Category: satire

Crazy Mixed Up Universe (1/3)


Greetings, Earth Dwellers!

Zog from Alpha Centauri here. Just a quick radio burst to thank you for all the cool sounds you’ve been sending us. We’ve been working through the backlog – rather slow, I’m afraid, as our department for Monitoring Outer Space Signals (MOSS) is a woefully low funding-priority in the face of our impending eco-catastrophe.

Entirely self-inflicted, of course, so I won’t bore you with the details.

Our environmental disaster’s only plus is that Alpha Centaureans currently crave emotional escape and our money-making offshoot MOSS FM has attracted a little advertising revenue by broadcasting schmaltzy dance-band music from your 1920s and ’30s.

In case you’re thinking this is just another example of ‘fake news’, I’d better come clean. MOSS amounts to no more than yours truly and my old steam-driven inter-galactic language-transposer. It did have a bit of trouble with beatnik slang but is now well and truly back in the groove, daddio! Rock ‘n’ Roll came as a revelation after all those soporific crooners but (speaking as MOSS FM’s one and only DJ) I’m keeping Bill Haley and Elvis and all their hepcat pals under wraps in case, just like you, we get an outbreak of cinema seat-slashing and sexually-suggestive hip-action – whatever they are!

As my nervous sponsors would no doubt remind me, social chaos can occur without cinemas … or hips … or sex.

Yes, quite a backlog – or back catalogue, as you Earthfolk say! Me and my trusty (if rusty) translation machine have just arrived in 1959 with no sign of things slowing up or quietening down. I daren’t look in the bulging music box marked The 1960s


dwellings, earth greeters –

zog got big ask for you –

cheepskate tranzalationing masheen on blinkers so willbe briefs – Yes to day scent out to my fello Alfie Centurions what I thinking nice armless little 1959 sing about dancering & then all heel brake loos –

longstory short – officious policee that all rite with world just if you stayhome & keep your self to your self & your windo shut now in shred & tatts – peepul all outside & play this sing over & over & do hotnew dance call it The Little Walter – even dancering to gather & singing unison –

dont care what you heard this is a crazy mixed up world – more loud even than loud speaker wheel in tell them they happy – no they shout – downside up – more happy now we can say we not happy – not happy till now – now we dance & sing to gather –

but zog hear jumpy sponsas ask who buy & sell when all just dance & sing – and zog fear spumpy jonsas pulldaplug on moss fm – so zog not so happy his lissoners so happy they not so happy –

back to the bulgy 1960s mew sick box – to zog just like your schrodingers cat – safe and sorry –

and now that big ask –

only you knowhat the box con tains –

do zog open it up –


Image result for schrodinger's cat meme




Theme (Park) From An Imaginary Western

Here’s another of my occasional Marshal Amp monologues. Yesterday I performed it – or something like it, as I kind of improvise from notes – at a local pub’s Americana night.

Two visitors from the USA were there so I was even more than usually nervous. Their gracious response, typical of so many Americans, brought home how untypical my monstrous stereotype really is!

Howdy, y’all!

They tell ya the good ol’ days is dead and buried. Uh-uh … fake news! Ah’m here to bring ya the good news … they’re back! Them good ol’ days is alive and kicking.

All ya gotta do is get yourself down to Marshal Amp’s Authentic Wild West World!

Ya heard it here first, folks. Au-then-tic. The real deal. I remember sitting on my daddy’s knee and hearin’ his stories about how the West was won. My daddy heard them stories sittin’ on his daddy’s knee. And his daddy heard ’em sittin’ on his daddy’s knee.

Can ya guess where his daddy heard ’em? (Pause.) You got it in one! That was my great-great-great-granddaddy. Got shot in the knee by Billy the Kid. Had to use his other knee for tellin’ them stories.

Only kiddin’ ya, folks, little family joke there! But I ain’t kiddin’ ya about Marshal Amp’s Authentic Wild West World. It’s so good, ya gonna love it!

Tell ya, down there we got the whole kit and caboodle! We got injuns attacking wagon trains. We got the Gunfight at the OK Corral. We got a big bank robbery every single show. We got trick shootin’ from a movin’ horse. And we got all your favourite heroes – Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, Buffalo Bill …

Yeah, great family show! Good guys in white hats, bad guys in black hats … and plenty of  hangin’s to keep the kids happy!

