It’s alright, it would have been a shit joke anyway. Something like
Pelle, Did he?
He’s known for that sort of thing.
Anyone else read his excuse and conjure up an image of the Bear breaking off from chairing a meeting of the United Nations’ Security Council, to post on here that he’s been too business lately.
Just me?
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You’re a team of one on that theory, Bletch. Although what ‘business’ might mean in Brum is anyone’s guess.
A Shame, though. After Go Set a Watchman this was next on my reading list.
Yeah, I guess it was just me casting Bear in my erotic fantasies again.
Actually Toke did some research in the other place and concluded that Bear either worked at McDonalds (Sargeant - 3 stars), or he ran a shop selling foam - that presumably supplied the enormous comedy hand football-tat industry, much to the annoyance of Turkish.
Did I get that right, Toke?
I’ve got Go Set a Watchman lined up next. Enjoy/enjoying it?
I liked it. It’s a bit of a period piece, but then so, quite frankly, is Mockingbird.
Originally posted by @Furball
You’re a team of one on that theory, Bletch. Although what ‘business’ might mean in Brum is anyone’s guess.
According to Wikipedia: "Today Birmingham’s economy is dominated by the service sector. "
Is “service” a euphemism?
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i am too business even to fire back at you bros for these veiled+unveiled abuses, but rest assured, I am Taking Names, and there will be a Reckoning.
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Reckoning = accountant. Oh dear.
Originally posted by @Furball
Reckoning = accountant. Oh dear.
Naa. Reckoning = Priest
= Vicar
= Pastor 
= NUN! 
Couldn’t find a Decemberists reference, so had to make do with Billy Bragg.
I know Furball is a fan.
Yeah, cock’s that small generally are more hassle than they’re worth…
No I will NOT suffer Lou Lou’s wrath by posting pictures of God’s finest in their underwear…
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Originally posted by @saintbletch
Couldn’t find a Decemberists reference, so had to make do with Billy Bragg.
I know Furball is a fan.
We might as well elect Bragg. He not only looks like Corbyn’s twin brother, and his sloganising is just as vapid; he also offers the crucial additional data that dinosaur Tribunites can’t sing or write anything remotely interesting.
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Anway, (sort of) back on topic, what is Brian a doctor of exactly? If, as suggested above, he’s in the catering business, I’m guessing divinity.
Which tribune did you have in mind with your Corbyn comparison, Furball?
From memory, most of the famous ones achieved their fame by getting murdered on account of the reform they wanted to introduce. There is also a suspicion of self-aggrandisement and opportunism with many of them, justified in some cases. If those are the traits you’re seeking to ascribe to Jeremy Corbyn, I’d probably disagree. I think it’s more a case of him finally finding a time when people are receptive to his long-held ideas about social democracy, and specfically, what the Labour Party should be striving for.
I think he’s the same sort of doctor as Doctor Fox.
Hint hint…
'sup! Bonus Christmas Story Yo!
KATHARINA’S CHRISTMAS CAROL
Part 1
Cortese was dead to begin with. There is no doubt about that. Although the circumstances surrounding his expiration were inherently funny, and we all had a good laugh about it, his death was not a prank, or jape, or act of seasonal joviality; it was a stone cold fact. Cortese was dead. Dead, like Tim Sherwood’s managerial career. Like Donald Trump’s political cache. Like Simon Cowell’s face. And the only thing you could say in his defence, was at least he died doing what he loved best. Pleasuring himself.
The most disappointing part of his death, if his death could be considered disappointing, is how little it affected the world. To the people of Southampton it was a mere article of news to spread around town, similar in interest to the closing of a Woolworths, but of no greater remorse. The parish newspapers published some dry and business-like obituaries, the school children sung derisive songs, and the local wildlife went on with their local, wild lives, unfettered by mourning. Only the club’s debtors felt genuine emotion, and that arose with the hope that Cortese’s absence might result in pecuniary relief for themselves, but any hopes of that kind were dashed almost immediately, when these poor, straightened debtors remembered Katharina.
Oh, Katharina! Was there a more grasping, rapacious, miserly old sinner in all of England? I should not want to meet such a one, if there was. She had all of Cortese’s arrogance and greed, but added to that a tight-fisted stinginess, a selfish disregard for the suffering of others, and an unremitting grip on half the town’s testicles, that was all of her own. Her actions at St. Mary’s Stadium, on the eve of Christmas, are suitably illustrative.
Katharina sat in a stone cold office, as sparsely furnished as a Cambodian prison cell. Whatever the room had once contained in the way of fixtures, fittings and chattels, had been sold, for Katharina liked nothing better than to sell things, and believed that one pound in the bank was worth a thousand haemorrhoids and head-colds. Her assistant, Ronald Koeman, who sat on a packing crate in the coldest extremity of the room, would doubtless have disagreed, but he was neither brave, nor foolhardy enough to express an opinion.
‘Merry Xmas, Katharina!’
Katharina started. The voice and its owner came upon her so quickly, and unannounced, that she barely had time to extract her fingers from her fanny. She looked on him with dislike. ‘Humbug! What is there to be merry about? Has someone offered £12.1m for Shane Long?’
