Gardeners' Question Time

Just a few questions for you gardeners.

Tenants

Mr. Potato Head (to the Potatoe Head Family): Sssssh will you shut the fuck up. I keep telling you, there's nothing to lose by trying. Here we go.

Am I not your Brother?

If you prick me, do I not bleed?

Blogista: No. And when stabbed you just leak potato juice.

Mr. Pototo Hod: So we can be on your blog then?

Blogista: You can have the second floor all to yourself and family, as long as you take your shoesies off and don't wear your hats indoors. Tenants are expected to shave regularly. We do not entertain guests of a less-than-latte persuasion.

Mr. Poteoteo Horde: So we will be reduced to being potatoes with big false plastic pink ears. Alors. You undertake not to bake us with cheese'n'benz or tuna mayoniosse?

Blogista: Your children are wearing yellow slag bands. In my book, that means I can eat them with a little chopped chive and a plain French dressing. Nom nom nom.

When you die thin k Accessories like man-dibles

Blogista: When I die I want to go suited and booted.
Death: This isn't a job application. You can wear what you like.
Blogista: Well shucks, anyhow I never really quite believed in in the Austin Reed navy-blue double-breasted. Good as it was.
Death: You should learn to play the jass cornet. Just joking. Try chess.
Blogista: You play chess?
Death: No.
Blogista: Many people find relief in Gararararedeners' Question Time. In Radio 4 generally...
Death:
Blogista: There's that Mr Humphreys and Sue and Sooty. And Sweep. WELSH PEOPLE and others of an ethnic origin. Their name is Legion, because they are many!
Death: ~

Gentleman Rankers

To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned,
To my brethren in their sorrow overseas,
Sings a gentleman of England cleanly bred, machinely crammed,
And a trooper of the Empress, if you please.
Yea, a trooper of the forces who has run his own six horses,
And faith he went the pace and went it blind,
And the world was more than kin while he held the ready tin,
But to-day the Sergeant's something less than kind.

We're poor little lambs who've lost our way,
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We're little black sheep who've gone astray,
Baa--aa--aa!
Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
Damned from here to Eternity,
God ha' mercy on such as we,
Baa! Yah! Bah!

Oh, it's sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty kitchen slops,
And it's sweet to hear the tales the troopers tell,
To dance with blowzy housemaids at the regimental hops
And thrash the cad who says you waltz too well.
Yes, it makes you cock-a-hoop to be "Rider" to your troop,
And branded with a blasted worsted spur,
When you envy, O how keenly, one poor Tommy being cleanly
Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you "Sir".

If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep,
And all we know most distant and most dear,
Across the snoring barrack-room return to break our sleep,
Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer?
When the drunken comrade mutters and the great guard-lantern gutters
And the horror of our fall is written plain,
Every secret, self-revealing on the aching white-washed ceiling,
Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain?

We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and Truth,
We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung,
And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth.
God help us, for we knew the worst too young!
Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that brought the sentence,
Our pride it is to know no spur of pride,
And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds us
And we die, and none can tell Them where we died.

We're poor little lambs who've lost our way,
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We're little black sheep who've gone astray,
Baa--aa--aa!
Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
Damned from here to Eternity,
God ha' mercy on such as we,
Baa! Yah! Bah!

Blogista (sings): "We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and Truth".

Roadsters: You haven't got laid recently then.

Blogshaw: I am not an Egg.

Rickrollers:













Blus 280 from Mitcham 'Fair Green' to Sutton-'Times Square': Point is, I write all this shit. Except for the bits I cut'n'paste, obviously. Either way I can't lose.

Organ Donatgion

Saint Thérèse of Lisieux died of tuberculosis in 1897, age 24.

Her 'relics' have just completed a tour from London to Southampton.

Readers: Quoi?

I quote from the Telegraph...

St Thérèse's body was divided into three after her death, and the relics on display here comprise portions of her thigh and foot bones. The remainder are in France.

Just need a Saint and a saw, and you're in business.

Tramp Stamp

For me, this does'nt work as a tramp stamp.

Well, wha'td work for you you ask..?

1	And they came over unto the other side of the sea, into the country of the Gad'arenes.
2	And when he was come out of the ship, immediately there met him out of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit,
3	who had his dwelling among the tombs; and no man could bind him, no, not with chains:
4	because that he had been often bound with fetters and chains, and the chains had been plucked asunder by him, and the fetters broken in pieces: neither could any man tame him.
5	And always, night and day, he was in the mountains, and in the tombs, crying, and cutting himself with stones.
6	But when he saw Jesus afar off, he ran and worshipped him,
7	and cried with a loud voice, and said, What have I to do with thee, Jesus, thou Son of the most high God? I adjure thee by God, that thou torment me not.
8	For he said unto him, Come out of the man, thou unclean spirit.
9	And he asked him, What is thy name? And he answered, saying, My name is Legion: for we are many.
10	And he besought him much that he would not send them away out of the country.
11	Now there was there nigh unto the mountains a great herd of swine feeding.
12	And all the devils besought him, saying, Send us into the swine, that we may enter into them.
13	And forthwith Jesus gave them leave. And the unclean spirits went out, and entered into the swine; and the herd ran violently down a steep place into the sea, (they were about two thousand,) and were choked in the sea. Least you've got something to read.

I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Grararargharargharrrrh

Seventy years on and at last those of us who were conceived at the exact moment that Britain declared war upon Germany have had our own parade, through Mitcham town centre.