The column which believes that a laughing stock is only the prelude to a laughing gravy.
MYSELF: You’re looking a bit stressed
READER: I’m going to have to stop watching football on TV.
MYSELF: Is it the poor quality? Is your team doing badly?
READER: No, it’s the bloody row. The boot boys, sponge-men, assorted ground staff, the pot-bellied fans in full kit, all of them bellowing at the players in some kind of made-up language. It’s giving me disturbing childhood flashbacks.
MYSELF: Goodness. Can you be more specific?
READER: Yes. Imagine if all the members of the DUP came round to your your house at once.
MYSELF: A terrifying thought upon which I would prefer not to dwell. Would some curious facts from around the world of items sooth your infantile Freudian soccer-angst perhaps?
READER: Bravo! That’s more like it! I feel better already!
BLIMEY! CURIOUS FACTS FROM AROUND THE WORLD OF ITEMS
Did you know that the spider is not an insect, but a mammal, which can break a man’s arm with any one of its eight wings?
Did you know that the Montezuma Quail is witheringly sarcastic, and is not to be trusted with money?
Did you know that the late Ginger Baker, ex drummer of The Cream, recently turned down the role of Dr Who?
Did you know that Nigel Farage, the Caribbean white supremacist has his own miniature one-man submarine?
READER: I have a feeling that one of those “facts” is not true.
MYSELF: Well spotted, which one do you think is false?
READER: Let me see…. I know Nigel Farage owns a miniature submarine and is definitely from the Caribbean, because I saw a video of him limbo dancing under a horse in St Kitt’s. As for number 2, I myself was once grossly insulted by a Montezuma Quail after I rashly lent it £10.
MYSELF: So, could it be the late Ginger Baker as a potential Dr Who perhaps?
READER: Well, that definitely has the ring of truth about it, even though he is dead, which just leaves the limb-fracturing arachnid. Can I phone a friend?
MYSELF: You don’t have any
READER: I’m just going to have to guess. Is it the spider?
MYSELF: You are going to kick yourself. The odd one out is the Montezuma Quail, a polite, charming and trustworthy bird with whom you would happily go into business. I can only suppose that the Quail you lent money to was suffering from stress.
READER: I recall it having the cool demeanor of a practiced confidence trickster.
MYSELF: Perhaps it was another type of bird altogether, wearing a Quail costume?
READER: Ah…. Now you come to mention it… it may have been a Hoopoe.
We are obliged by the Press Council to publish the following letter
Dear Mr so-called Guano,
in these more enlightened times, must we, the ordinary folk of Ireland, still have to put up with cheap stereotypical so-called “irish jokes” like the example on display in in last week’s Sausage Life? Contrary to (un)popular opinion, we are not a nation of potato-eating bumkins, permanently fluthered on too many jars of the black stuff. Nor are we rib-ticklingly amused by ridiculous cod-Irish names, like Toby Shaw which your ‘reader’ claimed to have changed his moniker to in honour of St Patrick’s Day. This type of puerile humour may well appeal to your low-level Jackeens, your banjaxed Bosthoons or certain classes of eejit – but I feel sure that the loyal readership of your respected and venerable organ would be better served were you to rise above this type of thing.
Sue Atiz, B. Gobb, Mahogoney Gaspipe (Mrs)
YOU CUN’T FUCKING MAKE IT UP
Ever since Chef-Swear, Gordon Ramsay’s chain of upmarket kitchen utensil stores posted a severe profit warning, it has been rumoured he has been looking for a way back into TV. The potty mouthed hash-slinger is rumoured to have agreed a deal with Channel 5 to present Ramsay’s Council Nightmares, a new series in which Gordon will go into borough councils around the UK and try to improve their efficiency.
“This is going to lift the lid on the fucking appalling state of UK local councils,” he is alleged to have shouted during an interview with Stan Wok, a journalist from the catering magazine Shock Chef, “you wouldn’t fucking believe the state of some of the fucking town halls I’ve been in!” he screamed, “One, which I won’t name, had a dis-fucking–gustingly filthy agenda cupboard containing the rotting remains of hair-brained policies covered in fucking mould!” Punching Wok hard in the solar plexus he continued: “Some of the fuckers were well past their fucking sell-by date and stored next to rafts of raw proposals and dirty plastic trays containing fucking pre-cooked processed plans. All this obnoxious shit was lying there waiting to be zapped in a twatting micro fucking wave and served up to the poor unsuspecting locals as fresh.”
Asked to comment, Douglas Pancake of Upper Dicker, an official spokesman for the unnamed council, told us: “We welcome Gordon’s intervention. This may be just the breath of fresh air this council has been looking for. Let’s face it, if Chef Ramsay can turn around a corrupt, anachronistic, run down organisation as grossly inefficient as ours and at the same time secure massive TV coverage, it’s got to be worth a little bit of public humiliation. I for one am perfectly comfortable with being called a “worthless fucking slug” or indeed the more comprehensive “a totally fucking unqualified fuckwit of a wanker who couldn’t organise a fucking shit in a fucking bucket”
Your favourite Agony aunt is back, rehabbed, replenished and refreshed, with non-confidential, unqualified advice for the needy, the lovelorn or the just plain confused. Sponsored this issue by Wurlitzer Organs UK.
I’m frantic. My husband Harry’s 50th birthday is three weeks away and he has all the gadgets a man could ever wish for (including a mechanical device he keeps in his shed but refuses to say what it’s for). He’s very musical, but recently returned from a business trip in the Far East with chronic incontinence which has sadly prevented him from continuing with his part-time job as church organist. Wendy – what can I buy him for his special day?
Mia Tryfel (Mrs),
Dear Mrs Tryfel,
Let me assure you, there is no such thing as the man who has everything. I can think of no more appropriate a gift for your musically talented yet cruelly afflicted spouse, than the Pump ‘n Dump Commodium by Wurlitzer. With the aid of this medically-approved portable self-flushing combination reed organ and commode stool, your husband can safely resume his part-time occupation. His musical doodling will no longer be curtailed by the ominous rumble of nature calling unannounced. As your husband’s errant bowel is gently regulated, the pneumatic foot pedals pump pressurized air into the Commodium’s unique U-Pipe disposal pistons. Once the system is plumbed in to an external septic tank, any unpleasant waste is efficiently dealt with by the chaise percée-themed hygienic mahogony commode stool.
The Wurlitzer Pump ‘n Dump Commodium comes with a free starter pack of ‘sheet music’ toilet paper, featuring organ maestro Gottfried Schtumm’s moving selection of ‘relaxative’ melodies including Exodus, I Shall Be Released, The Old Log Cabin and many more.
Click image to connect. Alice’s Crazy Moon is an offbeat monthly podcast hosted by Alice Platt (BBC, Soho Radio) with the help of roaming reporter Bird Guano a.k.a Colin Gibson (Comic Strip Presents, Sausage Life). Each episode will centre around a different topic chosen by YOU the listener! The show is eclectic mix of music, facts about the artists and songs and a number of surrealistic and bizarre phone-ins and commercials from Bird Guano. Not forgetting everyones favourite poet, Big Pillow!
NB: IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A PAID SUBSCRIPTION TO SPOTIFY, THE SONGS WILL BE OF RESTRICTED LENGTH
SAY GOODBYE TO IRONING MISERY!
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MAY CAUSE SMILEY FACE T-SHIRTS TO LOOK
by The Hunt Cult. Click for video
“Sometimes you just need a tool that doesn’t do anything”
By Colin Gibson
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