The column which believes that although Cod does exist, some chips are fake 

MYSELF: Brexit is beginning to feel like a painful case of recurring haemorrhoids. I sense that we are all about to be engulfed by an avalanche of party political claptrap and gas-baggery of staggering proportions, now that the smell of a general election is wafting around like a lift passenger’s ill-concealed flatulence.
READER: Tell me about it! I’ve already been targeted. Have you heard of the British Cocktail Party? Oddly enough, they appear to know a lot about me.
MYSELF: I wonder if perchance … have you been falling for clickbait? Weren’t you recently looking at a post about Lady Gaga’s cellulite? No … it couldn’t be, you’re far too intelligent to fall for that sort of thing … aren’t you?
READER: Of course not – I mean of course I am. The BCP assured me they were planning on a return to traditional values – prawn cocktails, tiny pickled onions on sticks, that sort of thing. My sentiments exactly. I’m voting for them.
MYSELF: I suppose someone has to.

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The controversy following an incident which occurred at the cup tie between Hastings & St Leonards Warriors vs Upper Dicker Macaroons FC continues. A member of right-wing organisation WAKO/39 was arrested and charged with affray after he invaded the pitch and beat Warriors’ defender Craig Cattermole about the head with a loofah. He was identified by police as Reg Pompadour, an ex-Warriors striker thought to have a long-standing grudge with the club having been sold in 2017 by former manager José Pypebahn to a male escort agency. After issuing a 75-year match ban, Warriors’ caretaker manager Nobby Balaclava spoke to HIP about the unfolding drama: “The overwhelming majority of football fans are, let’s face it, good honest decent folk, and I am frankly disgusted with you media people for your unfair portrayal of Warriors’ followers as head-banging, urine-gargling halfwits, just because yet another group of extremists happens to have infiltrated our supporters club. A bit of decent research could have told you that until Reg Pompadour joined WAKO/39, they were just a group of harmless hot-air balloon enthusiasts, with no particular affiliation to any football team. Now gangs of them can be seen strutting menacingly about town in their gold jewellery and concealed loofahs, spreading their evil doctrine of hate.” 

“Craig Cattermole is a big lad, make no mistake,” he continued, “but he is now having to undergo intensive therapy for Post Traumatic Match Syndrome (PTMS), with the club’s physio and former lap dancer Sabrina Petto-Massiccio. You can drive these people out of town, but trust me, they’ll pop up at some other club next year, with bigger loofahs, threatening tattoos and more expensive bling”.

Ramification (n)
Indoctrination in the ways of the sheep.

Pilot Field, March 2-9

Hastings welcomed this week-long return of the nation’s favourite international big top extravaganza. I managed to secure tickets for the opening night of this colourful carnival of fun, which, sadly, was not without its teething problems. Master of Ceremonies, Mr. Marvellous, normally a reliable and professional MC, appeared a little worse for wear as he staggered on to the sawdust to introduce the festivities. The audience, mistaking him for one the clowns, laughed uproariously until they noticed the half empty bottle of Bourbon poking from his tailcoat pocket and his lack of trousers. Trapeze artiste, Dan Dangling of The Great Dangling Brothers, bravely stepped in and removed the reluctant Mr. Marvellous, but not before he had insulted the wife of Hastings’ Lord Mayor, Medved Oligarki, by inviting her to join him in his caravan for a selfie. Next, Romanian balloon sculptor Remy Vaselino, appearing flustered, apologised that he had not had time to apply his Nosferatu makeup, although no-one had noticed. Explaining that he was going to produce a scale model of the Taj Mahal in balloons, he produced two from a bag and began making them squeak. The audience became restless when, after fifteen minutes, there was no sign of Agra’s famous mausoleum, or anything like it. “Perhaps he meant the restaurant in Bexhill!” shouted one disgruntled wag, providing some rare amusement. “Bring on the clowns!” shouted another, and on cue, a golden clown car poop-pooped its way into the big top, knocked over the tottering balloonist, and as the doors fell off, disgorged Smoulder & Burns, billed as: ‘Britain’s clowniest clowns’, who roared around the tent menacing children until they burst into tears.  They drove off erratically, after introducing the next act, Sylvia Remington and her Infinite Monkeys, just as rumours began to circulate that the circus staff had been up all night, celebrating head clown Ralph Smoulder’s birthday. At first Sylvia’s chimpanzees, dressed as babies, delighted everyone with their antics, but when they began to hurl the contents of their nappies at the audience, panic ensued. During the stampede, crucial guy ropes were uprooted from their pegs, and the entire tent collapsed. Luckily no one was badly hurt, but it has been reported that the Circus has made an out-of-court settlement with the lady who fainted when Ralph Smoulder revealed where his missing goldfish was.

Sausage Life!

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