The Team

by MH team

intro-3rd-and-7th

This is the column where, to the palpitating hearts of its female followers and the (understandably) green-eyed jealousy of its male readers, the four administrators responsible for this august organ cast aside their assumed persona and reveal their true identities.

At fastidiously observed, regular sporadic intervals, MH will feature one of its dedicated team along with a true likeness of their real self and a brief glimpse into their awe-inspiring lifestyle – this to be followed up with a more complete profile when they can be arsed.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

This week sees the second instalment from our sticky-fingered proponent of the redistribution of wealth, Tarquin Stickington.

A formidable piece, extolling the merits of solar energy, avante-garde cuisine and the possibility of financial gain  from mingling sociably with inebriated crowds at sporting events.

“A shocking behind-the-scenes look into the day-to-day life of an unscrupulous MH journalist” – (WordPress).

To delve further into the mind of this hirsute, latter-day Artful Dodger, you can read his introductory piece in the comments section, where it appears (inappropriately) in BLUSHING RED and is dated February 27th 2017.

The stage is all yours, sticky . . .

 

Ever fried an egg on a car bonnet on a hot day? Takes some bloody shifting, I can tell you. Reckon I lost 3k on that black Merc because of that. But it just demonstrates the power of our star, and that solar energy is the way to go: free, clean and reliable, just like Doris Maplethorpe at 7 Meadow Cottages. I caught her the other day looking at my column in The Sun (look, I’m entitled to soak up the rays in my own back garden, without somebody swan-necking over the fence!)

So, even on a winter’s day in England, the sun provides enough energy to bump up the temperature in your house. It involves empty drinks cans, but I’ll tell you about it in a later issue. In the meantime I’m trying to get enough cash together to start an eco company, so I’ve begun a crowd-funding initiative. It’s going well, so far. I’ve found that football matches are a good bet: you wouldn’t believe how much money some of those fans take to the match, and they’re usually so pissed that it’s a doddle slipping those wallets out of their pockets! I’ll be getting some tickets for the Grand National and the Derby, as well as the Henley Regatta, Ascot, and all the other big events. Those toffs have so much fucking cash, and drink so fucking much, that those crowds should be easy pickings!

According to the Law of Conservation of Energy (first propounded by Julius Mayer, and not Isaac Newton, as some believe), energy can neither be created nor destroyed, but can be converted from one form to another (a bit like my Law of Conservation of Economics, as outlined above – the cash is converted from theirs to mine). I’m not sure it can be renewed, either, but it certainly can be recovered. That’s what I’m talking about, solar energy. I’m all for getting something for nothing. After all, governments don’t give a crap about the environment: they’re in league with the big energy companies, to screw as much money out of us as they can, so it’s down to us – we, the people – to save ourselves some dosh, and go some way to saving the planet as well (I reckon Mars would be a good choice.)

Anyway, at the moment I’m more concerned with Conservation of My Blood/Alcohol Ratio, so I’m off down to the Bull’s Bollocks to get about 17 pints of Guinness into me.

So, until the next time, make sure you follow the Country Code – “Stay In The Fucking Towns, You Chavs!”

Tarquin.

(To be continued . . .)

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100 Comments to “The Team”

  1. I’m gonna need to witness sticky walk and talk before I can safely rule him out as Torgo….

    Liked by 1 person

  2. The night sky was pierced by a bolt of lightning

    Almost immediately, all power to the house was lost

    ‘Fuck’, said the midwife as she stepped in the piss pot

    ‘Fuck’, said the woman screaming on the bed

    ‘Fuck’, said the bairn as he shot out from between the woman’s legs, like a cork out of a bottle, and – avoiding the midwife’s flailing arms, distracted as she was by the piss pot on her foot – struck his head against the foot of the bed before the umbilical cord yanked him back towards the warm, safe accommodation he had so recently been evicted from

    Thus did I make my appearance in the world – whilst performing my first, and only, bungee jump

    As I started on my second descent, the midwife recovered her wits and seized me in a tight embrace

    ‘Got the wee bastard’, she exclaimed triumphantly, holding me aloft

    ‘Jings’, said a big, hairy man at the foot o’ the bed – a hip flask in one hand, a samosa in the other – ‘wud ye look at the size o’ yon !. There’s nae doot wha his faither is ’

    ‘Haud yer wheesht, ye daft eejit’, cried the midwife. ‘Ye need tae gang tae Specsavers. That’s no his dick – that’s the fucken umbilical cord’

    to be continued . . .

