APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

Big Bad Bovver Sheila was telling us that she’s really angry with people talking about her bum.

Who are these bum bandits?

She doesn’t know.

Then how do these bottom burpers make contact?

Through her toilet rolls.

Well, how d’you mean?

They write obscene messages on packets of toilet rolls and make out it’s an advertising campaign.

Big Bad Bovver Sheila is a sensitive soul.

Well, aren’t we all?

But she’s also soft, strong and very, very long. Just ask Kiri de Canopener. She’ll tell you.

She was having a particularly bad time of it due to the dreaded Fruit Curry. As we’ve pointed out before, surely two things that should never be in your stomach at the same time. She had to open a new packet of toilet rolls and there it was.

A crappy piece of PR on the backside of the packet making her bum the butt of the joke and their sense of humour being as desirable as a specky-eyed manure-carrier.

It said “I feel as clean as a shiny diamond. It’s funny how children can express the feelings of us more freely than adults. As we get older the subject just gets awkward. We have been expertly cleaning bottoms for seventy-two years. We’re starting a discussion. We’re going to talk about clean bottoms more openly and how our products help you feel clean and confident.”

Big Bad Bovver Sheila does not feel awkward about her bottom. She was furious. She told us “they haven’t been expertly cleaning my arse for seventy-two years. I’ve been doing it myself since I was out of nappies. They’d never get that close to my arse, I’d teach the gobshites a lesson.”

So she did!

As you will remember, Big Bad Bovver Sheila works in a quarry, sinking the plunger and is not backwards at coming forwards, as Kiri de Canopener found and doesn’t mind speaking her mind.

She told us “if they want a discussion, they can have one. If they want my clean bottom to be open, they can stand back and have my open clean bottom, but they’ll be sorry.”

We were a little worried that she was so angry she might sink the plunger in their offices. We had mental images of a big bang followed by thousands and thousands of burning bog rolls falling from the sky.

Thankfully, her sense of humour prevailed and she took a more original approach.

Yes, she wrote them a letter of complaint.

On toilet paper.

Unused!

And this is what she said. “This paper has only been used once, to write on. The enclosed packaging commercial about “talking bottoms” is pathetic. Your product has only one purpose, to be flushed down the pan. My private habits are simply that. It is not your responsibility to discuss such matters on your packaging. You look puerile and I firmly suggest you leave the comedy to comedians. Your sense of humour is anything ‘butt’ soft, strong or very, very long. Now wash your hands!”

Nice touch at the end we thought. Of course, she has a point.

I know, that’s what she’s been cleaning since she was out of nappies.

Apart from that.

I mean, they called it “talking bottoms.” Are we going to have commercials with a chorus of talking bottoms singing ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin,’ ‘Bless Your Beautiful Hide,’ ‘Sitting on the Corner Watching All the Girls Go Bye’ and a special one for babies, ‘Follow the Yellow Brick Road?’

If anyone’s talking out of their bottoms, it’s the toilet roll manufacturers. If you’ve got a product that cannot go out of fashion, why the hard sell?

As long as people have bums they will always need bum rolls.

And beside, toilet rolls are used by painters and other artists. They don’t want “talking bottoms,” do they?

Years ago, people were relieved that someone had invented toilet paper. Then they didn’t have to waste their money on newspapers just so they had toilet paper.

Besides which, the print comes off newspapers and you’d have an inky bum.

But even that would be better than the “greaseproof paper” that used to pass for toilet paper in school. It used to slide off your bum.

Too much information now, I think. Let’s pop off and make a cuppa tea and wipe the slate clean. Not a euphemism!

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

and I’m Ginger.

And we’ve just got back from visiting Mrs. Poddlops.

She’s had hell of a time of it lately. She was married to a Scottish Rector, whose parishioners used to call Sexy Rector. He was also a ‘Doctor Who’ fan and she had a shock the other month when, right in the middle of Scotland going the other way, her husband revealed he was going the other way too and ran off with a young Scottish ‘Doctor Who’ fan. His full name is Steven Nathan Orville Turner. She can’t bring herself to mention his name, so she only refers to him by his initials, which, of course, spell snot.

Anyway, Mrs. Poddlops has needed counselling after all this and her psychologist, Dr. Bollox suggested as therapy that she do her own version of ‘The Meaning of Liff’ by Douglas Adams and John Lloyd, only making up words or using place names specifically relating to how she feels.

It worked so well, it looks like it might become a book in its own right. She thought she might call it ‘The Meaning of Whoff.’

She can’t stand the current ‘Doctor Whos.’ She’s got nothing against anyone Scottish or ‘Doctor Who’ fans per se and enjoyed it up to the time Russell T. Davies left. Since her husband walked out she can’t stand the combination.

Anyway, here are some of her definitions we liked very much and which we’d like to share with you.

Fashion Trendzalore – a ‘Doctor Who’ fan of a certain age whose fashion sense has been irredeemably affected by growing up watching too much ‘Doctor Who’ when he was in school, when no-one else he knew was bothered.

Dalek Relief – the act of urinating down a sewer grating on Westminster Bridge in the early hours of the morning when coming home from a night out with the boys after a ‘Doctor Who’ convention.

Parisian Farewell – a ‘Doctor Who’ fan who goes to Paris expressly to stand at the foot of the Eiffel Tower and shout up at no-one in particular “bye bye, Duggan.’

Parisian Welfare – what someone at the top of the Eiffel Tower need if someone stands at the foot of the Eiffel Tower and shouts up at them “bye bye, Duggan,” especially if their name happens to be Duggan and they worry who’s following them.

Fandabbydozy – a Scottish ‘Doctor Who’ fan who says “why can’t The Doctor be Scottish,” the answer to which should be “because he’s from Gallifrey, not Galloway.”

Gerrards Cross – an alien planet that looks just like a quarry because it is a quarry.

Krotonian – a monster costume in ‘Doctor Who’ that seemed a good idea at the time, until they saw it.

Ipswich – a ‘Doctor Who’ fan born between 1990 and 2004, therefore growing up without the programme on television regularly and always moaning ” I haven’t got my own Doctor because of the BBC.”

Gradeophobia – ‘Doctor Who’ fans who blame Michael Grade, amongst others, for getting rid of ‘Doctor Who’ in 1989, even though Michael Grade was at Channel 4 at the time, not accepting that the programme had lost all its appeal to a general audience and not accepting that the way fans reacted to the BBC didn’t help either.

Fanny – a ‘Doctor Who’ story in any media or non-fiction book only of interest to fans and with no appeal to others.

Basingstoke – a ‘Doctor Who’ fan, probably single, who watches every ‘Doctor Who’ story in chronological order, then immediately goes back to the start and does it all over again.

Kent – a ‘Doctor Who’ fan who lives under the delusion that because they like ‘Doctor Who’ everyone else in the country does too.

Birmingham – a ‘Doctor who’ fan who cannot and will not accept that, even if viewing figures plummet, it doesn’t mean that fewer people are watching.

Barnet – someone who treats anyone associated with ‘Doctor Who’ as their personal property, when they are human beings for whom ‘Doctor Who’ was one job in a long and distinguished career.

Deknob – a ‘Doctor Who’ fan who walks into a door because they’re so used to sliding doors. And what Mrs. Poddlops would secretly like to do to her husband after that fan showed him his sonic screwdriver!

Effingarsole – a ‘Doctor Who’ fan who buys a seat in the front row of a theatre showing a play with nothing to do with ‘Doctor Who’ but starring an actor associated with the programme and shouts out references associated with ‘Doctor Who,’ thus ruining the performance for everyone.

Absorbalot – a ‘Doctor Who’ fan of either gender whose weight has risen to alarming proportions because they have a whole box of chocolates whenever they watch ‘Doctor Who.’

Swindon – the difference between the number of syllables in Daleks’ lines of dialogue and the number of times their indicator lights flash on their domes.

Hope you enjoyed all that. We did and so did Mrs Poddlops.

And, as ever, we would just like to remind everyone that ‘Doctor Who’ fans like this are very rare. Don’t have nightmares and don’t find yourself hiding from ‘Doctor Who’ fans behind the sofa, as Mrs. Poddlops found herself doing.

We asked Mrs. Poddlops while we were visiting her today ” do you still miss your Sexy Rector?” and she laughed and said “not since I got my Sex Erector.”

Anyway, time for us to go now. See you next week.

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

Today is Veterans Day and Remembrance Day, when we remember the armistice and the end of the war until another one came along. World War II – The Sequel.

World War I happened because the King couldn’t get on with his cousin, the Kaiser. So they got everyone to fight for them like toy soldiers because they weren’t man enough to fight their own battles. Millions died or were seriously injured, many lost friends, fathers, husbands and lovers. They vowed it should never happen again. That’s why it did happen again 21years later.

World War II started on a Sunday. Who declares war on a Sunday? Hitler might have been all ready to reply on Monday, but the ministry was closed until Monday morning. Hitler was probably busy in church on Sunday morning, just like the British.

Whisky Tango Foxtrot is a war veteran. He was in several wars and lost all of them.

We were just chatting about it all with Rita Bladder. Her grandfather was in the Navy in World War II. He was on watch one night and called out “mine ahead, mine ahead. It’s alright, it’s one of ours”

He was decorated for that. With wallpaper paste.

My uncle was in military intelligence.

What’s intelligent about war?

Well, my uncle was intelligent.

What did he do?

He was in photo reconnaisance. He used to look at photographs all day through a magnifying glass and every time he found something interesting they sent Lancasters over to bomb it. One day he saw a strange blob on the photograph. He had no idea what it was and couldn’t explain it. So they bombed it. Then they took more photographs and it was gone. He didn’t have the heart to tell Bomber Harris the blob was a dead ant in case they made him pay for the wasted bombs out of his wages.

