Written by Erskin Quint
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Monday, 20 June 2011

image for Letters To The Editor From Ludicrous Stereotypes Pt XXVI: The British Isles A Lonnen Full Of Cushats, Yesterday

Dear Sir,

now I am reading your magazine quite a lot lately. "Now there's lovely, for you!", I says to my husband, Dyffyddydd Ystnyllbrggyddfyd, "now there's a magazine, now, look you, isn't it then?"

"Aye", he says to me, putting down his copy of the Yn y llyvyr hwnn of Sir John Price of Brecon, d'you see, he does, and he says "Oh, Glywdwyddyn Ystnyllbrggyddfyd" - which is my own name and to be sworn on the Mabinogion itself - "Oh, Glywdwyddyn Ystnyllbrggyddfyd, wife of mine, there's indeed lovely, for you, look you, isn't it, wife of mine oh, Glywdwyddyn Ystnyllbrggyddfyd?"

And then in comes my mother, Bloddywydfanwy Yantyblyddfnstnglach, and my dad, old Prystblyddnuffyddod Yantyblyddfnstnglach, son of Iffyrnoblyddrdoddllando Yantyblyddfnstnglach, late of Wlladdfa Llystynroddiondradd, and my husband says: "Oh, Glywdwyddyn Ystnyllbrggyddfyd, wife of mine, and my dearest mother-in-law, Bloddywydfanwy Yantyblyddfnstnglach, and my esteemed father-in-law, old Prystblyddnuffyddod Yantyblyddfnstnglach, son of Iffyrnoblyddrdoddllando Yantyblyddfnstnglach, late of Wlladdfa Llystynroddiondradd by the Black Llyn of Dic Prodderrynn, - oh look you, indeed, here's lovely, isn't it?"

And I says, "Oh, indeed to goodness, my husband, Dyffyddydd Ystnyllbrggyddfyd, and my dad, old Prystblyddnuffyddod Yantyblyddfnstnglach, son of Iffyrnoblyddrdoddllando Yantyblyddfnstnglach, late of Wlladdfa Llystynroddiondradd by the Black Llyn of Dic Prodderrynn, and my mother, Bloddywydfanwy Yantyblyddfnstnglach, and myself, look you, who is Glywdwyddyn Ystnyllbrggyddfyd, daughter of old Prystblyddnuffyddod Yantyblyddfnstnglach, son of Iffyrnoblyddrdoddllando Yantyblyddfnstnglach, late of Wlladdfa Llystynroddiondradd by the Black Llyn of Dic Prodderrynn, and Bloddywydfanwy Yantyblyddfnstnglach mother of mine, - now there's a lovely magazine, now, look you, isn't it, so there?"

Yours faithfully,

Glywdwyddyn Ystnyllbrggyddfyd, daughter of old Prystblyddnuffyddod Yantyblyddfnstnglach, son of Iffyrnoblyddrdoddllando Yantyblyddfnstnglach, late of Wlladdfa Llystynroddiondradd by the Black Llyn of Dic Prodderrynn, and Bloddywydfanwy Yantyblyddfnstnglach mother of mine,

The Pryffyogg,
Nnantypwythgrydd Nanddypandy,
Ggypogg.


Dear Sir,

aye, an' it be the skirl o' nin sie bricht a' the old cuddy's trooser leg an' a skilty afore yon McDoon o' McDoon shall bide his wee spotherin' balsie.

Mony's the mon whie galouses bratherin' i' winter's grosp, wi' nin sie mich as a powsowdy o'brithel tae trither his nitherin' jinties awa' tae frother.

Aye, an' yon wis a lassie o' spithery chaepers an' flicht awa' frae nocherin flaebers! Aye, sec laupin' an' laekin' wis nivver scouped wi' calaupers fair. Och, 'twas slicht o' a nicht afore blinty broaters an' screerit ploaty nattle, nor mony scunners mun gyversome hocker wi' cruddy croaderin' poatle screethers.

Sae nottle nae dunderheeds, for mony's mickle fair maks yon's muckle. Yon lassie ligs in th' auld But an' Ben wi a wee scorrit an' podish and a braw deoch an doris for the brae bonny McBagpipe o' Loon. "Och aye", saes 'Jings' McThistle at the brig, "'tis a bricht flichtin' slather an' drither the nicht!"

Yaine spotherin' dreeth,
Jock "The Kilt" McShagnasty,
Dundreich


Dear Sir,

howay, hinny, an' wurve gan doon t'lonnen bonny lad, man. Man, wuv nivver hod sec shite an' all. Whay aye, man, wur hoose is starvation, man, the bastards 'as cut t'poower off, the cunts, like.

An' divvent give us that shite, man, like. Them fat cunts 'as shit on wer, like man. How, mother, man, fuck off, am deein' a letter ter t'paper man like. Fuck off an' gie 's a bottle o' dog afore a dunsh yee in t'heed mother, man, like.

Howay, gan canny, whisht man, mother, like, wurve set wur stall oot noo. Divvent hoy yon oot, ye'll git a spelk. Wurll hoy stanes at nee mair gowks terneet, man, like. Bairns is gan up t'law ter laik, like, man. How, mother, man, ther'll nnut be back terneet.

Leave t'sneck off, arm gannin fer a tab wi yon gadgie frae Darlo. T' lonnen's full of cushats an' spuggies. Me beyeuts is clagged up wi' clart, like, man, mother, gie's thee cloot.

Bugger this, how, man, ah's gannin' ter t'Croon fer a pint o' dog an' a tab wi t'gadge, marra. Fuck this letter shite, man, how, like, mother, man, like, it's ower aakwud clarty, like, hadaway, like man. Ah'll dunsh thee in t'sneck, mother, man, like. How man, fuck off, like, hadaway an' shite like mother man.


Geordie 'Twelve Bellies' Heedbanger,
Newcastle-Upon-Tyne

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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