Monthly Archives: August 2014

Dr Hindley’s Bookcase: An Everyday Story Of Drooling Folk

lunatic

 
Dr Hindley’s Bookcase Part 4

Memoirs of a consultant psychologist.

New York, New York it’s a wonderful town, or at least it was certainly a place of good fortune for me. I was lucky enough to be the beneficiary of a WHO funded exchange there at one time, and my assistant, Miss Bloomsbridge and myself spent a most agreeable month ostensibly seeing how the colonials treated their home-grown lunatics.
If truth be told there is hardly any difference between someone ranting in an American accent and someone dribbling down their shirt in broad cockney, and the treatments were also similar. The trip also provided a great deal of free time to sample the tourist attractions of that fair city, one of which is of course the Statue of Liberty which was a contributing factor in my receipt for some years of a Christmas hamper from Macy’s department store.

My American counterpart, who was supposed to be showing us around his clinic, was a certain Dr Weissburg, a nice chap but somewhat rigid in his thinking, the type that would always make sure that he was wearing his underpants before he put his trousers on, you know the sort.
However, one of his patients was a woman from Brooklyn with a most interesting history. She had convinced herself that she was the embodiment of America and would dress up as the Statue of Liberty complete with crown, book, torch and make-up corresponding to the colour of the weathered copper on the real thing. Thus regaled she would wander the streets of New York where she attracted little notice, as the somewhat insular citizens of the place generally assumed that she was some form of street artist and would avoid her in case she asked them for money.

Other than the occasional ignition of hanging flower baskets from her flaming torch there was no great problem or need for the health authorities to become involved, as she was neither violent nor a nuisance. That was the case until a tourist, better educated than most and knowing the history of the Statue of Liberty, addressed her in French. As the patient was aware that the Statue of Liberty had been given to New York by the French and therefore  should have French as its first language, her inability to hold a conversation with the tourist seeded strong doubts within her mind as to her chosen persona and she subsequently fell into a deep depression for which Dr Weissburg was attempting to treat her.

I saw at once that it would be more advantageous to have a happy delusionist rather than a miserable member of society who would spend the rest of their lives swallowing medication and questioning themselves as to why they had spent so much time in fancy dress. Therefore I offered to spend a couple of sessions treating the woman. In next to no time I had her convinced that she was indeed the embodiment of America and the problem of the inability to speak in her mother tongue was down to the fact that, although she had been born (or constructed) in France, she had spent very little time there and had passed the years since 1886 living in the States and would have forgotten any French she might have started out with.

Initially Weissburg was horrified that I had reversed his patient’s personality, but once I had explained to him that his patient would still have to remain under his guidance and that in the interest of health and safety she could be equipped with an electric torch, rather than the open flame one she had previously used as an advertising aid to local businesses, he saw the logic in it and came round to my way of thinking.

And it proved to be a quite profitable little sideline for Weissburg, who by way of thanks for my help, arranged for the annual dispatching of my Christmas box from Messrs Macy & Co.

Alas all good things come to an end, and when the hampers suddenly ceased after four years, I called up my American colleague only to be informed that the advertising angle no longer functioned as one of his other patients had abducted the ‘Embodiment of America’ from the entrance of a West Side deli and sold her for scrap.

A great shame really as it took years before he was able to convince another of his patients that they were Superman rather than simply someone suffering from male erectile disorder.

As soon as he realised his mistake, the patient was of course killed instantly.

Gary Moore “Churchmouse”

 
 
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Mechanics To Be Taught To Identify Transgender Customers

By Debbie Taylor
mechanics
Graphic by The Artful Dodger
 
A new course has been set up for garage car mechanics to ensure that they can identify a transgender customer from a genetically female one.
 
“This is very important,” said course organiser, Dave Clinton. “You see, when women-women come into your garage, you can start all the teeth sucking, and tutting that your traditional misogynistic car mechanic has employed since they let women own cars. You know that if you start talking about flanges, under-hangs and round tuits,  the customer is going to nod her pretty little head and open that purse of hers to pay you loads of lovely crisp cash.” The same is not true of the transgendered however.
 
 “Well, they used to be geezers, didn’t they?” said Clinton. “I don’t hold no prejudices against them wanting to express their inner femininity and all that, not that you’d get me prancing into the pub in a pink tutu mind you. Each to their own, I say. Problem is, some of them look like girls, don’t they? But they’re not. You go sucking your teeth and saying you’ve replaced a tuit, round or not, they’re going to know you’re trying to pull a stroke. You’ve got to be careful with geezers, whether they’re in a dress or not.”
 