My uncle had a brother who had an uncle who had a cousin who was a navigator on a Lancaster during the war. One night they were looking for the French coast and they couldn’t find it. So they gave up, dumped their bombs in the channel, flew around for the rest of the night telling dirty stories and went home and made something up to keep everyone happy at the debriefing in the morning. Then it was bacon and eggs all round and then they went to bed smug in the knowledge that they stopped a lot of people dying the night before.

Let’s give peace a chance and bomb the enemy with cases of booze. Let’s call them boozebombs and let’s drop them from boozebombers. It’s much better to get bombed on booze.

I’ll drink to that!

I’ve got to say every year since 1920 we’ve been having a ceremony at the Cenotaph on Remembrance Sunday at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Now, just think about that for a moment. He was unknown in 1920, but today we can use DNA testing to identify even the most tiny of body tissue. Just look at all the good work done in New York identifying as many loved ones as possible from 9/11. So, what I say is this. In that cenotaph is some mother’s son. It’s time to let him out, identify him and give the poor sod a decent burial.

Ain’t that the truth!

Anyway, let’s lighten the mood, shall we? Rita Bladder was telling us that her father-in-law looks forward to doing the prize cryptic crossword in ‘The Times’ on a Saturday. He doesn’t finish it on a Saturday, but he does finish it. If you finish it you send it in and someone wins twenty pounds.

It’s been twenty pounds since the Titanic went down. It’s time it went up.

The Titanic?

No, the prize money.

There’s prize money for raising the Titanic?

No, the cryptic crossword.

I see. I was gonna say, don’t waste your time raising the Titanic, Lew Grade did it in 1980. I saw it on telly.

Anyway, next to the crossword they have a photograph from the archives. And they had a picture of a naked woman, from the back, on Brighton Beach because it was the anniversary of the opening of the nudist beach. It was the council’s idea.

Probably so they could sell more pairs of binoculars!

Anyway, her father-in-law couldn’t concentrate all day. When she showed her husband all he said was “good place to park a bike.” Then her busband had a great idea and stuck a large second class stamp over the offending buttocks. Looking at it, the words “second class” and “large” seemed suddenly to be appropriate and making a statement about what had just been censored. She sent us a photocopy.

I think it’s brilliant. It’s modern art and it puts Andy Warhole to shame.

It’s appropriate talking about a war hole on remembrance day. It makes you think. Better bum holes than bomb holes.

It certainly does, Ollie and much as I dislike modern art, I prefer modern arts to a naked arse any day.

Anyway, let’s go now and frame her bum in all its large, second class glory.

Where shall we hang her arse?

Where else, the downstairs toilet.

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

We’ve just been cheering up Longdistance Len. He’s a lorry driver and he was worried about his job.

So, we told him people will always need good lorry drivers and you’re a very good lorry driver. A longdistance lorry driver is a chauffeur, but with more axles. You chauffeur goods rather than people, but they must arrive without being all shaken up.

We knew him when we were little. He was our bestest friend. I never had a nan, or a nan-dad. I never had any parents either. I was orphaned before I was born.

Hang on, haven’t you run out of relatives to lose? Doesn’t that make you an abortion?

No, I was hatched. When I lost my nan and nan-dad we went looking for them, but we couldn’t find them. Someone must have picked them up and taken them away.

The police, probably.

Probably. I never had a dog or a cat either.

Not after that Christmas you didn’t.

How d’you mean?

There were four of you round that table and you all had a leg.

We were only little and times were hard at that hostel.

You weren’t any the wiser until the RSPCA came round on New Year’s Eve. Didn’t you notice the claws and guess it wasn’t a turkey?

I did notice the claws. They told me they were Santa Claws.

Didn’t you notice the smell of burning fur?

I did notice the smell of burning. The owner said it was his wife’s curling tongs overheating. I didn’t know. I like cats.

I know you do.

They’re lovely. Especially in parsley sauce.

They had awful cooks at that hostel.

They did. Even Oliver Twist said “please can I have some less.” We had horsemeat sometimes. If we were lucky.

Yes, if a horse wandered in off the gypsy site.

The owner raced horses. That one was never found after it ran backwards in the 1.40 at Kempton Park.

Dickie Davies said that on ‘World of Sport.’ I remember.

Then there was the gardener and odd job man who went missing.

First time I’d ever had a pastie with a tattoo on it.

I had a fingernail in mine. The finger was still attached.

But you tell people that today and they’d never believe you.

Just like they’d never believe about the Wigglywots.

I bet they’d never believe that the Wigglywots are wiggly shapes that live at the bottom of our garden who can wiggle into any shape.

And they have a song and dance.
They’re Wigglywots
With wiggly bots
And teeny tiny wiggly tots
And every night
They go to sleep
In sheeny shiny wiggly cots.

And they’d never believe that Wigglywots are superintelligent beings from another dimension who say that when human beings leave this plain of existence, if they’ve been good, they go to Wigglywotland.

And in Wigglywotland Robin Williams still makes people laugh, Jack Benny is still on the radio every Sunday night at 7.0, King Kong is still on his island minding his own business, Tony Hancock still talks about life with Sid James, Morecambe & Wise still make marvellous Christmas shows, Tommy Cooper still does it just like that and it’s Christmas every day.

No, they’d never believe us, but that’s their loss. What shall we do now?

We could listen to The Four Skins’ latest album. It was released yesterday on the FGM label. It’s called ‘Leave them Alone, It’s Not Right.’

We could. Or we could read today’s ‘Daily Upton.’ They’ve sorted out that problem with the typing errors.

That’s a relief. I was very disturbed by that story about Boris Johnson standing at the general erection.

Yes and the story about the ’50s popstar who has become a born a gay Christian.

And the story about Ed Miliband not being very good at self-defecating humour.

No, I tell you what.

What?

Let’s go to the bottom of the garden and say goodnight to the Wigglywots, then let’s make a cuppa tea and then let’s watch that video of ‘Boomers’ we’ve been trying to avoid ever since it was lent to us and try and work out which is the oldest, the cast or the jokes.

Yes, then let’s watch ‘Holby City’ and see if we can guess who’s going to die at the end.

Sounds good to me. Let’s go.

O.K. Goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

And we’ve just been chatting to Anne Archism.

Now, we haven’t mentioned Anne Archism before, have we?

No, we haven’t. So, let’s explain what she’s like.

Well, Anne Archism does a lot of travelling. She likes meeting people and she enjoys going places. Not by car. You can’t see the landscape if you’re too busy looking at the road, can you?

Unless you’ve got someone to hold your wheel for you.

Well, Anne Archism doesn’t have anyone to hold her wheel. She hasn’t had anyone to hold her wheel ever since her husband ran off with the milkman.

Only hears from him occasionally. At least she doesn’t have to say her husband ran off with a younger woman.

So, Anne Archism does a lot of travelling. By rail. By bus or coach. Whatever. Maybe she’s unsettled. Maybe she’s searching for something. She’s happy in herself.

She’s a sensitive soul.

Well, aren’t we all?

Anyway, what she was chatting to us about is that all the advertising and announcements get on her wick.

Yes. Take railway stations for starters. Do they say “welcome and thank you for using this railway station?” Do they, fudge flavoured ice lollies!

No, they say “if you leave your luggage unattended, it might get damaged or destroyed.” How welcoming when you’re on holiday trying to forget all your worries.

I mean, what if you leave your relatives unattended, would they get damaged or destroyed?

Imagine someone saying “where’s Uncle Harry?”

And the reply comes “he was blown up at the railway station because they thought he was a bomb and we only left him for a minute while we spent a penny!”

And they’d say “fancy someone blowing up Uncle Harry.”

It’s little things like having a relative blown up by an over-cautious railway station that can really put the mockers on your holiday.

Then there are posters for domestic violence and VD, next to advertisements for the latest films and a quote from the Bible, such as “I am the way, the truth and the life.” How eclectic!

And what upsets Anne Archism is that many people say goodbye on railway platforms. It’s very emotional. They don’t want posters about domestic violence and VD, do they?

Exactly. When Celia Johnson said goodbye to Trevor Howard in ‘Brief Encounter’ it was very passionate and emotive, but it wouldn’t be very passionate and emotive if they had a whopping great poster about domestic violence or VD in front of them! You don’t want VD in your face, not that you can!

Take buses and coaches. She saw an advertisement that showed a long road with a toilet in the distance, with the line “are you going on a long journey?” Charming!

And the point is that everyone just switches off and doesn’t notice and if all they do is switch off and ignore all this twaddle, why have we got it plastered all over the place? It reminds me of that modern art exhibition.

Oh, yes, we don’t normally bother with modern art, but it was raining.

And right there on the wall was a framed collection of polaroids of a cow in a field from nine different angles in three rows. It was called ‘Perspectives’ and it was for sale and they wanted four hundred for it.

Well, we couldn’t believe anyone would ever want to by nine polaroids of a cow. I mean, if they like cows that much they could’ve taken their own polaroids.

Now, next to this cow was the fire exit instructions and it was framed in an identical frame. So, I stood in front of the fire exit instructions and said “now, that’s brilliant. It looks calm, but it says that somewhere a fire is burning. How symbolic. How deep.”

Then I said “it is what it is and what it is, is brilliant. It counterpoints the surrealism of the underlying metaphor and the underlying metaphor is that beneath the calm a fire is blazing.”

Then we turned round and a group had developed. They were all captivated by our description of the fire exit instructions and some were even trying to find it in the catalogue and wondering how much they wanted for it.

