There was uproar at the Sodden Prickney Village Hall last Thursday, when the awards for the most uninteresting citizens of the village were announced.
The prize for Bicyclist of the Decade went, of course, to Ms Edwina Baggage, who has been a keen Bicyclist for some years now. It was always assumed that the school bike sheds were her starting point, and occasionally her finishing point a few minutes later, but local worthies know better than that and point with quivering fingers at the various scratches on the bac...(that's enough - Ed)!
However, when the actual ceremony began, with a trumpet voluntary played by Master Tarquin McBarquin-Madde accompanied by his music teacher, Miss Whelk, Cllr Basil Kalashnikov, the compere of the event, took a sprightly trip up to the stage, and immediately started to tell Essex girl 'jokes', and other unfunny comments about various members of the Committee. Ms Cynthia Molestrangler took exception to the story about her and Mr Norman Wibble at her home the other day as she had just finished the ironing when he had arrived, more than somewhat breathless, and stood staring at the pile of - er - Janet Regers, whereupon Ms Molestrangler aimed a punch at the unfortunate Mr Wibble for even telling everyone what he'd seen, let alone informing The Bugle, and other scurrilous rags!
Mr Wibble then took exception to everyone staring at his bruised face, so he went up to the podium and immediately landed a haymaker on Cllr Basil Kalashnikov, who had hardly started to shriek, 'Sod Everybody', which is his normal opening statement at events such as this!
Pc Lumbersnatch was busily taking notes of the commotion so he could tell the others down the station later, and was unavailable to help Cllr Kalashnikov to his feet, so Miss Amelia Newt and her very special friend and conjugal advisor, Ron Groat, started to administer first aid, with the help of Dr Norbert Iodine and Mrs Trumpet, (Sid's fourth wife this year), and while they applied a small sirloin steak to the injured eye, Ms Baggage rushed on to the stage, grabbed the prize, waved it at everyone, and said in a shrill voice, "Stuff you lot, this is my deserved prize, and I don't give a **** if anyone tries to ****ing take it away from me"!
At this outburst, the organiser of the show, Major Bumme-Whole, decided that enough was enough, and pulled the plug on the stage lighting, thereby plunging the whole area into darkness. The only sounds that could be heard above the shrieks of indignation were the grunts and moans somewhere near where Ms Molestrangler and Master Tarquin McBarquin-Madde were apparently sitting in an unusual stridal pose...
9 comments:
Beachcomber, your spirit lives on.
Sans ruddy dwarves.
A little known consequence of pulling the stage lighting plug is that Ms Molestrangler’s invitation only shower room also stopped working. No surprises there as the whole lot was installed by Jeremy De Sartster, Ms Molestrangler’s current ‘handyman’.
Dooners, it is a trait which refuses to go away!
I know all these people, they live around the village and indeed, Ms Baggage can often be seen entering vrious houses with firm intentions...
That's very true, AK!
Jeremy De Sartster was never that much good at plumbing! He's faily good at handling stuff for Ms Molestrangler though, and she is still particularly anguished at not getting the Bicyclist Tosscar, and we can expect more shenanigans as the week goes on!
I forgot to mention that the reporter from The Bugle, Veronica Plunge, took some photographs of the event, and when she has recovered, I'll try and find copies...
Scotton Pinkney..! It all comes back to me now!!! That was the village in Hampshire where I used to live before the series of unfortunate events. How I remember watching Fuller changing the valves in his sister's wireless at their cottage at the Ovaries. That charming character that lived in the camper van in the church car park, And Dennis, the bell ringer!
It wasn't a dream!
... and worming Bunty in the long meadow below Pandell's Farm. Checking Mrs Playfair for ticks...! Another country.
Peter Hitchens! That was the rum fellow in the camper van! Are they all dead?
Aaaah, Scotton Pinkney, the progenitor of a wandering wisp in Scrobs' memory...
Bunty was in fact a delicious lady, and before she became the pinnacle of fun and games in the artficial insemination unit, ran a small nail boutique in Bath for the straight and narrow!
I'd forgotten Mrs Playfair! Did she?
Peter Hitchens was in fact a real gentleman, now sadly gone from this mortal area of despond, but his memory lingers on, but I can only remember Fuller's sister's valves, and they were both spectacular!
I've made a suitable comment on the 'Friends' site, and hope we can rekindle such memories as become apparent in the next hour or so before I collapse from claret exhaustion!
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