Brenda Norse – She’s A Horse

Brenda’s back from her championship-winning tour of Latvia, and ready to sup greedily from the Westminster nosebag once again – and remember, you heard it here first!

WHAT the hell does this Government thinks it’s playing at?! One minute they’re one hundred and ten per cent opposed to university top-up fees, the next, they can’t wait to start the cash tills buzzing like a half-price day in Pound Stretcher. The whole thing reminds me of a donkey I used to know when I was growing up outside Ottery St. Mary. (And we all know what donkeys are like. Particularly ones from the West Country). Anyway, one minute this fatuous ass was turning his ridiculous nose up at a plate of Farmer Benjamin’s best tinned lobster in scallop and codswallop sauce, the next he couldn’t wait to gobble down as much of the glutinous crap as he could! Contrary old buzzard.
Ironically, Farmer Benjamin had actually put seven ounces of strychnine in it that time, and off went Donald to the knacker’s yard. There’s a moral there somewhere if I could just…nah, s*d it.

SO – are the Tories finally back on track? After years of shifting uncomfortably on their well-paid derrières, it seems as though they’ve finally discovered a common tool with which to bash Blair and his wearisome posse into quivering submission – Top Trumps!

Yes, every PM’s Q’s since Michael Howard took over as the Tories’ jolly bus driver, the Opposition benches have seen more quick-handed shuffling than Clapham Common on a moonless night. Insiders are confident that the card games (which include Marvel Super Heroes, American Ex-Presidents and the NHS) will help the newly resurgent Tories to formulate a winning strategy to snatch election victory from the jaws of Labour. Said Tory MP, Kipper Catbrush (Pillowdale West, and current Super-Tankers champion), ‘We’re getting ready to give those Labour swine a damn good thrashing. They can pick any category, and we’ll beat them. Education, Social Services, Work and Pensions, Transport, Fast Bikes, Fantasy Creatures, Tennis Stars of the 1850s… the list goes on and on. I mean, basically we’re in an unassailable position. Unless of course Tony Blair chooses Motor Caravans or Belgian Hairstyles 1675 – 1809. We’ve been to every WHSmith in Westminster and can’t find them. I bet those bloody Liberals have bought the last two packs.

Rotters’.

SHAME! No, not another politician caught playing Swing Ball in the nude (if it hadn’t been for that speed camera, we’d never have known, Peter), but the latest single from those troublesome Back Bench Boys! Yes, cross-party heartthrobs Jim, Fats, Digger and Mr. P are back with the follow up single to last October’s record-breaking George Michael cover, Wake Me Up Before You Put Me In A Foundation Hospital. The new single is predicted by experts to go straight in at number one, so don’t forget to check out TOTP, BBC One on Friday evening to catch the first ever performance of Tuition My Aaase!!!

Looks like it’ll go down a storm – it’s a pity Robin Cook’s solo career hasn’t taken off in the same way, but I guess the country isn’t quite ready for Jingles the Happy Gnome just yet.
Wally.

That’s all the rats chased out of the milkmaid’s knickers for this week – see ya soon for a load more silage slopping! Or if you can’t keep away for more than a minute, I’ll be at the Conservative Party Gymkhana on Parliament Square, Saturday afternoon – I’ll be the one leaving my mark on the shiniest shoes. Catch you there!

Bren.

 

Comment: My Goodness! My Clock!

Send us your exciting and unusual clock stories for your chance to win some a clock.

Breakfast clock

Dear CT

I was eating breakfast on Tuesday morning when I dropped my cornflake loaded spoon on the floor. Bending down to pick it up, I knocked my head on the table and passed out. What day is it?

Unknown

Baby clock

Dear CT

Whilst feeding my 18 month old son, he began using his plastic spoon to flick peas at me by scooping a spoon full and using the flexibility of the plastic spoon to catapult them into my face. After 4 or five attempts the spoon broke, the head of it breaking off in my son’s small hand. Undeterred, my boy then rammed the rough broken handle into my eye. Whilst deranged with the unbearable pain, I was impressed at my son’s ability to recognise even a broken spoon can still be an effective weapon.

Doncaster Rovers fan.

 

Comment: Tell someone. Tell the Clockwork Times.

