Return of the bloggists

by Henrietta Scuttlers

The Shouty Villager’s blogs have been unusually quiet this past week or so.

I should explain.

Prior to his departure for a working holiday tour of Europe with his wife (Mrs Belm), our esteemable editor-in-chief Derek left me with a “kitty” valued at several hundreds of pounds.

This was to pay for any unforseen expenses during his absence and to fund any legal fights incurred by the writings on this here blog.

So I decided to treat all my fellow bloggists, plus a few hangers-on and a nice couple I met at the bank to a holiday with the kitty money.

Here we are, yesterday, returning from our little jolly jaunt away.

Normal bloggism will resume tomorrow.

I only hope no-one writes anything illegal before Derek returns as I’ve spent all the money he gave me – and he’ll come back to a few hefty IOUs we incurred along the way too.

But we had a nice hols, so that’s OK.

Until tomorrow…

A lesson in basic economics

by Edward Framley

I have no knowledge whatsoever of financial matters, the stock market and suchlike, because when you’re as independently wealthy as myself there is absolutely no reason to fret.

But I won’t let that stop me from expressing an opinion or three about what is euphemistically described as a crunching credit crisis.

It hasn’t stopped others from spewing forth their ignorance either, so I feel almost honour bound to toss my pre-decimalisation coin into the bowler hat.

Clearly those who aren’t lucky enough to have a family fortune squirrelled away acruing untold riches in interest are having a tough time of it.

An old lady chum of mine, Cynthia, married one of these City types and informs me the world financial markets have moved from a state of mild unease to total “brown underpants time” hysteria in a very short space of time. She even says her husband is off his golf at the moment, such is the extent of his concern.

So, I think, it must be bad out there in the world of high finance and low moral fibre.

Indeed, my long-term neighbours (the Mucklers - Fred and Olivia) recently called by seeking advice on how they could bolster their pensions.

Once they explained what a pension was, we chatted about their options over a few ports.

The upshot was that both Fred (who is 71) and Olivia (a sprightly 66) should consider some part-time gainful employment to top up their hand-outs.

I’m pleased to say they took my advice.

Fred is currently acting as a satellite installation, positioning himself on hilltops and in wide open spaces to enable campers and caravaners to get a satellite television signal. Here he was, yesterday, braving the elements at Kingsbury Water Park, earning a honest day’s crust:

Olivia, on the other hand, is putting some of the skills she has picked up at our local villagist equivalent of the WI to good use.

She has set herself up as a mobile florist, attempting to sell flowers from the basket of her bicycle as she cycles all over the world. She picks her stock up from verges and at the roadside and I believe she has so far made 93p in new money.

Here she was, yesterday, on the outskirts of Boise, Idaho, in the United States of America, shortly before she was chased out of the state capital as a suspected terrorist when someone noticed she was “dressed funny and spoke with an odd accent”:

So, all things considered, a successful experiment in surviving the global financial catastrophe looming large over most of you.

You have to accumulate in order to be able to speculate on just how bad others must be feeling whilst you sleep soundly safe in the knowledge that your supply of money is never going to run out.

A lesson in basic economics that many would do well to learn.

A fitting tribute to a villagist icon

by Laura Norder

It is not often that the political divide is successfully straddled by a particular issue or individual.

There are usually too many differences of opinion to bring about consensus, such as the thorny subject of nudism on public beaches.

However, one person who continues to be all things to all people and who has a habit of uniting foes and friends in harmony is undoubtedly Lady Thatcher, the blessed Margaret who we all probably agree is far more worthy of sainthood than a short nun from the colonies.

Although she wore different political colouring to myself, I and others of my persuasion recognised a kindred villagist spirit from the very early days of Lady Margaret’s career and felt a certain affinity with what she was trying to achieve for this grand nation we live upon.

So news this week of proposals to grant the Ladyship a state funeral has exercised the finest political minds of a villagist bent too.