So, we left them to it and walked out with our nose in the air like two art critics discussing its’ merits.

I often wonder if someone bought it.

They could’ve got more for those fire exit instructions than the nine cows or any of the other cobblers. At least the fire exit instructions served a purpose.

The thing is no-one wanted to show their ignorance in case they were wrong. All we were doing was being honest. We don’t understand why people want to fill their homes with pictures of large-breasted women, poorly-endowed men, bums, front-bottoms and so forth. Puts us off our dinner.

The cow was naked!

That’s not the point. Cows are entitled to be naked. If they had trousers on, it would be harder to milk them, but possibly more fun. Anyway, time for us to go now because we need a cuppa tea, a slice of cake and a chocky bickie or two.

O.K., goodnight folks, See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

And we’ve just been chatting to Walter Gate.

He’s just come back from Florida, where he’s been on a cruise to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the resignation of President Nixon.

He got home last night and he found a message for him, saying the revolution started last Thursday, just before teatime GMT.

He was very excited because he’s been looking forward to the revolution all his adult life.

Over the years he’s had several disappointments and false starts. Woodstock – 1969, when he had a little too much pounds, shillings and pence, if you know what I mean.

The Sex Pistols – 1976, when he used to play ‘Anarchy in the U.K.’ all day and night, looking for hidden meanings. He even played it backwards, looking for something. He found something. He found he needed a new stylus.

The cancellation of ‘Doctor Who’ – 1989, well, it nearly was a revolution, wasn’t it?

The poll tax riots – 1990, he’d never had so much fun in Trafalgar Square, not even on New Year’s Eve.

The collapse of the ERM of the EMU – 1992, when the Conservative government went pear-shaped following the exchange rate mechanism of the European Monetary Union going ka-bluey.

The General Election – 1997, when Labour won and Britain lost. Need I say more?

The Millenium Bug – 1999, when he waited while all the time zones went past midnight into 2000. Nothing happened. He went to bed disappointed.

Russel T. Davies leaving ‘Doctor Who’ – 2009, well, that was a revolution, wasn’t it?

But all the time Walter Gate has never seen the actual, proper, bona fide revolution. He even thought when Thatcher popped her clogs last year, all the ‘Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead’ in the charts was a signal. Of course, all it was a signal of was that Radio 1 weren’t going to be democratic and play it on their chart show.

And so, Walter Gate gets home last night and finds he’s missed it. After all these years. I mean, someone could’ve given him a ring and given him a bit of notice, couldn’t they?

What was he expecting anyway?

He doesn’t know. He’s never lived through a revolution before, so he doesn’t know what to expect.

Did he think the world would be different?

He doesn’t know, but he knows revolutions come round eventually.

Did he think the world would sound different?

He’s not sure, but he’s pretty certain that, when the revolution comes, Bruce Forsyth will no longer be on the BBC, Cliff Richard will no longer be having number ones, apart from the lavatorial variety, Terry Wogan will no longer be on radio and Carol Vorderman, Anne Robinson and Theresa May will all be in the cabinet. Frightening!

When you say ‘in the cabinet’ do you mean the government, or a large, wooden piece of furniture that sits in the corner and never does anything?

Is there a difference?

Not at the moment, it’s just that Theresa May is already in the cabinet.

Which just goes to prove the prophecies are true and the revolution must be close.

Who told him about the revolution in the first place?

It was this hippy who had just come back from meditating in Rutland and he had a vision that said, when Cliff Richard and Cilla Black had been in show business for fifty years, when Bruce Forsyth had retired, when Carol Vorderman had learnt to fly, when the leader of the Labour party looked like a plasticine puppet and when there had been twelve ‘Doctor Whos,’ look up, for the coming of the revolution is nigh.

And he said “what, right nigh?’

He did. And that was all in the ’60s. It’s all come true so far. He rang him up last night to ask him where the revolution was.

What did he say?

Not a lot. There was a message on his answerphone which said “I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right now because I’ve shot myself because the revolution has come.”

Big help!

He hadn’t really shot himself, of course. He left that message because he had a nervous breakdown and had the screaming abdabs.

What brought on the screaming abdabs”

Apparently he inadvertently watched a whole edition of ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ without a tranquiliser.

Oh, that would do it alright. So, where is the revolution?

It hasn’t come yet. It was all a misunderstanding.

No wonder Walter Gate is so downhearted.

Anyway, it’s time for us to go now and cheer him up by taking him round to Algernon, so they can compare conspiracy theories, while they listen to the latest album from the Four Skins, call ‘Peel Back Your Lugholes & Cop a Load of This.

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

And we’ve just been having a chat about programmes that’ve been on television for too long and have got out of date.

The sort of programmes that the BBC or ITV started doing shortly after the Peasants Revolt in 1381 and have been doing ever since.

Take ‘Casualty.’ It started in 1986 and it’s been going for so long the word casualty has actually gone out of common use in hospitals. You won’t find a single casualty department. They’re all accident and emergency departments. Some even just say A&E which is daft because everyone knows that stands for the Arts & Entertainment Network.

Next time you need to got to hospital cheer yourself up and wind up the receptionist by asking “is this the Arts Entertainment Network?’

Then there’s ‘Blue Peter.’ Do children really watch ‘Blue Peter’ anymore? Do children even know what a blue peter is?

Is it something to do with a nudist’s colony in winter?

No, it’s a flag on a ship!

I mean, ‘Blue Peter’ started in 1958. Is it really still watched by anyone other than nostalgic middle class adults?

Take ‘Coronation Street.’

I wish someone would!

It started in 1960. Ken Barlow said to Albert Tatlock “I’ll not be staying long in Coronation Street.” Albert Tatlock said “why not, it were alreet when you were growing up?” and probably added “ungrateful sod” under his breath, but Ken Barlow was adamant, “as soon as I finish at the polytechnic, I’ll be off.” It’s been 54 years and Ken Barlow’s still there.

If Albert Tatlock was around today, he’d turn in his grave!

I think a lot of the audience of ‘Coronation Street’ are homesick undergraduates, away from home for the first time ever, watching and thinking “me mam”ll be watching this.” Accept their mam probably isn’t watching it because she thinks it’s been crap ever since they got rid of Elsie Tanner.

It purports to represent life in Britain today. But it doesn’t”! Nowhere near. Here’s our Top Ten of Things You will Never See in ‘Coronation Street.’

You never have any characters wearing a veil. It’s Manchester. It’s a very multicultural city apparently. Why aren’t there any characters who wear a veil? I suppose because there would be complaints from viewers who lip read.

You never have any live music or stand-up comedy at the Rovers Return. Mysteriously it also closes according to the old licensing hours. In real life it would’ve gone bust years ago.

You never have any political discussions. There are never any by-elections and they’re never affected by general elections.

You never have any characters going to Afghanistan or Iraq. There is never any discussion about world events. In the dreamworld of ‘Coronation Street’ there was never a war in Afghanistan, there was never a war in Iraq, there is no threat from terrorism and 9/11 never happened. It’s still purporting to reflect real life, though!

You never have anyone who needs a short-term loan. They’re not rich, but they’re not counting every penny either.

You never get any property developers wanting to turn Coronation Street into luxury flats. The chance would be a fine thing.

You never have any characters complaining about disabled access to the Rovers Return or the corner shop. Have you ever seen anyone in a wheelchair in the Rovers Return? Neither have I.

You never see anyone having trouble finding a parking space. Coronation Street is a row of terraced houses. No driveways, so why isn’t the road packed with cars parked end to end?

You never have any religious or philosophical discussions. In real life you have a cross-section of people, some with beliefs, some without. If it purports to reflect real life this would normally be reflected. No-one’s been religious since they demolished the mission hall in 1968.

You never have any characters who talk about soap operas. In the dreamworld of soap operas there are no soap operas, only real life.

What angers me is that people were always criticising ‘Crossroads,’ but it was the most true-to-life of the lot. There was Sandy in a wheelchair from 1972 and there was Diane looking after a Down’s Syndrome child in 1984 and there was the mentally-difficult life of Benny. They never shouted about have a character in a wheelchair and a Downs’s Syndrome child and a special needs adult, they just did it, therefore ‘Crossroads’ was the best. Often the Crossroads Motel was threatened with closure and from time to time it did have new owners. True to life. It started in 1964, when motels were new and it moved on and added a garage, beauty parlour, leisure centre and swimming pool. True to life. And it was the best continuing serial in Britain, but ITV dumped it and stuck with all the others that did not reflect reality instead. Very true to life.

Radio is no less anachronistic, especially Radio 4. ‘Today’ has been plodding and bullying since 1957. ‘Woman’s Hour’ has been preaching and moaning since 1946. then there’s a ‘Book at Bedtime.’ Who listens? It started around 1949 and who goes to bed at 10.45 anyway? Then there’s ‘The Archers.’ It started as a regional programme in 1950. It does, unlike similar things on television, reflect real life, but it’s real life if you live in a farming community or quaint little village only. There’s more reality in our lovely little village of Upton Went.

Speaking of which, we’re off now to catch up on all the local gossip at Katarina’s World Famous Greek Restaurant.

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

And we’ve got a sad tale to tell this week.

All about “Shedshagger Jackson,” as he’s come to be known.

Yes, he gained this epithet after leaving his wife of eighteen years for his shed.

Now, you might understand if it was a big job, with a big pair of double doors, skylight and built in sauna, but he left his wife for an ordinary four-sided, plain, single-door, flat-roof shed.

Maybe the shed was making eyes at him.

Don’t be daft. It’s a shed. How can it make eyes at him?

Then what did he see in it, then?

I have no idea. I mean, sheds are for storing your tools in, not for using your tools out on. Sheds shouldn’t give you an orgasm.

