Clivey & Gaz in: Doin’ Time

 

Feloniously written by Gary “Mr Knuckles” Hoadley. Angelically edited by Clivey “Baby Face” Dee, aged 19.

 

Clivey and Gaz, are residents of Her Majesty’s Prison, Steeple Bumstead. They occupy  Cell 23 on “The Ones”, in which, the following discourse takes place

 

“We’ve done it now Clivey”
“Yeah, bludy five years”
“I thought they would give us two and a half each”
“Not that “Hanging” Judge Judy mate, she’s a right steel magnolia”
“Yeah Clivey, a right steel magnet. Still, I suppose that’s what you get when you rob Buckingham Palace”
“You told me Gaz, that the crown jewels were under the bed”
“Well Clivey, that’s what unreliable Ronnie told me”
“Still, we weren’t to know Prince Philip was in bed”
“Nah, shame he rolled off onto that Corgi”
“Gave the Queen the right hump Gaz”
“I thought she was going to have our heads Clivey”
“Them soldiers in the big hats gave us a chase Gaz”
“Oh, was they hats? I thought it was their haircuts Clivey”
“Now, we ‘ave got to be careful in here Gaz”
“Why’s that Clivey?”
“Too many people running to the screws telling tales”
“You are right Clivey, I overheard the gardening party talking about
a Jewish informer”
“What’s his name Gaz?”
“Mo The Grass”
“Fuck’s sake”
“We need an escape plan Gaz”
“Where we going to escape to Clivey?”
“Spain Gaz, Spain”
“Which one is nearer?”
“Do what?”
“Out of the two Spains you mentioned. Which is the closest?”
“I wonder about you sometimes Gaz”
“Cheers mate”
“Where can we get a rope, a hacksaw, and a ladder?”
“Under my bed Clivey”
“Under your bed Gaz?”
“Yeah”
“How did you manage to smuggle them in Gaz?”
“Under my hat Clivey”
“You don’t have a hat Gaz”
“Blimey, it’s lucky they didn’t spot them then Clivey”…

That night, the two lads begin sawing at the bars in their peter.
When the coast is clear, they sling the rope out into the abyss
and began to climb down…

“It’s a long way down Clivey”
“I know mate. I thought we were on the ground floor Gaz”
“Maybe they got a basement Clivey”
“Knowing our luck, it’s next door to a zoo”
“Can you hear growling Gaz?”
“I thought it was your stomach mate”

The lads hit the ground with a thud.
In front of them, lies a huge lion, sleeping…

“I knew it! It’s a fuckin zoo Gaz!”
“Ere, look at that lion, how we going to get past him?”
“I will show you Gaz”

With that, Clivey takes a step back, and kicks the lion
in the testicles as hard as he can. As he’s running
away, he turns and shouts to Gaz…

“Gaz! Run like fuck before it gets up!”
“Sod off! I’m not running anywhere mate! After all, it wasn’t me that kicked him in the bollocks”…

Curtain falls

Clivey & Gaz are currently appearing at Bow Street Magistrates Court, charged with affray, going equipped, resisting arrest, possession of an illegal firearm, and watching BBC iPlayer without a licence

Mary’s Magnificent Minefield of Malapropisms

 

Say it ain’t so Mary love!!

 

 

As a follow up to the previous embarrassing outburst by our graphics editor’s mum, we thought we’d bring you this little beauty.

Following a short bout of ill health -from which, she has now thankfully fully recovered – our heroine was asked – by myself as luck would have it – if she was feeling better.

She gave a careworn wistful sigh and replied: “I’m a little better thank you dear but not quite 100 percent. I can’t wait to be back on the game to be honest with you”

Hopefully, she meant “in the game” as I fear that a career as a common prostitute may prove to be less than lucrative at her age. And I say that in a deeply caring way.

 

LOMM’s Wonderful World of 60s Movie Stars With Wooden Leg Issues

THIS WEEK: Ann Margret

NEXT WEEK: Marlon Brando asks Julie Christie to give him a hand polishing his wood

Beef & Onion

Beef and Onion. A One Act Play by Lady Garfield Hoadley of the Lake

ACT 1

 

The Scene: A run down office. Nicotine stained walls, decorated with long

lines of dried up condensation. A threadbare carpet, that once had a pattern.

