The Somme

On the first of July 1916, the British and French launched a major offensive on the Somme. This battle has a special place in the minds of the British public, and rightly so. On the first day of the battle, the British suffered casualties of 60,000 men; a third of these men were killed. No other nation, at any time in this war, suffered this degree of loss, on a single day.

One in a million

The Somme is ingrained in the British public consciousness and not only symbolises the futility of the Great War but also the callous disregard for the British High Command, and at the personal level, the Generals for the men under their command. I would dispute both these contentions, but will deal with only one in this short article.

The British Generals in 1916 faced a problem  shared by no other combatant nation. All major warring nations, with the exception of the British, had implemented the pre-war policy of maintaining a large standing army in addition to a large reserve of well trained men. For continental powers this was sound policy. Britain was not a continental power in this respect. Britain maintained a small, but exceedingly well trained, professional army. In the maelstrom of 1914, and the early months of 1915, this magnificent force was spent on the Western Front. The cadre which survived would train the 'new armies' which would fight for the rest of the war.  At the start of the war, the British menfolk responded to the clarion call of war in their millions. These men needed to be fed, equipped and more importantly, trained. And herein lies the problem.


In July of 1916 Britain had achieved the continental million man army. These men were well equipped, well fed, but hastily trained. Not so much an army, but rather a body of men under arms. Up to this time, the French had sustained the majority of the fighting on the Western Front. The fighting at Verdun had sapped the fighting strength of the French and they sorely needed a British offensive to draw away German troops. British battle tactics, by necessity, were simple in July 1916. In concept, at least, the Somme was to be an artillery battle. Consequently a heavy artillery barrage descended upon the German lines for seven days before the men went over the top. The guns battered the German positions and tore up the land. Many of the shells contained shrapnel which sprayed the battle field with metal balls. While effective on unprotected troops, they contributed little to the oncoming battle. The Germans did not oblige the British (how unsporting of them) and remained safe, except from the most heaviest of projectiles, in their deep and well constructed dugouts. Whilst it is true the barrage affected the nerves of the German troops, it failed in its primary objective of killing them. At precisely 7.30 am on the 1st of July, the barrage stopped. Whistles were blown and the British troops left their trenches and walked in linear lines toward the German positions. Conveniently, the cessation of the guns alerted the Germans of the impending attack. They left their dugouts and sited their machine guns on the trench parapets. What followed was a massacre.            

The battle of the Somme continued for another 5 months. It was the testing ground for the British army and men learned battle tactics the hard way, uncluttered by classroom theory. At the end of the battle, in November of 1916, the British had at last forged a professional army on continental lines; but at what cost? The gains in land taken were modest but the battle, in its entirety, took a grievous toll on the German army as well. At last the Germans became aware that Britain was not only an effective sea power, but a land one, as well. The Somme battles were predominant in the mind of the German High Command when they made their decision to retreat from their lines in April 1917.

The lens and perspective of 100 years makes men wise. We can see all the war laid out before us in cold apparel. Yet the British generals cannot leave the battlefield, without some blame. The British High Command expected the battle on the Somme to be the 'Breakthrough Battle'. The battle which would scatter the German army and end the war; how naive. After the first day, perspectives changed. The British acknowledged that the battle would be one of attrition. Objectives would be measured in men's lives, not ground taken. Clear minds should have realised that the battle was lost within the first week, but politics dictated otherwise. The million man army needed to be expended, so why not here. The British press and public would not settle for less. And of course there was the French. The French had clamoured for this offensive. They were bleeding to death in the Verdun cauldron and needed respite that only a major British offensive could provide.

And so for the butchers bill: 1,000,000 men injured or killed- give or take a 100,000.

General Haig, in repose

Arthur Askey: The Wilderness Years

Harry Worth's ferret, 'Shagger'

The diminutive Arthur Askey, befouled by the wandering band of camp homosexuals (see: Arthur Askey: The Years of Wonder, Part II ) as he was, never lost his zest for life. Although befitted with an artificial anus, he still managed to insert his keys up his rectum and maintain them on the second shelf next to the best cutlery. 

