WHOLESOME TALES

Sales yes, payments no. Have you ever tried to get royalty to actually settle a bill? Even when I just try subtly mentioning that they havent paid for the last 10,000 barrels and that the last acredited payment was just before the Trees went down all I get is 'the look'. No one can do 'the look' quite like Queen Tin confronted with her buckie tab.

{{{I've heard the same thing, Petty. Apparently, and I'm only repeating what folk are saying, all Royalty are blood-suckers, or in her Majesty's case, free buckie-slurpers... Only what I heard, mind, not something I would necessarily believe or spread around...}}}

Will there be a Christmas sawguh?

A ERUMAS CAROL

Once upon a time it was Erumas Eve in Forumshire, and the night had come, and the stars were out, and Odo's Eagle from Angleshire, having been blown of course in a sudden blizzard, crash landed in Skattykatzenfjord. Luckilly, no one was killed, for that would make for a saddest kind of Erumas Sawguh, don't you think?

At first, Odo did not know where he was, though the smell of herring was heavy in the air and he quickly guessed the truth.

"Oh dear, and be-bother," said he as he limped up Crackinthebum Street, which was the lane adjacent to the field where his Eagle had crashed and lay with a broken leg. "I must seek help for my poor bird of transport, else I won't be home for Erumas - and my littlies Sandy and Shady will surely miss me. But where in this oddly Germanic seeming town will I find that help?"

So he walked along awhile until he found a Mansion that seemed inviting and homely, he not wishing to knock on some hobbit door of the Lower Orders. The Mansion had all it's lights on, and the curtains open, and peering through a window, as was his wont, he saw many hobbits inside dancing the Jitterbug and the Rhumba. Oh what what fine folk they seemed, dressed in their tuxedos and their stylish dresses and mini-kilts, though of the fairer sex Odo could see none.

"Perhaps they are hermaphrodites all," mused Odo as he shivered in the snow, "as the"ladies", for all their fine frilly frocks and suspender belts, definitely all look male - though they are clearly respectable, or at least well-to-do. I'll knock and find out if I can get assistance here, I think."

So Odo approached the large mahogany front door and took the great knocker - which looked uncannily like a giant red penis - into his freezing hand. "Bang bang bang!" he knocked.

The door soon slowly opened and a tall, austere looking hobbit stood there before him. "Good evening, my good hobbit. Are you late for the party?"

"I hope not," answered our chilly Banks, "I certainly hope my knocking will not wake the children, as I know it's late."

"Oh no," the tall hobbit said suavely, "All the little homosexuals are snoring in their beds, having had cognac with their suppers. It is only we adult ladies and laddies that remain awake, and at frolic." And the hobbit expressed a giggle which seemed neith male nor female but definitely homosexual.

"Oh sir, I don't know if you can help me or not, but my Eagle has crash landed in a paddock and his leg is broke and his feathers ruffled alarmingly."

"That is not good news, good sir," the tall fellow exclaimed. "But you are in luck for the town leg-fixer is here tonight. I will send him out with you immediately -- I only hope he isn't legless yet..."

And so, shortly after, the Skattykatzenfjordian leg-fixer, the famous Bertrand Russell himself, followed Odo through the snow to help that forlorn Eagle. And in no time, he had strapped his leg, put a gigantic blanket over him, and told him to rest.

Bertrand said: "Of course, he won't be able to fly back to Hobbiton until morning."

"Oh dear," said Odo, most put out. "What shall I do?"

"Well, you must come and join the gaity, silly, back at Ringo Herring the Ninth's Homely House."

"Do you think he'll mind?"

"Not at all. I'm sure he'll have a bed somewhere you can share."

"Oh thank Eru. Bless him with great blessingness," cried our Mr Banks and he went back to Ringo Herring's house with Bertrand Russell, finding himself suddenly in both a gay and philosophical state of mind. He had always been thankful for the kindness of strangers, especially strangers he had never met before, and yet again he had found solace in the arms of those who did not know him, which was something to be very thankful about, don't you think?

And in the years that passed, Mr Banks often told the tale of how he spent a night in Skattykatzenfjord (unexpectedly) and how the Skattykatzenfjordians had given him a right royal Erumas Eve Magnificent Time; though he was strangely reticent about what had actually happened at the party.