Beneath the only window, a Royal Oak desk, sits waiting to be polished.

And from the flaking ceiling, hangs a yellow light bulb, ready to go pop!.

 

Mr Treadle, sits behind his desk. The two strands of hair, covering his 

polished bald head, appear to be trying to escape, down the unwashed

neck, that is supporting, the round fat face, now turning red with rage…

 

“Look, I make, meat pies…My father, made meat pies…His father, 

made meat pies…And his fathers father made meat pies, and you my lad,

are going to make meat pies”

 

Mr Treadle, is addressing his son, Treadle junior. The poor boy, stands,

like a man condemned, in front of the unpolished desk, trying to avoid the

sputum, that is being projected from his fathers ranting orifice.

 

“But father, I don’t…”

 

“Nay, lad, Treadles have been making pies for hundred years an more,

and you, my boy, will take up mantle, when I retire…”

 

“But I have other ideas father…More creative ambitions”

 

“More creative thar knows! An what, is more creative, than Treadles,

beef an onion meat pie feast? That crust, was created, with mothers bare 

hands, when she were dying of Anthrax, during war”

 

“Grandmother died in her sleep, after consuming two bottles of gin, father”

 

“That’s as maybe, my lad, but without mothers recipe, treadles would not

be here today. And, you would not have attended best school in north of

England, Queen were going to send her Charlie to Black Coal Grammar,

but press got wind, and that were that…”

 

“I am adamant, I shall not make meat pies…”

 

“Oh!…Mr high an mighty, and what shall thee do? Be president of some

mamby pamby office in big city, clean up in financial markets, or will thee

take on might of conglomerate?…All ninny white wash dreams lad”

 

“Actually, father, with the money Grandmother left me, I intend to open

a small factory, making ladies underwear…”

 

At this point, Treadle senior, falls out of his office chair, landing on the worn out carpet, with a loud thud. He then gets to his feet, leaning over the unpolished desk.

“Bludy hell! Did I hear thee right?…Did you say making ladies unmentionables…”

 

“Yes father, and I intend to design a whole new range…”

 

“Hold on, only pansies and poofters make them sort of things…Are thee telling me,

that you have become light footed? Limp wristed, a florist?!”

 

“None of those father, and what is more, I intend to leave the confines of Crusty

Hall, and take an apartment in town, where I shall be free of your overbearing,

bigoted, self opinionated boring voice…”

 

“I see…So now you have a bit of brass, mother and I are not good enough for thee.

Not, posh enough, haven’t got huge plums in gob, and what next, I suppose thee 

will be wearing long scarf round neck, and carrying leather case in hand like some

southern poofter from city of London…Well let me tell thee lad…”

 

The office door opens, and in walks Mrs Treadle. A rotund woman with a beetroot

red face, large hairdo, and an exaggerated limp…

 

“What’s to do?…I can here you shoutin odds from factory floor our Bernard”

 

“It’s him Aida, that lad there, he wants to be a Florist…”

 

“Is that right lad? And when did thee decide to become limp?”

 

“I am not becoming a Florist mother, I am opening a lingerie factory in Bolton”

 

“Not while father and me are on planet my boy! Treadles is meat pies and nowt

else…Eeee, you kids today, always wanting to be something different”

 

“That’s what I told him, Aida, meat pies is meat pies an always will be”

 

“He’s been reading Country Life again, Bernard…get doctor on phone”

 

“I don’t need a doctor, or read Country Life, I am going it alone, so there”.

 

The Treadle parents, stand open mouthed. What next?

Stepney Stan: The Council Man

This piece was conceived and written by Lord Garfield Hoadley of Tobruk (Mrs) and maliciously edited by The Right Bloody Reverend Clivey Dee, 19.

Look! If that Corbyn geezer came over here and tried to turn the pie and mash shop into a vegan eatery, I should get hold of him by the Gregory and tell him to sling his hook. I’m not having a lily-livered leftie turning my Maureen into a boiler suit-wearing painter and decorator!

She works in the cleaners in the Roman Road Market…Been there for years she has, and anyway, she don’t vote. She’s not been able to go in a polling station ever since Mrs. Thatcher was shafted by John Major in the 80s. Took to her bed for 3 weeks after that she did. Her and the coalman both. So he’s wasting his time ain’t he?

