DORKING CHURCH HALL: EASTER EVENTS

Angelically written by Gary “The Redeemer of Romford” Hoadley.

Fiendishly re-hashed and made even funnier by Clivey “The Lucifer of Leytonstone” Dee, 19.

Dear Parishioners,

The hall has seen many faces come and go during the past year, thank the Lord we managed to persuade The Kim Jong Un Appreciation Society to give up their vigil. The violence was a little over the top, but at least no one was arrested. This Easter we see some new faces using the hall and I hope they will be made as welcome as all our previous residents have been. Please report any abuse of the hall to my wife.

Regards

Rev H. Rancid.

Monday.

6pm to 7pm – The Dorking Crematorium Tap Dancers Club. (Please don’t tip your ash on the floor)

7pm to 8pm Herring Keepers AGM. (No pickling please)

8pm to 9pm The Foreskin Biological Forum. (scalpels will be confiscated)

Tuesday.

2pm to 4pm –  Dorking Anti-Racist workshop. (No Midgets)

4pm to 6pm – Leather Truss Collectors Club. (Modelled by Mrs Trimble)

Wednesday

12pm to 2pm – Pubic Wig Weavers General Meeting. (No messing about in the bushes)

2pm to 6pm – Dorking Sadists Wednesday Club. (Please keep the noise down)

7pm to 10pm – Gay/Lesbian worm diviners. (All welcome. No Trannies)

Thursday.

The hall will be closed to the Parishioners for the Dorking Vicars, Deacons and Vergers orgy (please do not ask for admission on the night, this is an all ticket event)

Friday.

9am to 12pm – Lower Dorking public toilet sitters club. (No old pennies please)

3pm to 4pm – Box Hill blind unicycle crash and burn team. (no smoking)

7pm to 9pm – Dorking Little Bleeders Haemophiliac club (Please bring a pint)

Saturday.

7pm to 10pm – Dorking council estate punch up and Disco. (light refreshments, weapons, and hard drugs available at the vicarage)

Sunday.

Hall closed for disinfecting and cleaning.

Please make sure you book your place in the hall for next week. If you fail to turn up you will lose your deposit. I will make an exception for the Dorking Amnesiac Dance Troupe.

Fond Regards

Reverend Harold Rancid (Mrs)

CREMATORIUM MONTHLY NEWSLETTER

“Turned out nice again I see”

Bare bones of the story by Gary “Tin Ribs” Hoadley. Fleshed out and brought to life by Clivey “The Pelvis” Dee, 19.

Hello All. Welcome to another edition of our fun-packed magazine.

Last month, Mr E. Winter from Devon, wrote to the editor complaining about the sniggering from two of our members while burying his wife. I have spoken to those involved and they explained that Mr Winters wife had died of Leprosy, and while lowering the open coffin into the hole, her nose fell off. They tried to carry on, but dropped the box, and when they looked, her ears had fallen off as well. I have apologised to Mr Winter for this unfortunate occurrence.

This month’s Golden Spade goes to Harold Blot from the Bolton Cemetery for digging the grave of 52 stone Mr Ardle Yeadon. As a precaution, Harold coated the sides of the hole with margarine from his sandwiches. That’s dedication.

Spelforth Crematorium and Cemetery secretary, Mrs Edna Numbly, has asked me to point out to members, that the furnaces are not for frying eggs and bacon, or for making toast. Families of the deceased are complaining about the smell.

This year’s Summer Ball will be held at the Grimshaw Brothers Funeral home. Can I stress to all members, please do NOT,  interfere with the deceased. After last year’s party, the family of a deceased loved one came to view the body. When the lid was lifted, the deceased had a carrot up his nose, a cocktail sausage sticking out of his zipper, and his eyebrows had been singed.

Finally, The “Spot The Mound Of Earth” competition has now closed and the results will be read out at the Summer Bash. The prize will be a weeks gravedigging in the Welsh Horeb Chapel in Myrthyr Tidfil.

See you next month.

BBC Hail Success Of Cockney Newsreader Experiment

“…and nah, ‘ere’s the wevver for the week ahead…gertcha!”

