Mrs Tyoad

Good Evening. George Bunnington here. I don’t know if you are able to see me but after many years of fruitless campaigning and the determination and the steadfastness of my campaign manager Mrs Toad, I was duly elected the M.P. for Sudbury South (Conservative & Unionist) and took my seat on the back benches ready to begin work for my constituents. Can you see me? No? I’m on the right next to Bunty Moffatt.

It’s a bit of a squeeze and I’m a little perturbed regarding the fact that I can’t see a thing because of Sir Farquar Pennington-Dripfeed, a 22 stone bundle of opinions and chum of Tubby Hayhead Buffoon Boris Johnson our Prime Minister. Can you see me yet? I have a white three piece on. Actually it’s a four piece but I don’t often use the top hat.

You will remember that the last time I stood for parliament I was a Liberal Democrat. Not so this time. Having a 13 year old school newspaper editor leading the party just didn’t do it for me. I dabbled with the Brexit Party for three minutes and couldn’t stand having a leader whose last name rhymed with somewhere I leave my car to get serviced, then the Labour Party tempted me with their vow to ban rabbit hunting, good stuff but Jeremy Bernard Corbyn had about as much charisma as a broken toaster so who was left? Scottish Nationalist? Did I want Scotland to leave the Union? I mused and mused and mused and mused. Still musing actually.

But then of course the media put their spoon in the custard talking about Getting Brexit Done and Blubbering Boris negotiating a deal which was gleefully accepted by the hordes of the E.U foreign upstarts. They love the deal. Bugger me. Of course you can get a deal with that lot if you give them everything they want, a la Boris. And then I thought to myself, self I said, who cares?

The British Public had just discovered the word democracy and decided to use it, not knowing what they were talking about, on every radio talk show that they could pretend to be intelligent on. The will of the people, blah, blah, blah. I was violently sick all over my burrow. However as old Haystack head Johnson wouldn’t stop getting Brexit done and the mindless minions were swamping the streets, a la Princess Di’s Funeral, I opted for the Tories. And so here I am, getting Brexit done and nursing a sore arse from these benches.

And now some sad news. My Campaign Manager Mrs Tyoad (pronounced Tyoad as in Toad but with a y after the t) passed away in August of 2019. This was particularly sad news as her efforts to finally getting me elected were stellar. Her talents were copious: Funny (Ha Ha), witty, intelligent, determined, always a smile on her face, dogged in adversity, caring, selfless, perceptive, and …….I could go on but it would cause me to pause and whip out my handkerchief. And as for fundraising she was outstanding. (See photo below of our ultra successful Jumble Sale in which we gathered enough funds to pay for some posters telling the good people of Sudbury South to vote for me.)

And so, in the spirit of “Keep Calm and Carry on” we do. Remember the Blitz, Vera Lynne, Good old Winnie (Churchill not the Pooh), Stirling Moss, Twiggy, David Beckham and Lord Lucan. She will be sorely missed not only by myself but all who were lucky to have enjoyed her company over the years. As Edna Ferber once said of her “And I thought I was talented. Well. Nothing compared to Mrs Tyoad”. And I think that said it all.

This column will be continued by her much less talented husband Mr Tyoad. Gawd help us and Let’s Get Weetabix Done”

Who Speaks For The Mr. Puddleses of This World?

All these years I thought it was the marjoram I was tasting.

Er, people don’t seem to get the above joke. I know because I tried it out. But I have heard the best jokes are the ones that need an explanation so I will try and do so.
Obviously, Paul and Joanne are cooking this dog in a recipe experiment that would later become Newman’s Own spaghetti sauce.
But there’s so much else going on here which distracts from the obvious. Paul’s socks, his shorts-windbreaker kitchen wear combo. How slim and young Joanne Woodward is. The era, the glamor, the nice big kitchen cupboards.
But of course this is the sort of seductive trappings that enabled them to get away with this in the first place. Poor poor Mr. Puddles. Ask yourself, did you ever see another photograph of him again?

Get The Toast

Meanwhile at The 98th annual International Jamposium and Preserves Show.
“Damson Plum 1917: Excellent vintage if from the slightly center of the southeast corner of the orchard that is. And free of weasel-fur of course… why I remember a Damson from 1909, Good lord — or was it ’07…”

“We resent the implication.”

Ring Toss Anyone?

