Stubborn Pensioner Irks Villagers

Stubborn pensioner, 86, condemns fellow villagers to daily ‘painfully slow’ dancing badger troupe parade because he won’t give them their freedom from their ancient oath

  • Roger Morecambe, 86, refusing to let badgers buy their emancipation
  • It means his street in Norfolk is crippled by their laboured daily re-enactment of Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya
  • Neighbours are unhappy at having to endure ‘extremely slow’ adaptation and subsequent celebratory parade, daily from 9am to 2.45pm
  • Mr Morecambe said badgers were to honour their thousand year allegiant bond to his ancestors
  • Police have been called in over dispute but no action has been taken 

A stubborn OAP has been blamed by his neighbours for condemning them to ‘painfully slow’ amateur badger dramatics because he won’t release them from their serfdom in his garden.

Despite badgers offering to pay £758 each for their freedom, Mr Morecambe, 86, claims he has been forced to resort to the extreme measures because they have ‘invaded his ancestral land’ and that their blood debt was far from paid.

His other gripes include their poor productivity on his strawberry farm and inability to run a successful Starbucks franchise from his front lawn.

But bemused neighbours in the sleepy village of Snepperham, Norfolk, say they don’t understand why he doesn’t just let them be free and have complained of ‘extreme’ traffic congestion during parade times.

Pensioner Kerry Bullidge, 79, lives in the same street and is one of the few people who have managed to advise the badgers on their barista skills.

He said: ‘They really do make a hash of it, lacking opposable thumbs and being less than three feet tall doesn’t help.

‘I don’t understand why Morecambe doesn’t just let them go. As far as I understand it they are being punished for their great, great grandbadger’s misdemeanours.

‘’We live in a progressive, modern society based on the ideal of justice and universal suffrage. Regardless of the colour of your skin or the transgressions of your forebadgers, one has the right to be born with a clean slate and the chance to carve one’s own path through life’

One mother, who lives in the road and did not wish to be named, said: ‘The badgers are extremely slow. I don’t even mean entirely in their pace, many of them are borderline retarded. I attribute this to the inbreeding that has become endemic in the captive population drawn from so few bloodlines.

‘I am currently trying to complete a degree in the completely legitimate and not made up field of Badgerology and so this does really help.

‘I’ve spoken to my neighbours though and they’ve said they are really not happy because Roger is now forcing the badgers to organise Europe’s largest thrash metal festival in the garden.

‘I think Roger might have lost sight of the purpose of the badgers’ work on his garden.

‘Something needs to be done because of the diverse and unusual projects he has set the enslaved population. We are starting to wonder whether he has a long term goal or if he is just wildly creating things for them to do. Between the daily Chekhov matinees, struggling Starbucks, lengthy parades of mentally disabled omnivorous mustlids and the awkwardly titled Thrashfest: The Thrashening, it is very hard for villagers to concentrate on anything else. My children are now grown up and they need it to do their homework but the high pitched shrieking of badgers soundchecking Raining Blood is quite off-putting.’

The badgers have been bonded to Mr Morecambe’s family for “time immemorial” and many people cannot recall the precise reason why they toil on his garden and perform the greatest Russian play in the middle of the main road through the village.

When word reached the captive society of a world of free badgers beyond the garden hedge, discontent began to spread. One brave badger, Urstripe Silverson, approached Mr Morecambe offering him £758 and a guarantee of no reprisals in exchange for the freedom of his kin.

Morecambe refused and forced the muscular badger alpha to perform a thrice daily one beast show of The Vagina Monologues whilst dressed in an adorable human child’s romper suit with a little ribbon in his head fur.

Morecambe was reportedly happy that the insurrection had been put down but in September last year, he was horrified to discover a pair of bespectacled badger maids digging a trench beneath his fence.

This caused him to take his drastic action and he has not allowed badgers to access fresh water or electricity since, causing considerable issues for the Starbucks and Thrashfest badgers. Starbucks Snepperham is unsurprisingly the lowest rated restaurant in Norfolk on Trip Advisor.

One reviewer said: ‘(When I arrived) I went and stood in front of them at the counter and they didn’t seem to see me. When I asked for a double vanilla latte, two juvenile badgers sort of grunted at each other, one defecated and the other filled a plastic cup with mud and straw. They then placed it behind the counter and continued to grunt and hum the refrain from Pantera’s Cowboys from Hell as a third badger danced in the seating area and rehearsed lines in a gruff provincial Russian dialect. When I received my mud and straw coffee I was further disappointed to find it was cold. There are better cafes in the area. The shrews at High Potteridge Café Nero make a mean espresso and aren’t quite so into extreme metal.”