Supposedly written by Gary “Raffles” Hoadley and allegedly read, edited, and posted by Clivey “Dorian”  Dee, 19.

The BBC have hailed the decision to use an East End Cockney to read the local lunchtime news as an overwhelming success. Programme editors felt that the gritty accent, frequent usage of rhyming slang, and working class, down-to-earth attitude could help raise viewing figures, in what has become, an increasingly competitive market.

Mr Clivey Dee, 19, from West Ham and formerly a motor vehicle technician, was snapped up by BBC execs after he was overheard remonstrating with an Olly Murs look-alike outside Broadcasting House earlier this year

Here is a brief transcript of Mr Dee, 19, reading this afternoon’s news broadcast:

“Alright me old china plates? Nah then you mugs… in today’s church pews, a geezer that had it away with the bees an’ honey from a blag at a pedal and crank in Shoreditch last January got ten years bird in the rusty nail earlier today after pleading guilty to taking a diabolical liberty with intent. The boy was slap bang out of order in the view of the Barnaby Rudge who told him he’ll be staying in the shovel and pick until he sorts ‘isself aht”

After his first broadcast, Dee, who at 19 is the youngest newsreader in the Beeb’s history, was upbeat about his future prospects when he spoke to reporters outside Broadcasting House last night:

“I say, those chaps at the Beeb are absolute corkers! Bunty helped me with my diction, while Laura and Rupert went through my lines with me. All in all, it was an absolutely spiffing day and I can’t wait to do the next one to be jolly fair about it. Mummy will be so frightfully proud. Anyway darlings, I must dash; going to a cheese and wine at Covent Garden with Babs and Tarquin from BBC World in an hour. What larks eh?”.

BBC sources say the ratings rose by 30% when Dee was on air, with over 11 million viewers tuning in; an unprecedented high for a news-based broadcast. They are now reportedly planning to feature Pearly Kings and Queens having a knee’s up round the piano in the background during the weather report.

BREAKING NEWS: WORMWOOD SCRUBBS PRISON STOLEN.

The prison governor pictured in determined mood last night

By Gary “The Pigeon Fancier Of Brixton Remand Centre” Hoadley

The Government admitted today, that Wormwood Scrubs Prison had been stolen.
A spokesperson said that the prison had been missing for a few days.

Prison Governor, Judas Priest, said; “We realised something was wrong when our keys would not fit the locks. On further investigation, it would appear the whole prison has been replaced with a cardboard cut out replica”.

Asked if this has caused any security problems, Mr Priest replied; “We haven’t told the prisoners, If they get wind the walls are made of cardboard some of them might want to escape, and that just will not do, they are naughty boys you know”.

The police believe it could have been an inside job.

Inspector Tosh Lyons, of the Yard said; “My men have a few leads, and that means the dogs are loose, so any criminal, and I believe there a few round here, better give themselves up or we are going to get the right raving hump…Is the pub open?”

Prison Officers Union Chief, Bill Gates stated; “A prison the size of Wormwood Scrubs will be easy to recognise, sooner or later it will have to surface, that is when we will strike, and when we get what we want, we will go back to work”.

Probation Officer, Pontius O’Pilot, was a little less worried; “I think the people responsible will give themselves up. Life is about trust, I have some men building my new garden wall from recycled stone, they assure me its local stone”.

Scotland Yard issued the following statement:
“Do not approach the prison, some of the mortar between those stones is 100 years old and very flaky. Not only that, the drains have not been cleaned out for years.
If you are offered a new patio on the cheap, or large garden gates please contact us.”

Lil’ Kimmy: Diary Of A Young Dictator

Dear Diary,

Autumn is just around the corner. Soon the leaves will be falling from the trees. I hate Autumn..

Autumn is when my gardener starts using his leaf blower. The noise always drives me crazy.

I don’t get what leaf blowers are good for. To me a leaf blower is like a vacuum cleaner with Downs Syndrome. I don’t see why leaves need to be on a pile. The wind always ends up blowing them all over the place anyway.

A few years ago I would have shot my gardener. Not anymore. Now I just shot his leaf blower. I call that growth.

