News: Train derailed as driver forgets to post letter.

At 08:57 the 07:43 train from Birchington-on-Sea derailed shortly before Heme Bay Station when the driver, Mr Pete Henk, remember that he had forgotten to post a letter to his grandmother, thanking her for his birthday present, a clock. When the realisation came upon him, he knew he had to take action.

“I felt the letter in my inside jacket pocket, and panicked. I took a deep breath, calmed myself and thought what I needed to do. The only option available to me was to divert the train past the post box on the corner of Bognor Drive and Fleetwood Avenue”

Mr Henk then used a secret braking and accelerating technique to launch the train off the tracks and down the embankment.

letterbox was out of reach…

“I could see the road junction in front of me and the pillar box on the corner. Unfortunately the train ground to a halt at the bottom of the embankment and the letter box was still out of reach.”

When questioned how he expected to get the train back on the tracks, Mr Henk could only reply “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead”.

Thankfully no one was seriously hurt, and Mrs Davis from 46 Sandown Drive kindly offered everyone a toffee apple.

 

News: Tory orbit blunder

By Gil Remington, Science Correspondent

The Tories, in a fresh setback that will dismay Iain Duncan Smith, have gone into space. The shock news was flashed around Westminster during the early hours of this afternoon.

The going-into-space happened just as the Commons had reconvened after their usual six-hour lunch break. According to eyewitnesses, the Tories were just taking their seats when they went into space. Julius Feelie, Liberal Democrat MP for Lingerie & Curtain Fabrics West, was one of the first on the scene. “One second they were taking their seats, the next they had gone completely into space. This hadn’t been a tabled motion; they hadn’t received permission from the Speaker. I think it must have been a terrible accident”.

Space. The final frontier.

With the threat from the Liberal Democrats at it’s most credible since 1345, the going-into-space will be regarded by many as a strategic blunder. “They should really be concentrating on their policies for the next election, not going into space”, said inflatable Labour spokesperson, Rubber Johnson. “I really can’t see what good going into space is going to do them. They’ll be up there for at least two years. When Labour last went into space, they received an absolute thrashing from the Thatcher Government when they got back. The Tories were able to say to the electorate, ‘look, Labour don’t care about you; they’re more interested in going into space

Oh b*ll*cks, I’ve sprung a leak. Blow on that would you?

With strong lunar currents predicted by Michael Fish, there is a real possibility the Tories may reach Jupiter by mid-Theresa-May, unless they manage to latch onto one of the freak off-planet drifts that are occasionally produced by strong blasts of fart from enormous galactic hamsters. But with many predicting the complete disappearance of the Conservative Party, is this going-into-space really the final curtain?“

At least we CAN go into space”, said a defiant Duncan Smith from inside his custom-built ceramic wheelbarrow. “The Lib Dems tried it in the fifties, and only got as high as tree level”

 

News: Stolen Car Found in Stolen Baby

Parents of 4 month year old Susie Wilden we relieved to find their family salon car safe and sound inside their you daughter. Mrs Wilden had left Susie playing in the front garden of their house in Brighton le Sands when she heard the telephone ringing.

“I took the call for vacuum bag cleaning services, and after politely refusing the salesman, I went back outside and saw both my car and Susie had vanished!”

Mrs Wilden ran to look up and down the street.

“Firstly I thought she had gone to visit Marley in Devon Cheyne Close, but she couldn’t have travelled that far in such a short time.”

She called the Police, who arrived interfrastically.

After a detailed search of the area, baby Susie was soon found, and on closer inspection, so was the Volkswagen Passat.

Police blame digested car on “ingredients
of evil” cakes such as this.

 

“I was delighted to be reunited with Susie” said Mrs Wilden, “though was troubled at the amount on weight she appeared to have gained in her short absence, and the whereabouts of the car” Baby Susie weighed in at 1.3 tonnes, and this lead police to the conclusion that she had swallowed the car.

The kidnapers have not yet been found, Police are still waiting to examine Susie’s Stool sample.

 

Party Conference Reveals Labour Split

By Our Chief Political Editor, Royston McCoy, at the Labour Party Conference in Bournemouth

Labour have experienced their most embarrassing split yet, coming only mid-way through their annual party conference. The split occurred during a brief questions and answers session, hosted by Cheddar Thwat (MP, Little Winkle & Sniff), and is reported to be the most divisive split yet recorded in the history of the Labour movement. (This outweighs even the split that occurred during the Atlee administration, when seven badgers were delivered to a party of eight).