The new course set up by Clinton helps mechanics identify transgendered women by the subtle clues.
 
“I’m not giving away all the secrets in this interview,” said Clinton. “I want people to come on the course after all. But as an example, they have bigger hands, don’t they? Always a good sign that. Big hands on a girl means they’re either a former bloke or they’re a goalkeeper for a women’s football team.”
 
Clinton says that the course teaches mechanics all the signs that they have to look out for and then putting them together to successfully identify genetic women who can be overcharged, against transgendered women who will see through the tissue of lies.
 
“Any woman who knows the difference between hand moisturiser and Swarfega is definitely a tranny,” said Clinton.
 
Successful students on the Clinton Trans Identification course will come away safe in the knowledge that the bulk of their additional income can continue without ever having to resort to the old standby of charging everybody the same for the same job.
 
“We’re not going to be able to drive around in a Merc if we start treating people fairly, are we?” asked Clinton. “With my course, we won’t have to.”
 
A spokesperson for the The Association Of Motor Vehicle Technicians said “We absolutely welcome this new initiative and will be giving it our full support. Now then, does my bum look big in these overalls?”
 
In my view this skit is a thinly disguised attack on both myself and my noble profession. However I’m prepared to publish it here today on the grounds that it’s funny and doesn’t go on for too long.
Clivey.

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British Ebola Victim Killed By Hospital Mash

graveyard

Patients at The London Hospital, Whitechapel pictured last night letting their dinner go down

 

The British nurse flown back to this country to be treated for the deadly Ebola Virus a fortnight ago, has lost his fight for life after falling victim to a serving of National Health Service mashed potatoes, a hospital spokesman told reporters last night.

The man, whose family have been informed, began convulsing violently before falling into a coma after consuming steak and ale pie with peas and mash. It is believed that the lumpy consistency of the potato was too much for his already depleted immune system and he passed away as a direct result.

This latest tragedy comes hot on the heels of a previous incident which occurred last week when a 40 year old man, in hospital for a minor gall bladder operation, died suddenly after eating a bowl of stewed prunes and custard.

Clivey Dee@sozsatire

Warning: This skit may contain traces of liver and onions in gravy followed by spotted dick with evaporated milk.

 

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Stampede Horror As Justin Bieber Receives Acid Bucket Challenge

justin

Thirty people were killed and many more injured in the city of Toronto yesterday as over a thousand music lovers stampeded, in a frenzied attempt to reach the home of pop icon, Justin Bieber, who had, previously that day, been challenged to have a bucket of concentrated sulphuric acid tipped over his head for charity.

The online challenge was believed to have been issued by long time acting friend, Orlando Bloom, who threw the task open to all comers on a first come, first served basis. As a direct result people rushed from their homes in a desperate bid to douse the star in the highly corrosive agent, resulting in a tragic accident which left tangled bodies lying lifeless in the street and many more writhing in pain with terrible crush-related injuries.

Bieber himself was unavailable for comment last night having reportedly fled the country, but his mother, Dolores, 107, told reporters. “The whole family are deeply upset by all of this. There’s nothing his pa and myself would have liked more than to see the irritating little fuck reduced to a smouldering skeleton. Maybe we’ll be able to get the job done when he comes home next week”

Orlando Bloom issued a brief statement last night “Obviously I’m sorry innocent people were killed but at least they died attempting to do humanity a massive favour”

Clivey Dee. The Times Higher Educational Supplement.

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Lil’ Kimmy: Diary Of A Young Dictator

kimmy with live dog

kimmy dead dog

Before And After pics of Barack

 

Dear diary,

Last week I tried to dispose of my wife, but she blackmailed me into staying together.

So I bought a dog. I figured having a dog would be good for me. I heard a dog teaches people about responsibility. Being Supreme Leader having a dog seemed like good exercise.
Also, I felt I could use the love. Ever since my wife found out about me trying to oust her as a traitor she’s been giving me the cold shoulder.

When I was a kid I always wanted a dog, but my dead dad always said I couldn’t have one. I think he may have been afraid of dogs, because not one of his generals was ever allowed to own a dog. In fact, one of my advisors recently told me only executioners are allowed to have dogs in North Korea.

But now my dad is dead and I love dogs, so I changed the law and bought one. It’s a brown Labrador. It arrived in the mail yesterday.

I named it Barack.

