anticant's burrow

THEY NEVER LET YOU WIN

2009-10-05T13:22:00.002Z

Some years ago, anticant attended a short introductory course on psychoanalytic method at the arch-temple of Freudianism in Hampstead.

It was a fascinating experience.

The group of trainees, students, or whatever we were assembled in the room shortly before the session was due to begin. On the dot of the hour, the group leader – a staff member – entered the room without greeting us and provided an interpretative running commentary on whatever transpired between the group members during the ensuing hour. On the dot of the finishing time, she rose and stalked out of the room without looking at anyone or saying goodbye, whatever group interaction was in progress.

Her gimmick was never to address any of the group members directly, or to respond to their questions or comments except impersonally and obliquely.

This gave rise to a few hilarious moments. One pugnacious young man did his damnedest to provoke her into a direct exchange, without any success. At last he said: “Are all XXX Institute consultants such a pain in the arse?” Obviously slightly stung, but endeavouring to maintain her aloof composure, Mrs Z looked into the distance and said: “Miss Y (who was at the back of the room) has been in other XXX Institute groups, and can doubtless give her assessment of the relative pain-in-the-arseness of XXX Institute consultants”. Whereupon Miss Y demurely intimated that she wouldn’t dream of presuming to do any such thing.

When the course ended, anticant thought to himself ”Well, I’ll see if I can get her to communicate directly with me”. So he sent her a box of chocolates, with a note saying how interesting he had found the course.

He received a third-hand reply from her secretary, saying “Mrs Z has asked me to thank you for the chocolates”.

At that point even anticant gave up!

WHEN IRISH EYES ARE SMILING......

2009-08-28T19:24:00.004Z

Ben found this in the Times (27 August):

Gerry Adams can contain himself no longer. The Sinn Fein leader made this touching declaration at a hunger strike commemoration:

"The Republican struggle was not, and is not, about bums on executive seats - even a bum as delectable as Martin McGuinness's."

Have we been missing something? I had always thought that the Republican struggle was about bombs on non-executive streets.

One lives and learns.

ZOLA WILL LAPP THIS ONE UP

2009-08-25T20:06:00.005Z

Ben Trovato writes:

A virile middle-aged Italian gentleman named Silvio was relaxing at his favourite bar in Rome when he managed to attract a spectacular young blond woman.

Things progressed to the point where he led her back to his apartment and, after some small talk, they retired to his bedroom where he rattled her senseless. After a pleasant interlude, he asked with a smile, 'So, you finish?'

She paused for a second, frowned, and replied, 'No.'

Surprised, Silvio reached for her and the rattling resumed. This time she thrashed about wildly and there were screams of passion. The sex finally ended and, again, Silvio smiled and asked, 'You finish?'

Again, after a short pause, she returned his smile, cuddled closer to him and softly said, 'No.'

Stunned, but damned if he was going to leave this woman unsatisfied, Silvio reached for the woman yet again. Using the last of his strength, he barely managed it, but they ended together screaming, bucking, clawing and ripping the bed sheets.

Exhausted, Silvio fell onto his back, gasping. Barely able to turn his head, he looked into her eyes, smiled proudly and asked again, 'You finish?'

Barely able to speak, the beautiful blond whispered in his ear, 'No, I Norwegian!'

A WIFE TOO MANY

2009-08-01T19:01:00.003Z

Some years ago I had a cleaning lady who lived across the road. Sarah was an elderly widow – so she thought – who wore an obvious wig and had a lugubrious air which was explained when she told me her history.

Some fifteen years earlier her husband had vanished, leaving her with two small children who she had struggled to bring up on her own. All her efforts to trace him had failed, and she believed he must be dead.

Then one day Sarah came over to me shaking with fury. “Do you know what?” she said, “You’d never believe it. That husband of mine has telephoned me bold as brass, saying that he’s visiting London from Australia WITH HIS NEW WIFE and they’d like me to meet them for a drink!! I told him I’d see him in Hades first.”

I sympathised, but that wasn’t the end of Sarah’s woes. Her two children, now aged around 20, were naturally curious to meet their long-lost father, and did so (and his “new wife” too). I sympathised both with them and also with Sarah, who understandably looked upon their fraternising with ‘the enemy’ as treachery.

Relations in that family were quite strained for some time afterwards. It was one of those sad situations where there can’t be an easy or a happy ending.

GOOD ADVICE FOR THE ELDERLY

2009-05-08T21:06:00.003Z

Forwarded by a friend:

Do you realise that the only time in our lives when we like to get old is when we're kids? If you're less than 10 years old, you're so excited about ageing that you think in fractions.

'How old are you?' 'I'm four and a half!' You're never thirty-six and a half. You're four and a half, going on five! That's the key .

You get into your teens, now they can't hold you back. You jump to the next number, or even a few ahead.

'How old are you?' 'I'm going to be 16!' You could be 13, but hey,
you're going to be 16! And then the greatest day of your life ....

You become 21. Even the words sound like a ceremony. YOU BECOME 21.
YESSSS!!!

But then you turn 30. Oooohh, what happened there? Makes you sound like bad milk! He TURNED; we had to throw him out. There's no fun now, you're Just a sour-dumpling. What's wrong? What's changed?

You BECOME 21, you TURN 30, then you're PUSHING 40. Whoa! Put on the brakes, it's all slipping away. Before you know it, you REACH 50 and your dreams are gone.

But wait!!! You MAKE it to 60. You didn't think you would!

So you BECOME 21, TURN 30, PUSH 40, REACH 50 and MAKE it to 60.

You've built up so much speed that you HIT 70! After that it's a
day-by-day thing; you HIT Wednesday!

You get into your 80's and every day is a complete cycle; you HIT lunch; you TURN 4:30 ; you REACH bedtime.. And it doesn't end there. Into the 90s, you start going backwards; 'I Was JUST 92.'

Then a strange thing happens. If you make it over 100, you become a
little kid again. 'I'm 100 and a half!'
May you all make it to a healthy 100 and a half!!

HOW TO STAY YOUNG

1. Throw out nonessential numbers. This includes age, weight and height.
Let the doctors worry about them. That is what they are paid for

2. Keep only cheerful friends. The miseries pull you down.

3. Keep learning. Learn more about the computers, gardening, whatever.
Never let the brain be idle. 'An idle mind is the devil's workshop.'
And the devil's name is Alzheimer's.

4. Enjoy the simple things.

5. Laugh often, long and loud. Laugh until you gasp for breath.

6. The tears happen. Endure, grieve, and move on. The only person, who is with us our entire life, is ourselves. Be ALIVE while you are alive.

7. Surround yourself with what you love , whether it's family, pets,
keepsakes, music, plants, hobbies, whatever.. Your home is your refuge.

8. Cherish your health: If it is good, preserve it. If it is unstable, improve it. If it is beyond what you can improve, get help.

9. Don't take guilt trips. Take a trip to the mall, even to the next county; to a foreign country but NOT to where the guilt is.

10. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity.

AND ALWAYS REMEMBER :
Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the
moments that take our breath away.

MEALY-MOUTHED LEARNING

2009-01-05T08:37:00.003Z

“This is Watercliffe Meadow, a place for learning” says Linda Kingdon, the head teacher at this newly-opened Sheffield educational establishment (actually, primary school). “We decided…we didn’t want to use the word ‘school’ [because] it had very negative connotations for many of the parents of the children here. We want this to be a place for family learning, where anyone can come…There are no whistles or bells or locked doors.”

But according to the Telegraph, the Campaign for Plain English, which opposes ‘the use of gobbledygook in public life’, describes the decision as “ridiculous and part of a political correctness agenda”.

Well, we learned – at school – that a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet. And a school, by any other name, will be as good or as bad, as pleasant or as unpleasant, as those administering and attending it choose to make it.

In these verbally degenerate days, however, time-honoured names have to be twisted, and even banned, so as to avoid possible offence or hurt feelings. So lollipop ladies become “crossing patrol officers”, teachers are called “knowledge navigators”, and dinner ladies re-emerge as – wait for it! – “education centre nourishment production assistants”.

What such custodians of the language as Fowler and Sir Ernest Gowers would make of all this beats me. The most likely thing I would want an “education centre nourishment production assistant” to pass me is the sick bag.

OLD ANTICANT'S CLOUDY CRYSTAL BALL

2008-12-31T06:28:00.003Z

Peering into the murky depths of looming 2009, Mystic Anticant ventures to predict that the following won’t happen:

World ‘leaders’ start behaving morally and responsibly.

Barak Obama ushers in a New Golden Age.

Gordon Brown saves the universe.

Boom and Bust are officially abolished [again].

Crowds throng the streets chanting “Things Can Only Get Better”.

The Pope makes a pilgrimage to Mecca.

The Archbishop of Canterbury says something sensible.

Osama bin Laden makes a State Visit to Buckingham Palace.

The Taliban sets up a womens’ university.

The Israeli lion lies down with the Palestinian jackall.

The Nanny State admits it doesn’t know best, and dismantles itself.

Zola votes Conservative.

Merkin sobers up.

Wook becomes Mayor of Mankato.

Anticant suffers fools gladly.

AND WHAT DID YOU GET FOR CHRISTMAS?

2008-12-26T07:51:00.004Z

Ben gave Anticant a tee shirt inscribed with the words of Benjamin Disraeli:

"MY IDEA OF AN AGREEABLE PERSON IS A PERSON WHO AGREES WITH ME"

Needless to say, Anticant always finds Ben very agreeable.

Lavenderblue sent some scrumptious chocolate truffles.

A kind cousin also sent some lovely chocolates and a bottle of very special champagne.

A friend in the country sent some home-made membrillo [quince paste], which we had never tasted before, and which is delicious.

Mrs Malaprop gave Anticant and Ben each a very smart shirt. Evidently she thinks they should get out more.

So although the Burrow Christmas celebrations this year were cancelled because of the ghastly 'flu that still hangs around, we weren't forgotten, and hope to be in better shape for the New Year.

MERRY YULETIDE

2008-12-18T04:14:00.002Z

Scraping the barrel for uncostly prezzies, BEN TROVATO came up with this.

Here in the Burrow, the festive season will thankfully be more traditional - mince pies galore by Mrs Malaprop, free drinks on the house in the Snug, a carol concert by Dame Barbara's Heavenly Choir of Virtuous Virgins [ guitar backing by Cliff and the Shadows], while Anticant will be giving readings from selected portions of his newly published Memoirs Low Life at the Top.

The Beadle will ensure propriety and due decorum.

By Order

IS THIS A RACIST JOKE?

2008-12-08T20:24:00.001Z

Ben Trovato says 'I don't care. I think it's very funny.

The train was quite crowded, and a U.S. Marine walked the entire length looking for a seat, but the only seat left was taken by a well dressed, middle-aged, French woman's poodle.

The war-weary Marine asked, 'Ma'am, may I have that seat?'
The French woman just sniffed, and said to no one in particular,
'Americans are so rude.  My little Fifi is using that seat.'

The Marine walked the entire train again, but the only seat left was
under that dog.

'Please, ma'am. May I sit down? I'm very tired.'

She snorted, 'Not only are you Americans rude, you are also arrogant!'

This time the Marine didn't say a word; he just picked up the little
dog, tossed it out the train window, and sat down.

The woman shrieked, 'someone must defend my honour! This American should be put in his place!'

An English gentleman sitting nearby spoke up, 'Sir, you Americans seem to have a penchant for doing the wrong thing.  You hold the fork in the wrong hand.  You drive your cars on the wrong side of the road, and now, Sir, you seem to have thrown the wrong bitch out the window.’

POND LIFE

2008-12-05T07:52:00.004Z

Ben Trovato says:

Three little frogs arrived at the gates of Heaven, where St Peter conducted the usual cross-examination before admitting them.

"And how did you spend your life?" he asked the first little frog, who replied "Oh, I didn't do anything very much, really, except jump in and out of puddles."

"That sounds harmless enough, said St Peter. "In you go." Then he turned to the second little frog, who gave the same reply and was nodded through.

The third little frog was dressed up to the nines, with long curling eyelashes and a touch of makeup.

"Tell me", said St Peter, "what have you been doing all your life?"

The little creature simpered and said "Oh, I'm Puddles!"

A CONFESSION TOO FAR

2008-11-15T04:09:00.002Z

BEN TROVATO writes:

While Anticant and Dame Barbara are frolicking in warm thermal baths [or wish they were], I am minding the shop, with the invaluable assistance of the faithful Beadle and Mrs Malaprop, not to mention Wooffie [who says "why not?"].

Gleanings from the internet joke factory have been a bit sparse lately, but I thought the following might amuse - though the bad language at the end will doubtless shock Zola to the core:

WIFE: What would you do if I died? Would you get married again?

HUSBAND: Definitely not!

WIFE: Why not - don't you like being married?

HUSBAND: Of course I do.

WIFE: Then why wouldn't you remarry?

HUSBAND: Okay, I'd get married again.

WIFE: You would? (With a hurt look on her face).

HUSBAND: (Makes audible groan).

WIFE: Would you live in our house?

HUSBAND: Sure, it's a great house.

WIFE: Would you sleep with her in our bed?

HUSBAND: Where else would we sleep?

WIFE: Would you let her drive my car?

HUSBAND: Probably, it is almost new.

WIFE: Would you replace my pictures with hers?

HUSBAND: That would seem like the proper thing to do.

WIFE: Would she use my golf clubs?

HUSBAND: No, she's left-handed.

WIFE: - silence -

HUSBAND: Fuck....

PETTY CASH-IN

2008-08-30T18:13:00.004Z

Ben has been browsing again and came up with this. which he is venturing to post as Dame Barbara is away:

An old but still ruggedly handsome Navy Chief Petty Officer found himself at a gala event hosted by a local liberal arts college. There was no shortage of extremely young, idealistic ladies in attendance, one of whom approached the Chief for conversation.

"Excuse me, Chief, but you seem to be a very serious man. Is something bothering you?"

"No, ma'am. Just serious by nature."

The young lady looked at his awards and decorations and said, "It looks like you have seen a lot of action."

"Yes, ma'am, a lot of action."

The young lady, tiring of trying to start up a conversation, said, "You know, you should lighten up a little. Relax and enjoy yourself."