According to eyewitnesses, Mr. Thwat had just fielded a question from a delegate present at the conference, when the split appeared. “One minute, Mr. Thwat was fielding a question from a delegate present at the conference, the next, a split appeared”, said a visibly shaken party member. Another quickly agreed. “Mr Thwat had just fielded a question from a delegate present at the conference, and the next thing we knew, this split appeared. Just appeared like that”. The split, reported by many as being huge, appeared so suddenly that many party members were knocked off their chairs. Mike Judge, MP for Bognor & Inverness Broadway, had the misfortune to be sitting at the front of the auditorium, just to the right of the stage. “I was just getting to my feet to ask a question of Mr. Thwat, when this enormous split came flying out of nowhere and smacked me hard in the lower bowels. I was catapulted into the air and wound up on a balcony overlooking the seafront. Apart from the throbbing pain, it was a nice view, so I sat there for a while with some fish & chips”.

Maksim Alyoshin is sitting here in a classic pose from
male floor exercise, in perfect split with perfect toe point.

The split comes just at the wrong time for Tony Blair, who had hoped to avoid any splits during what is certainly his most turbulent time as Prime Minister. “We came down from London in a small Fiat instead of the usual limo, in the hope that any split on the prowl wouldn’t notice”, said presidential minder, Bob Woof. “But we failed to take into account that your average split has a very keen eye for car deception. I think it must have strapped itself to the roof rack”. His colleague, Such Lambways, agreed. “It was either a roof rack split, or perhaps a direction-asking split. Although in my view, it could easily have been a train-booking, taxi-riding-from-the-station split, with luggage and a pre-booked ticket”. Several security personnel attempted, through the use of force and bible reading, to contain the split, which by this time had devoured sixteen gold-painted foldaway chairs, and a small pie.

However, it was only as the Prime Minister himself took to the stage, that the split began to show its true colours.

“The split began to show its true colours just as the Prime Minister appeared on the stage”, said the PM’s divinely delectable assistant, Caroline Buttermee-Strictly. “I knew it was going to go for him; he was wearing a very smart suit, which must be a red rag to a bull for a split intent on mischief. Poor Mr. Blair was a sitting target. I have a room upstairs by the way if you’re interested?”

The split bounced around the PM with deliberate cunning, before messing up his hair. But before it could do any worse, it was contained by Police Chief Constable Alan Wrong. “I managed to subdue the split through means of shouting and a large sack. I shouted at the split in high falsetto, until it backed into the sack and was tied up by my deputy. It is now being held at Bournemouth Police Station until such time as it promises to go home. I have a room upstairs by the way if you’re interested?”

The Prime Minister was able, after extensive hair-ministry, to continue with his speech, which mentioned the NHS, Iraq and some other things. But with the state of Labour’s trousers now, the next session of Parliament promises to be one of his most
challenging yet.

Badgers should not be given to under-fives.

 

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.

 

News: Where is Turtle?

Fears were growing last night for Turtle, the Foreign Office chief who went missing on Tuesday night. Despite a sighting near Cheam, the 43 year old’s whereabouts remain a mystery.

A spokesperson for the Foreign Office confirmed yesterday afternoon that on Wednesday morning, Turtle had been “arguing loudly” with a colleague, possibly Jack Straw, and had eaten the office stapler. “That was the last we heard of him. He left in a huff and said something about Hitler”, said Janet Fond, 92, a Government official.

Turtle at the Washington Convention, 1995

Drummed In
Turtle has been in charge of the Foreign Office since 1978. It was he who led Britain into the Falklands Conflict four years later, and it was only by his swift intervention and legendary powers of diplomacy that the UK avoided war with Corsica in 1991.

His last minute compromise on Herring quotas and official branding of Sardinia as “Wanky”, caused the then Corsican Governor Francois Parsnip to withdraw his tanks from Barnes Common. Lady Thatcher declined to comment in person as she jogged past my office, but later she issued this statement to some newspapers: “Without Turtle, Britain would currently be ruled by communists, and for that we are half-heartedly grateful. We are concerned for his safety and our thoughts are with his friends and family at this bloody awful time. We hope he’s not been rogered by a squirrel”.

