The Team

by MH team

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 introduction of a new member to The Team, and a positively glamorous one, too. In light of this enchanting new member (maybe I could have put that better) and the assuredness of her attracting untold drooling male fans to MH, we have given over the whole intro picture area to her alone (Superglueman has gone into a sulk, but wtf.)

She had previously been known to us all as “allthoughtswork,” but it now appears that was not her real name (Damn, I feel such a fool !) and that her real moniker is Feisty Fancy Feast and her occupation is “Super Heroine.”

Don’t believe me ?

Then click the “read more” button and take a shufti at the official looking letter we have just received from her American Solicitors giving us permission to acquaint ourselves with her full history.

Go on then . . . CLICK !

Read on . . .

Law Offices of Screwem, Goode & Hart
7 East 76th Street
New York, New York, 10028
USA

May 21, 2017

Mad Hatters
24 Blackbird Pie Road
Loonybin
London
CA6 5TE

Dear Sirs,

I am happy to inform you that my client, Ms. Feast, has accepted your offer to feature her genius on your blog, The Mad Hatters, and she has authorized your exclusive use of her intellectual property, including all erotic images and personal information, contained on the following website:

http://tinyurl.com/kmecd95

To avoid obvious cosmic imbalance, I would advise taking utmost care in releasing said intellectual property on The Mad Hatters where so little intellect currently resides. Ms. Feast will not accept responsibility for any damages–psychological, political, or sexual–that may occur due to same.

Regards,

N.O. Goode, Esquire

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152 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. 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 . . .)

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  25. 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

  26. 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

  27. sticky’s story – part two

    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 . . .)

    Like

  28. 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

  29. 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

  30. 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

  31. 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

    • Dear Mr ratty

      I fear that you misunderstood my description of my money-making venture.

      Its crowd-funding, not crowd-fondling.

      Best wishes

      sticky

      Like

  32. ratty’s story (part 2)

    I’d been furiously pounding on the keys of my typewriter, working on the MH Blogazine’s top scoop of the week, pausing only to enquire of my colleagues the correct spelling for “Garden Fate” and, on doing so, noticed the time on my self-winding wristwatch, the type that unerringly adjusts itself according to the wearer’s wrist movements.

    I gasped as I observed the big hand was two and a bit spaces past the little hand, realising it was much later than I thought, and that the pubs had been open for a full three -little dots- minutes.

    Surely, I thought, my timepiece must be malfunctioning, but then I remembered how I had given it a good winding the night before, lying in bed thinking of Emma Royd, our tea lady.

    In view of the news coming in of a nuclear chemical spill in North Korea, I was forced to weigh up the situation. Should I fly to the place where I would be able to save thousands of lives, or should I head on down to the pub. Obviously, for a Superhuman like me, it was a no-brainer.

    Without further ado, I thrust back my -up-turned waste paper basket- office chair, and made for the curtain which separated the newsroom from the caravan door and, pausing only to break wind, spruce up my kiss-curl and light up a fag, hastily made my way to the boozer.

    Quickening my pace, I decided to take a short cut by availing myself of one of the little used underpasses, places renowned in Burningham to be frequented by unscrupulous members of the criminal classes.

    I had entered one for no more than a few yards, when the flickering neon lamps revealed a threatening, shadowy figure standing in my path.

    From deep within my body, the familiar Krapton warning signals began to surface – the trembling knees, chattering teeth, bowels turning to gooey liquid, the ring-piece going “sixpence – half crown” and the impulse to gulp out the war cry – Mummy !

    But, your Superglueman was not scared.

    I pulled myself to my full height, then, standing on tip-toe, launched myself into a million r.p.m. spin, from which I reappeared (slightly dizzy) dressed in butch wellies, a manly blue spandex onesie, and a rather nice red shoulder cape which I (personally) think sets off the whole ensemble perfectly.

    But I digress . . .

    Conscious that valuable drinking time was slipping away, I flipped my fag end away and quickly advanced on the malevolent, neon-lit, shadowy, threatening (etc.) image that sought to block my way.

    (To be continued . . .)

    Liked by 1 person

  33. Wow! come on superglueman – tell us how you overcame the villain(s).

    Me an’ my mates reckon that you did for ’em with that frightening malevolent look wot you ave in your picture. It’s fuckin’ hideous that is. You could scare anyfink wiv that horrible look.

