I wanna tell you a stoooory...

[Cyclefrance]

Todays 'short' from a previous existence:


Toads in the holes and similar matters of concern


There are a number of fondly nurtured British culinary delicacies that our friends across the pond might consider – such as 'bubble and squeak', 'pickled wallies', 'spotted dick', 'jam roly-poly', and 'rhubarb crumble' - to hopefully whet (split infinitive deliberately included as an opening gesture of friendship) and satisfy their collective appetites (literally and metaphorically)...

Yes, there are many strange English foods – strange not so much for their content, but more for their names. And I have left one of the best-known and the one that I remember (and eat) more than any other until last - toad-in-the-hole.

Aah, toad-in-the-hole (do you know, it's quite difficult putting/typing little hyphens in place of spaces, far more taxing than I'd ever imagined), English cuisine at its best!

But, that mention of ‘toad’ and ‘holes’ also got me laterally (and literally) thinking about the way we British take care of our wildlife, and, in particular, real, live toads. We will happily go to the expense of laying lengths of drainpipe horizontally across and under our highways so that amorous male toads may find their ways safely and securely to their reclining and sexily clad (well, to a male toad in any event) amoureuses (french pronunciation ignores the last 'es' to make it sound more like an attraction and less like a Birmingham accent - nothing personal Brummie readers - if there are any - it just happens to immediately fall into that regional drone, sorry, tone, if said as it appears).

So another type of toads in holes it is then (and I can forget the hyphens in this context, thank God), and, near my abode would you believe, badgers in tubes (not to be confused with old buggers on the tube - once came across one seemingly genteel old lady who boarded the London Underground (as ‘the tube’ is properly known) Victoria Line at Vauxhall and hissed at my (female) travelling companion for the next two stops - 'ssssssss, get off at Green Park, sssssssss' until my companion relented and gave snakey her seat, whereupon she smiled and said in normal voice' thank you dear, so kind...' - you might wonder why I didn't intervene, but I suffered a crisis of politeness - old lady or female companion - it's a tricky one, believe me), and big tubes they are, as you might expect, passing the complete eight carriageways width of the M25.

Can it really stop there, I began to wonder? For example do we want to offer foxes easy traverse of our highways and motorways (where are you off to then, Raynard?? - ' Oh just thought I'd take the tube over to Wilson’s farm, dearest, and say hello to the hens...!)? Perhaps not... but, if they don't have their own personalised cylindrical access, will they just muscle in on the badgers' ones instead (foxes can be like that I've heard)? A problem there it seems. Do toads sometimes happen across a badger tube and think 'my God, I've shrunk!', and then feel completely inadequate, unable to continue their journeys to waiting and clearly hot-to-trot (getting better/easier) females. Now, that's no good is it - potentially a major contributor to a declining toad population.

How should we deal with such misplaced trauma and the catastrophe it heralds for generations of wart producers? What of other creatures? Is there some strange method of communication between the species that stops, say, a squirrel going through the tube? How come hedgehogs (and rabbits!) never seem to realise they could use them too? You'd think with those splattered remains of their's all over the place they'd have cottoned on by now!

These are worrying times - and thoughts - as I am sure you will agree. Is there anything we can and should do to improve matters; to bring some sense of order to what I am sure constitutes an injection of chaos amongst nature's otherwise harmonious environment? Perhaps you have ideas? If you do that would be wonderful. Don't worry for an instant whether they may be borrowed or freshly conceived, just please do pass them on.


.

[xoxoxoBruce]

[Cyclefrance]

Another day another dollop (of spurious literary excellence):


The Charge of the Knights in Braid


Well, I am sure you have all heard of the ‘Knights of the Round Table’, of Arthur, Lancelot and Camelot, and of his naughty absconding wife Guinevere, of Excalibur and the magical Lady of the Lake. You have? Well, there wasn’t much point in going to all that trouble time and trouble of writing this paragraph then, was there! Just cut this bit off with a pair of scissors and bin it, will you – no point in leaving it hanging around when it’s of no real use.

Never mind, I suppose at least now it will not be so hard to capture your interest when I tell you about the legend of the Knights of the Inner Ring Road. ‘Inner Ring Road?’ I hear you question. That’s right, Inner Ring Road. And you thought the ring road had only existed since the age of the motor car, didn’t you? How wrong you have been, for the Inner Ring Road goes back many centuries to a time before King Arthur (who actually stole the idea when he came up with the alternative of the Round Table – typical) when the city of Londinium was under the control of the then king’s brother, an instantly dislikeable prince of a fellow, who went by the name of Leesum. Money was all he thought about, and, naturally, ways in which he might acquire it. His name has stayed with us today and is used to describe an expensive purchase – no doubt you have heard people say on such occasions when a high price has been paid ‘I wager he paid a Prince Leesum for that!’

Now Prince Leesum was keen to take advantage of the king’s absence (the king having gone to do battle, as kings always seem to do – no, I don’t know why, either), and in particular he was most unhappy at the number of citizens…- no, wait a minute… not citizens…. peasants more like - that just thought they could roam freely about the streets of Londinium, clogging up the thoroughfares, kicking up the mud and dirt, making lots of noise. IT JUST WASN’T RIGHT!!! He could get very worked up about it all given just a tenth, no a hundredth of a chance.

Like all good evil (see, you even get a first class oxymoron!) princely brothers, Leesum had his ne’er-do-well (aah, hyphens again, how pleasant) henchman, an equally nasty piece of work from the marshy, boggy areas to the east of the city, and a baron as well to boot.

‘Wasteland!’ called Leesum, for that was the Baron’s name (think about it!), ‘I have an evil idea, and I want it to turn into an evil plan, and from there into an evil action….’

‘Ooh, I’m your man, your highness. Please, please let me help.’ A real sycophant he was, brown noses just didn’t come into it – brown everything, if you ask me.

