Mary Cowbag-Thing and The Unmentionable Word

I've been considering the core of the world's ills this week and I think I have come to the conclusion that there is one word responsible for every blunder, cover-up, scandal, disaster and crisis. It is a special word that I have had the misfortune to be associated with for almost two years. You see, it is also the cause of male pattern baldness, grey/white hairs (wherever they may be...), nervous tics, punching people, shouting and swearing, excessive pointing and eventual lunacy. This is the first time I've posted since freeing myself of this abhorrent condition.

Look at the woman in the picture on the left. Her name is Mary Cowbag-Thing. She is on a committee, you can see by the way that she is clearly farting about when there is plenty behind her that needs doing. She is looking at the camera and basking in the attention, whilst leaving others to pick up her slack. She will have more cups of tea that others, and talk piffle to appear knowledgable. Her bland clothing hides a danger most horrid.

This is a very good friend of mine who is suffering the devastating effects inflicted by Mary Cowbag-Thing and her kind. Unfortunately, my friend looks like this all the time. We cannot tell which way round she is any more. It's tragic. This all came about from the sheer strain of having to organize the tasks around Mary Cowbag-Thing. Communication is when this horrific kind of symptom is inflicted, and there is no known cure.

The grey hair is excessive here, due to overstimulation of the area of the brain that copes with futility and frustration. The only way this woman could have saved herself was by employing the aid of a cudgel. However, with Aunt Vom in the nick again, no-one heard her cry for help. Bless her - she is in all our prayers.

I will not write the appalling word out in it's entirety, but so that you may guard against this peril, I have made a vertical acronym to soften the blow. Even so, be careful and keep a darkened room and a cool flannel nearby.

Cultivators

Of

Mournfully

Meagre

Intelligence

Throw

Together

Empty

Excuses

Numpties, Arseholes and Dickheads

In Trebollocks this week it's National Numpty Day, and we're invited to vent our spleen on the issue in the form of poetry, creative dance and abstract music. Well, my dancing days are over, as most of me is wooden, and the tortoise hates music, but I'm a dab hand with a quill. This is dedicated to any annoying people you may know, or who may have affected you lately. Feel free to copy and paste this simple, moving poem. Yes, copy and paste it, paste it on someone's front door after they've got up your nose, or better still on their forehead.

It's an awareness week of helping those people who continually talk utter bollocks and get on your tits to really recognise their full potential and leave you alone. Join in, and really let someone know you'd like to hit them with a frying pan today. Because you're worth it.....

Whether you're whingeing or moaning or what,

It really doesn't matter to me, no, not a jot.

Just pass me your nicest most favourite cup

And I'll make you a hot brew of Shut The F**k Up!!'

Captain Pilchard! Trebollocks Superhero!!

Exciting stuff! We have a proper Superhero in Trebollocks....no not that Spiderman numpty who snapped his rope (there's irony there), but a real live masked, swimming trunked hero who flies about.

His name is Captain Pilchard, he's the 'Hero of the Home Counties' and dishes out common sense and 'flat bugles' to anyone who dares not wind their neck in.

Aunt Bench wants his autograph, Aunt Vom has posters of him on her cell wall, and Aunt Mary-Jaffa is terrified of him. He is not sympathetic to a fear of citrus and throws clementines at her to sort her out. Here goes, this is my record of his visit.

Captain Pilchard and The Flat Bugle

Captain Pilchard flew in today,
To rescue the direst situation.
He fights against numpties, dickheads and planks
With ideas well above their stations.
The Home Counties answer to Spidey,
But much, much gobbier by far,
If you cross him he'll shave off your eyebrows,
And most likely wee up your car.
A fight over who holds the telly remote,
Has turned to a murderous battle.
Checking the anti-twonk radar, he flies
Over fields of worried looking cattle.
Then calmly down to earth he descends
Both fists planted square on his hips.
To the woman 'Give your head a shake, love'
Are the worldly wise words from his lips.
He faces the man with a fist held up
And say's ''D'you want a flat bugle?
You take me for some sort of pilchard, son,
And my patience is a tad bloody frugal.''
Captain P gives him an Aylesbury kiss
"Let her watch Up Close: Celebrity Rings"
"And you love, simmer down and stop snivelling,
I don't do hormones or 'Women's things'"
Argument done and one busted nose
The husband still grovelling and pleading.
"Right I'm off," he says "off down the pub -
You lot are doing my swede in."
He's no sort of Pilchard, our brave hero,
Saves houses from marital strife.
We clamour for autographs and photos,
While he runs for his flappy-caped life.
Off into the sky he flies once more,
To dish out blunt blokeish advice,
And give the odd dickhead a dry slap or two
And be home for a korma and rice.

