Braces Tower

I presume that Big Wheel is some fifties variation on Big Cheese. Whatever, this chimp looks AWESOME in his top hat and er…monkey suit.

This appears to be the same horse used by the Murdering Dutch Cowboy Monkey

Here though, his simian owner is in a more romantic mood, wooing a teddy bear, dangling provocatively out of a garden window.

Blimey. I’ve just received a STACK of dressed-up-chimp postcards, all from the same set as above. Most of them will be making their way onto this blog in the near future.

They all have trite captions on, dreamed up by some bored copywriter at the postcard company. Personally I would have abandoned the tenuous marriage metaphor in the above example and simply written – “Monkey Boxer”.

Readers of a certain age may remember the Brooke Bond Chimps depicted here, but it was the message on the back of the postcard I liked…

Norman is obviously on holiday in Bognor (see postmark), although the weather’s been a bit poo and probably not as nice as the continent where Mr and Mrs Whitlock went.  He then goes on to suggest that one of the chimps looks like Joan (which may be Mrs Whitlock’s christian name) “giving a dirty look”. By that I assume he means a stern look, rather than a filthy twinkle in her eye.

But sadly, he seems to have either got the address wrong, or Mr and Mrs Whitlock took the opportunity whilst he was away on holiday to move house and finally sever their friendship.

One day, all call centres will be run by robots. Until then, they’ll have to make do with the monkeys they currently employ.

Poor chimp. Blowing on his hands to warm them up. No wonder he’s cold though – no hat, gloves and crucially, no trousers.

I don’t like golfers. On the rare occasion, I’ve tried it (crazy golf mainly), I’ve enjoyed myself, but golfers and their stupid clubs (as in associations rather than golf bats) irritate me. I played a wedding gig at a golf club on Saturday with my band and whilst perusing all the notices detailing their archaic, arbitary rules, I was reminded of the time we stumbled upon a course whilst out on a walk. We found a stick and wrote “Golfing Fools” in the sand of a bunker. This hairy rake up there is no golfing fool though. He’s a golfing monkey.

A far more effective method of vivisection. Dress them up in tailored slacks, a casual knitted sweater. Pose them jauntily on a stool, and hand them a carved pipe stuffed with the finest shag money can buy…results just in: it turns out smoking actually makes you more suave. Ding dong!

I like to make sure I am dressed le part when I visit London. An ‘at of course, is essential. ‘Ere, i ‘ave chosen a tartan number, in honour of tous les amoureux de vin, living under your beautiful Waterloo bridge, with there funny accents and shouting. A bright red mackintosh, to remind me of your double-decker buses and keep the summe rain off. And a colourful holdall to keep all my souvenirs in. And naturelment, le dungarees. Always, le dungarees.

Hey! Off the grass you bloody hooligan. And no ball games! You two! Get your hands of each other! What do you think this is? A bleeding zoo?