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Post by Ricky T Outhouse on May 4, 2010 11:26:37 GMT
a 1970's Ford Consul of their choice left standing with thousands of its mates on the banks of the River Thames, its whitewall tyres long gnawed by some of the finest eels in the northern hemisphere, delicious when accompanied by fresh parsley specially chosen by Greengrocer Greg to be a 'luvlyplaytafewd'. Aforesaid motor car was a remnant of the glory days when Dagenham was famed for producing an endless stream of thirty-bob rustbuckets, wafer-thin death carriages exclusive chromium limousines designed to appeal to the blind and stupid fastidious working class auto cognicenti. Unfortunately, said emporium of classless trash has now long been Thatcherized and the clientele now spend their cash on long cruises on floating sea-prisons such as 'The Princess of Dagenham Mudflats' where bad food and expensive drinks can be consumed at wobbly tables covered in stained Taiwan linen and bendy Korean cutlery by lobster-faced ladies bubbling out of silkette frocks being leered at by some bearded seaman wearing a white (at one time) sailor suit with lots of gold tinsel stolen from a P & O Christmas binge. 'Not for the likes of me' exclaims a famous publisher of eel-based recipes, 'I'd spend all me time 'angin over the rail decorating the 'arbour wiv Technicolor yawns'. 'I'll stay on dry land wiv me Judy anna dawgie and take me Summer 'olidays in....'
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Post by LucyQuipment on May 4, 2010 13:50:34 GMT
beautiful down-town Grantown on Spew, sun optional, tan colour provided by a) rust b) washing in peaty water c) imbibing peaty water or, rarely, d) actual sun, facial adornments carried out by midgies and birch fly, perambulation adjustments courtesy of touring round the local falling-down-water manufacturers, itches in those secret little places from cuddly little ticks (choice of deer or sheep) and loss of extremities from misplacing oneself in the hills during a sneaky June snowfall.
While enjoying a haggis supper washed down with a wee deoch an deoris from McAli's local Bangladeshi chippie our Murdoch of the Culinary Arts hit on the novel idea of combining his beloved eels with the local delicacy of offal in a sheep's paunch.
Ay Carramba! he exclaimed! Just imagine what I could do with
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Post by Ricky T Outhouse on May 5, 2010 8:23:23 GMT
some diced ptarmigan, some caber shavings, the tackle-bag from an Aberdeen Angus, those dangly hairy bits usually covered in cow-poo from near the bum of a Highland steer, 200 yards of swiss Roll, a bag of small coconuts and some capercallie jus. Rolling up his sleeves and putting on his pvc shiny pinny decorated to make our dauntless cockerknee chef (2 Michelins) (tyres that is, not stars) look like a young lady wearing stockings and pink suspenders with her t*ts bulging out of her frilly bra, our hero set to at sharpening some large-ish person-slaughterer he found lying in the sand in a kiddies' play-pit near Culloden and when finished he began to create
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Post by LucyQuipment on May 5, 2010 9:52:00 GMT
his culinary masterpiece. While up to his oxters in a giant pudding bowl full of oatmeal, ingins, lardy bits from round the intestines of Hamish the ex Hielan Coo, bleed, essence of midge, spike of thistle, and aforesaid diced ptarmigan, some caber shavings, the tackle-bag from an Aberdeen Angus, those dangly hairy bits usually covered in cow-poo from near the bum of a Highland steer, 200 yards of swiss Roll, a bag of small coconuts and some capercallie jus, it dawned on our heroic chef that the only ingredient missing was..... EEL!
Horrified, he removed himself from the pudding bowl, showered off in the limited edition Delnabo from the hidden compartment in Mince's drinks cupboard (most of which strangely got nowhere near the icky bits stuck to his person) and hailed an 'ansom cab with a handful of handy hailstones and that immortal phrase - "OI - YOU"
Jumping into the back of the cab he tapped his gold-topped spurtle on the partition and commanded the driver to take him to the biggest eel he could find, with all haste and no messing, and there'd be a thruppeny bit in it for him, and a carrot chunk for the horse.
