It’s a Stupid Story

Audrey Doorberry  from Norbury was a forgery. Audrey Doorberry’s sister, Marjorie Doorberry, also from Norbury, was not a forgery but a small bowl of pot pourri, brought back from Gay Paris by Audrey and Marjorie Doorberry’s father, Anthony Doorberry, from Calgary, who had carved out a career in the light cavalry but who had unfortunately gone to the bad and instead pursued acts of burglary, buggery and all sorts of dastardly devilry which he had undertaken masterfully whilst calmly and casually wearing corduroy and Burberry.

            Audrey Doorberry, it was plain for all to see, worked awfully carefully to get a smart Harvard degree but somewhat stupidly went on to become a secretary working in a laboratory. Her sister, Marjorie Doorberry, who, if you recall, was also from Norbury, worked in a hostelry with a carvery and was basically something of a mystery.

            Audrey and Marjorie Doorberry from Norbury had a sister, Felicity, towards whom they did not feel remotely sisterly, for, you see, Felicity Doorberry, had been blessed with the most glamorous mammaries and enjoyed nothing more than to pose artfully and gracefully with said mammaries on display for all to see in the pages of a gruesome magazine for lecherous imbeciles. The hideous idiocy of this artistic apostasy exposed itself when Felicity Doorberry was asked to pose yesterday with a Barbary lion from a zoo in Mandalay.

Right. Enough rubbish for one day, said the author. Can I get on with writing a poem now?

  

Audrey Basket Must Die

It’s true there are people I’d like to delete,

  And several I feel who are no less deserving,

Although I pretend to be charming and sweet,

  In truth my behaviour is slightly unnerving,

  (If I see a badger, I don’t bother swerving).

So – why, you may ask, are my morals so tawdry?

The reason is down to a Miss Basket (Audrey).

This Miss Basket (Audrey) did little but write

  And dream of her poems appearing in print.

The snag was that all her creations were shite,

  (Her talents were that of a fourteenth rate bint),

  She couldn’t get published and spent her life skint.

So – now you’re still patiently wondering why

It is I’m amoral and Audrey should die?

Well, I once had dreams about writing a novel,

  And making a million from selling my book;

I struggled for years and I lived in a hovel,

  (I’d had no idea just how long writing took),

  Once writ, no-one read it, they’d not even look.

S0 – forlorn and rejected by every big-hitter,

I ended up angry, then sad and then bitter.

And that’s when I set up a press in my house,

  To publish the works of each down-hearted writer,

The first through the door was a girl like a mouse,

  And that’s when I first met Miss Basket, the blighter.

  I said I’d promote her just like a prize-fighter.

But – I saw that her poems were perfectly awful,

To charge her would doubtless have been quite unlawful.

Her book was the most unbelievable seller,

  It sold by the ton, but Oh, deary-dear, oh!

Miss Audrey then turned her rich back on this feller,

  And then she was voted a National hero,

  While my little novel sold nowt more than zero.

So – now every day I do nothing but cry,

And this is why Miss Audrey Basket must die.

(And she will, as soon as I’ve finished rewriting my novel.)

I’m not sure it was worth it, said the readers. You should have stuck to the nonsense. Furthermore, ahem… creeping misogyny? What with the reference to topless models and proclaiming that Audrey Basket Must Die?

They aren’t real.

Think of a tree, said the readers.

Okay, said the writer, what of it?

Is it real?

Oh, very smart. No, it isn’t.

There was silence from the readers as the implication of this answer sunk in.

Ha! Not so clever now, are we, eh? said the writer, just before realizing the corollary: no-one was reading his latest blog.

Blast!

             

Detective Douche Bag and the Wedding Fish

Antionakis Sheftalia, Cypriot sound-engineer extraordinaire, created bespoke sound effects for any discerning director of endangered films. In a bid to gain wider recognition, this is what Antionakis Sheftalia, Cypriot sound-engineer extraordinaire, creator of etc., had decided to do: release a CD of his sound effects extraordinaire, the title of which was: “Detective Douche Bag and the Wedding Fish, the Twenty Greatest Not-Hits of Antionakis Sheftalia (who?)”