    Like

  3. The details of Duncan’s birth helps me a little in my understanding of him.

    Not a lot, but a little.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. That – Mr Duncan, sir, is a work of sheer genius.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. So it all started with a bungee jump? You really were an adventurous little tyke right from the get go.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Nobbly’s Intro . . .

    Dear readers,

    I am known to millions, and loved by at least half a dozen, under my nom-de-plume of NobblySan.

    However, in the interests of promoting their policy of transparency and accountability, I have been requested by my employers, Nottinghamshire County Council, to make public my true identity and job title – together with details of my role within the council.

    My real name is Mr James Q. Kirk, and I hold the position of Senior Traffic Enforcement Officer, within the Nottingham County Council Highways Department (Interstellar Division)

    Together with my long-time colleague Sid Pock, we patrol Nottinghamshire and several nearby galaxies, in our specially adapted ‘Constitution ‘ class Ford Transit, marked with the council’s fleet number NCC-1701.

    The van has been adapted from the standard Transit (the sort that you’ll be used to seeing teararsing through red lights while the driver texts his missus, before fly-tipping his load of builder’s waste in a lay-by) by the addition of a warp drive, some phaser cannon, and room in the back for a few road cones, flashing lights and a spare bag of dilithium crystals.

    Sid (he’s a right miserable bastard – never smiles, but does raise a mean eyebrow when you suggest that he buys the bacon butties) and I, take our enforcement duties seriously.

    Only last week I recorded in my Traffic officer’s log no fewer than 37 incidents in one single stardate. These ranged from relatively minor things such as a broken down Nissan X-trail on the A1 near Newark, to the more serious end of the scale in the form of a Klingon battle fleet parked illegally in Retford high street.

    The X-trail had run out of petrol, and was soon restarted after Sid handed over the can of unleaded that he was drinking, while we had the Klingons back on the move after I’d given their fleet commander a stern talking to – blocking the centre of an entire market town while you try to blag your way into the bogs in the local Costa Coffee is NOT reasonable behaviour in my book. We kept an eye on them as they left Retford, and followed them at a safe distance for a couple of light years just to be on the safe side.

    Anyhow, must dash – duty calls and all that.

    I’ll keep you up to date with my exploits later, if time and space (the final frontier) permit.

    Cheerio!

    Like

  7. Capitan Little Hitler, dat’s wot e iz.

    Yeh, big sweet smile, smart uniform an’ all dat, but he’s still Intergalactic Highway Five-Oh.

    It’s gettin’ on me babylons how many times he’s tried pullin me ova fe speedin around Jupita.

    It’s coz I iz Klingon, innit ?

    Or is it coz I is scaly purple-greenish ?

    . . . AND as yous seen da size hof those Capitans logs ?!?!

    Liked by 1 person

    • Yep. Scaly’d down, more like?

      Like

    • It’s OK, sir. no need to furrow your brow at me in that manner.

      I have checked with the manager of Retford Costa, and she tells me that that was the second time in as many stardates that you have tried using their toilets without buying so much as a single espresso.

      That in itself is of no concern to me in my capacity as a traffic enforcement officer, but the small matter of 72 battle cruisers taking up a ‘deliveries only’ parking spot outside the Tesco Express most certainly is.

      If I see you there again, 72 parking tickets will ensue.

      Like

  8. S.Pock, the tight bastard, “raises a mean eyebrow when you suggest that he buys the bacon butties.”

    But I’ll bet his ears prick up when it’s your turn !

    Like

  9. Damnit, Nobbly, I just got done talking down a rabid TOS fan who started vibrating and foaming at the mouth when I compared Shatner to Trump. Narcissist Personality Disorder in da house, y’all.

    Like

  10. Ms. ratty, daughter of Lord and Lady Roe-Dent of Fircombe Hall, was on her way home from France for her mid-term break.

    She arrived a little later than expected.

    Apparently, she had started her journey, Mary Poppins style, on her intergalactic red Raleigh drop handle-barred Mach IX supersonic bicycle.

    Like all women, she has a terrible sense of direction, and took a wrong turn over the Straits of Gibraltar and ended up circling the planet Omega IV, where she was pulled over by two uniformed men from Nottingham County Council, who were travelling in a Ford Transit van that had been duct-taped to the fuselage of an interplanetary space vehicle. They said she was in their air space and exceeding the 30,000 miles per hour speed limit.

