is 62 and under investigation for male fraud (sic).

DIARY OF A SOMEBODY
An occasional series in which we randomly browse the recollections of an anonymous diarist
Compiled by Patrick Carabine with a respectful nod to the brothers Goldsmith

FEBRUARY

MONDAY 13th: After consuming too much sherry the night before, I reluctantly agree to meet Twollet the Greengrocer in town for ‘a cup of coffee’. He insists we rendezvous at The Sheep & Squaddie, a squalid public house frequented by roughnecks, countering my temperate objection with “You don’t have to drink alcohol old boy, they do splendid coffee in pubs these days”. Much to my regret, I order Irish coffee, not realising it contains whiskey, and after my fifth, begin to feel a trifle woozy. Twollet shows me his recently acquired tattoo, Antelope Pursued by a Jaguar; executed in the style of Tracy Emin, which I, in my by now inebriated state, fancy to be rather tasteful. The next thing I remember is sitting with Twollet in the waiting room of a particularly insalubrious tattoo parlour, looking through a catalogue of designs. The rest of the day occupies a gaping black hole in my recollection.

TUESDAY 14th: Somehow, having reached home, I awake on the sofa after a terrible nightmare in which thousands of ants are marching over my belly wearing tiny running shoes with poison-tipped spikes. Bleary-eyed, I pick my way through discarded items of clothing to the bathroom, where I am confronted with an unimaginably terrifying reflection in the mirror. I look down at my lower abdomen, where a large, raw and still bloody tattoo of The Eiffel Tower, emerges from my pyjamas and points obscenely at my chest. What happened? Myriad thoughts pass through my head at an alarming rate, not the least of which is; I will never be able to go swimming again.

Later that same day, Celia Badwig calls, and tells me I look as though I am coming down with something, but I have not the heart to let her in on my secret. I telephone Tarquin, my eldest, who lives in London and knows about such things, and explain what has happened. I hear him come dangerously close to choking, and when his guffawing and snorting has eventually subsided, I reluctantly ask his advice. This sets him off again. “Twollet! The Eiffel Tower? Hahaha!” he giggles, almost weeping with mirth.
“Never mind that idiot,” I shout, “You have to help me! I must have this monstrosity removed, before anyone sees it.”
He tells me to “keep my hair on”, as he knows someone “who knows someone”, and is going to “make a couple of calls”.

THURS 15^th: I have been housebound since the tattoo incident, for fear of anyone finding out, although I suspect the loose-tongued Twollet has already let the goose out of the sack. At last the telephone rings. It is Tarquin who says he’s been put on to a man who can “sort out my problem”. As instructed, I catch a train to London, and make my way to the Tutankhamen Café in Paddington, where a man called Reg, wearing a camel coat and reading The Racing Times is waiting for me. His thin pencil moustache does not fill me with confidence, nevertheless I allow him to escort me to his ‘clinic’, a shabby looking place with a threadbare carpet in the back room of a betting shop. He instructs me to lie on a stained velvet chaise lounge, and lift up my shirt. After a long whistle, and what I interpret as a supressed smirk, he tells me it’s a major job that will require a general anaesthetist and luckily he knows just the chap. I find a cheap hotel nearby and agree to turn up early next morning with an empty stomach and £500 in cash.

FRI 16^th: I regain consciousness, and to my surprise find I am not in too much pain, I look at my wrist to see what time it is. My watch is gone, along with Reg, the anaesthetist, and my wallet. Nevertheless, I dash eagerly to the mirror, and lift my grubby nightgown.
No……! The dreaded thing is still there! The only discernable difference being that The Eiffel Tower has had the word CANCELLED tattooed over it. Livid with rage, I decide to erase Twollet from my address book altogether, and unfriend him on Facebook.

PUB QUIZ
Q: Which Geordie scientist discovered the theory of relativity?

A: Why Einstein of course!

READER: Hang on a minute, Einstein wasn’t a Geordie!

MYSELF: And neither, clearly, are you. Smart boy wanted, apply within.

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.

https://vimeo.com/user129836501

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