Side 1. The sound of…

1. … a whale being taught French by a Polynesian hat manufacturer.
2. … a bicycle asking for directions in Japanese.
3. … an unnecessarily bad-tempered person being given unexpectedly good news.
4. … a door falling off a cliff but not landing.
5. … a sleeping tablecloth.
6. … your eyebrows growing for a week.
7. … the silence just before a married couple row.
8. … seven wrong answers.
9. … a mystic psychic interpreting the haircuts of footballers just prior to a football tournament in order to make an accurate prediction of who will score the first goal.

Side 2. The sound of…

1. … God realizing something.
2. … a not mouse not eating something which isn’t cheese.
3. … ink drying on a guilty person’s forced confession.
4. … laces not being tied properly.
5. … a hearing-impaired parrot saying nearly the right word.
6. … the obligatory cough in the middle of the adagio section of Rachmaninov’s concerto for cheese-grater and toothpick.
7. … falling through air.
8. … a disagreement between foxes about the best way to bring up cubs.
9. … the twain meeting.

BONUS TRACKS (unavailable)

The sound of a question mark.

The sound of a tree’s orgasm.

Each sound effect lasted no more and no less than. 

An Ode to My Ph’narticles’ Particulated Grabbled Hooks’natchh!

Besmankled, torflid groind’hat shlits,

Faskrunkled on my honksmell pits,

While ph’narticles, particulate and slumpy,

Were grabbled by a hooks’natch flimly skummpy!

In all them flakkid stink,

Derangibled and gnink,

We saw them like a thorgled fack

All over mighty Andlick’s crack;

Then sat we down to smin the shittled manglies,

As everywhere we harkened at them danglies.

For every wenjy-massle-clax,

There splits a hoojy-doojy-vax,

But not before the singled margled punty

Is quite eviscerated by a tunty.

All over Murty’s yarties,

We dribbled nindy farties,

And snintled like the boonest gits,

Despite our narsty farty bits.

Behold! And yell forever like some dimbles,

Approaching scorching desiccated pimbles.

Whenever we are most forlooned,

It’s then we shrinkle like the dooned.

As brave as Testanartle’s magic wick,

We pandate with the yanlid, meanest plick.

And armed with just a nankle,

We fight them to the dankle,

Until we both lie in a mound,

Of gormanastic, vomit-ground;

Forever sharking for a pesting heave,

‘til then, and only then, the naughties leave. 

A Huffyolet

A Vogon Love Poem for "42"

O! Huffy-Scrangle-Dinka-Snot,

You put I all a frothy-froo!

Your xonxy-xanxies ing my scrot,

O! Huffy-Scrangle-Dinka-Snot,

And when I looky at your slot,

My squelchy squangies coochy-coo!

O! Huffy-Scrangle-Dinka-Snot,

You put I all a frothy-froo!

Like an Burn-ey Thing It Go Bang!

Nasty Jefferson Face, him housey burn-ey, burn-ey, burn-ey! Bit like an nasty skindy seize, aksh. Ouch! Wenty house. And meltey, burn-ey and bang! Nasty Jefferson Face, his thingummybobs and thingummybibs wented go all bad and yucky wrong, like an crinimal on a list of wanty.

            Him telly go boomy, smash and whoops-a-melty pop!

            Them lecic wires wendle sparky, sparkly firecracked ‘n’ deadly-oh-dear-christ-whad’ve-I-dun?

            The eaty table diney-room did a wood, charcoal, ash tramsfornation. “Um,” said him friends. “You am is a bad, naughty Nasty Jefferson Face. Look at trouble come ‘en hit you in yours face, Nasty Jefferson Face, just stew wait and see,” them all said.

            The tacky China ornaments from him Mumsy La La, gotty they an second glaze what was unexpected. Noise? Look-at-that! Noisy! From that Screaming WailingohmygodWTF Fire Engine thingies.

            Things started to a collapsy, collapsy, collapsy, just exactly like a real thing!

