THE TRAFFIC WARDENS' ARMS Part 1

Following a failed séance, a woman agitated a mop in a bucket of hot disinfectant before swishing it across the creaky room’s bare floorboards. Her name was Sharon Platt. She was overweight, dressed in a khaki sarong, a bin liner wrapped across her breasts, as she savagely swiped the already clean floor, listening through headphones to a military brass band. Glancing through her window, Sharon noticed the wig tunnel was on fire and immediately thought of ringing the fire brigade, but, then, she thought, somebody would already have done so. She was right as a matter of fact and this is what happened:
Person ringing the fire brigade, ‘This is an emergency—the wig tunnel’s on fire!’
Fire brigade, ‘Wig tunnel on the Kafka estate, is that?’
‘That’s right only you’d better hurry. There’s loads of smoke coming out and you know what they say…’
‘Yes, they say, “There’s no smoke without fire” and we say there’s no fire without us on the end of a well-aimed hose!’
Hoses were indeed used to extinguish the attention-grabbing fire in the wig tunnel. So, Sharon, now she was able to without distraction, resumed her frantic floor mopping after mopping her sweaty brow, soaking, in the process, the sleeve of her jumper.
One hour, Sharon’s mop caught on a nail protruding from one of the floorboards. Cursing, she elbowed a hole in the plaster and lathe wall she stood too close to and cursed again at the mess on the floor she’d accidentally created. Frustrated, she rent her hair. In need of shelter, she rented the room that, now, provided a source of gloom; she felt the floor would never get clean. Her eyes rose to the ceiling as she cupped her hands in a gesture of supplication. It could do with another coat of white gloss she mused, despite having had four coats the previous week. Behind the skirting boards, sounds of radioactive mice explosions startled her into placing a fiercer grip on her mop’s handle.

Gulliver Trent, window-cleaning barrister, was sent from Kent to check distances between emptied shelves in Croydon premises. He used this work to focus his attention away from his arthritis, which agonisingly preoccupied him. In his leisure time, he sought the company of traffic wardens. They were cool he thought and he liked their attitude, often taking drugs and drinking with them. Gulliver sent photographs of some empty shelves he’d measured the distance between to the DVLC, along with a thank you card for traffic wardens. Apart from his affinity with traffic wardens, Gulliver was close to a giraffe-neck-width-guesser from Hull, who died in an accident with some thin ice. Gulliver was devastated and organised the explosion of a shopping trolley next to a parking meter in Hull by way of a farewell tribute. He also persuaded nearly ten local traffic wardens to hold a brief vigil at this site. People close to Gulliver attributed his subsequently odd behaviour to the tragic loss of his friend. On one occasion, he’d disrupted a backgammon championship being held in East Croydon by attending as a pun—with a piece of rotting gammon selotaped to his back. The fish created such an appalling smell, that everyone associated with him, that no one would associate with him, except, of course, for loyal traffic wardens.

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MPs

David Blunkett’s blankets are just what he needs
For working undercover,
Gathering evidence, exposing Gordon Brown acting the clown,
But if Blunkett sat an exam he’d flunk it!
So, I doubt we’ll see G.B stepping down.

David Cameron’s checking the camera’s on,
Before each smile or frown.
While Boris Johnson, as Bo-Jo,
Really goes to town,
Hopefully, wearing a stab-proof vest.

Alistair Darling’s behaviour’s obstructive,
Parking his car blocking the entrance to the House of Commons
And refusing to budge it.

Talk of taxes and furtive faxes,
Fiddling expenses and over investing in the country’s defences,
Engages our politicians and their underlings.

MPs’ clichés include their calls on others to, ‘implement proposals’
And, ‘launch full-scale public enquiries,’ into things.
They’re also known for phrases ending with, ‘taxpayers money’
And having extra-marital flings.

Some people think MPs are mere puppets,
But it’s hard to see their strings.
There are hundreds of MPs and two and a half political parties of note,
To govern an approximate population of sixty million people,
A fraction of who vote.

Elected leaders, interchangeable with ejected bleeders,
Saturate the media and gloat.
MPs have won their seats,
But, I think, they’ve missed the boat!

A FOWL JOKE

Q: Why did the chicken cross the road? A: To participate in the egg and spoon race.
The results of the race upset an old philosophical cart—showing that the eggs come first! This is bound to ruffle a few feathers, particularly among those most fond of trotting out the chicken or egg dilemma. They’ll probably end up flapping, confused and running round like headless chickens. While others, who always argued that the egg came first, will smugly seize on the tenuous visual evidence provided in the race. Preening themselves, self-satisfied with their ‘proof’ that they will perceive as feathers in their caps.

THE CARBON DATING AGENCY

The carbon dating agency originated to provide a service for lonely hearts seeking partners who are virtual carbon copies of themselves. Since it started last year, the agency boasts many successes including one man who claims he’s met a real diamond. On the other hand, another man complains his partner uses kohl excessively for her eye makeup. In his case, the agency, realising the man is a victim of his own malapropism, have told him to lump it!

