Directory of Humor Blogs
Oinka The Pig
Behind the personage, appellation and brand of Oinka The Pig lay one of life’s supreme ironicals. While for many her origins were enshrouded by mystery, others found no difficulty whatsoever in admitting that she was not in actual fact a proper pig at all. Rather, she was a frog. And a very pretty frog, too, notwithstanding the very large mushroom sprouting from the top of her head, much like a hideous, iridescent hippopotamus bottom. She herself (if indeed she was a she or if she was even an ‘is’) maintained that her decorative head adornment only appeared to sprout from her cranium. “Such a circumstance,” she might or might not have said, depending upon the truth of the matter, “is fraught with consternation and ethical considerations.” In other words, from the point of view of lesser mortals, a mushroom sprouting from her head would have been unseemly in its daring and uncomfortable in its wearing, not to mention unhygienic in other matters. “It is,” she claimed (or not), “a lovely conceit balanced on top of my bun. Rather like an onion. Or a banana,”
No one recalled how Oinka The Pig acquired her lovely name. It was generally agreed (at least by those who made it their business to know a great deal about everything) that she had not been born to it, but even that consensus led nowhere, for it always came down to the fact that no one, not even the wisest and oldest of the denizens, could remember her having been born at all. She simply appeared one day, as if from the mists of time, and from then on sang her indelible stylings (accompanying herself on her little wooden zither) every day at precisely thirty-four minutes past one in the afternoon. And that was the be-all and end-all of civilised behaviour!
Right from the get go, the arrangement had seemed highly satisfactory to all parties. After all, there had never been a noon alarum in Miss Havering’s Bog, at least not since Bart-The-Snipe lost his watch in a game of Beggar My Neighbour. And since Oinka The Pig was nothing if not supremely reliable, she proved a most delightful substitute. Within two days, the Deputy Mayoress For Life, Mrs. DaFarge, declared in an Official Document (complete with Seals and Sealing Wax and Acres of Silk Ribbon) that Oinka The Pig (the name already inscribed upon the document from a previous, long-forgotten declaration) was both “indispensable” and “A National Treasure”. It was naturally assumed that her name really was ‘Oinka The Pig”, and within a nonce, in the minds of the denizens, the name was fused indelibly with her person. Oinka The Pig she was, and even though she had never been properly introduced as such, Oinka The Pig she remained. As far as the world was concerned the name felt completely and utterly right; if it was wrong, it was too late to do anything about it, so it was best to consider it the best of all possible names, and certainly better than any alternatives.
It was indeed unfortunate that few of the denizens had stopped to consider who she might really be (that is, if indeed she was), the unpleasant truth being that rumour and scandal mongering, as far as the great unwashed were concerned, made the world go round. To them the (alleged) personal peccadilloes, binge drinking, fashion disasters and lairy footie boyfriends of Oinka The Pig gave them a reason to live, especially after being embellished by that slavering society columnist, Miss Nudilla Drudge (famous for having succeeded at nothing, before fulfilling her lifelong ambition to be employed by Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s Sleazy Tabloid Empire as a Gutter Journalist). For these stonky unwashed, the Daily Escapades of Oinka The Pig were almost as important as being able to buy the latest shoes and handbags at The Mall On The Bog (Proprietress, Mrs. Begonia Throttle). At the other end of the social spectrum, those individuals slightly more educated and inclined towards quality entertainments and the more gentile pastimes, such as playing Bridge and supping on bonbons made from dark chocolate with truffled centres, feared that if Oinka The Pig was not whom (or what) she appeared to be, then she must be someone (or something) else. And that was a prospect too frightening to consider. As Mrs. Muriel Purience-Boulogne, Treasurer of The Subcommittee for The Betterment of Morals and Decorum, confided to her confidents over tea and dainty biscuits at Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s Tea Cosy, “When one thinks this person might possibly be… an outsider, or an illegal alien… or even a member of an alternative religion…”
“Or even a member of The Miss Havering’s Bog Women’s Wednesday Night Bingo, Ballroom Dancing and Foreign-Owned Football Clubs’ Supporters’ Association, at the Community Centre,” chimed in Missus Ridglet-Grassworm, who was never one to be left out of an conversation when her opinion was certain to enrich her companions. “One of them dared to come (uninvited, of course) to one of my garden picnics, and had the nerve to say ‘whatEVER’ when I enquired whom she might be,” This she added as an afterthought, poking her long nose into her vinaigrette and inhaling deeply, as though to vanquish a evil odour.