But things could only get better. One fateful day, Arthur (for it is he) was called into the office of the then Director of the BBC, Mr Youhidi Bignose. Mr Bignose takes up the story as if it was 50 years ago: 

"I had occasion to invite 'Big Hearted' Arthur into my office on that fate bejewelled Wednesday morn. As usual, Arthur propelled himself on his bespoke skateboard with characteristic aplomb (aaarrr...). I placed Arthur on a pedestal and regaled him of tales of how I managed to extract 20p from a blind beggar in Golders Green- no mean feat, I can tell you. 

But I digress. I was privileged to offer Arthur 'No Arse' a leading role in the upcoming comedy series: 'Ooh missus, I've got no arrrrrrrse (anus)'. In many respects, Arthur was tailor made for the role. The main lead would have to be a comic of extraordinary comedic talent; a man of exemplary comic facility and moreover a man with an artificial arrrrse (bottom). Arthur only satisfied the last criteria, but nonetheless, the budget for the show was constrained and there was no other comedian who fulfilled the most important criterion: lack of an anus. It is true we did consider Harry Worth, but he was on a caste iron three year contract with ITV working on a similar concept, aptly named:' Ooh missus my artificial arrrrrrrrrse (rectum) moves about, a little bit.' Not surprising this show never aired on British television and went straight to DVD.  

As I recall Arthur received the concept like an ice cold enema. He suggested that he would be more than willing to play the romantic lead in the series. This role would suit a man of tall stature, with the requisite number of legs and an anal sphincter, natural, pert and taut. When I pointed out the obvious, Arthur was mortified and crestfallen. At that juncture he teetered and tottered on his pedestal, eventually alighting upon a broken bottle of Dom Perignon which sliced clean orf his penis. 

Let me explain: Arthur since losing his legs had the habit of using his prehensile like penis to grasp his skateboard in an endeavour to remain erect. Therefore his cock was always exposed and exceedingly vulnerable to freak accidents involving sharp objects. Arthur would never be erect on his skateboard, again....." Oooh missus.

To be continued...              

Mr Mugumbo Abducted by Aliens, Again!

Mr Mugumbo just before the anal probing 

Shocking news has just emerged from the picturesque black country town of West Dudley. Read on and ponder your existence anew.........

Mr Bibulus  Mugumbo (of Dudley West) claimed yesterday, that as he left his local hostelry 'The Felching Ferret' late last Saturday night, he was abducted and thoroughly anally probed by slime producing aliens.

Mr Mugumbo picks up the story with characteristic gusto: "Er, I had just quaffed my sixth pint of creme de menthe extra when I decided to wander outside for some fresh air. As I left the public house my senses became eerily dulled and the world began to spin in a counterclockwise direction. Just before I lost consciousness I became aware of a descending disc surrounded by a pulsing blue light and my ears became assailed by a piercing siren like noise. I surmised later, that the aliens (for it is they) befuddled my wits with ethereal electromagnetic radiation. Unfortunately, on this occasion I had left my flat cap lined with tin foil at home. When I awoke my hands were restrained by alien technology unknown to man. I had been deposited in the hold of an alien space ship which can only be described as a cell. It appeared to teem with strange alien beings uttering incoherent sounds. Occasionally one of the extraterrestrials would gush forth foul fluids. The whole floor was awash with exotic and rancid smelling ichor. It was at this juncture I became aware of sundry deposits in my undergarments. I deduced that this represented frank testament to my own anal probing culminating in the leakage of sundry bodily fluids. As I speak, I fear the aliens are using my semen to impregnate an alien race to produce an invincible army of killer robots. The spacecraft finally landed and disgorged my raddled carcass onto the main Dudley thoroughfare. My head was pounding after my terrible ordeal and I could only relate my heart rending tale after drinking a further 6 pints of creme de menthe extra, whereupon I was promptly abducted by aliens, once again. This will be the twelfth time I have had the distinction and indignity of being abducted by an alien life force called constable"   

Mr Mugumbo will appear in the Dudley Magistrates Courts this Tuesday charged with public intoxication. If convicted this will be his twelfth conviction for drink related offenses.    

