WINSTON CHURCHILL & THE AMERICAN AMBASSADOR – Allegedly a true story!

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One day during World War Two,

Winston Churchill was on the loo,

When an Aide cried out to him to say,

“The Ambassador of the USA,

Has been here since half past the hour,

And his demeanour is now turning sour.”

It was thus that Churchill thought aloud,

And with bulldog spirit, loud and proud,

Said, “Tell the Ambassador to wait in line,

For I can only deal with one shit at a time!”

 

ELVIS PRESLEY & THE CUCUMBER OF DESTINY!

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Derek the Graceland Gardener: “Oi, Elvis me old mucker, as you requested I did the springtime planting; you know the assorted salad leaves, the cucumbers, tomatoes, radishes, spring onions and all that – basically everything you wanted. Also mate the summer fruits have long since come to fruition, the berries, well what can I say but a bumper crop this year. Of course me pride and joy are the marrows – absolute crackers I can tell you.  The thing is they are going to go to seed if you don’t have a good scoff of them soon mate.”

Elvis: “Nice one Dellboy. Shame mate, I’ve just had an entire loaf of Italian bread, hollowed out, and filled with peanut butter, grape jam, and an entire pound of bacon.* You know, I’ve got to take care of me figure what with the Memphis concerts coming up. Can’t have me public persona going to worms can we?

Derek: “Blimey Elvis, that’s 4,200 calories you’ve scoffed there, mate.”

Elvis: “Yes Dell, I had to leave room for me pudding didn’t I. Look son, Svetlana the maid is, as we speak, bringing me out the four scoops of ice cream with the six chocolate chip cookies sprinkled thereon – usually I have the full bucket of ice cream but today I thought I’d think of me figure; you know cut back a tad.”

Derek: “Very wise my son. Well what should I do with all the green stuff then?”

Elvis: “Tell you what, so that it’s not all wasted chuck us over a cucumber I’ll nibble on it in tandem with mouthfuls of ice cream.”

A SHORT TIME LATER

Derek: “Christ Elvis, are you all right. You do look rough mate.”

Elvis: “That bloody cucumber will be the death of me you know – I never realized how filling they are! I’m just off to the karzi. Reckon if I have a number 2 it might help a tad.”

A SHORT TIME LATER ELVIS REGRETTABLY DIED WHILST PERCHED UPON THE LOO

  •  In his book ‘What the Great Ate’ Mark Jacob pointed out that the meal described was a particular favourite of Elvis. It claims that more often than not he would eat more than one of these snacks daily between main meals.

A POOR MANS DREAM – A ‘silly’ verse for kids and aging juveniles!

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“I wish I lived on a space ship,

And not in this shed,” said he,

“Then I could take lunch on Saturn,

And travel the galaxy

 

But here in this ram shackled unit,

I take tea from a vacuum flask,

And sit amongst the buckets and spades,

Contemplating my very next task

 

If I were on that space ship,

Living in luxury,

I would see all the sights of Pluto,

And the mountains of Mercury

 

I would land my ship in the craters,

Take excursions in posh hover cars,

Picking up some rock samples,

And looking for life on Mars

 

On Venus I’d build a space station,

And install a large lava bed,

That would be better than living,

In this broken down, draughty old shed!”

 

 

HARRY KHRISNA THE DYSLEXIC CHEMIST

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Ding dong…….creak, creak a bit more….ting-a-ling…..gently shut….ting a bit more

“Good morning young lady how can I be of assistance?”

“Oh, you’re new here. What happened to Percy Pillbeam the previous pharmacist?”

“Dishing pills out in heaven these days luv. Anyway I’m Harry Khrisna, Dyslexic Chemist by day; Buddhist by night. I see you’ve got a prescription in your hand. What’s it say?”

“Can’t read it, sorry….you know doctor’s aren’t exactly famous for legible handwriting are they?”

“Wouldn’t know luv – I’m 100% dyslexic. All a blur to me.”

“Oh, this is a bit awkward then.”

“Let’s try a bit of trial and error; usually does the trick. I’ll throw a few of the usual suspect diseases your way and you tell me if I’ve guessed right. OK?”

“Well not really. There are other customers about the place and…well….I’m not happy about eavesdropping.”

“Never heard of her – don’t think she’s one of my punters.”

“What?”

“Right let’s start. The Clap?”

“Certainly not.”

“Genital warts?”

“No, no…stop it there are people listening.”

“Look luv I’m only trying to help. If I’m going to prescribe I need to get in the zone don’t I? I mean gives us a clue like. Flatulence?”

“No.”

“Bunged Up?”

