Tuesday, 16 October 2007


Prof. Yaffle Chucklebutty said...

By Jove Missus, Have I got you a scoop?
Here it is, found on the back seat of the only surviving Trolley bus in Liverpool and sent to me direct from the Municipal Building pigeon shelter lost and floundering dept.
The comments by the legal expert Sir Stanley Unwin QC prior to the publication of the Mathew Street enquiry.
At last, a clear explanation!

Enquiry into Cancellation of The Meryl Streep Festivule.
As legalode visoree for Lilliput Silly Console, The Chief Excrutiate, Mr Colollop Hiltio and The Loader of the Silly Console, cllr Worried Badly, have asp me to examine the findings of the repole composted by the indefensible enquirymode into the lasp minute cancellation of the Mirthview Streep festavole.
Pre- publo.
In advance of the floo repole being deleted for public constipation and due to the risk that it may, on publo release, cause further laughtermost in the national printopress, I have been asked to cast a boadley eyeball and summarise the phonal repole from a legal perpload.
Since the awarb of Callipole of Custard for throb trouser and eight, the Custard Company farciclaps has caused tabload news coverage to now return to the old stereoscousey of all calmy-down, calmy-down, gis a jobello and all knocky off with the holdey out the cappy hand.
The repole documes a tatley missmanagemode around crapalot of custard 2008.
It is of great conserve that the general picture of daily debaclo has manifolding in the city and that beclose of this, the image of Loolapole may have been set back a decode.
Deep, deep folly.
The Mathew Strobe festeral began life as a celebro of the fib four moppy tops.
John Lemmole, Pole McSlidey, (favourmost by Bradlow) George Witherspoon and Rumpo Stark.
Inertialy known as “The Butties Festeral”.
It used to provide much cheery on the city streebs every year with no treebhole, oh no, apart from the odd sickload in the handlebag of a fold age pensioner at the bus stop.
Usually by an inebrioled man all dressy up the walrus. Deep joy many years!
In fact the Matthew Strobe festeral as it became later known, was so purpello that people flockermost from all round the world, include far flung examploads such as, Japone, United Stairs of Jamiraqui, Jockland, Germinate and Frince to name but throde.
Come the award of Cap-in-hand Culture 2008 much rushy board the gravy boat for the Ferry Cross the Mersey (a sling made flabemost by Jolly Marsdone)
All shout with cocknole accsperent, “Gis a job.”
But not the job to give the scouseyload, oh no!
All the big cashy jobs given to people who never once set a footy print in Lollopool.
Not even paddle by the beachpoo at New Brightlight.
Even the persil spellification stateyclear that being a muddle clapp southerner was an essential crimeria fool getting the job.
Liverpole culture was overnight transfumed to the jellied eels perspective with pearly cones all along the roads as the big diggerup of all the frogs and toads caused a great deal unendo congestomole and total kiosks.
It was the big drig after hole that many peoplo held resprollable for the near closey sale of Lowersole’s and a lisp of promits for Raphole Hardwood.
Jasper Hottlebottle, Expletive Director of the Culture Clammity, so the report states, said with all trumpety fanfare and spittle canope as he speakload.
“The Matthew Streep Farcical would better be handed over to the offal sirs of the Incompetent Company. We’ll ruin it from now on.”
So they handy the festival over with all hastily speed to the cashbuckets of the clammity companole, blissfullow unaware that all poury down the drain and pissly up the wole.
After much swiggy chardonnale and trampermole round and round the daily banquoles for extinguished gusts, severmole floke suddenly rollexed that the only plans drown up to actually organise the event were all scribbly down on a misplomed fag packet.
Deep folly and much wailey cry eye when they rollexed the faggy packet had been accidentally crumple up and throwed down a big hole in the road somewol near Whitechapphole.