Went to adopt a pet and in the place on the application where they asked if I was a smoker and what my annual household income was, I wrote I wanted something that could detect early prostate cancer and could be taught to roll a joint.
They gave me this.
Not very cuddly!

Good To Know

I regret all the insensitivity I’ve shown to attraction men over the years. Or maybe those named Ken? Or maybe those holding signs? I’m not really sure but if it’s a poster of someone holding up a handwritten sign it usually means you’ve been an asshole in some way to a certain demographic and in this case I wouldn’t even have been made aware if I hadn’t stopped to use the bathroom at the Teen Clinic.

Thank you Teen Clinic for this and for the free condoms and the cold drinks that I think were intended for the teens but I had a couple during that nice long rap session with peer counselor Van. He gave me some super information about self-esteem and boundaries and doing what is right for me. I don’t think he realized my original comment had been about a bunion that was killing me but that’s okay, I learned a lot and by the time we were done chatting it was time to use the rest room again and on the way found out about all this!

$19.99 with free pot holder!!

Hello all! I’ve been plugging away on my book: a delicate leap in to — and timorous dog paddle within — the dank waters of our social media-entrenched culture and how these murky depths have affected the young people of today.

Their struggles,  their challenges and issues.

It’s entitled “Our Children — Our Children Are Arseholes.”

Tell me it’s not too late — tell me you haven’t already picked out your last minute Mother’s Day gifts!


A time comes in everyone’s life when they ask themselves “Wonder what crawled up Susan Dietz’s ass anyway?” Susan Dietz writes the Single File column where singles turn for advice.

As you see (way) below, she is not helpful. Yes she offers a suggestion in the second paragraph but one wonders if the recipient is going to make it there having been cast as a loser whose neediness oozes from every pore and, being informed of sounding so desperate, friends must run for the hills when they see said person coming. One imagines this advice-seeker turning to a chocolate cream pie if not the opium pipe at this point rather than reading further.
And for this, they pay her?
All I can think is that the letter was edited because it doesn’t seem all that whiny. A bit, but what the hell? Susan is only interested in letters from peppy people who write in for larks?  “Dear Susan, I’m single and loving it!  Not feeling down or temporarily at a loss in any way. Know what’s great? Your suggestion to find people with similar interests to one’s own. Stellar! Why no advice columnist had thought of that is a mystery. You have an exceptional mind and so caring, why you must hear success stories all-the-livelong-day.  Anyway, you’re boffo. Thanks for helping us not that we need help — we’re bubbling with confident, empowering energy —  but if we seek sham recycled tips, great to know you’ve got our backs!”

Continue reading Meanycakes!

Hello! Remember me?

Hello, remember me?

George Bunnington: 16-time candidate for office and former white courtesy-airport phone.
I have currently turned my attentions to writing book reviews for the New York Times.
Yes I’ve been most gratified and uplifted by this new career, at least I was until being informed, upon my 573th submission, that they are not interested in book reviews from a ceramic garden rabbit. Well I wasn’t informed directly but got a feeling this might be the case.

But that’s just how passive-aggressive these people are, they don’t have the decency to reply to my excellent reviews of such titles as: “Introduction To Advanced Home-Skin Grafting “, “Gravy Stain Summer” and “37-9-62, 37-9-66, 34-9-62, er, 73-9 …”
The latter: a searing coming-of-age tale about a girl, a trip to the post office, and a difficult-to-open bike-chain lock.
Continue reading Hello! Remember me?

Soufflé Abuse

Maine lobster and Gulf shrimp with saffron sauce and peanut crumble, Angus beef with dark chocolate sauce and potato gratin, and chocolate souffle with cherry vanilla ice cream.
Obviously, we’re all in atrocity overload but nevertheless, the above inaugural luncheon menu: Blech!
I mean everything sounds good until it doesn’t. I like chocolate, peanuts, crumble, more chocolate but the combinations here? Creme anglaise for chocolate soufflé, not cherry vanilla ice cream.
Christ, it’s like something Snoopy would serve if he was a coked-up hedge fund manager named Kev from The Wolf of Wall Street.
As we all know, he was greatly criticized (mostly by Lucy, but also Linus) for his Thanksgiving menu of toast, jellybeans, pretzel sticks and popcorn but that was — elegant, spare — in contrast to the above display of gastronomical gaudiness. Also he was sensitive to those with nut allergies unlike whoever thought up this horror show!