“No, no, no…..really!”

“I give up then. Why don’t you go back to the quack and get him to say what’s on the prescription; remember it off by heart then return.”

“It’ll take days to get another appointment though.”

“Well, all I can suggest is that you go home; do a bit of meditating – belt out a few ‘Om’s’ and such like whilst sat cross-legged on the floor doing some diaphragm type breathing routines thus invoking an inner calm.”

“Oh, I’ll never manage cross-legged on the floor.”

“Got it luv – you’ve got Chalfont’s haven’t you. See, we got there in the end………Marigold my dearest prepare some fresh pile cream and a comforting butt ring for the young lady here as I’m off for a slash.”

EACH WASTED PAWN

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I have a story to tell,

About the land I live in,

It has castles and magic,

And I am its King.

 

Cathedrals for my bishops,

They preach a good game,

Knights fighting dragons,

In some damsel’s name.

 

White armour for my troops,

My enemies wear black,

The strategy of battle

The covert attack.

 

And when war is over

At the break of a new dawn,

Foot soldiers remember.

Each wasted pawn.

 

But in this great land.

For all its chivalry,

In this palace of great riches,

A space so empty,

 

No Queen at my right hand,

JFK, no Jacqui,

Arthur without Gwen,

Camelot sadly,

 

Is missing its last piece,

The very key to the game,

I look to the heavens,

See the sky is aflame.

 

The rout of my armies,

Seals my own fate,

For with no Queen beside me,

I am in checkmate.

 

LADY CHATTERLEY’S CESSPIT!

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“’Ello, ‘ello….are you there….can you hear me…..have I got the right number?”

“Teversal Manor, home to Clifford and Constance Chatterley. Who, may I ask is calling?”

“Oh, there you are….Derek D Rain, ‘Effluent Remover to the Gentry’ here. Look luv me wife took a call from this number but I can’t read the bloody name she writ down. Still seeing as how I’ve got through then I suppose this is the right one.”

“Oh, it must be Lady Chatterley herself you need to speak to. I am her maid and the lady of the house deals with all the maintenance issues since his Lordship came back from the war paralysed from the waist down never again to be the man he once was. I’ll check to see if she’s available if you don’t mind hanging on.”

“Make it quick luv.  This bloody call is costing me a fortune.”

A BRIEF PAUSE AS LADY CHATTERLEY COMES TO THE PHONE

“Constance Chatterley here. You may call me Connie. I am grateful you’ve phoned back.”

“Cor, took your time Con luv. Anyway what can I do for you?”

“Well it’s our cesspit you see. It is placed uncomfortably close to our out-buildings – you know the greenhouse, the shed, the garage and such like. What with it not having been emptied for some time and with the uncommonly hot weather this summer I have to say the odour emanating from it is somewhat overpowering. With my husband being only half the man he once was I hold regular meetings with our estate manager come gamekeeper Oliver Mellor in the shed and the fumes are putting him off his stroke presently.”

“What Con – you mean it’s chucking up a bit. I can sort that out for you luv – no problem. Who did you say the gamekeeper was?”

“Oliver Mellor – why do you know of him?”

“’Corse I do Con – crikey Ollie and me are drinking chums down the village pub, the ‘Limping Vagabond & Ferret.’ How is he the dirty old rascal? He’s a one that boy – Christ, it’s said of him, ‘find a bird with a pulse and you’ll find Ollie.’” 

“Really, well I didn’t know that. Anyway, when could you empty the cesspit – it is, I stress, a matter of some urgency as Mr Mellor and I have things to attend to and we have it in mind to meet up this evening. My husband Clifford retires early these days and thus I favour diarizing such meetings while my husband is at rest.”

“Hang on luv…..it’s all flooding back now. You must be ‘the bit of posh’ who’s keen on a bit of ‘rough’ Ollie was going on about at darts night last week. Meetings you say? That’s not what the old scallywag told me if you know what I mean!  Still not for me to be judge and jury is it. I mean with your old man as much use as a eunuch in a brothel and you still being in the prime of womanhood I bet you must gag for it from time to time – enter Ollie so to speak!”

“I’d rather you didn’t touch on such personal matters Mr Rain – I find it impertinent what with me being from the upper echelons of society and you a mere blue collar type you cheeky knave you.”

“Oh, I can put a face to the name now – bingo. It was you down that posh supermarket Waitrose the other week weren’t it. The posh bird who put the soap and condoms in the charity Food Bank collection box with a message that read, ‘I think wretched plebeians need to wash more and breed less rather than stuff their fat faces.’ Nice touch I thought. Anyway, I’m a man of the world and what you and me old mucker Ollie get up to is fine by me – your secrets safe luv.”