Soon they arrived at Loch Ness, where our hero paused to garb himself for the biggest fishing expedition in the world - ever - by
(edited for some dicey spelling)
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Post by Ricky T Outhouse on Jun 12, 2010 12:39:14 GMT
squeezing his lath-like frame into a WWII rubberized canvas sub-aqua suit borrowed from a former cockleshell hero and, sucking heavily on a 5 metre long snorkel tube he descended, with some degree of trepidation, into the depths of Loch Ness clutching a toasting fork on a stick Acme Eel Impaler bought from a certain Grantoon intrepreneuress (married incidentally to a local spark-maker with a dress sense uncannily similar to that of our hero). Unfortunately, this descending green-gravy gourmet did not go unobserved for, hidden in the depths, there lurked the U Boot U69, commanded by Kapitan Willi Zinkitt, who, realizing that scurrying about around the coasts of Scotland was eventually likely to terminate his pension prospects, had craftily remained on the bottom of the Loch by playing Lili Marlene on the Deutche Grammofon non-stop (thus turning the crew into wide -eyed lunatics round about mid 1947) and sending bets on the outcome of the War over the Enigma machine to Ladbrukkens of Hamburg and sending a little boat ashore to a sleepy Loch side village to spend the proceeds on
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Post by LucyQuipment on Jun 12, 2010 14:07:35 GMT
guising outfits, including false-faces, for the entire crew, so that they could all go ashore on Hallowe'en and mingle unobtrusively with the local populace, going door-to-door in the locality and performing their party-piece of Conrad Veidt's "There's a Lighthouse Across The Bay" in 3-part harmony with matching signing for the deaf, in order to get form the loacl worthies, along with a few choice words and sharny-dubs thrown at their girning faces, local currency, toffee apples, nuts and fruits which they stored in a 1940's memorial knapsack from the Youth Rally.
Once back on the U-boat and safe back in the depths of the Loch with all their booty Herr Zinkit turned his attention to the dirigible-like figure twirling like a demented Michelin man among clouds of air bubbles from various portions of his suit which he was trying to patch with an old bicycle tyre repair kit while making futile stabs with his pronged instrument at
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Post by Ricky T Outhouse on Jun 15, 2010 10:40:16 GMT
a massive eel, the length of which he had only imagined in his wildest dreams. The wildest dreams must indeed have been fuelled by some hallucinogenic substance for the eel was, in fact, a badly laid and poorly jointed BP oil pipeline that had taken a wrong direction and had at one time been dreaming of a long holiday lying in the warm, shallow waters off of the coast of Florida. In the meantime it was being used by Kapitan Leutnant Willi to fuel the various pumps, engines, heaters, coolers and gramophones employed on U69 to keep the crew from poking their heads through the hatch in some vain attempt to find out where they were. The submarine had in fact been sighted several times by locals and visitors to the Loch, but the alarm had never been raised despite the fact that the Loch usually became crowded with boats following such sightings. One demented torpedo polisher (Third Klass) once suggested that they might have been mistaken for a sea-monster left over since prehistoric times. How the crew split their sides laughing at such a preposterous idea! Anyhow, by pure chance, our hero stumbled upon the submerged sea-wolf and, feeling that a small gentle investigation of its identity might not go amiss, he fetched it a mighty clout with an old manhole cover that he found on the bottom of the Loch. This caused such reverberation and alarm in the sub that the Watch Officer, who couldn't have been watching very well, accidentally sent off a torpedo which struggled down the tube a gurgled off towards
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Post by LucyQuipment on Jun 16, 2010 10:05:51 GMT
towards a sight-seeing boat thrashing manfully through what passes for summer weather on the Loch, that is to say vicious squally showers interspersed with the off hail-stone.