"I think I'll leave that to everyone's imaginations," he often said, blushing a little and seeming to regain a feeling of excitement in his quiet reflections - which I assume means that there were at least a few swings present, and that all the hobbits stayed up well after 9pm. Late I know, but it was Erumas Eve after all!


And from the Anonymous Author, on behalf of all the staff at The Archet Bugle, I wish you all, a Merry Merry Erumas!

Well, I asked for it Merry Erumas to you too, and to everyone else!

THE GIRL WITH THE BRA THAT PLAYED "MATILDA MOTHER"

There is, in the small town of Lllooneyllooneyville in Whales, a small but thriving alcheminical shop in Florret Lane near Bramble Road. It is owned by a proud burgher by name Orllwell Ddubbins and is called Ddubbins Alchemical Shoppe. But it has not always been a thriving concern, for in the early days Orwllwell could barely sell a dram of willowbark powder, or easeweed, or a tube of sequinned-bath-gel. Indeed, things looked so bad, that one day Orllwell almost had a total mental breakdown. Being a Real masculine type hobbit, it was a hard sight to see him sitting on a stool outside his Shoppe weeping into his masculine hobbit hands at midday.

But how did things improve - and suddenly? Well, I'll tell you how.

It so happened that while Orllwell was weeping there, a sweet girl hobbit named Allleee Cabbagehair chanced to saunter past. Being a kind hearted girl, Allleee stopped in the lane and addressed that distressed handsome middleaged hobbit.

"Oh dear sir, would you be sitting there, alone on a stool, pining over things that would make even a grown hobbit cry, or perhaps not, depending on what it is that makes you cry, or apparently."

"Indeed, polite young lass," Orllwell answered amid his gloom, "I'm going broke and don't know what to do."

"Oh I think I can help," Alllleee answered immediately, clapping her hands, "although of that no one nohow can be sure until the help has been rendered and a positive result obtained... But it would involve a certain gorgeous for his venerable age hobbit trusting a mere stripling of a girl, albeit handsome in her own girlish way."

"I'm willing to try anything in my desperation - I haven't sold a sachet of Willowbark Headache Fixer in weeks."

"Well then a mature hobbit - no matter how young at heart and good looking - would needs trust me and not gasp when I show him something of a quite extraordinary nature."

"I'm game," says our Orllwell, becoming intrested despite his heavy sadfulness.

"Have you got by any hope or chance a mini-palantir upon your person or somewhere in a position of close proximity?"

"Yes... Why do you ask?"

"Please ring a number that a girl would shortly give you which is the mini-palantir number of the girl I already mentioned, Me in fact."

And in a nonce - or thereabouts - Orllwell was ringing the number that Alllleee gave him.

And once he had rung said number, the most amazing thing happened. Beneath Alllleee's blouse came a bright light which shone brightly and showed the ouitline of her pretty floral bracups - and not only that, "Matilda Mother" by Pink Floyd began to play, as if by magic.

Seeing the pleased surprise in Orllwell's expression that had suddenly presented itself, Alllleee smiled and said: "It is by no means magic when a young lass places a mini-palantir down her bra and has someone ring her at the opportune time and thus displays her floral bracups for the entertainment of passersby or local burghers."

"Oh it has a certain "magic" and no mistake... Mmm... if such a girl was to work at my serving counter...?"

"Indeed!"

And so Alllleee took up employment at Ddubbin's Alchemenical Shoppe in Florret Lane, and many customers soon visited the shoppe, mostly gentlehobbits, though occasionally a gentlelass with hairy armpits, and Orllwell's prosperity was assured.

And so things proceed to this day. Orlwell does all the actual work in conducting the business, but Alllleee provides the musical light show, which everyone knows is the true source of his prosperity.

"The Seven Little New Ozhobbits."

Once upon a time in Manbreaster, Angleshire, there was a tribe of dwarves. They lived in a large Council Estate, and all the dwarves of working age (six years and above) were sent down the Mines. It was the good ol' days when coal dust did not cause respiratory problems, and asbestos was used in soft drinks, and canaries weren't risked down mines.

One day Queen Elizabite the Second met with her Chief Witch, Maggie, the Wicked Witch from the North. (Mind you, in Angleshire she was known as the Wicked Witch of the Midlands - I think? - but as this is a story out of Ozhobbitstan, Wicked Witch of the North seems more applicable).

