The column which is both charming and offensive at the same time

READER: Goodbye spring, hello summer!
MYSELF: Really? Where?
READER: Weren’t you out celebrating Jack in the Green?
MYSELF: If, by celebrating, you mean sneaking up on Morris Men and stealing the clappers out of their bells, or smearing superglue on folk singer’s fingers, yes.
READER: I’m stunned. You’re such an unbelievable killjoy.
MYSELF: I’m the life and death of the party.

Lord of the Rungs, by Gordon Hose
(Catnip & Charleston £12.99)

London, 2029: Raoul Pevsner, a celebrity window cleaner who is able to clean forty windows an hour despite having only one arm, is kidnapped by money launderers who mistake him for the head of an international Venezuelan crime syndicate who are trying to muscle in on an internet betting scam involving counterfeit racing pigeons and top of the range mountain bicycles. Events take a complex turn when Raoul’s fiancée, the opera diva Mimi Featherstone-Hough has an allergic reaction after accidentally inhaling some peanut dust which she has mistaken for snuff, causing her to attack conductor Remi Vaselino with a ceremonial Viking sword during a performance of Verdi’s quando la signora grassa canta …Recommended.

Contains mild bestiality.

My name is Ron Gravy, and my party, the BGT, intends to contest every seat at the upcoming European elections. Allow me put this pint of Spitfire down and leave this harmless fag smouldering on an ashtray whilst I present you with some of the uncomfortable facts contained in our manifesto, which I jotted down on this napkin a moment ago. Let us suppose, God forbid, that we have a general election which allows the Mad Marxist Corbynistas to prevail. Our once green, but now deeply unpleasant land would soon be overwhelmed by gangs of staggering Scots, drunk on independence, running amok and terrorising our town centres with their threatening vowels, filthy stained kilts and haggis n’ whiskey tainted breath. We, the BGT, pledge to abolish Scotland, along with all taxes south of Hadrian’s Wall. Once elected we would set about wiping out the deficit, and begin paying for essential services like road maintenance and the education of the poor by going back to those traditions and practices we, as an independent nation, have always cherished; higher levels of smoking, excessive drinking during lunch breaks and the employment of child chimney sweeps. By placing responsibility for museums, libraries, art galleries and the NHS in the private and capable hands of those with a proven record of public service (i.e. McDonalds, Coca Cola, Saudi Arabia etc) house prices will both rise and fall, enabling those less fortunate to scramble on to the lower rungs of the property ladder, and those less unfortunate to enrich themselves beyond the wildest dreams of Vladimir Putin’s oligarchy. As responsible voters, you must ask yourselves these hard questions: are you really prepared to allow the likes of vegetarian non-smoker Jeremy [spits] Corbyn, in cahoots with the terrifying barbarian hordes of Nicola Sturgeon’s Caledonia, to destroy the kleptocratic utopia you have toiled so hard to preserve over the past nine years? Do you really wish to plunge Albion’s verdant paradise back into the dark ages, where boils go unlanced because of nursing shortages and plagues of invading giant rats stalk the bleak endless night, feasting on unburied corpses? No. Of course you don’t. You would have to be ignorant, gullible idiots to make such a decision. I’m Ron Gravy, I drink beer and smoke fags.

Titanic, ITV’s new low-budget maritime disaster soap, is fast picking up viewing figures. The first episode of the kitchen-sinking drama managed to attract an audience of around 2,000,000, and shipwreck fans can’t seem to get enough. For the uninitiated, the story so far is that Swedish Captain Sven Smorgasbord’s opium habit is beginning to affect the efficient running of the luxury liner. Blackmailed by the ship’s chief engineer Edgar Hooley, who finds his hidden drug cache in a secret compartment in funnel three, the captain decides to murder him and hide his body in a lifeboat. When the corpse is discovered by a hen party from Middlesborough out on a drunken midnight conga, things take a turn for the worst…

The Archers: The West Midlands Police become involved in the shape of Detective-Sergeant Oli Clickbate when Peggy Woolley discovers a six-fingered glove behind Mike Tucker’s caravan. Suspecting he has stumbled on an organized Satanist sect, DS Clickbate orders Nelson Gabriel to be brought in for questioning, only to discover he has been dead since 1997. Meanwhile, at Ambridge Agricultural College, angry banner-waving parents gather outside the tractor faculty to accuse headmaster Mike Gallstone of being anti-semantic, after he refuses to condemn a badly-written essay by Shula’s daughter Sensimilla…

Dear HIP,
We the undersigned think that the BBC should stop wasting money dramatising books which no one has read, even though they claim they have.
Warren Pierce,
Gulliver Stravilles,
Mo B. Dick

Sausage Life!

We hope you have enjoyed reading this article. The future of our volunteer led, non-profit publication would be far more secure with the aid of a small donation. You can also support local journalism by becoming a friend of HIP. It only takes a minute and we would be very grateful.