We met, yesterday, at the Sketch Club to discuss how we can pay our own suitable tribute to a former great leaderess.

Although the Sketch Club is a gentleman’s only establishment (and hurrah for that) I have been granted honorary male membership in order to attend such meetings as yesterday’s. I’m still not allowed in the main clubhouse, so the meetings invariably take place in the Sketch Club’s sauna.

Here we are, yesterday:

I’m out of shot as I’m demonstrating the pose I believe Lady Thatcher’s statue (if we were to commission one, obviously) should strike, whilst members of the villagist political elite discuss what I am doing.

It was a fruitful meeting. As well as the statue idea (mine, with a thought that I recreate my pose for Henrietta Scuttlers to fashion a noble looking piece whilst being watched by the political elite), we’ve had numerous other suggestions.

These range from commissioning a new Lady Thatcher song, to renaming the village Thatcherville.

The one we probably won’t return to is the annual tribute we paid for almost a decade after Lady Thatcher was dethroned.

Dress Like a Coal Miner Day proved extremely popular, but there are many who now believe that time has moved on and we should not repeat such a celebration and should find something more modernistic.

I will keep you all informed on whatever decision is made.

But be rest assured that it will be a fitting tribute to a woman who single-handedly engineered society to meet her own needs and whose legacy can still be seen in the state this country currently finds itself in.

Lady Thatcher, the thinking villagist’s politician, we will salute you.

An inglorious 12th

by Mostyn (off of Dinsmore & Mostyn)

I was awakened on Saturday morning by Father, who had decided to take Dinsmore and myself out into the countryside for some shooting.

This was, of course, because it was “The Glorious Twelth”.

Now, there are two “twelths” – the first (12 July) is the day on which Protestant Loyalists march (mainly in Northern Ireland, Liverpool and Glasgow) wearing their orange sashes and stuff. The other (12 August) is when grouse shooting traditionally begins.

Unfortunately, Father is not a learned man (he went to Cambridge University instead of being educated) so for the facts of social etiquette he has had to rely chiefly on information given to him from Fat Sid from down the pub (this is unavoidably problematic, as Fat Sid’s only sources of information are Wikipedia, The Daily Mail and what Crazy Dave from down the other pub tells him).

As such, Father (whose head is already confused due to a dangerous mix of LSD, PCP and Camp Coffee) has been known to make somewhat erroneous conflations from things that perhaps should not have been conflated in the first place.

Anyway, as a result, Dinsmore and myself found ourselves in our best tweedings, shotguns in hand, and wearing masonic aprons that Father claimed to have stolen from his Lodge (though mine did have kiss the cook written on it in somewhat saucy lettering).

Then our local horn-blower Alfred Pursed signalled our intent with a mighty burst of wind down his long brass pipe and our butler Hemmings duly released a group of seven naked Catholic homosexuals for us to chase through the woodland and shoot (I know they were homosexuals because Father told us he had “vetted them thoroughly” at the gay pub).

Alfred Pursed, yesterday, with horn:

I asked Father if this really was fair behaviour for us to chase-and-shoot, pointing out that these people must have human rights too.

Father concurred, agreeing that he was indeed being a little bit of a beast, and duly told Dinsmore and myself that we were not allowed to run after our prey, but mince after them instead.

However, the day’s sport was more or less immediately curtailed as the police van pulled up (I suspect that our neighbour, Johnny Liberal, has once again been a grass with regard to informing the relevant authorities).

Down at the station, Dinsmore of course managed to wangle his way out of being charged, using his exemplary and impeccably seductive moustache-twirling to entice the young WPC to “spring” him from his cell, and he made his escape disguised as an albino Venezuelan nail-polisher named Klaus, but Father and myself were not so lucky, and were duly charged.

Father decided to use his one telephone call to ring one of his chums for help. Unfortunately, Max Mosley’s answering machine was on, so Father instead rang the editor of The Guardian in the hope that we could be reported as “free speech martyrs”.

