SAUSAGE LIFE by Bird Guano

The column with the nice soft fabrics, sustainable biscuits, a lovely cup of tea and a Valium


READER: I’m pleased to see Boris is finally getting his point across.

MYSELF: In what way exactly is the brain-fogged overprivileged slacker “finally getting his point across”? And please stop calling him Boris like he’s an old mate of yours.

Why so? Boris has the common touch. I feel as though he’s speaking to me personally when he says he’s going to “prick the lid and whack things in the microwave at gas mark 8”, or when tackling “the mattresses and the yeast” of complex social issues.

MYSELF: Well apart from revealing that he doesn’t know the difference between a microwave and a gas oven or how mattresses work, the only relevant word I see in those lame attempts at amusing the gormless corpses who support him, is the word “prick.”

READER: Are you seriously suggesting that Boris is not possessed of a coruscating, razor-sharp wit?

MYSELF: On the contrary, as a humourist he’s right up there with Edgar Allen Poe and Anne Widdecombe.

READER: My point exactly.  He is subconsciously funny – he just can’t help it.


MYSELF: As Dr Freud ought have warned us, the subconscious is an undomesticated beast which is best kept outdoors.


READER: Brilliant! Do you mind if I use that?


MYSELF: Be my guest. As long as you are aware that it's security chipped, watermarked and coated in a thin veneer of my own DNA, as well as being registered with The Patent Office, National Geographic Magazine and Alcoholics Anonymous.



Wendy, our regular agony aunt, is currently enjoying a well-deserved camping weekend in the Antarctic. Psychic Doris, the clairvoyant mystic, has kindly agreed to stand in at very short notice, although oddly enough she didn’t seem at all surprised.


Predictions, dream interpretation, tap lessons

Before we begin, just a gentle reminder to those who wish to peek into the future with me via the tea leaves: Tea bags do not work.

In reply to an enquiry from Mrs. Labya Thwang of Babelehurst;

Dear Mrs. Thwang (may I call you Labya?),

First of all, let me say how sorry I am to hear from my Native American spirit guide Two Dogs Fucking, that your husband has (predictably) run off to Panama with a tango dancer. On your main point however, I'm sorry to have to tell you that, due to Covid and Brexit restrictions, subscriptions to my road congestion tarot predictor app come at a fixed premium price. Good news however! My special introductory offer on the popular Here comes summer traffic congestion avoidance app  is valid from now until August 31, which means that all this month you can outmanoeuvre local and national traffic delays by having your tea-leaves interpreted at no cost or obligation whatsoever! Simply send a complete cup of tea (not just the leaves) to PO box 437, Luxembourg, and remain in the car until help arrives.

This one came from Felicity Panquake of Lower Herstmonceaux;

Dear Doris,
I have always grown my own vegetables but the other night, during a very lucid dream. I looked out of my kitchen window and saw, standing in my back garden, a horse - eating my carrots! When I woke up the dream was still fresh in my mind, so I went straight into the kitchen where out of the window I saw, to my surprise, that there was a horse in my garden, but it was eating my broad beans. What on earth could it all mean?

Dear Felicity, (is it OK to call you Felicity)?
What you need to decide is which one of these equestrian experiences was the dream. Maybe it was both of them? Perhaps you are dreaming now? I’m getting a Malcolm or a Douglas. Have you ever been to The Isle of Man? A couple of homeopathic tarot sessions and a Turkish massage should sort this out once and for all. My normal rate is £159 + VAT for the hour. Or you could pay me in vegetables.



Hastings Crown Court was the scene of an unpleasant affray last Thursday, during which His Honour Lord Justice Karman-Mirandah (presiding), had to order the public gallery to be cleared. The defendant, Arnold Strangler (53), an unemployed juggler, was accused of the theft of two pints of Jersey Gold Top Milk and a carton of Greek-Style yoghurt from an unattended electric milk float operated by the plaintiffs, Ludlow’s Dairies Ltd. When the case resumed after order was restored, counsel for Mr. Strangler entered a plea of not guilty, citing the precedent of Ribbentrop Surgical Supplies vs Angus McAlnwyck (Glasgow Assizes1952), where a similar plea was accepted by the court on the grounds of puilly quo prosne, and furthermore ad hoc distemper regis, relating to the…


READER:  Courts? Latin? What’s going on here? Where’s this all leading?

MYSELF:   Philistine! Have you no interest in the wheels of justice?

READER:  I didn’t get where I am today by being interested in the wheels of justice, nor for that matter , in the crossbar, the pedals or the handlebars. Just get to the juicy bits.

MYSELF:  As you wish. I will cut to the chase:

…During Mr. Strangler’s cross-examination, intermittent gasps could be heard from the gallery, as the following exchange took place:

Ms Oskar Hammerstein QC (counsel for the prosecution, sneering): Mr. Strangler, you claim that you attended a bestiality party the night before the alleged offence. Can you tell the court what took place?

Strangler: Regretfully ma’am, I was drunk. I don’t know what came over me.

After a stunned silence. uproar broke out in the public gallery. As the judge waved his hammer and called for an adjournment, relatives of Mr. Strangler let off fireworks and threw vegetables at the barristers. During the brouhaha, Mrs. Molloy, the lady who does the fast typing, was struck in the face by a flying cauliflower hurled by Mr. Strangler’s girlfriend, the non-binary actress Lulu LaRue, which required hospital treatment.

READER: Blimey that’s more like it! By the way, is that how you got that black eye?

MYSELF:  That? No, I was punched in the face by a waitress in an Italian restaurant.

READER:  A waitress punched you? A waitress? What brought that on?

MYSELF:  I’ve absolutely no idea. All I said to her was “do you shave your Parmesan?”



Calamari Parsimony the film actress recently divorced from Meat Raffle guitarist Tit Bingo, appears to have consciously uncoupled from reality. Her company, Fool and his Money which markets bipolar exploration kits, atomic irrigation and scented candles infused with the perfume of Calamari’s own lady parts as well as an aerosol called Psychic Zombie Repellent and soap made from her own faeces. Her hit TV show Ladies Who Lynch promotes global warming crystals and novel methods of castration.



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