The sight of the googly torpedo set off mass panic in the ranks of the PLSC, who had joined forces with the Dagenham Girl Pipers, the lasses from Eckerslaike and assorted nymphs and shepherds for a kulchur tour of the north, following Johnston and Boswell, in an attempt to revive their poetic spark, whoch was flickering wanly and at risk of going out altogether.
The PLSC at once set up a wailing and gnashing of teeth and ran round in circles, worrying about the effect of cold Loch water on their fine linen shirts, ruffles, velvet knee britches and powdered perrukes, setting up a doppler-resonance-type reaction that had the wee loch steamer
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Post by Ricky T Outhouse on Jun 30, 2010 18:09:21 GMT
struggling to keep its bearings until, narrowly missing the entrance to the loch, it ran aground and was eventually turned into a floating faux Highland gastropub, serving venison in a Dundee marmalade tart with slivers of white pudding overlaid with a heather honey crust. For dessert there was always shortbread crumble and whisky-scented capercallie thighs (with cream or custard) (custard I said...none of your imperialistic creme Anglais). Meanwhile, realising the game was well and truly up, Kapitan Zinkitt assembled his motley crew of stinky submariners and admitted to them all his deception and weepingly apologised for keeping them from their hearths and loving families unnecessarily for nearly six decades. 'Zank Gott for zat Mein Kapitan' spluttered Hubert the Oberstaurmeister, 'uzzervise I would have had to cuddle up to mein frau Vlossie for years and to be honest, she tended to vart like a swein'. 'Me too Kapitan', said Wolfgang der Motorgreasenmonkey, 'Ich am vron Hamburg.......und ich hate MacDonalds' . Und also, the crew realised, they had also escaped years of listening to der stupidishen Irisher radio klod mid der stupider German accent on der radio in der morning. Vun last thing I have to tel you kamaraden,said the Kapitan, you must now accept zat der Englisher swein have not just beaten Germany in 1 World War as you have been led to believe by der Fuhrer...zey also came top in der Second World War und ein Fussballen Welt Kup. At this news, the Second Oficer Leutnant Willi Kumtopp shot himself. Sadly and silently the U 69 started its engines, topped up with deisel at Tesco's, claimed the Clubcard points and turned its nose towards
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Post by LucyQuipment on Jul 1, 2010 9:52:27 GMT
the centre of Inverness, to the newly refurbished Eden Court theatre where, according to the flyers they'd seen at Tescos, there was a production of The Producers. They thought they'd be a shoo-in for the roles of the Nazis - poor deluded fools.
After a bit of difficulty negotiating the sub round the pedestrianised centre of Inverness, which didn't appear on their Achtung Dumkopf 1940 SatNav version, they eventually pitched up outside the theatre.
After a great deal of discusion amongst themselves, throwing of runes, burning chicken entrails and games of scissors, stone, paper, they elected Hans Offmeyeras as their representative, fortified him with a stein of plum brandy, and sent him off to seek the producer.
Hans managed to track down the producer, Aubrey fffyffe-Featherstonehaugh, mainly by following the high-pitched squeals of invective aimed at the hapless Esther Williams-style chorus, who were having great difficulty combining the inverted pyramid with the double twirl, at the same time as keeping their sparkly head-dresses and fixed smiles in place.
Hans paused in the wings, trembling, head swimming with plum brandy, eyes out on stalks like chapel hat-pegs, at the sight of Aubrey in leopardskin slippers embroidered with his family crest in puce silk, black silk socks with silver clocks, damson damask plus-fours held at the knee with fuschia garters, chartreuse cummerbund, lime silk blouson topped with eau-de-nil velvet weskit and cerise and magenta cravat, all topped off with a pink sparkly eye shade with ciao bella embroidered on the band.