 

News: Heat wave threatens straw man

Police are today increasing their efforts to save straw man, Vincent Galapagos, from the worst heat wave to strike Britain in more than two thousand years. Mr. Galapagos, a diving instructor from Petersfield, is being constantly doused with a special mixture of water and Fairy Liquid in an attempt to stop him becoming a flaming inferno. Chief Constable Wink Manillo spoke to us.
“Obviously, this is a very difficult time for Mr. Galapagos. The heat particularly affects people who are made of straw, or indeed any other flammable material. We are working with the local fire-service to ensure that he does not become a human torch. Although if he does, rest assured we will have a barbeque”.

Vincent Galapagos:

“I’m trying to carry on as usual”

SWANS
Britain is currently experiencing the severest temperatures since the fall of the Roman Empire. Scientists predict that, if it gets any worse, the world will become so hot only ants could survive. Professor Max Wiltshire, Senior Researcher of Heat at the University of East Feltham, believes that what we are witnessing is very possibly the end of the world. “I don’t think it is any sort of exaggeration to say that, whilst it may not happen, it could so easily possibly happen. Yes. Definitely. The potential is almost certainly there. I wouldn’t like to comment, but if I had to, I would say to people: get out. Leave. Run away from the heat; go by bicycle if you have to. Just get going. Wine gum?”

BOLTON WANDERERS NIL, DURHAM THREE
But not everybody is concerned by Professor Wiltshire’s theories. Bob Dundee has been selling ice cream from his van for the past twenty-five years. “Well, I’ve never had business like it”, he said. “People are guzzling cornets like you wouldn’t believe. I’m selling out by half ten at the moment. Even dogs are queuing up to get some. I can overcharge them because they don’t understand money”.
His friend, Barry Smart, is also doing a roaring trade. “When I first started selling water-filled mice, no one wanted them. Now this heat wave’s come along, people can’t get enough of them. I don’t know why, but I’m forcing water into mice as quickly as customers can buy them. I don’t know what they do with them, but that’s up to them. It’s disgusting really”.

HANG ON BETTY; I’VE GOT IT CAUGHT
Back in Petersfield, the battle for Mr. Galapagos continues. “We had a nasty scare earlier, when Vincent fell into an open pottery kiln that some wally had left lying about in his workshop”, recounts Chief Constable Manilla. Apart from that, and the blowtorch fiasco, I think we’re winning”.
But if this searing tidal wave of pent-up hellfire continues to escalate, will there be real casualties?
“It’s hard to say”, says Professor Wiltshire from his sky-dome above Malmesbury. “But if I was pushed to answer, I’d say yes. Definitely. No question. Fruit pastille?”

If you’d like to help Mr. Galapagos, and others like him, please send a donation to the Spoon’s Help Vincent Galapagos & Others Like Him Appeal, The Spoon, 7 Ladle Buildings, EC1.
Alternatively, simply post your credit card details to Gil Remington, and he’ll be happy to see that your hard-earned cash gets to where it’s needed.

(Please note: All donations are made at cardholder’s own risk. Someone stole my Thundercats mug last week, and I think it was Gil Remington. Ed.)

 

News: Blair – “I have every confidence in Timmy”

Prime Minister Tony Blair stunned the world yesterday by claiming that he retained every confidence in his embattled Director of Strategy & Communications, Timmy Silly.

This amazing statement fell off the Prime Minister’s tongue literally seconds after Silly fell through a first-floor Downing Street window clutching a pot plant, as Gordon Brown was making his annual budget statement.

Questions have since been raised about Silly’s suitability for the job.

Timmy Silly was appointed to the role after the departure of Alistair Campbell earlier this year. He had a background in newspaper journalism and horticulture that seemed to make him ideal for the position. Labour Press Chief Brian Rigmarole interviewed him personally.

“Timmy struck me as a highly enthusiastic, sensible candidate, with a good knowledge of all relevant issues of the day. He also struck me with a table lamp that had become caught on his sleeve, but that was a mistake anyone could have made. John Prescott knocked me out of a zeppelin over Bognor during the ’97 election. These things happen”.

One of Silly’s first challenges in office was to take charge of the embarrassing cash-for-bird seed row that had threatened to tear the Government down the middle.

Critics say Silly inflamed the row still further by chasing an escaped pelican around the Common’s Lobby with no pants on, but that, says the Prime Minister’s official spokesman, was part of his strategy.