The Chief just stared at her in his serious manner.

Finally, the young lady said, "You know, I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but when is the last time you've been with a woman?"

"1955, ma'am."

"Well, there you are. You really need to chill out and quit taking everything so seriously, I mean, 1955!"

Feeling charitable and a little bit drunk, she took his hand and led him to a private room where she proceeded to spend some time with him. Afterwards, panting for breath, she leaned against his chest and said, "Wow, you sure didn't forget much since 1955."

The Chief, glancing at his watch, said in his matter-of-fact voice, "I hope not, it's only 2130 now."

WELL, WHAT DO UNO?

2008-07-09T01:24:00.006Z

Ben's latest gleaning:

Last month the UN conducted a worldwide survey asking:

"Would you please give your honest opinion about solutions 
to the food shortage in the rest of the world?"

The survey was a huge failure.

In Eastern Europe they didn't know what "honest" meant.

In Western Europe they didn't know what "shortage" meant.

In Africa they didn't know what "food" meant.

In China they didn't know what "opinion" meant.

In the Middle East they didn't know what "solution" meant.

In South America they didn't know what "please" meant.

In the US they didn't know what "rest of the world" meant.

NO COMMENT

2008-06-25T06:07:00.002Z

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!

2008-06-24T19:30:00.003Z

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

2008-06-12T14:17:00.003Z

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!

2008-06-07T17:09:00.002Z

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??

2008-06-07T03:45:00.003Z

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

2008-05-14T16:54:00.004Z

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!

2008-05-09T16:47:00.002Z

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.

BY HELICOPTER!

2008-05-06T21:47:00.007Z

Another of Ben's gleanings:

Morris and his wife Esther went to the Yorkshire Show every year and every year Morris would say "Esther, I'd like to ride in that helicopter."

Esther always replied "I know Morris; but that helicopter ride is fifty quid, and fifty quid is fifty quid."

One year Esther and Morris went to the fair and Morris said "Esther, I'm 85 years old. If I don't ride that helicopter I might never get another chance."

To this Esther replied "Morris, that helicopter is fifty quid, and fifty quid is fifty quid."

The pilot overheard the couple and said "Listen folks I'll make you a deal. I'll take the both of you for a ride. If you can stay quiet for the entire ride and not say a word I won't charge you! But if you say one word it's fifty quid."

Morris and Esther agreed and up they went. The pilot did all kinds of fancy manoeuvres, but not a word was heard. He did his daredevil tricks over and over again, but still not a word. When they landed, the pilot turned to Morris and said "By golly! I did everything I could to get you to yell out but you didn't. I'm really impressed!'

Morris replied "Well, to tell you the truth, I almost said something when Esther fell out; but, you know, fifty quid is fifty quid."

The Beadle wishes to make it quite clear that he and Mrs Malaprop never visit the Yorkshire Show, and do not like riding in helicopters.

Dame Barbara is currently concocting her latest airy romance Up Up and Away - a tall tale of thrills and spills.

Ben is kept busy supplying her with copious pink gins.

Anticant impatiently awaits the approaching pageant of summer.

Wooffie is wearing his second-best pearls.

OH, BOLLARDS!!

2008-05-06T21:28:00.003Z

Ben has been buying some new pictures for the Snug. Here's one of them:

"Having finished installing the anti-parking bollards, it's time to clear up before driving back to the depot..."

http://www.changeplaces.com/temp/oh,%20bollards.jpg

SAFETY IN NUMBERS?

2008-04-09T20:44:00.002Z

In Anticant’s absence, Ben Trovato has been diligently scouring cyberspace for titbits worthy of reproduction in the Burrow. Here is his latest find:

An elderly gentleman who is less potent than he was in his youth consults his doctor, who after trying many unsuccessful remedies refers him to an African Witch Doctor.

Saying 'I can cure this', the Witch Doctor throws a white powder into a flame, and there is a flash followed by billowing blue smoke. ‘This is powerful healing, but you can only use it once a year’, the African explains. ‘All you have to do is say '123,' and it shall rise for as long as you wish!'

The patient asks, 'What happens when it's over, and I don't want to continue?' The Witch Doctor replies, 'When your partner can take no more sex and is completely satisfied, all she has to say is '1234', and it will then go down. But be warned, your potency will not return again for another year…'

The old gent rushes home, anxious to try out his new powers. That night he showers, shaves, and smothers himself in expensive perfumes. He slides into bed, cuddles up to his wife, says '123', and suddenly he has the most gigantic erection, just as the Witch Doctor promised. His wife turns over and asks, 'What did you say '123' for?'

The Beadle and Mrs Malaprop have asked Ben to confirm that this tale bears no relation to any denizens of the Burrow.

NOT DREAMING OF A WHITE EASTER

2008-03-23T08:38:00.004Z

As we peer out of the Burrow windows this Easter Sunday morning, snowflakes as large as gooseberries are fluttering down, and the grass outside is already covered with a white blanket. The Seasons are indeed a'changing.

This Easter Day [23rd March] is the earliest we shall experience in our lifetimes. The earliest day on which Easter can fall is 22nd March; the last time this occurred was in 1818, and the next will not be until 2285. The latest Easter date is 25th April, which some of us saw in 1943 and some [but not the Burrow denizens] will see in 2038.

Although the League of Nations in 1926 endorsed the keeping of Easter on the Sunday after the second Saturday in April, and this became British law when Parliament passed the Easter Act in 1928, the Act has never been brought into force because it requires the agreement of all the Christian churches, which is still not forthcoming. But then, when did the Christian churches all agree about anything? That would indeed be a miracle.

Be that as it may, we are now enjoying [?] a White Easter. And, as always, Easter marks a turning-point from the death of Winter and old age to the new life of Spring and youthful hope. This week, we have heard the sad news of the passing of Merkin's mother, and the glad news of the arrival of a new great-great nephew: Welcome, Oliver James Harper! Many years ago a dear cat, Pico [short for Piccolo, but he was so large we thought he should have been called Trombone!], died in our arms on Good Friday. So Easter memories accumulate.

By the end of this week Anticant - flying conditions permitting! - will be sitting on his favourite Italian lakeside terrace, with the prospect of ten even lazier days than usual ahead, plus scrumptious local food and lovely warm thermal baths. So the Burrow will be on vacation until mid-April. Meanwhile, we wish all our 'Snug Regulars' and others a Happy Easter, and - if you are hardy enough - good Spring gardening.

OUT-CANUTING CANUTE

2008-03-10T11:28:00.006Z

We hear on today's broadcast news that our devoted Supreme Leader is in constant contact with the emergency services to ensure that everything possible is done to minimise storm and flood damage.

Why Gordibroon - or BroodyGord as he is known in the Burrow - imagines that his personal involvement will make a ha'porth of difference to the performance of our professional coastguards, lifeboatmen, fire services and police, except to distract them from more urgent tasks to take a superfluous phone call from No 10, we cannot imagine.

However, the government spin machine obviously sees a benefit in assuring the witless sheeples that their trusty shepherd is on watch day and night, hence his increasingly haggard and hunted look on Prime Minister's Question Time [which could aptly be re-named "Twenty Questions - No Answers".]

It seems that we have an even more mediocre megalomaniac premier than his self-obsessed predecessor. Whereas T Blair would doubtless have aspired to subdue the agitated waters with a lofty wave of the hand and an exhortation to "Be Still", Gordo rings everybody up and says "Here I am! Let me know if you have a problem."

The biggest problem would be if he actually set out to do anything more. The apparition of Broody turning up at the Burrow with a ladder to replace our drifting slates has got the Beadle worried. We are thinking of putting up a notice saying "Prime Ministers not welcome here", along the lines of those canny folk who used to carry cards saying "If I am admitted to hospital, I do not wish to be visited by Mrs Thatcher".

Armed with a large tray of pink gins, Dame Barbara is already at work on her latest blockbuster: Don't Leave it to Gordon".

JUST DESSERTS

2008-03-02T15:10:00.002Z

Ben Trovato found this on the internet, and thinks it's one hell of a story!

George Bush has a heart attack and dies. He goes to hell where the Devil is waiting for him.

"Hi George", says the Devil. "Good to see you at last! We’re a bit crowded here at the moment, but you definitely have to stay, so I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I've got three people here who weren't quite as bad as you. I'll let one of them go, but you have to take their place. I'll even let YOU decide who leaves."

George thought that sounded pretty good, so he agreed.

The Devil opened the first room. In it was Ted Kennedy in a large pool of water. Kennedy kept resurfacing over and over and over, gasping for air. Such was his fate in hell.

"No!" George said. "I don't think so. I'm not a good swimmer and don't think I could do that all day long."

The Devil led him to the next room. In it was Tony Blair with a sledgehammer and a pile of rocks. All Blair did was swing that hammer, time after time after time, and more and more rocks appeared as he did so.

"No!" Bush said. "I've got this problem with my shoulder. I would be in constant agony if all I could do was break rocks all day!"

The Devil opened a third door. In it, George saw Bill Clinton lying naked on the floor with his arms staked over his head and his legs staked in spread eagle pose. Bent over him was Monica Lewinsky, doing what she does best. George Bush looked at this in disbelief for a while and finally said, "Yeah, I can handle this." The Devil smiled and said ... "Congratulations, Monica! You're free to go”.

WEAKER SEX?

2008-02-26T20:09:00.003Z

Ben Trovato writes:

Fred was a single guy living at home with his father and working in the family business.

Knowing he was going to inherit a fortune when his sickly father died, he decided to seek a wife.

One evening at an investment meeting he spotted the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.  Her natural beauty took his breath away.

"I may look like just an ordinary man," he said to her, "but in just a few years, my father will die, and I'll inherit 20 million dollars."

Impressed, the woman obtained his business card;  and three days later she became his stepmother.

Women are so much better than men at estate planning.

A COLOURFUL CHARACTER, A MYSTERIOUS END

2008-02-22T15:33:00.007Z

Anticant has been whiling away these dismal dark cold days by sorting through some old family letters. Spurred on by trousers' recent visit to Matlock, he recalled the mystery of his grandfather's uncle who vanished from there and was never seen or heard of again.

My grandfather had a bachelor uncle who was his godfather, and after whom I believe he was named Thomas. My great-grandfather was an ironmonger and hardware merchant in Manchester, and his younger brother, Uncle Tom, was also a merchant in Ceylon [now Sri Lanka], from where he wrote some lively letters to my great-grandfather. I still have the holograph originals, penned in neat copperplate and deftly illustrated with pen-and-ink drawings of local ‘characters’.

In March 1866 Tom [then aged 27] writes from Colombo and, after some enquiries after the family’s health and comments on the Irish Fenian outrages which were then traumatising the English, proceeds:

‘In reply to your query I have to state that I am a full blown Freemason Irish Constitution & expect soon to receive my certificate. Masons in Ceylon are as a rule very quiet fellows; in fact in this hot country men dare not indulge too freely in liquors altho’ some I will allow take a “fair whack” -

The coffee planters are the most noisy and obstrepolous [sic] - at the last banquet held at Kandy I hear that one of the “worthy masons” shied a whole boiled fowl at the Worshipful Master’s head. In fact the planters are not at all particular in attentions of this sort & the tales of havoc they commit in one anothers Bungalows sometimes, is scarcely to be believed. The Crockery and Glass ware on such occasions are the first to suffer, then the furniture comes in for its share - on such occasions it is the rule for the English and Scotch to take separate sides -

To recur again to Masonry, it is widespread over India and China and to any one visiting these places must be of advantage. We are very charitable and to a deserving brother in distress sometimes pay his passage home or send him on to another place where he may perhaps be more fortunate. Of course when he can afford it he returns the money. We also contribute handsomely to the local charities.’

He continues:

‘As you say, the time since I left home has passed away very quickly, and my 3 years will soon be up - whether or not I shall stay I don’t know - it all depends upon [RBC] and [JB], who will no doubt come to some arrangement & it will be for me to say whether or not I am agreeable to further risk my liver &c for a further term of years - If they do the handsome I may and most likely will, but if there is no proper inducement, what’s the good - Life is a great drag out here I can assure you, compared with Home, & the only balm for it is to know you are making money. If you know you are not making money and the future is dark, then you are miserable in spite of yourself - time is passing cheaply [?] - year by year, and I must look well about me - so far I consider I have not done much. I must however wait and see.’

And

‘Didn’t go to Church last Sunday, but my Companion [B] did - he told me he felt very sleepy under the Native parson & was only fairly aroused when the said Native parson spasmodically ejaculated a prayer that we might be preserved in this “Wicked World of Wailing Weeping Woe”. The Bishop seldom preaches and Europeans are often absent, and it’s very dreary work going to listen to some of the Black ministers, although they are good men I have no doubt. The above expression of the parson’s was however a Crasher -

I am glad to say that I continue in very good health, and take plenty of Horse Exercise - it is expensive £45 a year with the risk of your horse dying, but it is far better to spend your money than spoil your liver - it is very disgusting, but people out here are perpetually thinking about their livers -

Trade keeps exceedingly quiet in “Rags” - i.e. cotton goods - and unless a change takes place soon we shall have to pocket a loss instead of a profit .’

The next letter is undated, and is largely about trading matters. But there are some illustrations:

1. Ceylon Moorman (Trader, Full Dress). [From a sketch by M Hypolite Silvaf.] 2. Ceylon Moorman (Mason). [From a photograph by Slinn & Co.]

3. Ceylon Malay [From a sketch by M Hypolite Silvaf.]

Tom comments: Figures 1 & 2 represent the class of men to whom the shipment of nails would be sent. Do not despise the Old Buffer no 2 - when I came out first an honest old fellow in similar “get up” was worth £50000 ! Very few like him left.’

Reverting to family affairs, he says nostalgically ‘ In my reveries of home I think now & again of those little trips we used to take when lads with Father to the Taylors at Wilmslow & away through the breezes to Alderley Edge - Happy days those were!’

[I too remember trips to Wilmslow and Alderley Edge with my grandparents when I was a child.]

Uncle Tom’s third letter was written much later, in 1896, by which time my great-grandfather was dead. It is addressed to my grandfather, and dated three days before my grandparents’ marriage: Tom had stayed on in Ceylon, and was back in Britain on leave – furlough – at the time.