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrse

Artists rendition of the alien 

         

Verdun: Operation Gericht

Reconciliation? But not in 1916

The small city of Verdun sits rather comfortably in the beguiling and femininely named district of Lorraine, in  north eastern France. Aptly the name means 'strong fort' in the Gaulish language.

In 1916 the fortress of Verdun strutted into the German lines. A stronghold salient beleaguered on three sides by powerful German forces. The Germans had a plan. They would bombard this little salient with cannon. They rightly surmised that for this small patch of land the French would fight dearly.

All this of course was madness. The salient held no strategic value for the French and from a pure militaristic viewpoint they should have given ground to the Germans on the sound of the first cannonade. But the fortress held the hearts and minds of the French nation and became a powerful symbol of French national pride. Of course this formed the basis of the German war plan. Battles have been fought for land, booty and even for women. But this battle would be fought solely to bleed a nation's manhood dry. Truly terrible in concept and application, Verdun, with other battles on the Western Front, came to encapsulate the futile horror and moral decay of this Great War.

On the 21st of February the battle opened with a massive artillery bombardment followed by a German infantry attack. The plan, as originally conceived, was to conserve German manpower and let the artillery do the killing. However, as the battle unfolded the Germans became giddy with their initial gains and began to feed more and more men into the mincing machine. The French resisted with all their strength. Men and supplies were sent into the salient in a constant stream along the only road into Verdun, 'Voie Sacree.'  The ferocity of the battle cannot be imagined or the terrors that men, on both sides, endured. The French policy during the battle was to continually rotate units into the battle zone. In this way, 259 out of 330 French infantry regiments participated in the battle. Although a sound policy, it opened the way for mass discontent in the French armies which would culminate in the French mutinies of April 1917. The battle would continue for 11 months, although the German scaled back the offensive following Allied operations on the Somme in July.          

And so the butcher's bill. A modern estimate has placed the number of causalities at 714,231 men; the causalities being roughly equal among the German and the French. Some consider the final toll to be higher at just under a million men.    

The Germans hoped to bleed the French army white, and in this they scored a partial success, but only at the expense of horrendous losses in men and material for themselves. The French eventually recovered all the German gains and the battle boosted French national pride. However, the battle destroyed the offensive spirit of the French army and losses of this magnitude would no longer be tolerated by the French soldiery. As for the Germans: the battle represented a lost opportunity. They should have stuck to their original plan and to their guns. The salient offered unique prospects for the German artillery and the German infantry could have been used sparingly. Instead the Germans lost sight of the original object to kill as many French as possible whilst conserving German manhood.

Ponder and weep

Tipton to Cede from the Union

One of the rejected flags of the fledgling nation

In a momentous moment in history, the Tiptonites have voted to become independent of the UK. With a record turn out of 3% , 90% of respondents, who exercised their franchise, voted unequivocally for cession from the Union and free pizza.

The key factors in this election have always been freedom from the oligarchical megalithic bureaucracy of the neighbouring superpower encapsulated in Birmingham city (c'mon the baggies) and the abiding issue of free pizza. Mr Salamander, leader of the 'Free Pizza Party', had this to say: "This is a clear mandate from the good burghers of Tipton  (incorporating Netherton North). Our first act as an independent sovereign nation will be to annex the neighbouring boroughs of Dudley and Smethwick East. As always Tiptonites will look to the east, to the vast hinterlands of the disconsolate, desolate urban wastelands of the East Midlands. From now on the Tipton groat will be allied to the Zimbabwean Zim."

