Sausage Life 309

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column that believes ice cream is a dish best served cold

READER: Whoooo!

MYSELF: I beg your pardon?

READER: Sorry, did you get a fright? I’m still getting over the excitement of Halloween.

MYSELF: Have you tried slitting your own throat?

READER: Here we go. Is there no form of ignorant superstitious nonsense you approve of?

MYSELF: On the contrary. I quite like Mystic Madge’s Book of Total Bollocks, for instance and My Cocky-Wock, by Russell ‘Shove my head down the toilet and call me Jesus’ Brand. But that’s about it.

READER: Leave Russell alone! At least he’s actually written a book, which is more than can be said for you.

MYSELF: Well that’s where you’re wrong. In fact the editor has agreed to publish extracts from my debut romantic crime novella, which will be available at Christmas and comes with a free magic amulet for warding off litigious lawyers.

READER: A magic amulet? I can hardly wait!

WAITING FOR THE TEA FAIRY
By Bird Guano (Unwin, Poppicoque and Woggle £14.99)

As the shafts of sunlight poured in through the partially closed Simpson & Muirhead velvet curtains, they lit the sparkling columns of dust and danced across the room. Outside, the wind rippling the leaves of the overgrown hedge in the back garden caused dapples of light to appear on the web-strewn ceiling. Meredith looked down. Maybe she should have worn her leggings. She stared deeply into Garth’s eyes and tried to imagine being clutched against his rugged chest. But as the cacophony of the nearing storm pulsed through her pounding heart, she glanced over at the old plywood bookcase and knew what this moment was telling her. It was time for a good spring clean.

Garth’s golden hair tumbled across his forehead like tiny rippling spoons falling from the silver tray of that clumsy Spanish waiter she’d tripped up in Marbella. Maybe she should have washed the dishes or worn leggings? Could she be giving him the wrong impression? His teeth meanwhile, gleamed like a highly polished Maserati. Suddenly his rugged chest heaved, as though he were burdened by a terrible secret. Outside, a fox caught in a badger-trap screamed in pain. Those teeth, were they real? she wondered.

Her eyes chanced upon his shiny leather jacket, slung like a rag over the back of the Ikea sofa. As he turned his tanned face to the open window his bearded profile was silhouetted against the light for a moment. His glasses flashed, reflecting the silvery afternoon sunrays. As she looked closer, she saw strands of curly grey hair escaping from his pony-tail – or were they coming from his ears? Suddenly, she didn’t know what to believe. The wind began to howl as the darkness enveloped her. She stared more intently, then, as if struck by lightning – Garth’s toupe! Was it slowly slipping sideways?

With the light still dappling things, and the curtains still rippling like raspberries in the fading afternoon sun, she fell in to a strange trance. She remembered a Greek holiday; tortoises., donkeys, passionate nights under a feast of garlic-tinged stars. Perhaps she could put up with him like she put up with that horrid Greek wine. What was it made of again? Some kind of glue? No! impossible! Her mind became a funfair ride, churning like a stomach trapped inside a spin dryer. Suddenly he moved in for an embrace. “Stop!” she cried, removing the safety catch from her concealed revolver, “Or I fire!”

With a sinister giggle she hurled his shiny jacket at him as he backed out of the door. But he made a grab for a nearby mop languishing in a bucket by the window and waved it in her face. She tried to wipe the suds from her eyes but as the light began to fade and the wind howled through the billowing net curtains, he fell backwards through the open doorway and down the stairwell.
Leaning against the door, she lit a cigarette and closed her eyes. “What kind of cleaner showed up with a toupé and a heaving, rugged chest?” she wondered, staring at the already blood spattered walls.

“This looks like it could have been a routine accident” said rugged-chested Chief Superintendent Mike Chizwell. “This type of staircase can be dangerous when used incorrectly.”
All at once the sun seemed to dapple everything with romantic beams as his chiselled chin thrust forward like an approaching iceberg. Her heart began beating like a badly-seated washing machine. Leggings. Why hadn’t she worn them?
“I just have to take down your particulars,” said Chief Superintendent Chizwell, his smouldering eyes burning into her like twin arc-welding torches.

To be continued

BOOK REVIEW
Patent Nonsense, Epiphany Wildebeeste’s recent book about Hastings’ inventor professor Gordon Thinktank looks likely to fill many a stocking this Christmas, particularly the section on the inventions that didn’t make the grade for one reason or another:

Typhony unperforated teabags for people who don’t like tea.
The Good Luck Gamp an online umbrella specially designed for superstitious people which, when connected to the internet, will not open indoors.
Notatoes Less fattening chips made from foam and seaweed which can also be used as packing for posting delicate pottery.
Other schemes, like numberless mathematics for arithmophobes and silent bagpipes for the deaf never made it past the blueprint stage.
There were runaway successes of course, like Scrof imitation dandruff crystals for embarrassed toupee wearers, and for those awkward guests who love sushi and barbecues, Gordon’s Flameproof Fish (£29.99 per family sized shoal).

One chapter features ex-England and Yorkshire Test bore Geoffrey Boycott praising Thinktank’s ingenious steam-powered cricket bat with a gas boiler built in to the hollow handle which serves as a hand warmer for playing in cold climates and doubles as a handy implement for beating the wife when she hasn’t got the dinner ready.

POETRY NOW

Hidden Dimensions by Lydia Puce

I dreamt I saw Michael Jackson’s nose

On a display shelf in the Oval Office

next to the portrait of Elvis

pointing a gun and flashing

his FBI badge

at some teenage fans.

It was in the space

formerly occupied by

the specimen jar containing

the black, mummified stalk

of Donal Trump’s penis,

hinting perhaps

at hidden dimensions.

DICTIONARY CORNER

Molestation (n) Where moles commute from.

Lynch (n) The meal which falls between bruckfast and dynner

Baby oil (n) mild preparation for curing squeaky infants

COLLECTIVE NOUNS

1. a proxy of morons,

2. a wunch of bankers,

Sausage Life!

ATTENZIONE!

‘Watching Paint Die’ EP by Girl Bites Dog is out now and available wherever you rip off your music.

Made entirely without the assistance of AI, each listen is guaranteed to eliminate hair loss, cure gluten intolerance and stop your cat from pissing in next door’s garden.

Photo credit: Alice’s Dad (circa 2000)

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

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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.

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