‘Hold your horses, Wastey, you haven’t heard what it is yet..’

But he was about to hear ALL about it, as the Prince revealed how he proposed to create a single ring of a road right around the city and then forbid anyone but the chosen few (and we know who would be doing the choosing, don’t we) to enter inside its boundary. Every one of the peasants would be forced to live on and around the outside of the ring road, it would be chaos. There wasn’t the space.

This didn’t stop Leesum though, and Baron Wasteland (get it now?) set about to do his bidding. The Baron’s despicable army of men were put to work, and they pushed and shoved and poked and dragged and threatened and bullied all the peasants to the outside of the city of Londinium that they loved so much (that’s the city, not the outside!).

The peasants weren’t happy. ‘Who can save us? ’ they cried (just like that all together, quite amazing, and quite spectacular too).

‘There is one …’
‘Who spoke?' A hush fell over the crowd.
‘Who spoke?’ They all asked as one (again, all together, more amazing stuff).
‘That’s right. Who spoke!’
‘Who?’
‘Yes. Who!’
‘Who? Who?’
‘Yes, Who!’
‘Well who would have believed it?’ Which of course he did. Up stood tall and large the owner of the information, Big Barry Who (when the Chinese say this they double over laughing! – and I bet for a moment there you thought there was another chap called Up, didn’t you – go on, admit it….), the local blacksmith.

‘Who, Barry, Who?’ they all cried (together, of course).

‘ I came upon a friendly knight, one day, whose horse had stumbled and appeared lame, but I knew it wasn’t a gonner as soon as I looked at it. With a bit of attention and a tap here and there, I had it walking again proper-like (peasants talk that way) in no time at all. The knight, Sir Culation his name was, a red-faced chap I recall, said he would pay me back in return. Well, I reckon this is it’

‘Brilliant idea!’ they all shouted (yes, you got it).

‘Then I will off and find him!’ - and he did!

Sir Culation lived out on the Great Weste Road, near the old town of Swyndone, a magical place if ever there was one (you can find out how magical if you read about the Magycke Ronde-y-boote elsewhere on this site*).

Barry told the knight his tale ‘Will you help us?’ he asked (I was thinking of saying begged, but Barry was not the begging kind).

‘Of course I will, but I must consult my lady first, as this needs wisdom and maybe a little magic to solve.’ And with that the knight fell and Barry had to go home in the dark (no, it/he didn’t really, but I couldn’t see how I was going to fit that one in anywhere, to be honest, so I thought it was best to get rid of it as soon as possible).

The knight did go, however and so did Barry, both their separate ways.

Now I expect you’re wondering who ‘my lady’ is, some bodiless arm floating out of a lake you are no doubt thinking. Afraid not! My lady was the magic fairy of Swyndone whom our goodly knight had chanced upon, finding her caught in a spider’s web. And being the exceptionally good knight (going so soon?) that he was, he released her from her gummy prison whereupon she promised to help him with any problems he might have as she was a very, very, very wise fairy indeed (and a nice one too, obviously).

The knight called her name: ’My Lady Nuff, I need your help’. He only had to call her name once – that was, how should I put it…. hmmm…. Nuff said!

‘How can I help you?’ The fairy’s little voice responded And he told her of the problem caused by Prince Leesum and Baron Wasteland.

‘Fairy Nuff – will you help me?’
‘Of course I will!'
That’s fair enough he thought to himself (or perhaps he thought that’s Fairy Nuff).
‘Yes, I am, aren’t I!’ she responded, because , when she wanted to she could read minds as well – what a clever little fairy girl she was!

She told him her plan. Sir Culation had many friends who were also knights and also friendly. She told him to gather his friends and, with their numerous followers, to form themselves into a formidable body of men, the Knights of the Inner Ring Road. So, not wishing to waste any more time than was necessary Sir Culation went off to gather his friends and to form their new Knight Club.

First there was Sir Cumference, he lived on the edge of town, in a caravan that he would move to a different place each night… wait a minute….

Look, I just wanted to stop a second or two and say, well, I am really, really sorry that this is turning out to be so long, It wasn’t intended that way, but the story kind of became more complex. Anyway, ‘keep with it’, is what I say, and I will do my best to make it worth your while. Now, where was I? Oh, yes…

[Cyclefrance]

(seems there is a limit to the size of each entry - this must be a big one!)

Then it was on to recruit Sir Cumnavigate – a much-travelled knight. And close by lived the twin knights Sir Cuit (pronounced ‘kit’)and Sir Cle (pronounced ‘call’).

Sir Culation spread his net wide even taking in that not so brave knight, Sir Render, and a whole medley of colleagues including Sir loin, Sir Feit, Sir Prise, Sir Plus, and Sir Lee, finally ending up with two of his oldest friends, Sir Facing (he’d been down in the Cellar) and Sir Vival (just back from seven weeks in the desert). And that was about it.

It all seemed to be going very well indeed, except for one thing. They all looked the same – not only as each other but, with their armour on, also the same as Leesum and the Baron’s men. This wouldn’t do at all. Back to Fairy Nuff.

‘Well it’s obvious!’ she said, ‘You need something to distinguish you, to tell you apart from Prince Leesum’s men, but at the same time make it easy for you to know each other on your own side without giving anything away. So, nothing too obvious but easy enough for your men to recognise. I know. Something braid.’
‘I didn’t hear anything’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said something brayed, but I didn’t hear a thing – haven’t seen a donkey around here for weeks anyway.’
‘I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re going on about!’ Nuff was busy going through her work basket. ‘There you are – braid mail. It’s like chain mail only more detailed (which is the subtle difference you want) and the braiding gives you more protection.’

‘ Aah, yes, of course. No noise at all. Never was. Never could be. Yes, that looks like it will do the trick.!’

