Category Archives: DNA
ACT 1. The guests arrive.
Sussex, entering left, courtseying : “You sent for me, Ma’am?”
Cornwall, whispering to HM: “See how he removes the Royal Cloak and hangs it on the peg? No son of mine…”
Cambridge: “Welcome, let us hug so that we may be Brothers in Arms.”
Sussex pushing him aside: “Fuck’st off, thou unchin-nosed fustelarian.”
ACT 2. The Queen’s Drawing Room.
HM: “So tell me Sussex – I’ll call you Harry – let’s speak of Meghan, whom thou didst marry.”
Sussex: “I love her Ma’am, with all my heart; I hear sweet music, tho’ she doth loudly fart.”
HM: “’Tis love for sure; I used to feel the same to hear my Edi snore.”
Edinburgh, aside to Cornwall: “It’s those Swan Down pillows, mate; they me do nightly suffocate.”
Cambridge, earwigging: “Suffolk Kate? Yet it is sworn by certificate: she’s Pangbourne born and no mistake.”
Edinburgh: “Sir Tiffy Kate? Is that her dad?”
Cornwall: “The hour – ’tis late – the sun glows red. Come on, father, let us get thee back a-bed.”
HM: “To business, Harry, now, in verse, how willst thou manage without my Purse?”
Sussex: “I’ve thirty million in my account. I may not be Rees-Mogg, but ’tis still a good amount.”
HM: “But, in America, ’tis no wealth! Illness there comes free, one has to pay for health.”
Cambridge: “Bro, you married a beauty; but where’s thy sense of Royal Duty? Hast thou lost it?”
Sussex: “Go away, you pompous git.”
ACT 3. In the hallway.
A knock on the front door is heard. (‘Tis Andrew, delivering pizzas.)
HM: “Quick, let us in the garden walk. I know that knock. It’s that dork, York.”
ACT 4: At the back garden gate.
HM: “Oh bugger, there’s the Press! Butler, fetch one’s crown – one’s hair is such a mess!”
HM (to the assembled reporters): ”Summit’s aborted. Come back Wednesday.”
Sussex (to camera): “Sorted.”
[photo credit: By USDAgov – https://www.flickr.com/photos/usdagov/8674435033/sizes/o/in/photostream/, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=25727555]
When ‘A’ was rescued from a B&Q orphanage, he thought a loving family was taking him into their home and their hearts.
“The kids seemed very excited on the way home in the 4×4,” recalled A, “singing ‘Daddy got a ladder’ to the tune of ‘If I had a hammer’. I thought I would soon be enjoying a bowl of homemade soup in a warm kitchen and then the kids would show me where I was sleeping. I couldn’t have been more wrong.”
To his horror, the jeep pulled up the gravel path to the detached double garage. While the children ran into the house to tell mummy about their outing with daddy, A was slid out of the tailgate, had his packaging stripped from him and was roughly shaken before being hung on a pair of hooks inside the garage.
“Yeah, reckon you’ll do,” said the man before switching off the light and shutting the garage door.
In the darkness, a large spider crawled and A heard the familiar creak of aluminium on aluminium.
“Who’s there?” asked A.
“I’m Triple Extension,” said a deep voice in reply, “and this is my wife, Roof. Get to sleep, Steps. There’s work to be done, first thing in the morning.”
“Don’t call me Steps,” cried A.”My name’s A. It’s short for A-Frame. You’re not my real ladder.”
“We had always assumed that the employees were rubbing themselves off like a troop of monkeys back there,” commented Dr Pauline Copland, lead food scientist at Dunstable Met where the study was performed.
Local amateur chromosome-enthusiast Brian Aubrey, whose father and grandfather both took a keen interest in genetics, has concluded that the driving force behind their common pastime must be in his DNA.
His hypothesis was published in this month’s edition of Naturist World.
“For editorial reasons, they changed the title to ‘DNA: The Bare Facts’ and preferred to illustrate the article with a photo of some rather healthy-looking women playing volley ball on a beach in Spain, which they said was more interesting than my diagram showing the distribution of chromosomes in a double helix.”