I can’t say Barack and I hit it off well. At first Barack picked up a ping pong ball he had found and dropped it in front of my feet. So I grabbed the ball and told one of my maids to clean it and store it in the gift room, or parliament as my dead dad used to call it.
But then Barack started barking at me because he wanted back his ball, so I said: “No Barack, this is my ball now!”
That didn’t sit well with Barack. He started growling and looked at me as if he was about to attack.
That’s when I said: “I’m not afraid of you, Barack.”
That’s when Barack turned around and urinated over my legs.

My advisors tell me it’s not uncommon for dogs to pee over people’s legs, but when I said Barack meant it personal my advisors agreed I should probably have him put down.

So that’s what we did.

I think maybe dogs are not a good way to teach people about responsibility, because dogs don’t always listen.
I learned that much.

Your one and unly,

Kimmy

 

P.S.
I just saw Independence Day for the first time in years. I really like how America gets totally destroyed. There is this one scene where people are running through a tunnel, chased by this giant fireball. Only a stripper, her son and a Labrador survive. Thousands of other Americans are obliterated, but not the dog. I love that scene.

This cynical character assassination of a wonderful human being comes courtesy of Lenny Van Ree & Satire Nation.

Graphics by The Artful Dodger

 

 

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Clivey & Gaz in “Lest We Forget”

clivey & Gaz profile

 

Dug up by Gary Hoadley. Lovingly tended by Clivey Dee

Scene One – A Small Plot Of Land In Picturesque Spitalfields, East London.

“Hello Gaz, what you doin here son?”
“Thought I would have a sit darn mate”.
“There’s lots of flowers aint there bruv?”.
“Yeah, I thought it was a cemetery Clivey”.
“Nah  can’t be. There’s no grave stones Gaz”.
“It’s very quiet though innit mate”.
“Absolutely dead mate”.
“Yeah dead”.
“What made you come here then son?”
“Can’t remember”.
“Can’t remember what Gaz? What can’t you remember son?”
“What I came here for”.
“Peace and quiet, interposed with brief moments of introspective musing and profound contemplation was it mate?”
“No, I came here to remember something”.
“What was that then squire? What did you come to remember?”
“Can’t remember”
“That’s bad Gaz, That’s very bad my son”
“You’re telling me old china, it said;” Garden of Remembrance” on the the sign over the gate”.
“How long you been here Gaz?”
“Two weeks tomorrer Clivey”.
“Shame”.
“Yeah shame”.

 

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Dr Hindley’s Bookcase Part 3: An everyday story of mentally ill folk.

lunatic

Memoirs of a consultant psychologist part 3. As told to Gary Moore “Churchmouse”

Cases of individual delusion (ID) are very common in all societies. This is hardly surprising as everyone has an innate need to be seen as more important or revered or loved than they actually are, and the strength of the delusion can range from simple insecurity, such as claiming to have a better car, education, or status than one has, right up to extreme schizophrenia.

A commonly seen mild version of ID is the widespread belief that one has existed in a previous life. The subject will generally state that they believe that they were someone of high station, although crucially not someone who has been well documented, and very rarely someone of no consequence. This choice has been made subconsciously for good reason. For example the subject would possibly claim to have been a courtesan to a long forgotten Egyptian prince, or the follower of a religious prophet; this gives status without the fear of being proved wrong. For example, if the subject was to claim to be a re-incarnation of Joan of Arc then there would be the chance that someone who knew the history of Joan of Arc could prove that they were deluding themselves. Also very few people claim to have lived as someone of a lower order such as a 19th century sewage collector – there simply isn’t the social cache there.

One of the most interesting cases I encountered was that of Mrs Greyman, a West Indian living in Hackney. For many years she had claimed to be the rightful Queen Empress of North East London, and had occupied her time by waving at people and wearing large hats whilst out and about.  Eventually she became so well known that she became something of a minor celebrity. She was referred to my practice during Queen Elizabeth’s golden jubilee; possibly to get her out of the way during the celebrations.

Mrs Greyman’s rationale for being a fully-fledged royal was that every single royal dynasty claims to have been either appointed by, or descended from, God, and as God had come to her one day whilst she was shopping in Asda, and told her that she was the Chosen One and the titular ruler of North-East London, she was not in a position to refuse the role imposed on her. As her argument was fundamentally correct it was very difficult to argue against it, particularly after she had awarded me an M.B.E. for services to psychiatry.

I decided that the best way to mentally detach Mrs Greyman from her delusion was to use negative reaction, by proving to her how onerous the duties of royalty actually are, thereby allowing her sub-conscious to reject the perceived glamour and status of her adopted persona.