Smedley’s Hydropathic Establishment

Telegraphic Address, “SMEDLEYS” Matlock Bank. Railway Station, MATLOCK BRIDGE.

MATLOCK, 17th April 1896

‘My dear Nephew Tom,

This will I hope find you safely returned to Gransmoor after your, probably, stormy journey to and from Belfast.

Hebe [my grandfather’s eldest sister] has very kindly informed me fully with respect to matters that so nearly concern yourself, and which are now on the eve of accomplishment - I refer, of course, to your approaching marriage with Miss Gartside.

Altho’ I shall not be able to witness the ceremony at St. Peter’s, Ashton, next Monday, I shall be there in spirit you may be sure.

I am pleased to learn that it is to be a very quietly arranged function - Emblematic, in that respect, I trust of the tranquil life before you both when you get fairly settled in your own little nest at Heaton Chapel. I have seen the house and it has a pleasant outlook.

It is customary, I know, on occasions like this for Uncles to accompany their letters of congratulation & felicitation with something substantial in the form of a suitable presentation, and your being, moreover, my Godson naturally makes it all the more incumbent on me to conform to the ‘good old rule’. How gladly I would do this, were I able, it is needless for me to tell you. The opportunity can now only arise and be embraced and availed of “when my ship comes in”, and when that will be is known only to the Gods! -

I now send you and Miss Gartside my sincerest wishes for your present and future happiness, health, prosperity and long life,

and remain Your affectionate Uncle Thos. Wright.’

This is where the mystery begins and ends – because Uncle Tom was never seen or heard from again. He vanished from Smedley’s Hydro without trace, and no-one ever discovered what had become of him. As time went by, there were various theories: he had fallen down a pothole, either by accident or by committing suicide in a fit of depression. Or he had decided to return to Ceylon on an impulse, without telling anyone, and had been lost at sea. As I don’t know whether he checked out of Smedley’s with his luggage, or simply vanished from his room leaving his things behind, I don’t have a view on these alternatives. But a cousin of my grandfather’s who dabbled in spiritualism said that a medium had told him that she made contact with Uncle Tom, who spoke of “rushing waters”. This could have been either a subterranean pothole or a mishap at sea, so who knows?

What I do know is that I wish I could have met Uncle Tom and heard more of his stories about life in Ceylon at first hand. Maybe we would have had a drink too many, and flung some crockery, or even a boiled fowl or two, around the room!

MOON SHADOW

2008-02-22T14:02:00.004Z

Our inimitable Emmett, dear Bodwyn Wook, waxes lyrical here about the recent eclipse of the moon in a delightful piece which we are sure all Burrow visitors will enjoy.

VALENTINES ARE UNISLAMIC - OFFICIAL!

2008-02-11T21:31:00.000Z

Ben Trovato writes:

According to the BBC, religious police in Saudi Arabia are banning the sale of Valentine's Day gifts, including red roses. As a result, black market prices for roses are rising, and some florists will deliver bouquets in the middle of the night to avoid suspicion.

Valentine's Day is regarded by the Saudi authorities as unIslamic, because it encourages illicit sexual relationships out of wedlock, punishable by law in the desert kingdom.

But heigh-ho, we used to have our killjoy puritans too. After all, Cromwell's cronies went around cutting down maypoles when they weren't cutting cavaliers' heads off.

BIGOTS GALORE!

2008-02-07T17:37:00.000Z

ANTICANT is an accredited bigot. A “pseudo-liberal” one, to boot. We have this on no less an authority than that of a headmaster of an Islamic school, Ibrahim Lawson [see Anticant’s open letter to him on Anticant’s Arena].

This glad news set off a rash of bigotry confessions in the Burrow, with the following results:

ANTICANT is also a bigoted opponent of pseudo-religious twaddle.

BEN TROVATO is a bigoted topper-up of Snug regulars’ favourite tipples.

THE BEADLE is a bigoted turfer-out of knicker-waving naked kayakers.

MRS MALAPROP is a bigoted ribbed woollen stocking knitter.

WOOFFIE is a bigoted devotee of fine pearls and brandy.

DAME BARBARA is a bigoted champion of virginity in even the most bosom-heaving circumstances.

MISS MARPLE is a bigoted devotee of discreet sleuthing and demure omniscience.

THE CRAFTY CHAMBERMAID is a bigoted bedhopper and keyhole snooper.

So bring your bigotries to the Burrow, one and all, and let’s have a confessional orgy in the Snug. Free drinks all round.

CALMNESS IN OUR LIVES

2008-01-31T21:24:00.000Z

As the Burrow inmates groggily resurface from their prolonged New Year colds, Ben Trovato was heartened to find the following, which he relays for the benefit of Snug regulars and other friends:

I am passing this on to you because it definitely works, and we could all use a little more calmness in our lives.

By following simple advice, heard on the Dr. Phil show, you too can find inner peace. Dr Phil proclaimed: the way to achieve inner peace is to finish all the things you have started and have never finished.

So, I looked around my house to see all the things I started and hadn't finished and before leaving the house this morning...

I finished off a bottle of Merlot, a bottle of White Zinfandel, a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream, a bottle of Kahlua, a package of Oreos, the remainder of my old Prozac prescription, the rest of the cheesecake, some Doritos, and a box of chocolates.

You have no idea how freaking good I feel right now.


Please pass this on to those whom you think might be in need of inner peace.

OUT OF THE DIPLOMATIC BAG

2008-01-20T20:54:00.000Z

Tirelessly surfing the internet, the ever-vigilant Ben Trovato has unearthed the following gem, sent by His Majesty's Ambassador in Moscow to a colleague at the Foreign Office during WW2:

H.M. EMBASSY
MOSCOW

6th April 1943

Lord Pembroke
The Foreign Office
LONDON

My Dear Reggie,

In these dark days man tends to look for little shafts of light that spill from Heaven. My days are probably darker than yours, and I need, my God I do, all the light I can get. But I am a decent fellow, and I do not want to be mean and selfish about what little brightness is shed upon me from time to time. So I propose to share with you a tiny flash that has illuminated my sombre life and tell you that God has given me a new Turkish colleague whose card tells me that he is called Mustapha Kunt.

We all feel like that, Reggie, now and then, especially when Spring is upon us, but few of us would care to put it on our cards. It takes a Turk to do that.

[sgd] Archie
Sir Archibald Clerk Kerr,
H.M. Ambassador.

MISS MARPLE INVESTIGATES

2008-01-17T21:59:00.000Z

BEN TROVATO writes:

After anxious cogitation, we have commissioned Miss Marple to enquire and report back as to the whereabouts of a certain Ms Melancholy, who has been missing from her blog since the end of October.

According to evidence supplied by the lady herself prior to her disappearance, supplemented by subsequent rumour, our friendly neighbourhood therapist has taken herself off to a lesbian menage deep in the countryside where [she alleges] BT cannot provide her with broadband facilities and there is also apparently dial-up failure.

Despite mounting unease amongst her growing band of unhappy fans, Ms M has so far not resurfaced. Bearing in mind the famous episode when Miss Marple's creator, the great Dame Agatha Christie, vanished for some weeks and turned up in a genteel Harrogate hotel claiming amnesia, we thought that Miss Marple was the obvious sleuth to unravel the deepening Ms Melancholy mystery.

She will need all the help she can get, not least from all those now posting on Ms Melancholy's thread who may have even the faintest clues to her whereabouts.

ANTICANT IN QUARANTINE

2008-01-14T23:28:00.000Z

MRS MALAPROP writes:

New Year 2008 has not kicked off well in the Burrow. After a quiet Christmas - Anticant overcooked the turkey, of course, in my absence - and just one small neighbourhood gathering in the Snug, Ben Trovato succumbed to a nasty cold germ on New Year's Eve and though Anticant resolutely ignored it for as long as possible, he too is now sneezing, sniffling and coughing fit to scare off the foxes, squirrels, and birds who visit the garden. Even Wooffie has been sneezing.

The Beadle and I had to return hastily from our secret honeymoon location to nurse the sorry pair, and we are now busily engaged in keeping the home fires burning. Dame Barbara - thank goodness - elected to stay away until the Burrow is declared a Safe Zone, when she will doubtless return post-haste her head swimming in pink gin and teeming with new plots of chaste romance.

Meanwhile, Anticant and Ben wish all Snug regulars, and new friends, a Happy, Prosperous, and above all Healthy New Year and look forward to your company - even Zola's, if he can tear himself away from that lusty female production line he's waxing so lyrical about.

BURROW MOTHBALLED

2007-12-07T04:11:00.000Z

Ben Trovato writes:

The denizens of the Burrow are suffering from pre-festive seasonal stress. Mrs Malaprop and the Beadle have had a quiet wedding, and slipped away to an undisclosed destination for a Christmas honeymoon. Dame Barbara and Anticant have pottered off to Anticant's Hollow Thermal Spa to wallow in mud baths and imbibe festive fare. I am staying behind with Wooffie to keep an eye on things and enjoy a quiet Christmas in the Snug.

Normal service may or may not be resumed in the New Year. Meanwhile, have a great Yuletide, everyone.

SOME PICNIC!

2007-12-03T22:25:00.000Z

Ben Trovato found this on the web:

If you go down to Sudan today,
You'd better not go unread.
It's good to teach in Sudan today
But safer to stay in bed.
For every mob that ever there was
Is calling out for vengeance because
The teacher has
A teddy bear called
Mohammed.

YOU COULDN'T MAKE THIS UP!

2007-12-03T17:38:00.000Z

Ben Trovato writes:

According to today's Times, Washington is awash with rumours that Condoleezza Rice is a lesbian. While I'm far more concerned with her defective mentality than with her eccentric sexuality, the really side-splitting nugget of this story is that Condi's closest woman friend, with whom she co-owns a house, is called Randy Bean!

Randy Bean and Sleazy Rice? Their issue, if any, is bound to be cross-grained.

And this is the city of DC
The home of Ms Bean and Ms Rice
Where the gossip of Bean is really quite mean
And the rumours of Rice are not nice.

[Apologies to John Collins Bossidy]

ANTICANT AND THE NAUGHTY BLOGGERS - Scene 5

2007-12-02T19:35:00.000Z

The Great Hall of Castle Anticant. Preparations are a-swing for the Nuptial Ball in honour of MRS MALAPROP and THE BEADLE. Footmen and housemaids are busily cleaning, scrubbing, polishing, and putting up festive decorations including entwined hearts. Amid all the mêlée DAME BARBARA sits at the high table, scribbling feverishly away at a brand-new wedding ode:

“All hail to Mrs Malaprop!

The Beadle’s made her a fair cop

And after weeks of constant wheedle

She’ll soon become his Madam Beadle.

So let us cease our teasing mockings,

Stop poking fun at woollen stockings

And see her burst forth in full glory –

Her wedding gown’s another story.

She’ll put all other brides to shame

And marry with enduring fame

In shimmering tulle and lots of feathers

Which [unlike Camilla’s] brave all weathers.

The Beadle, too, in smartest best

Will wear his brand-new hat and vest;

His Best Man will be wicked Zola –

Who’s speech could not be any droller.

He plans to make his listeners squeal

With laughter as he doth reveal

The Beadle’s fury at the tricks

They played on him with LB’s knicks

Merrily fluttering in the breeze

Atop the flagpole if you please…..”

Enter BEN TROVATO, who reads the above over Dame Barbara’ s shoulder.

BEN: Do you really think this doggerel is appropriate for such a tear-jerking occasion? I shall have to cut down on the pink gin supply.

DAME: You will do nothing of the sort! You are keeping me on short commons as it is.

Enter EL WOOK and LITTLE RED-FACED RIDING BOOTS.

LRRB: El Wook has saved the day! As he was obliged to dispense with the services of the original troupe of Lewd Maidens, because of their moral unsuitability for this type of seasonal entertainment, he has hastily rung round other theatrical agencies and has located an out-of-work chorus of young ladies who are guaranteed as being ever-so-slightly shopsoiled. They will be arriving by charabanc within the next half hour, so our rehearsals will be able to proceed.

DAME: These young women sound of dubious reputation! I doubt whether they would be suitable for inclusion in one of my immortal bosom-heavers; all my heroines are virgins.

EL WOOK: Never fear, Dame Barbara. These damsels are all guaranteed virginal by Sir Richard Branson himself. Steady as a Northern Rock, he says they are.

Enter HARRASSED HATTIE.

HH: Woe is me! All the perfumes of Gordon’s Grotto will not sweeten this little paw. A dirty 5K note it clutched, but from whom I never saw. I was sleepwalking at the time. Now diabolical Dave Abrahams has murdered sleep and an Inspector Yates threatens to call….

She wanders off, distractedly, clutching someone else’s umbrella.

DAME: Oh dear! That poor young woman seems to be in distress. Ben, dear, you’d better go after her and give her a restorative cognac in the Snug.

He goes.

Enter SNOOPY SCRIBBLER.

SS: Dame Barbara! Allow me to treat you to another pink gin.

DAME: By all means. [Shouts] Ben! Another half-dozen pink gins, please, and charge them to this gentleman’s account. Now [to SS], what can I do for you?

SS: Naturally, we at the Burrow Bugle pride ourselves on our exclusive access to the stories behind the news. We would be honoured if you would become our accredited correspondent for a blow-by-blow and under-the-cushions account of the forthcoming wedding and other festive events at Castle Anticant. We would, needless to say, remunerate you copiously in both currency and liquid form.

DAME: Like all prudent investors these days, I am no longer willing to be paid in US dollars. Euros or Venezuelan oil shares only, please.

SS: No problem, dear lady. I shall go and arrange it at once. He exits.

Enter ZOLA.

Z: Dame Barbara, I have come to rehearse to you, dear Mistress of the Revels, my Best Man’s speech in the hope that you will approve its suitability.

DAME: Please do. I am all ears [except for my mouth and nose. More pink gin pronto, Ben].

So over to Best Man Zola…..

[And it had better be good!]

ANTICANT AND THE NAUGHTY BLOGGERS - Scene 4

2007-11-25T12:46:00.000Z

Grandpa Wolfie’s cottage in the forest. Grandpa Wolfie is entertaining El Wook and a troupe of lewd maidens, who have just arrived by spaceship. The maidens are in the throes of their Dance of the Seven Veils when Little Red Riding Boots enters.