So the Knights of the Inner Ring Road changed their name and became the Knights of Braid (but only to themselves – they didn’t want to give the game away, now, did they…)

On to the next stage. Battle plans were drawn up, troops armed and exercised (all in secret of course), and soon they were ready.

The plan was simple. They would send out a few men dressed as peasants first. And these would shout names at Leesum and the Baron’s men. Not names like John or Brian or Barry, naturally, but something that would get them riled such as Big Nose, Flappy Ears, and Pig’s Face. This would cause the Prince’s men to get extremely annoyed, agitated and worked up so that they would become a set of snarling, sitting targets crowded inside a small part of the Inner Ring Road.

Troops would be strategically positioned, Sir Cumference would take charge of protecting the right flank while Sir Cumnavigate would take the left. The Rest of the men would prepare to charge the opposing ranks full in the face.

And it worked.

‘Chaaaarge!!’ went the order and the first wave of troops piled into Leesum’s hordes, then a second wave, then a third. Those of Leesum’s men that weren’t knocked down or captured, scattered and fled beyond the city way out into the country (it is even said that many of them went abroad to places like the Isle of Wight, and even the Scillies). The once crowded Ring Road was now freed and so were the streets of the inner city. The peasants became citizens again and everything returned to normal, uncrowded harmony (well as far as they were concerned it was harmonious – you and I might have different ideas about that!). As for Leesum and Wasteland, well they disappeared never to be heard of again.

And so it was that this now famous charge freed the inner city from the scourge of Leesum and removed the overcrowded ring road. The charge naturally acquired its own famous name: ‘The Charge of the Knights in Braid’. It also acquired another name and one that may be better remembered these days. What name might that be…I hear you ask? Why, ‘The Inner City of Londinium Congestion Charge’, of course.

Time for my tablets again… aah, and here come the pixies…..


* and you will do soon – right here. So no need to go wandering off looking elsewhere, after all…

[xoxoxoBruce]

Must be the bicycle pants or something......you have no shame, do you?

[Cyclefrance]

Sorry to disappoint, Bruce, but I've always considered the general public to be totally unprepared for such a cataclysm as me in lycra shorts.

Enough! - On to today’s significant adventure (adventure? Pah!) - it was penned around the same time that we were discussing jug handles and similar forms of motoring hazard during my early Cellar days.

The five-entry, counter-rotating, traffic roundabout at Swindon is relatively unique, there being only a couple more of these strange inventions elsewhere in the UK, and so it warranted a story both to complement and to explain its existence, I thought. It seemed like a good idea at the time – a bit like the way the sherry trifle after a plate of pickled onions does, well, once you’ve consumed 5 pints of beer and four double whiskies. Anyway, here it is….


Magycke Rond-y-boote


As a high-spirited and impressionable spotty teenager, books on the occult formed obligatory reading material, and amongst the authors to be counted upon for suitable under-the-bed-sheets-with-torch (just have to practise inserting those hyphens) moments was the master of writers, Dennis Wheatley, a producer of such wonderful titles as ‘The Devil Rides Out’, ‘They Used Dark Forces’ and ‘The Satanist’.

Central to all his stories was the pentacle, a circle containing a five-pointed star, the gateway to hell and all things evil for the satanic practitioner, or sanctuary for the hero preparing to do battle with demons and ghouls (and all things nasty from deep down there).

Why should this information be relevant? All will become clear very shortly. Prepare to be traumatised. Make sure you are firmly seated and there is nothing breakable close by, as what I am about to relate will surely taunt and anger the dark ones. If the room suddenly turns icy cold and steam falls upon your breath where before there was none, it might be best that you do not continue. The risk and decision is completely yours.

For there is a place to the west of London, where a pentacle exists for all to see. Not only that, the local population is encouraged daily to enter inside its boundary. To do so, however is to place oneself in extreme danger for a battle between good and evil rages within. The innocent is not aware until it may be too late. This text is therefore given as a warning for its readers - the truth about this mystical, dangerous object. Read on with care and cross and garlic close at hand…

What is this place and where its location? In modern tongue it is named the Magic Roundabout, a revised spelling of its former name, for this device existed there long before its present manifestation. The original Magycke Rond-y-boote was strategically located (as is the new) not only on the east-west ley line that traverses London and Bath, but also at its junction with the north-south line linking Southampton with Coventry. There is likely no more influential or powerful positioning possible within the UK. And the name of this place? – why, the town of Swindon which is quite near Slough (not pronounced Sloff or Sloo*, but Slow – no. no, no not slow like Slo, but Slow as in cow – my goodness this is becoming far more difficult than I had ever expected – down to a goblin or two popping up to interfere in my mission, I have no doubt!).

The approach to the pentacle (for so I now shall call it, by it’s true name and not some disguising euphemism) seems safe enough. Like any other roundabout it appears, but there’s the trick, for at each pentacular point lies a smaller roundabout, and, before the innocent entrant realises, he is caught inside an ever circling infinity – first clockwise (as with all things round and British), as he initially attempts to move around the outside, but soon he is drawn inwards and the rotation reverses – anticlockwise (the devil’s rotation) he now must go, and before he has a chance to think he is back where he started, so once again he tries but with little chance of any more success than before. Round and round, backwards and forwards, endlessly, endlessly…

But there are those who understand the pentacle’s secret, how to turn the forces against themselves and extricate a safe and timely exit. The good knights of the pentacle - recognisable from their strange and silent transports, containing bottles filled with milk. Early morning heroes these, their coming heralded by the sounds of jingling glass next to an overwrought hair-drier. So go carefully would-be traveller and do not venture close if a knight of Saint Unigate’s order is not at hand.

