In advance of the exciting, and indeed dangerously imminent, new instalment of The University of the Bleeding Obvious (not long now, kids - don't get too excited!), we have great pleasure in announcing the appointment of our new medical officer, Dr A Bongo (whom God preserve) of Hampton Wick. He has been kind enough to send us this brief address:
Stop right there! Have you ever seriously considered what would happen if a piano fell on you as you were reading this? No, of course you haven't - that would be mental. And yet laboratory tests prove that in ninety-nine percent of all cases, falling pianos can be extremely nasty.
Good evening. My name is Dr Adolphous Bongo, and I don't want any of you thinking that there is the slightest reason to doubt my professional integrity, just because you've read my name in the national press alongside certain allegations of misconduct. The bottom line is that the British Chiropractic Association have their way manipulating the spine, and I have mine. Hell, if you're going to crack bones, do it properly. The fact that my method involves the application of power tools only serves to illustrate my progressive take on the matter, and any suggestion that the permanently 'folded' state of Mrs Eileen Trumpton is the result of malpractice is entirely erroneous. Trust me, you should have seen the old bat when I first met her, she was like a bleeding concertina.
Anyway, the reason I mention the piano thing is because as a result of new legislation, falling gold reserves and the shifting of the Gulf Stream, those Bleeding Obvious people have found it necessary to appoint me to the position of Chief Medical Officer. You know, like that chap with the craggy face in Star Trek. That's a point - how come the Star Trek Enterprise gets its own doctor? In my experience, most organisations of that size make do with some mouth-breathing teenager who wanders around aimlessly with a first aid kit on his belt, and whose only experience of medicine is a a three-hour course in first aid, a succession of dead goldfish and a box set of House. And yes, I did say 'Star Trek Enterprise'. Get over it.
Of course, my relationship with The University of the Bleeding Obvious goes back some way, so when they approached me to help them out I naturally bent over backwards to come to their assistance - which I can't help but feel is one more triumph for my particular brand of chiropractic treatment. Incidentally, my interest in the subject was the result of a fortuitous accident - I wanted to do a course on feet, but wandered into the wrong evening class.
I should point out that the risk of being hit by a falling piano in your own home is minimal, although ultimately it does depend on your particular lifestyle. By and large, most people don't have bulky musical apparatus suspended from their ceilings, and if you do then you can expect to shoulder the burden of the blame just as much as you can anticipate withstanding the impact of the instrument. Nevertheless, it is my job to consider such risks. And now, thanks to my diligence, my experience and my dogged pursuit of backhanders, I am in a position to say that 'Kicking and Screaming' is quite probably safe for public consumption and that the danger of anyone succumbing to an overdose of falling pianos is relatively slight.
Bongo
It's going a bit wrong now. The pool of articles that I was in the process of whittling down has grown from twenty to about twenty-six. Some of the newer ones actually have real proper actual jokes in them - not very funny ones, but jokes nonetheless. Do people really want to know about Pigmongering, I ask myself? Is the Ministry of Factular Informations worthy of inclusion? And should I really unleash Mrs Wilberforce and the River on the world, even though the world is likely to maintain an irritating display of indifference towards it?
In my desperation I turned to dark and ancient arts, conferring with practitioners of forbidden knowledge from the dawn of time. I paid particular attention to Madame Fatima who announces her predictions to the faithful through the astrology column in the Evening Bugle. She seemed to think it was a good day for me to meet new people, and that my lucky number would be five, but otherwise refrained from commenting on my particular dilemma.
And then it struck me - does it really matter? Onwards then, and don't spare the horses! And as for Mrs Wilberforce - I like it, so she's in.
Vote for me and win a Ford Fiesta!
Hello there. My name is Doctor Adolphous Bongo, twice named runner up in the coveted 'Warmest Hands of the Year' category by the readers of Amateur Proctologist. Not that I'm an amateur, of course; neither, strictly speaking, am I a proctologist, but there's no harm in keeping your hand in. The point is, they don't bestow awards on just anyone. That kind of recognition is only enjoyed by the most upstanding and trustworthy of citizens, and the fact that I have photographs of the editor of that august publication in the act of - coincidentally - 'keeping his hand in' is entirely immaterial.