Elizabite: Come into my parlour I shall discuss matters of the most important weight.

Maggie: I shall come, but I will enter at a slow pace, as I am not for moving at a faster speed than I desire to.

Elizabite: Yes, yes, but don't take all day... You may sit here on this tuffet beside me.

Maggie: Oh thank you... Is that moth balls I smell?

Elizabite: No - it's my perfume.

Maggie: And that musty smell?

Elizabite: The reason I use perfume. Now, Maggie, I have had problems with the Cost of Mines. Can you do something about it?

Maggie: I can close the mines, your Majesty.

Elizabite: Excellent.

And so Maggie turned into a bat and flew immedately from London to Manbreaster.She landed in the dead of night in the small council estate of Scummyfilth, and changing back into the hideous form of an ugly witch, she went to the house of the Seven Merry Dwarves.

"I'll tell them to piss off to Ozhobbitstan," saith she.

She knocked on the perfectly round green door.

A cheery dwarf soon opened it.

"Hello Ugly Witch, " said this Happy Dwarf, by name Chris. "How may I be of service"?"

"Hello repulsive dwarf, I am here to give you your marching orders, as I'm closing the mines."

Chris: "To save the environment?"

Maggie: "No, the country!"

Chris: "Same thing, I would have thought. Anyhoo, how will me and my six boyfriends - not sexually though - ever get to Ozhobbitstan, for it is a long way away.

Maggie: You must take your bathtub and paddle off to that far off place where gravity stops one falling off, or so it's said.

Chris: Can't be fairer than that.

And in no time, Chris set forth from the coast of Kent with his six friends - whose names are mentioned on another thread and I can't be bothered going to get them, and I certainly can't remember them off hand. Though it might be fun to try. Let me see:

Bruce,
Jim,
Jonno,
Kev,
Nev,
Mick,
and Chris.

Hey! That's pretty good, I thought!

Anyway, the seven dwarves paddled across the Atlantic, the Pacific and finally arrived in West Ozhobbitstan. And they all got jobs in the hospital there - in Perve, that is, the Capital of West Ozhobbitstan.

And they have lived there, happily enough, to this very day.

Zoze dworz cun gut wirk inza Kummaleez... Pluntee myn wirk gowen jus noo. Beetz curryin ded boddees awound...

Wonder if there is a sequal where boffins discover carbon capture and clean coal burning, but there are no miners left and no mines, and all their communities are long destroyed and everyone has forgotten the skills, and its become cheaper anyway to get near slave hobbits from Africashire to get it instead in the dirty filthy dangerous old fashioned way.

What a wonderful tale that sounds, Petty. But I don't remember that one off hand. I'll ask Odo. Sounds like something he would have a financial interest in.

RED SHEEP REFLECTIONS (1.7)

Once there was a girl
a naughty naughty girl
who had a red curl
right in the middle of her forehead

and when she was young
she was
very very young
and when she grew up -
age ten -
she read Browning

and then in her heart
her very restless heart
she flew all the way
to Tuscany

and when she was older
she became a little bolder
and now lives in a less sensible climate

From Robert Browning: "The Red Sheep of the Family - An Anthology."

as channelled, inexactly, by Wisey Banks

I like that channellin it reminds me of some one.

This Is A Rune I heard a Tree say

This is a rune I heard a tree say
'love me I cannot run away

This a rune I heard a lark cry
'So high! but I cannot reach the sky'

"This is a rune I heard a dog bark:
'I see what is not even there in the dark"

"This is a rune I have heard a fish weep
'I am trying to find you when I leap'

"This is a rune I have heard a cat miaow:
'I died eight times so be kind to be now'

"This is a rune I have heard a man say:
'Hold your head up and you see far away.'

Sometimes I wish I was a medieval bard...gotta love all that magic and stuff.

Mrs Figg wrote:

I like that channellin it reminds me of some one.

And not one mention of your pussy! Which is quite surprising when you think on it, Mrs Figg!

