Wednesday, August 03, 2005

It lives...

Ello' luvvies

Well, uncle Mick's blog is alive and well, and to get things ticking I thought I'd start by off-loading some scribbling. Unfortunately, all I have at the moment is some fake news writing for a College satirical magazine, but let me know what y'all think.
Much love

Mick


-People Like us-
Polly Derrière wags her chin from leafy suburbia

“Mummy mummy, can Akhbal come over to play?”

Little ones, aren’t they funny!? Aren’t they just great!?![1]
There are some things Lysander will have to learn the hard way, like which people are right to make friends with, and which are simply not. Let me be plain, Cricklebridge isn’t for just anyone. God, I must sound like such a snob!! It’s not so much me as the neighbours; Mrs. Winterbourne has an aversion to spicy foods, and Oliver Underlay, the lovely, theatrical old bachelor who lives across the road (non-practising you understand) has always said that he finds the foreign face “such an aesthetic disappointment”

Truth be told, I’m a little bit radical myself: I have my fair share of Crowded House records, and at school I kissed Honeysuckle Crump so often that her parents had to arrange a restraining order. The fact of the matter is, were anyone to see little Akhbal (lovely little Akhbal!!) playing in the garden, their first response would be to immediately ban the derrières from all of Cricklebridge’s key social events, blackening the family name for years to come (strictly speaking, they would be most likely to ring emergency services, or pest control, but I’m sure you’re with me on this one, no?!).

“What’s in a name?” asked the great bard. In truth a few consonants, a vowel or two, and occasionally a hyphen, but this all seems so irrelevant compared to my predicament.
Think of the children, that’s what I tell myself.

“Polly, you’re so right” said Matthew as we lay in bed, or he would do if I’d seen him in over a week. The office has him working such long hours, and only recently they’ve been sending him on stressful trips abroad for long periods of time. He rang only last Tuesday from Nova Scotia, just to check on the boys and the football result. Funny, I thought to myself, it sounds as if there’s much more traffic there than I would have thought. Apparently, car insurance is about to get very big over there!! We might be getting that aga after all!!
He has such a lovely phone voice, my darling Matthew, so much more gracious than his secretary. She’s foreign, or at least has always struck me as that way inclined, and constantly seems so out of breath, so keen to put down the phone.

Still, life goes on much the same in leafy Cricklebridge. I await Matthew’s return with baited breath and little Lysander sits in the corner of kitchen, drawing lovely pictures of mummy in a pretty rope necklace on the fridge door.

[1] Children, I mean, not dwarves. Dwarves are the most unsightly people, meant only for the circus and the films of Terry Gilliam


Skullion
-news today, loo paper tomorrow-

PETERHOUSE RIDDEN WITH MINGERS

The shadow of scandal fell once more over our fair college, when news emerged today of a secretive selection process, active for years beneath the surface of the college.
An undercover reporter working for our paper filed this damning expose:-

“Every year the porters scour photos of the incoming freshers, and divide them up into two categories; “fitties” and “mingalings”.

Those in the former group are offered bigger pigeonholes, weekly foot massages, and their every misdemeanour is met with a smile, and a damn good tickle.
Those unfortunate enough to fall into the latter category are spat upon, shouted at in the street, and often find their mail smeared with fresh-laid lumps of porter poo. “

Wilberforce Pimpernickle, head of CUSU, declared the tradition “hideous, and out-dated”, but then he would because he has a face like a collapsed fart, and reeks of his own piss.

A similar practise was uncovered at King’s college, whereby students are divided depending on the hardness of their hands, and whether or not they pronounce their h’s.
Further investigations were interrupted when our reporter was uncovered and sent for “re-education” at an undisclosed location.
We can only fear the worst.

NEWNHAM TO OPERATE AS “GLORIFIED BORDELLO”

In a move which has shocked the dungaree-clad armies of the feminist-left, Newnham college has decided that each of its undergraduates should abandon their birth-names and instead be known by physical traits, so as to make them more easily memorable to pissed up lotharios on the prowl, many of whom are known to be active within this college.