Taking a deep breath, Hans stepped out from the wings and said
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Post by Ricky T Outhouse on Jul 7, 2010 14:26:13 GMT
'You must be John Marsh'....' Did you make a wrong turn off Beachy Head?' Aubrey was completely confused. He stared at Hans with unconcealed lust, longing admiration. Given that Hans had worn the same leather trousers (mit matching unterkex) for 65 years, the same [glow=red,2,300]Bu££er Off Adolf...You Cant Get Me Down Here[/glow] t-shirt with the now well-venilated armpits, breath redolent of a seven decade diet of pickled herrings, blutwurst, sauerkraut and Becks Best, a waist length submariners beard creating a sanctuary for many and various sea and crawling creatures and sling-back sea-boots now more Dunlop cycle patch than ersatz Nazi rubber, Hans was not at first sight an obvious target for an Indecent Proposal (or any other cheap and tacky sexually exploitative Hollywood epic skin-flic). Aubrey, however, was seeing only the possibility of a snoggy sojourn in Hans's greasy hammock and could not restrain himself from calling out 'Oooooh what a super seman seaman.....Be Mine Be Mine' Hans turned away with a sniggerry smirk worthy of Dr Goebbels and, using his 14 Kilo lightweight Blaupunkt Kriegsmarine Unterwasser Personalische Sprachen mit der Kapitan Telefon, he called up the U 69. ' Kameraden', he said,'we might be right well in 'ere'....... 'Kranken up der Kapitan's secretary, Ve need to forge a hundert filthy Britische EKVITTY KARTEN. If ve play our karten right ve vill be stars of der screen und stage und for der British....Der Var Vill Be Over'. Eyes glazing over, Kapitan Villi reached for his box of greasepaint and
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Post by LucyQuipment on Jul 12, 2010 9:23:22 GMT
cursed loudly "Gott in Himmel, Einfahrt Vergeleggen und Hells Bells" - he'd forgotted that during a particularly lean spell they'd used the grease to coat the bent wire coat hangers that they'd towed behind the U69 by string unravelled from their vests in the vain hope of catching something edible, other than those dratted eels that they'd had to throw back, because they didn't have a blue door to attach them to for the skinning of preparatory to following the recipe they'd found in a loose page of some book about duvets that had floated into the air intake, thus causing a near fatal build-up of bottom-burp gasses.
While he was debating a quick trip back to Tesco's to see if they had enough sanders to scour the decades-old grease and porridge-encrusted whiskers from the krew and enough kiddies waterproof facepaints to turn them into something approaching humans instead of the gargoyles they presently resembled, Hans tumbled down the konning tower in flood of tears, strings of snot running from his nose to disappear into his beard where they proved deadly to the hermit crabs who got flooded out of house unt home thus providing a tasty and unexpected snack for the sea anemones (anenomes?). "I am distraught!" he exclaimed. "I haff been undone! " "Aubrey luffed me, but the rest of der panel did not!"
"Der two vimmen screamed, one off them produced a babby und der other claimed I'd given her malaria und they both said nein.
My fate rested with a strange little leprechaun who was eyeing me up speculatively, whule haffing a hissy-fit at Aubrey - something about trouser-keks hiked up to the oxters - but eventually he said I vas too old for him unt der greased-up hair unt terrible singing vas sooo last season.
So I got drie neins unt my heart is broken"
Kapitan Villi, with heavy heart, realised the dream of west-end stardom would have to be put on the back-burner for another 70 years and was just turning to the parrot to see if he had any other bright ideas when there was this awful clanging noise on the outside of the hull, followed by a swaying sensation, a clunking bang, and the noise of a motor staring up.
Villi had a sneaky peek out of the forrard porthole and saw to his shock that they'd been lifted out of Eden Court's car park and dumped on the back of a low-loader lorry, which was now preceeding in a south-westerly direction. The motion of the road lulled the crew to sleep, and the boat was filled with the harmonious sound of snores, burps and f*rts until further commotion, swaying and claking indicated that they'd arrived somewhere.