    Like

    • Maybe it WAS my look – and then again – maybe it WAS NOT.

      Patience is a virtue, NobblySan. You and your mates will just have to wait.

      “Like peas on your dinner plate, the best things are left til last” – (Socrate)

      Like

  34. Dear Mr Superglueman

    I noted with some interest your fondness for a traditional wrist-mounted self-winding timepiece, favoured by those of a derring-do disposition, particularly polar explorers.

    My studies have led me to the discovery that enhanced activation of this device (as evidenced in your excellent tale, above) has the effect of manipulating the space/time continuum, to the potential benefit of superheroes such as your good self. In other words, it would be feasible to pass into an earlier time, in order to enact your world-changing, wrong-righting crime-fighting activities.

    So, a couple of thousand off the wrist would, by my calculations, not only provide you with lots of pleasure, but would take you back to 1972, when Gina Lollobrigida would still foster a tent erection, if you get my drift.

    Yours since early

    Arthur Einstein
    Zurich

    Like

  35. Ratty posts the most…how come no pic?

    Like

    • Thank you, Bearman.

      It is, indeed, a rare privilege to come across someone as astute as yourself.

      Perhaps you and your lady wife would care to join us for dinner one night. We’d be delighted to have you.

      As for the pic – that IS me posing as Superglueman.

      You’ve obviously confused me with Christoper Reeve – a natural mistake, and one in which you are not alone in making.

      RSVP.

      Like

  36. Duncan’s story (part 3)

    Now where was I?

    Oh yes, I was tellin’ you how ma dad disappeared when I was a kid and the polis at furst didnae tak’ it seriously. They changed their tune, though, when the ransom note came

    Paradoxically, while the polis began ta view ma dad’s disappearance as sinister upon receipt o’ the ransom note – which I foond stuck on the hook in the outside lavvie juist afore I wiped my arse with it – I began tae harbour some doubts. Tae be honest, I’d had ma suspeecions frae the stert when I foond ma piggy bank containing 7s 6d had disappeared at the same time as ma dad but these suspeecions were strengthened when the ransom note appeared. I couldnae pit ma finger oan it but something juist didnae seem right ?

    I dinnae ken whether it was because the note was written oan a piece of lined paper torn frae ma school jotter or the message itsel’ . . .

    If you want to see me your man again, place 2 oz of Golden Virginia tobacco, a couple bottles of Bells, and half a dozen samosas (proper shop-bought yins, mind. Nane o’ them shite hame-made yins ye mak’) in a broon paper poke an’ stash it ahint yon muckle big tree ootside the Co-Op at twa o’clock the morn

    P.s. dinnae tell the polis or ye’ll never see me yer man again

    My mum’s reaction when I showed her the note was mixed

    ‘Fucken bastard’s aye complainin’ aboot ma cookin!

    But a smile appeared oan her face as she read the postscript

    ‘You mind the hoose an’ look efter yer sister. I’m awa’ tae the polis tae gie them this note’, she said, with a twinkle in her ee

    The polis were all for mum meeting the kidnapper’s demands – promising they would hae officers hiding nearby, ready to jump oot and grab the villain(s) when they tried tae collect the ransom but mum was hae-ing nane o’ it

    ‘Bugger’s getting naethin’ frae me’, she said

    A few days later, a second note appeared in the lavvie . . .

    ‘How aboot 10 Woodbine, a bottle o’ Irn Bru, an’ a mars bar? – same place, ahint yon tree by the Co-Op

    But mum remained steadfast in her refusal to pay any ransom for my faither’s return

    A week later, a 3rd note appeared . . .

    ‘Bastards!’

    Efter that, we heard nae mair frae the ‘kidnapper’

    Ma mum was a different woman wi’ ma faither gone. She started hitting the bottle and going oot mair – sometimes staying overnight wi’ yin o’ ma uncles (I never kent I had sae mony)

    I worried aboot her at first but soon realised she was the sort o’ woman, wha nae maiter whit Life threw at her, would aye land on her back

    Me?

    Well, years passed with nae sight or sound o’ ma faither

    But he was never far frae my mind – I could’nae forget that 7s 6d o’ mine that had gang missing !