Today 1 Tipton groat is worth 50,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 Zim dollars.

It has been proposed that the new Tipton flag will comprise two crossed ferrets on the canton, with steaming faggots rampant on the field, or a black swastika depending on which is easier to manufacture.

When asked about the vexed issue of free pizza, Mr Salamander had this to say: "Er, I intend to hold a referendum on this highly contentious issue sometime in the far future, possibly."

After the election, Mr Scrotum Mugumbo, a life time citizen of Niger, had this to say: "I da vote for dat nice Mr Yamyam who say he give all free fish an chip, an make no mistake, mister. Get into da pot."

Latter today Mr Yamyam, together with the 32 other unsuccessful candidates, were found horribly mutated/mutilated down a disused midden pit. Mr Salamader's newly formed security force, 'The Indiscriminate Killers' ruled the unfortunate incident as an act of God.

From now on Mr Salamander will be addressed as God, by decree:

'Hail Salamander the Lord God of Tipton (incorporating  Netherton North). Kneel before your God, because he is a jealous God. Woe to the West Bromwichites etc........ '       

Scrotum waiting in line to be tossed down the midden pit

At close of post, it has just been announced, that the Tipton groat has at last achieved parity with the Zim dollar. Arrrrrse..........
                

Dudley to host the next Olympic games

Dudley's Olympic Swimming Pool

The Olympic committee have just announced that the prestigious spa town of Dudley will host the Olympic games in 2016.

 Mr Enoch Vole, the incumbent mayor of Dudley and Tipton East, had this to say: "This is a wonderful opportunity for Dudley and its illustrious/industrious people to show case our world class facilities and stuff." When asked about the lack of an Olympic sized swimming pool, Mr Vole continued to wax on lyrically: "The local Dudley to Birmingham canal will be cleaned of dead dogs and Reliant Robins. Sundry detritus and drowned drunks will be removed and placed tastefully, and in repose, on the tow path."    

Mr Khan, of 'Mr Khan's Cheap Crap Emporium' has formed an alliance with the heroic North Korean Democratic Republic State Factory to supply the Olympic medals. The medals will be fashioned from the purest weapons grade, depleted uranium. The obverse side of each medal will have an embossed representation of Kim Jong Un cradling the severed head of the infant Jesus, with the motto: 'Even the baby Jesus worships the world's leader with glazed adulation even in death.'  The reverse side features the stirring refrain: 'All bow to the beneficent North Korean leader, or die horribly.'

Mrs Linda Mugumbo, a life long Dudley resident,  when asked her opinion about the impending Olympic games, had this to say: "I hope it doesn't mean we let more wogs into the country." Wise words indeed, Mrs Mugumbo.......    

Linda Mugumbo sucking a lemon

Sunday, bloody Sunday.....

Oops

C'mon give the girl a break. Not everyone has taut sphincters, ya know. I do hear there are certain exercises which can address this problem. Maybe she had one of those farts. You know the ones. You think it is going to be okay, but a little bit of moisture just seeps out. Anyway, she is young, she is beautiful and should be able to move on, which is more than I can say for some of the poor buggers featured here.

Lard Arse

I give you the amazing 'magnetic boy'. Then again it could be that some of his adipose tissue has leaked to the surface making his skin extremely sticky. Apparently he can hold a jelly roll securely between the folds of belly fat without dropping a crumb. Now that's, magic.
 Judging from his immediate family it is clear that have not heeded the warning about marrying your first cousin. Uncle Lurch on the left looks like a barrel of fun.

Arse, big fat, arse 

 All trussed up with nowhere to go. I don't know why, but this conjures up the image of my forth coming Sunday roast. I might just have the salad instead. But what is that mysterious object manifesting out of her right buttock, you ask? A leg of a stool perhaps? That being the case the rest of it must be somewhere, buried deep in the rank, rancid, folds of this woman's corpulence.

