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This landed in Ben's inbox:

A driver is stuck in a traffic jam on the motorway. Nothing is moving. Suddenly a man knocks on the window.

The driver rolls down his window and asks, 'What's going on?'

'Terrorists down the road have kidnapped Gordon Brown, Alistair Darling, David Miliband and Jack Straw.

They're asking for a £10 million ransom.

Otherwise they're going to douse them with petrol and set them on fire.

We're going from car to car, taking up a collection.'

The driver asks, 'How much is everyone giving, on average?'

'Most people are giving about a gallon.'

DEFINITELY NOT CRICKET!

During Anticant's absence in sunny Italy, Ben has been whiling away the time rummaging through Anticant's Archive, and has come up with the following offering by Rhoda Tuck Pook which will kindle nostalgic memories among mid-20th century cricket aficionados:

"An unfortunate thing about Arlott,
And his confrere E.W. Swanton,
Is that one will rhyme only to 'harlot'
And the other to nothing but 'wanton'.
Are they greatly annoyed
If disciples of Freud
Have these omens employed
And their honour destroyed?
For there's nothing whatever suggestive in Arlott,
Or, of course, in his opposite number - that's Swanton."

When reminded of this, Anticant commented sourly that in these lily-livered days, libel writs would already be flying in the direction of the hapless poetess and her publishers.

IT DOESN'T TAKE INCEST TO MAKE AN IMBECILE

One of the joys of blogging is that one every now and then comes across fascinating nuggets of totally useless recondite information that boggle the mind.

Thus, from a commentator on Ken Frost’s “Nanny Knows Best” blog we learn that the borough of Wigan and Leigh is privileged to possess an official who is styled the ‘Hate Crimes Co-ordinator’, and who has, according to his own testimony, been in post for the past five years. This gentleman – who shall be nameless here, although the poster who I am quoting is bolder than I am – recently delivered himself of the following priceless observation in the local press:

“Imbeciles was the old name for those children that are borne from incestuous relationships. It is a little known fact that a certain area within the borough of wigan and leigh had the highest rate of imbeciles in the UK. Its true to say that at one point in the history of the borough....some fathers thought on it as their priveledge to de-flower their daughters. Infact in some areas, it was the expectation. Thank goodness for new blood coming into the Borough. The aggression from some people on the issue of 'new blood coming into the area' is, the view of many,...that this is infact remnants of 'the good old days',..as it were.” [Spelling and punctuation as in original].

This, as “Nanny’s” poster points out, amounts to a hate crime in itself, and one would imagine that there are now districts of Wigan and Leigh which the Hate Crimes Co-ordinator would be prudent to regard as personal no-go areas. I doubt whether this was the scenario George Orwell had in mind when he set out on the road to Wigan pier all those years ago.

Since reading this juicy item, Ben Trovato has been wandering around the Burrow composing a saucy limerick about the Incestuous Fathers of Wigan, muttering suitably vulgar rhymes to himself. He has been sternly forbidden by Dame Barbara to publish it here, on pain of her instant departure with her fictional flock of unravished virgins.

WE'VE ALL BEEN HERE!

The inimitable Wook has just produced this gem, for which we hereby nominate him an Honorary Life Member of the Burrow Snug.

EVERY MOTHER NEEDS ONE - BUT 54??

Ben Trovato found this in the Burrow bookshop. And it wasn't even on the top shelf!

A MESSAGE TO THE VOTERS OF CREWE AND NANTWICH

From Ben Trovato, Burrow Bucolic Independent candidate:

While on his morning walk, Prime Minister Gordon Brown falls over, has a heart attack and dies, because the Accident and Emergency Dept at his nearest hospital is too understaffed to treat him in time. So his soul arrives in Heaven and he is met by Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates. "Welcome to Heaven," says Saint Peter, "Before you settle in, there is a problem. We seldom see a Socialist around these parts, so we're not sure what to do with you." "No problem, just let me in; I'm a good Christian; I'm a believer," says the PM. "I'd like to just let you in, but I have orders from God Himself. He says that since the implementation of his new HEAVEN CHOICES policy, you have to spend one day in Hell and one day in Heaven. Then you must choose where you'll live for eternity." "But I've already made up my mind. I want to be in Heaven," replies Brown. "I'm sorry, But we have our rules," Peter interjects; and, with that, he escorts Brown to an elevator which takes him down, down, down ...all the way to Hell.

The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a lush golf course. The sun is shining in a cloudless sky. The temperature is a perfect 22C degrees. In the distance is a beautiful club-house. Standing in front of it is Harold Wilson and many other Socialist luminaries who had helped him out over the years: John Smith, Michael Foot, Jim Callaghan, etc. All the former Labour Party leaders are there. Everyone is laughing, happy, and casually but expensively dressed. They run to greet him, to hug him and to reminisce about the good times they had getting rich at the expense of 'suckers and peasants'. They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster and caviar. The Devil himself comes up to Brown with a frosty drink,"Have a tequila and relax, Gord!"