    She described one of the men as having horizontal bracket-style eyebrows, pointed lug-holes and sporting an early Beatles style haircut. She was not so kind when describing the other.

    Both, she said, carried themselves with an air of self-importance and walked like they had a carrot stuck up their arse.

    Eventually, they let her off with a verbal warning after she had slipped them both a 50 kripton Space Traveller’s cheque.

    I am going to bring this matter up with the Interplanetary Highways’ Space Council.

    Disgusting behaviour, by Jupiter !

    Like

  11. next up – it’s Sticky’s story . . .

    Hello everybody, Tarquin Stickington here, but known to all my friends everybody else as ‘sticky’.

    Following on from a fine education as Chief Fag at a top public school, I left the University of Doncaster with an Honours Degree in Bovine Coprology in 1992, bent on a job in environmental protection (fortunately, I managed to find a good chiropracter, so I can now walk upright again).

    I began my journalistic career as editorial spleen-venter on the Cleckheaton Courier before securing the position of Ecology Editor at Knitting Today magazine. Whilst there, by a process of subterfuge, fraud and public-school bullshit, I managed to extort acquire funding for an exploratory expedition to Morocco, Goa and Kathmandu, to establish the effects of global warming on their respective communities.

    Returning three years later via Ibiza, I experienced Nirvana. Now I have all their albums (or is that KC and the Sunshine Band? I’m always getting them mixed up for some reason).

    After a spell as a ‘beach bum’ in Ayia Napa (that beach bum is a pretty painful condition, by the way, so just be careful if you visit such exotic places), I found myself squatting in Wright-Upham, where I now live (fortunately, I had plenty of paper in my pockets).

    I can’t remember how I washed up at the MH, but I seem to think it had something to do with seventeen pints of Guinness and half a bottle of Fairy Liquid.

    I have my ear to the ground when it comes to eco matters – it’s my usual position when ejected from my local pub, the Bull’s Bollocks. Normally after seventeen pints of Guinness.

    A friend and confidant of several well-known and influential people (such as Nick Leeson, David Shayler and John Darwin), you can count on me to bring you the latest news about the losing battle by sincere but sad bastards to save our doomed planet.

    With a wealth of experience of breathing polluted air and eating pesticide-laden food, you can be assured that I have my finger on the pulse . . . it’s there. Somewhere. I just felt it, I swear. Can somebody please call a doctor . . . ?

    Like

  12. Hurrah for Tarquin Stickinsect!

    You know, mate – after all these years of writing bollocks together, I never had you down as a bloody tree-hugging eco-loon.

    Nonetheless, us Toyota Prius drivers have to stick together. The fact that I drive one because it does 60-odd to the gallon and appeals to the Scots side of the family does not lessen my eco-credentials one bit. Hell no!

    I’m all for saving the planet. After all, it’s the only one we’ve got, and you can’t get a decent pint anywhere else in the universe.

    I know . . . me and Sid have tried all the pubs.

    Like

    • Look mate, when you’ve downed 17 pints of Guinness, hugging a tree is one of the safest things you can do.

      A Prius? I prefer the comfort of my 1982 v12 Jag, I’m afraid. Bit of a strain on the wallet sometimes, but what the hell – you only live once. Make it as comfortable as you can, I say.

      Well, the people who own the restaurant at the end of the universe have a branch at the end of the Galaxy (Ford told me . . . ). They have a decent pint of Tetley’s there, so I’d give it a go, next time you’re out there.

      By the way, whoever edited my bit above needs his arse kicking. Was it that ratty bloke?

      Anyway, I’ve got to get out and do something about that bypass . . .

      Like

  13. You don’t frighten us with your big words.

    Like

  14. ratty’s intro :

    In early infancy I was assessed, by the Council of Planetary Elders, as falling short of the minimum intelligence level. Consequently, I was rejected by both my father, Jar-o-jam, and my mamma, Laed, and exiled from my home planet of Krapton and transported in a Klingonfilm wrapped space capsule to the primitive planet Earth and there, fly-tipped at the side of a little used Cornish country roadside.

    It was here, amongst the assortment of abandoned domestic appliances, refrigerators, knackered mattresses, potato peelings and old car tyres, that I had the good fortune to be discovered by a kindly local farmer and his wife, who took me in and raised me as their own.

