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Bird Guano's Sausage Life

By Colin Gibson

The column which says next time you feel sorry for yourself, remember that in biblical times, people had to wipe their arses on stone tablets

MYSELF: You’re looking tanned

READER: Thank you, I’ve just got back from Cannes, where I attended the 2026 Film Festival for the Blind.

MYSELF: A fascinating genre. Who won?

READER: It was close. The final nominations were as follows: Alice in Stevie Wonderland, Vision Impossible...

MYSELF: Hang on... surely this this is all in the worst possible taste.

READER: .. See no Evil See no Evil See no Evil, Reservoir Guide Dogs, For Your Ears Only, Guess Who’s Come to Dinner.

MYSELF: Whoa! I’m going to have to stop you there. This is going to offend the entire visually-impaired community!

READER: Nonsense! It's wrong to assume that blind people don’t have a sense of humour. Look at I Just Called to say I Love You

MYSELF: I suppose so but........

READER: Do you want to know who won or not?

MYSELF: Go on then, open the envelope.

READER: And the winner was... Monty Python and the Holy Braille.

MYSELF: I should have seen that coming..

©SANITY CLAUSE (© G Marx 1934)

I have received a very nice unsolicited email from those dead horse floggers, The Upper Dicker Observer; its message was simple:- Are you ready for Christmas? I replied to their no reply email thus; Thank you for your sincere enquiry. Yes, I am ready for Christmas. I have tied balloons to everything, hired a mechanical plastic Santa which waves menacingly at children and dug out my boxed CD set Excruciating Christmas Songs which I will play at all times, very loudly, with the windows open. Through The Observer’s handy website, I have booked Christmas dinner for 25 of my worst enemies at Santa's, a Winter Festival-themed pop-up restaurant for bearded men and bought them all pointless, unwanted gifts.
In order to offload all the offensive tat I received last Christmas, I also placed several small ads with them, (all of which will appear without completing their descriptions). I will remain in this perilous intellectual prison, wearing a rictus grin and a reindeer pullover which is slightly too small, until the hideous Yuletide perpetual motion machine enters its short hibernation period (between February, when it is time to prepare for chocolate eggs, crucifixion, death and resurrection, and September). But that's enough about about our fine local newspaper ("All the news Printed to Fit") who have obviously been ready for Christmas since their establishment on Boxing Day 1814.

FIGHT NEWS: GLOVES OFF AS TITLE HYSTERIA MOUNTS
Now that mysoginist baboon Typhoon Anger has finally hung up his groin guard, the much-anticipated heavyweight challenge bout between newcomers Nigel “Brownshirt” Farrago and Kenny “Bad” Enoch has been dubbed the brawl of the century. At the fractious pre-fight press conference, Farrago’s manager Nadene “Bellend” Doris was confident: “My boy’s a narcissistic psychopath with a sociopathic chip on his shoulder” she told us, “He makes Typhoon Anger look like a ladyboy. The so-called “Bad” Enoch doesn’t stand a chance. Nigel’s sparkling teeth and dazzling choreography can mesmerize a rhinoceros. I predict a knockout in the first minute.”

In the opposite corner, Enoch’s manager Flick Bean retorted angrily; “I’ll give the sissy “Stormtrooper” one round. He’s a nobody. My kid’s a sarcastic hurricane with boulders in his gloves. He’s a ruthless killer. His feet are like whirling dervishes at an Irish dancing contest. One right hook from Kenny’s devastating fist of fury will knock Farrago into the middle of next week or possibly even the week after.”

STOP PRESS: TITLE SCRAP SCRAPPED
The so-called “brawl of the century” has been postponed at the last minute after controversial ex-heavyweight champ Typhoon Anger dramatically withdrew his retirement. Anger has “found God,” according to his manager Ron Maserati, “and wants to punch him in the face.”
Boxing fans who queued all night in freezing temperatures for the £300+ Farrago vs Enoch tickets were furious at the news, but Maserati was quick to reassure them; “Instead of refunding the money, I’m offering disappointed fans tickets for the upcoming Anger vs God fight at half price, as soon as we can find a suitable venue. This is going to be the fight of the millennium. The so-called Supreme Being doesn’t stand a chance. My boy will knock Him halfway to paradise in round one.

If you thought Typhoon’s Black Belt was just for keeping his shorts up (he wears Japanese “Nagasaki” extra-reinforced Sumo wrestling braces for that), you can think again. His ferocious training routine is legendary. Huge concrete slabs, thick pieces of wood, fat men in togas, Judeo-Christian deities - they’re all grist to his dark satanic mill. God may claim immutable omnipotence but Typhoon has polypotence. He’s like an epileptic tornado or a tsunami with a sore head. His fists are like two flying cement mixers. Take it from me, he’s angrier than a sack of Jack Russell’s in a Chinese takeaway.”

RADIO FEET

I was taking my afternoon nap (between 12pm and 4.30pm) when I was woken by a strange arhythmic banging which appeared to be coming from the kitchen. Was it as it a cat burgler, chipping away at my high security windows in order to gain entry? Or perhaps a pair of criminal squirrels, suspecting that my kitchen may contain nuts? How wrong can you be? What I could hear, foxtrotting out of my wireless like a faulty machine gun, was the tippy-tappy toes of tiny-brained feet, in other words, the hotly anticipated radio version of Strictly Come Dancing.

CAT MENACE

Police were called to a house in Silverhill last week after a terrified couple reported being shot at by their pet cat. An armed police unit which sped to the scene was confronted by a terrified couple cowering behind a bush in their front garden. The suspect eventually surrendered after a trained hostage negotiater spent two hours talking with the cat through a rolled up piece of cardboard.

“The first shot whistled over our heads as we walked up the drive” a sobbing Mrs Stipinsky, told our reporter; “so we instinctively dived under the wysteria. We are baffled. Ozwald has always been as good as gold, but has recently taken to staying out until all hours.”

“We had no idea he even had a gun” said Mr. Stipinsky, a retired glove manufacturer, “or opposable thumbs for that matter. This has all come as a terrible shock” East Sussex Police Chief Hydra Gorgon issued this statement; “Ozwald, a feline, has been remanded in custody and will appear before Hastings magistrates on Monday. I can confirm that two shots were discharged from a double barrelled firearm. This is a classic case of a family pet of previously good character associating with the wrong sort of cats, and frankly, going off the rails. Unfortunately this sort of antisocial behaviour is increasing, and I lay the blame squarely on Catbeebies, a cat-centric TV show which has become more and more violent in recent years, with an increasing reliance on hip-hop and mouser rap content. When we add the growing use of the drug Katamin to the mix, it becomes clear that we have a serious social crisis on our hands."

DIET BOMBSHELL
Professor Thinktank's new superfood, Squink, is made from the eyeballs of tadpoles. "One tadpole eyeball can supply the Squink equivilent of 50 peanut butter sandwiches, a haunch of venison, or a 200Kg rocket salad", the inventor told us. "Until I apply for a patent, all I can reveal about Squink is that the eyeballs are blended with concentrated extract of horse cheese and dizzolved in tepid seawater at a ratio of 101,000 to 1". (Editor's note (before we get bombarded with letters from the animal rights people): Tadpoles' eyeballs are regenerative, like Dr. Who. Ocular vetinary experts are required by law to administer pain-killing injections to the tadpoles before the eyeballs are humanely removed.)

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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