MINISTRY OF MEDIOCRITY OFFERS MILLIONS FOR 2011

By Anji Noracull, Cultural Affairs Editor for Narolc's World.

Despite the current economic climate, the Ministry of Mediocrity is offering to create several dozen multi-millionaires this year. The riches are attainable in fields relevant to contemporary culture like sport, the arts and entertainment—as the Rt. Hon. Digory Polyp, Minister of Mediocrity, explains.

‘Those interested in the wealthy positions on offer,’ says Polyp, ‘Need not have previous experience or inherent talent. In fact, the malleable and mundane stand as great a chance as independent geniuses.’

The well-paid posts, as performing musicians, artists, writers, comics and footballers, will also provide fame through exhaustive media attention.

But critics of the ministerial scheme have called on Mr. Polyp to answer claims that his ideas will accelerate cultural deterioration in the UK and will only attract vapid, pliable puppets.

‘The suggestion that the ministry is seeking to employ puppets is completely misleading,’ Mr. Polyp replied. ‘All the posts are open to applicants without discrimination and with no strings attached.’ He added, ‘The selection process, too, is entirely democratic.’

However, the selection process seems arbitrary and shrouded in mystique with ‘celebrities’ appearing overnight from nowhere. Owing to the ministry’s confidentiality and discretion (‘C&D’) policy, details of how they were ‘selected’ prior to their emergence into the public eye are impossible to find. A cynic might suggest that anyone with half a mind to apply for the positions is adequately equipped.

'GOOD' GRIEF

Who invented the phrase: ‘Good grief?’

Surely, it’s a contradiction in terms, but examining the nature of grief opens a can of worms, which is an expression coined by anglers.

Or so I believe.

How do you grieve?

It’s a simple question no two people will answer the same.

Lots of people are emotionally reticent and—unless they’re also inarticulate—they’re not to blame.

Perhaps what is felt cannot be defined, which lends credence to the concept of grief as unique and individually refined.

Whether it is or it isn’t, I really don’t mind.

Grief-stricken people, mind, invariably expect others to be kind.

Scavengers for sympathy are never hard to find, but I suspect, no one suffers like a stoic.

If all emotional experiences are totally unique to the individual, why is there typically a pressing need to share one’s feelings with others?

Why engage in a pathetic quest to find some common ground when, ironically, the only common ground is the grave?

Words fail me, as language fails the human race, when people refuse to agree on their meaning.

This is a habitual tactic—of semantic retreat—adopted by the weak to avoid being deprived of that which they seek.

Moving goalposts only works as a strategy with the complicity of berks.

Like the Emperor’s clothes, it requires the social compliance of persons capable of prolonged self-deception—something a self-respecting person loathes.

To prefer the delusional comfort these regularly occurring scenarios provides indicates, generally speaking, that people’s confidence is typically so shallow their behaviour becomes absurd.

Now, I’m off to shout at the backs of some deaf people in the hope that I’ll be heard!

PAM FERRIS WHEEL

Pam Ferris Wheel’s down Jimmy Savile Row,

Where, you know, clothes maketh the man and are tailored to expectations.

Tailor made cigarettes are no such thing,

They bring expectorations and the coughing to coffins,

Which is a real drag.

Danny la Rue, in the days before Paul O’Grady,

Played a lady winning global recognition,

Perpetuating a very English tradition,

Like queuing, alcohol-induced spewing,

The Carry On films, Benny Hill and lavatorial humour,

Distant and removed from us like an excised tumour.

TITS

A boob job is one thing,

Making a boob at work is another.

The booby hatch could describe a trap with breasts.

A booby hatch with a coat of arms could be the same with added crests.

Bristol fashion brings to mind a familiar passion.

A chesty cough won’t put off a breastfeeding baby’s scoff.

While keeping abreast of the times

Does not mean wrapping broadsheets around broad teats.

As a pair of potentially functional visual treats:

Tits, a woman’s chest completes.

PLATELETS

Platelets sounds like a property management team for items of crockery!

Perhaps it is about time they were catered for,

In general, our treatment of these objects is poor,

Especially in Greek restaurants where plates are smashed on the floor!

Yes, we take plates for granted it’s true,

But what else are we supposed to do?

We’re not exactly going to be bowled over by them, are we?

I’m not suggesting that we should revere them,

Although some people do…

I’ve seen plates hanging on the walls of their houses, like works of art.

That’s going too far in my opinion; still it’s up to them.

What I will suggest is this: Next time you’re served with a plate,

Don’t overlook this item with its helpful eating surface,

Just quietly acknowledge it by saying, ‘Thanks, mate!’

RICKY HATTON

Like many people, I have a high regard for Ricky Hatton. A regard undiminished by recent sensationalised exposés of his cocaine abuse. If the former world champion has a drug problem he has my sympathy, but I cannot share the ‘disgust’ he was quoted as feeling.

  Over snorting cocaine? A snort of derision should greet the media-orchestrated process of apologetic self-abasement now expected from fallen role models.  