One student, “Blonde, nice pair, wide inviting mouth”, said she was all for the move, and that it represented a step towards acceptance for the girls (if that is the right word) of her college, so long regarded merely as sperm banks with faces.

However, there have been objections registered.
Most vocal of these is “big arse, 5 pinter at least”, who has been most damning in her disapproval of the scheme.
“Surely the college realises that this represents an admission of defeat to the oppressive, patriarchal forces pressing in on us. As a last bastion of untainted feminity, we should converge as one, eating together, showering together, even sharing beds if needs be.
It seems that they wish Newnham to act as little more than a glorified bordello.” She added, justifying the ridiculous, sensationalist headline for this badly put together piece of trash.
Her protests have so far fallen on deaf ears.

CLASS WAR AGAIN, BORINGLY.

The country’s finest newspapers, and the daily mail, were up in arms last night, when it emerged that several colleges had overcome new fair admissions measures by asking applicants blatantly class related questions.

One such person was Stanley Lounwrite of Thaddock Tu’erpton-riddle on the Marsh, Yorkshire. Weeping salty tears through hands grown hard, no doubt, in the cold mines of the North, the scabby little pauper told of gruelling cutlery-identification tests, and one question in which he was asked to study a description of a house taken from “the great Gatsby”, and asked to compare it to his own.

“All we are looking for is an understanding of wealth and its role in society. Such themes reoccur throughout English Literature and Art” said a spokesman for the university. “We do not decide admissions on the basis of schooling or background, but look instead for a deeper, more intangible, and conveniently indescribable quality which we have found in all those accepted so far”. When pressed further on the issue, the spokesman began to froth at the mouth, and eventually escaped through a door hidden in a large bookcase.
A similar entrance policy has kept the long-established Pith club free from “undesirables”. “We do not insist that our members are solely educated at the right schools, and come from the right families” insists Piers Fauntleroy D’artagnion, head of the exclusive club, “merely that they are on very good terms with people who are.”
Months later, and the debate still rages on.

Wicked Whispers

-Which college villain, portly and round and fond of the feminine form, was ejected from a top gynaecological clinic this week after offering to perform inspections for free, using only his hands, a fork, and his short wrinkled love-lizard.

-Which brazen hussy was seen outside Gardies on Tuesday, a little too pickled to speak. Crawling on her hands and knees in the gutter, she was busying herself looking for a lost contact lense. When it was pointed out to her that she is in possession of perfect 20/20 vision, she howled back derisively “fine, I’m looking for Connor’s self-respect”

Crotch Mangling “all the rage” with armies of the skeletal elite

There was shock and horror at the University fashion show this year, with the unveiling of the “tyrannique” collection. Surpassing even the demonic excesses of last year’s “little friends” assortment which drew it’s inspiration from the murky world of paedophilia, this year’s collection was inspired by the “sensory experience” of man’s most evil and bloated child: WAR!
Among the outfits were a gas mask and bag, coloured a tasteful baby pink, and with the words “cough-cough-splutter-(death rattle)!!” spelled out along the side in diamante pieces, and trousers with red tassels sewn on at the crotch, meant to represent the über-mashed genitals of tortured prisoners.

The designer, refusing to be “imprisoned by words”, prefers to be referred to by a wild swinging of the arms, rather like an angry parson swatting a bee which has crept inside his cardigan. When questioned about the possible insensitivity of his new collection, the tortured genius replied that his critics were “obviously too ugly and poor to truly understand high fashion.” When asked to clarify these vague, and frankly rather insulting accusations he became enraged, albeit in a slightly girly and unthreatening way, and delivered the following statement from the top of a small table-

“They cannot understand fashion! It is…mysterious! Fashion must be BIG, yet.... small, BLACK, yet…white? It is contradiction, no? To be fashionable one does not need to be rich, or good looking…but without these things one looks shit, no?”