    Then I began tae hear reports o’ an evil-smelling, foul-mouthed, drunken Scot playing the pipes very badly oan the continent. He was aye on the move, never staying anyplace lang – his pipes saw to that! Indeed, there were reports that the mere rumour that he was heading for a place was enough for panicked townsfolk tae hastily raise siller for him tae gang elsewhere afore he had a chance tae raise the chanter tae his mooth

    Then yin day, I turned on the TV

    A terrified American captive knelt, haunds tied ahint his back, in a remote part o’ Iraq, surroonded by a group o’ ISIS fighters clad in black wi’ their fingers in their ears while ahint him loomed a kilted figure, face hidden by a black hood. At a signal frae the ISIS commander, he stepped forward and, placing his fearsome instrument against the side o’ the captive’s heid, gave an almighty blaw . . .

    SCREEECH . . . WAIL . . . YOWL

    The captive pitched forward, screaming in agony as his ears were assaulted by that infernal noise

    While intelligence services roond the world would later scramble tae uncover the identity o’ the fiend the media dubbed Jihadi Jock’, I kent at once wha the bugger was. Only yin man could play the pipes sae badly. Forbye that, I recognised the tartan o’ his kilt – for didn’t I hae its twin in ma wardrobe?

    Damm, gettin’ ma 7s 6d back was gaun tae tak’ some dae-in noo!

    Like

  37. Dunc!

    Listen, mate – It’s just not worth it for Seven and Six.

    Promise me that you won’t be travelling to the god-forsaken war-ravaged hellhole that is Mosul , or possibly Dunfermline, in search of your Dad.

    I know you’ve got the beard, and the correct McQueda tartan to pass through the ISIS (Inebriated Scots Ingesting Samosas) checkpoints, but you’ll never make it.

    They’re bound to test your resolve and commitment to the cause by asking if you would

    “In the name of the prophet McHamed, chew off the genitals of the infidel”

    and I don’t think that a reply of

    “Sorry, pal, but I’m a vegetarian”

    would quite cut it.

    Liked by 2 people

  38. In light of Duncan’s recent story, the Home Office have raised the Terrorism Threat level to “Critical.”

    In a recent co-joint statement, issued by H.M. Government and Scotland Yard’s Anti-Terrorism Dept., it has advised that members of the general public should remain indoors to avoid the possibility of becoming victims of a “Lone Wolf” bagpipe-playing Jihadi launching an attack on their ear drums. It has also advised that, on those occasions when it is necessary to venture out in search of food or water, that ear muffs be worn.

    Like

  39. I actually overheard a woman say this, verbatim, into her cellphone in the first aid aisle of my Fred Meyer grocery store:

    “Oh, my god, there was blood just everywhere, I didn’t know what to do! What? No, I’m at Freddie’s, buying a waterpik.”

    I had to walk away so I could laugh.

    Like

  40. It may have not escaped readers’ attention that Duncan is occupying a second week in “The Team.”

    This is due to the unfortunate circumstance that NobblySan and his partner, Sid Pock, have found themselves in. They are being held in detention in Pyongyang, the capital of The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, and their Ford Transit Intergalactic van locked in a nearby -scrap yard- compound.

    The charge levelled against them is one of invading North Korean air space.

    Fortunately, America has caught wind of this, and President Trump has despatched an Armada in a bid to secure their release.

    MH has only recently become aware of our duo’s plight, from a letter written by Nobbly, postmarked “Oldham.”

    Hopefully, now that this information has been made public, it will dispel those cruel rumours that have circulated suggesting that “he forgot it was his fucking turn.”

    MH apologises for this unforseen break in routine.

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

    Nobbly, u r in ower harts !

    Like

    • Fu King Turn being the brave lawyer who represented us in court, and got our sentence reduced from

      “Being hung by neck until they are dead-ish”

      to

      “Being hung by neck until they cheer up a bit”

      Like

      • That’s the spirit, Nobbly.

        Did you hang there with a big smile on your face, laughing and cracking jokes between gasps for air ?

        Still, could have been worse. You could have been forced to have the same hairstyle as worn by the Leader.

        But you weren’t !

        . . . were you ?

        Like

        • No, mate – I wasn’t.

          Luckily, Sid’s hairstyle was deemed to be daft enough for two people, so they looked favourably on us as far as tonsorial ineptitude was concerned.

          Mind you, it was a close run thing when Sid tried an escape bid by putting an upside-down rice bowl on his head, stuffing a couple of pies in his gob, and a cushion up his jumper before ordering the guard to let him take me away for a game of volleyball and some interrogation.