Waiting till the racket died down and all was quiet, Villi slowly raised the periscope to take a look round and found to his horror that the U69 was now a in a tank and the major feature in the fishy bit of Bloomers Garden Centre, and they were being eyed up by
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Post by Ricky T Outhouse on Jul 13, 2010 16:02:07 GMT
a very pneumatic but very good looking and enormously famous Welsh classical singer newly separated from some over-tanned and excessively hair-gelled knuckle-dragger, a dozen or so elderly gents in grey flannels and smart blazers all singing about some valley or other, a rather wrinkly but super-smiley 60's entertainer with a rather impressive pantie collection spanning several decades, 15 muddy thugs with missing teeth and serrated ears who seemingly wear their Brains on their shirts and a group of very strange gentlemen all dressed like the KKK all complaining in a very strange but clearly poetic language about what the Romans had done to their priests and about how the neighbours had been shafting them for centuries ever since. Behind them, leaning on a large plastic dragon, and hanging on their every complaining word, lounged Cicely Whimpersnice, the Poetess of Cheam. Willi, with increasing levels of despair and horror, realized she was speaking on her mobile telephone. The black depression descended upon him. Not only was he and his crew trapped in a large goldfish bowl with dozens of gawping children all pointing at him with grubby fingers or half eaten leek puddings, not only was he clearly trapped yet again in some peripheral outpost of fair Britannia and not berthed handily alongside some London nightclub in Theatreland with U69 disguised as some lardy farty gin palace owned by some Russian Football Club owner or other, gone was the chance of escape to the blue waters of the Med to end his days towing topless tanned nymphs along the Cote d' Azur on water skis whilst stuffing himself and his crew of stripey shirted, blue-bonneted matelots with fois gras burgers and iced Marie Brizards. Oh No, not only was he stuck in Wales but the rest of the flaming PLSC would be arriving any minute. 'Kvickly', he called to the crew, 'somebody come up with ze cunning plan or'
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Post by LucyQuipment on Jul 14, 2010 9:05:46 GMT
it vill be curtains for us unt ve could all end up in some gawd-awful feature tank in some "ironic" seventies-style liffing room mit guppies svimming in and out of der konning tower unt battling mit cut-throat pirates over der favour of coy plastic mermaids.
The crew all retired to the deepest recesses of the sub to fortify themselves with Brains faggots with braised leeks and dragon sossidges before tossing around several ideas.
In case any of the interested spectators outside the glass were under the employ of the Welsh Uber Secret Service External Section (or WUSSES for short) and were honing in on the discussions with an Acme Sooper-Dooper Multi Directional Chit-Chat Finder, Villi tviddled with the rabbit-ears of the old black and white TV set they had liberated from a crofter in Arnamurchan who had been rather the worse for wear after over-indulging in a bottle of Sheep Dip.
Out of the hissing static came the stwangled tones of a certain Mr Woss, waxing lywical about the fact that there was a new Piwates of the Cawibbean in the offing.
Deep joy and exultaions! Who could be better for roles as long-dead pirates than the sartorially-challenged crew of the U69 - no costumes or make-up required, they could just not wash and go!
Immediately they set up an escape committee, and designated tunnels fore, aft and midships as Tom Dick and Harry, in case their plans were intercepted, rearranged the plastic ferns and pretend plastic rocks and started digging through the prettily coloured aquarium stones that littered the bottom of their case.
Joy turned to despair when they reached the glass bottom of the tank, but after much thought and beard-tugging (causing several invertebrates to involuntarily relocate) Villi came up the the notion of somehow persuading the very pneumatic but very good looking and enormously famous Welsh classical singer newly separated from some over-tanned and excessively hair-gelled knuckle-dragger to give an impromptu concert in the hope that her top notes would resonate through the aquarium and crack the bottom of their tank, not to mention all the others round about, so that they could make good their escape in the resulting confusion, and perhaps even snag a few seahorses to make a quick getaway.
All that remained was getting the soprano cranked up to her best glass-cracking top register......