‘Katharina!’ pleaded Ralph Krueger, who was, you must know, as happy and warm-hearted a soul as who ever lived. ‘Must you first think of profit, in this merry season of goodwill? It is to you that I wish a Merry Christmas! To you, and your loved ones, and your fanny. Goodwill to all!’
Ronald Koeman, a warm hearted soul himself, immediately stood and applauded this sentiment, until, quickly recollecting his station, he sat back down on his packing crate, and resumed writing with twice the fervour, as if trying to recover the lost seconds of productivity.
‘And you can fuck off, Koeman,’ snarled Katharina. ‘One more outburst like that and you’ll be making merry at the dole office this winter!’
‘Katharina!’ pleaded Ralph again. ‘Be reasonable! I have business for you – yes, business – and I know you love that! Will you discuss business with me?’
Katharina nodded a cautious consent. Business was her first concern, but she knew from experience, that business proposals from Ralph Krueger rarely resulted in profit.
‘It is like this, you see,’ said Ralph, striding the room with energy, and absent-mindedly fiddling with the thermostat. ‘The people of Southampton, they are suffering. Many of them cannot afford to come to St. Mary’s to watch their football club, and those that can, find it difficult to justify, due to the paucity of the team.’
Katharina frowned disagreeably. ‘Is there no Eastleigh? Is there no Portsmouth?’
‘There is, yes. Unfortunately.’
‘And Bournemouth? Are they still operating?’
‘They are,’ said Ralph sadly. ‘I wish I could say that they were not.’
‘Then I am relieved. I was worried, from what you said, that these important institutions were no longer operating as they were established to do so; to service the destitute, the feckless, and the poor!’
‘But Katharina! The people of Southampton should rather die, than watch Portsmouth!’
‘Then let them die, if that is what they want!’
‘That is not what they want! What they want, I have calculated, we could easily provide! We could lower ticket prices. We could stop selling our best players. We could buy a goal-scoring midfielder. It is easily done!’
Katharina looked at Ralph in utter astonishment, and no little fear. She really thought he had run mad. ‘And which school of business did recommend this?’ she said sarcastically. ‘Which clever minds did you consult, to develop your sage business plan of lowering prices and increasing overheads?’
‘I read it on Saintsweb!’ said Ralph, with a triumph and intrepidity that belied the inherent stupidity of his stated source. Even Ronald Koeman, could not help but smile. Katharina merely snorted.
‘Saintsweb! Good afternoon to you, Sir.’
‘Katharina!’
‘Good afternoon!’
‘But it’s Xmas!’
‘Good afternoon!’
And with that, but no ill-humour, at least on Ralph Krueger’s part, he departed, after taking a good time to enthusiastically wish a merry Xmas, and a happy new year, on both Ronald Koeman, and Katharina. Koeman returned the compliment, as far as he was able, but from Katharina, Ralph got nothing at all.
***
Katharina worked long into the night. Be it Christmas Eve or not, it was all the same to her, and she remained stoically at her desk many hours after she was obliged to release Koeman. She finally locked the gates at St. Mary’s Stadium, and commenced the long trudge home, at around the time that most people are taking advantage of the small window between Coronation Street and Eastenders, and are making a cup of tea.
It was a bitter cold winter’s night, with a dusting, swirling, snowfall in the air, If Katharina were capable of admitting regrets, she might confess that selling her car and dismissing her driver, as she had done some months ago in order to record a small profit, had been a mistake. As it was, she tightened her threadbare coat, and plodded remorselessly onward. No person or Christmas reveller disturbed her on her journey, for she carried everywhere with her a shroud of cold and misery, that deterred all that saw her from attempting to draw her attention. Even the famous Southampton rapists took one look at Katharina, and turned away, in search of warmer and more accommodating fannies elsewhere.
The Liebherr house was a tall building only distinguished from its neighbours by the complete lack of fairy lights and Christmas decorations. It was as black and miserable house as had ever been seen. Katharina showed no reluctance at all as she made towards it, however, until having walked to the door and inserted her iron key, she happened to glance at the door knob.
It was a door knob! Literally! The familiar brass handle had been transformed, somehow, into a small, pink, and indisputably fleshy penis. Katharina stared at the appendage, dumbfounded, her hand hanging in mid-air. The fleshy penis stared back at her, and then the small, crimson, urethral opening, seemed to wink.
‘Cortese?’ she said breathlessly, for she recognised the penis.
It winked at her again. It clearly did! ‘Oh Cortese,’ said Katharina in confusion, ‘how can it be that your penis is here, alive and winking, when you are indisputably dead? And why won’t you let me in? It’s very cold out here!’ She grabbed the door penis, and pulled as hard as she could. Repeatedly. She pulled and pulled until finally, a spurt of ghostly ectoplasm jettisoned on her face, and the door swung open.
Katharina darted into the house, and slammed the door behind her. Did that really happen? Surely not! She must have imagined it. She did not believe in ghosts, or spirits, or that Cortese’s autonomous zombie penis could ever have tracked her here. It seemed quite unlikely. No, it wasn’t real, she thought to herself. And she found this thought to be somewhat reassuring, despite the trail of salty, ghostly ectoplasm that was slowly dribbling down her cheek.
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Yay! Katharina is kick arse!
I’m just not sure I believe the bit about the door knob. If it was that small, how would she have been able to get a good grip on it?
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When u touch it, it gets bigger. I will send u video xx
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