Vehement Vermin Vocalist

Dear Sir,

I am a faithful reader of the CT, unlike many of my military friends who say it is a big pile of Nazi propaganda. I don’t know about that, but was nonetheless shocked to read about the CT’s recent campaign to legalise squirrel-puffling. Can this be true, I shouted at my dog of seventy-seven years. She couldn’t tell me, so I decided to go to the top. Now, I am aware that many of your readers will not know much about this disgraceful sport, and so I will fill them in forthwith. Squirrel-puffling originated in the fifteenth century as a means of prohibiting the growth of the squirrel population in village communities, particularly those where nuts were grown. The squirrel would be approached by the ‘puffler’ (usually a local man or woman with limited social skills and bad hygiene), and subjected to several hours of reading. The usual material would consist of scraps of the Bible, or European fables about goblins, monsters, or ridiculous stories about girls who were swans. The more experienced puffler would often add to the mix an extract from the most recent Argos catalogue, or MFI leaflet. After the squirrel had been ‘puffled’ in such a manner, it was then clubbed to death with a wooden kettle and thrown to the dogs, before being knocked against trees attached to a long strip of sausage. Then a large paddle (or ‘wuffler’) was used to force it through small gaps. Finally, it was presented to the feudal lord, and five pence would be paid to the puffler for its carcass. Puffled squirrels would then be displayed in car parks and bowling alleys.

Now, this practice ended over three hundred years ago (except for isolated reports of pufflings in Ipswich and along the Sussex borders), and rightly so. It is barbaric and cruel. Why therefore has the Spoon seen fit to lend it’s hitherto credible weight, to this disgraceful sport? We live in an age where violence is rife, and social decency is being eroded day by day by people like Lorraine Kelly, and yet…

(We have shredded the rest of this letter, as we have absolutely no idea what this lunatic is talking about. But rest assured, he will be sent a bottle of pills and a complimentary whistle. Ed.)

Chooks Away

Dear Sir,

As a keen hen enthusiast, I was delighted to read your recent article about the merits of employing hens as passenger aircraft. With the continuing furore surrounding British Airways, it would seem logical that other means of aviation transport are put forward, and one such idea must surely be the hen. Hens are versatile, agreeable, and extremely economical to run. Furthermore, in recent tests they have been shown to be capable of carrying up to one thousand times their own bodyweight, and so would accomplish the trans-Atlantic carrying of several passengers with considerable ease. Of course, super-hens may have to be developed for the American market as they are all a bit fat over there aren’t they?

Fatties.

Yours sincerely,

Dorothy Podge. (Mrs.)

If you have anything you’d like to share with one of our readers (or even two of our readers, though we will charge if it is more than three), please do send them in to us. Clark Wiggis is away this week, so please mark the envelope c/o the Right Reverend Hercules Splendid (not gay), and address it to: ‘’Holy Crap’, Aqua-Cabin Four, Netherton-St-Flymo.

Please do not send any articles in the post; underpants excepted, as he doesn’t have any at the moment because he lost control of his Aston round Brands Hatch last week, and skidded on his holy arse for seven miles. Apparently. But then he’s a bloody liar.

 

Comment: John Littlerichard

Returns With His Regular “Abuse Page”

Sickos are roaming our land! Yes, I should know, I live her don’t I? Well, don’t I? Sometimes I wonder if I do live here any more with the amount of whingeing so-called “asylum seekers” and Russians that live in my area. Yesterday I saw one buy twenty Benson from my local corner shop. WHAT ON EARTH IS HAPPENING? In the seventeenth century anyone caught doing something like that would be hanged. And what’s to stop this happening now? Only the stupidity of leftie whingeing Guardian readers.

Only last week a Government report showed that while Britain used to be predominantly white there had been a series of increases, some gradual, others not so, in the number of people from other backgrounds in this country. CAN’T WE SEE WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?

I’m the last person to be racist. In fact in a recent racism competition I came ninth out of nine competitors. Of course anyone should be allowed into this country. No one’s suggesting that. BUT FOREIGNERS SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED IN THIS COUNTRY AND IF ONLY PEOPLE WOULD READ WHAT I PUT IN CAPITALS WOULDN’T BRITAIN BE A SAFER PLACE? WELL WOULDN’T IT?

Sometimes I’m not sure, what with all the whingeing, so called “radical thinkers” and “good” Samaritans posing as charity workers just to sponge of the state a bit more. Not that there’s anything wrong with sponging off the state, or being an Arab, but Arabs simply should not sponge off the State!

Where does it put the honest, hard working decent, and often white, person trying to raise a family? How will they explain to their kids? Daddy’s been working hard all day, so some bloody Somalian can come and steal his money and eat his trees when he’s putting in a hard slog at the office. Of course, Somalians make a great contribution to our society. No one’s denying that, but THESE SOMALIANS ARE MAKING NO CONTRIBUTION TO OUR SOCIETY. Hey, I haven’t said “crap” yet. Oh, there I go. I’ve said it. When will Albanian so called refugees stop coming here and eating my car? When will they stop it? When? Do you know? I don’t know! I know when I’d like them to stop, and that’s right now, but that seems to count for very little in today’s so-called England.

