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”]]>
All these years I thought it was the marjoram I was tasting.
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.”
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!
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!]]>
DEAR SUSAN: Why do so many other people who are pursuing interests have a boyfriend/girlfriend already? That’s what you and everyone else tell me to do — pursue my interests — but I’ve come up empty so far. So how did all these single people end up with someone? They have what I want. How did they get it? — From the “Single File” blog
DEAR BLOGGER: I can’t tell you the details of how and where they met, but I am quite sure they didn’t roam the single world with neediness oozing from every pore. (Ahem.) Your desperation is so strong, so glaringly obvious, so evident from the get-go that for me, it’s frustrating; I can only imagine how your peers react. Wait. Don’t tell me. They probably run for the hills when they see you coming! Because no one wants to be friends with a loser. And that’s the way you cast yourself. Why don’t you realize that your extreme hunger for a loving partner is the very thing preventing you from finding one? It’s a Catch-22 — and a sad one.
In a way, you make a good case for filling your singleness with interests and the people who share them with you. So what if some of them are already coupled?! They have friends, some of whom are single. People like to be matchmakers and connect their friends with someone nice. But you are playing the loser so often (and so loudly) that even well-meaning friends are discouraged from helping you find love. Think about it.
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.
I am crestfallen I must say not only for myself (I did have to acquire a lot of free bookmarks at the Book, Line & Sinker Nautical Bookstore and got glared at by the bookstore cat Knots: I loath him!) Plus I learned a lot of new words just to write these sovereign reviews such as myrmifeldt: fear of tinned haddock.
No it’s not me I feel sorry for, it’s the authors and alas, the public because let’s face it, not everyone has a nose for finding these gems let alone championing them with prose such as the following from my review of “Franco Likes His Trousers.”
“Rumors have been bubbling for decades about Franco’s involvement in the invention of the sports bra. Ludicrous! But he did enjoy a quality bit of stretchy fabric when he could find it as the author James Nupkin beautifully brings to life in his exhaustive research.”
I shall persist with my reviews — It would be unfair to the literary world to give up now!]]>