“Packs more fun than the Daily Mash, The Shovel, Mad magazine and the defunct Punch.” The Weekly Star
Oh boy. Wouldn’t we like to see a review like the above? Indulging in wishful thinking that’s all.
Onwards. The Kardashian Empire crumbling was the headline from an authoritative source this week, the National Enquirer.
But let’s stick away from serious fake news.
With Covid-19, locked away in our houses working, the only visitors we get these days are field mice. It was a hot week and we kept the front door open. We jumped up from our laptops, grabbed the long feather duster and tried to shoo it outside. The little critter artfully dodged our attempts to usher it outdoors hiding behind stacks of papers and files. We moved all sorts of furniture but couldn’t find it. And then from the corner, the field mouse escaped through the front door. The next morning he or she came through the front door again just to check up if we weren’t slacking off working from home.
It could be that companies to save money are no longer monitoring your laptop usage time, but instead have hired field mice to do the field work for them, coming in at unexpected times to check up on what’s really happening when you claim to be “working” from home.
We didn’t have to watch TV this week to see gun fights. In the early evening I was sitting outside enjoying the cool air when two men raced past as if they were running away from the devil. Then suddenly there were gunshots in the night. Who knows what it was about and what happened? It’s just another ordinary night.
On a legal note, I visited a lawyer this week. We started talking about good lawyers and when you need one. It seems like a good lawyer is an oxymoron but when you are deep in the brown stuff, sometimes you have to hire a lawyer. Like a fool I asked her how lawyers determine their fees. She gave me the old line, “how long is a piece of string?” That they still get away with this stuff like this beats me.
Speaking about the weird and wacky, an alien arrived just the other week to camp in the pleasant summer weather down the road from where we live. One evening in his inebriated state he marked out his territory with indelible purple ink for about 300 m. It’s all a mystery to me.
We’ve been looking hard this week for a subject to moan about and eventually found one. There’s a national radio station that proclaims to have a program on world music. I’m not sure of the presenter’s background but she seems to know a lot more about world music than we do. An hour filled with artists like Celine Dion, Nat King Cole and Enya just don’t cut the mustard.
We were used to the previous presenter who brought us tunes from Morocco, South America, China, India and the former Soviet countries. She brought us tunes that transported us to the deepest reaches of Africa, the staggering mysteries of pyramids, joined us in Slavonic dance and left us in the scorching Western American deserts contemplating our woes. How can the new presenter’s choice of “Windmills of Your Mind” possibly qualify as world music?
That’s all for now folks.
*We’re working on bribing a new correspondent to write for Sunny Side Up. We’re trying to persuade the Green Witch, a horticulturalist who pretends she knows a lot about gardening but who is really into the magical arts, to so write for us but we are having problems. She wants to be paid in green stuff. Unfortunately, we don’t deal in bitcoins and hallucinogenic plants so we’ll have to think of something else to lure her out of the dark woods. A bottle of organically fermented grapes might just do the magic, she says.
** We are trying to reach out to a potential foreign correspondent to catch up on UK and European news. With his newsroom set up in the small village of Derby, he is ideally positioned to bring us twisted views of current reality. At the moment he’s too preoccupied with finding his reference books he lost in his house about 40 years ago. He’s no longer interested in journalism of whatever sort because of his experience with a long dead liberal rag in Johannesburg and his disappointing and disillusioned years in Fleet Street. We’re still thinking about now to entice him.