I think maybe one day people will remember me as Un The Merciful.

I’m becoming more and more forgiving as I’m getting older. I’m starting to learn not everybody is as supreme as I am.

I used to think everything was always about me. Now I realize my gardener is also just a man doing his job. He’s happy to contribute. In fact, he turned 96 last week. He’s been in our family ever since my grandfather decided to keep some of his South Korean prisoners of war. My granddad simply told him North Korea had won the war and that he was welcome to stay in exchange for labor.

I think my grandfather would have been glad to know I didn’t shoot our gardener. We did promise him labor after all. My family makes up a lot of words, but we never break our word. We just break people. At least, that’s what my grandfather used to tell me when let me sat on his lap.

There are people that say my grandfather, Kim Il Sung, was an evil man, but I have fond memories of him. Whenever I see my gardener I am reminded of my granddad. Maybe that’s why I rather like my gardener, even though he’s demented. He sometimes pees his pants, but I never get mad, out of respect for my grandfather.

It won’t be long before my gardener passes away. His health is getting worse every day. I hate the prospect of losing him. It would be like losing my granddad again. Maybe I shouldn’t wait till he dies. Maybe I should just send him back to South Korea, so I don’t have to be around when he dies.

That’s what Un The Merciful would do.

Your one and Unly,

Kimmy

Lenny Van Ree.

The Island

“Look…LOOOOOOOK! It’s all darn to yer evolutionary progress you silly moo!”

***********************************************************

The Island by Gary “Di Caprio” Hoadley

 

In the middle of the South Pacific Ocean

an island sits unobserved.

The inhabitants have been there 

for thousands of years.

 

 

 

King Alf sits on his throne. He is speaking to Queen Elsie.

 

“Look, looook, I’m the bludy king right, and I say who does what”

“Well, you can’t stop them leaving if they want to”.

“Yes I can! My word is law mate”.

“What if they get a boat and sail off?”

“That, my dear, that is why, I have an army”

“Bunch of geriatric beer drinker’s like you”

“They may be old my dear…I say, they may be old, but they’re as hard as nails”

“Rubbish, they were the first one’s to run and hide when that boat came in”

“That was a tactical withdrawal, luring yer enemy into the trap they was”

“Well, they would have found you all in the pub!”.

“Exactly, they wouldn’t expect to find us there would they?…I mean, we had the advantage, cos the pub see, the pub, it’s got a few windows ain’t it”

“What difference does that make!?”

“Because, my dear, we could see them coming and open fire before they got too close and then – when they was depleted – we charge at ’em.”

“But you lot were drunk by the time the strangers came ashore”

“We just had a few to liven ourselves up before the fray, it’s what your army does in time of invasion, gives the men fortitude and lights the fire of valour”

“Sent you bunch of drunks to sleep, it was me and the girls that saw them off”

“You didn’t see them off! We was there, watching and waiting, with their commander in chief, leading them to the front line of victory!”.

“You were asleep under the billiard table”.

“No I bludy well was not! I was holding a war council under the protection of the billiard table, it was my command centre, got to have one somewhere”

“Rubbish, you were drunk, and so was your so called army, me and the girls saw them intruders off by telling them we had the plague”.

“Look, you great big puddin! I’m the bludy king, see, and you are one of my subjects, so watch out, or…or it’s the bleedin’ chop for you”

“Pig!…I rue the day I married you, my mother told me, told me not to do it!”

“She didn’t complain when I had that house of hers built did she? No, didn’t bludy complain abart me then did she, with all her how’s yer fathers”

“That wasn’t house, it was a mud hut with an inside lavvy”

“She didn’t turn it darn though did she! Bludy moaning old cow”

“Hates you, she does, says you are a tyrant”

“Marvellous…bludy marvellous aint it, you do your best, by the subjects that are supposed to worship and adore you, and what thanks do you get?…A daft old bat complaining abart the hand, the hand that feeds her!”

“It’s your own fault, you should have built the extension like you promised”

“You silly moo! I’m goin’ darn the bludy pub!”

 

 

Next week:

The Kings daughter returns

from her honeymoon.