It may have been the hat (or was it a banana or a barnacle or a mushroom?) that confused them. Or, more likely, it may have been that no one had bothered to scrutinise Oinka The Pig properly. Personal scruples and manners were given a high priority in the bog, albeit not for the ‘wrong sort’. For the wrong sort, those given to lively habits and a low moral content, had no scruples at all, and inflicted as they were with the terrible ennui of the vacant-minded, rejoiced in anti-social behaviour by creating their own world via text messaging. And when they were not doing that, they could be found filming their mothers’ unmentionable moments on their mobile phones).
For those of the acceptable classes, not prone to ASBOs, it was considered an unforgivable display of les mauvaises manières to become too familiar with the inner worlds of mobile phones, or, as they liked to put it, anyone of a discouraging class. “Do not be common” was the most oft-used instruction issued to one’s sons and daughters whenever they happened to be awake and show a lively interest in their surroundings. Which end of the social spectrum was right and which was wrong? The Reader alone may judge, for it is not for The Chronicler to offer an opinion.
So embroiled were the denizens of Miss Havering’s Bog in class warfare that they noticed very little. Indeed, had they not been so blinkered to the world around them they might have noticed in Oinka The Pig a certain resemblance to members of a very large (sprawling, really) and unprominent clan, one inhabiting the bog since the first spurt of slurry oozed through the southern wall from the cows’ most westerly field. This clan had built its shanties, using only the cheapest materials, along the western end of this selfsame southernmost boundary wall. A meandering and not terribly attractive bog pool ran through their little community, emitting a particularly pungent pong from the foul species of “exotic” (that is to say ‘illegal’) waterweeds floating about here and there in a spurious manner. And although few if any of the more respectable denizens had ever visited this detestable colony (and those exceptions inevitably claimed to be performing good works, such as visiting the poor and hopeless, and gifting them with cast-off inner garments and scrapings from the bottoms of disused refrigerators), most felt entitled to condemn the nature of the ‘evil’ flora they had heard so much about but had not seen. “Why,” they would scold, “such large, scraggy leaves are not at all suitable locations from which to view even the meanest regatta!”
This lowly and really very ugly community was the home of a certain Grinder The Splat, born Greville Merydewe Frogge on the fifteen of January in an inauspicious year. He had also been known, during a short-lived career as an accountant, as Fang The Shredder, but that was before he had discovered his true calling, that of an undertaker, music promoter and founder of a business called, somewhat obliquely, “HIBBLE”.
Oinka The Pig (or Salmonella Marie, as she was called by her mother, Prudence Delphine) was Grinder The Splat’s favourite daughter. As far as he was concerned, his little Oinky-Boiky could do no wrong, not even when she was in one of her monthly moods. From the time she had been an egg-with-eyes-staring-out-of-it-in-a-pile-of-goo, Baby Salmonella Marie (“My Little Slugbuttons”) had cherished the dream of becoming a darling of the paparazzi, a very famous slutty thing. And indeed she had actually possessed the talent and drive to make The Big Time – concerts in the bog stadia, television specials, fundraising events, movie premiers, all manner of red carpet dos and magazine covers (she really was extremely fetching in her pink, Lurex leotard and black patent leather spike-heeled boots). Baby Salmonella Marie was even featured on more than an embarrassing number of occasions on page three of “The Sump”, a bargain basement publication (and most profitable venture of Mrs. Begonias Throttle’s Media Empire), catering to earwigs and other trough-feeders, which credited her with at least two dozen irresistibly lurid scandals each and every hour.
Filthy Lucre rolled in by the barrelful, making The Next Best Slutty Thing an exceptionally rich, young, and altogether drop-dead gorgeous green spotted Reality TV Super Star. Quite naturally, suitors of all shapes and sizes instantly appeared on her doorstep (or at least on a nearby bit of floating bog scum) and arduously plote their troths. Her very notoriety ensured both her irresistibility as a mate (temporary, semi-temporary, or even permanent so long as her current breast implants remained bulgy and succulent), and this steady stream of slavering studdly slugmuffins did everything in their powers (mostly selling their ‘confessions’ to The Sump and its sister publications, The Sore and Scalding) to prove they were detestably worthy of sharing in her good fortune and publicity (and to love her forever, or at least until next Tuesday). The fact that Salmonella Marie smelled like the bottom-dredgings of the bog pond in which she lived made little difference, and she was even more alluring when a noted impresario hired her as second lead singer in his new, manufactured girl group, The Full Knickers. It was a brilliant move, for her celebrity alone ensured a succession of platinum selling singles and millions of illegal downloads.