    My adoptive parents gave me the name “ratty,” which puzzled me a little, but after becoming better acquainted with them I came to realise that, along with being a benevolent, compassionate and good-hearted couple, they could occasionally be a couple of right fucking turds !

    My formative years were spent divided between attending the local school – The Stan O’Meel University & Creche – and working in the fields. It was in the latter, at the tender age of eleven months, clay pipe of rough shag firmly clenched between my (as yet, toothless) gums, that I established a reputation for myself as a promising man of toil – and astounded the yokel community by ploughing an acre of land in under sixty seconds, single-handed, and with not as much as a plough in sight.

    As adolescence approached I began to display even more superhuman qualities. These, along with the strong moral compass my adoptive parents had instilled in me, I resolved to use as a means to jack in this shitty lifestyle and have a good time somewhere lively (oh – and, of course, it goes without saying) for the benefit of mankind too, by adhering myself to the championing of the oppressed and, moreover, to help the people of the world stick firmly together in the face of adversity and to give their exploitive masters a good pasting.

    To that purpose, I assumed the secret identity – Superglueman.

    Therefore, bored shitless with farming and longing for a more exciting lifestyle, it was on my 16th birthday, and armed with nothing but my extraordinary abilities, a steely resolve, a packet of fags and a pocketful of beer money, that I left my tranquil Cornish settings and crossed over the border to the mayhem of the Metrapocalypse, a world ravaged by greed, corruption and moral decline. – Yeh, right on, baby !

    And so it was, that I found myself in the city of Burningham.

    In the search for a job that would provide cover for my real purposes, I read the situations vacant columns of the Metatrollop Daily Gannet, where I noticed an advert, placed by the world renowned Caledonian editor, DuncanR, who was looking for a bespectacled, mild-mannered reporter who could run faster than a speeding bullet, have the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound and was more powerful than a locomotive, (though what the fuck that had to do with anything, was beyond me) to work on a new and influential blogazine.

    What a plonker, I thought, where’s he going to find someone like that, and then . . . WHAM . . . I had a lightbulb moment, as my faster-than-the-speed-of-light brain went into overdrive.

    So I called the Kilt-clad Caledonian Mega-Media-Mogul Millionaire to arrange a meeting. He suggested an interview be held in the relaxed and convivial atmosphere of his local boozer.

    After a right piss-up (where I stood all the rounds) and which bore not the slightest resemblance to an interview, I accepted his slurred offer of employment, and at a mind boggling salary (none) largely because, situated close to the converted caravan MH offices, existed a public telephone kiosk that I could use to spin round at a supersonic speed, and emerge dressed in my blue onesie and spare-room curtain, and so I became a member of the MH’s small team. A perfect camouflage for my covert humanistic missions. Who could suspect me of being the heroic, but non-judgemental Superglueman, when I was teamed with such utter dross ?

    . . . Pardon me a moment, the ticker tape machine . . .

    News is just coming in. A speeding meteorite is headed on a collision course with our planet.

    SHITE !

    Do I have to do everything around here ?

    Bollocks, I’ll finish me pint and ciggie first.

    (In the next instalment of this story, I shall tell you all about my crime fighting adventures and getting my first BJ).

    Like

  15. Superglueman!

    What a man!

    Oh, bollocks – my punctuation is letting me down again: That should have read:-

    “What? A man?”

    Like

  16. ratty can’t possibly be Super Glue Man when one of you is already sticky….

    Like

  17. “Underpants-outside-tights” is just another euphemism for man panties. If anyone’s gonna wear the panties around here, it’s gonna be me. I do it better.

    Like

  18. All this talk of underwear is exactly the kind of moral decline I referred to earlier.

    I, as Superglueman, have many moral issues to address with you earthlings but, for the moment, I shall stick to underpants.

    Like

  19. It takes a strong man, such as I, to live a double life, like what I do.

    Being a mild mannered reporter for the top “First-at-the-scene, News-coming-to-you-live” MH Blogazine AND being Superglueman are not always compatible, and can lead to a conflict of interest.

    Imagine, if you will. A report comes in of an impending natural disaster, one that could result in the loss of many lives.

    What to do ?

    Would you don the gear, fly to the scene and, using superhuman abilities, bring the situation under control – or – would you let nature take its course, thus ensuring MH of a story for its front page ?

    What would you do in that situation, good reader ?

    (The real reason I’m asking this question is to find a stand-in for a couple of weeks when I take my annual holiday at the Health-farm Planet, Omega VI.)

