Bird Guano

The column which is suspicious of tortoises because they always seem to have something to hide 


READER: Did you see that amazing photo of the black hole near Venus?

MYSELF:  I saw it. A very good likeness.

READER: Oh come now, don’t pretend you’re not impressed. This thing is as big as our entire solar system!

MYSELF:  You don’t say. And how big is that?

READER: Nobody likes a smart-arse mister. It’s very big, that’s all I know.

MYSELF:  You certainly know your black holes, perhaps I should start watching more TV.

READER: Maybe you should. After all, Dr Who is coming back and aren’t you excited about the new series of Killing Eve?

MYSELF: The edgy sequel to the award-winning series written by that middle class woman with the hyphenated name who isn’t afraid to write about having sex with priests?

READER: That’s the one! Brilliant writing! And what a cast!

MYSELF: Cast? I’ve seen self-assembly furniture that can act better than Sandra Oh.

READER: You’re hard to please and no mistake.



In reply to Mr Stavros Pilates manager of the Attila Grill in Silverhill,

No! It is vital that you only use broad beans as other types of beans are too long and narrow. They can all too easily slip down the back of the sofa, or be mistaken for pencils and accidentally sharpened.




Hastings & St Leonards Warriors FC were this week sold to a conglomerate of Mexican Druglords, much to the delight of their supporters who for far too long have been forced to endure an endless revolving door of weak ownership and inept management. After yesterday’s announcement, a festival-like atmosphere built up outside the ground as ecstatic fans dressed in sombreros and ponchos, some of them carrying mariachi guitars and replica AK47 assault rifles, gathered to celebrate.
Throughout the afternoon they were entertained by a succession of top acts introduced by comedy duo Smoulders & Burns, which included local newcomers Fur Cough and Platonic Bomb and culminated in a blistering set by Newcastle’s Yes tribute band, WhyAye . 
“This is it,” said one season ticket holder who was riding a small donkey and carrying a lance, “the big time! Look out Manchester City! Real Madrid here we come! This is where The Warriors finally wave bye-bye to the likes of Hercemonceux Cannibals and Upper Dicker Macaroons, the minnows of the Nuclear Waste Disposal Solutions League (South), and take their rightful place alongside football’s elite.”
Asked whether he had any qualms about the club being run by a cabal of cruel, despotic, misogynistic, murdering cocaine smugglers and money launderers he told us, “Let us not forget that this football club has a long and undistinguished reputation to protect, and now is not the time to gaze into the mouths of gift horses. Let us instead celebrate the fact that Warriors fans have at last been given what they really want; properly tattooed footballers with enormous salaries, a gigantic new stadium and ticket prices nobody can afford.”
He jabbed a finger at the now-empty podium outside the gates of Warrior Park which, until a mob of angry fans tore it down after last Monday’s 8-0 home defeat to Cockmarlin Thunderbolts, contained local artist Bandy Sponk’s extremely unrealistic statue of Nobby Balaclava, the legendary Warriors’ midfield enforcer, still playing for the club at the age of 52.
Aiming a huge megaphone at my face he gestured towards the ditch where fragments of the still-smouldering abomination now lay, “Had we turned down an opportunity like this,” he shouted, “that sporting legend would surely be spinning in his grave, were he dead.”

Warriors’ recently-appointed manager Sergio “The Horse” Peccadillo (54), who’s position would appear to be in severe jeopardy following the club’s takeover would only say this after consulting his Time Out Book of Conversational English, “My flight has been delayed, may I sleep with your daughter?”




Hastings’ first drive-in psychoanalytic service, Wind Your Window Down And Tell Me About Your Mother, began its advertising campaign last week, provoking a predictably stormy brouhaha. The following piece of contentious copywriting is what caused all the fuss:
Does your psyche resemble a canal full of rusty bicycle frames and dead cats? Do you worry about not being paranoid enough? Do people think you have a Bluetooth headset when you are actually talking to yourself?
Over 300 irate owners of Bluetooth headsets gathered outside the town hall to demonstrate, some of them carrying rusty bicycles and dead cats, which they hurled at Hastings’ Lord Mayor the Right Honourable Derek Windfarm after he appeared on a balcony in a bid to calm the situation down. A spokesman for the militant Association of Rabid Social Entropy (ARSE), told our reporter; “Bluetooth headsets may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but lumping them together with dead cats and abandoned bicycles is, frankly, very unhelpful. ARSE would also like to take this opportunity to point out that not all canals are the filthy repositories of society’s detritus.”

A spokesperson for Mayor Windfarm issued the following statement:

“It is not for me to to comment on whether this is, or is not, a significant step in one direction or another. Whether there has been any progress, or indeed regress, in either direction I cannot say. Even were I privy to such information, the laws of sub judice would encourage me to refrain from comment and indeed, not say anything. The only thing I can tell you with any certainty, one way or the other, is no comment.”



Sophocles, the Ancient Greek genius was working on a method of marking slate with intelligible writing, and was demonstrating it by laying the slate on the ground and writing on it with chalk attached to a long stick. It produced semi-legible script, if a little spindly.

He asked Eurypides, his apprentice genius, what he thought of the new device. The apprentice considered his reply. “Master, it is truly a wondrous thing, but to my mind there are flaws.”

The Master raised an involuntary eyebrow at the word “flaws”, but allowed the lad to carry on. “Sire, in order to improve legibility, could we not position the slate at eye level and thus eliminate the long stick?”

Sophocles smirked. “And how exactly do you propose to go about securing the slate at eye level?” he enquired sarcastically.
“Easely” replied the precocious apprentice with an ill-advised wink.

The philosopher frowned, stroked his beard, and turning to pick up a heavy serving spoon he wrapped it expertly inside a waxed scroll containing the formula for an advanced type of hummus and fetched the lad soundly around the head with it. 

Sausage Life! 


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