LRRB: Lawks a mussy, Grandpa, whatever’s going on here? I traipse all through the dark and dangerous forest to relieve your solitude and bring you festive fare from the good Anticant and Dame Barbara, and what do I find? Wicked wassail with Wook!

El Wook: Have no fear, little lady, these scantily clad damsels are your new sisters, and your grandpa has agreed [for a consideration] that you shall join my roving troupe.

LRRB: Not on your Nellie! I never take my clothes off for strange men – unless they own a few diamond mines and a swathe of oil wells.

Grandpa Wolfie: But, my dear, this charming Magus has made a bargain with me that will be highly advantageous to us both. Surely you would not deny your impoverished old Grandpa a break after he has been so ignominiously ejected from his cushy job at the World Bank?

LRRB: As my Great-Aunt Eartha used to sing, I want an old-fashioned millionaire – not a clapped-out old pauper like you. Good Fairy LavenderBlue has granted my three wishes. I summon her to my aid!

Good Fairy LB materialises:

GFLB: What is it, my dear?

LLRB: You promised I would be a Queen, and stinking rich, with swarms of admirers, but now I find I have been sold willy nilly to this old mountebank and his sordid circus.

GFLB: My dear, there are many roads to one’s cherished goals, and though performing lascivious dances in nightclubs may not be the most immediately desirable, I can assure you that it has paved the way to diamond tiaras and wads of greenbacks for many a worthier wench than yourself. In this instance I fear I cannot intervene with the fate that awaits you in the harem of El Wook.

She vanishes. The lewd maidens surround LRRB and whisk her into an increasingly frenzied bacchanal, cheered on by Grandpa Wolfie and El Wook.

Curtain.

Meanwhile, back at Castle Anticant……But that’s Scene 5.

BEN'S GLEANINGS

2007-11-24T10:49:00.000Z

Ben Trovato has been surfing the internet [again!] and has come up with the following:

A MESSAGE FROM HELL

A man checked into a hotel in Australia. There was a computer in his room. He decided to send an e-mail to his wife. Unfortunately he clicked on the wrong address.

Meanwhile, a friend’s widow had just returned from her husband’s funeral. She checked her e-mail, expecting to find condolences from relatives and friends. After reading the first message, she fainted. Her son rushed in and found her on the floor. Then he looked at the message on the computer screen, which read:

To: My Loving Wife

Subject: I’ve Arrived

“I know you’re surprised to hear from me. They have computers here now, and you’re allowed to send e-mails to your loved ones. I’ve just arrived and have been checked in. I see that everything has been prepared for your arrival tomorrow. Looking forward to seeing you then! Hope your journey is as uneventful as mine was.

PS It’s damned hot down here!!

And, for Wook:

CUNNING OLD GRANDPA

An old farmer had a pond in his back field which was OK for swimming. One evening he went down to see everything was alright, and heard people splashing about and laughing. As he drew nearer he saw it was a bunch of young women skinny-dipping. They retreated into the deep end of the pond, and one of them shouted “We’re not coming out until you leave!” The canny old man replied: “I didn’t come down here to watch you ladies swim or make you get out of the pond. I only came to feed my alligators.”

HIGHWAY TO JESUS

2007-11-22T04:06:00.000Z

ben trovato writes:

According to an article in today's Independent, the 80-year-old 'Archbishop' of an Atlanta Protestant mega-church told one of his congregation that sleeping with him was "the surest path to eternal salvation". He then proceeded to have a 14-year affair with her, and also borrowed $400,000 from her husband - a pastor at the church - to settle a suit from a member of his congregation who claimed she had been sexually assaulted by him since she was seven years old.

Now, a paternity test has revealed that the Archbishop fathered a 34-year-old son - who is now the church's head pastor! - by his brother's wife.

The Archbishop has been praised by President Bush for "his extraordinary work for God and the community".

Yes indeed! This outfit gives a whole new meaning to the Love of God. Carry on bonking and pass the collection plate......

ANTICANT AND THE NAUGHTY BLOGGERS - Scene 3

2007-11-17T12:03:00.000Z

A gloomy forest. Little Red-faced Red Riding Boots appears, threading her way through the trees. She sees a bright light ahead of her in a clearing, and moves towards it. As she steps out into the clearing, a radiant beautifully dressed lady with a star in her hair and a magic wand appears:

Good Fairy:

“I am your fairy godmother, LavenderBlue.

I have the lousy task of overseeing you.

I don’t much like what you get up to,

But here’s three wishes I’ll make come true.”

LRRRB:

“O Godmother, I want to be a Queen

And make my rivals sick with envy green.

I long to be so stinking rich

They’ll never dare to call me horrid bitch.

I want men at my beck and call

So life will be one endless ball.”

GF:

“All these I grant, but mark my words:

Pleasures and troubles come in herds,

And when you’ve had your bit of fun

Troubles will follow at a run”.

LRRRB:

“Your sombre forecasts don’t dismay me –

I’m off to find a man to lay me.”

She exits in the direction of Grandpa Wolfie’s cottage. LavenderBlue shakes her head and murmurs: “Little does she know what awaits here there…..”

STOCKING FILLER

2007-11-17T10:35:00.000Z

Ben Trovato writes:

We’re just reading a most entertaining book which would be the ideal Christmas present for anyone interested in 19^th century rural history and quaint anecdotes. It’s Recollections of a Sussex Parson, by the Rev. E.B. Ellman, who was Rector of Berwick, near Lewes, for over half a century. The book is crammed full of interesting and amusing stories, and is beautifully produced in a new edition illustrated with modern woodcuts by a local artist. It’s obtainable from Mrs. L Hallums, 2 Roman Close, Bishopstone, Seaford, East Sussex BN25 2SW and costs £15 plus £3.80 postage and packing, cheques payable to ‘Berwick P.C.C’.

To give you the book’s flavour, just one of the many reminiscences is the tale of a rather grand old lady who always lunched on a mutton chop served promptly at 2 o’clock by her elderly butler, who had been in her service for thirty years. One day, as he was about to take the chop in to her, he dropped down dead. While the other servants were debating how to break the sad news to their mistress, she rang the bell violently and demanded to know where her chop was. They explained that the butler had just died. Her response was: “That is no reason why I should be kept waiting. Is there not anyone else who can bring in my chop?”

BURROW NUPTIALS

2007-11-17T06:27:00.000Z

Mrs Malaprop, as she is constantly reminding us, is a respectable woman. Now the Beadle has at long last plucked up the courage to make her an honest one. Their wedding will take place shortly before Christmas, to chime in with the Festive Season. Anticant will give the bride away, and Ben Trovato will be best man.

Dame Barbara is offering a seasonal prize - a magnum of champagne - for the best verses in celebration of this happy event, when there will be much wassailing in the Burrow. Wooffie is already choosing his new necklace to wear on this occasion, and LavenderBlue is busy with a portrait of the bride who has promised that on this unique occasion she will exchange her usual Jaeger stockings for sheen silk ones.

ANTICANT AND THE NAUGHTY BLOGGERS - Scene 2

2007-11-14T22:54:00.000Z

Dame Barbara’s Bedroom. The Crafty Chambermaid peeps out between the curtains of the four-poster:

“I am the Crafty Chambermaid
Gentlemen’s beds remain unmade
Till I’ve been well and truly laid.

“I’ve toyed with young Ben now and then
But fun with Zola is much much droller
He pants and heaves like a steam roller

Though what I find really arouses
Me is a good romp with naughty Trousers
Who sorts me out as safe as houses.…”

She is interrupted by the entrance of Dame Barbara:

“What are you saying, you foul slut?
Just keep that big mouth firmly shut
Or I will whack you in the gut!

We want no naughty dalliance here
Such goings-on will interfere
With our good name. Is that quite clear?”

CCM:

“T’was but a turn of speech, dear madam
I like these guys but never had ‘em
Except in my ecstatic dreams
Where champagne flows in endless streams.

So dear Dame B pray don’t dismiss me
I swear I shall let no man kiss me.”

Dame Barbara:

“You’d better not, or fear the worst!
Unchastity is roundly cursed
In Anticant’s domain. Now go
And keep those too loose lips well pursed.

‘Tis time you journeyed through the wood –
Your grandpapa is off his food.”

The Crafty Chambermaid curtseys and exits, blowing a raspberry at Dame Barbara’s back as she does so.

ANTICANT AND THE NAUGHTY BLOGGERS - Scene 1

2007-11-14T11:07:00.000Z

The Great Hall, Castle Anticant

Enter Judge Anticant, muttering to himself:

“The Festive Season is upon us

A pantomime would be a bonus

With thrills and spills for lovers true

And spells by Fairy LavvyBlue.

I’ll get Dame Barbara to write it

And Wizard Zola to ignite it

With spicy wit and lots of booze –

A surefire winner, we can’t lose….”

Enter the Housekeeper, Dame Malaprop:

“What’s this? Anticant talking to himself?

The poor old boy’s long past the shelf!

I’d better fetch the trusty Beadle

Who knows the Master how to wheedle.

And if that fails, I’ll send for Ben –

Old Anticant likes younger men.”

Anticant:

“Now, Dame, tut, tut, pray don’t presume

To throw your weight around the room,

Just set to work and wield your broom.

We’ve company arriving soon,

A spaceship from the blogosphere

I’m told will very soon be here

And it will be sore heavy laden

With Ogre Wook and umpteen maiden

Ladies he describes as ‘lewd’.

I hope they’re not arriving nude!”

Enter the Castle Beadle:

“Don’t fear, Sire Anticant, for I will stop it!

Anyone naked won’t half cop it.

They will be put into the stocks

And pelted with marshmallow rocks

Until they are all moist and sticky

And then they won’t feel very tricky.

Just to ensure there is no hassle

I’ll post a notice in the castle

To warn any incoming boarder:

NO NUDITY ROUND HERE BY ORDER”

Exit Dame Malaprop and the Beadle. Anticant shakes his head doubtfully……

FESTIVE FOREBODINGS

2007-11-13T09:19:00.001Z

With the pending advent of the Christmas Season, Anticant, Dame Barbara, and Ben Trovato are deep in consultation scripting the Burrow Grand Christmas Pantomime, Anticant and the Naughty Bloggers.There will be a star-studded cast including Good Fairy LavenderBlue, Zola the Magician, Toyboy Trousers, Mad Merkin, Wicked Wookie, a punch and judy show performed by the Beadle and Mrs Malaprop, and return appearances of 'Wolfy' Wolfowitz and the Crafty Chambermaid as Little Red-faced Ridingboots. Wooffie, of course, will steal the show with his Dance of the Seven Pearlstrings.

Watch this space!

NULAB SNOOPERS' PARADISE

2007-11-10T20:47:00.000Z

As Emmett has raised the question of the pervasive snoopers who surround us all these days - there are no CCTV cameras in the Burrow, btw - this seems a good moment to voice my distaste at one of the most obnoxious government broadcast announcements I've ever heard. It is directed at benefit fraudsters, and tells them that they are being WATCHED and have nowhere to hide. "We will track you down", the message says; "we may even be standing next to you at this very moment".

If this squalid threat doesn't reek of Big Brother, I'll eat Dame Barbara's handbag. I have no time for benefit scroungers, and certainly wish them to be caught. But not with this creepy, spine-shivering stuff from a government agency. I grew up during WW2, when we were rightly admonished that 'careless talk costs lives' and that we should 'keep mum'. There were spivs and swindlers around then too, who were viewed disdainfully. But SNOOPERS - government or private - who spied upon and informed against their fellow-citizens were regarded with far greater contempt, as the lowest of the low in fact. That, surely, was a far healthier attitude than this brazen , bullying brag that "we know where you are, and are coming to get you".

Most of the time they don't, of course. And the culprits know they don't. So why waste public money on this STASI type stuff? It's high time this ghastly government grew up - or better still, got thrown out.

LURKING VAGABONDS AND NOISY BOYS BEWARE!

2007-11-07T17:47:00.000Z

THE BEADLE has been researching the history of his ancient office, and has come up with the following:

“Beadles’ duties varied from parish to parish and ranged from acting as a kind of parochial town crier to a position of power more akin to a village constable. In larger parishes they had overall charge of the night watchmen, setting their hours and ensuring that they turned up for duty. A typical list of tasks was:

To keep order in the parish; to prevent the lurking of beggars and vagabonds; to keep general order and to prevent youths and boys from disturbing the peace by noisy sports, playing, gaming and general mischief.

The beadle would also attend church as part of his duties, ensuring churchgoers were attentive to the sermon and reprimanding noisy children and adults who talked during the service. He was also a kind of latter-day traffic warden, ensuring horses and carriages did not cause problems when parked outside the church. In Sunbury, Middlesex, in 1858 the beadle was in charge of the fire engine!

Many beadles, but certainly not all, received an annual salary plus various fees. They would also receive an annual allowance for a uniform, which generally consisted of a cloak and hat. The parish would own the staff of office, which he carried on duty.

[From an article on 'Parish Officials' by Colin Waters in issue 58 of Your Family Tree magazine. Reproduced by permission.]

ANTICANT GALLIVANTS

2007-11-02T05:26:00.000Z

Anticant had a night out yesterday. Have a look in the Arena.

HALLOWE'EN BIRTHDAY

2007-10-31T04:50:00.000Z

WOOFFIE says:

Today is LAVENDERBLUE’s birthday, and I’ve been honoured to give her a bouquet with love from all of us at the Burrow.

During our West Country travels, I learned quite a lot about the artistic temperament! Our LAVENDER has oodles of that, besides an abundance of flair and talent, as her lovely paintings attest.

These qualities were the gifts of a good fairy, or ghost, who kissed her at her birth in a Scottish castle. So when LAVENDER’s sun shines one basks warmly in its golden glow, but when the lightning strikes and the thunder booms you’d best take shelter from the storm, which is usually brief -- so thank goodness my skin, like my fur coat, is nice and thick!

Oh, yes, it’s a dog’s life, but with LAVENDERBLUE there’s always a sketch book at the ready, a meaty bone, a string of pearls, a swig of brandy, a comforting pat, and at the end of it all a hearty chuckle and another beautiful picture.