            Nasty Jefferson Face him hide him face and a laughy like a burn-ey daemon. “Heh-heh-heh!” him laughied. “I will get my own way. I will. I will. I will. What shape is a burning house anyway?” A naughty explosion boom throw a scary brick at that nasty face of Nasty Jefferson Face and the firehose put him out with a splash.

            “Oh, well,” thought him Mum. “At least that’s him taken care of.” 

Learned

The new Professor of Philology at Oxbow University claimed to be a non-existent hairbrush with a penchant for medieval jazz played on a Jewish staircase.

            But that was just a linguistic game.

            Really, he was an indifferent hedgerow whose hobby was hunting down racist motorbikes and converting them to classical liberalism.

            However, that was just playing with semantics.

            Really, he was a dyslexic hosepipe with a misdiagnosed allergic reaction to scissors made in factories containing cuts.

            All of which was an elaborate game of verbal hide-and-seek.

            Really, he was an illiterate lamp-post who wrote poetry about sexist potatoes with only the sharpest homophobic pencils which stolen money could buy.

And if you think that’s bad, you should have seen his wedding list.

The Ballad of ‘em Nasties and Us Piffles

The Nasties were a borrid band,

All in the month of Shit,

At first they kissy midden hats,

All mumsy like a twit.

The Nasties singy “La!” like plumbs,

Espeshy on a sunny,

They stroked our furry magic pings,

Until they la-la funny.

And never did us stop a think,

That Nasties could a nasty,

Because, you see, the Nasties slurped

Our troubles chumbly-charsty.

We satty round all day and let

The Nasties yummy sweeties,

All flampot boosh, and sluttty noosh,

The Nasties had us tweeties.

But soon enough those Nasties changed,

As Nasties oft so do,

They shifty like a sandy slime,

Before it gloopy goo.

“You shranks!” they shrieked, just like a Glat,

Who’d cankled on his conkle.

“We’ll smam your martin whiffle-pops!”

Then started they to fronkle.

The Nasties fronkled on our whoops,

They fronkled on our mindows,

And when they’d finished fronkling them,

They fronkled on our windows.

They fronkled on we hunty toffs,

Without a dee-dum-doo,

And laughed without a mendle-meach,

As if they fland or floo.

As that if wasn’t bad enough,

They fronkled onny Doosh,

So up us got just like a clot,

To dang them with our Moosh!

But O! Alas! Alack! And woe!

And wither was us Piffles?

For our poor Moosh it had been stole,

By Nasties wielding sniffles.

Thus, all was lost, we skunked the cost,

Of being nice to Nasties,

We felt just like a pile of dead,

Decaying, stimpy-arsties!

This devastanding death of us,

From all the ibby fronkling,

Was quitey mosty spairing clonk,

As rot we as a donkling.

The years they passed just like a stone,

What’s plopped inside a flap,

And then the most boracious thing –

We came to life like clap!

Us piffles were a ghosty band,

Of ghosty-ghosty-ghoulies!

We raised us up into the land,

And looky Nasty foolies.

The Nasty fools were clumping clods,

And sminking on the quiet.

They didn’t notice Piffles creep,

To make us ghostly riot.

“Oh, scream! Oh, yell! I’ve wet my conks!”

They fraffled all as one.

And this was most disparious,

And killed them like a gun.

For Nasties need to keepem conks,

All splendy, yum and dry.

Because, tha knows, if conks go wet,

It kill ‘em and they die.

Us Piffles were a ghosty band,

All in the month of Shit.

We scaried all them Nasties, Oh!

All mumsy like a twit.

Solution

In order to combat the savage effects of bean crop failure, the residents of the field were encouraged to venerate the orange-coloured vest of St. St. Sebastian of Slimfast.

            The orange-coloured vest of St. St. Sebastian of Slimfast had been rescued from the laundry pile by Cardinal Archbishop Indifference Thumbscrew after a night out with the girls.

            Half of the bean crop failed and the residents of the field venerated the vest with renewed vigour.

There’s nothing like a good bit of solid evidence.

Fetch!

Bernadette Fever was concerned about the lack of baptism in the world because she didn’t want people to go to Hell.

