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Situation: Defeat at lawn tennis.
Attitude: Sporting.
Solution: Accept loss gracefully; retire to house pleading heat; belabour servants until racquet breaks. |
| etiquette archive |
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Sir:
To fill the long, hollow days following the death of my wife in a car crash, I've been learning to drive. Yesterday, as we sped along a dual carriageway, my hitherto emotionless instructor instinctively covered his head and yelped when a pigeon unexpectedly flew across in front of us and narrowly missed the windscreen. I have also seen people I would have trusted with my life on a mountainside under machine-gun fire turn into panicking, squealing children upon a thrush's entering the house. I conclude we should have a national defence programme that abandons costly tanks and laser beams in favour of thousands of birds trained to flap alarmingly in the shaking, howling faces of an approaching enemy. |
Danald Watherspaan
Jersey |
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| letters from the editor archive |
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Bill to Explode the House introduced by the Rt Hon Futility Brabletawn, Member for London-town.
i. Let's blow up the House, you fellows!
(Passed unanimously from a distance.) |
| the bill before the house archive |
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The BRITON'S SCIENCE has shewn that The Weekly, the magazine which strives to maintain Britain's standards, has topped* one million readers since 1871.
"You've reached the home of Mil Millington. I'm not in at the moment because I'm attending a fabulously glamorous book launch party in the nude, but leave a message and I'll have my personal assistant get back to you in the nude," said MR MILLINGTON of this mathematically inevitable achievement.
MR NASH added: "This is a triumph and that is a trumpet. I learned the difference from a book."
* Though not, of course, in the sense of assassination. The Weekly has had cause to assassinate no more than two hundred readers. |
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Sup from the issue broth with the random ladle. New issue every time, subject to blind unfavouring chance. |
| feature archive |
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| Bearding a Merry Outlaw |
| Ha ha! Well done, my worthy adversary. |
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Right, shoot him and burn the body. |
| hurrah/bah archive |
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| This chap's purchased an OFFICIAL THE WEEKLY T-SHAPED SHIRT and now he's working off his shame at indulging in such wasteful extravagance. You too may display similar penitence, and perhaps press hot coins guiltily into the hands of a stooped clerk for a copy of MR MILLINGTON's improving books Things About Which My Girlfriend And I Have Argued, A Certain Chemistry, Love and Other Near-Death Experiences and Instructions For Living Someone Else's Life, by patronising the The Weekly Corner Shop corner shop. Items despatched under plain wrapper, school-boys will be chased from the premises with a broom. |
| corner shop |
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Game: Clog-Dancing.
Played chiefly in: Kessingland.
Objective: To be the last player dancing. Participants stand in a circle, with someone handling the music (or, at the least, drums). Players begin dancing and, the turn moving clockwise round the circle, can elect to hold the pace or increase it. Dancers must keep time to the music, and once the pace increases, it cannot be slowed.
Obstacles: Arteriosclerosis.
Rating: Darwinian. |
| heritage of games archive |
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| Remain UP-TO-DATE and KEENLY ABREAST with a subscription to BRITAIN'S ADVOCATE OF QUALITIES. You will receive notification by e-mail of forthcoming issues of the magazine which inspires Britons everywhere to forge ahead to a better newness. Alternatively, sub down from the list in weary satiety. |
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