          We nearly made it, but Sid blew it by calling the last guard “Me duck” as were going through the gate.

          Apparently “Me Duck” as well as being a Nottingham term of endearment is also Korean for “For fuck’s sake, can’t you see it’s a con, you daft twat?”

          Like

          • I’m sorry. You’ve lost me.

            What’s all this talk about inept tonsils?

            (On second thoughts, perhaps I really don’t want to know !)

            Like

  41. Dear Mr. Team,

    With the addition of the decidedly female Allthoughtswork to the Mh Team section, you may wish to rephrase your bit of blurb regarding palpitating hearts and green-eyed jealousy.

    Respectfully yours,

    Mr. P. Dant

    Like

  42. NobblySan’s story – Part Three

    Here’s a weird thing.

    They say that we’ve all got them – you know, those doppelganger thingummies.

    Personally, I didn’t believe it until earlier this week.

    There we were, Sid and myself, minding our own business just cruising around in the van, when Sid suddenly spat out a big lump of thumbnail and exclaimed “What the fuck’s that?”

    I immediately looked at the forward facing scanner, and after wiping away the condensation on it caused by Sid’s cup of tea, I gasped in surprise.

    There, facing us was a craft almost identical to ours. True, it lacked the spacious command and working area of ours, and had considerably less duct tape performing structural functions that were probably better suited to titanium castings, but other than that . . .

    “Pull alongside” I ordered Sid.

    He told me to fuck off and to stop being a knob.

    “Sorry, mate. Please pull alongside” I suggested instead.

    As we neared this seemingly incomplete craft I started to bristle with anger – for on the front emblazoned in big letters was our own Nottinghamshire County Council fleet number, NCC-1701.

    “Open channel D!” I barked at Sid

    “Wrong TV show” he said “That was The Man from UNCLE”.

    “Bollocks!” said I “Just wind your window down a bit then.”

    Before I could shout “Oi! Who the fuck do you think you are, then?” the strangest thing happened.

    There was a funny whistling noise and the space in the back of the van started to shimmer, before – well, bugger me – a couple of people popped into view, one of them right on top of our lunch.

    “We come in peace!” said the bloke who I took to be their leader – a weaselly faced chap with an American accent and little piggy eyes.

    “Fuck that!” retorted Sid “You’re stood on me sandwiches. Very bleedin’ peaceful. Shift yer arse!”

    A tall, weird looking bloke with a pudding basin haircut and the daftest ears you’ve seen in a long time spoke

    “It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it. They appear troubled by our presence.”

    I commented that they’d be troubled if their doppelganger van turned up and the occupants mysteriously appeared in the back of their van and trod on their lunch. I then asked if the one called Jim was their leader.

    “I,” said Jim, putting back his shoulders and threatening the stitching on his already ridiculously tight jumper “am Captian James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. We are on a mission to boldly go . . . No, Spock it isn’t ‘Go boldly’ as we’ve discussed a thousand times, I don’t care how fucking illogical it sounds . . . “

    I interrupted before it developed into a full-blown domestic tiff.

    “I am Senior Traffic Enforcement Officer James Q. Kirk of Nottinghamshire County Council, and am commander of this Ford Transit – and Sid, here. We appear to have remarkably similar names, can I ask what the T is for?”

    “Tiberius” he replied

    I kicked Sid who was sniggering and muttering “Knob” under his breath, for I was sure that the one with the oversized lugholes would be able to hear him, and I didn’t want to annoy them as they appeared to be carrying 1960s plastic toy ray guns.

    “Can I ask what the Q is for?” the other Jim Kirk asked me

    “Isn’t it obvious?”

    “No”

    “For playing snooker with!” I replied, as Sid hit the emergency eject button, and the pair of weirdos were flicked spinning into outer space . . . the final frontier, or so I once heard on the telly.

    Like

  43. What’s a “thin gummie”?

    Liked by 1 person

  44. sticky’s story – part three

    Hello everybody, it’s your in-house friendly eco-worrier Tarquin again, to give you the up-to-date news on the latest things to be discovered destroying our beautiful planet, and the evil bastards behind them.