What do you mean, you can't get a job!

Thank you sir for letting us know. We don't have to worry about twats like this. It is clear that he is not a shining pillar of society and we can thus avoid him accordingly. It the plausible psychos which should concern us. The ones that look like angels but have the heart of a concrete elephant (er, surely some mistake).

I think you've got a bit of shit stuck in your teeth

Not everyone can be as wickedly handsome as you gracious host. However, it would behoove some folk to at least make an effort. A little judicious application of make up, a comb run through their eyebrows and of course, dentistry..........

  

There goes the neighbourhood

Everyone has a skill. This chaps party trick only becomes manifest after he has imbibed copious amounts of ale. This is no mean feat. Consider the bladder control. I bet this gentleman doesn't have any problems with slack sphincters. Apparently all his full stops do look a lot like commas.

Fermat's Conjecture

Prof. Wiles, in reprose

Fermat was a brilliant French mathematician of the 17th century. He was also a mischievous individual who liked to tease his contemporaries with mathematical conundrums. Fermat delighted in the frustration and impotence experienced by lesser minds especially when they failed to solve his equations.

Unlike science, mathematics can provide absolute knowledge. Once a theorem has been proved, that proof will stand for all time and is not subject to change or modification. Contrast this with scientific knowledge. A scientific theory may be subject to revision or be totally replaced by a new theory which better explains a particular phenomenon.

Fermat had the annoying habit of not committing to paper his calculations when it came to producing proofs and solving equations. In the margins of a copy of: 'Arithmetica' he scribbled: "I have a remarkable proof for this equation but have insufficient space to write it here".  He was commenting with regard to a deceptively simple equation, whose general form can be represented thusly:

 Xⁿ + Yⁿ= Zⁿ . Where n equals 2 the equation represents Pythagoras's famous theorem about right angled triangles.

However, there is a dark postulate that there are no whole number solutions for the equation where n is greater than 2.  Anyone can do the math but it takes a genius to produce the proof.

I suspect Fermat's solution was flawed, but we will never know. In the 1994, the English mathetician, Andrew Wiles produced a proof which is valid and sound. But he used modern mathematical techniques which would have been unavailable to the 17th century French savant.

Of course this advance in number theory has no relevance to practical knowledge. Prof. Wiles sequestered himself away for 8 years to solve this most arcane of problems, and produced mathematical poetry. Silly sod.

Pierre looking cool

    

Identity of the Infamous 'Tipton Slasher' Revealed

Chief Inspector 'Shagger' of the yard

In 1888, the metropolitan borough of Tipton was terrorised by a mysterious predator who stalked the good burghers in the dead of night and sowed terror and disconsolation wherever his dreaded tread did tread. Drunks only dared to stir during the hours of late afternoon, as usual.

The 'Slasher' was never apprehended and the identity of the miscreant has forever remained shrouded in the mists of time, until now. New DNA evidence from a discarded 100 year old kebab has finally solved this century old conundrum.

From the Tipton police archives:

The investigating officer of the time, Chief Inspector, 'Shagger' of the yard, relates his story in his own words:

"On the Monday of the 31st February, 1888 at approximately 9.52pm, I was proceeding in a south easterly direction down West Tipton Street. I had occasion to be accosted by a certain 'lady of the night', known colloquially/locally as 'Two Gilda Hilda'. She was of an agitated and animated disposition and regaled me with a story concerning a gentlemen whom I later believed to be none other than the infamous 'Tipton Slasher'. It transpired that said gentleman had promised the tariff of 'One tasty lamb kebab with sweet chilli sauce' from Mr Khan's Quick Kebab Kebabemporium for certain services coital in nature. However, once spent, it transpired that the alleged 'Tipton Slasher' reneged on said contract and consumed half of the kebab for himself. Once satiated he placed said partially consumed comestible on the cobblestones. Whereupon I placed said sweetmeat in a greaseproof bag to await more propitious future times when DNA technology had been invented, when time travel will be commonplace, and even the working man will wear bowler hats and spats.  Big fat, Arrrrrrrrse........"