Optometrist Jailed For Quite A While

Optometrist jailed for life for teenager’s murder after DNA match to his aunt leads police to track him down TWO DECADES after his brutal killing

  • Teenager was stabbed to death in KFC in 1996
  • His killer has evaded justice ever since and now has a pet sheep, Glenn
  • He was finally tracked down through his DNA and given 90 years
  • The now-33-year-old changed his murder plea to ‘it’s complicated’ ahead of a trial
  • Victim’s mother, 41, feared she wouldn’t live to see son return with fried chicken 

 

 

A 33-year-old man has been jailed for life for the murder of a teenage boy 20 years ago – after he was tracked down using his aunt’s DNA.

Mark Malthurst was given a 90-year minimum jail term today after he pleaded guilty to murdering 19-year-old Grish Johns in a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant in 1996.

It is understood he has led a completely normal life since he stabbed the teenager to death two decades ago, working as an eye doctor and catching sheep in a modified bear trap in urban Manchester.

He was finally caught after his aunt bought an iPhone in 2015 and her DNA was routinely taken.

When her details were added to a national database, a ‘familial match’ to DNA found on Mr Johns’ body and clothing was flagged up to bored detectives and Malthurst was arrested.

Mr Johns, 19, from that flat above the bookies, you know, not Coral but the other way, in the town centre opposite Greggs, yeah the one whose mum has got that lazy eye, was assaulted and died from multiple stab wounds to his knees and feet during the lunchtime shift.

The teenager had decided to walk the 56-mile journey to the fast food branch following an erstwhile fox that had him entranced.

His body was discovered at 9.45pm by inattentive KFC staff leaning over the counter.

Following the attack, Malthurst lived a ‘normal life’, continuing to be a self-employed chemist, horse whisperer, cat wrangler and optometrist and moving from Liverpool to Rome and then back to Rotterdam.

He married eight wives and had a daughter, Haggis, and stepson Titus Andronicus.

Mr Johns’ P.E teacher Craig Cotswold, 91, previously told police that he wasn’t entirely sure how he had found such employment and that thirty years of hallucinogenic drugtaking had left him as quite an inappropriate choice for a teaching position, let alone physical education.

 

He said: ‘It was when I finally followed him into the baths, believing him to be a mermaid and a denizen of Atlantis and I saw this man standing there that I thought ‘He’s not a man, he’s a merman. How is he changing colour?’.

‘Then I realised that my shoes were talking to me again. The left one was speaking in Urdu.

I figured out then that I was probably having another psychedelic flashback and I should put the filleting knife down.’

The court heard Malthurst’s aunt received an extremely generous cavity search when purchasing her iPhone 4s and her DNA profile was put on the national database.

A familial match was identified between her DNA and the DNA taken from Grish’s body and clothing in 1996.

 

Malthurst was arrested on July 2 last year, then aged 32. He made no reply to the official Police Snapchat message.

In a prepared statement he simply said: ‘I am God incarnate, I shall smite all who oppose me,’ and then exposed his genitalia.

He was charged with Grish’s murder on July 4 and initially urinated across the courtroom floor whilst singing the opening verse of the Mozambique national anthem.

Members of Grish’s family, including his favourite teddy bear, Mr Rumples, sat in the public gallery of the courtroom today to hear Malthurst perform the complete Nickelback discography sang backwards.

Orange-haired Malthurst, wearing a sexy little thong and a tea cosy, stood up and repeatedly farted as the murder charge was put to him.

Jailing Malthurst for a minimum term of 90 years, judge Mr Justice Dark told him: ‘You murdered and abused Grish Johns in a busy restaurant to the complete apathy of all patrons.

‘You were 13. You didn’t know each other. Grish was 19, a happy, outgoing and sociable boy who at the time of his death was wrist deep in a Bargain Bucket and eyeing the approaching, naked, Mr Cotswold with apprehension.’

 

The judge added: ‘He was repeatedly stabbed, 896 times in all with a blunt-edged butter knife causing four-inch wounds. Eight of the wounds were to his pinky toe.’

The judge added: ‘You married numerous women and had a child and lived your family life for all those years knowing the words to every Nickelback song so well that you could and often would sing them backwards. You will very likely die tomorrow when I don my vigilante persona “Dark Justice”, Marvel have said that they will be in touch. It is nothing like Batman or Daredevil because I am overweight and my costume consists of three egg cartons and a yoghurt pot that I strap to my nose much like an errant badger’.

