Sausage 358

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which grinds its teeth in the traditional way, using a mortar & pestle.

READER: Trick or treat?

MYSELF: Trick please. The only treat for me would be if the whole trumped up pumpkin fest flew back to Amerika, where the cows go woo! and the apples all have razor blades in them. On a broomstick.

READER: Oh my, you’ve really got a thing about the USA haven’t you?

MYSELF: Ever since the lawless dregs of Europe “discovered” it and set about getting rid of the occupants so they could transform it into a 24/7 shopping channel, the Untied States have been saturating the rest of the world with unwanted superstitious nonsense such as Halloween, prom night and televised evangelical Christianity, so yes.

ASK MYSTIC MARGE
Psychic predictions,dream interpretation,tap lessons

READER: Hang on who’s this?

MYSELF: Don’t panic, this is right up your street. Wendy, our no nonsense agony aunt and unqualified counsellor is on a well-deserved winter break, cruising the Antarctic on the superliner SS Salmonella along with 2,000 holidaymakers, all hoping for a glimpse of a penguin and turn at the captain’s table before they collide with a melting iceberg. We were lucky enough to get popular Psychic Mystic Marge to attend to our reader’s queries until Wendy’s return…

This one came from Felicity Panquake of Helplesshurst;
Dear Marge,I have always grown my own vegetables and the other night I had a very lucid dream. I was looking out of my bedroom window and there was a horse in my garden brazenly eating my carrots. When I woke up and drew the curtains, there was a horse in the garden, but it was eating my broad beans. What does it all mean?
Dear Felicity,is it OK to call you Felicity? First of all you need to decide which one of these horsey experiences was the dream. Maybe it was both of them? Suffice to say, the carrots are obviously penises and the broad beans are clearly your poor yearning ovaries. Perhaps you are dreaming now? If you do wake up and discover that to be the case please let me know. In the meantime a couple of private tarot readings should sort you out. Hang on….I’m getting a Malcolm or a Trevor…you had a Jack Russel terrier as a child didn’t you? Or a kitten? Have you ever spent a weekend in Skegness? My normal rate is £159 + VAT for the hour but you could pay me in vegetables.

MYSELF: Thank you Mystic Madge. Speaking of dreams, it’s about time we had another Holmes & Watson adventure, inspired by Myles na Gopaleen’s characters Keats & Chapman.

READER: Hooray! But who’s Myles na Gopaleen when he’s at home?

MYSELF: Google it.

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF HOLMES AND WATSON
By Patrick Carabine
No.52 The singular case of the Balinese umbrella stand

Watson had recently become acquainted with the work of Dr. Sigmund Freud, whose psychoanalytic theories were currently the toast of London society. His companion Sherlock Holmes, a confirmed cynic, was not a fan of Dr. Freud, aside that is, from his espousal of a certain South American tincture, of which the detective was famously fond.

Dr. Watson, having recently read Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams had taken, much to Holmes’ chagrin, to writing down his own nocturnal hallucinations and dissecting them. His heart sank as the Doctor began to relate a particularly terrifying dream he had awoken from that morning: “I was the sole participant in the bull run at Pamplona, only instead of angry cattle, I was being pursued by a viscous pack of Yorkshire terriers, and with the baying crowd roaring for my blood, the tenacious little dogs were soon snapping at my heels.”
Holmes’ eyelids drooped involuntarily as Watson’s voice assumed the hypnotic murmur of contented bees. “At this point, I slipped on a discarded Tortilla and fell, and as the snarling hounds closed in for the kill, a man dressed as a toreador suddenly appeared from the crowd and began waving his cape. Once the slavering beasts were distracted from tearing me to pieces, the dashing stranger, with a thrust of his sword, dispatched them one by one, then cut off an ear from each dog, hurling them into the excited crowd.
But Holmes! Far from being mollified, the mob instead broke through the barriers and began to pursue the toreador down the Pamplona streets. Finally cornered, the poor chap was bound, blindfolded, and dragged to a hastily erected scaffold where, to my horror, they began to prepare him for a summary execution – all for the crime of ruining their sadistic entertainment!” As the doctor thumped the table for emphasis, Holmes, who had fallen into a pleasant doze and was dreaming of Dr. Freud’s marvellous tincture, woke up with a start.
Watson, in his reverie, completely failed to notice, and continued. “As is the nature of dreams, logic and chronology appeared to be in suspension, and I next found myself in an orderly queue, attended by street vendors, jugglers and the like. The line led eventually to a turnstile, where a huge poster advertising the toreador’s execution bore the legend Admission 300 pesetas. Imagine that! I know the Spaniards are not averse to a bit of beastliness now and again Holmes, but this just seemed utterly beyond the pale. I mean, to me this hombre valiente was a shining hero, who had rescued me from certain death, and yet here he was being coldly dispatched without trial, and the perpetrators were attempting to make money out of it!  I wonder what on earth Dr. Freud would have made of it Holmes?”
Pretending to deliberate for a moment, the detective rummaged in his waistcoat pocket and produced his filthy pipe, which still contained a half smoked plug of Tutankhamen’s Fine Olde Pharoe No.2 Shag, the noxious mixture specially prepared for him by Simpson’s of Piccadilly. Applying a match, he lit up, exhaled, and addressed Dr. Watson through the black toxic plume.
“There’s no such thing as a free lynch,” he posited.
Watson, fuming silently, left the table and went upstairs where he rather childishly positioned a bucket of ice-cold water above the door of Holmes’ bedroom.

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EURO GELLER
Uri Geller, the spoon-bending charlatan, has offered his assistance to Hastings & St Leonards Warriors FC during the forthcoming Euro 2026 Consolation Cup. “What a lot of people don’t know is that it was me who saved England’s face by preventing the ball from going over the line at the World Cup in ’66,” the fraudulent bullshitter told us from his Museum of Utter Cock, in Tel Aviv, “Do you think I got this spoon-powered Cadillac by being untruthful, sycophantic and oilier than a bowl of wriggling poisonous eels? Please, if you doubt me, just close your eyes and imagine a giant spoon, big enough to hold all the Kellog’s Corn Flakes in the world. Now it is bending, bending, bending, like a field of wheat in a hurricane or a 60-metre high beanstalk with a cannibalistic giant on top. You see? This is my power.”
Asked for a comment, recently sacked Warriors manager Giovani Fuctivano (The Goalfather) told us, “Uri assured me that our last game of the 25/26 season against Cockmarlin Thunderbolts, which resulted in an 8-0 defeat, would have ended 9-8 in our favour had he not been concentrating on boiling an egg using psychic cookery at the time. Not only would we have avoided ignominious relegation to the Hobson’s Denture Fixative League (south),but my tenure as manager would have been secured for another season”

Sausage Life!