Bird Guano

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Disappointingly there were no winning entries for October’s picture competition in which readers were asked to identify the subject of a photograph which was taken from an unusual angle, I think quite a few of you will be kicking yourselves when I reveal the answer.

READER:  Don’t keep us in suspense! What was it?

MYSELF:   It was a Mexican egg-eating spider which had recently eaten an egg.

READER:  No! I was going to say that!

MYSELF:  Well why didn’t you?

READER:  Unfortunately, after careful reconsideration I panicked and guessed it was a type ‘D’ condenser valve from the boiler of a Thompson’s “Gazelle” portable steam trouser press.

MYSELF:  If only you’d trusted your intuition, that £5 prize would have been yours.



Unqualified medical advice for the concerned hypochondriac

Dear Dr. Guano,

Although this is not strictly a medical enquiry, I wonder if you could settle an argument? My husband and I are considering a trial separation because of a simple disagreement about precisely how many golden daffodils there are in a host. He claims it is half a dozen, but I say that the talented Mr Wordsworth would hardly have interrupted his solitary cloud-like stroll for a mere six blooms. My estimate would be more in the region of 125-130, more than enough to stop a starry eyed poet in his tracks, regardless of how lonely his wandering might be.

Mimsy Borogrove, Beyondenden, Kent


Dear Ms Borogrove,

I am more than happy to deal with your non-medical enquiry, since I am not a real doctor. Due to the random whims of fashion and politics, the number of daffodils required to comprise a host has fluctuated wildly over the years. For example from 1877 to 1889, thanks to a Dutch embargo, it stood at a mere seven daffodils per host, yet less than a decade later (following the Great Daffodil Glut of 1895), that figure had reached an astounding 235.
In September 1945, shortly after Germany's surrender, The newly-formed International Society of Daffodils met in Flanders in an effort to tackle post-war inflation and daffodil speculation. At the meeting's conclusion, since none of the member nations could agree on an exact figure, the number of daffodils in a host was officially pronounced to be exactly the same as the number of proposals contained in a raft, where it remains to this day.



Just as football fans began celebrating the recent purchase of Hastings & St.Leonard’s Warriors FC by Billionaire Mexican Drug Cartel Steenkin' Badges  a reminder of the the club’s  troubled past once again reared its euphemistic head. 
Mr. Chorizio, The Warriors’ former mascot, appeared at Hastings Assizes last Friday charged with being drunk and disorderly in a local wine bar known as The Cat’s Pyjama, whilst dressed as a salami. The jury were told that Mr Chorizio (57, real name Norman Rhodes), had been engaged by the club’s former manager, flamboyant Spanish sausage manufacturer José Pypebahn, against the wishes of the fans, many of whom had decided to mock him on a specially set up social media blog called Sack The Sausage.
Karl Spüunbender QC
acting for the defendant, said that Rhodes had entered a plea of guilty and asked for 51 similar offences to be taken into consideration. Referring to extenuating circumstances, Spüunbender read out Mr Rhodes' written statement: “I have been under a lot of stress, due to the insufferable circumstance of wearing a sausage suit for a living. On top of that, the acute anxiety brought on by being the constant butt of online penis-related jokes has only served to exacerbate my trepidation, thus provoking the untypical behavior with which I am charged.”

During cross examination, prosecutor Percival Badwigge QC accused Mr Rhodes of being a habitual drunk, who deliberately courted controversy during games by making obscene gestures to the crowd and waving his inflatable weiner in a suggestive manner.
Proceedings were hastily adjourned when a group of aggrieved Warriors supporters burst into the court and began pelting the accused with saveloys. The case continues…



This month's subject was ‘Life’, and from an enormous post bag of entries, the judges voted overwhelmingly for Cuthbert Spoon’s concise yet evocative vignette, Pants


Life’s a treat

It’s short but sweet

A grave that you can dance on

Stick out your tongue

Live fast, die young

And always have clean pants on.



READER:  Fair play, that's a poem worthy of Shelley, or the other one. By the way, did you phone me the other night?

MYSELF:  Me? Er....I don’t think so……

READER:  No? Its just that I got a strange call, very late. The caller didn't say anything and all I could make out was about four minutes of what can only be described as random high-pitched grunting.

MYSELF: Random high-pitched grunting? How very odd.

READER:  It was your number.

MYSELF: (blushing slightly): OK, I cannot tell a lie, it was me. I got home late after my Countryside Alliance meeting and I dimly remember that my phone slipped out of my hand moments before I toppled over due to tiredness. Judging by the bruising and flecks of blood, my nose must have collided with the phone as I fell to the floor, causing it to accidentally peck your number. I suspect the random grunting you heard came from the wild boar which had followed me home, attracted by the scent of the dead pheasant in the inside pocket of my raincoat.

READER: God, you don’t feel any shame at all, do you?

MYSELF:  Shame? It’s too late for shame. All these foreign drunks coming over here and lying in our gutters? It’s PC gone mad. This country’s going to the dogs. I had to tell a talking book to shut up in the library the other day.

READER: Couldn't agree more. I blame orgasmic farming and homophobic medicine.




Sausage Life!







guano poundhammer

From the album Domestic Bliss

click images for videos


Vote For Countryside Alliance

by The Hunt Cult. Click for video



"Sometimes you just need a tool that doesn't do anything"