So Many Many Happy Returns, dear Ms LB, and lots of love from me and all of us at ANTICANT’s. Woof, Woof!

THERE'S ONE BORN EVERY MINUTE

2007-10-28T21:37:00.000Z

For some inexplicable reason, Anticant is deluged daily with offers to enhance his manhood, though in his case it would only be locking the stable door....

But in case anyone is ever tempted to take up one of these enticing offers, here's a cautionary tale from Wired:

MANCHESTER, New Hampshire -- A security flaw at a website operated by the purveyors of penis-enlargement pills has provided the world with a depressing answer to the question: Who in their right mind would buy something from a spammer?

An order log left exposed at one of Amazing Internet Products' websites revealed that, over a four-week period, some 6,000 people responded to e-mail ads and placed orders for the company's Pinacle herbal supplement. Most customers ordered two bottles of the pills at a price of $50 per bottle.

Do the math and you begin to understand why spammers are willing to put up with the wrath of spam recipients, Internet service providers and federal regulators.

Since July 4, Amazing Internet Products would have grossed more than half a million dollars from Goringly.biz, one of several sites operated by the company to hawk its penis pills.

Among the people who responded in July to Amazing's spam, which bore the subject line, "Make your penis HUGE," was the manager of a $6 billion mutual fund, who ordered two bottles of Pinacle to be shipped to his Park Avenue office in New York City. A restaurateur in Boulder, Colorado, requested four bottles. The president of a California firm that sells airplane parts and is active in the local Rotary Club gave out his American Express card number to pay for six bottles, or $300 worth, of Pinacle. The coach of an elementary school lacrosse club in Pennsylvania ordered four bottles of the pills.

Other customers included the head of a credit-repair firm, a chiropractor, a veterinarian, a landscaper and several people from the military. Numerous women also were evidently among Amazing Internet's customers.

All were evidently undaunted by the fact that Amazing's order site contained no phone number, mailing address or e-mail address for contacting the company. Nor were they seemingly concerned that their order data, including their credit card info, addresses and phone numbers, were transmitted to the site without the encryption used by most legitimate online stores.

"There was a picture on the top of the page that said, 'As Seen on TV,' and I guess that made me think it was legit," said a San Diego salesman who ordered two bottles of Pinacle in early July. The man, who asked not to be named, said he has yet to receive his pills, despite the site's promise to fill the order in five days.

A former employee of Amazing Internet Products, who requested anonymity, reported the company's tendency to expose order log files to Wired News. The file was viewable by anyone with a Web browser who truncated one of the Internet addresses published by the company.

Besides legitimate orders, Amazing Internet's log file also contained numerous complaints from spam recipients, who used the order form to register their unhappiness at the site's lack of a proper list-removal option.

Faith York, a rehabilitation counselor in Maine, left Amazing Internet a few choice words last month after an e-mail advertising Pinacle pills slipped through AOL's spam filters and landed in her 10-year-old son's inbox. In a telephone interview last week, York said she lost her temper when she discovered that neither the e-mail nor the ordering site included any means of contacting the company.

"The only way I could send them information was by making up an order, and in the spaces for address and whatnot I described my discontent at them sending my son that kind of e-mail," York said.

The registration record for the site, and the ones for the dozens of other sites used by Amazing Internet Products, provide little help in tracking down the company's owners. The domain records typically list a fictitious registrant and a post office box in Manchester, New Hampshire, along with a nonworking phone number and e-mail address.

To further throw people off its tracks, Amazing Internet and its affiliates send out their loads of junk e-mail using fake return addresses, or the real return address of an innocent third party.

But records on file with the New Hampshire secretary of state show that Braden Bournival, a 19-year-old high-school dropout who is also listed as vice president of the New Hampshire Chess Association, owns Amazing Internet Products.

Bournival refused repeated requests for interviews about his business. When approached for comment at a chess tournament in Merrimack, New Hampshire, last month, Bournival, who is a national-master-caliber player, ran away from a Wired News reporter.

The registered agent for Amazing Internet Products, Mark Wright of Manchester law firm McLane, Graf, Raulerson, & Middleton, also declined to be interviewed.

Amazing Internet leases several thousand square feet of office space at the Tower Mill Center on Bedford Street in Manchester, where, according to the former employee, Bournival's teenage sister fills padded envelopes with bottles of Pinacle and ships them off to customers.

An investigation (registration to Salon.com required) last month revealed that Bournival's mentor and business partner is Davis Wolfgang Hawke, a chess expert and former neo-Nazi leader who turned to the spam business in 1999 after it became public that his father was Jewish.

By all appearances, Bournival's and Hawke's spam business is highly profitable. Amazing Internet pays a supplier around $5 per bottle of pills, and gives affiliates who send spam on its behalf about $10 per order, said the former associate. That leaves plenty of room for a tidy profit in the low-overhead spam business.

But does the stuff work? Amazing Internet's spams make this promise to Pinacle users: "Realistically, you can grow up to 3 FULL INCHES IN LENGTH."

The Federal Trade Commission said there is no proof that the pills work as advertised. But the FTC does not have the resources to press a case against such companies, according to spokesman Richard Cleland.

Earlier this year, Joe Miksch, a columnist for the Fairfield County Weekly, published a humorous account of what happened when he took Pinacle for 30 days. It went something like this: "Day one: No change. Day two: No change. Day three: No change. Days four through 30: See above."

But according to the former associate, Amazing Internet Products makes good on its enlargement guarantee, and -- poor security precautions aside -- protects customers' data.

"I don't know if the stuff works. But Brad has a weird sense of ethics. He would never use a stolen credit card, and he honors requests for refunds," he said.

To that end, one of Amazing's websites, which has since gone offline, listed a toll-free customer service number. The company's PayPal account shows two e-mail addresses.

IT'S COSY IN THE SNUG!

2007-10-28T15:56:00.000Z

The clocks have gone back, alas, and the long dark winter evenings are upon us. But cheer up! Here in the Snug, thanks to the tireless efforts of Ben, the Beadle, and Mrs Malaprop, the curtains are cosily drawn, logs are ablaze in the hearth, the polished brass and pewter gleams in the firelight, the candles are lit, and the bar is - as ever - well stocked.

All that's missing are the regular gossips, whose ready wit and good humour we rely on to make this a bumper season.

So roll up ladies & gents all, toss in your [polite] penn'orths, and place your orders.

CUCKOO TIME

2007-10-21T11:49:00.000Z

Next weekend the clocks will be put back one hour and we shall return to the long dark winter evenings with their accompanying epidemic of Seasonal Affective Disorder and upsurge of traffic accidents. As usual, we benighted islanders will be out of step with our European neighbours. Grudgingly, we shall go through the twice-yearly tedious performance of adjusting umpteen clocks, watches, and household devices.

Before the proliferation of technology, the time change used to involve maybe a couple of household clocks and a few personal watches. Not any more! At the last count, over two dozen gadgets had to be adjusted in the Burrow – an irritating and unnecessary procedure. Multiply this by the millions of items needing attention in homes and businesses throughout the land, and the wasteful economic impact of this unnecessary biannual rigmarole becomes obvious. Yet, surprisingly, there seems to be no strong demand to scrap it.

During World War Two, summer time was retained throughout the winter and the clocks were moved forward another hour, to “double summer time”, in the summer. If this was in the national interest then, it should be the practice now if it is deemed necessary to change the clocks at all, or else we should stick to summer time throughout the year.

When Anticant was growing up during the War, his family lived next door to an elderly lady who refused to conform to the clock-changing routine because, she said, it upset the birds, who didn’t perform their dawn chorus at what she considered to be the appropriate hour. So she kept her clocks an hour behind everyone else’s. A friend of ours said she lived by ‘Cuckoo Time’.

Here at the Burrow, Cuckoo Time seems a jolly good idea – except that we would prefer to keep our clocks one hour ahead of everyone else.

Joking apart, what do others think of this clock-changing business?

KEEPING IN TOUCH

2007-10-18T21:38:00.000Z

The welcome return of our errant Naked Kayaker has brought great relief to his Burrow friends, who were becoming quite sick with worry over his unaccustomed silence.

Why he went offline for so long is his own private business, and it isn't for us to pry. But knowing that Zola, Anticant, and some of our other regular blogging friends suffer from ongoing health problems, we in the Burrow would like to suggest that when any of us intend to stop blogging for a while we should post a note to this effect on our own blogs so that our friends won't be having nightmare scenarios about our being at - or through - death's door.

Welcome back to the Snug, Zola! Ben is serving fee drinks all round, Mrs Malaprop has donned a brand new pair of woollen stockings, and the Beadle has promised to turn a blind eye to a little discreet knicker waving. Dame Barbara has embarked upon a new epic, Paddlers' Paradise, involving intrepid canooing and canoodling in the Arctic, polar bears, virgins marooned on ice-floes, etc. etc. Order your discount advance copy NOW!

TALE OF TWO [FAT?] NUNS

2007-10-17T11:34:00.000Z

It now seems that Pimpernel Zola has been hobnobbing - or nob-hopping - with two fat ladies, and is well oiled. [See his site.]

This tall tale reminds Ben of the following recent gleaning from the ether:

"A drunk is staggering down the road when two nuns are walking in the opposite direction.

As the nuns approach him they wonder which way to walk to avoid him as he staggers.  The road is busy so they can't walk off the pavement, so they decide to separate, with one going each side of him.

As they pass the drunk he stops.  Then after a moment he turns around, stares at the nuns, and says:

"How the f__k did she do that?"

BURROW NEWS

2007-10-13T20:26:00.000Z

Since returning from his brief holiday in mid-September, Anticant has attended five outpatients' clinics at different hospitals - two for 'procedures' - and several more loom between now and Christmas [including yet another unpleasant 'procedure' at the end of this month].

All this makes him feel his new, octogenarian, age and is not conducive to skipping the light fantastic inside or out of the Burrow. We therefore ask our Snug 'regulars' and other friends to be patient while more energy is generated for creative invention. Even Dame Barbara is suffering from writer's block at the moment. Pink gins are at a premium.

There is still no news from Zola, who has been AWOL for over two weeks now. We trust that all is well with him, and look forward anxiously and eagerly for further tidings. Ben, the Beadle, and Wooffie would gladly sally forth bearing brandy and other comforts if they knew which direction to head in, but even Miss Marple is more clueless than usual. Only Mrs Malaprop is keeping her head above water, cossetting Anticant and the Dame and keeping a wary eye on the Crafty Chambermaid.

ZOLA ALERT!

2007-10-08T09:49:00.000Z

Zola has not been online for nearly two weeks now and his friends in the Burrow are becoming increasingly anxious as he has not responded to an email enquiring if he is OK.

Dear Zola, if you see this PLEASE post either on your own site or here, and let us know that all is well with you.

And if anyone else has news, or means of contacting Zola, please report back.

ANTICANT IS 80

2007-10-06T19:05:00.000Z

Today I’ve been on this planet for eight decades. Survival is worth celebrating, I suppose, and a couple of years ago I didn’t think I would last this long. But I’d rather be 40 than 80, and I don’t expect to reach 90. So the question is: how best to spend the relatively brief remainder of my life?

Eric Berne, the wise ‘father’ of Transactional Analysis, once said that the most important problem every human being has is how to pass the time between being born and dying. In the wicked world we are living in, far too many people don’t have much choice in the matter, and the majority of those who can choose make what to my mind are some pretty rotten choices.

One choice I am making on this birthday is to spend less time in future on the supposedly serious blogosphere. I’m getting increasingly fed up with the ceaseless outpourings of anger, intolerance, and irrational opinion which clutter up so much blogging, and in particular the inability – or unwillingness – to follow a line of discussion through without veering off into irrelevant and intemperate rants and slanging matches. We are living through a self-tormented period when what Jung called the ‘dark shadow’ seems to have taken over the bulk of humankind, who purblindly see nothing but good in themselves and project all badness onto the supposedly demonic ‘other’.

With such almost universally one-sided views being peddled from conflicting standpoints, and so little inclination to compromise, I’ve almost given up hope of finding much constructive thinking or sensible answers on the internet [or anywhere else] to the increasingly menacing self-made plight of humanity, and reluctantly conclude that as the lunatics and thugs are well on the way to taking over the global asylum, there’s not much point in bashing my feeble brains around serious issues in the few short years I may have left to me.

Anyway, I’ve said most of what I want to say in previous posts, so anyone interested in my views can browse the Arena archive. No doubt I’ll be popping up every now and again in Anticant's Arena, but mostly I shall indulge in sheer escapism by frolicking in my Burrow, which I increasingly find a much more congenial place than the real world.

AH, BELLA ITALIA!

2007-10-02T20:33:00.000Z

During the court adjournment, Ben fished this out of the internet joke pond:

A woman goes to Italy to attend a two-week company training session.

Her husband drives her to the airport and wishes her to have a good trip.

The wife answers, "Thank you honey, what would you like me to bring for you?"

The husband laughs and says, "An Italian girl!"

The woman kept quiet and left.

Two weeks later he picks her up at the airport and asks, "So, honey, how was the trip?"

"Very good, thank you."

"And, what happened to my present?"

"Which present?" 

"The one I asked for - an Italian girl!!" 

"Oh, that," she said, "Well, I did what I could; now we have to wait for eight months to see if it's a girl."

WOOFFIE'S EVIDENCE

2007-10-02T11:28:00.000Z

Wooffie lurched into the witness box, hiccupping slightly. When told by Dame Barbara to bark once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’, he nodded blearily.

‘Now, Wooffie’, said Dame Barbara, ‘do you recognise the defendant?’. Wooffie barked once.

‘Do you trust her?’ Two barks.

‘Have you been keeping an eye on her?’ One bark.

‘Have you watched her through bedroom keyholes?’ One bark.

‘Oh, the treacherous hound!’ exclaimed the Crafty Chambermaid.

‘Did you see her rummaging under beds?’ One bark.

‘And was she concentrating on her cleaning duties?’ Two barks.

‘Did she remove any items of Miss Marple’s and Mrs Malaprop’s personal belongings?’ One bark.

Cross-examined by Miss Marple, Wooffie indicated that he had followed Dorcas into Burrowville, and had sneaked after her unobserved into the saloon bar of the Anticant Arms, where she was joined by a man who Wooffie identified as Snoopy Scribbler. Pretending to be asleep, Wooffie had seen, out of the corner of one eye, Dorcas talking into a tape recorder and then putting a large bundle of bank notes into her apron pocket.

