BRIT JAM 2019

[Grumpy Ole Codger]

It's just resting after a long squawk!

 

[barbagris]

You aint foolin' us @barbagris .

That ain't no 'Norwegian Blue' it's just a poor bloody chicken someone plucked, stuffed in the fridge for a while and threw in a cage! They had to nail it on it the perch, it was shivering so bad it couldn't hold on.

Schh - don't tell him. It's in fact just a Galah with a Barry Humphies/Dame Edna blue rinse.

 

[Ishrub]

Oh well we have plenty more to send your way if that one goes completely 'batty' and hangs upside down.

Unfortunately it can't fall of it's perch now you've nailed the bastard down.

We have homes for the bloody things these days.

If they play up we just give a shout to Kimba to send Bruce their 25' foot Big Galah to sort them out.

 

[Grumpy Ole Codger]

Sorry, it's still dead.

 

[barbagris]

Sorry, it's still dead.

This one isn't - but it's very very rare.

 

[Tripps]

More interesting than the UK ?

What's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Boventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, bomplaining about the tea - 'Oh they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home' - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamaris and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they 'overdid it on the first day.' And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Bontinentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners. And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Ruins to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing 'Torremolinos, torremolinos' and complaining about the food - 'It's so greasy here, isn't it?' - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to 'All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets... where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'.

Potential Monty Python routine?