Very popular, too! Packed to the rafters every show! Complete sell-out so get there early … well, actually … y’all seem a sensible bunch, so I’m gonna level with ya here … the honest truth is, our audience numbers been droppin’ off lately.

Ain’t exactly sure why, folks! So we been doin’ some re-search on that there interweb. Tell ya, they got netsites on there fulla fake news. Get this. (Reads) ‘Wild West Not Wild At All.’

No cowboy hats, no Stetsons! Can you believe it? Reckons they wore bowler hats or beat-up top hats. No check shirts, neither, just thick black clothes they wore for months! Says the injuns was shocked ‘cos they use to wash every day. You ever see an injun take a wash in a movie? But you see plenty cowboys in them tin baths … and them ladies scrubbin’ their backs with them big loofahs!

What else? Oh yeah, injuns didn’t attack wagon trains much … felt sorry for ’em, apparently, tried to help ’em out! Wrote down this figure for ya. Outa every 100 deaths on the trail, only 2 or 3 of ’em caused by injuns. Wait, it gets worse! Reckons the injuns didn’t ride round and round them circles of wagons. Oh no, the only wagon circles was at night to stop the animals escaping!

Oh yeah, no bank robberies neither. Well, 8 in 40 years! That’s, er, one every … five years. Don’t sound right, considerin’ there was 5,600 US bank robberies in the year 2010. And they tell ya the West was s’posed to be less violent than other parts of the country. Homicide rates lower, no big gunfights, no mass hangin’s … sorry, kids!

Listen to this. Gun control was stricter than today. Towns prohibited firearms. Turns out the OK Corral was just one gang goin’ against Tombstone’s anti-firearm rules … and the battle only lasted 30 seconds! If Marshal Amp’s Authentic Wild West World did that, you’d be askin’ for your money back!

Oh, and the guns was mostly cap-and-ball – that’s fancy talk for a marble launched by black powder. Could go anywhere. If I was aimin’ at that buffalo head over there on the back wall, they reckon I’da missed. The only damage woulda been the burns on my shootin’ hand. And no shootin’ competitions, neither, ‘cos they didn’t want nobody knowing they was so bad. Just used to boast how good they was, so you wouldn’t take ’em on!

By the way … Marshal Amp never misses … alternative fact!

This is what we’re up against, see? Turns out the marshals was mostly vigilantes runnin’ protection rackets. Wyatt Earp … big hero of mine … lived off of gamblin’ and maybe pimpin’! The guy he made his deputy, Doc Holliday … another big, big hero … they says he was a hired killer!

They twist it round the other way, too. Says here, outlaws used to moonlight as lawmen. Butch Cassidy … forget that silly movie with the singing, he was one bad dude! … Butch Cassidy was a – get this! – security guard. Huh! Same with Billy the Kid.

Hey, maybe my great-great-great granddaddy got shot tryin’ to rob a bank … only kiddin’ ya!

D’ya know what I think? I reckon this is all one big conspiracy to confuse people, tryin’ to make ’em think for theirselves instead of trustin’ their hearts! And I blame those stupid movies, y’know, Blazin’ Saddles and Midnight Cowboy … nothin’ but farts, fools and faggots! Just tryin’ to muddy the waters …

And talkin’ of Muddy Waters, this here’s a song by him:

(To end on a Crescendo, plays harmonica and sings I’m Ready – great song to sing when you’re pumped up and which includes this apposite verse: I got a action pistol, a graveyard gun / That shoots tombstone bullets wearing ball and chain / I’m drinkin TNT, I’m smokin dynamite / I hope some screwball starts a fight / Yeah I’m ready, etc.)

Thank you, folks, and remember we allus ready to welcome you to Marshal Amp’s Authentic Wild West World! 

Adios, y’all …

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Image: Homework 2 – Yola

Shock and Awe

For my final comedy clip, I’ve chosen a few moments that barely raise a laugh … more of a gasp, if truth be told. Very few comedians before or since can rival Bill Hicks in sheer, dangerous, furious bravery and this short sequence is something of a masterclass in satire.