I could have (would have if I could have worked out how to do same) placed a picture here before your eyes upon this site of this amazing devilry, but better I feel that the forces are kept at bay. And so you must follow the link I set out below…

Follow here for safe passage to the Magycke Rond-y-boote

Just one last thing – I’m completely out of garlic and had intended to cook tonight a delightful continental dish requiring same – don’t suppose you could send me that clove or two you appear to be clutching in your left hand….

* or Sluff, I forgot to mention Sluff

[Cyclefrance]

Well, the original idea of these extra posts was to act as an intermission, to allow Mari to complete her move and then to take up the pirate story again. Having been banned that is going to be difficult for her to do.

So I guess we call it a day for this one.....

[xoxoxoBruce]

Thanks CF, entertaining and informative.....I've got to check out the milk floats.

[Cyclefrance]

Mari's unbanned so I hope she takes up the story again soon. To give her encouragement, I'll continue the shorts from the other site (Aaagh! I hear you cry...). Only she can put you out of your misery now....! - although the good news is I only have a couple left....start again by moving here this one that I put in the Politics thread earlier today - it didn't really go there, and I'm now not sure why I did it - I'll put it down as an age thing and leave it at that...:


This early contribution to another board probably won’t travel so well in its original form, being distinctly British in its content. So, I’m starting with a sort-of glossary to give you at least half a chance to understand who the various concocted characters might just be.

You probably all know that we have a prime minister called Tony Blair, but his friends, relatives and enemies may not be so well known. First, his wife, Cherie (reputation for being a bit of a money grabber), then the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Gordon Brown (He lives at no.11 Downing Street next door to Tony who’s at no.10 and has the keys to the petty cash tin, so-to-speak). Then we mustn’t forget John Prescott, he of oafish nature, and little else - nicknamed ‘two-Jags’ because he drives/owns two Jaguar cars. Another important person is Alistair Campbell who was one of Tony’s chief advisors, and the father of ‘Spin’ – I use the word ‘was’ wisely as he resigned during the fiasco involving the death of the scientist David Kelly. Alistair is generally regarded as a bully-boy who finds it difficult to complete a sentence without including an expletive. Another to mention is Peter Mandelson, the instigator of our Millennium Dome white elephant, and now the trade minister in the EU, having been forced to resign from the British government – twice!

A few to mention outside of the Labour party and pertinent to this story are Michael Howard, the leader of the opposition Conservative, or Tory Party when this was written, Charles Kennedy, leader of the Liberal Democrat party (again then), and good old Saddam Hussein, once mighty ruler of Iraq, and now an erstwhile contributor to the Cellar’s pages! Probably no need to mention George Bush – I feel you may have an inkling who he is already….




The Widdlemiddle Tales - No.1 Losing the Ladle


These are the stories of the little people who live and work inside the walls of the Houses of Piddlemint in the Borough of Widdlemiddle, and being the centre of government for the little people of the country in which that borough lies, a magic land the name of which is never spoken, let alone written.

Tiny was not happy. As Primary Minteater he was not used to things not going his way (or one might rather say he was used to things going his way, saving both breath and ink in one fell swoop), well except perhaps for those jobs he gave to Joined Pisspot (or Two Jugs as he was more often known), but they were another story (or possible three, or even four). ‘Oh, this is no good at all', he said to himself, 'where HAS the ladle gone?'

How could the party of which he was head, the Ladle Party, lose it’s ladle? It really was a mystery. Two weeks had now gone by and no one had come up with the answer. Well that wasn’t strictly true – just like the answers that had actually come up (i.e. they were all total rubbish!). He had thought that Pitted Mentalgnome might have found out something. He seemed to have his fingers in enough pies, that surely the ladle ought to have been in one of them… But no, all Pitted could come up with was that it could well have found its way to the Meal-in-the-sun Dome. A reasonable guess, some might say (mainly Pitted’s friends), seeing how he had been in charge of it in the beginning – and leaving aside, of course, the fact that the place had closed down years ago.

No, it had to be somewhere else. Probably one of the other parties had been up to no good. Take old Mucky Holdhard for a start. Since the Story party had lost the last election he’d been a different man. All that talk about honesty and accountability. That didn’t wash with Tiny Blur, oh, no! Mucky had been smirking to himself a little too often for Tiny’s liking, and as for that other scoundrel, Cheap Kendall-Cake and his Lob-a-ball Down-a-crack party, well you couldn’t really trust that lot could you?

It just kept playing on his mind. Who had taken it? There were too many possibilities, both outside and inside his party. Even Golden Brain could have had a hand in it – everyone knew that their friendly double-act was a complete sham anyway. But in reality, he just couldn’t go straight out and accuse anyone. He needed evidence. But more than that right now he needed a strong cup of coffee!

He made his way to the kitchen at No.10. That £4 million refit of the official residence had worked out well. Finished a couple of weeks ago and well worth the public money that had been spent on it. Churly, his devoted wife, had taken over control of that task, and he just had to agree that the kitchen looked, well, great. Nice new shiny units with a mixture of dark granite and steel surfaces. Concealed lighting and an islandy thingy in the middle, above which was one of those funny looking suspended jobs on which you hung all manner of things, pots, pans, utensils, baskets, dead, sorry no, dried flowers. Yes it was quite pleasing, and unexpectedly relaxing in its own way.

The kettle whistled and came to a stop. Tiny poured the boiling hot water on to his coffee, and carrying his mug made for the island unit, pulling a chair-stool on the way. He sat himself down and took a sip of his coffee. Ouch! That was hot!! He jerked his coffee mug as he reacted to the sudden pain searing across his lips - and more coffee spilled, over his lap this time and between his weeny legs. Ouch, ouch, OUCH!! He leapt up. BONG!! His head hit something hard and metallic above his head. Oh, shit, bum, bollocks! Tiny kicked the chair and rubbed the various parts of his body that were either sore or aching. He was really miserable now. He limped out of the room and up to his bedroom to change and shower (probably shower and change, actually, not so messy).