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Post by Ricky T Outhouse on Jul 16, 2010 7:47:39 GMT
in order that her impressive and powerful, trembling vibratos could gain sufficient power to crack the glass bottom of the tank without splitting the hull of the U69, which to be honest, as a result of her longevity and lack of external maintenance, had become a bit of a stinking old rust bucket. 'Nein Nein', protested Willi the Vanker Wankel Kranker, 'she may be a rusting alte rustenbucket to some.....but she is home to me'. Now it has to be said that, after many years of Kranking der Wankel (the Wankel engine essential for keeping the wurst skveezer and the sauerkraut fermenter operating), Willi vos no longer in full possession of der marbles. Suddenly, the old Osram lit up in the Kapitan's brain. 'Ve vill inwite dis silber tonsilled songstress to a mess party und ply her with cocktails und gut grub.' At that, the ship's cook was summoned and a careful search made of the subterranean depths of his pinny to unearth suitable victuals. (It has to be said at this stage that cabbage, minced pig nipples, marinaded seaboot, ersatz gravy and black forest gateau featured heavily on the menu). 'Mohitos!' screamed Heinz the standby mess steward. To which Kapitan Zinkitt responded by ordering him to go and 'Vosh out der mouse mit der mustard'. 'Nein Kapitan' explained Heinz (happy to have a day off from der suppensloppen)) 'it is a cocktail much beloved by the futile gold diggers talentless squawkers champion nightclub projectile vomiters young celebrities of London and Llandonmiarse'. 'Excellent Heinz' cried the Kapitan 'wot are dey made of?' . Heinz took himself off to peruse the ReichsbuchderingredienchenderfrivolischertrinkerfurderU-bootmenschenaufderFuhrer and found to his horror that the ingredients were not to hand. However, being a resourceful lad not wishing to be sent to the Eastern Front (now known as Norfolk), he decided that 2 year old Brains Bitter would substitute for Bacardi and that for the lime juice they could always use
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Post by LucyQuipment on Jul 20, 2010 8:45:21 GMT
that fluorescent green gunk that had accumulated in the bottom of the periscope shaft.
By now preparations were well under way for the party. Invitations, hand-written on the webbing lining carefully removed from assorted seaboots, the worst of the stains camouflaged by artful drawings of crustaceans, had been sent out. Party canapes were fetchingly set out on port hole covers which had been brassoed specially for the occasion, the left-over brasso adding a certain something to the sea-slug en-croute, sardine gizzards on pumpernickel (*sniggers thinking of some jokes but restrains oneself*) and barnacle vol-au-vents lovingly prepared by the galley slaves crew. Bunting had been cunningly contrived from the second-best unterkeks and simmets (shame about the colour, but you can't have everything). The main course of surprise pie was in the larder, filling of cabbage, minced pig nipples, marinaded seaboot andersatz gravy roiling gently under a grey pastry crust neatly crimped by Helmut *Gumsy Malone* Zahnprothese's ceremonial falsies. Dessert was a bit behind schedule due to the change in the Gulf Stream affecting the distribution of jellyfish but this had been rectified by dangling Heinrich der Hooverkarpettschweepen over the side at full suck and on the widest nozzle setting, so the Black Forest Gateau was now nearly ready.
All that remained was for
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Post by Ricky T Outhouse on Jul 23, 2010 9:53:37 GMT
a raiding party to be organized in order to track down and kidnap forcibly detain bribe persuade the silver tonsilled songstress to join the crew at their soiree sous la mer. 'Ach Mein Kapitan',said Ernst the Sonar Signal Box Operator (Ja, him mit der 'ping ping ping' tinnitus') using a fair imitation of a third rate Englander actor imitating a German Captain in an early post-war B-Movie made in black and white for consumption by the lumpenproletariat,' Zuppose der luscious Welshenfrau does not like the grub und has it away on her toes through one of the newly Brasso-ed portholes (!!!!) in the submarine?'. Deflated, the crew sat around dejected and tried to dream up a new plan. 'I haff a cunning plan', exclaimed Hans the cabin boy whilst peeling off his lurex stockings after performing yet another Marlene Dietrich impression sat at the torpedomen's mess baby grand, 'we could try dressing one of der crew as a 'sportingcelebritie' and he could try seducing her with oily charms in order to persuade her to sing a few after-dinner songs in the hope that the glass tank would shatter and we would all be free!'. 'Good idea', said the 3rd Watch Starboard lookout whilst adjusting his bottle lens spectacles, 'but who shall we force to volunteer?'. All eyes swivelled towards Hans
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Post by LucyQuipment on Jul 23, 2010 11:14:35 GMT
who was nonchalantly pushing back his cuticles, buffing his nails to get rid of the last of the Brasso (did I say the porthole covers were from the submarine??? They were a gift from a visiting Nessie-hunter who spent a convivial few days aboard the U69 pouring home-made tatty-peeling based schnapps doon his thrapple till he fell comatose into the nearest bunk where his snores loosened large areas of barnacles from the hull) before applying a pearly-pink opalescent polish.
