Back in 2012, there was some proposed development put forward to take over Dartford, cover it with concrete and shopping malls. I was working then, and knew the site well, and as a chortle, wanted to bring in a few old chums to make fun of the issues...
So, unashamedly, I'm reproducing the whole post in its entirety, and ask readers the question, 'How many issues mentioned here are relevant today'?
I reckon at least six, and counting Edwina (who doesn't), eight...
Scroblodanus or what...
What should have been a gathering of great celebration, was turned into a major unpleasant incident, so reports Mrs Edwina Baggage, Bicycling Correspondent on The Sodden Prickney Bugle.
With the failure of the local broadcasting company to curb the affections of some of their staff, the recent 'inspiration', of Miss Cynthia Molestrangler was enhanced when at some stage in the evening, Mr Norman Wibble, a Veteran of several world wars, and also the village fete's disastrous production of 'Ben Hur', was asked to put some music on the record player, to create a jubilant atmosphere.
Miss Molestrangler was sitting next to the box of records, and Mr Wibble accidently brushed against her nylon encrusted knee, with the result, that she began shrieking hysterically, and claimed to be a victim of abuse by this rampant lothario!
Of course, Mr Wibble was astounded by this accusement, and became hypothetical, to which Miss Molestrangler advanced her posture to 'Aggressive', thereby thrusting her rather large accoutrements towards the explainant, which tended to excite some of the younger members of the community.
This became untenable to a bachelor such as Mr Wibble, and while Miss Molestrangler was no stranger to various interference in intimate terms with anyone who might wish to avail themselves, it was a serious position in which Mr Wibble became incarcerated.
It appears that Mrs Edwina Baggage, who has long espoused the term 'bicyclism', and which has shady connotations not unconnected with similar versions of compatibility with energetic discussions about Uganda, decided to nail Miss Molestrangler once and for all, and egged Mr Wibble to start a gropefest in (or on), her honour.
Mr Wibble now has to take copious amounts of beta blockers after suffering from the effects of such an occasion, and as Mrs Baggage points out in her column, (she likes that word), there's nothing wrong with espousing 'bicyclism', as long as it only happens in private, and not in places like the Sodden Prickney Village Hall. There was once a case of a record playing gentleman noticing a small piece of purple lace on the fragrant knee of Mrs Baggage, and while she protested that the elastic on her favourite Janet Reger had broken, the matter was not by silenced by the gentleman, (to be named one day by Mrs Baggage when she has little to write about), who exclaimed in a loud whisper 'Charlie's Dead', and received a few clops around his ears for the privilege!
Mr Sagtrouser was unavailable for comment, and Senor O'Blene declined to say anything other than a terse 'Sod off, it wasn't me'.
Meanwhile, the 'Kent Themerama' saga continues to struggle forward, despite opposition from just about everybody.