Tag Archives: Gary Hoadley
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.
“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)
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.
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.
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.
“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?”
“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”
“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!”.
“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”.
“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”
Arse Gratia Arseoles