    Now, before I go any further; as a professional writer I would like to point out the value of effective editing. Just the other day, I was looking at my column in The Mirror and wondering if it was a bit short. So I pulled it around a bit, stretched it a bit here, squeezed it a bit there, then decided it was just fine. Sometimes, though, I think eight inches just isn’t enough. Must give the editor a call, and see if he can give me a bit more space.

    Anyway, back to the apocalypse. Greenpeace recently calculated that Coca-Cola produces one hundred billion (that’s one hundred thousand million, just to be clear) throwaway plastic bottles every year https://tinyurl.com/lg9c5q6, which amounts to two million tonnes, or the equivalent of 10,000 blue whales. And that’s just Coca-Cola. Now I know what I’d prefer to see bobbing around in our oceans. Funny, then, that Greenpeace activists appear to have had their emails hacked by the Met: https://tinyurl.com/kpm7f7f. Wonder who they’re working for?

    I never drink any kind of fizzy shit. It’s not surprising that lifestyle diseases such as obesity, heart disease and diabetes are overwhelming the NHS, when people are shoving all sorts of crap into their bodies. Did you know that the Samoan Islands have the most obese population on earth (yes, fatter even than Americans), where 93% are classed as obese? Their diets – once healthy – are laden with fatty and sugary foods, which are all imported. But the companies that push all this rubbish have lots of money, which trumps (sorry to swear, by the way) the X on everybody else’s voting paper.

    Funny, though, I think I’m getting my communications intercepted. Could be GCHQ, or MI5, or the DEA or the CIA. Maybe it’s the NSA (or is this the UDA, or is this the IRA? I thought it was the U.K). Anyway, I’m feeling pretty acronymi acrimonious about it.

    I had some worrying news recently. I haven’t told you about him, but I have a rather dangerous brother called Julian, and I’ve discovered that he has been released from the secure institution where he has been held for several years. I feel that he may come looking for me, so I’m taking some precautions. I feel I could easily disembowel him with this eight inches of cold steel I keep handy. But I’d be sensitive about the feelings of our parents, should this happen . . .

    So anyway, until the next time, follow the country code: “Stay in the cities, you fucking yuppies!”

    Regards, Jul Tarquin.

    Like

  45. ratty’s story (part three)

    As you will UNDOUBTABLY remember from my previous instalment (surely you MUST remember ?), I was on my hurried way to the pub, taking a short cut through one of the city’s underpasses, notorious hangouts for Burningham’s juvenile mouth-breathers, when, by the light of a flickering neon lamp, was revealed a menacing figure attempting to block my way.

    I clenched my teeth (they were already in the palm of my hand, prior to placing them out of harm’s way in my back pocket) and adopted a combat stance.

    It was then that I recognised my opponent, it was my arch enemy “Thunderpants,” a foe of many years standing, who hailed from the gaseous planet, Sphincter, known for its having the largest ring in the solar system.

    “Bitch,” he shouted, as he lunged low at me in an attempt to smack the backs of my legs.

    “Slag,” I responded as I walloped him in the kisser – then all Hell broke loose as we rolled on the floor, biting, scratching, slapping, spitting and pulling each other’s hair.

    After about a minute or two of this, we were exhausted and took a breather, we just sat there glowering at one another – and believe me . . . if looks could KILL !

    Thunderpants broke the deadly silence that had descended upon us (well, except for the constant ‘zap-zap-zap’ of the neon lamps and the sound of heavy rush-hour traffic above us).

    “Do you think anyone reads this shite, ratty ?” he asked, breathlessly.

    “Probably not,” I wheezed.

    “Bollocks to it then,” he said, “fancy a pint ?”

    “Now you’re talking,” I said.

    After that, it’s just an alcoholic blur . . .

    Like

  46. Now look ‘ere Mr Superglueman.

    What sort of behaviour is this, eh?

    Mincing about in subways, whacking your enemies about the shins with your handbag is not the sort of climactic showdown that we expect from our superhero-supervillain confrontations.

    This could make a right bugger of the whole genre, sunshine – have you considered that?

    Now, the pair of you need to drag yourselves out of the Flea and Armpit or wherever you are, get your girly arses onto a city rooftop somewhere nearby, and have a proper scrap.

    There are already crowds assembled pointing upward, but instead of shouting

    “Oh my God! Superglueman – save us from this evil methane emitting monster!”

    they’re actually saying such things as

    “Well, I can’t see either of them, Deirdre, can you?”

    or

    “Fuck this, mate. The United match starts in ten minutes, and I’m not missing that for a non-existent rooftop denouement, even if I did have a tenner on the baddie”

    If Marvel Comics ™ goes bust over this fiasco, I’ll be holding you personally responsible.