I went to that House Of Parliament once. Full of poofs and
old geezers in flash suits it was. Complete waste of waste of thirty bob.

Anyway, I’m off to me council meeting in a minute. We’re gonna try and ban the Gay and Lesbian Pride march through Aldgate on Saturday”.

I mean to say, you can’t have that sort of caper going on in Stepney can yers? What my nan would have made of all this I shudder to think.

Sir Alf Garnett appears at the top of this skit courtesy of The Tottenham Hotspurs FC Ladies Formation Origami Bastards Appreciation League.

19-year-old editor’s note: This skit will shortly be appearing here:  https://thewhelkwordpresscom.wordpress.com – and so should you to be perfectly honest.

Unto You A Whelk Is Born

 

Greetings my wuffly ickle WordPress Family friendzzzz!

I know I’m massive pain in the arse (my mum told me) but I’m going to ask you a huge favour if I may.

Along with a couple of other satirist reprobates and a talented graphics wallah, I have started a small, but perfectly formed, online spoof newspaper. It’s in its infancy at the moment but we have high hopes for our new baby and with your kind help we can get off to a decent start.

It’s a London-centric newspaper based in the Whitechapel area of East London – an area I know extremely well; and it basically consists of spoof news items, vignettes of local characters – some more outlandish than others – along with a sprinkling of hilarious (it says here) memes etc.

You won’t find any biting political satire here – I can get that stuff published elsewhere. It’s just a bit of fun and an enjoyable outlet for our somewhat bizarre sense of humour. Hopefully, you’ll find it as enjoyable and as much fun to read as we have enjoyed putting it together.

One old journo friend of mine described it earlier as “brilliantly funny”. However, he’s not to be trusted and is renowned for drinking heavily morning, noon and night, so I’d take that with a pinch of salt if I were you.

So please, take a quick look and give us a follow if you like what you see. We will, of course, follow you back, and our sub-editor – a brute-like creature who has worked his way up from being copy boy on The Illustrated London News in 1888 – will be more than happy to field your comments, suggestions and spiteful abuse in the order in which he receives them.

So here we go then guys. Our WordPress site and Facebook page (please ‘like’ generously. All proceeds go to an orphaned kittens hostel) are listed below for your delectation and delight.

Thanks and best wishes in anticipation of your poorly-judged patronage

Clivey Dee, 19, and The Whitechapel Whelk production drunks

https://thewhelkwordpresscom.wordpress.com

https://www.facebook.com/www.TheWhitechapelWhelk/

Classic Pop Song Lyrics for Intellectuals

She actually IS still a virgin you know. A geezer down the pub told me. Oh yes.

London Tube Escalator Directive Unfair to Drunks Says Pressure Group

 

The recent directive from Transport for London, which calls for people to stand still on both the left and the right side of escalators at London’s underground stations, has been attacked as being unfair to drunks and people with full bladders by a drinker’s pressure group.

People Against Sensible Drinking, hit out last night in a strongly-worded statement: “We see this directive as an infringement of our human rights and another unwarranted attack on those of us who enjoy a good skinful before traveling on public transport. Remaining still with 8 or 9 pints tucked under your belt is simply too much to ask in our view. Surely TFL could allow for a bit of unsteady swaying from side to side, the odd stumble, or hopping from one foot to the other to alleviate bladder discomfort. We at PASB are not prepared to take this lying down. Unless, of course, we’ve had one over the eight and have collapsed in a pool of sick in the station toilets”

TFL said last night: “If escalator-users think this is bad, wait until we make wheelchair users go up and down using the silver, metal bit in the middle.”

Danny SoZ, 19.

SOZ SATIRE’S CLASSIC POP SONG LYRICS FOR INTELLECTUALS

Thang you very much.

LOMM’S CLASSIC POP SONG LYRICS FOR INTELLECTUALS

“Dual meteorological phenomena in the form of a sonic boom due to a sudden increase in pressure and temperature from lightning producing rapid expansion of the air along with a sudden electrostatic discharge between electrically charged regions of a cloud resulting in a bolt of electricity emanating from the heavens. Extremely alarming and disconcerting…the entity that is myself, expressed in the first person singular”

NEXT WEEK: Justin Bieber’s Greatest hits from inside a soundproof chamber.