Note to Mad Mog of Essex; Do you refer to Refuse Disposal Vehicle Operatives?
Nah mate, wot I mean is the sort wot old Lonsdale Donovan used ta sing abaaht
"My Old Man's a dustman he wear's a dustman's 'at. He wear's gorblimey trousers and he lives in a council flat"
"Now somes giv's tips at Christmas, and some of them forget, so when he pick's their bins up he spills some on the step.
Now one old bloke turned nasty and to the Council wrote, next time my Old Man went round there he punched 'up the throat."
Bob Bull wrote:Dickon confused by the conflicting advice given by assorted contributors decided he would need a Royal Charter if he was ever to become Lord Mayor of London, so he sought approval from the King of Zummerzet;
King John of Jedward was well know to his consort who kept him on a very tight rein or should that be reign? Either way he was not allowed to go out drinking with rough Oddmogs in sleazy taverns. Would His Royal Lowness be able to help our hero?
We shall wait and see, as further luminaries of the carting fraternity prepare to enter stage left ..........................
Thats GLOUCESTERSHIRE
Morgan Club Sport. The only way to drive to and from races!
Following complaints from members of Royalty as to the whereabouts of assorted English counties, it was decided to call in an expert detective to investgate the matter.
While Dickon was busy trying to decide wheter he was in Summerzet or Glaw's'sheer, back in the balmy South of the country strange doings were afoot, rivals for the prestigious role of Lord Mayor were busy plotting to knobble our hero before the vote was counted. A number of famous politico's were due to speak at a rally in Westminster in support of Jolly Jacques Balloonblower, a serious contender for the position.
Amongst those lined up to speak were Ed Balls and a certain B. Liar.
As the rally got under way the compere announced; " Soon we will hear from B' Liar but first, Balls' up ...................
In the crowd two figures lurked incognito, to avoid drawing attention to themselves.
Long, long time ago there lived a poor boy called Dick Whittington. He had no mother and no father, and often nothing to eat. One day he heard of the great city of London, where, said everyone, even the streets were paved with gold. Dick decided to go to London to seek his fortune.
London was a big and busy city, full of people both rich and poor. But Dick could not find any streets that were paved with gold. Tired, cold and hungry he fell asleep on the steps of a great house. This house belonged to Mr. Fitzwarren, a rich merchant, who was also a good and generous man. He took Dick into his house, and gave him work as a scullery boy.
Dick had a little room of his own where he could have been very happy if it had not been for the rats. They would run all over him as he lay on his bed at night and would not let him sleep. One day Dick earned a penny shining shoes for a gentleman, and with it he bought a cat. After that Dick's life became easier - the cat frightened away all the rats, and Dick could sleep in peace at night.
One day Mr. Fitzwarren called all the servants of the house together. One of his ships was leaving for a far-off land with goods to trade. Mr. Fitzwarren asked his servants to send something of their own in the ship if they so desired, something which could perhaps be traded for a bit of gold or money. Dick had only his cat to send - which he did with a sad heart.
Dick continued to work as a scullery boy for Mr. Fitzwarren, who was very kind to him. So was everyone else except the Cook who made Dick's life so miserable that one day Dick decided to run away. He had reached almost the end of the city when he heard the Bow Bells ring out. 'Turn again Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London' chimed the bells. Dick was astonished - but he did as the bells said and went back to Mr. Fitzwarren.
When he returned he found that Mr. Fitzwarren's ship had returned, and that his cat had been sold for a great fortune to the King of Barbary whose palace had been overrun with mice. Dick had become a rich man.
He soon learnt the business from Mr. Fitzwarren, married his daughter Alice, and in time became the Lord Mayor of London three times, just as the bells had said.
Mary! I am shocked, I am certain that I have read that before somewhere. Did you plagiarise it? Anyway it's not very funny.
Now if I were to write that story Dickon would acquire a Morgan sports car rather than an old moggy, and he would certainly not have any dealings with tyrannical, barbaric rulers of Third World countries, as to that Mr. Fitzwarren! Well ... you never know ....................!
The stage went dark as all of the spotlights faded away, and the scene shifters leapt in to action like a well drilled pit crew, but what had caused ths sudden change of direction?
Following information provided by the Panto's Producer, Mary Moggins, it was apparent that poor Dickon had ventured into the WRONG PANTOMIME!!!!!
Scene IV; Hearing that Lord Bellinger has been elected an Arch-Bishop, Dickon realised that the post Of Lord Mayor was now his for the taking, but he would need to hie away to London ASAP before some other dastardly Morganeer stood for the job. What he needed was a fast means of transport, and, as luck would have it he found himself reading an advert for just the thing he needed;
An De Luxe German cart was being offered for sale by a certain Mat Wurrzell, who claimed all sorts of magnificent qualities for his Hayseed Bends cart. Could he trust this shady looking dealer? He must take a chance as time was pressing, so a bag of shekels changed hands, and he was on his way, waving a fond fare ye well to the King of Glowerecestersheer as he went.
With just a few short miles on the hour glass a huge plume of smoke irrupted from the back of the Bends, had he been sold a pup?
Pulling to a halt he ran to the back of the cart to investigate the cause of the problem only to find a recumbent figure drawing on a large Havana cigar and belching out huge clouds of aromatic smoke so dense as to obscure the sun. Who are you, and what are you doing in my cart he enquired?
By jiminee old chap quoth the figure, 'ere I were havin' a kip in an abandoned cart, and now Bless my soul 'ere I am miles form 'ome and almost out of Cubans. I be Sunshine Ray Hicks, and I be on my ways to Lunnen to apply for the job as Lawd Mare, is yew be a goin' that way per chance?
Mary! I am shocked, I am certain that I have read that before somewhere. Did you plagiarise it? Anyway it's not very funny.
Bob, as a journalist, you really must learn to tell the difference between reporting fact and inventing stories. [-X
I was reporting what I had read elsewhere as an aid to the theme of the story. Jack suggested that you might need reminding about the original story line and I was simply trying to help as you are obviously easily confused.
Dickon, having tried the air oop north. decided that dahn sarf was where he felt most comfortable (and he knew the streets in London are paved with gold).
Greatly relieved that he now found himself once again back in the right pantomime he set off with a spring in his step.
