DOM IS HILARY

Domiciliary care-worker, Dom is Hilary on his nights off.

Cross-dressing Dominic knows his friends and colleagues would scoff, if they knew about his secret transvestite lifestyle.

They’d call him a drag act, a queen and a queer,

He was none of those things but that’s not how it would appear.

Behind his closed doors, Dominic can’t hear them sneer,

Tottering around in high-heels, necking a beer.

Admiring himself wearing a dress in a full-length mirror,

Dom reflects on his furtive actions.

There must be more like me, he muses, enough for several factions.

He just felt good in women’s clothes,

Freed at last from a costume he loathes.

At work, dressed like a man,

Dom felt uncomfortable and wrong and wan.

Why should it be a guilty pleasure, what he did in his leisure?

One day, a crazed nudist colony broke into Dom’s house and set fire to his entire wardrobe,

‘A COSTUME DRAMA’—the local paper’s headline read,

Above a picture of Dom’s downcast head,

With the firemen, whose rescue had led,

To his discovery, in a nurse’s dress, in his shed!

AWESTRUCK, OAR-STRUCK!

Struck on the head by an oar, resulted in brain damage for the salesman bore.

Awestruck, he remembered little of his ordeal, but struck back—

Striking oar deals at national exhibitions of rowing implements,

Making his fortune, which is awesome for some oars.

In his leisure, his pleasure involves life jackets and whores,

Perversely, Orson Welles’ movies are things he abhors.

To pull a stroke on him would be dim, despite his damaged brain,

For those who’ve tried have found there’s nothing to gain,

They’re up the creek without a paddle,

Or else they find their lot is just self-inflicted pain.

Meanwhile the wealthy salesman has his very own private-charter plane!

HOLLYWOOD ACTOR MISTAKEN FOR LIBYAN CITY AS UN’S MILITARY ACTION ESCALATES

Famous Hollywood star, Ben Gazzara, might have fears of becoming a military target if rumours that he has been mistaken for the Libyan city, Benghazi are true. A source close to Mr. Gazzara, now in his eighties, is reported as saying: ‘Ben Gazzara has never even been to Libya, let alone been the site of armed conflict over there. There must be confusion over their similar sounding names—Ben Gazzara (whose career spanned decades, appearing in numerous films as a supporting actor, including the role of a villain in the Patrick Swayze hit, Roadhouse) sounds like Benghazi, but there the resemblance ends!’

  Now, the actor—whose career is currently invisible—potentially faces the violent ending of his life in expected air strikes by UN coalition forces. Strikes aimed at ‘liberating’ Libya from Colonel Gadaffi, ‘freeing’ the Libyan people to join the North American Empire and annexe their country to the US.

  However, sources close to US military intelligence forces have played down the risks faced by the geriatric actor. In a statement issued anonymously that was made available to Narolc’s World, Gazzara’s possible concerns are dismissed.

  ‘There is no threat to Mr. Gazzara and any fears for his personal safety are completely groundless,’ the statement reads. ‘Providing, of course, he does not happen to actually be in Libya at a specific time and an exact place when and where action of a military nature (such as a bombing) takes place. But—’ the statement continues, ‘It is our understanding that Mr. Gazzara is a US citizen and that the US is where he resides.’

Anji Noracull,

Foreign Affairs Editor for Narolc’s World.

LETTERBOX

You can have a letterbox, but not a letter boxer.

There are pillar-boxes and pillars of the community,

While a pillar pugilist does not exist.

It seems certain things go hand-in-glove with other things,

Like the exchange of mundane information that mobile technology brings,

And nuisance calls when the telephone rings.

Other aspects of life are misleadingly named,

So, with hindsight, they can be blamed for creating confusion.

Self-delusion is just an illusion, something that won’t last, like an iconoclast.

Seeing through things is not the same as seeing them through.

Anymore than the expression: ‘through thick and thin,’

Refers to passing between stupid, skinny people.

The ‘thin end of the wedge’ suggests the worst part of something,

But, taken literally, it’s absurd—no one part of a wedge being worse than another.

It is said you can ‘hedge your bets,’ but you won’t find a bookie in any hedge.

To glean true meanings from ambiguous English you must patiently dredge,

And also to assess the validity of what others allege.

THE DRACULA APPRECIATION SOCIETY

The Dracula Appreciation Society’s members were looking forward to their AGM, and who could blame them?

Their Founder/President beamed with pride in anticipation of all that the annual event would provide.

A new bust of Bram Stoker was to be unveiled and the Treasurer presented with an engraved poker.

The society’s membership had substantially grown, as founder member, Patrick Fussett had somehow always known.

Judging by the number of vampire film and TV spin-offs, regard for the fictive Count was not something held by Patrick alone.

The Dracula fans, gathered by Patrick, often dressed up like the legendary vampire,

Complete with fangs and flowing capes—behaviour seen by others as japes—they’re known collectively as the ‘Caped Crew.’

The Caped Crew’s dos couldn’t do without their eccentric caterer, Ada Fallowball,

Providing more than their refreshments, seemingly she does it all!

‘I don’t know what we’d do without Ada,’ Patrick habitually asserts.

Not intentionally sounding patronising in the manner, which he blurts.

Ada has her flaws, he knows, but atleast she never flirts.

Some of her idiosyncrasies are quirky, but her attitude towards vampires hurts.

To Patrick and the society’s dismay, she seems to think they are real vampires!

To protect herself she wears a garlic necklace, carries crucifixes and vials of holy water.

She regularly checks to see if society members have shadows and reflections, or seem to avoid sunlight.

Patrick’s gentle attempts to disabuse her of her views met with Ada’s brusque resistance and have long since been abandoned.

On balance, Patrick knew, Ada was efficient helper to the point of being indispensable, while her delusional beliefs were an embarrassment to him and his members.

Not that it was her fault, he remembers.

Still, she was theirs—the realisation elicits Patrick’s proprietorial pride.

She is the caped crew’s Ada, he smirks to himself and at the exact same instant she died!

BODY PARTS (Part 1)

You can run things through your mind and jog your memory.

Your heart can be racing and there can be things on the tip of your tongue that you can’t put your finger on.

By the same token, a heavy heart weighs no more than it normally does.

Anymore than someone who is tearful is full of tears.

However, sweat pours from pores and fungal foot infections can form spores between the toes.

Chiropody costs money and you can’t foot the bill if you’ve blown your money,

But you should regularly blow your nose, especially when it’s runny.

Butterflies in your stomach would first have to be swallowed,

With great difficulty for those with frogs in their throats, which—

Don’t forget—already have apples in them.

Armpits are no such thing, and while broken arms can be supported by a sling,

For a broken heart, there is no such thing.

Despite the expression to the contrary, palms do not provide eating surfaces for others.

Ambiguously, shaking hands is both a type of formal greeting and a symptom of various neurological conditions.

When you vent your spleen it doesn’t mean it’s ventilated,

Lungs though can be assisted by a ventilator,

While getting things off your chest does not refer to mastectomies or, usually, even the removal of clothes.

Going out on a limb would make most pedestrians hopping mad, etc, etc, ad infinitum…

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.