    Now fucking sort it out, will you?

    Yours,
    Theresa May.

    .

    Like

  47. Mrs. May.

    How very dare you criticise me, the one and only Superglueman, for I am beyond your petty, earthly, views.

    No-one tells Superglueman what to do, and the only reason I have not responded earlier to your unsolicited advice is because I have been up to my tits saving the planet and all the people on it – you included ! That, and my missus dragging me off to her sister’s wedding.

    Actually, having said all that, what you suggest about occupying a roof top with me mucker, Thunderpants, is not a bad idea, but fuck all that fighting stuff – all that achieves is us getting our cozzies all dirty.

    No. I’ve had a word with me old adversary, and we’ve decided to occupy the top of a multi-story car park and chuck bricks, slates and insults at the throngs of local plod gathered below while they plead for us to “please come down.”

    Then we’ll watch with amusement as they send a car, on blues and two’s, to get us a KFC bucket of chicken wings and -chips- fries, along with two super-sized cokes.

    I’m surprised nobody’s thought of this before.

    Like

  48. NO YOU’RE NOT !

    You’re just an Intergalactic Traffic Control Officer, employed by Nottingham County Council, who spends his time ambling about in a knackered old Ford Transit Van along with a Sid Wossisname, an illegal immigrant who wasn’t even born on Earth, but comes from another planet and . . . Oops !

    Like

  49. “graphic descriptions of violence”

    You mean like the man-panties?

    Liked by 1 person

  50. Jihadi Jock’s real name wiz no a secret fir lang. His atrocious piping saw tae that. Too mony folk had heard that awfy din an’ remembered him weel

    Syne auld photos o’ him began tae appear in the press, an’ online, showing him tae hae been a member o’ a quasi-military religious group in his youth – clad in a uniform, learning military maneuvers, an’ acquiring survival skills in woodland camps. His auld commander, hoo-ever, emphatically denied he had bin radicalised during his time in the Boys Brigade

    ‘ he fucken wisnae!’

    An’ insisted his dismissal frae the Brigade wiz no because o’ ony radicalisation but wiz the result o’ his insubordination, ill-discipline, an’ fundamental disagreement wi’ the core values an’ beliefs o’ the Brigade

    ‘bastard wiz a fucken atheist – only joined the B.B.s for the fitball oan a friday nicht an’ the chaunce tae get intae the knickers o’ some o’ the Girl Guides that used tae meet in the same hall – And forbye that, his fucken piping got oan ma tits’

    It wisnae lang afore some gentlemen frae the intelligence an’ security services called an’ invited me tae join them tae discuss ma dad’s activities an’ whereaboots

    Weel perhaps ‘gentlemen’, ‘called’, an’ ‘invite are no the maist app terms tae use

    I wiz awoken at 3am by the noise o’ ma front door getting battered doon by 6 buggers wearing balaclavas, an’ flak jaickets

    Afore I had time tae say mair than ‘whit the f . . .’, I wiz tasered, wrists an’ ankles zip-tied, an’ bundled unceremoniously intae the back o’ a van

    Fir the next few ‘oors I wiz left alane in a darkened room – wi’oot a pot tae piss in – while James ‘fucken’ Blunt songs played endlessly through some speakers

    Eventually the door opened an’ a big geezer entered the room

    ‘What do you know about Ally’s Army?’, he barked
    ‘Fucken shite song’, I replied

    ‘You’re right, there’, said he. ‘Not much to choose between that and James Blunt’

    We have photographs showing your dad was a member of Ally’s Army during the march on Argentina in ‘78 but then he disappeared off our radar until ISIS released that video. We want to know where he’s been, what he’s been up to, and who his contacts are’

    An’ me’, I said. ‘Bugger owes me 7s 6d’

    His ears pricked up at that – ‘It’s a criminal offence to provide material support to a terrorist’

    ‘Fuck off! I didnae provide it. The bugger stole it’, said I

    Efter 72 ‘oors, the ‘gentlemen’ let me go wi’oot charging me wi’ onything

    I learnt frae the news a few weeks later that a crack team made up o’ USA Navy Seals, and UK SAS were huntin’ him in Iraq. Then one day I awoke tae terrible news – Jihadi Jock had been killed in a drone strike

    ‘Fuck!’