Asked how he felt about this, Wooffie suddenly vomited and was hastily ordered by Dame Barbara to leave the witness box.

BURROW COURT SESSION

2007-09-29T20:37:00.000Z

Malaprop and Marple vs. Litefinger

His Honour Judge Anticant presiding.

The case before the Court was brought by Maria Malaprop and Jane Marple against Dorcas Litefinger for intrusion of privacy and breach of confidence.

The matter complained of was an article in the Burrow Bugle entitled “Burrow Bedroom Secrets: All is Revealed”, written by Snoopy Scribbler and reading as follows:

“Our in-house correspondent at Anticant’s Burrow, ‘BEDBUG’, informs us that unexpected possessions lurk under various Burrow counterpanes. Miss Marple, for instance, treasures a set of first editions of the Complete Works of Agatha Christie, and a set of Victorian curling tongs. Mrs Malaprop, the housekeeper, secretes under her bed a portmanteau full of ribbed woollen stockings in various shades, and a china mug inscribed “Ever thine, O Beloved, your devoted Beadle”. Under the Beadle’s bed is a heart-shaped silver frame containing a portrait of Mrs Malaprop. I have not yet had an opportunity to investigate the bedroom hoards of Anticant, Ben, or Dame Barbara, as that horrid Wooffie keeps sniffing around my ankles whenever I approach their rooms. But I shall report further in your next issue.”

The plaintiffs called for an apology, damages, and an injunction against publication of further items emanating from ‘Bedbug’, who, they claimed, was Demure Dorcas Litefinger, aka The Crafty Chambermaid.

Judge Anticant said that as he was proprietor of the Burrow Bugle, a conflict of interest was indicated and he would therefore step down from the bench and invite Dame Barbara de Carteblanche to take his place which she accordingly did.

The first witness was the Bugle’s gossip columnist, Snoopy Scribbler. Asked to confirm the identity of ‘Bedbug’, he declined, pleading journalist’s immunity to revealing his sources. He was reprimanded by Dame Barbara and told to step down.

The next witness was the Beadle, who professed outrage that his intimate love-tokens should be revealed to the world by a saucy guttersnipe. Dame Barbara told him to moderate his language, as the identity of the offending whistleblower had not yet been ascertained.

The defendant was then called to the witness box and asked whether or not she was Bedbug. “Oh, your Dameship”, she replied, “I have never bugged a bed in my life”. “But did you write this article? Yes or No?” Dame Barbara demanded. “Well, your Honour, I don’t clearly recollect doing so” replied the Crafty Chambermaid, “but then again I cannot swear for 100 per cent. certain that I didn’t. That Mr Scribbler was plying me with champagne and I may have signed something he put in front of me without realising what it was. Can I plead diminished responsibility?” “No – you can NOT!” Dame Barbara snapped. “You will plead either guilty or not guilty.” “In that case”, said Dorcas demurely, I shall opt for jury trial.”

A special jury was empanelled, consisting of Trousers, Wook, Lavenderblue, Merkin, and Zola. They are now deliberating, and their verdict and suggestions for sentencing [if the verdict is ‘guilty’] are awaited.

MIRROR, MIRROR ON THE WALL......

2007-09-27T15:04:00.000Z

Ben found this on Ananova:

COUPLE DIVORCE AFTER ONLINE 'AFFAIR'

A Bosnian couple are getting divorced after finding out
they had been secretly chatting each other up online
under fake names.

Sana Klaric, 27, and husband Adnan, 32, from Zenica,
poured out their hearts to each other over their marriage
troubles, and both felt they had found their real soul
mate.

The couple met on an online chat forum while he was at
work and she in an internet cafe, and started chatting
under the names Sweetie and Prince of Joy.

They eventually decided to meet up - but there was no
happy ending when they realised what had happened.

Now they are both filing for divorce - with each accusing
the other of being unfaithful.

Sana said: "I thought I had found the love of my life.
The way this Prince of Joy spoke to me, the things he
wrote, the tenderness in every expression was something I
had never had in my marriage.

"It was amazing, we seemed to be stuck in the same kind
of miserable marriages - and how right that turned out to
be.

"We arranged to meet outside a shop and both of us would
be carrying a single rose so we would know the other.

"When I saw my husband there with the rose and it dawned
on me what had happened I was shattered. I felt so
betrayed. I was so angry."

Adnan said: "I was so happy to have found a woman who
finally understood me. Then it turned out that I hadn't
found anyone new at all.

"To be honest I still find it hard to believe that the
person, Sweetie, who wrote such wonderful things to me on
the internet, is actually the same woman I married and
who has not said a nice word to me for years."

===

Dame Barbara de Carteblanche comments:

"How unromantic! If they had any sense, they would have flung their arms around each other, embraced passionately, laughed heartily, said 'Where have you been all my life?' and gone off for a slap-up celebration meal. But what a plot for my next bosom-heaver......"

GORDIBROON'S BRITAIN

2007-09-26T21:02:00.000Z

Ben found this surfing the internet. Maybe it is more suitable for the Arena, but an occasional serious note in the Burrow is in order.

STATE OF THE NATION

Just finished a week cycle holiday along coast from Newcastle to Edinburgh, and had a few new experiences en route.

At train station in Birmingham I took a photograph of the other three I was cycling with, only to be accosted by one of the platform ticket checkers who objected to my taking a photograph on which she appeared. She claimed her religion does not allow this, and when I suggested the platform and similar CCTV was likely recording most of her working day and that she would be very much in the background of my photo the discussion got heated.

Later in the trip, one of the ladies with us took a similar group photo of three cyclists stood outside a cafe. Unfortunately there was also a group of young kids being taken along the street and they were in the background of the photo. One of the adults supervising the kids went ballistic and demanded the photo be deleted, claiming anti paedophile regulations.

In Edinburgh, sat on platform waiting for train, approached by police and had to empty the contents of our panniers under 'Stop/Search S.44(2) anti-terrorism laws of 2000'. (Brave guy, 6 days of cycling doesn't make for lots of clean socks). One of my panniers had laptop etc, so I expressed to the policeman that I'd rather not advertise publicly that I've got a few thousand quids worth of electronic gear in a fairly insecure place, and would it be possible to go somewhere less public. The request was refused.

Arrived home to discover the porch had been pilfered, not a lot of damaged and only a few boots and post nicked or damaged. Police took report over the phone but otherwise no interest.

What a bloody country.(The cycle trip was fantastic, very lucky with the weather, met some top people along the way, and managed a rare relatively keyboard free week).

"MY MOTHER SAID....."

2007-09-24T20:18:00.000Z

Miss Marple writes:

Discreetly entering my bedroom I beheld Demure Dorcas, the Crafty Chambermaid, on her knees rummaging through the contents of my suitcase which she had dragged from under the bed. She was so absorbed in one of the Poirot mysteries by the immortal Dame Agatha Christie [from whom I learned most of what I know about sleuthing] that she only realised I was in the room when I exclaimed “Pray what does this mean?”

“Oh excuse me, Miss Marple,” the saucy hussy replied, “I was dusting under your bed when I found this fascinating masterpiece.”

“And who told you to pry into my belongings, Miss?” I sarcastically enquired.

“One must always be on the safe side, Miss Marple”, she replied. “I was brought up to check all unopened packages for possible intruders. As my late revered great-Aunt the eccentric music hall artiste Nellie Wallace frequently used to sing:

My Mother said

Always look under the bed

Before you blow the candle out

To see if there’s a man about.

I always do

And you can make a bet

It’s never been my luck

To find a man there yet.”

“Singing disreputable ditties won’t excuse your misbehaviour, ma’am”, I retorted. “I shall summon the Beadle and have you put into the stocks until Anticant convenes a Burrow Court.“

“I shouldn’t advise it if I were you”, the wicked wench responded. “You’ll never guess what I found under Anticant’s bed. Or under the Beadle’s and Mrs Malaprop’s – not to mention Dame Barbara’s. I hardly think they would like you or anyone else to read about it in the Burrow Bugle, which I fear they will do very soon if you proceed as you propose.”

I was dumbfounded. “You are a blackmailing chit!” I exclaimed, and set off to find the Beadle.

RETURN TO THE BURROW

2007-09-20T20:19:00.000Z

The cream-and-gold Roller swept under the archway purring to a stop in the Burrow courtyard and Dame Barbara emerged, followed by Anticant who was dreamily warbling:

‘Mud, mud, glorious mud!

Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood.

So follow me, follow

To Anticant’s Hollow

And there we will wallow

In glorious mud!’

He then tottered off to his den, supported on each side by the Beadle and Mrs Malaprop, who were cheerily calling ‘Hi-de-Hi’ and ‘Ho-de-Ho’ to each other.

Dame Barbara proceeded to hold a press conference, saying she had three important announcements to make.

“First, I have decided that in future I shall be known as Dame Barbara de Carteblanche, to avoid any confusion with other best-selling Romantic novelists, living or dead.

“Second, Anticant and I are so enchanted with the Thermal Health Spa we have just been visiting that I have purchased it for his 80^th birthday present, and it will accordingly be re-opening in the near future after appropriate refurbishment as ‘Anticant’s Hollow’. We shall be inviting applications for the important post of Water Beadle.

“Lastly, I am embarking upon my 954^th epic, inspired by our trip. I had intended to call it Water Sporting, but as dear Ben Trovato has pointed out this might be misconstrued I have decided that its title will be Aquatic Passions. The heroine’s name – need I say? – is Undine.

“Six large pink gins please, Ben.”

Ben Trovato, who had followed Dame Barbara out of the Rolls accompanied by a primly dressed young woman with her hair scrimped back into a bun, hastened to attend to Dame Barbara’s requirements.

The young woman, he explained, was a highly qualified Crafty Chambermaid whom he had recruited from Mrs Jump’s renowned Impeccable Domestics Agency, guaranteed to supply only persons of unblemished character. Her name was Demure Dorcas.

Left alone in the courtyard, the new acquisition looked furtively around to see that she was unobserved, and then announced:

“I am the Craftiest of Chambermaids!

I’m a dab hand at getting laid

By rich old men as big as tents

Whose largesse helps me pay my rents

And buy a big Mercedes Benz.

“Dame Chastity don’t plough my furrow -

I mean to liven up the Burrow.

But better not tell Anticant

Or the old fool will start a rant

And set the Beadle on my track

With Mrs Malaprop, alack.

“I’ll have to wheedle Master Ben

And throw Wooffie a bone, so when

A likely man checks in

They’ll turn a blind eye to my sin.

If Trousers calls, or maybe Wook, or Zola,

I’ll be ready for you, guys.

- Yours, Lusty Lola.”

She then skipped saucily into the Burrow.

Meanwhile, Miss Marple was reporting to Anticant on the absence of any startling incidents during her stewardship. No inappropriate articles of clothing had been hoisted aloft on the flagpole, and no rude messages had been received. There had been only one phone call – from a hiccupping Wooffie, barking somewhat incoherently from a “divine distillery on Dartmoor”, where the superb quality of the brandy had delighted both Lavenderblue and himself so much that he had ordered two dozen barrels for the Burrow cellars.

It looks as if there are interesting times ahead at the Burrow. Watch this space!

BURROW WAKES WEEK

2007-09-06T19:10:00.000Z

Next week is the Burrow staff annual holiday, so there will be no more posting in the Burrow or the Arena for a while.

Dame Barbara is wafting Anticant away in her cream-and-gold Roller to an exclusive luxury health farm in the depths of the country, where they will both be mud-bathed and otherwise cosseted and pampered to their hearts’ content.

The Beadle and Mrs Malaprop are embarking on a “getting to know you better” event at Butlin’s, Somewhere-on-the Coast. Will they share a chalet? Perhaps we shall never know…..

Wooffie has been loaned to Lavenderblue as her escort on a Westward Ho! nature trail. The original plan was for Ben Trovato to take Wooffie on a mountain rescue adventure course in the Cairngorms, but Wooffie is avid to have his portrait painted, and looked so pathetic that Dame Barbara rashly lent him her best string of pearls and waved them both goodbye – we hope only temporarily.

Ben, who is a keen student of ‘form’, has duly absorbed the Naked Kayaker’s highly instructive exposition of ‘grobbling’, and has announced his intention of going wherever destiny leads him to grobble for Crafty Housemaids. We await the results of his efforts with interest and some trepidation.

Miss Marple has kindly offered to stay behind and guard the Burrow against intruders. She Is a most trustworthy and resourceful chatelaine, and we have every confidence that her prim determined respectability – not to mention her close contact with the local constabulary - will be highly effective in deterring unwanted callers.

And so, for now, farewell……….

WHAT A SNIP!

2007-09-05T20:37:00.000Z

Another from Ben:

This guy  goes into a shop in Tel Aviv after looking at all the watches in the shop window.

"I'd like to buy a watch, please."

"But this isn't a watch store," says the owner. "I'm a moyel.  I do circumcisions."

"But...., but..., but...," says the guy, "what about all those watches in the front window?"

Says the owner, "And just what would you have me put there?"

HEAVENLY CHUCKLES

2007-09-04T18:14:00.000Z

ben trovato's latest gleanings:


A man died and went to heaven.

As he stood in front of St. Peter at the Pearly Gates, he saw a huge wall
of clocks behind him.

He asked, "What are all those clocks?"

St. Peter answered, "Those are Lie-Clocks. Everyone on Earth has a 
Lie-Clock.

"Every time you lie, the hands on your clock will move."

"Oh," said the man, "whose clock is that?"

"That's Mother Teresa's. The hands have never moved, indicating
she never told a lie."

"Incredible," said the man. "And whose clock is that one?"

St. Peter responded, "That's Abraham Lincoln's clock. The hands have
moved twice, telling us that Abe told only two lies in his entire Life."

"Where's President Bush's clock ?" asked the man.

"That's in Jesus' office...... He's using it as a ceiling fan"

                +              +              +              +

Hitler dies and goes to heaven.

Jesus greets him at the Pearly Gates and says

“Sorry, but I can't let you in.”

“Why not?” asks Hitler.