Last week a gang of Albanian thugs ate me. It took me a day to pass through their so-called digestive systems before I came out in their collective toilets in seven separate parts. Only a crack team of doctors, paid for by the Spoon, could piece me together again, and even then I had to wait in line behind an Afghan, a Spaniard and some Chinese bloke. No one’s suggesting these people shouldn’t get medical treatment, BUT THESE PEOPLE SHOULDN’T GET MEDICAL TREATMENT! They are just a bloody pain, most of them are f**king ar*ewits, with no real bo**ocks between their f***king selves, I wish those ****ing ******s would **** off ******ing back to ***land and ***** leave ***** *******ing to ***********ers without *********** (which incidentally I ********ing **** with a ********) and ******* *********** ** ******** ******* tarmac walls to ***** ** **** *****ers ************ *** *********** *******. couldn’t even call 999 without a ***** ******* **** ******** ***pressions of Harry Lauder to ****** ******** ****** **. There was a word for this in the good old days and that word was *******. ****** off, all of you.

 

Comment: Brenda Morse – She’s A Horse

The CT’’s very own political animal is here once again to muck out the Westminster stables. It’s steaming piles of goss – straight from the horse’s mouth!

Well, it’s finally time Tony Blair got rid of that prat, Timmy Silly. The man’s an ass – and coming from a horse, that’s about the worst insult you could imagine. My cousin Ronald Ass is the arse of the equine world. He’ s a complete f***ing Neanderthal. Last year he tried to climb Big Ben in a dress because some Tory joker told him the hands were made of carrot. Prick.
I had to cancel an appearance on the Wogan show I was so embarrassed.

Ian Duncan Smith’s made a tit of himself again. He got drunk in the Common’s bar and vomited over Michael Portillo’s weasel. (Though what his weasel was doing on the bar is anyone’s guess). Tory faithful say the MP for Kensington & Chelsea took it all in fun, but I say, bollocks! Weasels are damned expensive down the King’s Road this time of year, and vom doesn’t wash off.

Ha ha! The truth is finally out – and what a hoot it is. John Prescott can’t spell his own name! Tory MP Cockerel Dove offered to help him out at a recent Labour gathering, whilst
Prescott’s spelling-guru Botch McAndrew was away– but the boisterous miscreant told him the spelling was P.I.S.S.P.O.T!
Two-Jags was certainly left with egg on his face, after Dove’s subtle coup at the Dorchester hotel last weekend.
I think it’s childish.

Watch out, Davis! There’s a new boy in town – and he’s gunning for your job! Tristram Winkle is after the shadow deputy prime minister’s office, hefty salary, and angle-poised lamp. Winkle, a graduate in rude inscriptions from Oxford, was initially asked to head up MI23, but he said that fining old women for farting at cats “wasn’t his jazz, Martha”. Winkle is determined to give the Tories a good slapping about, maybe with a herring, before setting his sights on the Government. “I’m going to rock their world”, he told my furry colleague Ricky Badger. “I’m going to hang them out to dry, then pound them with mortars until they all collapse and shout no, no, stop”.
Said Davis: “He can have my job, that’s fine. But there’s no way the rakish young whippersnapper is getting his grasping paws on my antique teeth”.
Antique teeth? I’ll give him antique teeth.

Rumours abound that the BBC are intent on attacking Downing Street, after Chairman Gavyn Davies was spotted buying a WWII British Tiger Tank at a dealership in Wigan. BBC insiders say Davies will command the turret, whilst Director General Greg Dyke will drive the Colossus.
Said Tony Blair’s official spokesman, ‘H’ (formerly of the band ‘Steps’), “There is no chance of a successful attack by the BBC; not unless Radio One play my new single anyway”.
However, Downing Street officials are rumoured to be taking the threat seriously, and have already wheeled out Harold Wilson’s seventeenth-century canon to defend the front porch.
Cherie Blair is also to be stationed in a strategic position.

Finally, that old granddaddy of the house, Liberal MP for Lower Kneesdon & the Thrashings, Poff Spambule, has died. Friends and relatives were with him on the Commons’ terrace when he passed away, during celebrations for his eightieth birthday. Pushing him over the railings and into the Thames was his old political rival, Griff Pimcock.
“ I think it would have been exactly how he wanted to go”, said Pimcock, (Labour, Scroffle Ricketts West). “He didn’t feel a thing; didn’t even hear me coming. Whilst the others kept him busy with cakes and balloons, I was able to get up right behind him and belt him with my left trainer. I’d had the end weighted with lead, which was handy, as it didn’t show up on the metal detector in the lobby. And there he went, quiet as a mouse. Apart from the thrashing, but the Speaker came forward with a wooden picnic bench and we all stood on top of that until the air passed quietly from his lungs”.
The Commons Birthday Surprise Committee say they expect Mr. Spambule to reach the Thames Estuary as early as Thursday, barring crab attacks.

Well, that’s all the political manure for this week. Join me soon for more of the same old crap. Till then – don’t have a mare. Bren.

(‘H’s new single I Love a Cheeky Bit of Brie is released on Monday. It is predicted to go straight down the poo-chute).

