THIS BLOG IS NOW OFFICIALLY CLOSED!
For *ALL NEW* ITTODBTBIA IV poor-quality fun 'n' games, please GO HERE.
Also, if you currently link to this site, could you please get up off of your arse and update your fucking records? Well? What the hell are you waiting for?
Jesus wept! You people ...
CHEERS!
The End Of The Road
The Poet Laureate
As you may know, the Queen, in consultation with the Prime Minister, appoints an official poet to write gushing stuff about the royal family, royal weddings, important national events and, in Sir John Betjeman's case, the proposed axing of the 11:22 sprinter service between Farnham and Bagshot.
It's a strange old job, and the pay's even stranger, consisting as it does of six hundred bottles of sherry and the indifference of an ungrateful nation.
The post is now held by a woman (!), but what of the last Poet Laureate? What occupied the mind of the great Sir Digby Smatterbatter, official poet to the nation from 1980 - 2009?
On The Marriage Of Charles, Prince Of Wales And Lady Diana Spencer
The Prince is wed! Let's all be merry!
Now where the hell's me fucking sherry?
On The Death Of Diana, Princess Of Wales
Diana's dead, and I'm not merry.
Thanks a lot for all that sherry.
Reflections On A Day Out In Ireland
Today I visited Londonderry.
Can I have some more free sherry?
Sir Digby - Britain salutes you!
Is There Anybody Out There?
Do you like Hazel Blears? Does anyone you know like Hazel Blears? Have you ever read of anyone who likes Hazel Blears? Or heard of anyone who likes her? Have you, perhaps, been sat at the bus stop and overheard two old dears have the following conversation:
"You know what? I really like that Hazel Blears."
"Yeah, me too!"
Well?
No, neither have I. Whenever I've mentioned her name to anyone, they've bristled up like a rankled dog before hurling a furious tirade of abuse at our smirking 'Communities Minister' (whatever that is).
Does anybody out there, anybody at all, like Hazel Blears? I'd love to know who you are and, most importantly, why? Why the hell do you like Hazel Blears?
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Join your genial host, Clefton 'Wilmott' Pumsby, for a night of *professional* armpit-farting from one of the best in the business.
"I've been recreating the sound of farts out of my armpits for over twenty five years," Clefton says. "I don't want to blow my own trumpet, but I am very, very good at what I do."
"Which is armpit-farting," he added.
**347th place RUNNER-UP - New Faces (ITV), 1980**
Tickets on the door: £3, NO CONCESSIONS
"One of the worst nights out I've ever had to endure in my entire life." - The Slackby Advertiser
"I'd rather watch two hours of someone boiling dog dirts." - Yealand & Afferbury Mercury
"Unacceptable." - The Morworth & District Thunderer
Clefton Pumsby's 'A Night Of Farting' is brought to you exclusively by ITTODBTBIA Entertainment Ltd. No part of Mr. Pumsby's act may be recreated without permission. No refunds available. Management reserve the right to refuse entry. Show may contain racism.
The Voice Of Reason
Hello there! I'm Tom Jones in my underpants in a phone box in 1973. I've taken time out from the important phone call I'm making thirty six years ago to remind all of you men out there to regularly check your gonads for any signs of early-onset testicular cancer.
Start by rolling each testicle in between your thumb and ... oh, hold on ...
Ah, hello? Is that the Leyland dealership? It is? Excellent. My name's Tom Jones and I'm in a phone box in my underpants in 1973. I wanted to talk to Mr. Laughlin about the Allegro he sold me last week, is he there? He's with a customer, is he? Yes, yes I'll hold.
... so where were we? Ah, yes - testicle examination. Now then, start by rolling each testicle ... hang on a second ...
Mr. Laughlin? Hello, Tom Jones here. I'm calling from a phone box in my underpants in 1973 about that Allegro you sold me last week. Yes, that's the one. Beige, that's right. What's that? No! No, I'm very happy with it. I like the snazzy square steering wheel and the fake leather seats ... I'm just concerned about a slight rattling noise I can hear when I engage third gear. That's right, third gear. Sorry? You'll have to have a word with who? Oh, right. Yes, I'll hold.
... hmmm. Look, this might not be the best time to talk. Perhaps you should pop back tomorrow when I've sorted out this rattle I've got on my new car? I'll still be here, don't you worry about that. Here in my underpants in a phone box in 1973.
Cheers!
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