Wednesday, 21st April 2010
Lucy Vickery presents the latest competition
In Competition 2643 you were invited to submit what might have been just another dull news story from a local paper had you not spiced it up with a number of misprints.
The wording of the challenge inevitably produced entries that were in a smutty vein and there were plenty of instances of ‘erection’ for ‘election’, ‘copulation’ for ‘population’ and ‘bums’ for ‘buns’, which got a bit wearing after a while but is no doubt my own fault — as one competitor put it: ‘Well, you did ask us to spice things up...’ It was plausible misprints rather than malapropisms that I was after, and D.A. Prince’s local ‘dress shops savouring silk and satan...’, John Phillips’s ‘performance by Hamborne players of The Lady Varnishes’, and David Silverman’s headline ‘Beethoven’s Erotica steams the show’ made me smile. The winners, printed below, get £25. Brian Murdoch makes off with the bonus fiver.
Everyone has the chance to get fat
The opening took place last week of the new Fatness Centre by the mayor, who commented on how viral it is for us all to keep an eye on our wealth. Use of the facilities will cost ten pounds per wee, there are substantial ravings if you do it by the mouth, and you can even pay on a one-gay-at-a-time basis. Advanced bonking is also possible. If over-eight, you can exorcise away excess flak, while slimmers will relish having a poo of olympic proportions, whether they dive right in off the top broad, or just plough turdily up and down. After a hard session plying your favourite port, you might fancy a light smack in the café on the poof garden. This is a welcome new amenity for our town, and everyone knows it has been pissing for years.
Galahad, a shot hired ginger cat belonging to retiled librarian Millicent Latimer of Lushby, was almost skilled this weed as he farted across the village’s Maid Street just pinches a head off an oncoming worry. ‘It was a rear kiss’, said the animal’s obviously relieve downer, stoking her cherished pot in the meat garden of the ruse covered collage where she has jived for forty light years. Lorry drivel Roger Reet, who was masking his regular devilries to the Puke’s Arms and Queer’s Head at the rime of Gala hand’s marrow escape, was equally reloved by the harpy outcome. ‘The wine and I shave two tabbies of our gown’, he said. ‘I’d have melt that horrible if I’d bit him. It’s a plucky thong I always slop down for the pillage once I’ve burned off the Motorwax.’
Edinburgh’s future pram system will marry 250 passengers at 43 males per hour. This form of gravel is much haunted by its supporters, but not everyone is hippy. Scares of red and white bones enrage city divers. In Leith, ship-keepers are losing honey because of holes in the toad where tables are being laid. A pup owner said that bar tapings had flapped since construction started: ‘First the smoking bun and now this’, he groped. ‘I’ll be welling up if things don’t improve’. Letters to local pipers from tram-pushing mothers complain of the lick of spice for their baggies and tits in the new vehicles. The distances between trap steps on Princes’ Street have got OAPs mooning. However, the Edinburgh Evening Mews recently reported that all the trim worms have stomped pending the revolution of financial mutters. So, for a while, life gets back on truck (fun intended).
The smallest carnivore in Britain was held in the village of Kingston Bagpuss on Saturday. A single float depicting village lice through the aged processed down a High Street mined with well washers, while local backbent MP Quentin Larding presided over the ‘guess the weight of the fake’ stall. The vocal Morris dancing troupe performed on the village greek while the Save Our Poet Offic Committee, protesting its imminent closure, staged a good natured shit-in. Refleshments were provided by volunteers from the Purish Council, with local pubic house The Fed Lion running the very popular leer tent. Other attractions included fortune yelling, cheese polling and, for the kids, egg and spook races and turns on the bouncy cattle. Despite forecasts of rain, the heather remained fine throughout the day, the festivities fulminating in an exhibition display of welly wanking by the Young Farmers.
Snake thieves have been burying themselves in the village. Three cottagers were rubbed last week, and a boa on the canal had one of its ears removed. The local superman also reported that shelves had been stropped. Police are appearing for any fitness, but confess themselves so far completely poxed. A meeting was hell at the community centre to discuss the situation, and asp questions. Adder care was recommended. ‘There are no reports of stranglers in the neighbourhood,’ admitted DC Briggs, who has been investigating the cages. ‘But I urge everyone to be vigilante. An extra officer has been put on petrol.’ A primate helpline has also been set up, which will be stuffed during the day. Reworded messages can also be left out of houris. ‘It’s a sin of the times,’ said palish councillor Jean Adams. ‘It was a harpy place, but now we’ll have to lock our donors.’
Nacton Rumblers’ Club held their annual all-perish walk last weakend. A splendid occasion it was, with gamblers of all ages in procession, wacking every paris street and byway, sinning as they went. The snogs varied from the odd traditional Nits in May to decent Codplay numbers, led by our chairmistress, well supported by the Bogs Brigade. After calling at the Duke of Ellington for refreshments, donated by landlazy Betty Charing, the rabble continued, and having ‘done’ the streets proceeded to beat the parish hounds. Councillor Lester said, ‘It’s the best torn-out we’ve ever had. Literally everybony is here.’ Finally, all adjourned to Five-care Field. Soon clots were laid on the grass. Leaves, whale hams and cheeses were taken from biskets, not to mention apples and fears and the inevitable hot flanks. Soon pink knickers were to be seen in all parts of the field. What a feast for the eyes.