Keep an eye out for Captain Pilchard near you, and if he stops, give him a decent cuppa. None of that weak crap where the tea bag just meets the water. He's also partial to garlic prawns if you fancy chucking some on. Go on, you know you want to....

Aunt Chuffer-Dandridge and her Big Shoe

Ok, here's the crack. I've been inundated with dreadful, violent deviants from all three corners of the British Isles (not Welsh) - and they're all relatives.

Now the time of Hogmanay is nearing, we have our visitor from India on her way. She's steaming her way to us via the train from Rawalpindi as we speak, and personally, if I cared less about her visit, I'd pass out. But there you go.

Here's a poem, have a read. Don't mind me, but I have a stinking case of the Plague and I've got a Bergerac box set to get through and three more mince pies.

Aunt Chuffer-Dandridge...And Her Big Shoe

Aunt Gwendolene Chuffer-Dandridge
Comes from our Scottish line,
She's lived in Rawalpindi
Since eighteen-eighty-nine.

She likes the Raj and plenty of wicker,
Straight from the Empire she's come.
All wallas and cricket and darjeeling tea,
And maybe the odd snifter of Rum.

She walks lop-sided up and down
On a very built-up big-shoe.
The base of her foot was chopped clean off
In the Sword Dance at Loch Dhu.

Her wallas are her most faithful aides,
A book walla to read her Dickens.
There's a tea walla too, with an excellent brew,
And a cock walla - for the chickens.

She's a mean shot with a rifle, our Gwendolene,
Drops an elephant at 500 yards,
She owns a palace with snakeskin floors
Cos she cheated the Sultan at cards.

So now she descends on Trebollocks
In a big shoe and a riot of tartan.
I fear she may have the hump though,
As my home is awfully spartan.

But the New Year will go with a bang, I'm sure,
Amid beautiful wintry flurries.
With old Chuffer and Tossa McGurk both here,
Bloody Folly is the least of my worries.

Wishing all of you a wonderful New Year, and hoping you've all had a good Christmas/Yule. Thankyou for you're insane support, your unbending commitments to things not really very tortoisy, and all highly sensible comments, you all make my day. Kisses and plague stuff. x MAB

Aunt Tossa McGurk's Yuletide Visit

This is Aunt Tossa McGurk. She's on her way down for Yuletide. I've written a poem about her, so you'll know when you read it why Aunt Vom is in seventh heaven, and Aunt Mary Jaffa is in hiding in the Pennines.

Folly is totally oblivious to the dangers of this woman, so I've encouraged her to sit next to her at the dinner table.

She is firmly rooted in the Scottish branch of our family tree, and a direct descendant of Old Fintan McGribble, who lived alone on Benbecula studying cheese. Nobody liked him.

.

.

.

It's almost Yule, the tree is dressed,

Aunt Tossa McGurk's on her way.

Down from Ecclefechan she comes

On a ravening-hoard driven sleigh.

A champion at throwing cabers she is,

She's won every trophy in town.

She eats haggis with thorns for breakfast,

And her favourite sporran is brown.

She'll greet us all with the classic shout, of

'Alreet, there, by the wee!'

Her affections are shown with a headbutt -

Considered polite in Loch Pee.

Tossa McGurk is the bravest,

Scaring invaders away with her breath.

By shouting - a blast of rancid wind

Will put any army to death.

Defeating marauders she triumphs,

Booting them all off her land.

The stench from her braided armpits,

Was more than her enemy could stand.

Her band of Ecclefeckineejits are feared,

All wooden eyes and stone teeth.

They're reknowned for toughness and being well hard,

As they wear no socks or shoes on the heath.

Their hobbies are charging and battle,

They indulge in themselves in great fights,

Folly once spent months in hospital,

After poisoning from one of her bites.

So she's coming for Yuletide this year,

And she'll stay in the attic with Aunt Vom.

She's bringing a broadsword, a claymore, a mace,

And more than likely - a Bomb.