Thip explones why Rex Makeloads, the cities flamour solitersole, is constantly writhing in his workly column about fallolloping down a big hole outside his offices. The repole states.
As the clockety tock by, Mr Fordly Capri with wringy hands and a sweatload on the highbrow make constantly phone and sendy the electromic mails to Collolop Covermost and Jasno Hollowbottle, but all say as wimb that they never set an eyeball and heard not a liverbird.
Many suspode that they jisp ignolled him.
Consequally all holes break loose when Wally Bradlow, the Loader, sitting all comfy with a bare leg and flip follopers enjoying a short holiday, nearly fallolloped out of the decky chair when he read the Echlo splashy news headlice.
“Meryl Streep Festivole Candelled! Fiascole!”
All red face and quite the twisty mouth with a shakey fist, Bradlow was all shoully down the Drummond Phone.
“Bring me the head of Alfredo Garrowbarrow” he screechy with a high pitch girly scroam.
“I demean an explanation immediately..first thing in the moaning…or next week the earlymost!” he cried to Colllolop Highnoon.
The worms fearst was confirmymost.
With no Hole and Softy plan in place and vasp crowds to risk fallollop into the diggerholes or snag of cardy on the fencil posts, The companole of consolants, Cashitter recommend cancellation on the basin that all the visitors and tworisps to the festervole could tripple up all arm over tithebarn, and fall down the hollies.
It was da scissorsisters waiting to happen.
Oh Frock! They all criedly-eyed. Who can we blame this on?
So the Festibule was cally off at the last minuet a total Boccherrini.
Liverspole makes national news and even Jeremole Paxo smirky face with a perm and tashy lip talk pretended to interview Terry and Barry and said “ On Newsnole Tonole Calm-down, calm-down….as Livepule’s Internaspernole musole fistula is called alf” and newspapers around the world translate “Cultureload My Arse!” in every linguode.
The whole country unites as all but one and laughy out loud til dampy in the eyeline and trickle spot the trouserleg too.
But most steamy gusset and dampole the leg were in Birminghole and Newcapple.
They laughed til they cried!
But then they cried again without the laughyeyes for themselves and what they could have done with the awarb.
What a watered opporternity.
Woollen Bradlow cancelled all the reception dinners for that day and gather the custard complainy at The Little Big Horn pub.
(Custards Last Spam) Bradlow was spitter with roage to suggest Jasno Holloborrow must be related to Catherine the Great as equally infamoule for habling one big cock-up after another.
There were gusps and chockles in epral propulsion but Mrs Bradlow was very creebs with Woolen and later make him wash all the mouth out with sarp and womer after she plume him home by the earlobe. Deep folly!
On Argos Bank Hapliday weekend, as confused tourists gatheried up all puzzle faced at what they thrim was some kind of Yoke, oh no, they stared in thris beloaf and goggle ode at a lone hairy tramp vest, who strummed a play on a cardboard guitar in queens squall.
(Tribload act, bless him)
So this enqueeryprobe proverbs a pubload report in the hope that any ratsqueeks to jump or ship themselves overbole so they can carol the can, will leave not only the assembled remoaning thick skins of the custard company, but the loader and anyone else whose trouser pounds matter, totally exfoliated.
Appendix 1 Lessoles lermed
Report conclumes by hailing the savoury of the Culture Crapalo with the frappointment of Anthea Redmond, not only the creeper of TVs Grungehole, Brookesode and Hairy Blokes, but one time give us a twirl wife of the Bruise Foreskin.
“Knives to see him to see him knives” (Recommole biographicole details are cheemed prior to publo. ed)
Finaloe the repole stains that we should now clone this unfornicate chapto and points out the exciting programme of attractions for 2008…er Ringo…
Vote Ludicrous Dimmertwat in May!