“The problem is finding an outlet for your research. It’s a highly competitive business and sometimes it’s necessary to resort to click-bait tactics to get your message out there.”
The American food giant that owns Cadbury’s is facing strong criticism for secretly rolling out a new cheaper Creme Egg, wherein nearly all the goodness of fresh milk chocolate has been replaced with less costly ingredients, specifically, human faeces.
Kraft Foods has replaced the hugely popular Cadbury’s Dairy Milk shell with one made from a crusty mix of dried excrement sourced from several countries, according to reports in the press.
A spokesman for Kraft told journalists “It’s no longer Dairy Milk. It’s similar, but not exactly Dairy Milk. To be brutally honest, there’s more shit. We have austerity too you know. Real chocolate costs money. ”
“We tested the new one with consumers. They were found to be foul-tasting and stinking of excrement, but we’ve given the new egg a firm thumbs-up.”
Fans of the ovoid chocolate treat – first launched 43 years ago- are angry with the change, with one saying: “I’m so disappointed – they’ve been my favourite snack for years. Now the chocolate tastes cheap, like chocolate liquors, only shittier. I’ll probably still buy them though.”
“Thank heavens there’s now only five in the pack, instead of six – that’s a hell of a relief for those of us who don’t like picking turds out of our teeth on a spring afternoon.”
After officials from the Department of Health asked Kraft for confirmation that the new “chocolate” eggs were fit for human consumption, the company issued a statement saying: “Just don’t ask what’s in the creamy bit…”
In a dramatic (and slightly gruesome) turn of events, former UK Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher has risen from the dead to wade into the battle to save the Union.
As polls show the pro-independence campaign taking the lead for the first time, Tory chiefs have made the momentous decision to deploy their ultimate weapon: the Thatchernator.
Using the dark arts of necromancy and voodoo, which many of the upper House are experienced practitioners of, Better Together leaders claim they had ‘no choice’ but to reanimate their dead leader.
A new breed of genetically modified chickens has been hailed a success by its developer, Harold farmer Lionel Garage.
“The new chicken type is featherless from birth,” Mr Garage told the Evening Harold, “pre-basted and also comes with the all-important leg elastic as a built-in feature.”
Farmer Garage claims the new design will result in increased profitability for chicken producers, saving them much of the cost of traditional posthumous poultry processing.
“Standard-type chickens require labour-intensive after-death attention,” he said, “and I’m frankly sick off forking out so much plucking cash. And you wouldn’t believe how long it takes to get that elastic band round its back legs.”
Scores of local athletes spent their bank holiday taking part in Harold village’s famous tossing competition. The old Harold contest involves participants tossing the locally-grown knob of Mayor Rufus D. Jackson as hard as possible.
The tradition goes back many years, but historians believe it was invented by Mayor Jackson himself, during a dry spell. This year’s winner, Norman Bunting, produced a record-breaking toss, the results easily clearing the cricket pavilion roof.
Women’s Institute President and toss organsiser Marjorie Houndstooth explained the rules of the competition: “The knob must be tossed underarm with a firm grip, and at least one of Mayor Jackson’s feet must remain on the ground at all times.”
A rare hybrid being that is part goat, part sheep, part donkey and part human boy child has been born on a farm on the outskirts of Harold Village.
The animal, referred to as a gooney boy, was born about two weeks ago on local farmer Lionel Garage’s farm.
The unexpected arrival is thought to be the result of mating between a goat, a sheep, a donkey and one of the potato-pickers.
Mr Garage said the cross-breeding was not intentional. “It was a pure shock to the system,” he said, “definitely a one-off.”
“I’ve never seen anything like him before,” he told the Evening Harold, “and I come from a long line of sheep-shaggers.”
The world of science was left in confusion today after NASA picked up images of particles from the remains of Edwin Hubble.
