A concerned reader writes:
Dearest Flaxen,
I write to express my strident, trenchant, and irrepressible viewpoint. It has not gone unnoticed that your posts of late have become unrepentantly sensible. No longer do we hear the forthright adventures of 'Shagger the Wonder Ferret'; the rollicking peregrinations and antics of George Formby and his grilling ukelele (the lard just rolls away). There is nary a reference to Tipton, errant Japanese snipers, filthy thieving gypo bastards, or Arthur Askey's shenanigans prior to and after losing his legs and cock in a sequential series of increasingly contrived and barely credible accidents. No mention of the hackneyed Prof/Dr/Mr. Mugumbo or of lugless Douglas- he of bereft/sans pinna fame. No incendiary inspired tales of woe or increasing bizarre ruminations of a man teetering precariously on the edge of the abyss that is insanity/inanity. Has your medication finally put paid to the cascade of aberrant thought processes that once flowed unceasingly from your mental vault of derangement?
Dear Concerned Reader,
Thank you for your concern. I confess I detect a degree of weariness in your tone. But despair no more! Due to a pharmacological oversight, I haven't received the correct drug dosage that damps down my more lurid and florid thoughts for quite a while. Therefore, my aberrant synaptic electrical impulses have become unleashed and are no longer burdened or labour under the rein/reign of the brain's executive control. Whoop, whoop.
Yours,
Flaxen
Breaking news from our science correspondent concerning news of our closet neighbour in the cosdross, Tipton. For today it can be revealed that convincing and intangible evidence has been unearthed that life apparent may exist on Tipton after all. Tipton, of all the boroughs, was considered the least likely to support life due to its complete and utter feculence. Even Netherton, North West, was considered a more likely candidate due to its abundance of Alehouses.
From his observatory, somewhere in Dudley castle, Professor Ipod Mugumbo, opines thusly: “Whilst looking through a lens darkly, I espied Mrs Winifred Plumpbutton, naked through her bedroom window. Afterward, once satiated, I trained my optical organ to the neighbouring borough of Tipton. I put the olfactory sensors on to maximum and was promptly rewarded with the distinct ordure of faggots and mushy peas with a hint of brown ale. Could it be that I had detected the unmistakable scent signature of primitive life? It has long been speculated, by folk with a tenuous grasp on insanity, that Tipton could be the repository for life. Not complex life, or life as we know it but a vile and low form of existence. However, the exhortations have been cast adrift by others who fart loudly in supermarket aisles adjacent to the exotic lard counter."
This startlingly stark observation has nonplussed the scientific community as far away as Merry Hill. A renowned Dudley chemist, Dr. Deepfat Fryer, had this to say: “We must first rule out more mundane and arcane possibilities. For the universe and the West Midland environ is a fickle mistress, full of perfidy and icky poo.”
The next stage in this well-versed farce/arse is to send a probe unto the Tipton miasma to captivate a representative of this putative life form. The probe, code-named, the number 127 bus from Birmingham to Dudley is hoping to arrive next Sunday at approximately 3.30pm depending on the vagaries of the weather, traffic, and last-minute time table alterations. The bus will be driven by Cap'n Jean-Luc Pickarse. He will boldly go into the void where no baldy bastard has gone before. This intrepid escapade is dependant upon the munificence from the prominent Dudley entrepreneur and dedicated wanker, Mr. Earlobe Musky-Bollox. He has promised to invest the full fare from Birmingham to Dudley at the proscribed tariff.
Additional motive force will be provided by the ejection from the rear of the vehicle of several hundred Japanese snipers at frequent and allotted intervals when cresting a hill. Thus thrust will be supplied according to Newton's 4th Law of Motion: Slopes roll down a slope. Dudley, at this time of year, has a glut and surfeit of diminutive, shortsighted, and rhotacism prone adherents to the God/Emporer, Hirohito.
The probe will enter the inhospitable Tipton area after a detour through Smethwick West. Onboard will be the state of the art detection and capture apparatus: some bloke with a net and pointed stick. Prior to entering Tipton, a predictable gaggle of ferrets will be released to reconnoiter the dodgy neighbourhood. The band of ferrets will be led by the inevitable, Shagger, the Wonder Ferret. It will be recalled that Shagger was the first ferret to be placed down Arthur Askey’s (I spank you) voluminous undergarments with hilarious results- I digress.
Dudley, we have a problem
The voyage is not without its incipient dangers. The bus could get lost in the vast reaches of the West Midland environs and end up bereft of purpose somewhere in a canal. Furthermore, a virulent form of life, called the ‘gypo strain’ could inadvertently catch the bus back and be unleashed on an unsuspecting Dudley populous. Imagine hordes of gypos demanding money for lucky heather and wooden pegs. On the upside, everyone has a lucky face.
Renowned Dudley artist (arse) and invert, has produced an impression of what the alien life form could look like. The xenomorph, ‘Stinky Eric’ or aka, the itinerant inebriate, has been rendered in crayon. If captured, Stinky Eric will undergo extreme cauterisation with chlorox and DDT. Afterward, Eric will receive an extensive and prolonged anal probing. This will no doubt celebrate the numerous occasions when Flaxen was callously and extensively anally probed by aliens with uncut fingernails.
Afterward, the organism aka 'Stinky Eric', will be returned to his natural environment, aka the Tipton Wet Hostel.
More. More, Mighty bowman.
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