But then, just as it seemed she was destined for a second (or even third) fifteen minutes of fame, dawned the horrible day when The Full Knickers burst open at the leisure centre in front of a sell out crowd. The lead singer, Mort The Dangle (whom everyone had mistaken for a comely lass named Madonnica) was eaten by an unnamed substance, along with Salmonella Marie’s first cousin once removed, “Bull” (a hefty wench who sang basso profundo) and all of their mates. In one fell swoop, the terrible retribution promised on Miss Havering’s Bog by the disgusting Guppy The Plover was remembered, and although the horrible doings at the leisure centre were unconnected (it was not yet the promised time and Guppy The Plover was nothing if not punctual), the little frog’s confidence was shaken. Better, she thought, to live a long life safe from the glare of publicity. To that end, she immediately sacked her publicist and eighteen bodyguards, and departed the limelight, shortly thereafter to divest herself of the pinkly lurex and spikey booties and don the cabbagy mushroom which would set free her true identity. “At last,” she proclaimed, “I am me!”
Adopting the slogan, “I Am Oinka The Pig” with the assistance of Mrs. LaFarge’s Official Document, Salmonella Marie decided to continue her vocal exercises (in the event she might one day change her mind and desire to be rescued once again from ignominy and be translated unto glory). These vocalisations were to be the centrepiece of each and every day, for she was nothing if not an extreme disciplinarian. “I shall lubricate my uvula at thirty-four minutes past one in the afternoon, and shall never miss a day.” It was then that the otherworldly scales, arpeggios and gargles became an indelible part of the bog’s delirious cacophony. Within a nonce, the denizens grew used to them, ceased complaining about the ear infections they gave them and grew dependent upon the raucous insufferability. “It give us something to live for,” they sang every year on the anniversary of the first vocal stylings. “It has liberated us and made us unconquerable!”
Free We Is, O! Free We Is!
So very very free,
It is The Noise Wot Rots Our Toes
And makes us pee and pee.
There was a time so long ago
When silence gnawed our goiters,
We gnashed our teeth
And screamed and screeched
And sold off all our doiters.
(chorus)
Free We Is, O! Free We Is!
So very very free,
It is The Noise Wot Rots Our Toes
And makes us pee and pee.
The enemy wi’out our walls
They is so very fearsome.
They eats our rice and kills our mice
And sez they’re touchy feely.
But O! Hélas! They owns the land
And butchers us quite freely.
(chorus)
Free We Is, O! Free We Is!
So very very free,
It is The Noise Wot Rots Our Toes
And makes us pee and pee.
A bottom is a wondrous thing,
It does so very much.
You sits on it and makes it blast
If only to annoy.
The evil sisters suck us dry
And pays us not a pence.
But if we aims our butts at them
We’ll blast ‘em through the fence.
(chorus)
Free We Is, O! Free We Is!
So very very free,
It is The Noise Wot Rots Our Toes
And makes us pee and pee.
Miss Oinka Pig is our ideal,
A very pretty lass.
She teaches things we ought to know,
Because she’s got no class.
She’s not afraid, our Oinka girl
To get down in a rumble.
And if the sisters threaten her
She’ll beat them black and gumble.
(chorus)
Free We Is, O! Free We Is!
So very very free,
It is The Noise Wot Rots Our Toes
And makes us pee and pee.
(Oh! Sweet Oinka, how we loves yooooo!)
Like so many bog anthems, it went on for an uncountable number of verses (estimated by those with heads for numbers and extra time on their hands as twelve hundred sixty-two), and was fulsome in its praise and in exalting the virtues of Oinka The Pig. On a good day, when the weather was fine and there was but a slight fluttering breeze to blow away undesirable midges and unfortunate tendencies among the elderly, the song took a full three and a half hours and fifteen minutes to sing properly, providing teatime did not intervene. Given that there were at the very least seventeen obligatory teatimes in Miss Havering’s Bog, each requiring a hasty retreat by all concerned to Begonia Throttle’s Tea Cosy for a refreshing repast, few members of the leisure centre’s ‘Joyful Joyful Oinka Adoramus’ choral interpreters had ever bothered to learn the final hundred or so verses.