Fifteen minutes later he was back in the kitchen. This time he would take it more carefully. OK.. boil kettle…, mug…., coffee…, water…, milk… and stir. Fine. Right, over to the unit. Coffee down, sit down - that’s better. Now lift the mug slowly to…

‘TINY!!’ Tiny leapt up. BONG!!! ‘Oh, my head… Oh, MY TROUSERS!!
‘What on earth are you doing??’ It was Churly, arms full of goodies. (clearly she had been shopping - or donating as she preferred to call it).

‘I’m just trying to have a relaxing coffee and then you come in and scare the daylights out of me! It’s the second time I’ve had hot scalding coffee all over me in the last half-an-hour and twice I’ve banged my head on that, that, that….’

Tiny stopped in mid-sentence. Looking up he saw his own face, a little more contorted than usual perhaps (but not a lot!) looking back at him from the back of a large spoon that was swinging from the overhead contraption. No, hang on a minute, it wasn’t a spoon, the shape was different, the bowl of the spoon much deeper and rounder ….. it was a ladle - THE LADLE!

‘What? What on earth is that doing there, I mean, here?’
‘Oh, that old thing, it was just stuck in that glass-doored cupboard in the Cabinet Room, doing nothing, and, well, we had a gap on my overhead utensil rack that was just crying out for something long and culinary. It just suited perfectly so I put it there. – and I must say it certainly finishes it off nicely.’

‘It’ll finish me off nicely, if it’s found out that I had the ladle all the time! I’m not sure how I’m going to get out of this one. I can hardly just put it back like that. Everyone is bound to notice and then the questions will start. Demands for a public inquiry, etc, etc. – it’ll never end. You really shouldn’t have done this, Churly. I knew this penchant of yours to think that everything you want should automatically be yours would eventually lead to no good ’

‘Well I must say, this is all getting out of proportion if you ask me. I really can’t be worried so much about your silly little ladle, but if you are then you’d better go and ask All-upstairs. He’s the one with all the answers when there’s a problem you can't seem to get out of!’

‘You’re absolutely right, dearest, of course, as always. Clamped-balls will know what to do. I’ll call him right now.

(Oops - too long for a single post!)

[Cyclefrance]

(Part two)

Tiny phoned All-upstairs on the secure handset and explained his problem.

‘Well it’s fucking obvious isn’t, it!’
‘It is?’
‘Yes, you need to find something that will take over the public fucking interest much more than that bollocks of a ladle thing, leaving you to return the sodding spoon to the cabinet without anyone noticing. And, as it fucking well happens I think I have something in mind that will fit as snuggly as a prick in a condom!.’
‘Oh, I hope you have All-up….. I mean the idea, of course, not your thingy. Tell me what it is, please, please!’
‘I’ve just put the phone down on Gorgeous. Seems he has some oil price problems and a bit of trouble with a Middle Eastern dictator at the moment. Well, we all know that old Gorgeous is into oil big-time, and right now he’s losing a fortune - the price is right down the toilet. And that got me thinking.
‘Yes, thinking, go on…’
‘Well, we get old Brushy bollocks on board naturally as the first step, and then we go and buy up loads of oil while it’s cheap.’
‘Cheap, yes… and??’
‘And then we invade Sardine Who’s-a-pain’s country to liberate the people, of course. Are you following me or not?.’
‘Why would we do that?’
‘Obviously not! We do that because Sardine’s in the fucking Middle East, and so the invasion will cause the price to rise.’
‘Oh, I get it. So we then sell our oil – that’s brilliant…., but, hang on, then what?’
‘You really aren’t with it, are you? Once the invasion is successful – and there’s no way we can lose – the price will drop again, so we can buy up some more of the lovely stuff’
‘Yes, buy up some more, of course… er, why would we buy up some more….?’
‘Look, do try and fucking follow me will you? Once we’ve won, it’ll take some time to get things straight, so we stretch it out a bit, make it look difficult and then the rest of the world will wonder if we have made a mistake and that’ll make the price go through the roof again. That’ll give us the opportunity to sell a second time. And while all this is going on there will be loads of time to lose that fucking ladle.’
‘But I don’t want to lose the ladle….’
‘No Tiny, not lose as in lose, but lose as in conceal. And I wouldn’t mind betting there’ll be plenty more opportunities to lose lots of other irritating fucking little problems as well, while all this is going on……’
‘Hey, it’s really good – buy… sell… then buy again… then sell again. And lose a few problems as well. Yes, I really like it. Well done All-up. Let’s go for it! Now, where’s that phone….. tum-ti-tum… Oh, is that you Gorgeous…?

And the rest, of course, became WiddleMiddle history…!

[xoxoxoBruce]

$500,000,000,000.00 ladle.

[Cyclefrance]

The second and last Widdlemiddle tale follows – uncannily topical at the moment considering the activities of the main government minister featured (see the Politics section and the thread a bout British Politics). It was written, however, at the time when our Deputy Prime Minister’s department was tasked with producing affordable housing – houses that would be cheap enough to buy to be within the scope of lower paid professionals like nurses. If I remember rightly he did manage to get a builder to produce a new house for £100,000 which was his target price. The only problem was that this didn’t include the land needed to take the construction. Still John Prescott ducked and dived his way out of that one and also probably threw a couple of right jabs at it as well – he’s quite good at that, having already punched one member of the electorate!

Another three new characters to digest in this one, so add to the glossary of story no.1 a gentleman named Ed Balls (seems a shame to have to change that one!) Gordon Brown’s chief assistant at the Treasury, and someone who loves talking in accountancy jargon never acknowledging that no-one understands what the hell he is rambling on about! Add also blind David Blunket, then Home secretary (he resigned after an affair with an American lady - don't know what she saw in him - obviously he could see nothing in her - sorry, bad joke), and finally add someone not of the government but a good friend of Tony Blair, one Cliff Richard, singer ancient and extraordinaire – I think Tony and his family have holidayed at Cliff’s Caribbean villa at least 3 times now….