    Anyway, must fly.

    Up, up and away – Zoooooooom !

    Like

  20. “All this talk of underwear is exactly the kind of moral decline I referred to earlier.”

    Moral decline? I wax poetic, sir.

    “or – would you let nature take its course, thus ensuring MH of a story for its front page ?
    What would you do in that situation, good reader ?”

    The fact that an immediate resolution to let nature take its course eludes you precludes any positions whatsoever at Faux News. Congratulations.

    Like

    • ‘Faux news’ – I like it. I hadn’t heard that one before.

      Anyway, I’m glad that ratty has chosen Omega VI for his holiday. Sid and myself visited Omega III a few weeks ago in search of an outstanding parking fine and some bacon sandwiches, and I must say that there was something decidedly fishy about the whole place.

      Like

  21. “Faux News” gets laughs on our side of the pond mostly because morons think it rhymes with fox. Our bucket-headed knuckle-draggers chalk it up to an amusing typo, yet they study Trump’s verbal diarrhea as if his Twitter account were an electrocardiogram for the nation.

    Liked by 2 people

  22. Duncan’s story (part 2)

    To say I was pissed off following my unexpected – to me onyway – explosive entry intae the world would be an understatement. There I was, warm an’ cosy in ma wee gaff – mentally composing a letter o’ complaint tae the owner o’ this bijou residence aboot the lack o’ soundproofing which oft times forced me tae listen tae some gawd awful wailing an’ screeching coming through the flimsy walls o’ ma abode – when I was forcibly evicted frae it afore ma 9 month lease had expired

    [I later learned the wailing was ma dad playing the pipes efter he’d had a drink in him]

    Once I’d recovered frae the initial shock o’ finding masel naked in a roomful o’ folk staring at me, and haeing ma erse skelped by a middle aged wummin – something that costs a lot o’ siller when you’re an adult (sae I’ve bin telt) – I determined tae mak the best o’ it

    I quickly identified the wummin on the bed wi’ her legs spread wide, an’ the bearded whisky drinking, samosa eating, scruffy git at the fit o’ it as the yins I needed tae get on wi’

    I think I can honestly say I succeeded in this aim. By the time I wis a teenager, my mum and I got on sae weel I aft times forgot she wis ma mum. She wis mair like anither sister – [except we didnae hae sex sae aften]

    I had an equally guid relationship wi’ ma dad. He wis immensely prood tae hae a son tae cairry on his name an’ wis keen fur me tae follow him intae the family business – fleecing american tourists tae Edinburgh (particularly during the Festival), an’ playing his pipes ootside hotels an’ pubs until owners an’ landlords slipped him some cash tae play onywhere else

    It wis a bit o’ a shock then when the bugger disappeared !

    The polis were disinclined at first tae regard this as suspicious – citing ma mum’s cooking as reason enough fur onybody tae dae a runner but when . . .

    Like

  23. What the Papers Say –

    “A heartwarming, inspirational and true story of a young child’s rude introduction to the cruelties and savagery of life, being, as he was, the victim of early brutality (having his bum smacked before he even drew his first breath), the loss of his father (literally) and how his loving and incestuous relationships with his mother and his sister ensured he lived a stable and normal Scottish lifestyle. Here, once again, Duncanr uses his extraordinary talent for suspense by leaving his story open-ended, causing his readers to grip the edges of their seats, wanting for more.” – The Daily Wail

    “Passoinate. Sensationol. Riveting (and True).” – The Grauniad

    “By ‘eck, ‘n wha’ orl t’others av sez.” – New Yorkshire Times

    Like

  24. Look ‘ere Jim, Oi knaw ’tis none of me business, loike, but illogical as it do sound, Oi’ve ‘eard that Sid is really inter Stella an’ wus givin’ ‘er all ‘e ‘ad.

    Dirdy bugger !

    Like

  25. Still, Jim, it’s better ‘im ‘avin’ a leg over down ‘ere on earth, otherwise ‘e might be tempted to go off an’ explore Uranus.

    Like

  26. NobblySan’s story – Part Two

    The public at large, whether they be alien life forms or us humans, can be a challenging bunch to deal with at times.

    Take last Tuesday for instance; a normal enough stardate to start with, but when we encountered a large Stobart class intergalactic cargo vessel stopped in a motorway service area we decided to take a look.