Molly circa 1888

A direct descendent of 'Shagger' of the yard, Mr Neoprene MacMugumbio has finally solved this deep and dank historical mystery. DNA extracted from the partially eaten kebab has unequivocally unearthed the identity of the true 'Tipton Slasher'. It is none other than 'Molly the Lamb' who frolicked in these parts circa 1888.

So the riddle of the 'Tipton Slasher' has been finally laid to rest and a century old perplexity is no more.

                                          Tipton residents can sleep well, tonight.       



Meet the real 'Tipton Slasher'

http://www.blackcountrybugle.co.uk/Tipton-Slasher/story-20155748-detail/story.html

King Flaxen Dispensing his Discernment, Once Again

A plant pot would look really nice up here

Once again King Flaxen sits on the profound chair of sagacity and dispenses wisdom with audacious aplomb. Arse bucket......

Dear King Flaxen,
I have a teensy weeny problemette with my immediate meighbour over a boundary dispute. I noticed the other day that his fence lies 3 inches within my boundary. I checked my house plans and consulted a chartered surveyor who confirmed my suspicions: My neighbour has encroached throughout the length of our common boundary. The upshot is that I have lost up to 4 square feet of land. I approached my neighbour to remonstrate and explain the situation in no uncertain terms but Mr Mugumbo (for it is he), replied: "fuck off cunty bollocks."    

King Flaxen, I am my wits end and absolutely besides myself with worry and discontent. How should I proceed to resolve this crisis, moving forward?

Dithering of Dudley


King Flaxen promulgates percipience, thusly:
Gather ye war band, form a shield wall, and charge your neighbour's stronghold. Overcome, and put to the sword all ye find even unto the little ones. Appropriate the land and burn the garth. In order to avoid paying the weregild to your neighbour's kin, I recommend their total destruction, except the maids who have not lain with man- these you may keep for your self. Whatever you cannot hold, burn, and salt the land with lime. As a final pleasing gesture, bestrew the land with the skulls of your fallen enemy.

Alternatively you can approach your local Ombudsman and seek impartial arbitration.

 
  

Arthur Askey: The Years of Wonder - Part 2

Twat on a stick

After losing his pins in a freak chain saw accident, diminutive Arthur continued to maintain a chirpy cheerful chapy demeanor. By propelling himself on his skateboard he managed to navigate his way unhindered through a world replete with natural obstacles. Bereft of talent he still managed to get his own radio show aptly titled: 'Ooh missus, me legs have fell orf'.

Then tragedy struck. One night whilst leaving the Tipton repertory theatre, Arthur's breaks failed on his skateboard. He careened and careered down Tipton High Street, turned left into Albert lane before coming to a complete standstill in the Dudley canal. As Arthur couldn't swim he was facing a life and death drama of epic proportions. Luckily for Arthur he managed to crawl onto the bloated carcass of a dead tramp. Adrift for two days Arthur was eventually picked  up by a wandering troop of camp homosexuals. After buggering Arthur senseless the hapless band of penis pirates placed Arthur's ravished torso on the canal towpath. Alas, the doctors could not repair the damage to his befouled rectum. From now on Arthur would be the bearer of a plastic, prosthetic, arse called Donald. Arrrrrrrrrse.

 

Arthur before being violated

To be continued..........

Aotearoa: Land of the Long White Smoke Cloud

                                                                Have a fag for god.

In New Zealand there is a new 'initiative' dreamed up by the Waikato District Health Board. Maori pregnant women are being offered the incentive of $250 to give up smoking. Apart from being a total waste of tax payers money, isn't the scheme racist? I detest all forms of discrimination in all its manifestations and sincerely believe there is a special place in hell reserved for cunts who espouse positive discrimination. If it is to be offered to one racial group, then it should be offered to all, surely?