“So when will attend to the effluent?”

“I’ll pop by early afternoon Con if that’s ok with you?”

“Well I myself will be in town purchasing an inflatable air bed lilo style mattress and a foot pump yet Svetlana my maid will be here – she will see to you.”

“Cor, knock me down with a feather luv – sounds like me luck is well and truly in! Oh, and by the way – I’ve never been backward at coming forward – any time you feel you need my services, well they don’t come much ‘rougher’ than me; so to speak.  Air bed for the shed then? I’ll have the place all tickety-boo smelling of roses for you both, don’t you worry.”

“Enough said naughty man!”

WITH THAT DEREK D RAIN ‘EFFLUENT REMOVER TO THE GENTRY’ HANGS UP THE PHONE CHUCKLING; FOR HER PART CONSTANCE CHATTERLY GOES TO ATTEND TO CLIFFORD WITH THE HINT OF A SMILE UPON HER FACE!

 

GLOBAL OUTRAGE AS EAST AFRICAN NATION BANS WOMEN FROM INSTIGATING SEX!

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Global News: To the alarm and dismay of the rest of the world the East African nation of Bongola is reported  to be about to ban heterosexual women from instigating sexual congress within both confines of marriage and without. Speaking on behalf of the government Revd Pastor Pastorhole is quoted as having said, “The Book of Genesis makes it clear that the demise of The Garden of Eden was instigated by a woman, namely Eve who deliberately and with malice first tempted then seduced Adam 6,000 years ago. It is for this reason that the whole of Christianity has never allowed females to take up high office – they simply cannot be trusted, and never should they be allowed to imitate the lustful pre-emptive deeds of Eve. So then the new bill, carrying heavy sentences of up to 14 years imprisonment if guilt is proven will be put before parliament. We anticipate that the bill will become law in a matter of weeks” The said reverend went on to add, “Of course it remains the case that all males will be allowed to demand their conjugal rights whenever they feel so inclined. It is our belief that this is as God both planned and would have wanted it.”

In London, speaking from afar and having followed developments avidly UK Government spokesperson Vic Ariously talked of his grave concerns regarding the Bongolan proposals. He said, “If true this is a backward step in terms of equal rights for the women of that nation. We take the matter very seriously and are, even as I speak, drafting contingency plans to include the withdrawal of all Aid, the cancellation of trade agreements and suspension from the Commonwealth. Other sanctions are also being considered.”

In Washington, on behalf of the White House and aide is reported to have said that the Administration is, “Keeping all options open and will certainly raise the issue with the UN Security Council at the earliest opportunity.”

The situation in Bongola comes only days after another East African nation, Uganda passed controversial new anti-gay laws allowing those convicted of homosexuality to be imprisoned for life. Only nominal media attention and hardly any significant criticism from the outside world has allowed homophobia to run rampant in Uganda – a country that still receives $400 million annually from the US in aid.

 

 

 

ON HOW NOT TO SPREAD ONES PARENTS ASHES – A true story told in verse!

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I had no idea what to do with them,

When the undertaker delivered,

Mum’s ashes in a black bin liner,

And thus it was that I considered,

 

Just where I would store them,

Until I’d formulated a plan,

So I placed them in the garden shed,

Next to a watering can,

 

And quite close to the mower,

Nearby to shovels and rakes,

Then promptly forgot about them,

Plainly one of life’s unforgiveable mistakes

 

Eventually good fortune smiled,

For after just one year,

My father’s ashes turned up too,

And so I stored them near,

 

To those of my dead mother,

In that self-same shed,

Thought it touching in an odd way,

That they were back together dead.

 

Thereafter I dillied and I dallied,

Until I did decide,

My parent’s ashes would be spread,

In Richmond Park on a hillside.

 

A sound plan in some respects,

For it was their favourite place,

Yet when scattering said ashes,

I did not embrace,

 

The warnings of the weather girl,

That morning on TV,

Saying a gale would blow this day,

Was overlooked; ignored by me.

 

So there we were, my wife and I,

Next to a carefully chosen oak tree,

Where my parents remains would lie,

For all eternity.

 

The bin liners were most heavy,

As if we’d been punished; as if we’d sinned,

And the thing I should have accounted for,

Was the direction of the wind.

 

For as Shirley emptied Dad out,

And I did the same for Mum,

We found we’d discarded them ‘up wind’,

And thus we were undone!

 

Covered from head to foot,

In a mass of charcoaled dust,

We were both akin to Zombies,

And scared the park’s patrons thus!

