The column that doesn’t know anything about bigotry, but knows what it doesn’t like

READER: Did you have a bet on the name of the Royal baby?
MYSELF: I had a fiver to win on Frank, and a pound each way on Alan.
READER: What a waste of money!
MYSELF:  In what way?
READER: Alan? Frank? Come on, it ain’t exactly Waldorf science.
MYSELF: You mean rocket.
READER: Sorry. It ain’t exactly rocket salad.
MYSELF:  Fair enough. So what did they choose in the end?
READER:  Donald.

An East Sussex man has died after participating in the London Marathon as the back end of a pantomime horse. Roger Hind (39), of Plumpswelling, broke a leg crossing Tower Bridge after treading in a pothole and was humanely destroyed by a St John’s Ambulance firearms unit.
“We were galloping along, doing really well,” said Hastings-born Thomas Dowting, 43, who was in the front part of the horse, “we had just overtaken a Tellytubby and two Ewoks when I heard Roger cry out and quickly became aware that he had pulled up. It suddenly felt like I was hauling a huge sack of coal. Almost immediately we were surrounded by race officials and when I heard a loud bang, I knew instinctively that Roger had been shot.”

A spokesman for the RSPCA told us “This sort of thing is more common than most people imagine. During the 2017/18 pantomime season for example, eight rear-end and four front-end pantomime equestrians were destroyed. Three of these occurred in the same show, the notoriously dangerous Camelot-The Panto.   

Donald dismounts from his wife and reaches for the remote control. He turns to Mrs. Trump, a triumphant smile (or is it wind?), pasted on his orange face.

TRUMP: Mission accomplished!
MELANIA: Speak for yourself, lardarse.

Hastings Ballet Company are to stage a mammoth production of Andrew Lloyd-Webber’s ambitious new dance musical Sloth of the Antarctic. It will be choreographed by Max Petomaine with a chorus line of top ballerinas, specially trained to perform his legendary Ballonés and Pas de Deux in sub-zero temperatures. The cast is rumoured to include 79 year-old singer Fifi LaRoche, who will be required to learn the rudiments of ballet in just a few days. The theme song, There’s No Blindness Like Snow Blindness, was rush-released ahead of the opening and swiftly topped the charts in several countries.

Have you had one of those sinister chain letters? This one came through my letterbox the other day, in a plain brown envelope reeking of fish.


Too late. You have started so you must finish, otherwise bad luck will befall you, courtesy of Brother Luigi Smegmatini of the Norwegian Order of the Cloistered Herring, who originated this letter in 1804.

So far, over eleven million people have received a copy of this letter.

All you have to do to ensure you will be dogged by good luck until you are fed up, is this: make 600 copies of the letter and send them to friends, relatives, colleagues, people you have never met etc. DO NOT ENCLOSE CASH, but in a separate envelope send a cheque or PO for £50 to Vivien Graula Associates, PO box 17, Battle.


Alfalfa farmer Zeke Spoonbender of Kneejerk, Ohio, made 600 copies and sent them all to his sister-in-law in Appaloosa. Three days later she gave birth to bouncing twin boys, despite being 75 years old, and a sexual deviant.

An Innuit woman in Alaska had copies engraved on blocks of ice and transported overland to Siberia, where she had been stationed in the army during the war. Due to a clerical error they were diverted via Mexico, Colombia and Venezuela, to Havana, Cuba, where they eventually melted. THE VERY NEXT DAY, her husband Nanook Xeno, a plumber, was working on a right-angled artesian sediment trough with a Rudyard & Kipling helium arc welder, when he was crushed to death by stampeding Emperor Penguins.

Derek N’Gunu of Goose Green in The Falklands, had his Asian houseboy make 600 copies in a rare Indonesian dialect. Four days after posting them he was astonished to discover that his left leg, lost in a supermarket trolley accident years previously, had miraculously regenerated. He went on to become a world-class athlete, later going on to win gold in the 8,000 metres sheep-shearing at the 1978 South Atlantic Games.

Lawrence Van der Gouda, a stone cladding salesman from Aarnmeester in The Netherlands, woke up one morning to find his entire house had been decorated by people with no taste. The only thing left untouched was the wastepaper basket in the study, containing a cynically screwed up copy of this letter.

Sausage Life!

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