Oh, and this IS a long one...!


The Widdlemiddle Tales - No.2 Property price bubble pricked


These are the stories of the little people who live and work inside the walls of the Houses of Piddlemint in the Borough of Widdlemiddle, and being the centre of government for the little people of the country in which that borough lies, a magic land the name of which is never spoken, let alone written....

‘What the fuck’s he going on about..?!?’
‘In your usual fine form this morning, I see, Mr Pisspo-‘
‘And you can shut up as well!!’

Joined Pisspot held the handset of his telephone in front of him and stared disbelievingly at the noise that was emanating from it. It was possible to detect a distinct trans-Atlantic ‘twang’ to the voice that was clearly trying to deliver some words of wisdom (no point in being unkind, let’s give our American friend the benefit of any doubt that there might be about that), but so far as Two Jugs was concerned he might just as well be speaking Chinese. Somehow, whatever connection the speaker might have had with the English language was completely lost on the Dyspeptic Primary Minteater – somewhere between Sheffield and Coventry I would hasard a reasonable guess!

‘Burble, burble, £60,000, burble, burble. Turg, burble, condo, flurgle burp’

‘May I try, sir?’
‘Please yourself, Skirmish’
Richly Deserved Skirmish III MBE, DSO, RAC took the handset from Pisspot, and placed it quite close (but not too close) to his ear. As Pisspot’s personal private secretary he was used to this sort of development first thing in the piddlemintary office. Pisspot never was that good in the mornings (some would say that applied to the afternoons and the evenings as well, but whoever did say that, they most certainly would never ever be R D Skirmish III, MBE, DSO, RAC).

‘I see…., mmm……, oh, really……, yes, that makes sense….., that quickly…., certainly would……, no problem……., I’ll take down your details then……, OK, that’s fine. Mr Pisspot will write to you immediately!’

‘And….??’

‘Well, sir, it seems you have stumbled across a real opportunity. Not only can the gentleman on the phone, Bucks Grandiose Jr., build you the cheap accommodation you wanted but he can do two for the price of one! All we need to do is to write to him, well to his brother Billboard actually, giving details of what we need and they will organise for a show-home to be sent to us within ten days. It’s all flat-pack stuff that can be put together with not much more than a screwdriver. And a pack that makes up two three-bedroom apartments – condominiums, or ‘condos’ as he called them – can be arranged at a price well within the target. He just requires an official piddlemintary letter from you confirming that we will take delivery of the item and Bob’s your uncle!’

‘Right, sounds good. Well you write the letter, Skirmish, but make sure it sounds like it’s come from me. None of your ponsy Eton language, you hear?’

‘Of course, sir…’ but privately Skirmish was thinking ‘oh, no, writing northern…. Again!’

It was well into the late afternoon before Skirmish had a real chance to put pen to paper. He’d turned the words over and over, again and again in his mind, but they just didn’t sound quite right. Still better get it done. It needn’t be a long letter anyway, Sharp and to the point would be much better.

The words formed from his pen tip, slowly at first, and then he seemed to gain a rhythm, almost (only almost) enjoying his task. His tongue darted across his lips from one side to the other as the concentration took over.

‘OI!!’ Skirmish jumped out of his skin. ‘You finished that yet?’
‘ Not quite but it’s coming on quite ni-‘
‘ Give it here. Let me see!’

Skirmish timidly passed across the sheet of paper containing his words. Why did he feel so, well, frightened. Of course, it was obvious. Whatever he wrote it wasn’t going to be good enough.

‘This isn’t good enough. There’s no way I’d say that. What the hell is a “preconceptual investigation” for God’s sake. Oh, it gets worse….. just, just piss-off Skirmish. I’ll do it myself!’

And with that Pisspot stormed off taking the letter with him. Skirmish sighed, relieved, but at the same time he felt this quick cold chill brush across the back of his neck. But then it was gone. Never mind. He set about the remainder of his day’s chores putting the incident to the back of his mind (which, conveniently enough, was just above the back of his neck!)…

+++

Two weeks had passed. Nothing particularly notable had happened since to speak of. And this morning was a glorious sunny morning as well. So few of them left, he knew, but he did enjoy these late summer days that kept winter at bay.

The phone rang and Skirmish answered: ‘DPM’s office, Richly Deserved Skirmish III speaking…’

‘Aaah, Richly, my dear boy….’ It was Edible Bollocks, Golden Brain’s protégé and number 2 at the Treachery Office, ‘just the man I wanted to talk to….’ And off Edible went into one of his long, drawling, totally confusing and meaningless diatribes.

‘Mmm…. Uh,huh…. Ye-(stifled yawn)-es…. mmm………… ‘

Skirmish was interrupted in mid affirmation by a knock at the door. Bollocks rambled on.

A man in overalls waved a piece of paper: ‘Delivery for Mr Pisspot…’
‘Oh, jolly good!’ Skirmish had placed a hand across the mouthpiece of his telephone. Bollocks (needless to say) rambled on, the odd word still catching Skirmish’s ear.
‘mean average…….statistical fluctuation…….’
‘Is that our condos?’
‘Yeah, that’s right, guv, sign here.’
Skirmish signed the paper:’ ignorant fellow’, he thought, ‘misspelled condos, as I might have guessed.’ He chuckled to himself.
‘….growth cycle……GDP……’
Would the man never stop?
‘So where do you want them?’
‘Oh, yes, of course – put them in Horse Farts Parade on that nice big open square of ground. That should do shouldn’t it?’
‘ Oh, yes Guv – plenty of room there I reckon – mind you it is a big load.’
‘Yes, I suppose it would be….’ The delivery man went.