Clivey & Gaz in: WordPress Family Values

The scene is a small backstreet pub in Hoxton, East London. The lads are seated at a table in the corner, sipping their pints and puffing contentedly on their contraband e-cigarettes. Gaz appears to be in  reflective mood.

Gaz – Clivey mate…

Clivey – Yes? What is it Gaz mate? You appear to be in reflective mood son.

Gaz – Funny you should say that mate. I was just reflecting on how I’m in reflective mood at the moment. The thing is mate, I was just wondering if you’d read that last skit of mine. The one about suncream. You remember the one.

Clivey – I’ll say I do son! It was an absolute peach of a skit to be fair. Probably the finest you’ve ever written. I must have read it at least five times mate. In fact, not a day has gone by when I haven’t read it. Since you posted that skit I don’t mind telling you that it’s become a huge part of my life. I live to read it mate…absolutely live to read it!

Gaz – Thanks mate, it means a lot to me that does. I’ve read all your skits too you know? In fact, I’ve got my Irene to make voice recordings of every skit you’ve ever written, so that when I’m out on the road in the motor, or watching a good film on the telly, I can listen to your skits through my headphones and marvel at how great they are and how much I admire your skit writing and that.

Clivey – That’s nothing mate. I’ve written a play about all your skits and sent it off to a West End theatre producer in the hope that it’ll be turned into a box office smash. Then I’m going to take my old woman and the kids to watch it every night so that we can drool over your skit-writing ability as a family.

Gaz – That’s all well and good son but I’ve had all your skits set to music by Andrew Lloyd Webber and I’m going to get that Michael Buble to record a whole album that pays a fitting tribute to you, both as a man, and as a writer of top-class skits. It’s going to be called: “The Skit-Writing King & I” mate.

Clivey – Right…I’ve written to Barack Obama about your skits and he’s told me personally that he’s going to read your skits out to the American people on the telly every night until he relinquishes the presidency to Donald Trump or one of those other American political geezers. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he didn’t make himself the dictator of America just before the election and appoint you The Secretary Of Skits. That’s how highly I regard your skit-writing skills mate. I don’t mind admitting that I regularly use your skits to masturbate to son. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve bellowed: “Christ what a blindingly funny skit you dirty bastard mate!” just before I’ve blown me custard.

Gaz – Blimey cheers mate! I find it hard to believe you’ve gone to so much trouble on account of your deep admiration for my skits, or that you use them to help you cum your cocoa. Did you read that one I wrote last week by the way? The one about the policeman? I was pretty chuffed with that one to be honest. It wasn’t as funny as any of your skits mind you. No skit could ever hope to achieve that kind of greatness mate!

Clivey – About a policeman you say mate? No I can’t say I remember that one. I expect I just clicked the like button on the reader, like I do with all the others. Was it good then mate?

Gaz – !!!!!

LOMM News!

A youthful editor and totally ripped skit writer pictured in training for The London Drinkathon last night

Fabricated and read in a posh BBC accent by Gary “Our Man in the Basement” Hoadley

Edited and copied and pasted with bits of curry sauce on by Clivey “He’s just a kid!” Dee, 19.

Earlier today, Mr Albert Cress, from Bethnal Green, in East London, was found dazed and confused wandering around Roman Road Market. Paramedics were called and quickly established that Mr Cress had spent the entire day sunbathing in Weaver Fields, a popular place for vegans and people with no homes to go to.

Paramedic, Virginia Ham OBE, said;

“Mr Cress was in an awful state, he was wilted, very brown and looked terribly limp and dried up”.

It later transpired that Mr Cress had applied salad cream instead of sun cream before going out to the park.

Speaking outside Shoreditch police station where Mr Cress was being beaten mercilessly in the cells, local beat bobby, Officer WPC Collation, advised;

” Evenin’ all! When you is sunbaving, an you uses der salard cream, first you ‘as to make sure, yur feet, are in wartar. Evenin’ all!”

Disclaimer: No gay people were married during the writing or editing of this skit…or if they were, they didn’t tell us about it, the sneaky buggers.