thanks to Inchcock for the pic
P.S. wonder what the plot’s about? Anyone got any ideas?
Posted on November 6, 2016 at 8:34 pm in humor, humour, Picture Post | RSS feed
When -Tartan- Tarzan saw the amazing Amazons, he couldn’t control his -coc- croc.
Tempted though I am to contribute to this venture, I feel that I can’t fully commit my creative talents, knowing that they are likely to be ‘Edited by ratty’.
Now, the last thing I would want to do is to be casting aspersions (see above), but you could well be right a cocky little northern git.
Strewth! He didn’t waste any time there, did he?
-Tempted though I am to contribute to this venture, I feel that I can’t fully commit my creative talents, knowing that they are likely to be ‘Edited by ratty’-
I am delighted to participate in this venture, mainly due to ratty red-pencilling my inadequate contributions and, thankfully, making me look less foolish.
Right. Now, about the casting . . .
I am definitely not getting on your couch.
“Hey, Duncan, go catch me a crocodile.
“And make it snappy!”
And all because the lady loves . . .
I’m bound to ask – do Britney Spears stick in Brooke Shields?
There must be a food theme somewhere, as well.
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Only if you Hurley them Halle Berry hard.
An author named Edgar Rice Burroughs (no, not a rumour, a fact)
Decided to write a new ‘Tarzan’, and ‘luvvies’ got in on the act
Producer was Duncan The Tartan (and though on the list he was last)
He decided to commission sticky to help him assemble a cast
But this job came with a proviso – it really does seem like a farce
For Duncan said “Cast me as Tarzan, or, laddie, you’re out on your arse!”
He knew to recruit as Director a rigorous, painstaking man
But, not being able to reach him, he offered it to NobblySan
He needed someone to edit, when others had finished their task
But Duncan’s old blogging mate Inchcock said he knew just who he should ask
He’d heard of a fellow called ratty who, when he was back in ‘the ‘wall’
Was known in the suburbs of Truro as greatest ‘ead ‘itter of all
So sticky got on with the project, and worked like a man half-insane
To win one of Hollywood’s beauties – Elizabeth Hurley as Jane
With such a big name on the billing, the others were forming a queue
And soon he had Halle Berry, Brooke Shields and Britney Spears too
Enough, though, about sticky’s conquests, he signed them up into the roles
And then off they jetted to LA, where people are selling their souls
The film was an outstanding turkey – they couldn’t establish a plot
The women were fighting for ‘frame time’, and vying to get the best shot
Poor Duncan was food for piranhas – his skeleton found on the bank
And Nobbly was last seen in Lima, attempting to get back to Manc
We don’t know what happened to ratty – he tore right off in his Scirocco
But I’ve heard reliable rumours, he’s holed-up somewhere in Morocco
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Brilliant ! ! !
Some people just have waaaay too much time on their hands.
I thought he was trying to hold down a respectable job in order to fund his retirement, not frittering away his day writing works of art.
Gosh. Nobbly, and it was only ONE word.
(By the way, what did you make of sticky’s poem ?)
No, really, you flatter me, kind sirs!
No, stop, I insist!
Oh, you have.
I feel a comic novel coming on, so I may be frittering away more time than this: that day of retirement may be sooner than you think . . .
The story so far.
It had been a dark and stormy night with a 90% chance of hail, and strong wind warnings for coastal areas around Birmingham. However, the met office being what it is, the sun had awoken to find Tarzan and his dogs enjoying a perfect summer’s morning in the park.
Tarzan was minding his own business as usual, settling down on the park bench to admire page 3 of the paper he’d borrowed from the back of Tesco’s. The dogs had a jogger baled up beside the children’s playground, with negotiations well under way for payment of a fiver to let him go, when suddenly…
. . . the sound of a loud whistle blast shattered the morning’s tranquility.
It had emanated from the direction of the nearby Birmingham shipyards, where a four-funnelled Canadian steam freighter was moored while undergoing a refit, before making the perilous journey to India.
A second, steam-filled, blast escaped her funnels, announcing to potential passengers that she would be slipping her moorings on the morning’s high tide.
Named the “SS Laght,” she was admired by many a sailor for her curvaceous lines, wide in the beam and having a bottom covered in barnacles.
For the third time her massive funnels shattered the morning calm – Peep, peep.
Tarzan felt the wander lust arise within his breast . . .
. . . and soon he was standing on the polished planks of the vibrating deck, as she was being made ready to set sail, gazing with some amusement at the frantic activities taking place on the quay.
” . . . Ahoy! Ahoy!”
The frenzied cries of a portly, besuited middle-aged man, walking along the quayside (seemingly with some discomfort, judging by his red face and cross-legged gait), caught Tarzan’s attention.
“I say, old chap, could you tell me where the urinal is?”
“How many funnels does she have?” replied the Man of the Apes.
“Funnels? She doesn’t have any funnels” came the exasperated retort, as the man glanced quizzically at his buxom partner. “Look, I don’t want to piss in a funnel – I just want the bloody urinal!”
“Which line is she, this SS Urinal?” Tarzan’s lilting north-of-the-border burr seemed almost too relaxed for the situation.
“SS Urinal‽ SS Urinal‽ I want the bloody toilet – the WC – not a steamship!”
“Och, why didn’cha say? It’s 200 yards further on, on the left”.
However, Lord Greystroke knew that this was now redundant information . . .
As the portly, besuited middle-aged man hopped from leg to leg, the passengers of the SS Laght reclined on the deckchairs placed on the vibrating (Phwoaar !) deck and waited impatiently for NobblySan’s contribution to this epic tale.
Or, was the “portly, besuited middle-aged man” NobblySan himself ?
And, if so, who was his “buxom partner” ?
. . . for he had recognised something in the voice of the slightly bizarre stranger that had aroused his interest.
Could this strangely clad individual really be the one whom he had been seeking?
As he hobbled away in search of the promised urinal, he thought of his long-lost son, and liquid started to well in his rheumy eyes – a perfect compliment to the stuff making its way down his left leg.
It had all started with a suggestion of a fishing trip to a friend’s place near Edinburgh. The weather was not good, but undeterred he had urged his pilot to carry on into the storm.
When the aeroplane came down, he was prepared, and was clutching his son Damian to his chest. The lad took advantage of the situation to rifle through his Dad’s jacket pocket in search of his wallet and hip flask, and Greystoke was smiling as the fuselage slammed into a row of stone terraced dwellings.
He had awoken three days later in the local cottage hospital and had immediately asked for his son, his wallet and his hip flask.
“Sorry, yair Lairdship” the dour doctor had replied, “But there wiss only ye an’ the deid pilot in the wreckage.” . . .
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