CLOG - Comedy Literature Only Group discussion

Sirs and Madams

Some of you may remember me from a few years back when I was struggling to complete a comedic insult entitled The Flatpack Observer. Well, a lot has changed since those heady days and I am now struggling to complete a comedic insult entitled The Flatpack Observer. That is, as you may have deduced, a foolish lie designed to catch you off-guard. The truth is that Flatpack is complete apart from the bits that aren't finished yet.

I had the misfortune of bumping into that malodorous blaggard Mr Corben Duke in The Tattood Fist last Thursday where he was consuming a Seagull and Mayo on Rye. 'Cushions, me old bugalug!' he greeted me, revealing that his last tooth had gone to live with the other 31. He then belched in a manner that caused many glasses to shatter. After the usual pleasantries, our conversation turned to CLOG, and I was surprised to learn that the group had been re-named GARAB, (gags about road-kill and bottoms). Through a mist of alcohol and seagull, Mr Duke encouraged me to revisit the group and to ignore cries of, 'You're not welcome here traitor - we've moved on!'

So here I am, tentatively putting my head above the parapet. The aforementioned parapet was commissioned following an unfortunate incident in October when I told a muscular trick-or-treater to fuck off.

I have reluctantly made the decision to add a prologue to Flatpack. I intensely dislike prologues but the alternative was to crowbar it in near the end of the book, which would cause the purists to cry, 'He's telling and not showing! What a bastard.' This is available to anyone except Mr Corbyn Duke because I don't like him.

Yours with Bovril

Sav

Hullawrer!
Good to read from you again ma man. Made me laugh which is quite a fun thing to do these days.
Me? I got so fed up with my efforts that I sat them aside for a bit. And started two other short story types of things - one of which is a real whizz bang idea nobody has ever attempted before. Not in my house anyway.

But what with all this dreadful pandemic and being totally disowned and thrown to the rabid British Bulldogs by that wee Sunak boy, my anger has overridden my humour and everything is in abeyance while I work on two possible podcasts..

I'll be back. That's probably more a threat than promise

This is a first step to getting back in the groove. Thanks for posting, Mr Savage Cushions.

Hope everyone is good and safe and getting back the motivation to string some words together in written form.

Dear Mr Cushions.
Very glad to have you back. I've been stuck in your bathroom (scene) for many months, or maybe longer, and quite frankly, I'd like to move on. I've counted every tile, every bristle on every toothbrush, and I've mastered the art of soap carving, but I think I've pretty much exhausted the opportunities for entertainment and self improvement.
I think the old schoolboy response to "what has a hazelnut in every bite?" was "squirrel shit." (For information.)
Anyway, I'd be delighted to read anything more so please bung a copy over, prologues or otherwise.
I wish I could tell you that I've written lots more but I've found the last few years rather too depressing to find any inspiration. But maybe a few shoots of hope will emerge with the snowdrops this year...
Oh, and don't believe a word that Cee Tee says. He's spent the winter posing half naked in his back garden and posting the results on Facebook. This lockdown can drive one mad, you know...

I'd also be pleased to read anything you wish to push my way. I now know the text on the back of the porridge package by heart, and have discovered you can eat a boiled egg either pointed end up or rounded end up. If i find time next week between self imposed tasks of watching news programes, burning toast and matching up socks into pairs, then I may also investigate eating my egg side on. I'm having an eggcup specially commisioned on ebay to hold it.
As you can see, despite lockdown I'm leading a very full life. But selflessness is my middle name and I would abandon all such tasks to aid and abet a fellow clogger into public print.

Sirs
Due to my enforced absence from CLOG, sorry... GARAB, I forget the method of distributing works. Are the carrier-sparrows still operational, (Cyril was always my favorite,) or have we progressed to using the royal telegraph now.
Either way, do we have a list of electronic letter addresses?
Thank you
Simon

I've parcelled up a list, wedged it into a cleft stick, and set off hot foot for your pigeon hole. I remember your pigeons are given letters as well as names, and you divde them into cocks and hens. Check your bird E male for a message.

James... sorry to interrupt your boiled egg experiments, but I think you sent me a message saying you were attaching some amendments for consideration. I can't find the message now - could you email it again? thanks.
By the way, I think the side-on egg cup is a real winner, why has no-one thought of it before? You're ahead of your time clearly.

I've sent my comments again to your outlook email address. Shout if it is no longer active. Incidentally my egg experiment has been sabotaged by my local supermarket, the Biggin Hill Victuallers and Chandlers emporium. They delivered turtles eggs instead of hens eggs. As you may know they are round instead of ovate, and have rubbery shells. I pressed on despite the deficiencies in the material provided, and the spoon bounced back to hit me in the eye. Having only the normal human quota of optics I declined to repeat the experiment while I still had some vision.

I thought you were all dead.

I’ve spent the last 6 months twiddling the tuning dial on my transistor radio hoping to pick up a Morse code emergency signal with the coordinates of a refuge for the few surviving humans. But all I can hear is static. I thought I was the only one left, other than the swarms of zombies roaming the countryside. Thankfully Iceland made a delivery to my hovel just before everything ended so I've been living on fish fingers.

It’s great news that some of you are still alive - so great. I should have guessed that Sausage Curtains would have been one of the last humans. He’s a survivor, see. Every mass extinction has its survivors. Cockroaches, rodents and wasps survived the meteorite strike that wiped out dinosaurs. All these creatures went on to do very nicely, and so too will Mr Curtains. He will prosper mightily. His future path is clear, once he perfects his prologue he intends to crash the survivors' camp and sing shanties telling fantastic stories about Flapjack. As everyone knows the breakdown of civilisation means that electronic devices will stop working and survivors will depend on travelling storytellers for their entertainment. Mr Sausage will become a legend and then a wizard-king. It's going to be great - so great. I wonder if he needs a tambourine player to accompany his shanties. Gizza job, I could do that. 

As usual, I have no idea what anyone just said. Befuddled I am. And glad to be so. Curtains, I'd be happy to take a gander.
Send me anything at [email protected]
Hope everyone is well.

Andy

Don't worry, nothing has happened, anywhere at any time. The last thing that happened was way back in '87 when John Major owned up to being a goat-fancier. Absolutely nothing of consequence has happened since, so don't worry about missing out, although I'm confused as to why you wish to deprive me of one of my beloved geese.

I believe I included you in the prologue mail drop together with lots of others of whom I know nothing. I have at least 3 new chapters that I'm just touching up in a deeply sexual way, and will forward these shortly to all who have shown an interest, and to many more who haven't.

I see Mr Corben Kude is still sniffing around. I believe that, in an effort to gain my forgiveness for his attempt to elope with Mrs Savage, he is comparing me to cockroaches, wasps and similar vermin. Well it won't work Kude! I am immune to flattery and artificial grass.

Oh, and if you happen to bump into the Coldstream Guards, tell them to eat more fruit.

Fond courgettes

Sassy Cushions