First, some news of a crustacean-based variety:
They’re bloody tricky those lobsters, forcing drunk people to get behind the wheel of their car and immediately dobbing them in to the police.
But that’s not the lobster’s fault. Don’t drink and drive, kids.
The dull reality behind this story of snappy-clawed vigilantism can be found here.
Newcastle Chronicle: Man outraged over letter from Benefits Office demanding he pay back 2p
That may just be two pence to you sir, but it’s approximately six seconds of heating for some poor oldiewonk.
Luckily, being a security guard, he’ll make sure this tuppence won’t be stolen, especially not by the old woman who hangs around outside the Bank of England selling bird seed.
Yes, that’s a Mary Poppins reference, and what of it?
The most important line of this story is “The 36-year-old Boy George impersonator”.
That’s Bad Karma, Chameleon.
Point one: It looks nothing like that infamous graveyard smash.
Point two: I’ve written a strongly-worded email to Nature, and they said “We are the world’s leading multidisciplinary science journal, this have nothing to do with us. Now stop buggering us about or we’ll dob you in to the law.”
Things which are not like another far worse thing news:
I’ve been in a war zone during an actual war, and I didn’t see any small ponds in communal garden, so I’m going to say this is not like a war zone at all.
Meanwhile, in news about naked people:
We’re still not sure whether Lytham St Anne’s News is a genuine news operation or a massive piss-take, and this story leaves us none the wiser.
But who cares? The Red Bellends is a marvellous turn of phrase, and should actually exist in the form of nine people who have never flown a plane in their lives given control of powerful military jets and told to do stunts over Blackpool.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Red Bellends, their first and last show.
(I am reliably informed that they are real, and have a habit of turning trivial local issues up to eleven. And why not?)
Guernsey Press: Dairy wants its 3,000 missing crates back
63,000 people live on the island, meaning one in every twenty-one people have a crate and haven’t given it back.
The only solution is to bring Jim Bergerac over from Jersey, and while he may be well outside his jurisdiction, he’s the only man to crack this case.
UPDATE: I’ve just learned that because of some sort of murder-based scandal, Mr Bergerac fled to the mainland, changed his name to ‘Barnaby’ and inveigled his way into the local police in Midsomer, pulling strings in the background to ensure that his otherwise dull wife is never convicted of any of the dozens of bad murders she’s done.
Sweet Baby Jebus, Metro – these are hard-working public servants. At least show them a bit of respect.
For what it’s worth, the story’s here.
We’re of the opinion that any news story where the headline contains the word ‘prankster’ is going to be very bad news indeed.
Also, you can replace the word ‘prankster’ with ‘bellend’ with absolutely no change to the story.
But that’s by-the-by, let us quote Airplane!’s Captain Oveur, which seems appropriate in the circumstances:
“Joey, have you ever been in a Turkish prison?”
Yes, he has now.
Meanwhile, in Australia:
It’s behind a paywall, so this is as much red hot Aussie action we’re going to get here, but the question is “What in the name of flippery is going on in the background?”
And the answer, as any student of Angry People in Local newspapers will tell you, is CAT.
Meanwhile in Canada:
You surely cannot have missed the flood of stories about Brits suffering long delays at the passport office, alongside the sudden and furious realisation that our pals in Europe have now started to enforce its strict passport rules on UK passports since we left the European Union.
Britons, you are not alone. Canadians can’t get a passport for love nor money either, but at least they make the effort to put on a decent compo face when they go to the press.
“There’s nowhere to park in Stockton” he tells the Gazette.
Here, with thanks to the magnificent Parkopedia app, are the car parks in Stockton-on-Tees.
A tale of mirth and woe in two parts:
So far, so murdery.
Ah. As you were.
And top work by the follow-up reporter for the correct use of ‘manikin’ instead of ‘mannequin’ which would have been all shades of wrong.
Schadenfreude of the week:
It’s not classy to laugh at the misfortune of others, but in this case I am prepared to make an exception.
Yer man here is currently in the ‘find out’ phase of ‘F*ck around and find out’.
Animal story of the week that isn’t about cats:
Come on, admit it – we’ve all done it:
Me, going out: “Just the one pint then home”
Pick-up truck driver, twelve hours later: “Sir, for the last time, this is not an Über”
For those of you worried about the bear’s fate, she was given a name chosen by the public (and being Turkey rather than the UK, it was not Beary McBearface), and released back into the wild.
Cat story of the week:
Our letter of the week is from the Plymouth Herald, and it covers a very important subject close to the heart of every Devonian – Moon litter.
“We acknowledge the problem of moon litter, and we are pleased to report that McDonald’s is sending up a litter patrol mission to sort it out after it emerged that the Apollo 15 team left the detritus from a Big Mac meal in the moon’s Mare Imbrium.
“After that, the litter-free moon will be open for the general public to visit, as long as they respect the lunar landscape and use the refuse and recycling facilities provided.
“Remember: Keep the moon tidy – dump your litter on Venus.”
And you can’t get fairer than that.
Typo of the week:
Erupts ‘like a geezer’ – bursting out of the ground like an East End wide boy shouting ‘Oi Oi Saveloy!’ and trying to tell you that Dagenham is the best city in the world, but he’s looking forward to retiring to Sheerness.
The dull reality can be found here.
And our poem of the week comes from an otherwise deadly serious Facebook page promoting Liz Truss as our next Prime Minister.
I’m genuinely unsure whether or not this poem is a piss-take. But having read a lot of bad Facebook and local newspaper poetry in my time, even my expert eye cannot reach a conclusion.
Somebody can do Rishi Sunak next, and that’s not going to be me.
‘Rishi’ rhymes with ‘dishy’, and that’s your start.