The former president of Turkmenistan changed the names of various months and days in the calendar to be the same as those of his mother, his title and various historical figures.  Due to popular demand, the new president, President Kurbanguly Berdymukhamedov, is reverting the Turkmen calendar to its original form.


At first, it was thought that the new president would follow suit and name a day of the week after himself but he foresaw problems.


“I’ll see you next Monday”  would become “I’ll see you next President Kurbanguly Berdymukhamedov Day”, by which time a young person listening might become bored and leave, and an old person speaking might expire from lack of oxygen.


Before he became President, KB (as I like to call him) was a qualified dentist.  He could usually whip a tooth out whilst the patients were still saying ‘good morning Mister Kurbanguly Berdymukhamedov’.

He had to give up and go into politics after he was sued for causing a patient RSI when they paid him by cheque.



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Our saviours

“So Fruitella 521, what have you discovered on your tour of Planet Earth?”

“The earthlings are a confused bunch, Spangle 10, they live short and fearful lives and have little understanding of the Universe around them.”


“How do so many live on one small planet, Fruitella 521?”

“Ten percent live very well and grow fat on ninety-percent of the wealth, the rest do what they can.  Many of them die young from hunger and disease.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Yes, those ten percent waste valuable resources on competing for material wealth, frippery and status.  The planet itself is under threat but because of their underlying, selfishness and their belief conflicts nobody cares to do much about it.”


“So I should press the Destruct button then?”

He stretches a slimy green finger towards a red button on the spaceships control console.


“There is one thing they share with us, Spangle 10.”

“Yes?”  The green finger hesitates.

“Many of them love and care for a small carnivorous species of crepuscular mammal, valued for its companionship and its ability to hunt vermin.  It has been associated with humans for at least 9,500 years.  It is the animal we call Blackjack 28.”


“Blackjack 28!  Why, I have my own Blackjack 28 on this very spacecraft!  No species that has a relationship with such a noble creature can be all bad.  We will spare the earthlings now but check again in fifty years.  Let’s go, if we hurry we’ll get back to Planet Martins in time for the snooker on TV.”



                                       A Blackjack 28 licking its leg.             

Blackjack 28






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A foul smell detected in parts of England and Wales is being blamed on easterly winds bringing farming or industrial smells across the Channel.  Labelled “Euro-whiff” by the Met Office, the source of the smell – alternately described as sulphur and manure – is under investigation.

But these pages can exclusively reveal that the hideous stink is due to quavery voiced crooner Chris De Burgh releasing yet another compilation album. 

His previous affronts include ‘Notes from Planet Earth (the Ultimate Collection)’ and also ‘The Ultimate Collection’. 

The ‘foul smell’ has been caused by our mate Chris dropping his latest compilation, namely : “Now and Then”, which features classic tracks from his entire career (again).

Health experts have confirmed that short term exposure should not be a problem as long as victims leave the contaminated area as soon as possible.  Over a longer period, especially if in a confined space, such as a 1980’s Disco, punters may become drowsy and nauseous.  Liberal doses of ‘Kaiser Chiefs’ and ‘AC/DC’ should be given to sufferers found mumbling the lyrics to ‘Lady in Red’.  A firm slap around the face should also help.

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Is anybody there?

Madam Ovary is giving a psychic reading to a middle aged, grey man who is clutching a brief case to his chest and balancing a bowler hat on his lap.

“The mist is clearing from my mind, my spirit medium is here, in this room with us.”

“I don’t see him.”


“Obviously not, he’s dead and I’m a medium.”

“You look more like an ‘extra-large’ to me.”

“Please spare me the music hall jokes, this is a difficult business, and I must concentrate, my spirit guide tells me that I am in danger!”


“Oh why, oh why am I threatened, oh spirit guide?” chants Madam Ovary.  She closes her eyes for a moment and then;   “The spirits tell me that somebody close to me plots my downfall and doubts my power.”

“That would be me.”



“I’m a Trading Standards Officer here to enforce the new Consumer Protection Regulations.  If you charge people for your services you must be able to prove they are genuine and you are not attempting to gain money through deception.”

“Oh crap!”

“It is my opinion that you have no more chance of contacting the dead than I have of captaining England to the next World Cup!  Unless you can change that opinion I will be obliged to stick you with a rather large fine!”


“What if I was to make an insightful reading about you?” 

“It would have to be convincing.”
Madam Ovary goes into a trance and begins her reading.


“You have a job in local government which you hate.  Your boss annoys you and you know you could do his job better.  You lust after a girl in ‘accounts’ who is young enough to be your daughter.  When you get home the mundane, banal pap on the television drives you mad.  Your wife thinks you are a weak minded, anally retentive, boring failure and your children show you no respect.  How am I doing?” 

The officer wipes a tear from his eye.
“That’s spot on Madam Ovary, I don’t know how you do it.  Just don’t tell anybody ok?”
“Yes, ok love.”  She takes ten pounds from his trembling fingers and shows him to the door.


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The Apprentice

‘The Apprentice’ is nearly getting exciting again.


Sir Alan Sugar strides through double doors into the boardroom where a bunch of young people with no business experience and few life skills sit nervously waiting for him to deliver his decision.


It’s a bit like that bit in ‘Star Wars’ where Darth Vader asks his crew why the Death Star is behind schedule and they all start muttering about overtime and poor plumbing. 
In fact, Darth and Sir Alan are very similar, except one of them wants to rule the universe through cruel and immoral methods and the other wears a black mask and cloak.


“You have no business experience and few life skills!”  Sir Alan shouts at his hopefuls,
“If you spent as much time grafting as you do poncing up your hair with gel I’d be a millionaire.”
“You are a millionaire, Sir Alan.”
“Don’t be cheeky, I meant billionaire.”


Sir Alan’s assistants, Strain and Unable, stare impassively at the motley crew.
Not much is known about these two except that they are actually twenty years younger than they look, which makes them about sixty years old.  Working for Sir Alan has taken its toll.  It can’t be easy never knowing when he is going to jump out of a cupboard or serving hatch, shouting and waving his stubbly little finger at them.


I’ve been so impressed that I’ve taken on an apprentice.  She’s young, has a sexy walk and can put her leg behind her head and lick her own anus.  Yeah, ok, I admit it; it’s my cat.  I couldn’t find a human that would want to follow in my footsteps.


Training has already started.  I jump out of the wardrobe and accuse her of lazing around all day, sleeping on the job and not pulling her weight. 
“You better get your act together and do some business or we’ll be meeting in the board room!” I shout.


She blinks at me, ‘We haven’t got a board room and I’m a cat.  Wait until you see what business I’ve done in your vegetable patch.”



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Can you tell me the way to the rail station?

Uh-oh, the German GCSE Oral Exams are upon us!
Nervous teenagers muttering to themselves in guttural tones stalk our homes and streets.

“I would like a double room with bath, please.
Can you tell me the way to Poland?
Is that a frankfurter in your pocket, or are you pleased to see me?”

But don’t panic there’s plenty of advice on-line, for example:

 ‘Imagine you’re an exchange student in Berlin.  You can use your real identity as an American UW-student, but it’s often more fun to make up a fictitious identity or celebrity, for example the son of Bill Gates, a Moroccan prince or something.’

 “Hello, I am the son of Bill Clinton.  I would like a double bed in a good hotel, two packs of Durex Featherlite and the ‘phone numbers of three Class A Hookers.”

Would the Hilton suit your requirements?
“Yes, if she is available cancel the hookers.”

Is that a frankfur………….?
“No.  It is not.”


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