Tango To Go

by pauland1707

Still no news of the lost Pickled Egg. It will turn up. At some point. Alternatively it may not. Pickled Eggs are like that, set them loose and the next thing you know they’re throwing parties. Inundation with Piccalilli, Ploughman’s Pickle, Pan Yan and all manner of things Brown and Yellow and Orange. Yes Orange. Indeed Orange. Like satsumas and tangerines and oranges and clementines and David “sodding” Dickenson and that Nigel Fartage and any other number of antiques like Tim bloody Wonnacott’s trousers or hat or vest. Why do our colonial cousins talk about vests when they mean waistcoats. A vest is a vest, as worn by vest wearers like the much respected Mr Lyle Scott. And proper underpants.

Where were we? Nigel Fartage. How come he’s orange or tangerine or clementine? And why, dear-heart, does he appear on the telly so much? That’s a question. We know this because there’s a question mark after it. Spanish people, being all Spanish like Liquorice, put an upside down question mark at the beginning of a question. Put that on the curriculum, Mr Gove, being able to question. Upside down, back to front, inside out. Whatever. Blimey, we’re all over the place today.

Yes, Nigel Porridge and his tan. And his position on the BBC Dancing With Dancers ubiquity. We don’t like to be critical but it does get on your Thrupenny Bits a bit, doesn’t it. If there’s an opinion to be sought, he’s there, like a bad thrupenny bit. With his pint and a fag. And a stone of spuds, please. Por favor. Merci. And Zeig Heil Nige. Ooops, contentious.

Let’s get back on even keel, shall we? Like Carol Voldermort and Nickelarse Parsons and Vicars and Archie Bishop, that there David Dickenson is wrapping himself around the notion of escaping poverty. Flog all your stuff. Your 500 foot colour TV, your stash of gold, your soul, your grandma’s vase, the few pieces of worth in your life.

It’s all there, at your local pawnbrokers.

Well it is according to David and then along come his antique pals and buy this ‘ere stuff. Off we go to an auction in Sleaford or Peterborough or Exeter or Chiswick. And lives are sold. Bang. And people clap. Thank you Tim, Paul, David, whoever you are. Another life capitalised.