“What’s really weird” said NASA operative Dr Lucille What “is that the images were beamed back to earth by the deep space imaging device of the same name, the Hubble Telescope. What we witnessed was nothing short of a family reunion.”
Edwin Hubble died more than 60 years ago. He had undoubted success with his science work, discovering that there’s a lot more space outside our own Milky Way and that the universe is expanding, but will always be remembered primarily for the role he played in bringing Chicago University basketball team their first silverware. His basketball skills were put down to his extraordinary ability to zoom in on the target net, seeing it, as he often said, ‘in at least three dimensions’.
Following in the footstep of ‘8 out of 10 cats’ and ‘Countdown’, the BBC and ITV have joined forces to bring us the ultimate ‘mash-up programmes’. In aid of comic relief, Jeremy Paxman and Jeremy Kyle have swapped places for a day and recorded each others shows
‘The Jeremy Paxman show’ saw the newly-bearded presenter take on some of society’s more special examples of guests, but without the use of lie detectors, DNA tests and security guards. Whilst over on BBC2’s ‘Newsnight’,, Kyle grilled the politicians in the days news using his usual tools to break them down, before offering them counseling with his aftercare team.
A womaniser from Harold’s Shippam’s Estate is celebrating tonight, after securing his eighth full year of paternity leave. Dave Grobbelaar, 27, received the happy news by text message from ‘girlfriend’ Sandy Twittock, while feeling up her sister in the snug of The Squirrel Licker’s Arms.
While Grobbelaar claims to be ‘an all-round handyman’, those too close to him claim he’s inexperienced with all but one tool. Confirmed father of around 15% of the local population, Grobbelaar now has his own parking space at the Tarbuck antenatal clinic.
“Being a serial father can be a risky business”, claimed Grobbelaar, ‘you can’t rely on paternity leave, unless you’re sure the mum is working.”
Lovers of fine coffee in the village of Harold are flocking to sample the aromatic blends of local entrepreneur and alcoholic Reg Boggis, who is delighting the locals
with his personally ‘homemade’ civet coffee beans.
For those not in the know, civet coffee beans are unusual in that they have passed through the digestive system of the civet, a nocturnal cat-like mammal
native to tropical Asia and Africa. The animals digest coffee berries but not the beans inside, which are passed into the “fecal matter”. In words of one syllable, the beans are shat out by the animals and then harvested. The enzymes in their stomach acid help produce a bean that is sought-after for its smooth, caramel-like taste, and can fetch over $1000 per kilo from the richer sort of Guardian reader.
Seeing the opportunity for marketing a boutique coffee in the village’s trendy cafe scene, Boggis was at first discouraged by the absence of civets from Harold’s native fauna, and all attempts to persuade his tabby cat Ernie to eat coffee beans ended in savage failure.
According to a statement from the World Health Organisation, the latest strain of the fast-spreading coronavirus can be passed from person to person in close contact, meaning NO NO NO WE’RE ALL DEAD OH GOD NO PLEASE.
The organisation’s latest advice comes after several people in Saudi Arabia died from the virus, followed by a second man in France contracting it from human-to-human transmission OH JESUS IT’S GETTING CLOSER – FRANCE IS ALMOST HERE AND THERE’S A CHANNEL TUNNEL NOW OH GOD WHY DID WE BUILD IT WE’RE ALL DOOMED!
NCoV is known to cause pneumonia and kidney failure AND PROBABLY YOUR BRAIN TURNS TO MUSHY GOO AND STINKING MUSHROOMS COVER YOUR WHOLE BODY OH CHRIST I DON’T WANT TO DIE!
Every local knew and loved the spectacular magic show put on annually by local magician “The Great Haroldo”. Although a touring performer he would end his season every year in Harold, and has done so for over 20 years. The pinnacle of the show was always a grand illusion which would culminate in a member of the audience disappearing.
In the early years the volunteer would always re-appear, looking slightly shaken, and return to their seat. However every year since 1997 the volunteer has failed to re-materialise, and none has ever been seen again.