    I wiz right doon-hearted at the news – Nae chance o’ getting ma 7s 6d back noo

    A few days later, hoo-ever, ma spirits were restored! They had missed the bugger!

    Seems his ISIS hosts had caught him drinking whisky an’ fornicating during Ramadan. That would hae bin enough tae upset them but what really pissed them off wiz they were planning to eat that goat when Ramadan wiz over! Consequently, they gave him a ‘free transfer’ tae the Taliban Terrorists and he hud slipped into Iran, oan his way tae Afghanistan, when the drone struck in Iraq

    The Navy Seals and the SAS were soon oan his trail agin – following up rumours o’ a loud wailing an’ screeching – an’ belching – emanating late at nicht frae caves high up in the mountains surroonding Jalalaband but the bugger wiz too wily fir them. Years o’ experience keeping oan the move tae avoid disgruntled punters an’ debt collection agents kept him one step ahead o’ his pursuers. Frae Afghanistan, he made his way tae India, seeking refuge fir a time in the Punjab, but they soon got Sikh o’ him there an’ he was forced tae move on. Meanwhile, the USA Navy Seals an’ the UK’s SAS – noo joined by a myriad group o’ disgruntled american tourists he had fleeced o’er the years – were oan his trail. They lost his scent in Mumbai, though – [hoo they managed that wi’ his body odour is beyond me!]

    It wiz aroond this time, ISIS announced they were lookin’ tae acquire their ain drones

    Ah think, masala, it didnae tikka lot o’ brains tae work oot the bugger had gien his pursuers the slip an’ wiz cumin back tae the UK. Efter a’ if ISIS wanted tae wage drone warfare, there’s naan better place than Edinburgh durin’ the Festival tae find drones – the place is fair hoaching wi’ pipers!
    Ah’ll say nae mair here though ‘cos the security services may be monitoring my communications fir clues tae the bugger’s whereaboots an’ ah dinnae want them nabbing him afore ah get ma hands oan him an’ ma stolen siller- but failin’ that, ah at least want the opportunity an’ satisfaction o’ gien the bugger a richt guid kick in the trossachs!

    Like

  51. There are, very possibly, those amongst our readers who would think Duncan’s unremitting quest for the return of his 7s 6d is a little over the top.

    I disagree.

    With inflation, that 7s 6d has now risen in value 15 times since it was nicked in the ’60s. Even more so in some areas of the market. Assuming that Duncan had used his 7s 6d to purchase a house, that house would now be worth somewhere in the region of £200,000.

    I know that this is an extreme example as, even in the sixties, a house couldn’t be purchased for 7s 6d – but you get my drift ?

    To bring things on a more down to earth scale, it still must be acknowledged that a bag of our national dish of ‘fish and six’ in the 60s would have set him back just one and a tanner, meaning that the sum total of his purloined cash could have bought him 4.75 bags.

    Assuming that inflation hadn’t left its mark on this particular delicacy, that same amount in today’s money, would cover the cost of the purchase of 71.25 bags. Or, to look at it another way, it could have purchased, in those far off days, 4.75 pints of brown ale – hardly enough to get pissed on but, here again, assuming that brown ale had remained inflation free, that money would now buy him 71.25 pints – sufficient for a right fucking wipe-out !

    I could go on and get into how much Scottish Wheat, or Wool, that sum could have bought then – and now. But, I think you get the picture.

    Stick with it, Duncan.

    Liked by 1 person

  52. Wow, I’m only four strokes (of the keyboard) away. Fastest night YOU’LL ever have, sticky.

    Like

  53. Duncan’s story (part four)

    Jihadi Jock’s real name wiz no a secret fir lang. His atrocious piping saw tae that. Too mony folk had heard that awfy din an’ remembered him weel

    Syne auld photos o’ him began tae appear in the press, an’ online, showing him tae hae been a member o’ a quasi-military religious group in his youth – clad in a uniform, learning military maneuvers, an’ acquiring survival skills in woodland camps. His auld commander, hoo-ever, emphatically denied he had bin radicalised during his time in the Boys Brigade

    ‘ he fucken wisnae!’