Man Tormented by Action Movie Poops Everywhere

Meow
Figgis, witness for the prosecution/lawyer for the defence

 

Man who was haunted by that bit in Top Gun where Goose dies ‘opened fire of bodily waste products on his cat, Figgis, during a rampant salad session’

  • Malcolm Soup, 62, suffered from regular bouts of diarrhoea after film
  • Former shoplifter was tormented by the 1986 movie starring Tom Cruise
  • Last October he threatened the Mayor of Stevenage, 40, with jar of rhubarb jam at nightclub
  • Court heard he wanted a large cheesecake from Dominos but they had run out
  • Wife Letitia returned home after he ate a rocket and spinach salad

 

A father of nine haunted by a movie scene openly farted on his cat before trying to take off his socks in a strange salad session, a court heard today.

Former shoplifter Malcolm Soup, 62, was still deeply tormented by a 1986 movie when he threatened the mayor of a nearby town with a homemade vegetable preserve last October.

He followed his cat into a bedroom at their family home in Hitchin, while brandishing the extended directors cut of the movie and shouted: ‘Sorry it’s come to this, I have the shits and I’m going to pebble-dash you.’

Figgis, who is a cat, escaped unharmed and managed to flee the home to get help but as he did so, Soup – who suffers from diarrhoea – ate a mixed leaf salad.

Minutes later, his wife of 30 years, Letitia, 60, arrived home and managed to stop the gas fumes spreading before calling police who ordered the evacuation of neighbouring properties.

It later emerged that Soup had threatened his cat with his irritable bowels in a desperate attempt to get him to leave the house so that he could eat a cheesecake in the property alone.

He had been tormented for more than 20 years after watching the 80’s blockbuster in which Anthony Edwards’ character hits his head on the cockpit canopy. The court heard he struggled to cope with the tragedy and his excess faeces and claimed that life without Goose ‘was not worth living anymore.’

The Crown Court heard how Soup had been drinking melted ice cream before he grabbed a feather duster– made at home using wood and steel – and used it in an attempt to order takeaway cheesecake from Dominos.

Prosecutor Craig Alopecia told the court: ‘Figgis walked from the bathroom into one of the bedrooms but was followed by the defendant.

‘The defendant said ‘sorry it’s come to this, I have the shits and I’m going to pebble-dash you.’ Figgis, an Iraq veteran and graduate of Lincoln University, could see a lettuce leaf and grabbed it with both hands but let go of it when he could smell raw sewage and heard a bang.’

Figgis then left the house to join the circus and Soup’s wife returned to home to be met with the smell of gas. Mr Alopecia added: ‘She got into the house through the back and could see the defendant had removed one sock.

‘She was able to pull on an extractor fan to stop the gas from escaping. The police then arrived and arrested the defendant. Five empty salad bowls were found and it was also found that a sock had been eaten.

‘The flammability level of faecal odour upstairs meant it would explode if there was any ignition present.

‘Eight nearby properties were evacuated and people were out of their houses for 17 weeks.’

 

The following day, police found one home-made jam in a freezer and a second pot hidden inside a washing machine. Both had been previously eaten.

Soup admitted threatening to destroy or damage property, having very bad gas, possessing an unseemly amount of fruit and vegetable preserve with intent to cause fear of violence and other peculiar offences.

His lawyer, Figgis the Cat, said in mitigation: ‘Meow.’

 

But the judge, being unable to understand a cat, jailed Soup for sixty two years after ruling that he was wasting a considerable amount of time and really should stop trying to blame the Tony Scott blockbuster for his strange fetish for pooping on animals.

Sentencing Soup, he said: ‘You damaged the cat’s mentality in such a way that he decided to represent you in court.

‘The two compotes that you made, one of which we know you used in circumstances that put another human being at quite serious risk of injury if not death. Why you made the jams is not entirely apparent as they can cheaply and easily be obtained at a local supermarket – but they created a real and present risk to those around you.

‘You are irritating, ugly and have a strange desire to poo everywhere, I am also keeping your cat away from you’

  • If you read to the end of this article you are probably in need of psychological help, so please call the Samaritans or visit their website.

Exhausted DVLA employee puts finishing touches on money pit

Image courtesy of DVLA's Screw You All PR Co.
Image courtesy of DVLA’s Screw You All PR Co.

   Leaning on his spade and wiping the sweat from his brow, Driver and Vehicle Licencing Agency  clerk Jeff Peters smiled triumphantly, gazing around at the new money pit. The Scrooge McDuck esque cavern, finished with opal touches and extensive marble, has been constructed to replace the smaller, outdated baths previously used.