"Uh, I can't drink anymore, I took a pledge," says Brown, dejectedly. "This is Hell, son. You can drink and eat all you want and not worry and it just gets better from there!" Brown takes the drink and finds himself liking the Devil, who he thinks is a really very friendly bloke resembling George Bush who tells funny jokes like himself and pulls hilarious nasty pranks, kind of like the ones the Labour Party pulled with the European Constitution and the Education, Immigration, Tough on Crime ... promises. They are having such a great time that, before he realises it, it's time to go. Everyone gives him a big hug and waves as Brown steps on the elevator and heads upward.

When the elevator door reopens, he is in Heaven again and Saint Peter is waiting for him. "Now it's time to visit Heaven," the old man says, opening the gate. So for 24 hours Brown is made to hang out with a bunch of honest,good-natured people who enjoy each other's company, talk about things other than money and treat each other decently. Not a nasty prank or short-arse joke among them. No fancy country clubs here and, while the food tastes great, it's not caviar or lobster. And these people are all poor. He doesn't see anybody he knows and he isn't even treated like someone special! "Whoa," he says uncomfortably to himself. "Harold Wilson never prepared me for this!" The day done, Saint Peter returns and says, "Well, you've spent a day in Hell and a day in Heaven. Now choose where you want to live for Eternity."

With the 'Deal or No Deal' theme playing softly in the background, Brown reflects for a minute ... Then answers: "Well, I would never have thought I'd say this; I mean, Heaven has been delightful and all, but I really think I belong in Hell with my friends." So Saint Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down, all the way to Hell. The doors of the elevator open and he is in the middle of barren scorched earth covered with garbage and toxic industrial wasteland, looking a bit like the eroded, rabbit and fox affected Australian Outback, but worse and more desolate. He is horrified to see all of his friends, dressed in rags and chained together, picking up the roadside rubbish and putting it into black plastic bags. They are groaning and moaning in pain, faces and hands black with grime.

The Devil comes over to Brown and puts an arm around his shoulder." I don't understand," stammers a shocked Brown, "Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and a club-house and we ate lobster and caviar and drank tequila. We lazed around and had a great time! Now there's just a wasteland full of garbage and everybody looks miserable!" The Devil looks at him, smiles slyly, and purrs, "Ah, but yesterday we were campaigning; today you voted for us!"

NO LIFE FOR A SELF-RESPECTING BEADLE!

The Beadle has just returned from attending a weekend study conference to learn more about the history and practice of his ancient office. He was mortified to learn that in their medieval incarnation, beadles were a forerunner of modern sanitary inspectors, and brought back the following report from John Kelly's The Great Mortality: An intimate history of the Black Death, the most devastating plague of all time [pages 70-71]:

===

London supplemented its sewer system with municipal

sanitation workers. Every ward in the city had a cadre of

inspectors, the Dickensian-named "beadles" and

"under-beadles," who probed, peered, sniffed, and

questioned their way along the medieval street. Was waste

being cleared from housefronts? Were alleys being kept

clean? Better-off Londoners often built indoor privies,

or garderobes, over alleyways, suspending them "on two

beams laid from one house to the other."  For the

garderobe’s owner, the privy meant liberation - no more

chamber pots on cold nights - but for his neighbours, it

meant piles of dung in the alley, a medley of frightful

odours, and swarms of flies (rats do not usually feed on

human waste). Beadles and under-beadles also investigated

acts of sanitary piracy. The year before the plague

arrived in England, two malefactors were arrested for

piping their waste into the cellar of an unsuspecting

neighbour.

Under the beadles were the rakers, the people who did the

actual cleaning up.  Rakers swept out gutters, disposed of

dead animal carcasses, shovelled refuse from the streets

and alleys, and hauled it to the Thames or other dumping

points, like the Fleet River.

The beadles and rakers not only had the dirtiest job in

medieval London, but the most thankless as well. In 1332

a beadle in Cripplegate Ward was attacked by an

assailant who, to add insult to injury, stole the

beadle's cart; a few years later, two women in

Billingsgate heaped such abuse on a team of rakers,

municipal authorities ordered the women arrested. Indeed,

judging from contemporary accounts, medieval London seems

to have been engaged in a low-level civil war sanitation.

On one side were miscreants, like the foul-mouthed

Billingsgate ladies and William E. Cosner, the garbage

king of Farringdon Without.  On the other side, the king,

Edward III, who thundered, "Filth [is] being thrown from

houses by day and night"; the nervous mayor, who tried

to assuage these royal outbursts with a flurry of widely

ignored sanitation ordinances; the much-abused beadles,

under-beadles, and rakers; and irate private citizens

like the murderous shop owner.