    The crew were busy fly-tipping a bloody great container full of anti-matter onto the grass outside Starbucks, while the captain kept the warp drive running in case plod turned up.

    As I eased NCC-1701 alongside, Sid attempted to open the standard federation communication channel, but the winder came off in his hand and the window just wouldn’t budge. Being of a logical and practical nature, he headbutted it and it shattered.

    “Oi! You twat!” he shouted to the cargo captain, who also had his communication channel open while he had a crafty woodbine without smoking up the cab.

    I pointed out to Sid that such language was not how he would normally address the public.

    “Indeed, Jim. But on this occasion it is a warranted and logical approach”

    I asked why

    “Because anyone who dumps antimatter outside Starbucks is a twat”

    It was hard to argue with such logic, but I adopted a more professional approach.

    “Sorry mate, but you can’t just dump all that stuff there. Not only does it contravene Nottinghamshire County Council rules about fly-tipping, but someone might tread in it. You know what happens when you step in some antimatter, don’t you? Blood and guts all over the place, one hell of a fuss and more paperwork than you can imagine. So be a good chap will you and take it to the local recycling centre – there’s one in town just next to the sports centre.”

    He stubbed out his woodbine on the door of his craft, fixed me with a hazy stare from at least 6 of his eyes and said

    “htrowsboj licnuoc gnikcuf uoy esra ruoy pu ti evohs!”

    Before flipping me the bird with a bony talon and spitting on the path.

    “I told you he was a twat” said Sid as we jumped out of the way to avoid the cargo craft as it pulled away in a cloud of dust that obscured its registration plate.

    (To be continued . . .)

    Like

  27. Dear Mr. Stickington.

    I was in awe of your energy-saving scheme of frying eggs on your solar-heated car bonnet.

    BRAVO TO YOU, SIR.

    If more people were as concerned about the environment, then man-made pollution could be greatly reduced and the polar ice caps would not be in danger of melting away, resulting in sea levels rising and leaving Gt. Britain (like a modern day Atlantis) submerged under 15 fathoms of plastic-bag infested ocean.

    However, I was distraught to read that your endeavours were rewarded only by the unsightly marks left on your vehicle by the environmentally-friendly sunny-side ups.

    This led me to try a few experiments myself and – voila – the results of which conclusively confirm that you should prepare your bonnet by smearing on a liberal amount of Castrol GTX 3 engine oil, or a similar brand with an equal viscosity. This has the effect of frying the egg(s) perfectly without leaving an unsightly residue – thus resulting in your vehicle maintaining its market value !

    Encouraged by the positiveness of this test, I decided to experiment further with pollution-free forms of automobile cuisine.

    First up was to wrap a pound of steak in aluminium foil and, with duct tape, attach it to the exhaust manifold of my car. This, too, was a HUGE success, revealing that just a three mile drive produced a medium-rare steak, and a ten mile, foot-to-the-fucking-floor, drive producing a succulent well done steak that would be the envy of any chef. Added to this was the delicious smoky flavour !

    Unfortunately, life being what it is, my attempt at frying chips by removing the oil filler cap and feeding them (one at a time) down into the engine to fry in the sump oil, was not a success. The con-rods and big-ends reducing them to a mash. I felt a real dipstick !

    However, I am pleased to report that, by adding on a few bits and bobs to my car’s Alternator, (dynamo) in order to double it up as a Food Blender on short trips, shows great promise.

    But, more on that at another time.

    In closing, a couple of final (nudge-nudge, wink-wink) words to the wise, Mr. Stickington :

    Radiator . . . TEA BAGS !

    Say no more.

    Yours sincerely,

    R. A. Tee (Mrs.)

    Liked by 1 person

    • Dear Mrs Tee,

      Thank you for your egg-cellent ideas.

      Some years ago, I eggsperimented with the prospect of an interesting beverage by pissing in the windscreen wash bottle on my wife’s Austin Allegro.

      The resultant brew that emerged, when mixed with a little fairy liquid was, unfortunately, less than enticing. It was pale, frothy, a sickly straw colour and worst of all, tasted like piss that had been mixed with fairy liquid in the wash-bottle of a 1974 Austin Allegro.

      All my efforts were not in vain though – I sold the rights to this foul substance to a couple of American chaps – Messrs Anheuser and Busch, if I recall – who marketed it as something called ‘Budweiser’.

      I believe it is quite well known, so you may have heard of it.