   Head of public relations at the DVLA, Richard Fillibuster effused “this is a big step forward in employee pleasure, we at the DVLA have always strived to extravagantly fritter away our victi…taxpayer’s money. This new multi-million pound three acre nude-only money pit exceeds our dual brief; to be obnoxious and also a little creepy. In the past our staff have had to be content to ‘snow angel’ in bathtubs full of taxpayer’s coins but now we can strip down to our slimy skin and leap from the Olympic regulation diving board into a deep vault of gold. Better still, we have now achieved a certification for our 0% contribution to road maintenance”.

   Fillibuster added that whilst the new money pit had always been on the agenda the project was finally put into motion when Mr Grant, a factory labourer from Wolverhampton had the audacity to tax his hard-earned second-hand Ford Focus ST. The actual denomination of the cash used to fill the pit has yet to be decided but Mr Fillibuster was keen to point out “whether we fill our platinum-clad, polished gold, opal finished money pit with pennies or £5 notes, we will all gain sick pleasure from Mr Grant’s £295 annual tax.”

   Fillibuster and Peters laughed maniacally, shared a passionate kiss then Peters added “yeah, fuck that guy”.

 

Human’s Return After Absence Of More Than One Hour, Less Than Two Emotional Rollercoaster Report Dogs

Tyson, annoyed
Tyson, annoyed

   A recent questionnaire commissioned by the Office For Using Funding For Unnecessary Research As A Cover For Money Laundering Through Offseas Accounts has found that dogs experience an emotional rollercoaster when their owner “pops out for a bit”. Of the 58,767 canines inexplicably polled, 86% described an intermediate-duration separation from their human to be torturous and exhausting.

   Expanding on his answer Jeoff, a Dalmatian explained “when my human, the ugly one, left the other day I went through the whole gamut. I sat forlornly by the mat for at least 12 minutes. Then I went outside to take a sorrow shit. After satisfying myself that he most likely dead I began to divvy up his possessions with the cat. Felix was being his usual self however and refused to recognise neither my claim on the blanket nor the adjudicating authority of Mike the hamster. We were about to come to fisticuffs in the kitchen but right that moment, in he comes, striding through without a care. The great gangly bastard just pats me on the head and puts a pint of milk in the fridge. I’m like ‘what the hell dude, what the hell?!’ and you know what he says? He just says ‘stop barking, bad boy’. Shit son, you’re the bad boy”.

   It would certainly appear that Jeoff is not alone. Just last tuesday Chichi, a Pomeranian, was unfortunate enough to go through the same ordeal. “So I was just sittin’ there, minding my business, y’know watching my soaps and gnawing dem paws o’mine when ‘slam’, that door done go open an’ close! So I leap up and I’m like what the hell girl? This ghost comes marching on in with a bag that says Tesco or some shit. All casual as you like, I’m like ‘hell no, I am not seeing what mine eyes is saying I’m seeing, we buried you girl, we gone buried you’. Cos like, at that point, you gotta assume folk be dead. Going out like that, not returning for at least, I dunno, two episodes of the Kardashians. I mean, we did some funeral rites, me and Kesha (Cavalier), we dug up the garden for that human. We even found her favourite slipper, took it into the yard and pissed all over it, you know the full service, it was a beautiful ceremony”.

   Her thoughts were echoed by Rocky, a Border Terrier, who provided us with a detailed timeline of his most recent “waking hell”

0:00 front door closes, must bark loudly to confirm that I have recognised the departure

0:00-0:05 lay on mat in front of door, stare forlornly at glass aperture

0:05-0:20 clamber onto back of settee and stare out of window, barking intermittently at any movement

0:20-0:25 take yesterday’s newspaper out into garden and shred all over lawn. With this I honour you.

0:25-0:50 gnawing the skirting board for my fallen homey

0:50-0:59 try to play with bally. Perhaps human went to buy more ballys. They would lose dozens of ballys a day if it wasn’t for me, after all.

1:00-1:20 slight glimmer of hope that human still alive seems like a distant memory now. I shall chew the sofa cushion, it’s what they would have wanted.

1:20-1:25 briefly take time off from chewing in order to settle pack hierarchy with an uppity looking sparrow. This is my house.

1:25-1:40 Resolved that I’m not going to be like those mopey dogs on the adverts, I’m a home-owner now.

1:40-1:43 Oh god what if the human is sat in a little cardbox box on the side of the road?!