But I'll make her feel at home this year,

With polite chat about her hedgehog farm.

But if she offers me a cracker to pull, I'll decline,

Or I'll lose my right arm.

(Here's wishing all my blog friends a wonderful Yuletide, and I'll raise a glass to all as we celebrate with all our loved ones. Including the Folly's and the Aunt Bench's of this world!)

Madam Bernard's Hedge Dispensary

Winter's coming. Do you suffer from the cold, damp days? Does catarrh plague your every waking moment?
I have been working in my hedge, harvesting ingredients for my 'alternative chemist shop'. I will be dispensing various splendid things to people with hocking, retching, snot-flinging colds and basking in the plethora of compliments that result. This one's a cracker, been using it all week.

Number One - Simple Cold Remedy. This was passed to me in Reims, 1940, by Sardine Gadois. As a member of the resistance, she was always meeting men up very dark alleyways, collecting money and getting colds....at least I think she was resistance. She always wore a shiny black mac.

You will need:
1 cup gunpowder or pyrodex
50 fluid ounces bacardi breezer (melon)
A whole brazil nut
A cup of soil from the rockery of a librarian
Two rooks claws.
Grind in a pestle and mortar, mix with linseed oil and rub on the soles of the feet and the buttocks. Down two stiff gins, run a hot bath and you'll feel much better. If you cannot find two rooks claws, you can substitute them for three marbles.

Next week, I will be tackling impetigo. Not on my blog, but in reality, I have some nasty dry patches developing. Also, I'm working on a cure for lack of feet - Folly keeps blowing her feet off in the garden after Aunt Vom lent her some semtex.

I haven't been able to cure Aunt Mary Jaffa's fear of satsumas, and regrettably she is already distressed with the approaching Christingle service at church this christmas. Oh well, if she passes out, we'll stuff her under a pew.

Still, with hallowe'en on the way, there is festivity afoot. Once again we can annoy the council folk by dancing and singing on the hillside, and worrying people with big bonfires. Glee.

Pip pip, for now, and if you're coming up the hill, don't wear your best cloak.

The Portaloo Question?

I've been re-enacting now for three years, and I have a question that buzzes around my dried kernel of a brain....Why are there thousands of portaloos for construction workers/festival goers/people on mountaintops, but two for around fifty re-enactors?


We folk of the quirky nature that like dressing up as people from the days of yore are no more hardy than the rest of you. I may have knelt in a cowpat for my art at Langport last year but I do like comforts and in plentiful supply.



Portaloo

The act of 'a nip to the loo'
Should be a simple old task.
Quick in, quick out and "that's better"
Isn't a great deal to ask.

But folk who dress up in old clobber,
To act and play dead and make bangs,
Find the whole thing so traumatic
They tackle the loos in big gangs.

What about ladies in finery?
All feathered and ticketty-boo?
You arrrange every hem
To keep out of the way,
Yet the chemical dye turns it blue.

Consider the knight of the realm,
How does he cope with the drama?
How does he hold up his chainmail
And avoid accidents in his armour?

Then there's the wretching old hags,
All wood teeth, scabs and straw hair.
These crones are very germ conscious,
And normally hover mid-air.

But what of the trail-hardened cowboy -
Used to squatting in various places?
He hates portaloos when he sits,
Then remembers he's still wearing braces.

Named by the Romans 'Shitus Uncomfus',
By the Greeks 'Craponica Restraina'
They're famous world-over for misery,
By the re-enacting, regular complainer.

Could they be bigger? Or wider?
Hooped undies held up with a hook?
Or room to take off bits of armour,
Drink tea, surf the net, read a book?

Alas they were designed for us skirmishers,
To fit the average grown knight.
That is, in 1500 or thereabouts,
When 4'9" was the average height.

Ok chaps and kitties, I've been off for an awful long time. Truth is, i've bumped into one too many numpties this past month, and far from being the lovable Mad Aunt B, I've turned into an Aunt Vom replica. Most worrying, although much fun until you get arrested by East Sussex cozzers for interfering with the fence at Monkey World.
I'll be back to my normal self soon, Mrs Coddy is looking after the toads, and Aunt Bench is making me plenty of hessian biscuits and snibble cake to see me through.

(If you want the recipe for Snibble Cake it can be found here. Do not bake if you are allergic to any of the following: Snibble or Cake. It also has traces of Pyrodex and swarfega)