‘And that’s it. I just wanted to run that past you. Can I count on Joined’s support on this. It is rather important after all’
‘Of course, of course my dear, Edible, I am sure Mr Pisspot will be as supportive as ever on such matters.’ (Whatever it was and whatever that meant!)

The minutes and then an hour ticked peacefully by. At least old Bollocks had gone. Skirmish had to agree with the majority opinion - he certainly lived up to his name! But he couldn’t sit around here all morning gazing into space. On to more important things. Now where had he put those breadcrumbs. Almost time to feed the ducks over in St Gymshoes Park. Skirmish rummaged through his briefcase. Not there. Bottom drawer? No. Think back, think back. He’d come into the office. The bag of crumbs had been in his left hand, and he’d taken his jacket off and thrown it onto the chaise-longue by the window. He looked. He could see the edge of the packet just protruding under his jac-

The red phone rang with a harsh, shrill jangle! Tiny’s line (Tiny Blur, the Primary Minteater) – the Hot Line! He knew the peace couldn’t last. What now….??

[Cyclefrance]

(part two)


‘Mr Pisspot’s office’
‘Oh, hi, ehm, that you, Skirmish?’ Tiny’s distinctive voice danced at the other end of the line. ‘Look, he’s not there is he? Only, well, it’s kind of important…’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. May I be of assistance?’
‘Well, it’s just that there’s this huge pile of-‘
‘Oh, I think I know what you are talking about. The delivery that I told the driver to leave in Horse Farts. Mr Pisspot says he will be attending to it shortly. It’ll look really great, I am sure, A real crowd puller, and just the message Mr Pisspot wants to get across..’
‘Are you saying this is Joined’s handy work?’
‘But of course – he handled it personally, sir. Can you imagine how pleased people will be when they see for themselves that they’re as affordable and as obtainable as he promised. And they can be up in a matter of moments. All it needs is a quick screw here and a quick screw there, and-
‘Really Skirmish, this is quite enough. I really, well I really did expect better from you. This is all very smutty’
‘Smutty sir, what’s smutty about a couple of condos?’
’A couple of condoms??? I’m talking about literally thousands and thousands of them, Skirmish. All sizes, shapes and colours as well. They’re filling the whole square. The Press are there and the crowd is huge already and still growing. I’ve ordered a police cordon and the army is on standby.The Archbishop’s been on the phone six times at least. What on earth has Pisspot been up to this time??!!

‘Condoms???? But they’re supposed to be condominiums. Two of them. £60,000 for the pair.
‘Well they’re not condominiums, Skirmish. Not by any stretch of the imagination, let alone rubber! Tell Pisspot I want to see him in my office immediately. Sooner, if he knows what’s good for him!!’

The phone went dead. Skirmish was left holding the handset, his jaw dropped open so far it was no more than just a few millimeters from the floor. He was speechless. All he could do was look and point at the phone, and then look and point in out towards the room, then back to the phone, then the room…..

‘What’s up with you – you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Taken bloody ages getting here, God knows what’s going on, people all over the place, police, army… Are you incapable of speech or something, Skirmish??’

Skirmish looked bewilderedly at Joined Pisspot. All he could do was shake his head. They looked at each other, and then it was as if Skirmish had been given the power of speech again, but too suddenly for his brain to cope. It all came out quite maniacally:

‘Ha-ha, no, coloured ones you see, not two flat ones, but balloons, screw you – up in no time at all, hee-hee, cheap thrills, thousands of them, bang, bang, bang, get the gang to bang it up ‘em, screw em all together, three in a pack, not two, thousands of them , red, white, blue - God save the queen, hello sailor, put that up there for you, no probl-!’

Pisspot slapped Skirmish round the face. ‘Snap out of it man - have you been at my brandy again?’

Skirmish rubbed his cheek, sense returning. ‘No, sir, oh sorry sir. Something’s gone terribly wrong. They haven’t delivered a £60000 pound condo. It looks instead that they’ve delivered 60,000 contraceptives!

‘What are you on about?? ‘condo’?? The word’s ‘condom’. That was the trouble with your letter. There were too many mistakes. I changed that one and I also took away that silly pound sign – why tell them we’ll pay £60,000 when they might think we meant $60,000’

Skirmish was back to normality very quickly. ‘No, no, no, no noooo!?! Let me get this straight. Instead of ‘as per our discussions with your brother, Bucks, we would be grateful if you would send us the £60,000 condos to test out with the public’ you wrote ‘ we would be grateful if you would send us the 60,000 condoms to test out with the public’! Oh. My Dear God!!’

‘That’s right, so what’s the matter??’

‘What’s the matter? WHAT’S THE MATTER??’ There are 60,000 contraceptives - condoms - of all shapes, sizes and colours sitting in a pile, god knows how high and filling up the greater part of Horse Farts Parade. That’s where all your police and crowds and army are coming from.

Now Pisspot was speechless. Well, for a few seconds. Then ‘Does Tiny know about this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Hmmm. Well That’s not SO bad. At least he doesn’t know that I had anything-‘
‘I’m afraid he does. You see I told him’

Skirmish ducked a right jab.

‘Come here!’ Pisspot started chasing him around the room’

‘It wasn’t my fault. I thought it was the flats, I didn’t know it was condoms. Not until Mr Blur told me. No, no, please don’t hit me…!’

Pisspot had him cornered. And was just about to change the shape of Skirmish’s face when the red phone rang.

Pisspot became all smiles as he reached over and took the handset: ‘Tiny, how are you? So nice of you to call.’ Tiny’s voice could be heard resounding around the room and resembling something akin to a distressed parrot with a hernia.