  Addressing the specifics, I wonder if even prolonged use of a class A drug is as dangerous to one’s mental health as a career enduring punches to the head.

  More broadly, when are the general public going to stop reacting with disappointment and surprise when individuals who famously excel at one thing prove fallible?

DALEKS

Da-licks—daleks with added tongues,

Daleks that breathe—daleks with lungs,

Daleks accepting bribes—daleks taking bungs.

Daleks in love, a contradiction in terms,

Daleks in curly wigs, daleks with perms?

Dalektric dreams, dialect of screams.

Daleks at Wimbledon,

Eating strawberries and cream,

Brightly polished daleks really shine and gleam.

Incognito daleks are daleks in disguise,

Daleks don’t wear glasses or have what we call eyes.

A slapstick sketch for daleks with lots of custard pies,

Simmer one in cooking oil until the dalek fries.

Daleks in batter don’t matter while they’re crisp,

When it comes to the crunch, daleks form a bunch,

They don’t have a tea break,

Nor do they stop for lunch.

An intuitive dalek, said to have a hunch,

Is afflicted with a speech impediment and sounds like Mr. Punch.

Stammering daleks, daleks with Tourette’s,

Daleks with dementia and daleks with regrets,

Remain the foes of Dr. Who that no one quite forgets.

Daleks distraught, daleks in Wales,

Inspiring fear—no dalek fails.

A dalek with hiccups might need to sip some oil,

Something a dalek is good at is unrelenting toil.

Despite their being logical, you can’t reason with a dalek,

Nor make them laugh or cry,

You can make them soaking wet and then—

You can let them bleeding dry.

Daleks are ridiculously compelling,

Have you ever wondered why?

CHUNG’S CHINESE TAKEAWAY

Outside Chung’s Chinese Takeaway, stands a nutter, To utter at passers-by, ‘Chinese take away what?’
Ignored by most, the madman’s post is tolerated by Mr. Chung,
The proprietor with one lung.
Chung’s wheezes sound like breezes,
He donates a percentage of his profits to charities supporting asthmatics.
Pneumatic drills fill the air with their relentless noise
Outside the takeaway one day,
Making the madman cover his ears with his hands,
Trembling, sweating, he worries about his glands.
Are they letting him down?
He sees Mr. Chung as an Oriental clown.
At the back of the takeaway’s premises,
Boxes of fortune cookies foretell everything under the sun.
Chinese characters, displayed on banners above the counter, form an Asian pun.
Slightly erudite punters,
Interested in Cantonese and calligraphy,
Hazard guesses at the banner’s meaning,
And this impresses Mr. Chung.
Eric Cantona’s knees in Cantonese,
Another linguistic tease for Chung’s poser-punters-hunters—
Constantly seeking a cultural image to veil their shallowness.
A shallow Loch Ness would end speculation about its legendary monster,
Not that Chung cares for that, or any other urban myth.
As a lifelong celibate bachelor, a stranger to the lovers’ tiff,
Never is he lonely, he keeps too busy for that,
Yet sometimes he wonders all the same,
If the grass would be greener with a partner
He could fornicate with and blame.
Now, in his sixties, Chung recalls the ’60s,
And, distortedly, his youth,
His vision is impaired by sentiment,
His faulty memory is the result of decayed synapses,
Presenting symptoms of the onset of Alzheimer’s.
The nutter adopts a silent approach,
Presenting his repetitive query printed on a sandwich board.
Chung’s customers congratulate him on his clever advertising campaign,
He smiles his acknowledgement because he is polite, not vain.
Out in the kitchen, Chung sets fire to himself with his degenerating brain.
At last, the madman gets the answer he’s been awaiting for so long,
As Chinese undertakers take Chung away in a coffin.

THE STRIKE-BREAKING HAEMOPHILIAC

As haemophiliacs at their drop-in centre wondered why they bled,
Taking industrial action filled one haemophiliac with dread.
He was the first to break the strike he pretended he’d led—
To ingratiate himself with his workmates who wished that he was dead.
As he crossed the picket line, cries of, ‘Scab! Scab!’ were heard,
Which struck him as ironic, but not when it occurred.
It struck him as iconic—being struck by an effigy of a celebrity.
When he began to bleed, he knew he should go with the flow.
Leaving, he observed further irony amidst shouts of, ‘Go, clot, go!’

PICCADILLY

Don’t pick a ninny in Piccadilly to taste piccalilli,
For that would be silly.
As silly as picking knitters to nit pick at a picnic with,
Being too busy knitting jumpers to knit their brows having rows,
They’d hamper the picnic.
Pickpockets nick property; pedants pick holes in things,
Holes in your pockets will sock it to a pickpocket—
Who fleeing, empty-handed, wonders if pedants picked the holes in Swiss cheeses.
In Arctic breezes, a pickpocket freezes,
Wondering whether Gruyere is a Swiss cheese or an Australian feminist.