Tag Archives: Gary Hoadley

Beef & Onion

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


Filed under Humour

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.


Filed under Humour, Satire

Government Outlines Plans to Tax The Dead

                                                       “Death and Taxes eh folks?”
Dead funny script by Gary Hoadley. 
Taxing and Editing by Clivey Dee, 19. (deceased)
The Government has announced that dead people will, in future, have to pay Value Added Tax (VAT) on the amount of time it takes them to decompose.
Under the terms of the proposed plan, every person that dies after Wednesday 5th January 2016, will pay a VAT accredited tax levy on the time it takes for their entire body to become compost.
Minister for the Environment, Wincy Willis, said it was a great idea because poor people are taking far too long to rot away and that meant little or no room for more house building. 
Prime Minister, David Cameroon defended the new tax, saying; “My government and I feel, that poor people take longer to decompose because the cheap food they eat contains so many preservatives. The poor decompose 80% slower than rich people. In real terms, this means we cannot build more houses because the poor are causing a hold up on the cemetery’s”.
Finance secretary, Glenda Pound, outlined the costing of the new levy and how the payment method would only penalise the poor.
“When a person dies, they will be weighed and measured. The results will be calculated and a designated decomposition clerk will be assigned to the deceased. The clerk will then determine how long the rotting process will take.
“At the end of each year, the clerk will decide if that person has decomposed enough to be made into compost. Should the rotting process end before the allotted time, that dead body will get a rebate which will be paid into the government’s private bank account.
“So, if person A weighs 10 stone and is 5’6”, that is a calculation of 5 years of rotting, at £50 per annum. We have also introduced a contingency plan, so that if a dead person cannot pay because they are poor, the body will be left at the roadside on a council estate and their next of kin evicted and jailed until the amount due is paid in full
The proposed bill is expected to go through The House of Lords next week.


Filed under Satire

Goldilocks: The Tourettes Edition.


“Look. I didn’t touch your motherfukin’ porridge so blow it out your goddamn ass”

A shamelessly profane tale of porridge-guzzling folk by The Right Reverend Gary Fukin Hoadley (retd)

Once upon a time, a little slut named Goldibolox was walking through the forest. She came upon a small house and thought, “Hello, I think I will burgle that place”. The little bastard broke a window and crept in. After searching the house and finding nothing, she realised they were working class wankers that must be on the fukin dole.
Feeling a bit peckish, she went into the kitchen, there, on the table, were three pizzas. “What the fuck is that?“, thought Goldibolox; “Is this all these fukin arsoles eat“!
Picking up the first pizza, Goldibolox took a bite and spat it out all over the floor, “Fuck me“! she cried; “Jalapenos! That’s too fukin hot for me“! Next, she tried the cheese and tomato. “Tastes like shit”, she thought and spat it at the cat. The last pizza on the table was Hawaiian and this she liked, eating three fukin pieces, the greedy cunt.
After stuffing her fat fukin face, Goldibolox decided to have a kip in one of the bedrooms. She tried the big double bed, but it was too soft, then she tried the kids bed, but it stank of piss, so she settled for the futon in the spare room. Laying her scrawny fukin neck on the pillow, she fell fast asleep, the lazy bastard.
The three bears arrived home and went into the kitchen. On seeing the broken window, Daddy Bear said; “That fukin window cleaner will have to go”!
Mummy bear, looked down at the table, and saw that the pizzas had been tampered with. “If I catch that fukin cleaner helping herself to our food again I’m going to kick her fukin head in”.
Baby Bear, who was a sniveling little spoilt brat, started to cry; “Daddy, Daddy, some fucker has eaten three bits of my pizza”! Daddy bear, gave Baby bear a clump round the earhole and told him to fuck off to bed.
As Baby Bear walked past the spare room, he saw Goldibolox asleep on the futon, “Who the fuck are you”! he cried. Goldibolox woke with a start, and realising she was in the shit, leapt to her feet. She gave baby bear a dig, and raced past him. Running down the stairs she was confronted by Mummy Bear, “What the fuck are you doin’ in my house you little bastard”! she raged.
Goldibolox stuck the boot in, and laid out Mummy bear in the hallway. Breathing heavily, she realised smoking 70 cigarettes a day at 8 years old was not good. As Goldibolox made her way outside, Daddy Bear came after her with a  baseball bat, “Come back here you little cunt, I’m going to fuckin kill you” He shouted.
Goldibolox stuck two fingers in the air and said; “If you can catch me, you fat furry fuck!” With that, she skipped away, never to return  again, the dirty little slut.
Goodnight children. Sleep tight x


Filed under Humor, Humour

I Was Hitler’s Moustache And Other True Stories

Gaz the rasta
The hate-filled bigot Gary Hoadley pictured pretending to like black people last night
I was Hitler’s Moustache
By Hitler’s Moustache

I was sitting in a barber shop in Berlin. This small diminutive man comes
in and sits next to me. We entered into conversation regarding the current
political situation in Austria and Poland. We spoke for about ten minutes.
He then asked me if I was employed. I informed him I was understudy to
Peter Klien’s moustache at the Semperopa opera house.
“No more!” He exclaimed. “From zis day, you vill be mein moustache!”
And that was it, I arrived at his offices a week late in Dresden.
I survived the war because on the last day in the bunker, I glued a black
slug to his top lip and made my escape to Switzerland. A few months later
I began working for Peter Ustinov.