Now, however, all was silence. For the first time in her life, Tiny Rumpus Libbedy Spider understood how vacant and frightening a place the bog was without the protective stylings of Oinka The Pig. “Dearest Oinka,” she prayed, “why hast thou forsaken us?” It was a very black day indeed. If only she had been able to bring her lovely mother and siblings to her new home, the situation might have been bearable. As it was, she was on the brink of despair, a precipice not visited since the day she had emerged from the pink and yellow nursery egg, with its frills and lacy decorative features, which she couldn’t remember very well, but to which she had become rather attached. Her situation was exacerbated even further by an extremely irritating humming sound coming from the other side of a neighbouring tufty hillock, a sound interrupted every few seconds by a violent splooging. “If you don’t stop this very instant,” she screamed, “I shall go around the bend!”
The irritating hummmmmm continued, ignoring the Tiny Spiderling completely. Hummmmmm hummmmmm hiccough SPLOOGE SPLOOGE SPLOOGE hummmmmm hummmmmm. At which point, a somewhat ancient and tremulous voice, out of breath and exceedingly cranky, muttered a discordant, “Oh! Bother!”
Behind the personage, appellation and brand of Oinka The Pig lay one of life’s supreme ironicals. While for many her origins were enshrouded by mystery, others found no difficulty whatsoever in admitting that she was not in actual fact a proper pig at all. Rather, she was a frog. And a very pretty frog, too, notwithstanding the very large mushroom sprouting from the top of her head, much like a hideous, iridescent hippopotamus bottom. She herself (if indeed she was a she or if she was even an ‘is’) maintained that her decorative head adornment only appeared to sprout from her cranium. “Such a circumstance,” she might or might not have said, depending upon the truth of the matter, “is fraught with consternation and ethical considerations.” In other words, from the point of view of lesser mortals, a mushroom sprouting from her head would have been unseemly in its daring and uncomfortable in its wearing, not to mention unhygienic in other matters. “It is,” she claimed (or not), “a lovely conceit balanced on top of my bun. Rather like an onion. Or a banana,”
No one recalled how Oinka The Pig acquired her lovely name. It was generally agreed (at least by those who made it their business to know a great deal about everything) that she had not been born to it, but even that consensus led nowhere, for it always came down to the fact that no one, not even the wisest and oldest of the denizens, could remember her having been born at all. She simply appeared one day, as if from the mists of time, and from then on sang her indelible stylings (accompanying herself on her little wooden zither) every day at precisely thirty-four minutes past one in the afternoon. And that was the be-all and end-all of civilised behaviour!
Right from the get go, the arrangement had seemed highly satisfactory to all parties. After all, there had never been a noon alarum in Miss Havering’s Bog, at least not since Bart-The-Snipe lost his watch in a game of Beggar My Neighbour. And since Oinka The Pig was nothing if not supremely reliable, she proved a most delightful substitute. Within two days, the Deputy Mayoress For Life, Mrs. DaFarge, declared in an Official Document (complete with Seals and Sealing Wax and Acres of Silk Ribbon) that Oinka The Pig (the name already inscribed upon the document from a previous, long-forgotten declaration) was both “indispensable” and “A National Treasure”. It was naturally assumed that her name really was ‘Oinka The Pig”, and within a nonce, in the minds of the denizens, the name was fused indelibly with her person. Oinka The Pig she was, and even though she had never been properly introduced as such, Oinka The Pig she remained. As far as the world was concerned the name felt completely and utterly right; if it was wrong, it was too late to do anything about it, so it was best to consider it the best of all possible names, and certainly better than any alternatives.