However, Father’s bargaining skills are non-too-good at the best of times, so all he ended up with was a year’s subscription to The Guardian (though they did agree to deliver directly to the prison).

But our ever-resourceful lawyer, Atticus Peck QC, is on the case so I am confident of an early release.

Be careful out there.

PS: If you want your nails polished at a rather competitive rate please contact Klaus on 07*** *****6 (NUMBER DELETED FOR LEGAL REASONS).

The ingredients of good TV

by Jimmy Rasher

My blogging has taken a back seat to cutlery selling and television watching.

But those two worlds collided in spectacular style last week.

I found myself stood on the doorstep of a large detached house in north Birmingham trying to persuade the lady of the manor to buy some forks when she said: “Aren’t you Jimmy Rasher, off of the telly?”

It doesn”t happen a lot, getting recognised and everything, so I’m usually a bit bashful about my previous rise to the dizzying heights of children’s TV.

Turns out the lady uninterested in buying my cutlery was the wife of someone called a digital media producer and she invited me in for tea. Her husband has a few projects on the go and was on the look out for a presenter for one of them and a voice-over for another and she felt I would be ideal.

So I went back later that evening to meet him (Archie) and listen to the projects.

Unfortunately, the presenting job didn’t sound very “me” – I’m allergic to all wild berries, flowers and most wildlife, so heading a show called “Let’s Get Ready to Forage” (a game show type challenge for under-10s about surviving in the wilderness for a week) didn’t sound suitable.

But the voice-over gig sounded more up my street.

Called “Vet School Kitchen Disasters” it follows the lives, loves, trials, tribulations, triumphs and turbulence of those who work in the kitchens of a leading vet school. Most of the series, which has yet to be taken up by any of the broadcasters, is “in the can” and Archie just needs someone with the right amount of humour and gravitas and who is cheap to provide the narration.

Here’s a still from the show and the main vet school kitchen where most of the action takes place. That’s one of the young cooks and a rough-handed groom in the background:

The undoubted star of the show is the vet school kitchen’s chief cook and head housekeeper.

A formidable lady with a sharp tongue, high standards and a dubious past, Eleanor Wii is also quite a bitter person having unsuccessfully tried to sue Nintendo for using her surname on a popular games console.

Eleanor also has a drink problem and is never without her green, feathery cape:

It is now up to Archie and his talented team to finish off the series, write my script and find a broadcaster willing to take a gamble on “Vet School Kitchen Disasters”.

In my educated opinion, the show is a potentially massive winner as it features animals, cookery and a cast of truly ghastly individuals.

I won’t be giving up my door-to-door cutlery selling just yet, but this could be my ticket back into big-time TV.

I’ll return to some TV reviewing when I’ve watched something worth writing about – you might have a long wait.

Red, not dead

by Frostbite Phil

I’m going to do something a little different today.

Instead of concentrating on one sport and one local accomplishment, I’m going to write about the wider issue of health and well-being.

More specifically, I’m here to talk to you today about why communism is best for health, wealth and prosperity.

It was heartening to see one of big Birmingham’s big-name localised politicos talking about how the East European diet is so much better than the all frills, no thrills affair served up by your Mediterranean types.

Hat tip in the direction of Paul Tilsley, deputy big-wig of the entire council no less, who extolled the virtue of an austere lifestyle.

It is something I’ve been hammering into my fellow villagists ever since I moved here from the frozen north two decades ago.

Communism is the key. Whether you want to live longer than your right-wing enemies of the state, or feel fitter and stronger than the insipid middle-of-the-road types, there really is only one answer.

It is also true today as ever it were that communism embodies the spirit of triumphing over disasterhood.

Take our village rowing club – the Big Strokers – who have not let the Great Local Drought (14 years and counting) deter their valiant efforts.