      Yours sincerely,

      Brigadier Sir Richard Hillman-Imp. DSO, KFC and Bar

      Like

      • It might be worth your while checking your contract with the makers of Budweiser to see if you have allowed them the right to sell the formula on.

        I recently tasted another famous American drink – Dr. Pepper. It has left me deeply suspicious !

        Like

  28. The word is spreading, Mr. Stickington (do you mind awfully, if I call you sticky ?)

    Well, sticky, since posting the above comment, I have received an email from a vertically challenged reader, named NobblySan.

    Apparently he drives a 4×4 environmentally-poisoning Chelsea Tractor. After reading your article, and my ensuing comment, his conscience has been pricked and he is now trying to compensate for his vehicle’s far from nature-friendly exhaust emissions by frying his breakfast eggs on its coachwork.

    Due to his afore mentioned height restriction, he is obliged to utilise the front bumper as his kitchen and we, in these circumstances, can’t realisticaly imagine steaks will be featuring on his menu any time soon.

    Still, it’s a jolly good step in the right direction, innit.

    Ta-ra.

    Rosy Tee

    Liked by 1 person

    • ^ Bollocks. I didn’t realise I’d gone out of sequence there ^

      Like

      • Dear Mr ratty and Mr San

        Thank you for your excellent recipe suggestions, which will be very useful, as I am in the process of opening a restaurant in Wright-Upham that will specialise in environment-friendly automobile-cooked food.

        I would like to offer you both a seat, with my compliments, on the opening night, 14th October 2026.

        Items on the menu will include:

        Bugatti Burger – a delicious patty made from the bugs splattered on the windscreen of a 1937 Bugatti during a high-speed journey from the Scottish Highlands to Southampton in the height of summer, and fried on the hot bonnet (using Castrol GTX 3 engine oil).

        Dunlop Dauphinoise Potatoes – Well worth the trouble of removing a tyre and packing with mashed King Edward potatoes, the subtle musty rubber taste crowns this traditional French dish.

        Potty Pois – Fresh sweet little garden peas cooked in the hot piss of the chef’s ‘car john’, on a non-stop journey in his Morris 1000 from Stranraer to Truro.

        Roast Turdip – This is a ‘surprise’ item, cooked during the same journey as the Potty Pois.

        Best regards

        TS

        Liked by 1 person

  29. Well, sticky, you can count on me being present on your opening night. Unlike NobblySan, I don’t feel the need to wash my hair at such regular intervals.

    Your Bugatti Burger sounds absolutely crunchily scrumptious and I can’t wait to sink my knife and fork into it.

    Though, it must be said, I do have some reservations regarding the Roast Turdips. I shall need to know what the Chef has eaten in the 24 hours prior to their production in case one of the ingredients should not agree with my sensitive stomach.

    Freshness is also high on my list, they should be served on the plate, hot and steaming, within 2 – 3 minutes of their creation. A simple test I employ is to raise the plate to my nose and ascertain their “consume before” date by the aroma. I also insist on inspecting that particular kitchen area from whence they came.

    Roll on the 14th October 2026.

    I’m off out now to buy a new frock, specially for the occasion.

    Like

    • Mr ratty, I can see that you are a true gourmet!

      Unfortunately, I am currently having some problems with my planning application, so it looks as though the opening will be delayed until July 2029. I will update you nearer the time. Perhaps Mr San will be available on that date?

      Like

  30. Dear Mr. Stickington.

    I recently found myself in the embarrassing position of being rather short of the readies.

    Fortunately, I remembered reading your financial advice regarding the opportunity for the transfer of funds from members of the general public. With this in mind I visited a heavily populated sporting event.

    Within minutes I had spotted a potential benefactor and, on casually positioning myself at his side, and slightly to the rear, slid my hand deeply into his trouser pocket.

    Dashed if the event I had chosen was NOT a sporting one, but the Salvation Army rehearsal for the forthcoming annual Easter Parade.

    My intended victim was not inebriated (as I’d foolishly assumed) and I was duly apprehended and handed over to the local Plod.

    Fortunately, because I was nicked before I got my hands on any cash, the charge of Petty Larceny was dropped and replaced with the lesser charge of “Inappropriate sexual conduct in a public place.”

    My brief assures me that the Beak, after one quick glance in my direction, will accept my plea of insanity and the charge will be dismissed, leaving me free to go – albeit after a verbal warning.

    There. Just thought you’d like to know.

    Yours, ratty.

    Like

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