You mean he actually gets pleasure out of his shed?

He does. I mean, lots of men are sad, boring idiots who spend all their time in the shed, or the garden or some other awful place only a man with no imagination could stand.

But, you’re telling me that he actually gets pleasure in the carnal sense from that shed?

I am indeed saying that very same thing.

That shed must be a slut!

There’s many a happy marriage broken by a shed fluttering its’ eyelashes at a man.

And before you know it he’s inserting his key in its’ keyhole and letting himself in.

Exactly, then the wife says “either the shed goes, or I go.”

And the man chooses the shed every time. It’s the same story all over again. Some home-breaking trollop of a shed sits there in his garden, biding its’ time until he falls for its’ wooden, shallow charms.

What about at night? He doesn’t, does he?

He does. He sleeps with that shed as if they were man and wife.

Disgusting. Sheds are for storing things in, not for sleeping with.

Besides, the other month he got just what he deserved when he caught something off that slut of a shed.

You mean VD?

No, he got a splinter in a very embarrassing place. He had to go to the casualty department and sheepishly try and come up with a plausible reason how the splinter got there. It was shameful. Everyone knew the truth. They see a lot of shed splinters from sleeping with a shed.

Disgusting. That shed is young enough to be his granddaughter. He ought to be ashamed of himself.

It gets worse.

How?

He met other people on the darker corners of the internet who swap indecent images of naked sheds. Some of them very young indeed.

You mean he went from being a dirty old man to being a fully-blown shedophile!

He did!

That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard. These shedophiles are sick, perverted monsters who should be locked up and the key thrown away, don’t you think?

It gets worse.

How?

He got together with other shedophiles and held shed swapping parties, plying innocent sheds with metholated spirits and forcing them to French Polish each other.

The animals!

It all caught up with him last week. One of their shed orgies was raided by Detective Inspector Treehouse of Special Branch. They were onto them as soon as they started swapping images of naked sheds and when they bought all that French Polish it was a dead giveaway. Also, when he got that splinter in an embarrassing place the casualty department were duty bound to report it. We didn’t think of that. They were all caught shedhanded. All the sheds were taken into protective custody and offered counselling.

Thankfully we don’t have anyone like that in our lovely little village of Upton Went.

Yes, all this happened in the awful village of Upton Fled. Of course, what makes tracking down real shedophiles even harder than it otherwise would, is that some sheds make up false allegations, or they exaggerate perfectly innocent experiences, just so they can get paid by a tabloid journalist, get a public figure into trouble, or draw attention to themselves. These sheds make it harder for genuine sheds to have the courage to speak up and be believed about genuine cases of shed abuse.

Before we go, we’d just like to say that shed abuse is very rare. Don’t have nightmares. See you next week.

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

And we’ve just got back from Wally Wanka’s Sweet Emporium, where anything can happen. He comes up with all these amazing recipes and makes very special sweets and chocolates. At Wally Wanka’s Sweet Emporium you can not only get Ma’s bars, you can get Pa’s bars too, for the sake of equality.

His wine gums have got real vintage wine in them.

His smarties really do make you smart by increasing your intelligence for up to eight hours after eating them. That’s probably why our lovely little village of Upton Went has the best exam results in the country.

Whisper bars really do lower the volume of your voice.

And, as regular customers, Wally Wanka asked us to try out his latest invention, Mood Sweets, reputed to literally alter your personality.

So, we’re going to try out this experiment right now.

We certainly are. Wally Wanka asked us to record our observations, so what better way?

Right, I’m going to start by eating a red one.

And I’ll observe what happens.

Right, I’m chewing. No change appears to be happening yet.

Perhaps you need to swallow.

Maybe, but, as the Reverend Archie Farcnad said last Sunday, just because you ask a prostitute for oral sex on March 2lst doesn’t make it the first swallow of spring.

Oh, that’s rude!

Oh, yes it is, isn’t it? I wouldn’t normally say something like that.

Perhaps that’s what red one do, they make you rude.

They might do, but just because a person’s name is Peter File, it doesn’t make it embarrassing if he heads an inquiry into misconduct at a care home.

Oh, that’s even ruder!

Oh, yes it is, isn’t it? I would never think such a thing, would I?

These red ones are potentially dangerous.

Yes, they are, but what I don’t understand is how two very morbidly obese people manage to have sex. How can they possibly get that close. Do they use a turkey baster?

Oh, that’s even ruder again!

Oh, yes it is, isn’t it? I’d never say such a thing, although I have wondered.

Have a green one, quick, before you say anything else rude.

O.K, I’m chewing.

Good. I’ll write down for Wally Wanka that red ones are lethal and should not be sold to anyone over eighteen, if at all.

I wonder what the green ones do.

So do I, but surely it can’t be worse that the red ones.

Two cannibals eating a clown. One turns to the other and says “does this taste funny to you?”

Was that the green ones?

No, that was me. I was trying to lighten the tension.

Don’t confuse me. We must do this scientifically.

But what’s the point of doing it scientifically when science says the world’s going to end and we’re all going to die?

Oh, that’s depressing.

Oh, yes it is, isn’t it? I wouldn’t normally talk like that, would I?

Perhaps the green ones make you say depressing things.

Maybe, but what does it matter when the oil’s running out, there isn’t enough food to feed the world and sea levels are rising?

Oh, that’s even more depressing.

Oh, yes it is, isn’t it? I would never think of such things, not me.

Have a pink one before you depress us all to death.

O.K, I’m chewing.

I’ll tell Wally Wanka that green ones should only be sold to scientists, ecologists and pop stars.

I wonder what the pink ones do.

So do I, but it can’t be worse than the red and green ones. Why are you taking all your clothes off?

Well, that does it! I’m going to tell Wally Wanka that, unless he wants to sell them to adults only, to break the ice at naughty parties, he should burn the recipe immediately.

Are you really sure Wally Wanka should burn the recipe?

Yes, I definitely think he should burn the recipe. I’m going to tell him tomorrow. Afterwards.

After what?

After you give me another of those pink ones!

Oh, you are awful, but I like you.

We’ll see you again next week, when we’ve come back down to earth.

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

And we’ve just got back from visiting Whisky Tango Foxtrot.

He needs cheering up. He’s had a fudging awful time of it recently and as you know he would never hurt anyone, ever.

And guess what the cause was. I’ll give you a clue. Imagine someone who has sewage for blood, manure for brains and cannot open their mouth without spewing gallons of radioactive, foul-smelling vomit. The scum of the earth. The spawn of pure evil. Worse than a politician, tabloid journalist and banker put together.

That’s right. An estate agent!

Cue clap of thunder!

Yes, Whisky Tango Foxtrot has finally started to get over his post-traumatic stress disorder and in the space of a couple of months some mother-fudging estate agent has set him back years.

It’s not good enough. Whisky Tango Foxtrot is a sensitive soul.

Well, aren’t we all?

And all he wanted to do was move house, to be nearer his auntie and as you know he would never hurt anyone, ever.

He had several estate agents round for an interview and he interrogated them while Fango, his pet tiger, watched them with not just one beady eye, but two.

He asked them, “who is most important to you, the buyer or the seller?” If anyone said the buyer, they were bodily thrown out and Fango peed all over them, regardless of who they were.

One estate agent said “I can’t conduct viewings if you’re in attendance because I can’t stand clutter.”

Whisky Tango Foxtrot told him in no uncertain terms that he was not “clutter,” he was the person who lived there and who would’ve employed him. Then Fango was sick all over him and Whisky Tango Foxtrot threw him bodily out of the house, while giving him an instant crash course on every swear word ever imagined in the history of the human race.

One estate agent said “I know all about you. I even know the date you last moved.” Cheeky sod!

Whisky Tango Foxtrot felt very offended and he told us he felt “mentally violated,” so he decided to mentally violate the estate agents and inserted a nearby broom where the sun doesn’t usually shine and where the formerly highflying estate agent might’ve thought the sun did shine out of. Having learnt his lesson, changed his arrogant attitude and learnt a few lessons in how not to annoy a potential client, the estate agent is now selling the ‘Big Issue’ with a voice raised by two octaves and grateful of a job he can do standing up.

Every estate agent he interrogated noticed how Fango got closer every time Whisky Tango Foxtrot got a little nervous. He is very sensitive and loyal to his master and is very protective. At one point, one estate agent agitated Whisky Tango Foxtrot by talking too much and Fango instinctively put his paw on the estate agent’s leg. It was a good job the armchair was a mix of piss-yellow and puke-green because that’s exactly how the estate agent decorated it. Whisky Tango Foxtrot called him “a disgusting animal” and bodily threw him out of the house.

Good job he wasn’t sat in the shite-brown armchair.

Eventually Whisky Tango Foxtrot engaged ‘F. King, B. Stard, R. Soul, S.O.B. Limited-intelligence Estate Agents.’

They said the seller was most important to them, as their clients and according to their own code of practice. They lied!

If they were a property, they would be “open plan, condemned, with plenty of space between the ears and plenty of room for improvement.”

Get the idea? Good!

Warning. The following contains images unsuitable for estate agents of a nervous disposition. Viewer discretion is required.

Anyway, Whisky Tango Foxtrot found a house he like, made an offer, which was accepted, engaged a conveyancer, got an offer, which he accepted, then all hell broke loose.

Despite now working with his conveyancer, the estate agents kept on phoning and e-mailing daily and the buyers insisted on moving before he could.