 

NOSTRADAMUS PREDICTS RAIN IN THE WEST OF ENGLAND!

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The year is 1551. Perched upon a stool at Le Pen & Ink Bar in the small village of Salon-de-Provence in Southern France is Nostradamus.  As ever he is the worse for drink. Today his chosen tipple has been St Omer lager – a decidedly French beer yet with hints of Flemish hops – with the usual cognac chasers.  The reason why he imbibes thus? Well, it is well known to the reprobates who are the regulars at Le Pen & Ink that Nostradamus can only get his vibe on the prediction front when in his cups. As of right now he feels a prophecy coming on. The usual suspects wait with baited breath in the hope that the latest forecast will somehow be of use to them. 

Landlord: “Would you Adam and Eve it, that’ll be the wall above the urinal bolloxed again. Only just cleaned all the graffiti off after last week’s debacle. Why, oh why he can’t just bring a quill and parchment with him and write his predictions down on that I’ll never know.” 

Pierre: “Well like he says, it’s his ritual – call it OCD if you like yet when he feels one coming on it’s off to the bog with his magic marker from le Poundland shop and bingo, ‘job done.’ Anyway what makes you think we’re due one now?” 

Landlord: “Well he’s on the ‘tilt’ again as the English say. If he’s running true to form it’ll happen any minute. I feel a quatrain coming on – 100% certain.” 

Frank: “Oi Nostro, you got a quatrain on the go then mate. What’s it to be today? Hope it’s something useful this time. Not like your last one, you know that one about some Princess called Diana dying in a car crash in an underpass in Paris in 1997?” 

Pierre: “What’s a car, and for that matter what’s an underpass?” 

Frank: “Fucked if I know. Anyway 1997 is 450 years hence. The thing is, knowing that is no use to man or beast – that’s what I say!” 

Nostro: “Suit your f**king self.” 

Pierre: “Tell you what Nostro give us the heads up on the result of the Toulouse versus Agen match on Saturday. We can have a whip round and place a bet and be Francs in.” 

Nostro: “No can do – I’m getting nothing on the football front yet the urge to post a swift quatrain has just smacked me in the face. See you twats in a minute.” 

NOSTRO EXITS TO THE GENTS 

Landlord: “I really don’t know why I put up with him you know. He never posts anything about the ‘now.’ I mean his first wife died of the Black Death. He never saw that one coming the useless tosser.” 

Frank: “He’s on his way back from the kharzi I see. I’ll just pop in there and take a snap of what’s he’s most likely written up using my new IPhone 5 for posterities sake – plus we can have a laugh reading it.” 

NOSTRO RETURNS TO HIS BAR STOOL; FRANK VISITS THE LOO 

Frank: “Here boys kop a butchers at this. Quatrain 361; 

“The great troupe and cross bearing sect

will arise in Mesopotamia from a nearby river

the light will come which such a lore or

religion will hold for an enemy.” 

Landlord: “Give me strength he’s getting worse. Nostro what does that what you have written on the urinal wall mean for crying out loud?” 

Nostro: “Oh, that’ll be the Gulf War of 1991 if you must know.  Whatever I feel I’ve had me quota of booze for the day. I’ll be getting back to the missus – and no Pierre you will not be getting your leg across with Fifi from the dairy tonight or any other night as she’s already shagging Maurice the well hung butcher of Nerac.” 

Pierre: “You’re a bastard Nostro; that’s what you are – a complete and utter bastard.” 

WITH THAT NOSTRO TOTTERS OFF HOMEWARD BOUND.  UPON ENTERING HIS DWELLING PLACE HE NOTICES HIS WIFE, ANNE, SITTING IN HER USUAL CHAIR ENGROSSED IN HER IPAD. 

Anne: “Only a few days to go now Nostro and we’ll be off on our holiday’s across Le Manche to the West Country of England. Look I’ve Googled it on me IPad thingy and see, see pretty thatched cottages, miles of sandy beaches; clotted cream teas; organic cider from locally sourced apples. Oh I am so looking forward to it.” 

Nostro: “No point in going luv it’s going to piss down and there’s a strong likelihood of storm force winds that will be classified at least an Amber Flood Warning, more probably a Red Alert.” 

Anne: “Why did you have to tell me that?” 

WITH THAT NOSTRO CLIMBS THE WOODEN STAIRS TO BED IN ORDER TO SLEEP OFF HIS ALCOHOLIC STUPUR

This post is the sequel to;  

https://mikesteeden.wordpress.com/2013/11/21/nostradamus-predicts-winner-of-strictly-come-dancing/