But, he said, I haff an even better idea! Der shriekensopranosinger has been abandoned by her bidie-in und she needs a chob! I vill bleach my unterkekenvesten to a snowy white, pull my best black uniformenpantaloonenbreeks up to my oxters unt touch up my roots with boot black. The give me over that lappentoppen that thon Nessie-hunter left behind unt let me connect to YouTube so I can brush up on der best phrases of Simon Cowell.
I vill then ring her on der handen-free-Nokia-gezundheit-phone unt, as herr Cowell, invite her to
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Post by Ricky T Outhouse on Aug 24, 2010 13:02:21 GMT
a guest appearance on [glow=red,2,300]Celebrity Stars With No Guys. '[/glow]Wunderbar', said Kapitan Willi, Immediately pinning on Hans's breast an Iron Cross (4th Klasse..actually made of plywood and not Iron) using a nipple clamp left behind after the ship's last visit to Hamburg. 'Danke mein Kapitan', said Hans, eyes watering and hands gripping tightly onto a left-over cabin boy. They all sat down to decide upon the names of the other panel members. The following shortlist emerged without too much difficulty. First of all there was the north-east girl-band cutie formerly married to possibly the stupidest bladder-kicker in history for risking her affection in favour of slippery tumbles with a legion of simpering slappers in football scarves (and not much else). Next was the 'authoress and former model' formerly married to the Antipodean singer following their jungle entanglement, but more recently hitched to a modern-day pugilist with little knowledge of verb-systems that do not include the word 'punch'. The crew thought that if they sat him in a corner with a copy of 'Rupert and Big Ears Invade Russia In Their Little Yellow Car' he might, by the end of the contest, have increased his noun vocabulary to a total of eight words. The final panel member was to be a once hugely-popular comedian and game-show host recently finding it difficult to tie-down soul mates after a swimming pool party that made a splash in the Press for somewhat the wrong reasons. 'Gut', said the crew, admiring their shrewd choices, 'now all we need is an audience of screaming half-wits, perhaps we should try
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Post by LucyQuipment on Sept 16, 2010 15:00:33 GMT
that girly group - Girls Too Loud. They usually haff a rather unique und individual following.
By now the narrator, and probably the reader, has forgotten if the Chermans are in the tank, out of the tank, hovering above the tank, tunnelling out of the tank, washing the windows of the tank.....
Whatever.
The audience is set up, the panel is arranged, the single-mum-of-two is booked for the special number, the glass is cleaned and polished, and an area of weakness has been introduced by the cunning plan of drawing the big sparkler on the Welsh Wanton's hand in a circular motion round the glass of the tank under the guise of doing that Germanic thing of heel-clicking, moustache-twirling, waist-bowing and hand kissing.
The expectant crew gather on the benches removed from the mess and tarted up with fern, shells and weed from the tank decorations for the occasion and hold their collective breath as the soprano voice soars towards the top C of "I Who Have Nothing"
At first nothing happens, then those crew members whose ears are not bunged up by wax and ear-hair hear a faint crackling sound, like the delicate tinkling of frost on a winter's night, followed by a groaning noise, similar to that of a digestive system facing the umpteenth meal of sauerkraut and pickled cabbage, and then
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