They were pushy gits and expected him to move straight away, before having a survey, land search or anything because of their buyers’ mortgage. The stress started to get too much for him. Even Fango was off his food. His conveyancer told them to back off and wait. The estate agents kept on at him almost daily, biased in the buyers’ favour. He warned them, so did his conveyancer. They didn’t take the hint. So, Whisky Tango Foxtrot decided to put the frighteners on the estate agents just for fun. And who in their right mind could blame him? You see, everything came to a head when he received a red e-mail from the estate agents, which started off his post-traumatic stress disorder again, telling him to hurry up and get out of his legal property and into rented accommodation. Poor dab!

So, he rang the estate agent and said “can you come round for a little chat, please?” He did. Whisky Tango Foxtrot sat him in an armchair. He decided to use the shite-brown one, just in case. Fango stood guard. Whisky Tango Foxtrot pulled out a penknife, with absolutely no intention of hurting him and said “you sent me a red e-mail. I didn’t appreciate that. It brought on my post-traumatic stress disorder and I was getting better.” As the sweat started to pour off the estate agent he opened his shirt a button at a time, slowly and said “now I’m going to turn you into a red e-mail too because I’m going to write my reply on your chest with this.”

There was suddenly a farty smell in the air and the estate agent ran out of the house, screaming. Whisky Tango Foxtrot roared with laughter and Fango just roared. Since then he’s got his conveyancer to tell them again and this time they took the hint. He’s decided not to move after all. His auntie’s close enough! We brought him a present today. An Action Man dressed as an estate agent, for him to stick pins into. He loves it.

Before we go, we’d just like to say estate agents this thick are very rare. Don’t have nightmares. Aren’t they?

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

Hope you enjoyed the wedding last week. We did.

If you’re wondering why we aren’t on our honeymoon, we’re going to have it later.

Not a euphanism.

We’re going to have our honeymoon when we get our breath back.

Also not a euphanism.

When we’ve made our mind up where we want to go.

You’ll remember that everyone came to our wedding, including Botox Betty.

Unfortunately, the day after the wedding Botox Betty was playing squash and she got hit in the face with a shuttlecock.

She got hit in the face by a shuttled cock while she was being squashed.

No, a shuttlecock. it’s no joke. Her latest facelift fell off. She should’ve stuck to ping pong.

Mr Ping Pong hit her with a shuttled cock while he was squashing her?

No, there is no Mr. Ping Pong. I never mentioned a Mr. Ping Pong. Botox Betty was taken into the canteen at the leisure centre and fell against the dining room doors.

So Mr. Ping Pong had squashed Diana Dors as well?

What’s Diana Dors got to do with it? I never mentioned Diana Dors.

Yes you did. Was it Diana Dors who first discovered Mr. Ping Pong has a shuttled cock?

There is no Mr. Ping Pong and I never mentioned Diana Dors. I said Botox Betty had an accident against the dining room doors.

Mr. Ping Pong had Botox Betty against the dining room doors? No wonder he’s got a shuttled cock!

Please try to understand, there is no Mr. Ping Pong. In fact Botox Betty had to be seen by a doctor because her facelift had fallen off.

Someone might’ve picked it up.

No, not that sort of fallen. She had to go and have her latest Botox treatment redone. First she needed to be treated for shock.

What sort of doctor was he? A doctor doctor or a different doctor? It’s confusing. You have doctors who are doctors of medicine and doctors who are doctors of philosophy.

That’s because medicine was a philosophy when Hippo Crates started it all off in Greece.

That musical with John Revolting and Olivia Newton Abbot?

No, the country.

So, there were doctors who were doctors of philosophy before there were doctors who were doctors of medicine?

Yes and doctor doctors mucked it all up by having their own MD thingy instead of being PhDs because they didn’t feel special enough. PhDs are special enough for anyone. Ask Botox Betty.

So, you can have MD doctors and PhD doctors, so to speak?

Yes, MD is a doctor of medicine. It should be DM, but then they might think they’re Danger Mouse. PhD is a doctor of philosophy. It should be DPh, but they might think that means doughnuts per hour.

I don’t agree with all that tackle about ageing celebrities trying to look younger by have some doctor doctor in a clinic fill a syringe with fat from their bums and squirting it at their foreheads.

Well, Botox Betty can’t help it, can she?

Cliff Richard does all that tackle, doesn’t he?

So I’ve heard. He does it every couple of months or whatever.

It’s a wonder he can sit down at all without a rubber ring. His bum must be raw. No wonder he’d had a number one every year for ages.

Lulu does that as well, doesn’t she?

What, have a number one for ages?

No, had a syringe from her bum on her forehead.

Has she?

What worries me is what if they go on a busy day and someone get the syringes mixed up?

Well, how d’you mean?

Well, Lulu could have Cliff Richard’s bum splashed in her face!

I hope Botox Betty doesn’t have Cliff Richard’s bum splashed in her face. It’s been enough of a shock having Mr. Ping Pong squash his shuttled cock in her face against the dining room doors at the leisure centre.

There is no Mr. Ping Pong and Botox Betty’s never met Cliff Richard.

This is all very confusing.

Say goodnight to everyone and I’ll explain it to you again.

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

And we’d like to welcome you all to our first anniversary special.

Yes, it was last September that we started telling you all about our lovely little village of Upton Went.

Of course, we could tell you something every day, but we chose from the start to give you a weekly round-up of what’s new in Upton Went because we want you to have quality and frankly we need the rest of the week to unwind because some very strange things happen in Upton Went.

Now, as you’ll remember, this past week has been a very special week for us.

Yes, we’ve just got back from our wedding.

More of that later, but first we wanted to tell you about another wedding because we weren’t the only couple getting married in Upton Went this week.

Yes, the head of the Upton Went Tennis Club married a Russian female tennis player, Maria Clitova and said “If I’d known she came in bed as loud as she plays tennis, I’d never’ve bothered.”

It’s no joke, he needs earplugs in bed.

Now, you may well say “why didn’t they ‘make the beast with two backs’ as Shakespeare sensitively put it before they got spliced?” Why didn’t they have a ding dong before they did the ding dong number in church? Well, she’s a staunch member of the orthodox church, so no ice cream before she gets the wafer!

He said he wishes he’d listened to what his mother said.

What did his mother say?

He doesn’t know. He never listened, but it’s put him off Wimbledon for life.

Talk about “new balls, please!”

Anyway, about our big day. Whisky Tango Foxtrot was our best man and Fango his pet tiger was a bridesmaid. We hired a vintage Rolls Royce from Dick Wiggling for the day. We had a choice. He also had a 1982 Oldsmobile that was driven through a wall on ‘Dempsey & Makepeace’ in 1986, so we said no to that and a Bentley that was regularly hired by Jennie Bond when she was a Royal correspondent, but as Apple said she couldn’t stand her, we said no to that too. We had Flash Gordon to do the photographs. He was excellent.

We couldn’t make up our minds who should wear the wedding dress, or if either of us should because we were determined not to be held by gender stereotypes and we neither believe in pseudo-macho cobblers or pseudo-feminist machismo, whatever all that means, so we decided it was very liberating if we both wore the wedding dress, but we kept the veils up, otherwise we wouldn’t know who the hell was talking.

Kiri de Canopener sang at the ceremony. She sang ‘I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing’ while drinking a Coco-cola, ‘Always Look On the Bright Side of Life’ and ‘In the Mood’ which was very clever because it doesn’t have any words. Silly Sausage and Camp Freddie did the flowers, which was very brave of Camp Freddie because he suffers with hay fever. And we had the Reverend Archie Farcnad doing the service, even though we didn’t want a church do.

No, we hired the manor house for the ceremony and the grounds for the reception. It all once belonged to Sir Learnalot and Lady Yawnalot, Upton Wentalot.

Everyone was invited and everyone came. We had a buffet in marquees which Algernon thought were UFOs. Everyone decided to bring something for the buffet as a wedding present. They were all there, Sy & Phyllis, the Rods & the Mockers, who played during the buffet, Chlorine Doreen, Nosey Bonk, Gordon, Gladys Platt, Art Steeker, Walter Gate, Dr. Aspirin, Foot-in-mouth Denise, Wilfrid B. Cribbins, Davros in his mobility scooter, Shovel-it Sid, Nina Naughtie, Susie Myrical, Timmy Tadpole, Seamus Pike, Tattie McIntosh, Big Bad Bovver Sheila, Miserable Les & his wife, Patsie brought plonk from the Silly Cow, Yvonne Gingerly, Mike & Mandie Cods-wallop, Botox Betty, with her latest face, Katarina & Nicos, from Katarina’s World Famous Greek Restaurant, Hylda Picklethwick, Tattie Fashion-sense, Lugless Douglass, Sue Doku, who came and did another fiendish one during the ceremony, Gory Gabby, Suitcase Sam, Saddlesore Sally, Margery Joan Hooper-Bargery, Rudolf Nearenough, who danced the Nutcracker Suite from Carmen, well that’s near enough, Dan Dan the Spandex Man, who came on his bike as usual, Martin Wellbourne, Jason Bubble, Estella Caste, Hildegarde Withers & her husband, Percy, Christmas Carol, Banana & Pineapple Smith and Granny Smith.

Lady Gaga Williams & Flossy Follyfoot Effingham-Smythe provided a pony and trap to take us from the manor house to the marquee, which pleased Shovel-it Sid no end.

And Larry & Barry, Eric, Eric & Eric Moleturd, Mavis Jollybottom & John Yogi Bear all chipped in to pay for a hot air ballon, which flew us all over Upton Went and while we were flying around the Four Skins sang their latest number.

No idea what it was like or even what it was called because we never heard it, thankfully.

When we came back down to earth again everyone cheered.

Altogether it was a wonderful day. Everyone had a marvellous time.