The words are spare and there is as much mime as message. He doesn’t preach or hector – at least, not here – but simply allows the story imagery to do its work. His silences draw us in, making us complicit in calling a whole world of moral priority into question and leaving us with nagging discomforts that may yet – who knows? – translate into worldwide policy changes. We should Pursue such ideals with a vengeance.

I’m not holding my breath, though …


Did you know that there is now just one way to get financial support for new scientific research in Bafflesby? Of course you didn’t. They don’t make it easy to find out these things, do they? So we here at Bafileaks (Motto: Who Drips Wins) have decided to make public the following pamphlet, obtained at considerable personal risk from a display-stand in the foyer of their so-called funding agency.

Guidance About Submitting Projects (GASP)

The public needs good news. Officially authorised research from Professor Tom Eliot over at the 4 Quartets Institute has demonstrated that human kind cannot bear very much reality. Or very much in the way of tax increases. That’s why, from now on, we’re investing in science which delivers purely positive messages.

In a nutshell: if it puts a smile on our faces, you get the funding!

So here are some simple Do’s and Don’ts to stop you wasting your time and ours …


  • send us inventions that will make a profit
  • produce studies that show we’re getting it right
  • offer proof that people can solve their own problems without help from experts
  • conclude that throwing money at the problem isn’t the answer
  • suggest we leave well enough alone


  • uncover problems that require international action
  • mention tipping-points or cliff-edges
  • bang on about worst-case scenarios
  • use big words or long sentences
  • recommend expensive fixes or further investigations

We are Avid Believers in Science. We believe it’s out there … somewhere or other. So come in out of the cold, you boffins, and pitch us your plans!

Just make sure you wipe your feet first.

This is not fake news. No facts used are alternative. Only the science is fiction.


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Image: Pinterest

Vox Pop

You wanna know what’s wrong with the world? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with the world! What’s wrong with the world is that the world isn’t Bafflesby!

Take my word for it. I know all about this stuff. Bafflesby born and bred, that’s me, man and boy! Never set foot outside the sound of her ancient bell tower, as it happens, and never wanted to. You can’t get lost here, see? The streets tell their own story. Witchfinder Way, Gibbet Gardens, Bedlam Bridge. You can’t move for history.

I’m like a stick of rock, I am, Bafflesby through and through. I got traditions built in. That’s what these Outcomers can’t understand. They’re not like us, are they? Smell different, for a start.

Old Barry Cade says they look different, too, but I wouldn’t know. To be honest with you, I can’t bear the sight of them. Last thing I wanna see is them curling their lips at our old ways, sneering at our customs. Forever asking the rules of Bladderball when any fule no there ain’t none! You either get it or you don’t.

Same with the Festival of the Flaming Firkin. Spot a stranger a mile away by his singed whiskers, the Old’uns used to say. Used to. Not no more. Six foot under, most of them, and their wisdoms buried with them! The good old days is gone for good. Anyone says he can bring them back gets my vote, even if he is pissing into the wind.

See that mausoleum through the mullion window? That was our old Squire, that was, bless his brutal heart! Time was when every job in town was in his pocket. If you wasn’t true-blue Bafflesby, you never got a sniff. He knew we was born to it, you see, it was in our blood. Natural aptitude, he used to say, comes with the territory. We didn’t need telling what to do, all that nonsense! Nowadays it’s all, What do I have to do?

They tell them, too. Waste of money even if they are paying them less! Back in the day we never needed no training up. Hit the ground running and – Bob’s your Uncle! – you got a job for life. Not just your life, neither, the job were yours to pass on. Keep it in the family, they used to say, and the family will keep you.

Not no more. These days the thought police are everywhere. They got to have interviews. All these Outcomers talking stuff they don’t know. Asking things. We never had to ask nothing.

Same as the Facts of Life. No one said nothing. You kept one eye open and your ear to the ground in them days, then if something arose you jumped at the chance. You don’t have to go to college to cook a pie, they used to say, may they rest in peace …

Ha, fat chance of that, they’ll all be spinning in their graves! They wouldn’t recognise the place now. All these new estates, you get lost on them, with their Anyroad Avenues and Whatchamacallit Walks. Go to the end of your street and you don’t know where the hell you are. No point asking a constable because there aren’t any. And the ones in cars don’t like you flagging them down. It’s a war-zone out there.