 

Comment: Tell somone. Tell the Clockwork Times!

TELL SOMEONE!
Perhaps you have a funny story? Perhaps you’d like to raise an issue that intrigues you? Maybe you have a strong view about something. Whatever your reasons, why not share your thoughts & views with the CT in our tailor-made thoughts & views section?

Peninsular Pretensions

Dear Sir,

I can’t get enough of the adventures of Major Richard Sharpe and his elite band of Chosen Men, in their fight against the evil dictator, Napoleon Bonaparte. Their exploits are so heroic I always have to jump on the sofa and cheer!

Richard Sharpe wasn’t always a Major. He had to rise from the ranks. In one of my favourite episodes, Richard Sharpe is insulted by an officer who says, ‘you’re not a gentleman, Sharpe’. Richard Sharpe hit him on the nose, which made me laugh! Another of my favourite episodes involved Richard Sharpe and a mysterious Spaniard.

My favourite Chosen Man is probably Sergeant Patrick Harper, because even though he is quite a rough character, you know he will always be brave and loyal to Richard Sharpe and the Chosen Men. I like Harris as well, because he’s quite a clever person, who’s always able to decipher secret instructions so that Richard Sharpe can beat Napoleon. When I’m at home watching Sharpe, I like to pretend I’m Richard Sharpe. I pretend the cushions are Napoleon and his evil army, and I throw them out of the window! Also, I get on the drinks trolley and ask my wife to push me around.

I’d love to meet Richard Sharpe and the Chosen Men. I think I’d be a good Chosen Man because I always knock the coke cans off the wall, just like they would, and I’ve got a green jacket that I bought from Country Casuals. I wear it in the Park when I’m playing Richard Sharpe with my friends.

Yours sincerely,

Tony Blair.

Can’t Bear It

Dear Sir,

I have always had a horrifying fear of bears. It doesn’t matter how big or how small they are; I simply can’t abide bears. I am fully aware that there are no bears in Stotfold, but an irrational fear is a fear nonetheless.

My complaint is this: many people seem intent on making a mockery of my pain. I sprained my ankle last week, and the doctor asked me how I was bearing up. I had no electricity or running water for a month, and my neighbour told me I had to grin and bear it. I saw my grandchildren at the weekend, and they were running about in the garden completely bare. This may seem trivial to someone who likes bears, or doesn’t mind them, but to someone with my condition it is pure torture. And I am sick of hearing jokes about Old Mother Hubbard and her empty pantry. If I have to endure this misery for very much longer, I will knife someone.

Yours sincerely,

Mrs. Gladys LargeCarnivorousMammal-CommonlyFoundInCanadaAndInManyPartsOfThePolarIceCaps

No Nuts for Me   

Dear Sir,

I am allergic to nuts, and have been for a long time, in fact since before I was born.

It can be a terrible affliction. Last night I went out to a restaurant, and nearly ate a nut by mistake. It had somehow got into my Mango sorbet. I think the waiter was carrying the sorbet and some sort of nut-pudding in the same hand; one of the nuts must have worked it’s way loose and been transferred across the gap between the two puddings, perhaps on the back of a small fly. I spotted it just in time, partially concealed beneath a sliver of imitation lemon rind. I didn’t blame the waiter, because I felt it was an accident that could have happened to anyone. But perhaps more care is needed when dealing with nuts and people who don’t like nuts?

I avoid watching adverts on the television in case one comes on for Snickers. I saw a Topic wrapper in the street last July and screamed.

Yours sincerely,

Commander Alwyn Cranberry (OBE, KCVO, NUTS)

Monkeying About

Dear Sir,

I write in the hope that one of your readers can help me; I am at my wit’s end. Last Christmas my wife and I purchased a monkey from a travelling gypsy. The vet told us that, whilst the money would be fun for a while, when it grew older it may become savage. We laughed this off, thinking that the vet was jealous that we had a monkey and he didn’t.

The monkey went savage last Saturday. It pulled off my wife’s arms and now carries them about in a Gucci bag. It drowned all of our children and flushed the cat down the toilet. Then it sent me out to buy ice cream.

I’d forgotten that we’d invited Ken Jones and his wife around for a barbeque. The monkey let them in, invited them to sit down while it got some nibbles, pretended it had to go to the toilet, and then poisoned their Pims.

It’s sick!

I am hiding in the airing cupboard as I type this; I think I may be able to plug my laptop into the telephone port if I can hook the cable with a coat hanger…I can hear the monkey!

The monkey’s coming! Someone hep me!

If you have any interesting things you’d like to Tell Someone, please send them to the Spoon’s highly competent editorial team
(The Clockwork Times reserves the right to change what you send us to make it funnier. If you feel this humiliates you in any way, please send your complaint to: Tell Someone, The Clockwork Times, 7 Ladle Buildings, EC1)