As we drove off Fango was chasing after the Reverend Archie Farcnad, Algernon was chasing after the marquee and Big Bad Bovver Sheila was chasing after Kiri de Canopener.

Anyway, it’s been a long day, but it’s been a very special day, so we’d better go now. Thank you for all your best wishes and support and we’ll see you next week.

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

We’ve just been listening to Radio Upton.

And they had a phone-in about “your favourite curry.”

And one bloke rang in and said his favourite curry was fruit curry.

Well, we couldn’t stop laughing. For some unfathomable reason we suddenly found that the words “fruit curry” make us laugh uncontrollably.

I have no idea why. the words aren’t funny by themselves, but somehow, when put side-by-side, they produce a chain reaction followed by a huge explosion.

Not unlike fruit curry.

I imagine this bloke who rang in talking about fruit curry was living alone, or if not whoever lives with him must be very understanding, or have a very poor sense of smell, or love fruit curry as much as he does, in which case dinner parties must either be conducted with every window wide open, or a gas mask, or with other people who love fruit curry, in which case it must sound like that scene in ‘Blazing Saddles’ where all the cowboys are sat round the campfire eating beans.

And that’s a frightening thought.

Can you imagine two things that should never meet on your insides worse than fruit and curry?

It would be like eating a heavy meal and then drinking a pint of ice-cold orange juice straight from the fridge and then waiting for it to get to your bowels and waiting for the eruption.

Talk about odd jobs. You’d never be off the toilet. Come to think of it there was a distinct echo when that bloke rang in. Perhaps he was on the toilet when was on that phone-in.

I mean, what has always worried me was what if I died on the toilet? Now, I’ve heard of people dying on the toilet and I’ve come to the conclusion that it can only be the strain of actually going to the toilet that causes them to die on the toilet. That means it can’t be when they’re doing number ones. It must be when they’re doing number twos.

Or number threes.

What are number threes?

When you need to do a number one and a number two.

What, simultaneously?

No, one after the other. You can’t do both simultaneously. Your bladder and bowel muscles won’t let you.

I’m glad to say I’ve never put it to the test.

I have and that’s why I think fruit and curry are two things that should never meet in your insides at the same time.

It’s embarrassing enough to think you might die on the toilet, but to think you might die on the toilet after having fruit curry just doesn’t bear thinking about. What worries me even more is what if I died on the toilet while I was still in the process of doing number twos and I hadn’t finished?

I think there would be an involuntary muscular spasm that would complete the process.

But people who shoot themselves in the head have rigor mortis come on immediately because of the shock to the brain.

Are you likely to shoot yourself in the head while sitting on the toilet?

Probably not.

Then you have nothing to worry about.

But there might be a shock to my brain when I die causing rigor mortis to come on immediately. I saw it on ‘Columbo.’

It’s very, very unlikely to happen that you die in that precise way while you’re sitting on the toilet.

But what if I did?

You have nothing to worry about.

I suppose if I got to the morgue and they realised I’d died on the toilet, in the middle of number twos, toilet interruptus, as it were, they could always get someone to yank it out with a pair of forceps. I don’t want to be embarrassed when I’m dead.

I really think you have nothing to worry about. Honestly I do. Change the subject.

Alright. I heard Silly Sausage took a pot noodle back to the shop the other day. They were a bit stroppy about giving her the money back.

Really?

Yes, so she came back, demanded to speak to the manager, told the manager the pot noodle made her husband ill, said “here’s the pot noodle,” said “here’s my receipt” and said “here’s all the sick I put in this carrier bag to prove it made my husband ill and if you look in the bag you can clearly see that, whereas that is beer and crisps, that there is definitely a noodle and that there is a pea. Now, can I have my money back?”

And did she get her money back?

Absolutely. Tip for all consumers. If you experience problems getting your money back, bring them the sick. Works every time.

Well, that seems an appropriate moment to say goodnight. By the way, dinner is fruit curry followed by pot noodle. Just kidding.

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

We haven’t mentioned Whisky Tango Foxtrot for a while, have we?

Well, he’s getting over his Post-traumatic Stress Disorder and he’s been writing his war memoirs.

It’s just been published and he gave us a copy as a wedding present. It’s called ‘Bigger Than Patton, Better Than Peace – How I Won Every War I’ve Been In.’

Great title. The trouble is Whisky Tango Foxtrot didn’t realise the publishers thought it was a spoof rather than his actual war memoirs and they’ve marketed it as a humourous book.

We haven’t got the heart to tell him.

Well, how can we? I mean, could you?

You’ve only got to look at the reviews.

On the ‘back-of-book blurb’ it quotes ‘The Times’ as saying “a ludicrous, very funny fusion of fact and comic fantasy.”

‘The Daily Telegraph’ says “a dense dumpling of a book,” whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.

‘The Daily Express’ says “hilariously irreverent.”

‘The Guardian’ says “it’s a masterpiece in tongue-in-cheek egomania, a comic tour-de-force, or, if you are the ghost of Mary Whitehouse, it’s a nasty, smelly, subversive book about an incurable bighead who should never have been allowed in print.”

And the ‘Radio Times’ said “it’s full of fun and laughter, but a word of warning – don’t read it in public, the belly-laughs may cause embarrassment.”

Best of all, the ‘Church Times’ said “it should get a few old farts in Tunbridge Wells trying to work out how to send e-mails.”

We had a look at the reviews on Amazon. One person said “bought this for my wife who didn’t know much about war. Now a big fan. Delivery spot on.”

Why is it so many people review things on Amazon without actually saying anything about the thing they’re reviewing, but never forget to say something about the delivery?”

Here’s another one. “Ordered it Monday. Came the next day. Highly recommended. Buy it.”

Another said “a lunatic, maniac, hysterical, fast-paced, rip-roaring, laught-out-loud, rollercoaster of a read. Very, very funny. Buy it.” What’s he on?

Another said “I’m a big fan. Ooer! Sounds like that could get a bit rude!” What planet were they from?

One strange person said “a great read for any war fan. Very funny and highly recommended for anyone, especially if you enjoyed the Gulf War and Wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Words fail me.

The strangest was one that said “saw the Gulf War on TV, enjoyed the book even more. Laughed out loud. I’ve read some of the reviews and they’re far easier reading ‘Noddy’ by the sound of it. Some people recommend reading it in bitesize chunks. That’s fair to say as long as it’s about a line at a time.”

Sad, isn’t it? A veteran of the armed forces spends about 20 years of his life in the army. Serves in the Gulf War, Somalia, Bosnia, Afghanistan and Iraq. Ends up being pensioned off because of Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. Can’t cope with life. Can’t live with his memories. Won’t give in. Has a pet tiger that he loves more than anything in the world. Starts to get better by writing his memoirs and all that happens is people laugh. And the worst of it is he doesn’t even realise they’re laughing at him.

Very true. Upton Went has a lot of writers in it. It’s very prolific. It’s a writer’s village.

I mean, people may laugh at Whisky Tango Foxtrot, just because he has a pet tiger and drives a tank, but he’s seen more friends blown apart than most people will ever have in their lives. He’s seen things no-one should see. It’s all he knows. And it’s all he’s ever known. All he ever wanted to do was drive a tank, like the Action Man one he had as a boy. Then the Gulf War happened and then Somalia happened and then Bosnia happened and then Afghanistan happened and then Iraq happened and then Post-traumatic Stress Disorder happened.

And Post-traumatic Stress Disorder is Whisky Tango Foxtrot’s last war. He fights it every day. And he never regrets how his life’s worked out. He’s never bitter. And there’s no hate or anger in him. Not one drop.

For instance, he was interviewed about his autobiography on Radio Upton’s weekly look at what’s new in books, ‘Between the Covers’ and he was asked if he was proud of his war record and he said “no, I’ve got a terrible singing voice.”

He was asked what he thought of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and he said “it’s been nearly a century since that bloke was buried there and I think it’s about time they pulled their finger out and worked out who he is, I mean, if they can work out who Richard III is, they can work out who that soldier is.”

And he was asked what were his favourite and least favourite war films and he said ” the best war film I ever saw was ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’ and the worst film I ever saw was ‘Saving Ryan’s Privates’.”

Anyway, as Whisky Tango Foxtrot was good enough to give us a copy of his autobiography as a present, we’re going to go now and read it, between the covers.

By the way, he signed it.

And so did his pet tiger, Fango.

On that note, we’ll say goodnight.

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

And we’ve just got engaged!

That’s it, break it to them gently.

Well, I was all excited, wasn’t I?

Well, so am I, but I thought we could lead up to it with a drum roll.

Oh, drum rolls. We’ll have them at the reception.

Well, anyway, it’s true folks. We’ve been and gone and done it.

Done what?

Done the Ding Dong Number.

The Ding Dong Number?

Yes, we’re hearing bells.

What, titty-thingy that rings in your ears?

No, wedding bells, dopey.

Oh, got you.

We have arranged to be joined in holy matrimony.

Is it really going to be holy?

Well, the thing’ll cost to the high heavens.

Yes, but our love is heaven-sent, sod the cost!

Well put.

We’ve been together now…

…for 40years and it don’t seem a day too long.

Not quite. We’ve been together for 17years. We first became a couple in 1997.

That’s right and I always said we should last longer than Blair.

Yes, that’s right. Blair lasted 10years, but our love is here to stay, so sod ’em.

Well put again.

Anyway, we were discussing how much a Ding Dong Number would cost.

And as we got talking about it, we thought we might as well go and have a chat about it.

So we did.

We went to the Registrar because I knew we didn’t want a church thingy.

And the first thing I noticed when we went into his office for a chat was the Union Jack on a flagpole in the corner.

Yes and I said “that’s very patriotic, having the flag in the corner.”