As a result I requested that the hospital trust fund a state visit to the Caribbean, lasting for a month, for myself, Miss Bloomsbridge, my assistant, and the patient. Alas despite much cajoling on my part, the wretched bean-counters claimed that the expense couldn’t be justified. Oh how I wished that I could have got some of them on the couch.  I would have happily had them certified and confined to the funny farm, the miserable, tight-fisted, bastards!

We therefore had to proceed with a different course of treatment. This consisted of Miss Bloomsbridge accompanying the patient each morning at some unspeakably early hour to ‘formally’ open the Brent Cross Shopping Centre when the cleaners arrived.

Despite this treatment, which lasted for nearly a month, Mrs Greyman, rather than becoming disillusioned with the life of a royal, positively lapped it up and would return to the hospital with stories of how many cleaners and security guards she had greeted, babies she had admired and wildlife she had attempted to kill. It became apparent that a different course of treatment was needed.

As the greatest single fear of all heads of state is their forced removal from office, I decided to use the services of another patient, Trevor Aixe, or Comrade Aixe as he preferred to be called. Mr Aixe had been a life-long communist revolutionary and had been suffering from acute depression since the fall of the Berlin Wall. I explained to him that here was a chance to overthrow the un-elected ruler of 5 million members of the working class by staging a coup-d’etat in the patient’s tea-room the following day. All he had to do was stride up to Mrs Greyman as she was selecting a cucumber sandwich and declare before her that he was creating a workers soviet and that as such she was now over-thrown and would have to flee into exile, preferably to somewhere outside of the hospital’s catchment area.

It all went remarkably well at first. Our tame freedom fighter delivered his speech very well and we all expected to see Mrs Greyman’s self-esteem collapse whereby, even if she didn’t flee the hospital, we could  at least start a treatment of anti-depressants which would have been much more routine and less time-consuming. But we had overlooked her inflated pride and tenacity. A torrent of verbal abuse, followed by two hefty swipes of her handbag, reduced the ‘snivelling terrorist’ – as she put it,  into a grovelling wreck. Her self-esteem rose to new heights and poor Mr Aixe fell into a deep bout of morbid depression, from which he is yet to emerge.

We had to kill both of them in the end of course.

Churchy

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Letters To LOMM

josef

 

Dear League Of Mental Men

Motorsport fans. pretend you’re driving a Formula One car in The Belgian Grand Prix at Spa Francochamps this afternoon by donning a crash helmet and flameproof underwear before settling down in front of the television gripping a small steering wheel. For added authenticity, when one of the cars spins off the track and crashes into the Armco barrier, get your wife to smash you over the head with a frying pan and set fire to the sofa.

Michael Shoeconditioner

Africa.

Clivey@sozsatire

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Cooking With The Stars #2345 This Week: Lauren Bacall

coffins

Lauren and Humphrey pictured entertaining delighted guests at one of their famous candlelit supper parties last night

 

This week Lauren rustles up a perennial favourite of both herself and hubby, Humphrey Bogart, Swordfish Pie with Butter Beans and Jacket Potatoes:

 

 

Sounds delicious doesn’t it? Thanks for sharing Lauren.

Next Week: Robin Williams conjures up a rather toothsome paella followed by an extremely naughty, but delicious Mississippi Mud Pie for afters…possibly

Clivey@sozsatire

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Men Who Use Male Grooming Products 20 Times More Likely To Help With Housework Claims Survey

moisturiser

A “moisturist” pictured last night prior to another gruelling day arranging his wife’s frilly pants into neat little piles before putting them away in the drawer.

 

A nationwide survey conducted by a leading cosmetics manufacturer has revealed that males who routinely use grooming products, such as moisturiser, fake tan, exfoliating mitts  etc, are at least 20 times more likely to help their wives or partners do the household chores.

She’s The Boss Ltd, who sampled over 10,000 men in Great Britain and Northern Ireland, also revealed that men who use beauty products are far more likely to be interested in interior design, flower arranging, netball, skipping through meadows with flowers in their hair, Bette Davis movies, cookery and in-depth, heart to heart talks about relationships. The survey also revealed that three quarters of the men surveyed and who owned up to using grooming products spoke with a slight lisp and adopted a strange, mincing gait when they walked.

We tried to get a comment from the CEO of The Brtish Council Of Moisturists, who represent the country’s ever-burgeoning male grooming exponents last night, but his wife told us rather brusquely that he was going nowhere until he’d reduced the ironing pile by at least a half.

Clivey

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