"But hang on Adolphous," I can hear you saying. "You're standing for election? Proctology awards are all very well, but does this really qualify you for parliament? Surely, an MP's duties amount to more than inserting a carefully warmed digit into the correct orifice?" Well firstly, less of the Adolphous - it's Doctor Bongo to you, fart face. Secondly, yes there's more to this politics lark than fingering bottoms, but as an entry-level qualification, you've got to admit that it's a good place to start.
Nevertheless, I appreciate that a dubiously acquired award, dished out by an obscure periodical, will not necessarily be sufficient to secure a majority. No, it's going to take more than that - but, happily, notmuch more. I remain supremely confident of success, not least because I understand you. Yes, you, the electorate.
I know who you are, because I see you shuffling your fat, pendulous forms into my surgery every week. I know you have a problem with body odour and exhibit the kind of flatulence which would render the keeping of canaries a practical impossibility. I know that however often I tell you to stop eating chips and start taking exercise, you will refuse to fritter away your time in pursuit of an active life and instead devote your waking hours to steadily moulding your gelatinous backside to the shape of the sofa.
And, good grief, why ever not? You live in a fusty little semi-detached house that you're not quite happy with, with a wife whom you find slightly irritating and two and a half kids whom you suspect are probably not yours. You have a painfully large overdraft, a tedious echoing void where your social life used to be, and derive little satisfaction from your pointless job, the extravagantly obscure title of which may sound impressive but really just conceals the fact that you don't do anything at all. Don't you deserve a little 'me time'? If slouching for hours on end in front of TV talk shows and trashy talent competitions is what it takes for you to regain some of your self-respect, then go for it. Knock yourself out, why don't you?
More importantly, I know what you want. You don't want some politician who is going to take account of your best interests and work to improve your life and those of your fellow citizens. You just want someone to blame when everything goes tits up; some thieving, lying career-obsessed shit with his hand in the till, who you can point to when things get tough and shout, "It's him, it's him, it's all his fault! He's the reason my life is crap!"
You don't want a politician who will represent your views in parliament, because you have no views other than a few nebulous notions on the subject of international diplomacy, a passionate and unwavering faith in Arsenal's back four, and an unshakable belief that everything that's wrong with this country is down to illegal immigrants, young people, old people and everybody else that isn't you.
What you want is someone you can elect to office and not have to bother about for another five years, because democracy is something that only ever happens during a General Election. Whatever naughtiness they get up to in the intervening time, whatever deals they break, havoc the wreak or crap they speak must be allowed to pass unnoticed other than to provide the meat for disapproving gossip and the gravy for tabloid scandal.
None of which really matters anyway, because these details will fail to lodge in your beer-soaked, nicotine-stained brain for longer than it takes to utter the phrase 'they're all the bloody same'. By the time the next parliamentary popularity poll comes around all will be forgiven and forgotten and you'll vote them back in because the leader of their particular 'gang' has the biggest, brightest smile and is offering you the shiniest trinkets.
So why should you vote for me? Well, I'll be honest with you. You don't like me and I don't like you, and your reward for making me your MP will be to have your taxes squandered, your public services shattered and whatever faith you have left in government utterly smashed. Nevertheless, you'll vote for me because I will take advantage of every little fiddle I come across, and am confident that I'm more than equal to the task of inventing ingenious new ones. You'll vote for me because I promise whole-heartedly to take no interest whatsoever in the affairs and concerns of my constituency, and am unlikely to even visit, unless there's money in it. You will vote for me because I will lobby on behalf of the highest bidder, vote according to my own business interests, court publicity purely in order to further my own career and explore levels of sexual deviancy that I had hitherto never thought medically possible.
But more than this, the real reason that you'll vote for me, the thing that cannot fail to swing this whole election in my favour is that when you put your cross next to my name on that ballot paper on May 6th, you'll automatically be entered into a free draw to win a brand new shiny Ford Fiesta. You see what I mean now when I tell you that I know people?