“Silly always knew what he was doing, even when it frequently appeared otherwise”, said a clearly uncomfortable Michael You. “Look at the facts; did the bird-seed row disappear? Yes, eventually”.

Silly also played a key role in the recent Hovis Scandal that nearly tore the Government down the middle. Bread had been disappearing from homeless shelters during the autumn of 2003, and the press were getting uncomfortably inquisitive. Fingers were pointed at Home Office Minister and pigeon fancier, John Mc John, who denied any knowledge. “I have never solicited bread from homeless shelters”, he claimed in a commons statement. But when Opposition MPs spotted six currant buns and a Danish pastry tumble from his breast pocket after a particularly heated exchange, Silly had to act quickly.
“All of a sudden, Timmy Silly came swinging down from the press gallery on the end of a long stretch of nylon”, said Shadow Elephant Seal Spokesman, Alan Muff. “He flashed past the despatch box and crashed into Speaker Michael Martin. No one knew what he’d been doing, or what the banner round his neck read, but it certainly buried the bread debate. It was clever, very clever”.

Most recently, Silly had been credited with saving his political masters from the Cheddar Gorge Fiasco that nearly split Tony Blair’s trousers down the middle. “Questions had been asked about the presence of a large banjo-playing hen down the bottom of Cheddar Gorge”, said Environmental Expert Robin Tea. “Was it for real? Had it been mutated? Why did it keep singing ‘Rumpo-di-diddle-di-do? These sorts of questions were highly embarrassing for a Government that had been elected on the basis of it’s absolutely no mutating of hens, weasels or muesli bars policy”. But as soon as the press got hold of footage of Silly being pulled along Whitehall, with his braces caught on the back of a roller-skating Japanese tourist, interest in the huge musical hen speedily evaporated.

Political analyst Kevin Fire believes the Prime Minister would be foolish to get rid of Timmy Silly.
“The man’s an absolute genius. Every single time any scandal has reared it’s ugly head, Timmy Silly has been there to clear it up. His political coup-de-grace must surely be the time he jumped an ass over the wall of Buckingham Palace, wearing nothing but a small pottery model of Barnet, and a large plastic bag from the Argos Summer Sale, and ploughed headlong into Prince Phillip. Suddenly, all the media were on him, and Tony Blair completely got away with invading Wales. Genius”.

With Silly’s future hanging uncomfortably in the balance, Tony Blair must be carefully weighing up the pros and cons of retaining his Chief Spin Doctor. On the plus side, anything he does can be eclipsed behind one of Silly’s comic accidents, but on the minus side, it can often look more than a little undignified during official state visits.
Said Michael You, “Vladimir Putin was clearly displeased to see Timmy Silly come through the ceiling in a bath and land on his wife during a recent stay at Downing Street. An immense amount of plaster tumbled down, together with several gallons of lukewarm water and a wind-up frog. It was a disaster”.
“But”, he adds with a rye smile, “it certainly ensured no one ever got to hear about Peter Hain’s desperate plan to sellotape Britain to Belgium…oh”.

“Silly!”

 

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).

 

Campbell’s shoeshine is Pope

It was revealed today that Downing Street Spokesman Alastair Campbell’s infamous Shoeshine Boy, Roy Dubbles, has been made the 115th Pope in a secret ceremony in Prestwick.

The shock announcement came hours after Dubbles, 56, had made his intention to leave Campbell’s employ clear in a circular email to his mates. The Vatican is not sure how seriously to take the claims, but has sent its Christ-in-a-crisis envoy Luigi “Brown Skids” Veccotti to London to “have a shout at the man”.

IT’S LOADED 
Roy Dubbles, who famously shined the PM’s Chief of Communication nude during a visit by the Vice- President of Sweden, was not available for comment today, but his former employer Campbell today held a Press Conference, citing “extreme boredom” as a major cause. Having answered a barrage of questions on various General Knowledge subjects, he concluded by appealing to the public for “Trust. Trust plain and simple. You must must must trust the Prime Minister and I on this. If you cannot trust Mr. Blair and I, who are you going to trust, eh? Eh?”.

That shut them up for a while, but then Campbell was assailed with a new volley of questions, such as “Where’s my wallet? (Tipping Marper, The Times), “Have you seen my wallet?” (Brenda Brenda, The Spectator) and “Do you know where my wallet is?” (Ian Pleurisy, The Mirror). The PM’s press man shrugged these off, quickly leaving the room and shouting, “Have you checked your back pockets?” Truro is not in Perthshir

 

News: FBU boss eats own son

Check daily after a warm shower, or ask your GP for a leaflet.