Two Jugs couldn’t get a word in for some time but finally interrupted: ‘Oh good, you’ve seen it, then. Yes, I know there’s a lot of them, but calm down, Tiny. It’s just the timing’s got a little ahead of itself. Oh, all right, quite a bit ahead of itself.’ Pisspot was thinking rapidly on his feet – not something he was that good at doing. But in times of need, God can occasionally be kind, even to northerners: ‘They were supposed to have put up the banners first.’ More shrieks from Tiny, but a shade lower in intensity. Pisspot registered the slight, but positive change: ‘I know I didn’t tell you, but you’ve been so busy with Iraq and Blindkit and all that other stuff. I thought it would be a nice surprise - National Birth Control Week. Free Condoms for anyone who wanted them, and a number of complementary events to go with it. Cleft Ricketts has written a song especially. I think he’s calling it ‘Safe Copulations’ or something like that. Catchy little number –Eurovision sort of stuff. And there’s a series of talks planned in St Gymshoes Park as well. It’s just that the delivery came forward two days and they forgot to let us know. I’ve got the guys from the BBC and ITV coming round later. That’s what I’ve been arranging all morning. I assure you it will all be under control by tea-time.’

Tiny seemed to be placated. In fact he was coming up with some ideas of his own. Mainly involving him being on TV and not Pisspot, naturally. Pisspot sighed a sigh of relief. Two more minutes of verbal bowing and scraping and the phone was returned to its cradle.

‘Right Skirmish, now where was I??’
Skirmish dropped to the floor his arms covering his face.
‘Get up man,. What’s the matter with you. You’ve got work to do. I want banners by tea-time. You can work out the wording. Then I need you to write a song that’ll fit that ‘Congratulations’ tune and get Cleft on the phone to sing it - AND record it. About time he did us another favour seeing as Tiny didn’t use his place this year. Oh, and first of all, you’d better get on to ITV and BBC. Come on man. Jump to it!’

‘New Ladle??’ Thought Skirmish, ‘Give me the old one any day…!!’

.

[Cyclefrance]

Originally Posted by xoxoxoBruce

$500,000,000,000.00 ladle.

Think nought of it...!

[Cyclefrance]

Well, let’s hope that Mari’s back tomorrow for two reasons. One, obviously, that you are screaming for relief from this prosaic onslaught, and second, I haven’t any more to give you after today, unless I think up some new ones, and that’ll take a bit more time to do.

So the last entries – yes, entries. Two relatively short ones, and not really stories as much as commentaries. The first speaks for itself – in more ways than one, as you are about to find out. The second needs an introduction:



Educational Reform - Common Syllabic Spelling Experiment


The government is concerned at the deterioration in basic learning - too many pupils are leaving school wthout being able to read and write properly.

In an attempt to improve matters the government is advocating a return to the teaching of English by phonetic syllables. This is Ok, but we've seen it before and it wasn't a success last time around. If we want it to work, then I feel we need to allow words to be formed using a commonality that has not previously been possible.

How will this work?

Spelling of each syllable should be as accurate as possible, based on the word it represents. for example 'education' becomes 'edge-you-kay-shun' - and if we go this way the there will be plane-tea of that.

To give you a bet-tar eye-deer of how this will work I will give fur-the eggs-arm-pulls by tie-ping words in see-lay-balls from now on. It is not so seal-he as it sounds (or purr-wraps that should be looks!)

Hen-he-way, the go-fair-meant wants to car-he out their eggs-pair-he-meant so we are go-wing to have to face this die-all-hem-air hen-he-way.

Yew-sing the mirth-hod I am add-vow-kate-tin, off-air the car-ming months the pew-pills from part-hiss-he-pay-tin schools will be hay-bull to hay-queue-mew-late hen-off words to east-tab-leash a rear-sun-air-bull foe-cab-ewe-lair-he.

Add-dish-shun-all-he, there is no rear-son why they should not use numb-burrs for words like to (bee-combs '2') and for (bee-combs '4') and awe-there words may all-sew be shore-tend - e.g. 'wait' bee-combs 'w8'
.
If you have hen-he quest-shuns air-boat this eggs-pair-he-meant and the hide-ears the go-fair-meant has then please do ask them yew-sing the mead-he-hum of the 4-hum. Please do not w8 2 be asked fur-there.

I look 4-ward to he-ring from you.

Men-he thanks


+++


When President Bush was scheduled to visit Canada last year, one of the members of this other forum suggested that there were sufficient grounds for the Canadians to indict Bush. The member then went on at some length to make the case for this action. It all seemed a bit long-winded to me so I proposed the following alternative, and I thought far more attractive solution than indicting Bush:



Why don't we ignite Bush instead?

All this indicting stuff takes so long - it'll be years before it gets through the courts, and who's to say the desired outcome will be achieved. You may be convinced you have a good case but once Dubbya's lawyers get hold of it, well, who's to say...?

Now, a good old-fashioned burn up is a much, much simpler and quicker solution - absolutely no hang-ups - position, ignite, and whooosh, away he goes - and think of all the benefits:

1. Those standing close enough will get nice and warm.

2. If it's arranged for November 5th then there will be a significant saving on Guy production (one for the Brits there!)

3. The Christian/Jewish lobby will be satisfied with this solution as it will remind them of Moses when he got the message about taking the tablets ('oh, look a burning Bush...')

4. Properly managed it can act as a timely warning about the danger of forest fires. A controlled Bush fire is a safe fire.

5. The department of the double-entendre will be in hysterics.

6. There's potential for a huge turnout if the event is staged and promoted properly. Maybe venues like Hyde Park in London and Central Park in New York and big screens in other locations to permit even more viewers and attendees as well. I'm sure Sir Bob would jump at the opportunity to be involved, which brings us onto....

7. Charity fund raising - needs a catchy name like 'match of the day' (with a title like that the door's open for similar events on other occasions)

Well, think about it, anyway...

+++

And that’s your lot!