1:40-1:53 chew chew chew

1:53 ARHGHHHHHH OHHHMAAAAGAWD WHAAAAAAT THE HELLLLL YOU’RE ALIVEEEE! ARRRRRGGGGHHHH. WOOOOOOOOOO. WUFFF WUFFF WUFFF WUFFF WUFFFF. Oh…I just peed.

April Update

Conflagration
Conflagration

Conflagration is now on sale at Beccles Books, Halesworth Library and Lowestoft Library for £4.

Daniel Brunsdon complete
Daniel Brunsdon complete

Each of these retailers now stocks the full selection of my work. £1 from the sale of every book sold at the libraries goes to a good cause.

Swannui and Cygnus just £2
Swannui and Cygnus just £2

And finally, Swannui and Cygnus is now just £2 at both Halesworth and Lowestoft Libraries.

Are you based in East Anglia, have you previously purchased one of my books?
Please comment below.

All books are also available via post within the UK and worldwide on Kindle.

Announcing Conflagration

Conflagration
Conflagration

My latest book, Conflagration, is due to be released this month. Conflagration is my third collection of poetry (fourth book overall) and spans two years of work. Conflagration is longer, more mature and better balanced than my previous works and is the book I am most proud of.

I would like to offer a huge thank you to my friend Matt “Swampy” Ward for taking over the artwork mantle and providing a vivid, manic rendering of the title poem.

Conflagration is priced at £4 and will be available in store at Beccles Books, Lowestoft Library and Halesworth Library. It should also soon be available in Kindle format from Amazon and also via Paypal using thefallofscience@live.co.uk (unmonitored email address).

Observant visitors will have noticed a considerable drop off in my posting in the last year or so, Conflagration is likely to be my final collection for the foreseeable future.

Swing From Ceiling Beams

Swinging from the ceiling beams with a wicked grin and marvellous malevolent thoughts. Wonder what will transpire when we expire and eternity opens out before us like a dark shawl, a cape hung from the shoulders of the grimmest foreboding made man. If man is man-made then what do we say to that which lies beyond the ceiling, in the skies, empty and erudite, so many poems written to elucidate the interest and put diction to passion for the omniscient. Yet nobody is there, nobody who matters. The same could be said for this room, full of bodies but empty all the same. We are all searching for a meaning in the meaningless, a perfect distraction from mediocrity and existential crises which preoccupy the preoccupied and pedantic. We can all procrastinate when the answer to the question is as redundant as the task at hand. Falling into fishbowls from such great heights doesn’t offer purpose to a porpoise or any other mammal. Let alone a man who shouldn’t be left alone with the sort of wicked thoughts that trip, traipse and trickle through this tiny little brain. In most instances it’s all well and good that we only use a percentage of the capacity of this cranial cavity. Slowly shitting on the same sidewalks we sat on as children, watching excrement escape and leave little trails on the soiled street. Perhaps you felt that, the little pang of sorrow and a little sigh sallied forth from dry lips. Strap up and tie off, squirt in the ennui and empty it all out. Finally drawing a little line under a decade of inaction yet unable to accept that it was all for nothing and no one cares who shot first just who shouted loudest.

Conflagration

Fill the grenade with grenadine
We’ll reutilise the war effort
Repair, recycle and reuse
In such imaginative ways
Yet if all our swords are ploughshares
And all our bullets turned to bracelets
We’ll only beat each other
To death with farm machinery

I’m all for hugging trees
Yet sometimes you need to carve out a
Spear handle and use the light from
That spare candle to whittle out a
Sharp point to penetrate and pierce

We won’t be here much longer
The way we carry on
Carrying out covert ops
Covering the tops of our
Hidey holes with thick foliage
Thin branches delicately draped
Across the entrance

And yet these new school
Retro, remade, post modern
Contraptions keep on turning
Ammunition into pencil sharpeners
And gasmasks into fishbowls
We can deny it all we want
But we all know we’ll need it again
Soon, wipe down the respirator and
Chamber the parer

Bear down on them with teeth bared
And our right to arms a necessity
When it’s been ingrained for so long
A culture built on blood
Soft, slippery surface to lay foundations
Upon
They did it anyway

Fine days and dark nights
Fly by without much more than a whisper
Flickering and flitting through
As we cling on to what we hold dear
Drag it deep down to comfort us
We’ll sit here watching the world burn
And brush dry tinder toward

A forest fire
Breathing in the pine
As it crackles and chokes
Into life
A conflagration for the flagburners
And the deathbringers
The wild, the hungry, desperate and dreary
No survivors set the world afire
And none of us ever expected to make it out alive