The End…or is it???
I Was Margaret Thatcher’s Wig
by Margaret Thatcher’s Wig

In 1995, I was working for Lady Porter at her home in Westminster, London.

She was having dinner with Lady Thatcher. They retired to the drawing-room

for a spliff and a glass of Tennent’s super strength lager. After an hour, Lady

Porter fell asleep on the rug. Lady Thatcher turned to me and asked if I was

happy in my work. I told her I was fed up with the blue rinse.

“Then you shall come and work for me at number ten my dear” she declared

A few days later, I was in Buckingham palace listening to Her Majesty the Queen

explaining to Lady Thatcher how badly she had done at the bingo in Dalston the previous evening.

When Thatcher died, I went to work for Elton John.

The End

or is it…???

Well yes it is as it happens, so deal with it!

All of the above were written by the hate-filled bigot and self styled “Black Bastard Of Brentford” Gary Hoadley and edited by the ethnically pure, and self-styled “White Wog Of Whitechapel” Clivey Dee, 19.


Filed under Humor, Humour

Fifty Grades Of Spray

Gaz the rasta

“Lawd Jesus me yoot! Nah comment on me pussyclaat copy sah!…Roots!”


Fifty Grades of Spray
By Elsie Thribbet, ably assisted by Gary Hoadley

A large house in a suburban avenue.

“Doris, are we going to have a session then?”
“Have a lesson on what dear?”
“No Doris! A session in the bedroom
“Lesson in the bedroom? What for Alf?”
“For god’s sake Doris, do I have to spell it out for you!?”
“You spilled what Alf?”
“I didn’t spill anything Doris! Are we going to have some fun?”
“Didn’t buy any Alf
“Any what Doris?”
“Buns Alf
“Look, you deaf old bat, are we going to bed?”
“This time of day?”
“Time of day to do what Doris!?”
“To go round to Fred’s Alf
“Bed Doris
“And I suppose you’ll be wanting a bowl of soup as well will you”.
“With your bread Alf
“Look! I want to have sex Doris!”
“You had the last ones with your breakfast Alf”

Alf has a little think…

“Not eggs you stupid woman… sex!”
“Well, you should have said Alf. I’m not a blinking mind reader!”.
“What do you think I’ve been going on about you twat!”
“Well, if you’re going to talk to me like that, I’m going to bingo!”.

The End

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Filed under Humor, Humour

Clivey & Gaz in “Culture Vultures!”

clivey & Gaz profile
The Tate Gallery. Written by Gary Hoadley And Erotically Edited by Clivey Dee

“Ullo Gazza, what do you see, what do you know?”
“Sit down Clivey, have a butchers at that”.
“Oh, yeah, it’s Mondrian, nice painting”.
“What’s it called then?”
“Composition with yellow, blue and red”.
“What about the black lines?”
“He didn’t have enough room on the bottom of the canvas to write black”.
“Why didn’t he write it on the back?”
“He didn’t want to get his brush dirty I suppose”.

Clive and Gary move to another room in the Tate.

“What the hell is that Clivey?”
“That is a Matisse Gaz”.
“A French mattress!”
“No you pranit, the artist Matisse. It’s called “The Snail”.
“What part of it?”
“What part of what”.
“What part of that painting is a snail then?”
“All of it”.
“Hold on a minute squire…”
“Why you walking backwards Gaz?”
“I’m giving me minces a chance to focus”.
“Yeah, cos I can’t see a snail”.
“It’s modernism Gaz”.
“If it’s that modern, why don’t he know what a snail looks like?”
“He didn’t have a garden did he”.

After spending a few more minutes looking for the snail, they move on and stop in front of a painting of two nudes

“They look like a couple of nice birds Clivey”.
“Yeah, a geezer called Sigmar Polke painted ’em”.
“Bet they had a job standing still in that position”.
“He must have given them something to lean on, then painted it out Gaz”.
“Clever, very clever”.
“It’s called, “Girlfriends”.
“What, he had two of ’em?”
“Yeah the dirty sod”.
“Dirty sod”.
“Nice painting though”.
“How come you know so much about these paintings Clivey?”
“I broke down outside here the other day and I dived in for a quick butcher’s while I was waiting for the tow truck mate.

A short silence ensues

“Hold up son! I thought you were a mechanic!”

“I am mate, It was me afternoon off”



The End

Arse Gratia Arseoles


Filed under Humor, Humour