Worst of it is, the enemy don’t wear different uniforms. Muggers, rapists, murderers … they look just like you. Once upon a time there was just the village idiot and the old witch who used to shout things at you. You knew who they were because their jobs ran in the family. They came from a long line of idiots and witches. They just knew what to do. Now they got to have interviews. Political correctness gone mad, I call it, taking a sledgehammer to crack a nut. And you can’t crack a joke without po-faced prudes breathing down your neck. Anyone who gets those creeps off my back can have my vote.

What’s wrong with the world is too many creeps. Anyone takes a sledgehammer to my back door has a surprise coming, I can tell you. Can’t tell you what it is, so don’t ask, but let’s say I’m good and ready. Fort Knox has nothing on me. Time was when you could leave your back door open in case Old Mother Hubbard came round for a cup of sugar. Now you don’t know who is outside your house trying to sell you exploding clothes-pegs  and foreign encyclopaedias. And if Ma Hubbard gets both barrels, tough!

So anyone says he’ll Bring Bafflesby Back gets my vote, even if he just wants to turn it into a theme park. He doesn’t need to change anything much, as long as he shoots his big mouth off about people I don’t like so that I can too. Time was you could say whatever you wanted. Now it’s all, button your lip in case you upset every little waif and stray in the big cruel world.

Well, losers, get used to it! The candidate who gets my vote will shoot first and ask questions later. The candidate who gets my vote will always say the first thing that pops into their head just like I do. The candidate who gets my vote will promise me the moon without waiting to commission a boring old feasibility study. And after no consideration whatsoever, I have decided that the only person worthy of my vote is me. My election campaign begins here.

Image result for vote meImage: Clipart Kid

The Next Step Forward?

by Bafflesby Beacon roving reporter Watt Ware

Tongues  are wagging all over Bafflesby about the mystery construction that has been rising from the ancient dust of the now-demolished Shirehall Public Library And Theatre (SPLAT) like a phoenix from the ashes. Imagine a phoenix wearing a cool pair of shades and you might capture the soul of this new building with its opaque walls of mirror glass reflecting your own puzzled expression back at yourself.

Image result for mirror building

Donning an appropriate pair of Ray-Bans, I venture out in search of Beacon readers through streets awash with wild surmise and afloat with a thousand theories. It’s time to test the water.

SPLAT near-neighbour Ria Wynn-Doe, 74, sounds relieved. ‘Well,’ she tells me, ‘anything’s better than having a horde of undesirables peering through your lace curtains. That arty-farty place lured them in like moths. Some days it was Night of the Living Dead round here. Beads, beards and bare feet – you know the type – and half of them only in there to warm themselves up for free and gratis, thank you very much! Rest of them was most likely gawping at naked bodies and glorying in smutty dialogue at the taxpayer’s expense! And as for all those books, I’d have had a bonfire!’

Si Knightley, 19, isn’t so sure. ‘I never went in but me and my dad used to walk his dog round the Shirehall and look at all those Greek statues on the outside. Frieze, he called it. I’m not surprised because they didn’t have no clothes on. Wonder what happened to them. Do you reckon they put them in there?’ He was pointing at the new building. ‘I would of.’

In the Culled Badger the ale is flowing, along with the conversation. There’s a copy of The Bafflesby Beacon on the bar. It’s a good sign. I ask them about the new building.

‘I got a mate in the know,’ Bill de Wall, 63, tells me, ‘and he says it’s a hostel for migrants. What it is, you can’t see inside so there’s no way of knowing how many are in there. But they can see out so they’ll be able to watch our every move. Plan their operations. That’s what my mate reckons. He’s got this mate in the know, see?’

Someone else, who won’t give his name but says he isn’t Joe King, will have none of this. ‘Nah, what it is, it’s a five-star prison for famous people who’ve been done for doing bad stuff to people who aren’t famous. All these left-wing luvvies, it’s one big club, they’re all in it together. They got secret signs and all sorts. Goes right to the top, too, that’s why you never hear about it. Hush-hush, see? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Just behind that glass they’re living in the lap of luxury and laughing because nobody can see who they really are. You can’t hear a thing but they’re laughing at you, right now!’

