As so many were captivated by the tales of Philthy’s past philandering, there was little room left in last week’s Circular to include the real events of the On On.
Google Earth : Run 2313
Undoubtedly the low point of the evening was reached when Major Disaster pranced in and ponced around in a pair of Paddington Poofters. He has been whining on for weeks that he doesn’t get any attention since he stopped falling over or getting lost, so he must have found it particularly galling when that little beast Kitty Litter lacking a GPS (Get Perfect Self-Deception), staggered in dripping blood and attracting sympathy all round.
But even so, you have to be pretty desperate to turn up in that ludicrous looking footwear, which Captain Bligh suggested had been pinched from a Paddington Shirt-Tail Lifter’s door step.
It would appear that The President is to blame. Already planning in advance for next year’s AGM, he enticed the poor old Major to prance around in the poncey footwear to test audience reaction to one of the possible up-market “Give Aways”. The reaction was decidedly poor, as was the response to other supposed imaginative “Give Aways”.
The Poofter Creepers attracted only one vote (Major Disaster), The Pakistani Pajamas also only one (The Commodore), The Patagonia Ponchos – polled better with four (Jungle Jim, Doggy Bag, Basket Pressed, French Concoction), whilst Lederhosen(Lost in Translation) and the Ornamental Shrunken Head (Goonshow), attracted only one vote a piece. Most popular was a Subs Refund.
Whilst Major Disaster slunk off vowing he was never going to perform like a fucking idiot again, there was worse to follow. The audience was then treated to a heart-breaking eulogy from E-Shit. Despite an earnest plea for sympathy and understanding, announcing he could lose a leg in a forthcoming operation, the heartless bastards all laughed.
It was all too much to bear on top of the sinking of his yacht, “Breaking Wind” and his Ironing Business folding. He lay in his lonely bed. Sobbing into his pillow. Deep into the night. In utter despair. He needed to confide in someone. Someone who would understand. Someone who would listen to him. So he called the Suicide Hotline.
He got put through to a call centre in Pakistan. When he told them he was suicidal, they got all excited and asked him whether he could drive a truck …..!
AND NOW FOR THE STATISTICALLY MINDED – RUN 2313
After hearing of those heart rending goings on, it is difficult to concentrate on the real world and the Run at Seaforth, particularly as Tooth Fairy had experienced such a difficult day at his Specialist Dental Clinic. His pretty young receptionist received a call from a man who said he had been to a specialist who had stuck a finger up his bum, and he was asking her whether he should his change his dentist. The poor girl was speechless so was TF.
Meanwhile at the Top End of Town, Mr Neat at his Saville Row tailoring business had his own problems. With his business conveniently close to the Stock Exchange to attract the upper class market, it also put him in the firing line of the Share Market demonstrators. They surrounded his little shop and had the audacity to call him a capitalist lackey, then launched a salvo of half-bricks through his window, taking the head clean off one of the tailor’s dummies, completely ruining the window display in the process.
Fortunately they were only half-bricks, even so, visibly shaken, Mr Neat closed shop and high tailed it for the peace and quiet he hoped of Seaforth.
To beginning with, Run-into-The-Muck the Trial Master, was handed a size eight shoe fitting sample from the Saville Row instead of a Run Map. It was most informative if you were trying on a pair of size eight shoes but not much else. To make matters worse, the Runners and the Walkers clashed around about the “Ball of the Foot” down on the banks of Bantry Bay where the Walkers were milling around on the foreshore in expectation of a ferry home. The Expletive Deleted came prancing to the fore. After delivering his usual steamed-up level of invective and agitation, he disappeared. So the distraught Walkers, clutching their meaningless torches and the two dollar pieces they had been told to bring on the Run for the ferry fare home, were left to toil on in the bright summer’s evening.
With Checks almost non-existence, the third and last, or was it the second, fooled no one. Seeking to send all onto Cremorne, the Pack weren’t to be fooled and cunningly went straight onto Mosman instead.
The On On was a very cheerful affair, despite all that had gone on before. Pee Dub presented a magnificent salad but his jokes for once lack the usual oil and vinegar dressing.
“The Gremlin” made an unexpected but welcomed return in a very fetching red shirt. He had been let out of the Grape Monastery for the day, where he has taken a vow of silence. He is only allowed to speak two words when addressed by an outsider. An altar-boy for a prohibitive sum of money revealed to our correspondent the two words, they are “Get Fucked”.