            Her concern turned to delight when she leant that anyone could do the baptizing.

            Bernadette Fever set about baptizing those things which she didn’t want to go to Hell. Thus, special Teddy became St. John Ignatius Fever, Dolly became Sister Mary Magdalene Immaculate Fever and Splodge, the family terrier, became Pope Wayne Skywalker Fever.

            Bernadette Fever was concerned that Pope Wayne Skywalker Fever would not like Heaven and so she baptized blanky the blanket (John Terry Fever), his bouncy ball (Pope Wayne Skywalker II Fever) and the garden (Fr. Gary Barlow Fever).

            They were one big happy family.

St. John Ignatius Fever ended up being left behind at a hotel in Greece, Sister Mary Immaculate Fever was sold for 50 pence at a car boot sale in Herefordshire and Pope Wayne Skywalker died in his sleep, dreaming of playing fetch with Pope Wayne Skywalker II Fever. None of which particularly concerned Bernadette Fever, who, having grown up, had discovered sex, drugs and atheism.

            After her fatal overdose, it was something of a surprise for Bernadette Fever to see, just beyond the gates of Heaven, Pope Wayne Skywalker Fever chasing his namesake around Fr. Gary Barlow Fever, while Sister Mary Magdalene Immaculate Fever lay down on John Terry.

            They spent the rest of eternity, which was a very long time indeed, playing fetch.

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            ... and so on.

Chords

Scientists traced all of the sadness in the world back to this: the use of the E minor chord.

            E minor chords were banned from new pieces of music.

            People were still sad, even though James Blunt had been fired by his record company for knowing only one chord: E minor.

            People still being sad didn’t surprise scientists, because they knew.

            All pieces of popular music which contained the E minor chord were ritually slaughtered on prime time television.

            People were still sad, especially David Gray, whom nobody had heard of anymore. He was especially sad because all of his songs contained E minor, even the ones that didn’t. He began retraining as a set of traffic lights.

            The scientists continued not to be surprised for the same reason as before.

            All of the remaining pieces of music which contained E minor chords were rounded up and burnt, and the very phrase “E minor chord” was banished in all its forms. Every last trace of the E minor chord was expunged.

            People were still sad. But this didn’t exercise the scientists, for they had just discovered a new and far more exciting truth: if you chop a live frog in half, it doesn’t like it much. “Maybe it was A minor,” explained the Chair of the Royal Society, “or G.”

The Thought Which Fell Down the Back of the Sofa

A thought fell down the back of the sofa,

Gathered grime, made friends with lost coins and fluff,

Was sat upon, repeatedly, almost

Forgot what it was, and gave up hope

Of ever being rediscovered. It

Became an unthought, a non-thought, a lost

And disillusioned thought, a thought that no-one

Remembered ever having thought. It even

Started doubting its existence, had a

Nervous breakdown, after which it learned to

Smile, be happy with its lot and consider

Those thoughts much less fortunate than itself.

It sat and did what thoughts do best: it thought.

It thought of what it was, and wondered if

It would ever get to see the light of

Day, as some thoughts do. Perhaps it was a

Bad thought? But then it thought that thoughts themselves

Cannot be bad; it didn’t have free will,

Had not brought itself into being, and

Couldn’t actually do anything bad.

The thought that fell down the back of the sofa

Was hoovered up in a spring-clean one day.

For a fraction of a second it thought

It saw a light, and then it ceased to be.

Dinosaur Table

The traumatic experience of making semantic mistakes was beginning to take its toll on the man who had grown up being misled about the meaning of words.

            The parents of the man who had grown up being misled about the meaning of words had once had a stoned bet with each other. This was the stoned bet:

            “Hey!”

            “What?”

            “I dunno.”

            “D’you think…”

            “…what?”

            “What?”

            The stoned bet between the parents of the man who had grown up being misled about the meaning of words needed fast-forwarding. Eventually it grew, and thus came to a point:

            “Hey, what if we… if we told… that crying thing… the baby… like, that ‘table’ was called ‘dinosaur’, and that ‘blue’ was called ‘red’, that ‘run’ was called ‘sleep’ and that ‘please’ was called ‘shut up’? But… with every word.”

