Meat Raffle lost at The Turnpike to The History Men.
Ivor tells the tale....
pleasant evening at the venue that price inflation has forgotten with
the crème de la crème of recent University Challenge alumni. The
flattering scoreline is only due to a disastrous first two rounds by the
home team who were otherwise never too much in arrears. Tonight’s
interesting fact (though not as interesting as Rachael’s impending
nuptials to Adam) is that Richard has succeeded Paddy as Granada’s scout
and assessor for universities wishing to field a team for UC, and is
also a contributing question setter. I am sure he will find a few
ideas in the 20,000+ questions lodged on the Withquiz site."
A Blob is Born
Megson is unwell. The rash first appeared around
Eastertime shortly after the decorous deacon had given up
celibacy for Lent. Other less socially acceptable symptoms
soon raised their ugly head and eventually, after many anguished
nights of tossing and turning and not a little scratching, Fr
Megson was forced to seek medical advice.
The atmosphere in the Red Lion surgery was even more boisterous
than usual on the afternoon of his appointment, and as he sidled
in he was subjected to some very uncharitable chants
of "Sidewards Christian Soldier". After a cursory inspection Dr
Ivor told him to put to put his clothes back on with due
diligence and never ever take them off in a crowded pub again.
He got his stethoscope out, read the instructions and told the
patient to breathe in and blurt out three times. He
tapped him on the kneecaps with his biro and asked some
pertinent questions: Was he a smoker? Had he seen Holby
City last night? What was the collective term for a group of
hermits? He then told a relieved Fr Megson that he was as
fit as a butcher's dog apart from his ailment. Unfortunately he
couldn't really help him with that as he had never been able
to get his head around "them parts of the body down there" as
they were known in the trade. On the positive side though,
it was fortunate that Dr Tim was feeling a bit paralytic at the
moment. When sober, he could be a bit on the cavalier side
and had a reputation for gleefully amputating anything that
dangled. He advised the patient to go home and keep
scratching. He should drink plenty of Sanatogen and
cod-liver oil and, with any luck, he would be as right as rain
in good time for the next London Olympics. And above all
he shouldn't worry. After all, we all had to go sometime
and, sure, wouldn't it be great to be remembered as the priest
who went out with a bang and not a wimple?
Megson will be so busy scratching over the next few months that
he has been forced to appoint an amanuensis to fill his column.
He says he can't afford to pay much so his turf accountant has
advised him (at the special rate of only 75 guineas per half an
hour) to give the job to a woman...."A woman who is
priest-ridden and who has had the backchat beaten out of
her would be your only man" he advised. "And don't be giving it
to a good looking one, either, because you don't want her to be
looking in mirrors and running home pregnant every minute of the
So Fr Megson placed a small ad in the personal column of the
Church of the Hidden Ovarie parish magazine and, after careful
consideration, he has decided to give the job to the only
applicant. He has told Dusty that she has everything a
priest could want in a woman writer: two sharp pencils and a
rubber. He told her not to worry about the grammar as that
was sure to come later. He counselled her to relax and
write about what she knew. And if she didn't know about
it, well, bejasus, write about it anyway as the half dozen or so
fcekin' eejits that bother to read it will know even less.
It worked for Joyce and Beckett, and it nearly worked for
Richard Littlejohn, so why the fcek would it not work for her?
excited Dusty raced home, peeled the spuds and told Mr Dusty the
good news. Mr Dusty was silent until he had eaten his
spuds. Then he said the extra half crown a week would come
in very handy and where the fcek was his custard and jelly?
He admitted that nobody on his side of the family had ever had
much joy at dipping the quill but he could at least sharpen her
pencils and supply her with jotters from the Pound shop.
Or, if he could fire up that oul hoor of a Sinclair computer
that was out in the henhouse, she could even do one of them
thingamajigs on the internet....you know like what that wee
girl Belle de Jour did about her secret life as a protestant.
"A Blob" cried Dusty triumphantly. "I'll do a