It was indeed unfortunate that few of the denizens had stopped to consider who she might really be (that is, if indeed she was), the unpleasant truth being that rumour and scandal mongering, as far as the great unwashed were concerned, made the world go round. To them the (alleged) personal peccadilloes, binge drinking, fashion disasters and lairy footie boyfriends of Oinka The Pig gave them a reason to live, especially after being embellished by that slavering society columnist, Miss Nudilla Drudge (famous for having succeeded at nothing, before fulfilling her lifelong ambition to be employed by Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s Sleazy Tabloid Empire as a Gutter Journalist). For these stonky unwashed, the Daily Escapades of Oinka The Pig were almost as important as being able to buy the latest shoes and handbags at The Mall On The Bog (Proprietress, Mrs. Begonia Throttle). At the other end of the social spectrum, those individuals slightly more educated and inclined towards quality entertainments and the more gentile pastimes, such as playing Bridge and supping on bonbons made from dark chocolate with truffled centres, feared that if Oinka The Pig was not whom (or what) she appeared to be, then she must be someone (or something) else. And that was a prospect too frightening to consider. As Mrs. Muriel Purience-Boulogne, Treasurer of The Subcommittee for The Betterment of Morals and Decorum, confided to her confidents over tea and dainty biscuits at Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s Tea Cosy, “When one thinks this person might possibly be… an outsider, or an illegal alien… or even a member of an alternative religion…”
“Or even a member of The Miss Havering’s Bog Women’s Wednesday Night Bingo, Ballroom Dancing and Foreign-Owned Football Clubs’ Supporters’ Association, at the Community Centre,” chimed in Missus Ridglet-Grassworm, who was never one to be left out of an conversation when her opinion was certain to enrich her companions. “One of them dared to come (uninvited, of course) to one of my garden picnics, and had the nerve to say ‘whatEVER’ when I enquired whom she might be,” This she added as an afterthought, poking her long nose into her vinaigrette and inhaling deeply, as though to vanquish a evil odour.
It may have been the hat (or was it a banana or a barnacle or a mushroom?) that confused them. Or, more likely, it may have been that no one had bothered to scrutinise Oinka The Pig properly. Personal scruples and manners were given a high priority in the bog, albeit not for the ‘wrong sort’. For the wrong sort, those given to lively habits and a low moral content, had no scruples at all, and inflicted as they were with the terrible ennui of the vacant-minded, rejoiced in anti-social behaviour by creating their own world via text messaging. And when they were not doing that, they could be found filming their mothers’ unmentionable moments on their mobile phones).
For those of the acceptable classes, not prone to ASBOs, it was considered an unforgivable display of les mauvaises manières to become too familiar with the inner worlds of mobile phones, or, as they liked to put it, anyone of a discouraging class. “Do not be common” was the most oft-used instruction issued to one’s sons and daughters whenever they happened to be awake and show a lively interest in their surroundings. Which end of the social spectrum was right and which was wrong? The Reader alone may judge, for it is not for The Chronicler to offer an opinion.
So embroiled were the denizens of Miss Havering’s Bog in class warfare that they noticed very little. Indeed, had they not been so blinkered to the world around them they might have noticed in Oinka The Pig a certain resemblance to members of a very large (sprawling, really) and unprominent clan, one inhabiting the bog since the first spurt of slurry oozed through the southern wall from the cows’ most westerly field. This clan had built its shanties, using only the cheapest materials, along the western end of this selfsame southernmost boundary wall. A meandering and not terribly attractive bog pool ran through their little community, emitting a particularly pungent pong from the foul species of “exotic” (that is to say ‘illegal’) waterweeds floating about here and there in a spurious manner. And although few if any of the more respectable denizens had ever visited this detestable colony (and those exceptions inevitably claimed to be performing good works, such as visiting the poor and hopeless, and gifting them with cast-off inner garments and scrapings from the bottoms of disused refrigerators), most felt entitled to condemn the nature of the ‘evil’ flora they had heard so much about but had not seen. “Why,” they would scold, “such large, scraggy leaves are not at all suitable locations from which to view even the meanest regatta!”
This lowly and really very ugly community was the home of a certain Grinder The Splat, born Greville Merydewe Frogge on the fifteen of January in an inauspicious year. He had also been known, during a short-lived career as an accountant, as Fang The Shredder, but that was before he had discovered his true calling, that of an undertaker, music promoter and founder of a business called, somewhat obliquely, “HIBBLE”.