At this point the pub landlady buts in. ‘A few pints of Old Conspiracy and these monkeys start imagining the mice behind the wainscot are plotting to pinch their peanuts.’ She glances around, leans towards me and lowers her voice. ‘No, sweetheart, if you want to learn the truth you must gain access to the Dark Web and ask for Daffy Duck. Don’t laugh, there are mysterious forces in this world and far beyond her that mean to rid the galaxy of humankind and all its idiot progeny. Next thing you know, these mirror boxes will be everywhere. Today Bafflesby, Tomorrow Never Knows. By the way, despite all appearances, this is Happy Hour. You can drink three pints of Old Conspiracy for the price of one.’

I make my excuses and leave without telling them the real truth, that The Bafflesby Beacon has just signed a rental contract with the owners of MirrorBox House and will be moving in before the day is out. I don’t tell them how its unique 360 degree all-round vista will facilitate our hi-tech sight-and-sound surveillance of Bafflesby now that the phone-hacking scandal has deprived us journalists of optimum listening capability.

Or it will do once we’ve cut down all those old trees. I don’t tell them that, either. Never mind. They can read all about it here.

The Bafflesby Beacon Says …

You can rest assured, Bafflesbytes, that the ever-watchful Beacon is on your case. Now, more than ever, we will guard you against those who seek to make unwanted intrusions into your placid lives. We are primed and ready to blow the whistle at the very first sign of the enemy at your door, be they false friends or foreigners or even foraging aliens.

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Our Boy Done Good!

Although we won’t be blowing our own trumpets any time soon from the top of BLAG Towers, spiritual home of the Bafflesby Lifestyle Advisory Group, please allow us a brief moment of smug self-satisfaction. Like fond parents we watched from the wings as the very first graduate of our brand-spanking-new leadership course – Special Panic Attack Social Management (SPASM) – took to the stage before a big Bafflesby audience.

The room rippled with rage and resentment but young Mickey Finn managed to stun everyone into silence with a sustained barrage of banality incorporating the very latest techniques of seated crowd control. People found themselves nodding for no reason and many fell asleep long before our protégé had finished speaking.

Here is a transcript of his speech to aid politicians of the future in their quest to suppress  despair whilst stifling specific hopes of anything better:

“To hear some people talk, my friends, you’d think we were all caught in the eye of a terrible hurricane. Now I’ll admit the water has grown a little choppy of late but it’s only a storm in a teacup. We just need to wait till the clouds roll by and ignore folk who pour cold water on everything and want to sit around in wet blankets. At the end of the day we’re all in the same boat and we sink or swim together.

Oh, the gloom and doom merchants will tell you we’re up shit-creek without a paddle but that’s only mud-slinging. And when we make landfall and begin to blaze a trail with best foot forward, you can bet your bottom dollar that your common-or-garden naysayer will be up there on his high horse like a cat on hot bricks with his tail between his legs, his heart in his boots, bees in his bonnet and bats in his belfry.

Whatever else we do, let’s keep the pot boiling. This is no time to throw in the towel when our backs are to the wall and our future is in the soup. It may only be cabbage and potato soup but there are several excellent recipes to choose from. And there is always alcohol. Let our glass be half full rather than half empty. There may be trouble ahead but while there’s music and moonlight and love and romance, let’s face the music and dance.

Yes, my friends, spend any loose change on dancing shoes. Our more patriotic celebrities are hoofing for everything they’re worth, showing all of us the way. Dance marathons could be the leg-up that the man in the street is begging for. And remember, it could always be worse. In some countries they shoot beggars, don’t they?

So come on, Bafflesby, play up and play the game! The lion’s share goes to the lion-hearted. Seize the time and take the bull by the horns. Strike while the iron is hot and devil take the hindmost. But let us not throw caution to the winds. We must play our cards close to our chest, keep our powder dry and never let the cat out of the bag.

May your upper lip be stiff, your feet up to the mark, your shoulders to the wheel and your ducks forever in a row. By hook or by crook we will come out on top … don’t forget the glory days when good Queen Bess knighted Francis Drake and Walter Raleigh for their services to international piracy … while never, of course, condoning anything below the belt. Nip that in the bud tout suite, I’d say – if it wasn’t French! After all is said and done, that just wouldn’t be cricket, would it?”

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