And he said “that’s only there for citizenship ceremonies for immigrants.”

So that was the end of that thought.

Back home in the States we’re used to seeing the Stars & Stripes in the corner of offices, but the British seem shy of using their flag.

Pity. Nice flag.

We always had the flag flying from the town hall back home in Birmingham, Alabama.

And so did we back home in Gloucester, Connecticut.

We came to Britain as students, you see.

I was studying Journalism.

And I was studying the other students, until we met.

And we stayed here.

And we stayed together.

And now we’ve decided to do the Ding Dong Number.

Yes, we got home from meeting with the Registrar, you see.

And we read all the bumf.

And we went and made a cuppa tea.

And while we were in the kitchen, I said “I suppose you do want to?”

And I said “I do if you do.”

And so we did, or rather we will, in 4weeks time, the first week of September, which is also the first anniversary of ‘Apple & Ginger’s Roadshow.’

So, you see, we never actually proposed because we both just knew, really.

If you had proposed, would you have got down on one knee.

No.

Why not?

I’d never get up again, would I?

Neither would I come to think of it. Anyway, more next week. It’s time for us to go now.

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

We’ve just been chatting to Sy & Phyllis.

They work at the Upton Went Sex Clinic.

Not that there’s a lot of VD in Upton Went.

No, the Upton Went Sex Clinic is a private establishment for people from elsewhere who need treating for VD, but don’t want anyone to know about it.

That’s why it’s called the Upton Went Sex Clinic. If it really was a sex clinic, it would never be called a sex clinic, so it can’t be a sex clinic, so everyone can deny they’re at a sex clinic.

Now, Sy & Phyllis have a blue strip along the top of their car windscreen.

Imagine, people going to the sex clinic to have their VD treated and there in the car park is a Mini Metro with Syphillis written along the windscreen.

In their spare time Sy & Phyllis do amateur dramatics at the Central Upton National Theatre, just up the road.

They were in a contemporary Shakespeare season, in Hot Fellow & The Temp Post, set in an office run by a pervert.

When they’re not spending their evenings on stage with the Central Upton National Theatre, they do a lot of volunteering.

For a start they volunteer to help judge the cooking society’s latest efforts. What the hell, it’s a free nosh-up and it’s only once every few months.

However, they probably won’t be going there anymore. They were disgusted last time that one person made dough out of a special recipe mainly based on peas, would you believe and what really disgusted them, apart from the taste, was the rude shapes he made the dough into.

Yes, they both thought he was a pervert and didn’t want anything to do with him.

He even produced an entire set of files he’d put together on different shapes and recipes for his pea dough.

This was the last straw. Sy & Phyllis told him straight that Pea Dough Files are sick and anyone who has anything but loathing for them ought to be locked up.

So, they won’t be going there anymore.

What they’ll probably be doing more of instead is putting leaflets in envelopes for two local political parties, the Rods and the Mockers. They work for one each.

So they cancel each out.

That’s democracy for you!

The Rods are in favour of getting Upton Went out of the EU, whereas the Mockers are an old established party who are in favour of staying in the EU, but have promised a straight in-out referendum by the end of 2017.

They put a poster up for the Mockers at the Upton Went Sex Clinic about the EU referendum.

It was next to a poster about the signs of VD and read “A Straight In-out Is Best.”

Anyway, the Rods and the Mockers don’t exactly see eye-to-eye, as you might expect. They dress different too. The Rods are always smartly dressed in sharp suits, whereas the Mockers wear black leathers and never wear a tie because they think it makes them look more trendy.

One of the Mockers told Sy & Phyllis he made their logo out of fablon and stuck it on the back of his leather jacket.

He had real fablon on the back and real flab on the front!

And one of the Rods said they were the way they were because of “teenage rebelliation.” He’s an English teacher!

Every bank holiday Monday the Rods and the Mockers end up fighting in seaside resorts in the southeast, especially as they both have their party conferences at seaside resorts.

Every bank holiday Monday they end up fighting. The Rods go into a public house, have a pint, hold a press conference and then have a fight with any Mockers anywhere near. the Mockers go looking for trouble making fun of the Rods because they don’t think they’re a serious political force.

Then the Mockers have a shock when they find the Rods are getting all the votes and many Rods are disaffected Mockers who the Mockers think will leave the Rods come the next general election, but I wouldn’t be so sure.

The Mockers failed to win an overall majority at the 2010 general election and had to go into coalition with the Vacuous Democrats, but the Vacuous Democrats have lost all their support because they promised tuition fees wouldn’t go up at the Upton Went Adult Education Centre and tuition fees have tripled at the Upton Went Adult Education Centre since the start of the coalition.

So, the Vacuous Democrats have had it. So have the other old established political party, the Forced Labour Party.

Therefore, when the next general election comes by next May, it’s down to the Mockers hoping to win an overall manority, otherwise they’d have to enter into a coalition with the Rods and then there would be more fireworks than the Chinese New Year.

Anyway, that’s all from us for this week. See you next week. Say goodnight to the nice ladies and gentlemen, wherever they may be.

O.K., goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

We were just chatting to Chlorine Doreen. She works as a lifeguard at the swimming baths, Upton Splash. She’s the only person who can visit someone in hospital and not notice the funny smell because she smells the same.

She’s had a busy day. One swimming customer was a television director on a gardening series. the producer thought the programme needed “sexing up,” hate that expression, so next week they’re doing a programme where the Metropolitan Police will be giving a man’s garden a makeover as they look for the body of his wife and three children who went missing last year.

She was also chatting with someone who had emigrated to this country and had nothing but criticism about the people, the culture, the politics, the music, the history, the weather and everything else and who was living off benefits with his wife and eleven children and who said he couldn’t work because of post-traumatic stress disorder and didn’t want to go back to his former country because he was a witness to a massacre. He wasn’t typical of those who emigrate.

Well, Chlorine Doreen was so pissed off by his attitude that she told him straight that massacres happen in the western world as well, people suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder too and they don’t moan, they’re just pleased to be alive. No-one left New York after 9/11, no-one left London after the 2005 terrorist attacks, nor Scotland after Dunblane.

She told him one man’s leaving is another man’s running away, people involved in massacres in the western world haven’t run away, they haven’t given in to terrorists and maniacs and they don’t moan about it and he should get a grip and decide what he really expects out of life and whether he’s being realistic. As an immigrant herself, he upset her!

Chlorine Doreen is a very sensitive soul.

Well, aren’t we all?

But if she sees or hears anything or anyone being selfish, unfair, thoughtless, or bullying there’s no stopping her. She delights in bullying bullies. She’s firm, but fair, She doesn’t take any prisoners, ever. She also has a lot to deal with at home with her husband.

He’s not seriously ill in some way is he?

Worse! He’s a ‘Doctor Who’ fan and he’s just getting over concussion at the moment.

Do tell.

He hit his head on the car roof while he was looking for his David Tennant action figure, passed out in the hallway and when he came to he thought he’d regenerated. She tried to console him as he went over to the mirror and complained about his new face, then he went out into the garden and said the whole house and garden were bigger on the inside than the outside, said he “didn’t like it” and passed out again in the garden.

I think the only thing about him that’s bigger on the inside rather than the outside is his brain until the swelling goes down.

When he came to again he said “sorry about that, Brigadier, won’t happen again” and then told Chlorine Doreen to get down because there were two Daleks in the garden. She told him “they’re not Daleks, they’re dustbins” and she took him inside. she was just getting him to relax and stop calling her Brigadier when the phone rang. He answered it before she had chance to stop him and went very serious again and said “there’s a Cyberman on the phone.” She had a listen and told him “that’s not a Cyberman, that’s an automated sales call, just put the phone down.” She just got him setttled again and the doorbell rang. He answered it with his sonic screwdriver in his hand and shouted for her to take cover because there was a Sontaran at the door. She told him “that’s not a Sontaran, that’s a short, bald man selling something” and she closed the door.

Is he any better now?

No, at the moment he’s in the garage with the central console detached from the TARDIS trying to get it to work again because of the block the Time Lords have put on his memory of all the dematerialisation codes. Her mother called round and he accused her of being a Slitheen because she farts a lot because of her age and tried to unzip her head. He thought the wheelie bin was a Auton and the trampoline in the garden was Lady Cassandra.

Perhaps the best thing to do would be to knock him on the head again in the hope he’ll wake up normal again.

It would be the philosphical thing to do.

Ginger, what’s philosophy?

It’s when people talk a load of waffle because they don’t know the answer, like politicians and theologians wondering if there’s a God.

I think there’s a God, Ginger.

Well, that would be considered fundamentalism, whereas most philosophers tend to be existentialists.

Ginger, what is fundamentalism and existentialism?

Well, fundamentalism is where people say “I’m right and you’re wrong and if you disagree I’ll bomb your offices” and existentialism is where people say “I don’t know and because I don’t know you can’t know either and if you think you do know, you’re wrong.”

Ginger, what’s life about?

It’s about seventy years and then you’re buggered!

Where does it say that, Ginger?

In the Bible, in a roundabout sort of a way.

Is that what you believe, Ginger?

That’s my philosophy.

Ginger, what’s philosophy?

I think it’s time we philosophised ourselves to sleep. Goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday, philosophically speaking.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

Let us tell you this week about a teacher we heard about from Nosey Bonk. He told us one of his lessons was known as ‘The Story of World War I For Children’ and it sounded like this.

Once upon a time there was a man called the kaiser who lived in Germany and he wanted to have more ships in his navy than anyone else in the whole wide world. However, his cousin who was King of England also wanted more ships than anyone else, so they both kept on building more and more ships and the ships got bigger and bigger. Meanwhile, in a far off country called Russia, their other cousin who was Tsar of Russia was very unpopular.