Ally wrote:This Is A Rune I heard a Tree say

This is a rune I heard a tree say
'love me I cannot run away

This a rune I heard a lark cry
'So high! but I cannot reach the sky'

"This is a rune I heard a dog bark:
'I see what is not even there in the dark"

"This is a rune I have heard a fish weep
'I am trying to find you when I leap'

"This is a rune I have heard a cat miaow:
'I died eight times so be kind to be now'

"This is a rune I have heard a man say:
'Hold your head up and you see far away.'

Sometimes I wish I was a medieval bard...gotta love all that magic and stuff.

Oooh, Ally, is that you a'channelin?

The sunlight's green where I come from,
But not as green
as Tuscany

the kangaroos are bounding by
underneath
a turquoise sky

the emu feathers
all pink and purple
like heather

and I sit thinking of
Mrs Figg -
and her wig

oh truly truly
I find it hard to be
flowery poetic
AND
rhyme
AND
make proper sense
at the same time

(sadly
Robert Browning
will be frowning)

Orwell's Romantic thoughts accurately channelled by
Wisey Banks

You got me dreamin dreamy until the wig part and then you blew it, Wisey me old mate.

Well, wo there Missy! These are the alternatives:

twig
swig
dig
pig


Make your own mind up...

O winsome Wisey has a poetic bent
from Mr Browning a talent sent
he got me dreamin until that dig
castin nasturtions about me wig
flamingos feathers pink and bright
baby kangas wrapped up warm n tight
turquoise skies and barbies smokin
hot sausage with forks a pokin
so waltz my matilda until shes dizzy
give us a tinny cold and fizzy..


you could have had me swig champagne or summat? eh.

Mrs Figg wrote:O winsome Wisey has a poetic bent
from Mr Browning a talent sent
he got me dreamin until that dig
castin nasturtions about me wig
flamingos feathers pink and bright
baby kangas wrapped up warm n tight
turquoise skies and barbies smokin
hot sausage with forks a pokin
so waltz my matilda until shes dizzy
give us a tinny cold and fizzy..


you could have had me swig champagne or summat? eh.

Swig hey? I have to clean the horseless chariot for the funeral - but later on, when all the sad stuff's done - maybe then I might do some more channelin... yes... maybe I will..

THE SAWGUH OF THE COAL SCUTTLE - TRUE EDITION

Once upon a time the incredibly handsome (some say 'beautiful', but only by fans who are poofs or bisexuals) Orwell McOdo was sailing in the south seas near Tahiti searching for young women to enslave for a profit, when his ship, the Sweet Louise of St Trapeze, hove close to a an island verdant with green, penchant with romance, and redolent with a certain visual "atmosphere" which is only ever truly appreciated - and understood - by Art Restorers of a certain vintage.

One of the crew, the Naturalist (at that time) Greenio McBanks (who had lived for a time in Tuscany), came up to the poop deck, and, having startled the seagulls into flight, stood amid the poop and averred, "Captain Orwell, I think we have discovered the mysterious and famed Isle of the Pretty Birds."

"Pretty birds, you say?" Orwell with uplifted eyebrows.

"Yes - but only ornithologically speaking."

"'Horny', you say?"

"'Orni-'. The feathered kind, in fact."

"'Feathered", you say?"

"Yes, 'feathered', but not 'feathered' as in 'furred'."

"Not girls, you mean."

"No."

"Then we'll sail onto Tahiti, where I'm told the girls are both horny and feathered in a furry sense and in all the right places."

And the Sweet Louise of St Trapeze sailed on to Tahiti where they enslaved a large number of attractive young women - with an eye on the flesh-trade of Stockholm - and Odo also found a Coal Scuttle under a rare Boobywooby tree on the island, of which he took a leaf and a twig and a root as samples - that's samples of the Boobywooby tree, not the Coal Scuttle, which was metal not floral.

And soon the Sweet Louise, that marvellous three master, sailed back toward girl-crazy Denmark.

(The Coal Scuttle was passed down from Father to Son throughout Banks history, which is well known in spite of later McTyrant distortions).

How many Banks lies are there now claiming to be the one true story of the coal scuttle? Truth-dodgers the lot of you I say!

The more truths the better

Truths! There are fewer bits of the one true cross than there are Banks lies about that scuttle! Its nothing but propaganda this rag! I demand Admin put a stop to it now- propaganda is clearly the duristiction of the Forumshire State News!