I suspect this is another scheme dreamed up by ivory towered politicians/clinicians/senior administrators who have no idea about nicotine addiction, first hand. Of course women will cynically take the 'gelt', but if you think the scheme will have any serious impact on pregnant Maori women smoking rates, then you are not attuned to reality. Furthermore, Maori should feel insulted by this initiative. They are being offered 'shiny trinkets' to give up a bad habit. What does this say about Maori? And what does it say about the folk who dream up this crap? Remember the instigators are predominantly, white middle aged, middle class, men. It simply reinforces the widely held stereotype held by New Zealand Europeans that Maori are 'child like' and not to be judged by white man's superior mores. If Maoris are not insulted by this initiative, then they must be pregnant.

Bored Shitless.......

Life is inherently unfair and tough. Some folk, through no fault of their own, end up congenitally challenged. Whether it is a deficiency in intellect or an ill favoured facial configuration  the outcome is inevitably the same. Sadly the confluence of a low IQ and disagreeable features is often the case. As I was saying, life can be cruel and unforgiving. That is just the way the world works. Rail against it if you must, but in the final analysis there is only acceptance and death.....

Ponder on these poor folk, and weep. Arrrse.

Nothing to see here

We live in the age of wonders. Surely these days, there is no need for this poor sod to be permanently contemplating the bridge of his nose. Strabismus surgery is effective and relatively safe. Mayhap he doesn't have medical insurance. I wonder what his teeth are like?

Too much to see here

I think it is called the 'startle reflex.' Otherwise her thyroid might be over zealous and producing too much thyroxine. The condition is called hyperthyroidism and easily treated.

God almighty. God probably doesn't want to use this trio and probably outsources to the devil. 

Can't say I blame him. Clearly this was the hey day of hairspray. No wonder there is a hole in the ozone layer. 

Aren't all cunts special?

Something failed at the editorial phase of this cards conception. Or perhaps someone on the 'team' had a wicked sense of humour and a wry eye to marketing. I'd buy it.

This album cover is very disturbing. The title: 'Love mother' is enough to give Freud nightmares. As for the androgynous Heino: The creature has a severe case of hypertelorism and would benefit from major cranofacial surgery. Personally, I would like to burn him.

Tipton Rocked by Seismic Event

Tipton, before the 'Quake'

The picturesque Spa town of Tipton was subject to a severe shaking yesterday morning as a consequence of being the unwelcome recipient of an unprecedentedly large earthquake. Arse bucket.

Mr Enoch Vowel, the Mayor of Tipton (incorporating West Smethwick) is conducting and orchestrating the emergency operations from the local hostelry, 'The Frolicking Ferret'. Mr Vowel had this to say after consuming 16 pints of 'Tipton Best Ale'. "Who you  looking at you bastid. I'll take you all on. C'mon if you think you're hard enough..."  Before collapsing, Mr Vowel removed his shirt and regaled locals by showing off his birth mark shaped like an amphibious landing craft.

Mrs Edna Mugumbo, a lifetime resident recalls the event, as if was yesterday: "I had occasion to be 'declegging' my ferret 'Shagger's' anal gland when the earth began to move for me. My first impression was that Mr Mugumbo had returned home early from the glue factory and was administering a quick 'knee trembler",  but when the fine bone china began to dance across the sideboard I reconsidered, especially as my knickers, although remaining moist, was unbefouled by Mr Mugumbos' love juice".

Donations are welcome. Please forward all gratuities to Mr Vowel via his Bermuda account (cash only). Remember a 100 pounds will buy a family of four kebabs and blue pop to last a week. The town is in urgent need of tobacco. The quake completely destroyed 'Terry's van' and the only supply of cigarettes is the local supermarket and Paki shop.

Shagger doing the earthquake 'shuffle'