Singing Dingo

Captain Helmet

Ah the thrilling days of yesteryear and those Saturday morning flicks - the big feature, the cartoon and the creaky black and white serial in 12 jaw dropping episodes. The Flaming Cube and The Robot Hens, Mr. Invisible and the Plant People, Smudge Gargoyle and the Planet of Fertilizer to name but a few. My absolute favourite was Captain Helmet - Queen of the Flatosphere. A serial so full of gadgets and cliff hanger endings it almost topples over on its side with the weight of them and dies!
Captain Helmet and his Helmet Rangers has to save the universe from the evil Emporer Pong and his robotic warriors from the planet Zlurg, who are bombarding earth with a mysterious custard gas which turns everyone into his slaves and Emporer Pong has enlisted the help of evil scientist Dr. Prang and his henchment who will stop at nothing to get rid of Captain Helmet and his Rangers every ten minutes and you find them dropping into ravines, down wells, mineshafts, in burning shacks. over cliffs, in burning dynamite factories etc. Somehow Captain Helmet manages to escape in the nick of time and every week is able to do battle again with his cardboard ray guns and his bakelite thermo blaster - not to mention the brain wobbling beam.
What joy we had in running home afterwards to make our own ray gun from an old plastic Squeezy bottle and an egg carton and re-living the whole episode all over again!

Cat To Dog

Cat to dog and back again
Robot kitty to robot doggie
Strange metamorph of my pet
Round again and back to moggie.

How Much?

How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck would chuck wood? That's the age old question we all have to ask ourselves. The answer comes back - " Quite a large heap of three ply, two be one, and some offcuts".

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.