The column in which terms apply, but not conditions.

MYSELF: What’s up? You look as though you’ve swallowed a porcupine.
READER: I’ve been listening to commercial radio. I’m going to track down and throttle the next actor I hear talking like they’ve just drunk a bucket of coffee to wash down their crystal meth at the end of an ad aimed at a five-year-old. Thanks to these shameless over-excited morons, I now know that every number begins with 9 and ends with 99 and I will never own the car, but what on earth does 10% APR representative mean?
MYSELF: A fair question, but not even the brain-dead equity members who accept money for reciting this rubbish know that.
READER: It’s a big ask, but isn’t it about time they were outed?
MYSELF: It’s all about education and the dying art of speaking English correctly. I blame the millennials.
READER: Kids today…
MYSELF: They don’t know they’ve been birthed.


Dear HIP, I am writing with regard to your rude and frankly, insulting piece about Andrew Lard-Waffler’s $200,000,000 production, Pants -the Movie. Was it really necessary for your reviewer to title her piece “Waffler hits the skids”, a crude, punning reference which, until my grandson pointed it out, had gone completely over my head. As a dedicated fan, I always view with anticipation any new work by the absurdly talented Lord Waffler and having seen the theatrical version of Pants over 500 times, both in the West End and on Broadway, I can confirm without prejudice that this film version, directed by Tintin Quarantino and starring Gwyneth Paltrow as Jade the Egg Lady, is nothing short of Pants-tastic. To imply, like your sniggering correspondent, that there is, or ever has been anything vulgar, euphemistic or tasteless about the musicals of Baron Lard-Waffler of Edmonton, is in my opinion an implication bordering on gross slander. Your reviewer should be grateful that His Lordship, who as we speak is probably hammering away at his piano knocking off another masterpiece, is entirely above this type of thing.

Sincerely, Evita Peron (Mrs), Bexhill  

Dear Mrs Peron, first of all, we would like to sincerely apologise for the unintentional offence caused by our reviewer Constantia Falafel (since dismissed), who was apparently, along with her ‘posse’, swearing, drinking gin and laughing uproariously during the screening of Pants – The Movie. As a goodwill gesture, we are inviting you and your grandson (provided he is over 18), to the Shaftsbury Theatre’s July premier of Andrew Lard-Waffler’s brand-new musical adaptation of Silence of the Lambs. Here’s what Roberto deDulle of The Limelight Reviewhad to say: “Silence – The Musical starring Felicity Hornpipe as FBI investigator Clarice Starling and Rupert Palimony as the man-munching psychopath Hannibal Lecter, is a rip-roaring cannibal carnival from beginning to end, a flesh-eating feel-bad musical carousel literally stuffed with sparkling new Lard-Waffler songs which are so catchy that audiences will be unable to exit the theatre without humming, or perhaps even whistling them. Fry Me A Liver, I’ve Grown Accustomed to Wearing Your Face, Should I Flay or Should I Go Vegan?, I’ve Got Me Under Your Skin, and the poignant, blockbusting show-stopper Smoked Guts And Your Eyes all bear the unmistakable Lard-Waffler hallmark of musical genius, and are surely destined to be future classics.”


Spreading the Red Jam
Bandy Sponk at The Rebel Gallery, Silverhill

Bandy Sponk, the self-styled anarchist art terrorist who likes to paint on all fours wearing woollen underwear, has chosen a Silverhill gallery as the starting point for his touring exhibition Spreading the Red Jam, which features what the casual browser might easily mistake for blank canvases. According to the artist though, the casual browser would be quite wrong. Keen to explain, Sponk agreed to meet our reporter in the lobby of smart new gallery The Rebel, dressed as a bear. “This is art with a capital R!” Sponk screamed through a megaphone, dangling from the ceiling on a rope. “The burnt toast of one-dimensional pigment-centric painting is like a mid-afternoon boarding house breakfast,” he declared, “existing solely in the mind of the reactionary traditionalist, who, constipated by the binding porridge of neo-classicism, sees only emptiness.” I decided, as I watched him ascend, Christ-like, into the rafters, to re-examine my own pigmentary prejudices and have a look around. He was right. Those familiar with Sponk’s work will see at once that these canvases are not ‘blank’ in the conventional sense of there being nothing on them. On the contrary, it is clear that by a process of yogic-tantric mental projection based on the sacred Polynesian algorithms of Wai-ai, Sponk is able to consciously impose his palette directly on to the fabric, bypassing the necessity of paint altogether. As he himself put it: “Basically I just stare at the canvas until I’ve imagined a great piece of work…… the bigger the better. Then I frame it up and flog it”

Spreading the Red Jam is at The Rebel Silverhill, until 9th February, and will tour selected galleries in Herstmonceaux, Beyondenden, Upper Dicker and Middle Diddling until August.

Sausage Life!

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