            “He’d know.”

            “No way!”

            “I’d bet that he would.”

            “That’s a bet, then.”

So, yes.

            The traumatic experience of making semantic mistakes was beginning to take its toll on the man who had grown up being misled about the meaning of words.

            Or, as he would have put it:

            The expensive anger of losing automatic radiators was itching to steal its sellotape on the antelope who had given up hijacking the helping of nails.

One Key Ingredient

For the inventor of the jumper cake

Every Yummyday, our Granny used to bake us all one of her famous jumper cakes. Nothing was as tempting or as moist or as deliciously cakey as one of Granny’s famous jumper cakes.

            When anyone in the family went on the cake-free diet, proclaiming that they would not eat any cakes, we would ask, “Not even a jumper cake?!” and then they would laugh. “Apart from a jumper cake!” No-one could resist a jumper cake.

            If there had been a cake outside Plato's cave, the shadow it cast would have been from one of Granny’s famous jumper cakes. Granny used to say that her jumper cake was a manifestation of humanity in cake form and our desire for cakeness.

            Granny went to wherever it is that Grannies go after a lifetime of gravity and that was the end of her famous jumper cakes.

I once tried to bake a jumper cake in her honour, but I left out one key ingredient.

Windows

The green from Infallibility Trousers’ glass eye was made from a recycled Molotov-cocktail. The Molotov-cocktail had been thrown by a revolutionary on his day out to topple whatever it was that needed toppling.

            On his day out, Molotov-cocktail man had approached a friendly and helpful police thug to ask him why? The friendly and helpful police thug had pushed Molotov-cocktail man in such a friendly and helpful manner that Molotov-cocktail man had fallen headfirst onto the concrete kerb. This was bad news for Molotov-cocktail man, who had an Achilles’ Head. When smashed onto a concrete kerb, an Achilles’ Head will smash, resulting in death by natural misadventure.

            The white from Infallibility Trousers’ glass eye had come from a recycled glass marble which had once been swallowed a six-year-old boy who wasn’t psychic. The six-year-old boy who wasn’t psychic had wanted to see if the marble would choke him to death and was surprised when it hadn’t. It had stayed in his intestines for several days, after which it had been thrown out by his parents, who pretended that everything was fine.

            The black from Infallibility Trousers’ glass eye came from a recycled goblet which had once belonged to a confused Satanist with an Achilles’ Head who had once swallowed a marble.

            The origins of the glass from Infallibility Trousers’ other glass eye was unknown, as it was an adopted glass eye and no-one knew or wouldn’t say.

Infallibility Trousers saw things which no-one else saw. Not through his glass eyes, obviously, but through his mind’s eye. The glass from his mind’s eye was made from recycled windows.

Cold War Comeback Tour

The corpse of U.S. President Ronald Reagan, the corpse of Soviet President Sergei Chernenko and the nearly-corpse of Dame Margaret St. Hilda Thatcher, were having a reunion. The reunion was the international Cold War Comeback Tour.
            The Cold War Comeback Tour was for the Herd.

            The Herd wanted the comforting security of the threat of nuclear annihilation.

            The Herd did not like the current financial climate; sunbathing in it had led to an epidemic of fiscal influenza that no-one, apart from those who could calculate basic arithmetic, had foreseen.

            The Herd did not like the terrorism alerts. Other people’s deaths and misery on Youtube fed their hungry schadenfreude appetites, but not being allowed to carry bottles of water on aeroplanes made them feel nervous.

            The Herd fell in love with the certainties of the Cold War Comeback Tour. Bono turned up in his stylish mullet and called for the release of a million peace doves while no-one listened.

            Everything was lovely.

            Everything was back to how it had been.

            When the corpse of U.S. President Ronald Reagan, the corpse of Soviet President Sergei Chernenko and the nearly-corpse of Dame Margaret St. Hilda Thatcher pressed the red button, everyone said that the display was even better than the 2008 Olympics.

            The television ratings were spectacular.