Biggles Aftershave

Michael Bentine

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Piece of chair becomes many things in the hands of a genius.

Falsies

I've tied her to the railroad track
Now I laugh and twirl my moustache
Ha ha! Nobody can save you now!

But who's this? Big Jim Rivit!
He always spoils my fun
Riding up on his white horse
With his gun spinning round
On the end of his thumb

Chickens

I dropped my shoe from the upstairs loo
Out popped a chicken and a away it flew.
I dropped my chicken the the garden shed
Out popped a great big hard boiled egg.

Custard Sheep Dip

Custard sheep dip
Makes my wooly jumpers
Plumper like no other
Treacle goat nip
Gathers fluff for farmers
Under the drippy lip
Of Old MacDonald's mother

Down on the farm
We keep the blancmange
Soft and wobbly
Inside the charm bracelet
Not the knobbly
Tree stump where the jelly
Is hidden under felt
Wanting a new job
Like harvesting wellies

The Other Side

Do you remember the blackout- the smell of trench foot - the pulsating rhythyms of Gerlado and His Orchestra? Those were the days when comics were full of free gifts and only cost a penny. The Squirting Face Flannel- The Sticky Pink Biscuit - The Joke Ironing Board etc. Oh the hilarity. The playground was awash with tears of joy every Wednesday when the Beano and Dandy appeared ( or was it a Friday?). Anyway, awash it was. Jokes to fill a boys busby and giggles galore- enough for a bulging pocket of conkers or a bag of sherbet mice. Yes, the playground fun- the games! Hide The Leg- Dodge That Spit - Cough Up A Gobstopper.
Cigarette cards were my favourite. We used them as legal tender. Played "flickies" and swapped them for the sets we wanted. I was keen on Cricketers of Colonies and anything with drooling monsters like Wireless Stars of Yesteryear- Wilfred Pickles, Doris Chutney and Betty Piccalilly.

Tickling The Ivories

They laughed when I sat down at the piano but when I stated to play - they still laughed. But, after several hundred lessons with Prof. Stanislav Von Gerbilov I could tickle the ivories with my eyes closed and my hands tied behind my back. I was invited to play at the most prestigious concert halls in the world and appeared on prime time television to the astonishment of all who knew me before I had my lessons.
The secret is in the ancient Gypsy art of crystal hedgenology, where by my fingers were pinned to the keyboard by clothes pegs dipped in a mysterious Gypsy ointment and the spirits of Liberace and Toscanini were called upon by the Head Fiddler.

Dilly

My old man said follow the van.

Hanks

Mongolese Lifters

Deep in the Mongolian rain forests the locals are busy lifting the woven totem poles for the yearly Festival of Tum. The poles weigh about half a ton each and the outcome is severely stretched limbs as seen in this authentic photo realisation. Using mohogony poles and steel weavings has taken it's toll over the years and now plans are afoot to make the poles from lighter material. Customs and superstition are hard to overcome though and the elders are reluctant to give the new proposals their blessing for fear of angering the Totem Pole spirits.

The Mail Art That Wouldn't Die

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Meanwhile , down at the inconvenience store Mrs. Trubpole was stacking her Spam tins in the window in a kind of lop-sided ziggerat to attract more customers, or so she thought. He left eye twitched spasmodically in time with the ticking cuckoo clock on the wall behind her. The last tin was placed on the pinnacle of Spamness. An audible gasp issued from her wrinkly mauve lips. She stood back to admire her handiwork and a fly buzzed past he left ear and settled in the tippy-top of the topmost can- it wobbled, and before she could bat a green eyelid the whole thing came crashing down around her ankles.

Later she was seen stickig up long curling twirls of sticky fly paper to get her revenge. She stood on tip toe on the top rung of the rickety step ladder and pushed in the last thumb tack which held the fly paper. The steps wobbled, a fly buzzed past her left ear and settled on the end of her purple nose. She attempted to brush it away with the box of thumb tacks she held in her left hand , forgetting the ladder was only balanced on one leg. The whole thing came crashing down and Mrs. Trubpole landing on the box of tacks and the steps landed on top of her. A mighty scream rent the air and all the sticky fly papers got twizzled in the gust of air and came spiralling down onto her big red angry face.

Horror Songs

Stilton Dreams

The sandwiches with the slurry squirt
Massed pots and puddings scrubbing with potatoes,
This shocking apparatus like a harpoon
Unnatural synthetic food whizz bobbin.
The camel became inflated "cow trees".
A finger nails silvered sausage and mash
A tapioca flings it's slotters to entomb
The doldrum light the sun's pale tooth pastes.
Raindrops made of compressed worms
Became warty, and contains nasty tanks.
Suddenly through the bristle and curious tongue
Appears, a spongonable bathing beach.
Before the collapse of vegetable debris..
A symbol of deliverence on the bottom.

Bob Wolf

And thus it was
Bob found a friend
Someone to talk to as they strode
For such a journey can be lonely
And as they walked they talked of black snow
They spoke of the cheap hotel room
And the tin trumpet used as a po

The moon was high
The stars were out
A shadow fell across the sky
Bob woke and felt a shiny tin thing
Poking in his thigh

The wind it whistled through the gaps
It whistled through the eaves
It whistled through the windows
And through the leafless trees
It whistled far and wide
It whistled more and more
But most of all it whistled
I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles
Through the keyhole in the door

Wasp Terror!

Giant killer wasps are the new scourge of the gardener. They come from the continent where they broke free from an experimental research facilty run by some mad Swiss scientists trying to cross hornets with scorpions. They are very much attracted to skimpy bathing costumes so gardeners are advised with wear shapeless cardigans and reinforced trousers tucked into diving boots.

Spaghetti Strings

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The spaghetti harvest is late this year due to the swarms of pasta fly that have been devastating the crops. Macaroni has suffered a similar fate. Thankfully the trees bearing the ravioli are higher up the mountain and the flies dont like heights.

Trapped!

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Can you help her escape?
Similar to that old urban myth of someone biting into a sausage and finding a tiny rolled up bit of paper and unrolling it discovering a hastily scrawled message which reads " Help - I'm a prisoner in a sausage factory and......" and the rest trails off into a spidery smudge.
Being a prisoner in a collage would be a bit like that only more so.

The Curse of Banana Bonce

I think Gerry the white alsation knew what was going on before anybody else - even his snail friend Nigel knew but Daphne was oblivious to the changes that were creeping over Derek that windy winter's night.

Unusual Holidays

Belgium

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Too much strong coffee can do this to you.
Ah, yes, Belgium - gem of the Northern Sea. I remember well my trip to a quaint fishing village near Antwerp and the giant squid that got caught in some net curtains in the window of a certain M. Masher Niblick. We chased it for several dasy in some steam driven wheelbarrows but it managed to escape into the folds of a huge pair of Flemish trousers worn my Arch Duke Nerdyfan III. Later it was seen travelling in the smoking compartment of an express train to Boulengerie.

Drama Murals

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Blakey Fiends

Il mouse dice che "i blakeys" hanno proprietà magiche e possono inserire nei vasi dell'inceppamento più meglio dei bolli. Il gatto sembra molto scettico dell'idea intera.