Sir, Sir.

Yes.

What’s a tsar?

It’s like a king, only they speak Russian.

Oh, I see.

So, the tsar was very unpopular across the whole of Russia because everyone was starving except for the tsar and his wife, their family and their friends, including a monk by the name of Rasputin.

Sir, Sir.

Yes.

What’s a monk?

It’s like a vicar, only they don’t speak.

Not even Russian?

Not even Russian.

So how did he make himself understood?

Hypnosis.

What’s hypnosis?

It’s talking, only with your mind, not your mouth.

Oh, I see, I think.

Anyway, they all decided they were going to have a war to end all wars to clear the air, so they killed an archduke and his wife, took sides, dug trenches right across France and waited for America to join in and get the whole thing sorted out.

Sir, Sir,

Yes.

What’s an archduke?

It doesn’t matter, there isn’t a question about it in the exam, so you don’t need to know.

But what if someone asks me what an archduke is after I leave school?

They won’t. No-one ever mentions them anymore.

Oh, I see.

So, after America joined in the war to end all wars, everyone else got a move on and they managed to finish the war on November 11th 1918, just over a year after America joined in, but 4 years after everyone else started killing each other. Anyway, it was just before Christmas, so it didn’t spoil everyone’s Christmas shopping and so everyone lived happily ever after. As soon as Christmas was over everyone went back to work and they buried all the dead, except one soldier who they put in the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, so they could all have a day of remembrance every year when they could all get together and try and remember who he was.

Sir, Sir.

Yes.

Do you think I’ll pass the exam this year?

I hope so. You’ve been in this class for so many years because you’ve never passed your exams. You’re a very naughty girl.

I know, but we’ve been married for 15 years, so can’t you just treat me like a wife instead?

And that, boys and girls, is what Nosey Bonk heard.

You know, when I was in university my law lecturer told me that there was always something retarded about people who wanted to be teachers because they never wanted to leave school.

Yes, when I was in university my marketing lecturer told me that it was like children who wanted to be teachers who couldn’t cope with the big world outside and just wanted to stay in school where they felt safe.

More than that, I was told he noticed that all the boys and girls who wanted to be teachers were unpopular, were often bullied and usually spent all their playtimes either on their own or walking around sucking up to the dinner lady and asking if they could ring the bell.

Also, they were often teachers pet, as we used to say.

I was told they often harbour a lot of resentment about how they were treated in school and wanted to become a teacher so they could take out all their anger on children and get it all out of their system. I wonder if it’s true!

And Nosey Bonk wondered how many take all that resentment home with them too. Anyway, it’s time for us to ring the bell now and go and do our homework.

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Dear All, Couldn’t post on Tuesday as computer system was on the fritz! Back to normal next week. See you next Tuesday!

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

This week we’d like to introduce you to our most established hotel in Upton Went, Upton Heights.

If ever you’re visiting our lovely little village of Upton Went, that’s the place to stay. Plenty of rooms, all reasonably priced, Gordon Blue queezy cuisine, sauna, swimming pool, gardens, the lot, whether you want it or not.

The room service is second-to-none. One of the staff is Gordon, who’ll go for anything once, twice if he likes it.

One morning, just the other week, he showed a divorced lady up to her room and the next morning he found a note outside the door addressed to him which said ‘Marmala de Please’ followed by the room number.

Well, Gordon thought his number had come up, he’d gone to heaven and won the pools, all at once.

He took the note clutched to his beating heart and showed it to the head waiter and told him he was in love.

Knowing Gordon all too well the head waiter’s reply was “not again, you were in love last week!”

“Yes, but this is different, she’s written me a love letter.”

“Show me.”

And he did show him.

“There, addressed to me by name and everything, with her name and room number.”

The head waiter sighed heavily and said in the nicest way possible “you stupid, lovesick, specky-eyed manure-carrier.”

“Who’s stupid?”

“You’s stupid, that’s whos!”

“Whys!”

“I’ll tell you why. The divorced lady in this room is not some foreign, glamorous, amorous, lovesick sexpot call Marmala de Please, it’s Gladys Pratt from Croydon and she’s already engaged. She’s only here on her own because she’s going shopping to choose the dress.”

“How d’you know?”

“She told me yesterday.”

“What about the note, then?”

“That note says ‘Marmalade Please.’ she told me she prefers marmalade with her breakfast. So, my little sex-starved bellboy, that’s your lot!”

And it was, too!

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only shock Gordon had that morning. He was minding his own business in the bar, serving guests at lunchtime, when he met one of the guests, Art Steeker, from Toronto, Canada.

Head on!

Art Steeker is a staunch republican, not politically of course, but in terms of Canada leaving the commonwealth and getting rid of the monarchy.

And he collared Gordon in conversation over a double scotch and a lot of ill feeling for the British monarchy.

He asked Gordon if royalty had ever come to Upton Went and Gordon knew his local history and told him “only Richard III and he only spent 37seconds in Upton Went in 1483 when he asked the way to Leicester.”

“That’s alright, then.”

And he then subjected Gordon to a very long diatribe about how the British monarchy was now obsolete since the same-sex marriage legislation because if any heir to the throne was gay it would be the end of the constitutional monarchy because all the monarchy cares about is the royal minge-doctor treating the heir to the throne as cattle and breeding stock and no-one in royal circles would accept an heir to the throne by any other means.

He’d given it all a great deal of thought and sincerely felt the monarchy was obsolete now, as it could not embrace the new laws.

And with that he added that it would be good riddance and the commonwealth would be better without a constitutional monarchy and he couldn’t wait until a future king comes out as a queen or a future queen comes out as a king and with that he kissed his husband passionately on the lips and said goodnight to Gordon.

Meanwhile, Gordon continues to be a lonely soul, but we’re sure he’ll find true love sooner or later.

Probably later.

Only last night he was drowning his sorrows with Camp Freddie behind the bar.

Has Camp Freddie come out?

He was never in!

And Camp Freddie assured Gordon that he musn’t despair because there’s someone in this world for everyone.

Even Gordon?

Yes, even Gordon and with that it’s time for us to say goodnight.

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

And we’ve just been listening to ‘Walter Gate Investigates’ on Radio Went FM. On weekday afternoons he has a programme where he introduces his topic and then throws it open as a phone-in. He tackles a range of subjects, both national and international, or of local interest in our lovely little village of Upton Went. We’d like to give you a taster.

For instance, not long ago Walter Gate investigated fat nurses. He did an investigation into how the NHS are always banging on about people being obese, or even morbidly obese. Sounds ridiculous, they’re the ones being morbid.

And what Walter Gate was concerned with was the number of nurses he’d encountered who were themselves obese, or even morbidly obese. Therefore, a case of NHS pot calling kettle black and he felt that no-one in the NHS had any right to preach about obesity when even a single nurse is fat.

When he got to the phone-in, one lady rang up and complained that a fat nurse had claimed she was overweight and she told her straight “I’m not being told I’m fat by someone with a face like a sack of spanners and a body like ten pigs tied in a sack!”

Another caller sat on a nurse until she begged him to get off.

Other issues he’d looked at recently include “Does the Bedroom Tax Apply to the Monarchy?” and “It’s Not Good That the Prime Minister Greets World Leaders from a Terraced House, so Couldn’t the Government Use Buckingham Palace as a British White House and the Monarchy Move to Windsor Castle?”

So, that’s ‘Walter Gate Investigates’ every weekday afternoon on Radio Went FM from 2-4. He asks the questions others dare not ask, but need to be asked because he, like us, stands up for the rights of others.

Anyway, to go back to our medical theme, we heard a rumour the other day from the receptionist of our local psychiatrist, Dr. Aspirin. she said it was “confidential, so be careful who you tell.”

Apparently, this bloke came in and asked to see Dr. Aspirin at once. Luckily he was able to fit him in as one of his best customers had just tried to hang himself, so he had a free appointment. The conversation went something like this:-

“What seems to be the trouble?” Great opening line!

“I am the Doctor.”

“No, I’m the Doctor.”

“You many be a Doctor, but I’m the Doctor, the definite article.”

“I think I’d better take some notes. Title?”

“Doctor.”

“Surname?”

“Doctor.”

First name?”

“The.”

“Any other names?”

“I sometimes use John Smith, but that’s usually only when I’m helping the Brigadier. He thinks I’m a splendid chap, all of me.”

“All of you?” How many of you are there?”

“Last time I looked 12, although it’s getting hard to say for sure.”

“Address?”

“Originally or currently?”

“Well, both would be helpful.”

“Originally I’m from Gallifrey.”

“And where’s Gallifrey?”

“Ireland! I’ve been travelling for a while, but my last regular address was 76 Totters Lane, Shepherds Bush.”

“So, what brings you to me?”

“Wherever I go, no-one is ever pleased to see me. I feel persecuted.”

“Who by?”

“Daleks, Cybermen, Ice Warriors, Autons, Sontarons.”

“I see.”

“I haven’t finished yet. Yeti, the Master, Ogrons, Axons, Silurians, Sea Devils, Krotons, Quarks, to name a few.”

“Well, Doctor, what I suggest is this. There’s a patient in the waiting room who thinks he’s a Dalek. You can’t miss him, he’s the one with the eyestalk sticking out of his forehead.”

“What d’you want me to do?”

“I want you to go out there and exterminate him, so he becomes less aggressive.”

“But do I have the right?”

“This is no time for moral dilemmas that sound like ’70s pop songs. You must evert their creation and complete your mission for the Time Lords.”

So he did, before the Time Ring took him back to the TARDIS. Anyway, it’s time for us to dematerialise now.

O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.