“Well”, Jesus replies, “Its all the people you've murdered.
Let’s face it, you haven't exactly been a model human have you?”

 “Well no”, Hitler admits, “But if you let me in, I'll give you the
Iron Cross.”

“It's tempting”, says Jesus, “let me go and see what my Dada says”.

Jesus goes to God and relates the story.

God says, “So what do you want to do?”

“Well”, answers Jesus, “I want to let him in. He will give me the
Iron Cross.”

God quickly replies

“You had enough difficulty carrying the wooden one!”

CRAFTY CHAMBERMAID REQUIRED

2007-09-03T21:37:00.000Z

Ben Trovato has just learned that among the National Trust's 230,000 volumes scattered around the libraries of England's stately homes nestles a "racy little 1770s tome" entitled 'THE CRAFTY CHAMBERMAID'S GARLAND'.

This has given him the notion that a Crafty Chambermaid would be an adornment to the Burrow, and doubtless much appreciated by Dame Barbara, Miss Marple, and others. [Not to mention Ben and the Beadle. How this would go down with Mrs Malaprop remains to be seen.]

The search has therefore commenced for a suitably comely and well-qualified wench.

Watch this space.

IN THE GENTS ROOM

2007-09-01T13:38:00.000Z

ben trovato thanks Gummihund and Yankee Doodle for pointing out this one:

I was barely sitting down when I heard a voice from the other stall saying: "Hi, how are you?"

I'm not the type to start a conversation in the restroom but I don't know what got into me, so I answered, somewhat embarrassed, "Doin' just fine!"

And the other person says: "So what are you up to?"

What kind of question is that? At that point, I'm thinking this is too bizarre so I say: "Uhhh, I'm like you, just traveling!"

At this point I am just trying to get out as fast as I can when I hear another question. "Can I come over?"

Ok, this question is just too weird for me but I figured I could just be polite and end the conversation. I tell him "No.......I'm a little busy right now!!!"

Then I hear the person say nervously... "Listen, I'll have to call you back. There's an idiot in the other stall who keeps answering all my questions!"

THE MORNING AFTER

2007-08-30T18:30:00.000Z

The Beadle writes:

As Wooffie hadn’t appeared by breakfast time, Anticant sent me to look for him and I set off towards the town. Soon I heard a rollicking rendition of “we won’t go home till morning”, and Wooffie lurched into view, his fur cap perched rakishly over his ears and – to my great relief – Dame Barbara’s pearls still entwined around his neck.

“Hi, Beadle old thing”, he growled, “Behold the champion waltzer of them all!” He had, he claimed, carried off the first and second prize for the St Bernard and the Valeta, and ended up dancing the hokey-cokey around the town square. “It was the pearls that did it”, he said – “casting them before the swinish multitude worked better than a glass slipper. So did several glasses of champers [hic].”

He was obviously a bit above himself, so I grasped him firmly by the collar and led him back to the Burrow, where a relieved Dame Barbara greeted him warmly. He wagged his bushy tail and settled down to an overdue sleep.

Meanwhile, Judge Anticant and Miss Marple were mulling over the case of Diana’s missing marbles. Judge Anticant maintained that she never had any, or that if she did they were fakes supplied from the Phoney Pharaoh’s emporium. An offer had been received from the Naked Kayaker to assist the enquiry, and it was agreed that he should be invited to proceed with Miss Marple to Harrod’s, in order to sample the quality of the merchandise. He would, however, have to abide by the strict dress code imposed by the proprietor in order to gain entry.

Dame Barbara’s suggestion that he should disguise himself as the Fuggin’ Dook of Edinborow did not meet with Miss Marple’s approbation; she thought that someone less conspicuous, such as Santa Claus, would be preferable. As Zola has in the past been known to do stand-in Christmas runs for the jovial gift-bearer, it was decided that this would be both appropriate and economical, and a telegram was accordingly despatched to Lapland saying “Come as Santa. Bring reindeer.”

A reply is awaited.

DINNER AT THE BURROW

2007-08-29T22:11:00.000Z

Mrs Malaprop writes:

Dame Barbara and Miss Marple having awoken from their slumbers, they were escorted by Anticant and Ben to the dining room, where my best culinary efforts awaited them. To commence, Potage Zola, a weird concoction of yellow peas, mint, carrots, meat, and Marmite with Guinness, which the Finnish Gordon Ramsay had assured Anticant was “delicious” and a prime favourite at his Arctic Circle NAKED KAYAKER restaurant. Judging from the quizzical looks on the ladies’ faces, Potage Zola is an acquired taste which they have not yet acquired.

To follow, Roast Best End of Elk – another Maison Zola speciality, garnished with seakale and mashed potatoes. After chewing her first mouthful for five minutes, Dame Barbara observed somewhat grimly “If this is the Best End, I have no wish to become acquainted with the Scrag End!” I hastily substituted my own speciality, lobster champagne soufflé, for her ladyship.

Finally, Knickerbocker Glory, in honour of Ms. Lavenderblue, who, I am assured by Ben and the Beadle, is always glorious with or without knickerbockers.

During the meal, Dame Barbara confided that she had abandoned her ‘72 Virgins’ project, because so many frustrated young women were bound to squabble in an unseemly manner like a bag of Kilkenny cats and she would have had to wrestle with the dialogue. She had therefore reverted to an older project, ‘The Petulant Princess’, which did not call for any imagination in plotting, as there were abundant examples to hand.

Suddenly Miss Marple, who had been sitting quietly throughout the Dame’s discourse, jumped up saying “Good heavens! Why didn’t I think of it sooner?”, and ran from the room. She soon returned, looking glum. “Wooffie has disappeared”, she cried, “and Dame Barbara’s jewel box has vanished with him.” “Do not be alarmed”, Dame Barbara responded. “Dear Wooffie is competing this evening in the annual St. Bernard’s Waltzing competition, and I promised he could wear my pearls for the event. No doubt he will bring them back safe and sound before the clock strikes midnight.”

“She has fewer doubts than I have”, murmured the Beadle.

MRS MALAPROP'S DIARY - Bank Holiday Monday

2007-08-27T14:46:00.000Z

Dame Barbara is in residence! As dusk approached last night, her cream-and-gold Rolls-Royce swept into the Burrow courtyard with a cheery tootle, and the Dame emerged, a vision in shocking pink and ostrich feathers, with eyelashes at least an inch long. She was escorted into the Parlour by Anticant, and I was introduced.

“Ah, Malaprop”, she said, “I am delighted you are here looking after my good friend Anticant. I heard the most complimentary things about you from my old friend the Duchess of Dither, for whom you so splendidly transformed the domestic arrangements at Crotchet Castle some years ago. I am sure you will do wonders for the Burrow, and keep that pompous Beadle on his toes”. “Thank you kindly, Ma’am, I am already doing so”, I said, dipping a curtsey. The Beadle looked A trifle morose.

Dame Barbara was soon ensconced in the Four-Poster room, and descended to the Parlour followed by her maid bearing a large reticule and a portable writing desk. “I intend to settle down here for a week”, the Dame said, “while I execute my latest oeuvre which is entitled ‘No Paradise for 72 Virgins’. So as neither to disappoint you, nor to whet your appetites, I should make it clear that the virgins remain virginal until the final paragraph – to the intense chagrin of their Arab swains. As in all my strictly moral works, there will be no ingesting or smoking of illegal substances, and no wild orgies. Indeed, there will be no tame orgies either”. “Then who on earth will bother to read such insipid stuff?” Ben Trovato muttered under his breath.

“Six large pink gins and a dish of peanuts, Ben dear”, commanded the Dame, and Ben trotted obediently off. As he did so, Wooffie trotted expectantly in. “Ah Wooffie, said Dame Barbara, “It’s time I relieved you of my cherished string of pearls. I’ve brought you a pretty cockleshell necklace instead. You will have to make do with that”. Wooffie made for the door, but the Dame was too quick for him. With surprising alacrity she interposed herself between Wooffie and the exit, and retrieved her pearls from around his neck. “There, there, good doggie”, she said, producing a large hambone from her reticule and fastening the shell necklace around Wooffie’s throat. He resignedly wagged his tail and settled down to make a closer acquaintance with the bone.

“That there Dame is a real caution”, said the Beadle, and went to answer the front door bell. The new arrival was Miss Marple, summoned by Anticant to assist in unravelling the mysterious affair of the Naked Kayaker and Ms LavenderBlue’s flying tights.

MRS MALAPROP'S DIARY - 25th August

2007-08-25T17:01:00.000Z

I’m bothered about the Beadle. He’s taken to patrolling the river bank at crack of dawn and late at night, listening anxiously for sounds of plashing oars and peering anxiously into the gloom for the shadowy silhouette of a kayak. In the servants’ sitting room he nods off after meals and mutters restlessly in his sleep: “No knickers! No Knickers! By Order.” He tells me he has never recovered from the shock of finding Ms. Lavenderblue’s nether garments flying aloft from the Burrow flagpole, and fears a similar fate for my stockings. We shall see……

* * *

Anticant has instructed me to get the Guest Parlour spick and span in anticipation of a Bank Holiday visit from Dame Barbara, a distinguished romantic novelist and old friend of Anticant. From what Ben and the Beadle tell me, she is what is known as “rather a caution”, and has a weakness for pink gins, so Ben has been stocking up the Snug bar with plentiful supplies of Gordon’s and bitters. When Wooffie heard she was coming, he perked up and said he hoped she was bringing her jewel box. What can this mean?

* * *

Rummaging through the mustier recesses of the Burrow kitchen store cupboard, I unearthed sealed packets of fifty-four different brands of tea, all unopened and well beyond their use-by date. Ben says they were left by a former guest who could never make up his mind which flavour he liked best, so carried a trunkful of tea around with him. Finally he decided he preferred coffee. Men are so contrary! Not least the Beadle….

MALAPROP vs. BURROW BARD

2007-08-22T20:38:00.000Z

At a hastily convened session of the Burrow Court, Judge Anticant presiding, the complaint of Mrs Malaprop against the Burrow Muse for scribbling graffiti in the Snug was upheld.

The plaintiff said she had been shocked to read an obscene poem by the defendant on a comment thread to a story which she already considered unacceptably vulgar. If she was to continue in her post as Burrow Housekeeper, she required an assurance that such lapses of taste would not be repeated or tolerated.

In support of her case, she said that when the said graffiti had been observed by the Burrow Resident Artist, Ms Lavenderblue, the latter had fainted dead away and had required copious administrations of sal volatile and smelling salts to bring her round.

She also called in evidence Bodwyn Wook, who had confessed to perpetrating the original story but felt that the Bard’s effusions had lowered the tone of the enterprise to an unacceptable degree.

In his own defence, the Bard said that the story’s reference to squirrels had recalled to his mind the true story to which he had appended the offending doggerel. If this was deemed in bad taste, he unreservedly apologised but maintained his view that it was rib-tickling. He called as a character witness Wooffie, who wagged his tail and gave a bleary wink to the Judge.

Judge Anticant said that he deplored such a lax interpretation of the Burrow’s free speech policy, and reminded all concerned that the Burrow’s motto is “Dulce et Decorum”. He found for the plaintiff, and ordered the defendant to present her with half a dozen pairs of woollen stockings of assorted colours within three days, failing which he would be put into the stocks for six hours. He was ordered to hand over his archive to the Beadle for inspection as to suitability prior to further poetic postings.

BABY BOOMING

2007-08-22T09:28:00.000Z

ben trovato writes:

The following nugget from Wook is far too good to be left buried in a comment thread:

The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family.

On the day the proxy father was to arrive, Smith kissed his wife goodbye and said, "Well, I'm off now; the man should be here soon."

Half an hour later, just by chance, a door-to-door baby
photographer happened to ring the doorbell, hoping to make a sale.

Good morning, Ma'am", he said, "I've come to...''

Oh, no need to explain," Mrs Smith cut in, embarrassed, "I've been expecting you."

"Have you really?" said the photographer. "Well, that's good. Did you know babies are my speciality?"

"Well that's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat."

After a moment she asked, blushing, "Well, where do we start?"

"Leave everything to me I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch, and perhaps a couple on the bed. And sometimes the living room floor is fun. You can really spread out there."

"Bathtub, living room floor? No wonder it didn't work out for Harry and me!"

"Well, Ma'am, none of us can guarantee a good one every time. But if we try several different positions and I shoot from six or seven angles, I'm sure you'll be pleased with the results."

"My, that's a lot!" gasped Mrs Smith .

"Ma'am, in my line of work a man has to take his time. I'd love to be in and out in five minutes, But I'm sure you'd be disappointed with that."

"Don't I know it," said Mrs Smith quietly.

The photographer opened his briefcase and pulled out a portfolio of his baby pictures. " This was done on the top of a bus," he said.

"Oh my God!" Mrs Smith exclaimed.

"And these twins turned out exceptionally well - When you
consider their mother was so difficult to work with."

"She was difficult?" asked Mrs Smith.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. I finally had to take her to the park to get the job done right. People were crowding around four and five deep to get a good look."

"Four and five deep?" said Mrs Smith , her eyes wide with amazement.

"Yes", the photographer replied. "And for more than three hours, too.

"The mother was constantly squealing and yelling - I could hardly concentrate, and when darkness approached I had to rush my shots.

"Finally, when the squirrels began nibbling on my equipment, I just had to pack it all in."

Mrs Smith leaned forward. "Do you mean they actually chewed on your, uh...equipment?"

" Ma'am, they was NUTS about it.... Well, if you're ready, I'll set-up my tripod and we can get to work right away."

" Tripod?"

"Oh yes, Ma'am. I need to use a tripod to rest my Canon on. It's much too big to be held in the hand very long."

Mrs. Smith fainted dead away.........

ACCOLADE FOR ANTICANT

2007-08-20T06:00:00.000Z

Anticant has been nominated a Thinking Blogger by Yankee Doodle. Read his remarks, and you will see why I am blushing.

