This is me, Eccles

This is me, Eccles
This is me, Eccles

Tuesday, 17 April 2012

Yet more bloggs

Mary Drilled

St Gordon of Kirkcaldy
By Mary Drilled

Mary Drilled's photo marks the 100th anniversary of the death of Bram Stoker

Gordon Brown now spends his days in retirement in a darkened room in Kirkcaldy, his only reward being an MP's pittance of £65,000, together with necessary expenses (most recently, an invoice from Jock McBogey's Glazing Repairs, for a window damaged by a flying laser-printer, £300+VAT). But until 2010 he was the most powerful man in the free world, the saviour of civilization as we know it. The verdict of history on Gordon Brown will surely be: We Owe So Much.

 Of course Ed Miliband is wonderful too, so handsome, so masterful. He can't make his eyes revolve in opposite directions at the same time, as Ed Balls can, but let's face it, is that really a necessary qualification to be PM? But it is Gordon whose photo I have on my bedside table, the Pride of Scotland.

Gordon Brown

Surely this man is a god?

James Hordes

Viagra, sex, and pianist envy
By James Hordes

As a famous but iconoclastic pianist  - I'll get a better picture later, but I never really understood the instructions in those photo booths - I went to a concert recently. It featured a new sensational Chinese pianist, Miss To Tee. I can't remember much about what she was playing (it was one of those seriously uncool dudes, Beethoven, maybe) but I did notice that she certainly wasn't "flat". As I munched my way through a packet of Viagra tablets, and swelled to a climax with the melody, I said to myself, "Yes! This is what classical music is all about!"

Damian Thompson can keep his Bach (that Baroque wig he wears when he thinks nobody is watching doesn't suit him anyway). Give me To Tee tickling the ivories any day. Or the new CD set  from Cora Bimbo, in the deluxe edition with extra photos. YES!!!

Dolly bird suite

Playing Fauré's Dolly Bird Suite

James Goldenpile

Is Monbiot trying to kill me?
By James Goldenpile

I was eating my cold toast for breakfast today (no warming required), when I was struck by a terrible thought: is George Monbiot trying to kill me? Call me paranoid if you like, but I remember that the last time I appeared on Any Questions? with him, he was carrying an umbrella, and I am fairly sure that it was he who jabbed me in the leg half-way through the programme. I was explaining once more how Michael Mann had produced his hockey-stick graph by massaging his data, adding in his friends' telephone numbers and converting them to Fahrenheit. But the warmists are up to their dirty tricks as usual.

There's definitely a Libtard conspiracy to suppress the truth. Indeed, the man on the Sainsbury's fish counter looks suspiciously like Al Gore, and is obviously ready to slip me a poisoned haddock if I let my vigilance slip. But Monbiot is at the centre of it. He's a master of disguise too - the old lady who nearly barged me off the pavement yesterday didn't look anything like him, so that proves it.

Phew, it's cold today, isn't it? I told you there was an ice-age coming.

George Moonbat

There's something sinister about him, don't you think?

Concluded here.


  1. As a patient in a rehabilitation ward, I was astonished to read your post above. Let me explain. I am an internationally remowned lady concert pianist, currently staying at my Auntie Effie's caravan in Kircaldy.I was having a bit of trouble with the passages in Clair de Lune - doing rolling arpeggios is difficult when you are Chinese, and only have small hands. I therefore decided to take a stroll down the high street. I had just stopped to chat to an old gentleman called George who was waving his umbrella about shouting that it was obsolete, and that we were all going to die of heatstroke. I was impressed by his hockey stick diagrams, so I decided to take all my clothes off, so that I would be prepared for when the temperature in Kircaldy rose from 38F, and the drizzle eased up. Thus distracted, I failed to notice a rather nice printer come flying out of a nearby window, and hit me on the head, making me fall over the old gentleman and his umbrella, and be knocked unconscious. As I fainted I heard a strange gurgle from George "You bastards - the ricin...the ricin", and the ambulance man told me later that the poor old soul had expired there and then. An exciting afternoon then, all things considered - but nowhere near as dramatic as an afternoon on the Telegraph blogs, pretending to be an international financier with a website in Exeter.

    1. You sure has suffered, Madam Anon. Dat's reely woful.

  2. ALL of these people are the Rabbit.


  3. My apologies to James Goldenpile. When I barged into him outside the Civic Centre in HazelGrove the other day, I was hurrying to Stepping Hill Hospital to pick up a billet doux from a secret admirer. You don't get many of those, these days, so I was naturally keen to meet him. Imagine my disappointment when I hurried into the WRVS Canteen, in my best hairnet, and reeking of Yardley Freesia, to find the only occupant was a fat balding elderly priest wearing a CND badge, dark glasses, and reading a copy of Gay Times.

    1. Dat preist probabbly fuoght you was gonna be de rabit, and not a charmin Ena Shrapnels lookalike. As JabaPappa says, everyone is de rabit.