Bird Guano
The column which says “give me a razor big enough and I will shave the world”

READER:  Have you seen how much it costs to post a letter these days?

MYSELF:  I know, it’s outrageous. I ran out of stamps the other day and all the shops were shut. That’s when I had my money-saving brainwave. I simply ran one of the new plastic indestructible £5 notes through the tumble dryer until it had shrunk to the right size, glued it to my tax return and posted it. Voila!

READER: I say! Touché! Brilliant idea! First class!

MYSELF: Alas no. First class would have required two.

Hastings-born brawler Typhoon Anger is in Rio de Janeiro, preparing for the heavyweight Olympic qualifier against Thailand’s Ladyboy Chaluay. Just how fit is the reclusive Typhoon? Can he beat the awesome Bankok Bruiser and go on to win boxing gold in Tokyo? We sent our reporter to Team Typhoon’s penthouse training centre at the Copacobana Hilton to put these questions to Anger’s flamboyant manager Ron Maserati.
“Ladyboy doesn’t stand a chance,” he told us, “Make no mistake about it, my boy is tauter than a coiled spring. He’s super-fit. Skipping is our secret weapon. Typhoon is mad for it and skips all the time, including in his sleep. He’s eating nothing but the new superfood, tofu grass. That’s all he eats. It’s made him not just angrier, but hungrier. He’s like a boxed set of Breaking Bad combined with the last episode of Game of Thrones.
“Let’s face it,” he continued, “the Thai’s footwork is shoddy. My boy’s feet are like Fred Astaire meets The Bolshoi Ballet in Riverdance. His fists have been described as two blacksmith’s anvils fired from a medieval catapult. The Bankok Bruiser is a loser. We are already winning the social media battle. Typhoon’s TikTok dancing is going viral and his 24/7 Twitter team tweets Ladyboy’s HQ day and night making sarcastic comments about his mum and suggesting he wears ladies underwear, which he does.”

READER: I can’t wait! I’m so looking forward to the Olympics, aren’t you?
MYSELF:  Put it this way, I can think of better things to do.

READER: Better? Like what?

MYSELF:  Like saw my own head off with a breadknife? Like criticise a Hell’s Angel’s tattoo? Like run across the M25 during the Friday rush hour?

READER: God you’re such a misery sometimes. Don’t you like anything?

MYSELF: I love Peppermints.

READER: Peppermints? Is that it?

MYSELF:   …and pretty much anything that doesn’t involve half-witted, self-obsessed, narcissistic sports-bores who dress like chavs and appear to have learned nothing of value since the age of nine.

READER:  Heavens. Don’t beat about the bush, will you?

Lambasted (n) A sheep born out of wedlock.
Musketeer (n)  Mild deafness caused by the frequent firing of antique rifles.
Mumble (n, colloquial) A cow.

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Rupert Hindsite (plumber), Silverhill:
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Wristian Cock (poet), Wangford, Norfolk:
“My cross Staffie/Yorkshire terrier was aggressive and bad tempered, and would frequently attempt to copulate with people’s legs. I yearned for a normal life, free from the constant dread of excruciating embarressment. I can’t tell you how much happier Wordworth and I are now that he’s had a proper Long Wang shave.”

Poonerismo, the retrospective at Hastings’ latest and hippest art centre Il Galleria Fantasco of the work of Milanese installation artist Fellatio Poon (real name Sardello Semolini), continues to shock visitors. Whilst classic Poon pieces like  Atomic Bomb Occasional Table (1995), and the enigmatic Bulbous Lampshades (2002) have lost none of their terrifying frisson, the contemporary work is just as obtuse and inaccessable as one would expect from the great man.
The first thing that strikes you as you enter the gallery is fearsome curator Celia Canthé, who greets you with a hard punch on the upper arm as if to say; “This is art you insignificant peasant – open your beady little eyes, or I will punch you again.”
Once inside, you are confronted by The Poonies, the knot of dedicated fans who gather under the artist’s vast, epic canvas If I Had A Million Pounds I’d Spend It All On Breakfast (lemon curd, tea stains and peanut butter on prepared tablecloth, 2005).

They stride jauntily around the foyer in small groups with their sleeves rolled up, arguing, comparing bruises, taking selfies and in one case, yodelling.

All in all then a typical, provocative Poon show, summed up for me by the four dazzling new interconnected pieces, Unseen I, II, III & IV (media unknown, 2016)all of which are installed in a locked refrigerator with the artist’s instruction that it be kept securely sealed until February 14th, 2051.

The sheer audacity leaves one stunned, and as to the work’s contents, one can only speculate. Would it be a typically playful Poonish juxtaposition with all the attendant ramifications of circumlocution? Or perhaps a playful smørgasbord of tittilating voyeurism, harking back to his earlier, smuttier, Wonderbra period? We may never find out, since rumour has it that a certain socially connected art collector has secretly purchased the piece for £350,000,000.



Sausage Life!



guano poundhammer

From the album Domestic Bliss

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By Lobbytroll



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