A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY

2007-08-19T20:00:00.000Z

ben trovato writes:

A young ventriloquist is touring the clubs and one night he's doing a show in a small club in a small town in Essex.  With his dummy on his knee, he's going through his usual dumb blonde jokes when a blonde woman in the fourth row stands on her chair and starts shouting: 

'I've heard enough of your stupid blonde jokes.  What makes you think you can stereotype women that way?  What does the colour of a person's hair have to do with her worth as a human being?  It's guys like you who keep women like me from being respected at work and in the community and from reaching our full potential as a person, because you and your kind continue to perpetuate discrimination against, not only blondes, but women in general... and all in the name of humour!' 

The ventriloquist is embarrassed and begins to apologise, when the blonde yells, 'You stay out of this, alright?! I'm talking to that little bugger on your knee!'

STOP PRESS

2007-08-18T09:31:00.000Z

Two pairs of Mrs Malaprop's Jaeger stockings have disappeared off the Burrow washing line. Just after she missed them, there were plashing sounds from the river and the Beadle caught a glimpse of a kayak paddling hastily downstream.

A £50 reward is offered for any information leading to the return of these essential articles of ladylike apparel.

By Order

ONE FOR WOOK

2007-08-16T22:05:00.000Z

ben trovato offers the following tit-bit as a peg for Wook to hang out one of his moralisings about baby boomers....

Little Johnny watched his daddy's car pass by the school playground and go into the woods. Curious, he followed the car and saw Daddy and Aunt Jane in a passionate embrace.

Little Johnny found this so exciting that he could not contain himself as he ran home and started to tell his mother.

"Mommy, I was at the playground and I saw Daddy's car go into the woods with Aunt Jane. I went back to look and he was giving Aunt Jane a big kiss, then he helped her take off her shirt. Then Aunt Jane helped Daddy take his pants off, then Aunt Jane........"

At this point Mommy cut him off and said, "Johnny, this is such an interesting story, suppose you save the rest of it for supper time. I want to see the look on Daddy's face when you tell it tonight."

At the dinner table, Mommy asked little Johnny to tell his story. Johnny started his story, "I was at the playground and I saw Daddy's car go into the woods with Aunt Jane. I went back to look and he was giving Aunt Jane a big kiss, then he helped her take off her shirt.Then Aunt Jane helped Daddy take his pants off, then Aunt Jane and Daddy started doing the same thing that Mommy and Uncle Bill used to do when Daddy was in the Army."

WATCH YOUR OWN!

2007-08-16T14:42:00.000Z

Ben Trovato writes:

Emmett [Bodwyn Wook] has kindly allowed me to reproduce this from his blog:

Watch Your Own!

Aug 15th, 2007 by Bodwyn Wook

[WISE Sayings, all of instructional value; and, in the right context, both attributable & useful to (ta-da!) The Sufis (and their individual students) — edited by Benny Raymond]

The priest entered his donkey in a race and it won. The priest was so pleased with the donkey that he entered in another race and it won again. The local paper read:

PASTOR’S ASS LEADS

The bishop was so upset with this kind of publicity that he ordered the priest not to enter the donkey in any more races. The next day the local paper headline read:

BISHOP SCRATCHES PRIEST’S ASS

This was too much for the bishop, so he ordered the priest to get rid of the donkey. The priest decided to give it to a nun in a nearby convent. The local paper, hearing of the news, posted the following headline:

NUN HAS BEST ASS HERE

The bishop fainted deadaway. Afterward, he informed the nun that she would have to get rid of the donkey, so she sold it to a farmer for $10. The next day the headlines read:

NUN SELLS ASS — $10!

This was too much for the bishop, so he ordered the nun to buy back the donkey and lead it out onto the prairie where it could run free. The next day the headlines read:

NUN LETS ASS RUN WILD

Alas, the bishop was buried the next day.

EDITOR Benny Raymond comments:

THE Sufi moral of this tale, first told without the newspaper-headlines as a teaching tool in moorish Spain, is that being concerned with public opinion can bring you grief and misery, and even shorten your life. This often is the unintended actual result for human institutions such as the church or the ulema, which begin with benevolent purposes and then collapse into epimethean observation and informant-behavior.

THE Noted Sufi teacher of legendary old Squawbunion County, in south-central Minnesota, Naml al-Haddad, is supposed to have said in this connection, and to a neighbor farmer sometime in the latter half of the 20th century:

“WATCH Your own ass!”

THE Phrase is an interesting variation on the contemporary cautionary phrase in the Moroccan dialect of Arabic: shef rasek, or “watch yer head!”

[Emmett R Smith

[all transcription-rights reserved

[14 August 2007]

A LUCKY WOMAN?

2007-08-15T17:54:00.000Z

A fierce argument has been raging around the Burrow dinner table over whether Angela Kelly, the Scottish postal worker who has won £35.4 million in a EuroMillions lottery draw, will really be better off because of this in the long run, and also about how the various Burrow inmates would spend it.

Ben Trovato thinks such a huge jackpot is wasted on someone who probably hasn’t the imagination to use it sensibly, or the common sense to sniff out all the sharks and shysters who will be tumbling over themselves to relieve her of it since she has been foolish enough to identify herself. If Ben had won it, he wouldn’t tell anyone and would endow a Chair at an ancient university for the Trovato Professorship of Bawdy Bardery.

The Beadle thought Mrs Kelly would turn out to be extremely fortunate if in the first instance she used the money to find herself a suitable husband to help her spend the rest of it. If approached, he would be willing to put himself forward as a candidate. He would then set himself up as Principal of the Bumble School of Beadleship, and was sure his new wife would not refuse pupils who asked for more.

Mrs Malaprop thought Mrs K had been foolish to advertise her new wealth. If she herself had been the winner, she would have invested it in Anticant Enterprises and established a chain of Burrows throughout the length and breadth of the kingdom.

Wooffie opened one eye and said “Buy Aspreys”. He then went back to sleep.

Anticant felt concern for Mrs Kelly, and hoped she wouldn’t get taken for a ride by Zola or the Beadle or anyone else. He felt it was quite wrong – indeed, obscene – that such vast sums should be handed out and thought there should be a jackpot upper ceiling of £½million, which was quite enough for anyone even in these inflationary times. If he was such a winner, he would use the money to promote friendship, goodwill and constructive co-operation between people all over the world. Vis-vis Mrs Malaprop’s proposal, he did not fancy turning the Burrow into a replica of McDonald’s, thanks all the same.

What do the Snug crowd think?

ENTER MRS MALAPROP

2007-08-14T15:01:00.000Z

The agency notice said: “Housekeeper required by three eccentric gentlemen running ancient hostelry in Northern beauty spot. Select clientele. Robust English cooking – no fancy foreign cuisines! Immaculate references required.”

At first sight, I doubted whether the position would suit me. Accustomed as I am to serving the gentry, and in a few instances the aristocracy, the vision of being marooned with three quirky characters in the middle of nowhere, expected to do heaven knows what, was unappealing.

However, I decided to take a chance and journeyed to the Burrow, where I was welcomed by Master Ben Trovato, a jaunty young man who proudly showed me his cherished Snug Bar which he said was the focal point of the establishment, and - more hesitantly – by the smartly uniformed, sonorous Beadle, who gave me to understand that he ruled the roost at Anticant’s behest. “Not in my kitchen you don’t”, I muttered to myself.

I was then ushered into the presence of Anticant – a benign elderly cove clad in a flowery quilted dressing-gown and a smoking cap [although he doesn’t smoke], and surrounded by piles of books and several marmalade cats. At his feet reclined the biggest St. Bernard dog I have ever seen, its neck encircled not only by a collar bearing a brandy barrel but also by a rope of pearls. “This is Wooffie”, said Anticant. “He carries out numerous missions of mercy both in the snow and on other occasions, and must be kept well fed daily with prime rump steak.” “As long as it’s not MY prime rump…” I reflected.

Having satisfied Anticant and Ben as to the genuineness of my references, I was given a tour of the Burrow and decided that it was a charming old place although in need of some renovation, especially in the great kitchen, where there is an open spit fire and an ancient cast-iron range dating back to the days of good Queen Victoria. However, as there was more modern equipment in the smaller kitchen, I decided that I would give the post a month’s trial.

I have now been here three days, and so far, so good. But, just as a precaution, I have pinned up the following notice:

“NO BEADLE-BOSSING IN THE KITCHEN

By Order”

WELCOME - BUT KEEP IT CLEAN!

2007-08-10T15:37:00.000Z

The Burrow Beadle writes:

Alas, Anticant has been too poorly to take advantage of the garden during this welcome spell of sunshine, but hopes to be convalescent soon. Meanwhile, he's on a liquid [non-alcoholic] diet and Ben and I periodically mop his fevered brow.

The Snug is spruce and welcoming as usual, so gossipy visits from regulars and other friends will help to cheer Anticant up.

But NO SMUT IN THE BURROW.

By Order

LEAVE IT TO ME!

2007-08-06T06:31:00.000Z

Having struggled for years as a modestly paid therapist, Anticant has read today's Times and seen the light.

He is about to launch the BURROW GENEROSITY THERAPY INSTITUTE for the successful treatment of miserly scrooges. Hopefully the Burrow's cashflow problems will be solved for ever......

WISE WORDS

2007-08-03T04:48:00.000Z

"The rich complain that the poor want something for nothing. The rich will do anything to get everything."

- EDWARD T. BABINSKI

PEACE REIGNS

2007-07-28T06:37:00.000Z

After a fraught twelve hours, peace has been restored to the Burrow, and the off-scene hurling of stink bombs has ceased.

Anticant is ensconced in his favourite chair in the ingle nook, with a pile of books and itinerant marmalade cats.

Lavenderblue is making preliminary sketches for her forthcoming masterly depiction of the jaunty Ben Trovato.

Ben and the Beadle are busy sprucing up the Snug in anticipation of a weekend dropin by trousers and friends and an August State Visit from the Naked Kayaker.

Wooffie is dreaming of his alcoholic monastery mountain home and Dame Barbara's pearls.

A warm welcome for the weekend, everyone!

BOWING OUT

2007-07-27T14:58:00.001Z

Due to an inadvertent lapse into bad taste which was not received with the customary lighthearted good humour usually evident in fellow-bloggers, Anticant and his various aliases will not be posting comments on others' blogs from now on.

The Burrow will continue to offer a warm welcome to visitors, though posts may be more intermittent, as there are better things to do with one's time than to get at cross-purposes with others who operate on the principle that what's sauce for the goose isn't sauce for the gander.

A PRUDENT HUSBAND

2007-07-26T19:49:00.000Z

ben trovato writes:

A man and his ever-nagging wife went on holiday to Jerusalem.

While they were there, the wife passed away. The undertaker told the husband:

“You can have her shipped home for £55,000, or you can have her buried here in the Holy Land for just £5,000.”

The man thought for a moment and decided he would prefer to have her shipped home.

The undertaker asked: “Why would you spend £55,000 to ship your wife home when it would be wonderful to have her buried here in the Holy Land and cost you only £5,000?”

The man replied: “Long ago a man died here, was buried, and on the third day he rose from the dead. I am not prepared to take that chance.”

GLASS SLIPPER LAND

2007-07-24T20:01:00.001Z

I’ve just finished reading Tina Brown’s riveting The Diana Chronicles. “Not that stale old fairy tale?” I hear you cry. But this retelling of it is unputdownable.

What comes through is not merely the self-delusion, but the sheer unrelenting nastiness, of all the cast – including the People’s Princess herself. Yes: she had wondrous charisma, and empathy with the suffering; she was a head-in-clouds Romantic [according to her step-grandmother, Dame Barbara Cartland, “the only books she ever read were mine and they weren’t awfully good for her”]; and - fatefully for her and for the Royal Family - she was a walking incarnation of the old saw “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”. Having refused to fit into the fossilized conventionality of the Windsors, and having been semi-ejected by them, she aspired to let some fresh air into the monarchy for its own good, and did not quail from behaviour which, from their perspective, resembled that of Samson and Delilah combined.

It is clear from the book that the Wales’s marriage broke down because of Charles’ unshakeable determination to stick like glue to Camilla Parker Bowles through thick and thin. It was this, and not Dame Barbara’s knicker-ripping verdict that it was Diana’s refusal to “do oral sex”, that broke the fairy-tale romance. For Diana, Camilla was the wicked witch who turned her glass coach into a pumpkin. She proceeded to wreak relentless revenge. Whether the marriage, without her ghastly end, could in time have been resurrected is one of those fascinating “might have beens” of history.

Tina Brown has trawled through all the published material with a fine-tooth comb, and has talked to many hitherto untapped sources, both on and off the record. It is this which gives her book its air of definitive behind-the-scenes knowingness, and embellishes it with some pricelessly funny vignettes illuminating the unequalled snobbishness, cluelessness, and on frequent occasions bitchiness, of our ruling claque.

Superb holiday reading!

WOOFFIE SPEAKS!

2007-07-22T10:31:00.000Z

[As interpreted by ben trovato]:

"My attention has been drawn to a scurrilous allegation by Zola that I was 'pissed' on my return with the Beadle from our fruitless search for summer sunshine. The unwarranted implication was that as we could not find any actual sunshine, we regaled ourselves too freely with liquid sunshine.

While I cannot speak on behalf of the Beadle, I wish to testify that I am a sober, responsible, rescue-trained St. Bernard - not a drunken Lurcher - and that I have never been 'pissed' in my life. The slightly watery look in my eye was due to the unseasonably arctic winds, and NOT the result of liquid refreshment.

Admittedly, I have a weakness for pearls, but that is another matter entirely."

IN WITNESS WHEREOF I hereby set my pawmark: ++++++ WOOFFIE
======

SUMMER IS STILL IN HIDING

2007-07-21T10:33:00.000Z

ben trovato writes:

The Beadle and Wooffie have returned without summer, and without brandy. They claim that they had to give almost all of it away "to keep the natives friendly", but judging from the Beadle's somewhat lurching gait and the bleary look in Wooffie's eye, Judge Anticant considers the case merits further examination and is considering convening a Burrow court. Evidence from any witnesses of the intrepid pair's travels will be welcomed.

During a severe but brief thunderstorm yesterday, the Burrow suffered an incursion of water through a bedroom ceiling and it transpires that an ancient chimney is in need of repair. This will require the erection of scaffolding, which is both expensive and inelegant. However, we have so far escaped lightly in comparison with other storm damage throughout the country, and we sympathise with all the unfortunates whose homes and possessions have been ruined in the recent downpours.