Led by “Red” Jed Jones (a fellow communist), the club still hosts regular competitions. Here’s “Red” Jed, yesterday, about to launch one of the club’s junior rowers Billy Bunkerhead on a time trial:

Billy failed to beat the record time for the 200-metre dry river bed course, but still managed a credible 19 hrs 36mins.

Elsewhere in the village we have evidence of the iron-will ingrained by communist principles.

Even some of the more elitist sports are showing signs of eschewing the type of decadent attitudes usually associated with them.

For example, our village 3-day eventing champion – Felicity Chomper – has benefited from a village-wide campaign to buy her a new horse (the extremely well-bred Nickersnackersnockers). We all have a share in the horse and so a share in Ms Chomper’s success.

Alasshe was unavailable for a photograph, yesterday, on account of her being ugly (according to Bob Bastud). So here’s a digital representation of what Felicity Chomper and Nickersnackersnockers probably look like:

I will be providing more examples in future blog posts about why we should all be adopting a communist mindset and lifestyle (Editor: Oh no you bloody won’t!).

And I also plan to do profiles of some of the great communist leaders of all time to show how their virtues can be translated to success in the sport arena (Editor: No chance, lefty, this is a politically ambivalent and inept blog. Stick to your normal stuff and let’s have no more of this red-tinted politicking. OK?).

Next week I’ll be looking at some of the popular indoor sporting activities that local villagists are currently excelling in.

[Villagist 5-a-side football update: Sock Rovers 4 vs Hammerwich Hellmouth 0 (Sock Rovers are now joint league leaders with Water Orton Onyx after four matches played).]

Taste village life and Feed Your Faces

by Thick John

If you want a taste of villagist life then head over to this way.

The 92nd biennial Feed Your Faces festival got up and chomping yesterday with all kinds of grub up for grabs – and its almost all free!

For some reasons all the local restaurants, shops, suppliers and WI groups in the area think it would be a good idea to “showcase” the food they have on offer and they all give it away and don’t charge.

Some stuff you have to stump up for, but what’s the point when there’s all this free food?

Anyway this year we’ve got all sorts – not the sweets, right, but loads of different varieties of food that reflect what it means to be a villagist in the modern era.

The festival takes place in the open-air around the village green, plus at various establishments dotted around the place. So you can feed your way around the village – and stop at my boozer, the Bedknobs & Broomsticks, for a few jars before stuffing your face again.

We’ve got the full-on al fresco dining experience courtesy of some tramps:

There will be all sorts of party-type grub ready to be scoffed.

If you’ve got a sweet-tooth or even a savoury bent then head down to the village pond where there are loads of tarts and fruity sorts, curries and dipping things to be had:

 

The posh toffs over at Norder Hall – the gaff belonging to the old man of my fellow blogger Laura Norder – will be hosting a feast.

Only those with an annual income over £150,000 will be allowed to attend. So that’s just Lord Norder and his cronies:

We’ll be having a blind food tasting.

You can try some mystery foods and if you don’t throw up you get to keep the food you’ve tasted:

I know someone who’s had a go at that already and was up all night chundering into the bog.

There will be cooking demonstration by several professional chefs and chefettes. There’s even talk of some of the big name cookery people coming up from Birmingham, if they can find their way.

Personally, I’ll believe when I sees it.

Highlight on Saturday will be a cook-off between Diana Spooned (left) and her two daughters – Daphne (centre) and Delilah (right) – who will demonstrate a triple-handed, three-course piece of cheffing. It will be a bit like last year’s, probably:

Unfortunately, the big BBQ has been cancelled.

Last evening, the giant BBQ machine imported from Australia especially for Feed Your Faces got out of control a bit and the ensuing inferno spread rapidly across the village green.

Although the fire brigade was called, the villagist scout hut was badly damaged to the point of demolition:

As a result, the fire brigade has banned all outdoor BBQ-ing activity for the duration of the festival.

So, that’s that then.

Come, Feed Your Faces.

I’ll be in the boozer feeding my own chops with chips and cheese ‘n onion crisps.