Monday, 8 October 2007


By Jove and gadzooks Missus…..

(The Professor enters stage left wearing a striped blazer, a flowing evening gown and football boots. He is carrying an upturned Homburg hat full of popcorn)

I’m just back from the theatre, ahh yes, the wonderful world of make believe.

All the world’s a stage, I know missus, but my favourite bit is our very own Empire.

To think the great Laurel & Hardy once trod that stage, now they are running the council.

“ Well, here’s another fine dock full of stunned fish you’ve gotten me into”

By Jove yes missus, where would we be without the theatre?…enjoying ourselves.

Every time I rise at the end of a production, I am reminded of those wonderful lines from The Tempest, “Our revels now are ended” so I always take a bag of malteasers as well for the bus home.

King Cotton!

That’s where I’ve been….take an extra bit to stick in your ears.

Ha ha by Jove, It’s me own fault, being near Christmas, I thought it was going to be a panto, like Snow White or something…well I did have Sleepy sitting two rows behind me and quite a few in front.

Turned out that Sleepy, was none other than Roly Joe Riley. Apparently he had been up since dawn watching a demonstration by the culture company on hitting fish on the head with small mallets or was it somebody hitting the culture company over the head with small mullets….? Anyway, they must have mistaken Joe for a little bloater and he got several whacks as soon as he walked in….hence he ends up in the Empire….wait for it missus….as a Kipper!
By Jove the school of fish comedy paid off. As a boy I was lucky to get in…it was a gills only school you know.

King Cotton, I really should have checked beforehand…I saw the stuff about big bands and thought it was a show about the great bandleader Billy Cotton.

If only it had been…somebody running on stage every 10 minutes shouting: “Wakey WaaaaaayKey” was just what the audience needed.

All credit to Jimmy McGovern. If you need a quiet kip in the centre of town…it’s cheaper than the Adelphi.

Now why hasn’t anybody written “The Adelphi - The Musical” Hey?

Martine MeClutchgone would make a wonderful Ida Downey..wasn’t that her name?

Oh no Eileen, yes Eileen…Imagine the set…the Adelphi dining room packed with famous celebrities and Ringo, all waiting impatiently for their dinner…Brian shouting “Just cooook will ya” and as they begin the meal they all start singing “ Come on Eileen” accompanied by Dexy’s Midnight Runs later that night.
There you are Jimmy…write that!

My advice to Jim, is never write sci-fi as it often includes references to the 5th dimension so you need to get past the 2 dimensional first.

Is it true that Howard Goodhall changed his name to Howard Sodall-Todowithit so he was taken off the credits?

Only joking Jim, it was a very enjoyable evening apart from that bloody Salvation Army band playing outside.

Ashton Under Lyne… Ashton leaving under a blanket, so I hear!

The most inspired part of the show for me was how the action transferred to a bar, lulling the audience into thinking it was the interval but it was in fact the showdown between the self appointed representative of the oppressed and enslaved, against the sleeping scribes who document history through the echo of capitalist and cultural lackeys.

“Fat, fat fatty” he cried to the sleeping dog patrolling the civil war, who in response fired a Brookside, causing him to lash out with the words: “Baldy, fat fatty… I’ll get you sacked and write a play about the injustice of it, and guess who will play you?…..Sinbad!…..with his head shaved!!! Cos he’s fat as well!”

Yes missus, it was the classic Jimmy Mac, we all love, back to the glory days of those wonderful poetic lines from his early career.

Who can ever forget lines like, “Arrr ay Sheila….” and “Petrochem just don’t want me, Annabelle. We have to live with the scum now.”

And “Ar ay, Terry, where’s ahh Barry? Norron the bog is he?” or “Druuuuuuuuuuuuugs, Billy” and my all time favourite storyline: “ Free Jesse Jackson”

Oh no, it was George Jackson, a hapless fireman who was completely out of his depth and lost in a warren of intrigue and incompetence, ends up getting sent to the slammer….....ha ha, as if!???!! Well all I can say about my night at the theatre missus is this, and it’s in the form of a little poem, just like you get in the Echo:

“That old King Cotton
Is best forgotten
Music’s nice
But the script is rotten
An epic story of Lancashire mills
Who all faced a famine and couldn’t pay bills.
As the fight against slavery is depicted on stage
It causes the author to get in a rage
The snoring of critics gets him fumin’
Then comes a letter sung by Randy Newman.
It says Old Hack Joe is a total disgrace
By the invisible man
With Frank Bough’s face.
Joe is suspended
Put out of reach
So much for culture
And the right of free speech”

By the way missus and all you avid Bloggerers, if you support free speech, then lend us your mobile phone.

Ha ha by Jove.

(His musings now ended, the Professor drops exhausted into a large leather armchair as a cat screeches and darts from under his ample posterior. He nods off relaxed in front of a roaring fire, forgetting it is all central heating. As alarm bells ring everywhere, a handsome young fireman tries to wake from his nightmare as the curtain begins to fall…….probably around May 2008)

Tatty Bye everybody, Tatty bye!