BODY PARTS

Cold hands warm heart? Maybe said hands got cold being plunged into bushes in search of birds one in the hand is worth more than. Or perhaps were left ‘out in the cold’ and were unable to join a group of many that were making ‘light work’ of ‘spoiling the broth.’ ‘One hand clapping’ is a Buddhist koan yet hands deserve a round of applause that, ironically, they can’t give on their own. The ‘hands of fate’, unlike the hands of a clock, don’t point to a specific time or date whereas ‘helping hands’ are welcomed and considered great. To ‘lend a hand’ does not deprive the loaner of one but identifying the exact way in which they’ve helped is hard to ‘put one’s finger on’. Handymen are good with their hands and so are pugilists but most people prefer healers to lay their hands on them. If someone succeeds you have to ‘hand it to them’ but if things go wrong people are quick to ‘point the finger’ so that someone ‘shoulders’ the blame. ‘Hand to mouth’ is synonymous with poverty, foot and mouth afflicts poor swine, while ‘putting your foot in it’ indicates you are clumsy. ‘Cold feet’ is an expression that refers to nerves, particularly at the last minute and presumably also occurs as a result of skating on thin ice. ‘Up to your neck’ in it or ‘up to your eyes’ implies deep and inextricable involvement possibly in producing a ‘body of work’. ‘Legging it’ means running away and arsey people needn’t be bums to make you not want to ‘turn the other cheek’ and run away. Being ‘spineless’ collapses under close scrutiny—no one could stand if their vertebrae were in mutiny. ‘A head for heights’, on a more sensible level, suggests a fearless demeanour when ‘faced’ with heights. ‘Facing fears’ describes a supposedly commendable response to various frights, however ‘hard to swallow.’ After certain jokes, ‘throaty’ chuckles follow. ‘Neck and neck’ refers to closeness say, for example, in a race while ‘sticking your neck out’ implies a risk.

‘IN DIANA’ JONES—HARRISON FORD IN NECROPHILIA SCANDAL!

Hollywood icon Harrison Ford, 65, the star of the series of Indiana Jones box office blockbusters, could find himself at the centre of a storm of controversy. That’s if rumours are true of a proposed sequel in the Speilberg series called, ‘Raiders of Diana’s Tomb.’ The planned movie, with Harrison again playing the lead, is said to involve the heroic archaeologist in grotesque post-mortem sex scenes with the supposed corpse of Princess Diana. If the shocking scenes are screened if the film is released next year, there is likely to be widespread public outrage—just as the death of the wealthy icon triggered hysterical reactions.
Some sources close to the ageing actor have expressed their concern for the star’s safety upon hearing of the alleged necrophilia scenes to be staged.
‘Harrison must be mad!’ exclaimed Bernie Bernstein, associate producer for MGM, and the lifelong friend of Ford’s agent’s deceased wife’s brother. ‘They’ll kill him if he does this.’ Adds Bernstein, the man who claims he put ‘the bazoomas into the Bond movies.’
Both Messrs. Ford and Speilberg were unavailable to comment when approached with the ill-founded rumours detailed above.
Bernie Bernstein’s memoirs, ‘The Way I See It: Memoirs of a Movie Mogul, Vol. I’ are due for publication next week.

SEPARATE OLYMPICS EXCLUSIVELY FOR DRUG ABUSING ATHLETES, WHY NOT?

Arthur Bloke, former fruit and vegetable stallholder (Covent Garden), incites controversy as he plays devil’s advocate—here—with his first foray into journalism.

So, disgraced athlete Dwayne Chambers—who tested positive for illicit performance enhancing drugs—is hoping to be allowed to go to Beijing. Whether the (formerly) steroid-taking sprinter is permitted to compete in the next Olympics or not is not the subject for conjecture here. Frankly, I don’t care.
What interests me, on a purely dispassionate basis and partly as a result of the remarkable performance by Chambers as a drug-fuelled runner, is just how much human sporting potential could be achieved, in all fields, if drug taking was permissible. How much punishment could a heavyweight boxer soak up, never mind dish out, if they were souped up and numbed to pain on PCP (Angel dust) or cocaine? Could the world’s fastest man match the speed of athletes accelerated by amphetamines coursing through their bloodstreams? Of course, I recognise the injustice of clean-living, honest athletes unwittingly competing against less than sporting, sportsmen and women who deceitfully and furtively partake of illicit substances to create for them an unfair advantage. So, why not have a separate event for these latter sporting figures?
Just out of scientific curiosity, I’d like to see an Olympics exclusively for drug users and compare results with the ‘clean’ Olympics. The Paralympics afford disabled people to compete in a professional atmosphere without disadvantage. Why, then, not have an event tailored to the current taboo group? Few can disagree, surely, that the results would be extremely interesting. The current day UK is a society saturated in a fanatical devotion to a politically correct ethos riddled with double standards, reinforcing arguments supporting my appeal for alternative Olympics. For example, why are there no ‘Psychotic Olympics’ for the severely mentally ill? It can hardly be more dangerous than blind hammer and discus throwers, which reminds me I must go and look for my mail—my postman is blind!
Ta-ta!
Arthur.

PERIODS

A trial period,
Periods are trying,
A particular trial
For those in (periodic) denial,
Brief periods spent lounging
In period furniture,
Furnish her with an excuse.
Who? You ask,
Taking her to task
Over a periodic table,
Mabel—is who—admirer of Marie Curie,
And her legendary chemical fable,
After heavy periods,
Prolonged periods with the wrong label,
Bleeding Mabel’s stable,
She’s wired but,
After a period of time has elapsed,
She sends a cable,
To her teenage nieces,
The little bleeders!
Making them peer—eerie, odd.

SPOOF TITLES #2

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A RUN FOR YOUR MONEY

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