    An’ insisted his dismissal frae the Brigade wiz no because o’ ony radicalisation but wiz the result o’ his insubordination, ill-discipline, an’ fundamental disagreement wi’ the core values an’ beliefs o’ the Brigade

    ‘bastard wiz a fucken atheist – only joined the B.B.s for the fitball oan a friday nicht an’ the chaunce tae get intae the knickers o’ some o’ the Girl Guides that used tae meet in the same hall – And forbye that, his fucken piping got oan ma tits’

    * * * * * * *

    It wisnae lang afore some gentlemen frae the intelligence an’ security services called an’ invited me tae join them tae discuss ma dad’s activities an’ whereaboots

    Weel perhaps ‘gentlemen’, ‘called’, an’ ‘invite’ are no the maist app terms tae use

    I wiz awoken at 3am by the noise o’ ma front door getting battered doon by 6 buggers wearing balaclavas, an’ flak jaickets

    Afore I had time tae say mair than ‘whit the f . . .’, I wiz tasered, wrists an’ ankles zip-tied, an’ bundled unceremoniously intae the back o’ a van

    Fir the next few ‘oors I wiz left alane in a darkened room – wi’oot a pot tae piss in – while James ‘fucken’ Blunt songs played endlessly through some speakers

    Eventually the door opened an’ a big geezer entered the room

    ‘What do you know about Ally’s Army?’, he barked

    ‘Fucken shite song’, I replied

    ‘You’re right, there’, said he. ‘Not much to choose between that and James Blunt’

    ‘We have photographs showing your dad was a member of Ally’s Army during the march on Argentina in ‘78 but then he disappeared off our radar until ISIS released that video. We want to know where he’s been, what he’s been up to, and who his contacts are’

    ‘An’ me’, I said. ‘Bugger owes me 7s 6d’

    His ears pricked up at that – ‘It’s a criminal offence to provide material support to a terrorist’

    ‘Fuck off! I didnae provide it. The bugger stole it’, said I

    Efter 72 ‘oors, the ‘gentlemen’ let me go wi’oot charging me wi’ onything

    I learnt frae the news a few weeks later that a crack team made up o’ USA Navy Seals, and UK SAS were huntin’ him in Iraq. Then one day I awoke tae terrible news – Jihadi Jock had been killed in a drone strike

    ‘Fuck!’

    I wiz right doon-hearted at the news – Nae chance o’ getting ma 7s 6d back noo

    A few days later, hoo-ever, ma spirits were restored! They had missed the bugger!

    Seems his ISIS hosts had caught him drinking whisky an’ fornicating during Ramadan. That would hae bin enough tae upset them but what really pissed them off wiz they were planning to eat that goat when Ramadan wiz over! Consequently, they gave him a ‘free transfer’ tae the Taliban Terrorists and he hud slipped into Iran, oan his way tae Afghanistan, when the drone struck in Iraq

    The Navy Seals and the SAS were soon oan his trail agin – following up rumours o’ a loud wailing an’ screeching – an’ belching – emanating late at nicht frae caves high up in the mountains surroonding Jalalaband but the bugger wiz too wily fir them. Years o’ experience keeping oan the move tae avoid disgruntled punters an’ debt collection agents kept him one step ahead o’ his pursuers. Frae Afghanistan, he made his way tae India, seeking refuge fir a time in the Punjab, but they soon got Sikh o’ him there an’ he was forced tae move on. Meanwhile, the USA Navy Seals an’ the UK’s SAS – noo joined by a myriad group o’ disgruntled american tourists he had fleeced o’er the years – were oan his trail. They lost his scent in Mumbai, though – [hoo they managed that wi’ his body odour is beyond me!]

    It wiz aroond this time, ISIS announced they were lookin’ tae acquire their ain drones

    Ah think, masala, it didnae tikka lot o’ brains tae work oot the bugger had gien his pursuers the slip an’ wiz cumin back tae the UK. Efter a’ if ISIS wanted tae wage drone warfare, there’s naan better place than Edinburgh durin’ the Festival tae find drones – the place is fair hoaching wi’ pipers!

    Ah’ll say nae mair here though ‘cos the security services may be monitoring my communications fir clues tae the bugger’s whereaboots an’ ah dinnae want them nabbing him afore ah get ma hands oan him an’ ma stolen siller- but failin’ that, ah at least want the opportunity an’ satisfaction o’ gien the bugger a richt guid kick in the trossachs!

    Like

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