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BRAND: IF GOD EXISTS

HOW COME THE DOORS KEEP FALLING OFF MY CAR?

Bird Guano’s

SAUSAGE LIFE

The column that has never allowed dyslexia to hold it bakc

MYSELF: I see the ranks of Reform UK are swelling like Russell Brand’s vocabulary. The Monster Raving Loony Tory Party had yet another defecator last week. At this rate it won’t be long before they run out of idiots and are forced to put up morons as candidates.

READER: Defecator? I think you meant defector...

MYSELF: I think I meant exactly what I said.

CINEMA
International Festival Of The Unwatchable 2026- Upper Dicker Gaumont
The Festival's eminent Jury returns to Upper Dicker for the next two weeks to present its selection of last year’s most effective insomnia cures.
My personal recommendations: Calamari Merde’s static triumph My Life as a Pit Prop, Hogarth Tuttenkahmen’s Welsh love-song Aberystwythnail & I and Hideo Wagamama’s missable epic romance Castaways on Crack Island, described by Roto Noto of Tokyo’s Celluloid Nightmares magazine as “beyond disbelief”

BRAINWAVE
Following his innovative scheme for replacing the seeds in raspberry jam with shredded parking tickets, Hastings inventor Gordon Thinktank’s latest ingenious idea is waterproof overcoats lined with bear grease to repel chipmunks.

READER: What earthly use is that? We don’t have chipmunks in this country.

MYSELF: That’s what’s ingenious about it. You can also wear them when you’re swimming the channel in cold weather.

POETRY MONTH
Upper Dicker Poetry Month wanders cloud-like and lingers like a tin of golden daffodils, which prompted me to invite poet Hasselblad Van der Voome, better known by his pseudonym Big Pillow to contribute something. He has sent us this poem about life, which is called Life.

Life
By Big Pillow
Life’s a gas

A solid hoot

A broom to necromance on

Life is queer

Like Belgian beer

Or chocolate mousse with ants on

Life is neat

But short and sweet

A grave we all can dance on

So live fast

Die young

And make sure you’ve got clean pants on

LEGAL HI

I received this frankinsense-scented letter, hand delivered by an Anglican Bishop, from Russell Brand’s soliciters Milqueflote, Taxidermy & Paradigm, after I was overheard (allegedly) reciting a rude limerick about him in a pub following his embarrassing Bible fumble on TV monster Piers Morgan’s show:

Sir,
we hereby serve notice that in our extremely legal opinion, the phonoaesthetic comic rhetoric with which, it is alleged, you have associated our client His Holiness Mr. Brand, the baptismally-immersed messenger of Jesus, self-appointed protector of the circuitous, and sworn enemy of the apothegmatic, amounts to a clear a case of aggravated slander with undertones of blasphemy, malice and aforethought. May we remind you that our client’s hitherto unsullied reputation as an unswerving upholder of circumlocution, a ceaseless champion of the gaseous and a staunch defender of humbug and windbaggery is indisputable.
Arguably, Mr. Brand’s garrulously expressed philosophical platitudes may be the only barrier between obfuscatory monosyllabicism and pleonastic tautology……
the letter goes on for about 350 more pages and quotes 200 character witnesses, including Thomas Aquinas and a tramp called Cyril who once sold Russell some freeze dried sheep's milk, claiming it was high grade polynesian crack cocaine, before threatening to bankrupt me under the overwhelming weight of their client’s Faustian and Vengeful fury.

READER: Well it serves you right, you’re far too quick to judge. People like Russell Brand and David Ike are simply encouraging young people to be more politically aware, by giving them the plain facts and telling it like it is.

MYSELF: I heard David Ike has found out that all iPhone 17s are programmed by alien marsupials and have the world’s governments under their control, so perhaps we should be grateful. After all, if the velour-wearing guru of gobshite wasn’t busy being the son of God, he might be out shoplifting or writing science fiction.

WENDY WRITES
Sound all-round advice from our highly unqualified expert.

Dear Wendy, I wonder if you could settle an argument. My husband insists that it can be potentially fatal to eat any seafood beginning with the letter W, unless there is an R in the month. I reminded him that on February 29th 2016, three catholic priests died from an attack of ciguatera poisoning after eating contaminated winkles at a leap-year miracle party in a Lourdes nightclub. He maintains that February, having two Rs, is exempt from that culinary rule, adding rather cruelly that it served them right. I say that surely having two Rs makes the month twice as dangerous as the others viz a viz seafood poisoning,? Who is right?

Amelia Sternbagel, Silverhill

Dear Amelia, I’m sorry to have to tell you that your husband’s rather brutal assessment of the situation is in fact correct. February, contrary to TS Elliot’s opinion, is in fact the wickedest month, but not in a hip-hop sense. Due to its quadrennial elasticity and its double-barrelled R, it can also be frisky and anarchic. Those two Rs, when coupled with a leap-year can easily cancel out any food-related pearls of folk wisdom, exposing the confident oyster swallower, or in the sad case you describe, ecclesiastical winkle gobblers, to excruciating stomach cramps, frequently followed by convulsions, speaking in tongues and eventually a slow agonizing death. My advice with any seafood, regardless of the month in which it is consumed, is to boil it thoroughly in a spacious cauldon with two tablespoons of bicarbonate of soda and a dash of goat’s urine for about three hours. Allow to ferment before adding 500 grams of well-rotted manure. Leave to cool and consume within four hours. It may taste like the decomposing scrotum of a dead sloth, but you can rest assured it will be quite safe to eat.

Wendy

DICTIONARY CORNER
Gullible (adj) easily accessed by sea-birds, eg: fish & chips, Macdonald’s, pizza, rubbish bins.

Outsource (v) to compete successfully against a sautée chef.

Detractor (v) one who has reverted to horse-drawn farming.

Sausage Life!

Against all odds, a poor Irish immigrant family rise to the top in 19th century America

Rarely-seen 2Os German Expressionist film about a strange spanner-worshipping cult

JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

JACK POUND

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CHEMTRAILS ON MY MIND
MORT J SPOONBENDER

On September 11th 1958, José Popacatapetl, a retired tree psychologist who's father was head gardener for the CIA during the cold war, was hitchiking through the Alberqueque desert when he was picked up by a black sedan driven by J Edgar Hoover's ex-boyfriend André Pfaff head of FBI underhand operations and extra-terrestrial banking who once worked as a quantum mechanic for the KGB under the direct orders of the zombie reincarnation of Josef Stalin whose mummified corpse was stored in a secret bunker in the basement of the Vatican.

Vote For Countryside Alliance

A party political Broadcast by The Hunt Cult.

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THE SENIOR MOMENTS

SEE THEIR LAST GREAT PERFORMANCE ON THE THE PERRY COMO SHOW 1959

POISON PEOPLE

By Guano Poundhammer

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Video from the album Domestic Bliss

SUPERCALIFUCKINGFRAGIFUCKINGLISTICEXPIALIFUCKINGDOCIOUS

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Photo credit: Alice's Dad (circa 2000)

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