Fire Union chief Andy Gilchrist stirred controversy yesterday by eating his nine-year-old son, Jeffrey. Mr Gilchrist, still smarting from claims he sat on the face of a jockey, devoured his first-born after losing a bet about the duration of last week’s Fire Strike. When pressed for comment, the FBU leader explained, “These things happen. I’m not proud, but must look forward to the future. This is not the issue. The point is, when will all those hard working firemen and women get the increases in…” The interview was then cut short as Mr. Gilchrist coughed up a small hand.

“Look Ma, I caught a Fraggle”

Jeffrey is not the first victim of a union boss’s insatiable appetite for human flesh. In March 1985 Arthur Scargill, then campaigning against puffin abuse, ate a milkman, three tourists and a cocktail waiter he had met in London’s West-End.

“Dixit dominus implevies venit”

Mr. Gilchrist will have difficulty shaking this slur off though, especially at this crucial time in ACAS talks. Only yesterday, Fire bosses and the government were on the verge of agreeing that fire fighters would be allowed free access to “Paul Royal’s Royal Pool” in Tichfield and a discount
Looking for: Seventeen shrews. (Must be in a line) Contact Dr. Ricky Lapel, 2 The Gables, Shrewsbury.
on hake at all branches of Mr Chippy if they agreed to abandon plans for further strikes, and accepted a 40% pay cut. “Those plans have been shelved” said Deputy PM John Prescott, 71, this morning. “I’ve put them behind the Frosties where the kids can’t get to them”.

 

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)

 

Review: Going Out? Let the CT be your Guide!

“Spadulorum!”

Be amongst the first to see Charles Schwing’s latest musical blockbuster, Spadulorum!
Four children from Hackney buy a faulty kettle, and are catapulted into the fantasy world of Spadulorum! where the evil ruler Wazguard has banned camping, except with caravans. Together with their new-found companions, Miffo the talking stoat, Lupinia the Wonderbra, and a prawn-sandwich called Patrick, the four must do battle with Wazguard’s Pillow-Men to bring justice to the people of Spadulorum who can’t afford to invest in a motor-home.

“Some of the songs are quite good” (Evening Standard)
“I liked the bit near the middle” (The Times)
“Evocative, powerful, deeply tragic and immensely moving; the finest Les Mis yet. Sorry, I went to the wrong theatre. What’s ‘Spadulorum’ then? (The Daily Telegraph)

Spadulorum! is showing at the Children’s Theatre, Stoke Newington, until 3rd June.

Wazguard revokes Daisy Poppet’s HGV licence, in a scene from Spadulorum!

“The Secret Life Of Rosie May”

David Yemming brings Anne Spudly’s wartime romance vividly to the stage, in this exuberant production.

Rosie May is an orphaned eighteen year-old, living in the slums of Whitechapel in 1943. But her life changes for the better when she is adopted by Lord Malory St. Simon, and taken to live in his country seat in deepest Worcestershire. There, she begins a romance with the Lord, whilst at the same time being wooed by his youngest son, Tristram. But her life is complicated by the arrival of Sir. Sydney Duckington, and his elder brother, Everett, with the latter’s butler, Mr. Puffington also taking a shine to the inexperienced young girl. Rosie’s misadventures ultimately lead her to her true love, Captain Alistair Ransom, via the gardener, the stable-boy, the milkman, the parish priest, the local PC, the cook, the gamekeeper and Lord St Simon’s sister, Brenda. But just as she finds true happiness with Captain Ransom, he reveals a terrible secret…

“Bloody hell. I never thought I’d see that sort of thing on the stage” (The Guardian)
“Brave isn’t the word for Yemming’s production; even ‘raunchy’ doesn’t cover it” (The Independent on Sunday)
“See this before it gets banned!” (The Observer)
“Flipping ‘eck” (Evening Standard)
“Absolute filth; I’m going again tonight” (The Daily Telegraph)
“Me too, but don’t tell the wife” (The Times)
“Wa-hey!” (The FT)
“Vulgar and rude” (Woman’s Own)

The Secret Life of Rosie May is showing at The Peephole, under Holborn viaduct, until probably sometime tomorrow afternoon.