Oinka The Pig (or Salmonella Marie, as she was called by her mother, Prudence Delphine) was Grinder The Splat’s favourite daughter. As far as he was concerned, his little Oinky-Boiky could do no wrong, not even when she was in one of her monthly moods. From the time she had been an egg-with-eyes-staring-out-of-it-in-a-pile-of-goo, Baby Salmonella Marie (“My Little Slugbuttons”) had cherished the dream of becoming a darling of the paparazzi, a very famous slutty thing. And indeed she had actually possessed the talent and drive to make The Big Time – concerts in the bog stadia, television specials, fundraising events, movie premiers, all manner of red carpet dos and magazine covers (she really was extremely fetching in her pink, Lurex leotard and black patent leather spike-heeled boots). Baby Salmonella Marie was even featured on more than an embarrassing number of occasions on page three of “The Sump”, a bargain basement publication (and most profitable venture of Mrs. Begonias Throttle’s Media Empire), catering to earwigs and other trough-feeders, which credited her with at least two dozen irresistibly lurid scandals each and every hour.
Filthy Lucre rolled in by the barrelful, making The Next Best Slutty Thing an exceptionally rich, young, and altogether drop-dead gorgeous green spotted Reality TV Super Star. Quite naturally, suitors of all shapes and sizes instantly appeared on her doorstep (or at least on a nearby bit of floating bog scum) and arduously plote their troths. Her very notoriety ensured both her irresistibility as a mate (temporary, semi-temporary, or even permanent so long as her current breast implants remained bulgy and succulent), and this steady stream of slavering studdly slugmuffins did everything in their powers (mostly selling their ‘confessions’ to The Sump and its sister publications, The Sore and Scalding) to prove they were detestably worthy of sharing in her good fortune and publicity (and to love her forever, or at least until next Tuesday). The fact that Salmonella Marie smelled like the bottom-dredgings of the bog pond in which she lived made little difference, and she was even more alluring when a noted impresario hired her as second lead singer in his new, manufactured girl group, The Full Knickers. It was a brilliant move, for her celebrity alone ensured a succession of platinum selling singles and millions of illegal downloads.
But then, just as it seemed she was destined for a second (or even third) fifteen minutes of fame, dawned the horrible day when The Full Knickers burst open at the leisure centre in front of a sell out crowd. The lead singer, Mort The Dangle (whom everyone had mistaken for a comely lass named Madonnica) was eaten by an unnamed substance, along with Salmonella Marie’s first cousin once removed, “Bull” (a hefty wench who sang basso profundo) and all of their mates. In one fell swoop, the terrible retribution promised on Miss Havering’s Bog by the disgusting Guppy The Plover was remembered, and although the horrible doings at the leisure centre were unconnected (it was not yet the promised time and Guppy The Plover was nothing if not punctual), the little frog’s confidence was shaken. Better, she thought, to live a long life safe from the glare of publicity. To that end, she immediately sacked her publicist and eighteen bodyguards, and departed the limelight, shortly thereafter to divest herself of the pinkly lurex and spikey booties and don the cabbagy mushroom which would set free her true identity. “At last,” she proclaimed, “I am me!”
Adopting the slogan, “I Am Oinka The Pig” with the assistance of Mrs. LaFarge’s Official Document, Salmonella Marie decided to continue her vocal exercises (in the event she might one day change her mind and desire to be rescued once again from ignominy and be translated unto glory). These vocalisations were to be the centrepiece of each and every day, for she was nothing if not an extreme disciplinarian. “I shall lubricate my uvula at thirty-four minutes past one in the afternoon, and shall never miss a day.” It was then that the otherworldly scales, arpeggios and gargles became an indelible part of the bog’s delirious cacophony. Within a nonce, the denizens grew used to them, ceased complaining about the ear infections they gave them and grew dependent upon the raucous insufferability. “It give us something to live for,” they sang every year on the anniversary of the first vocal stylings. “It has liberated us and made us unconquerable!”
Free We Is, O! Free We Is!
So very very free,
It is The Noise Wot Rots Our Toes
And makes us pee and pee.
There was a time so long ago
When silence gnawed our goiters,
We gnashed our teeth
And screamed and screeched
And sold off all our doiters.
(chorus)
Free We Is, O! Free We Is!
So very very free,
It is The Noise Wot Rots Our Toes
And makes us pee and pee.
The enemy wi’out our walls
They is so very fearsome.
They eats our rice and kills our mice
And sez they’re touchy feely.
But O! Hélas! They owns the land
And butchers us quite freely.
(chorus)
Free We Is, O! Free We Is!
So very very free,
It is The Noise Wot Rots Our Toes
And makes us pee and pee.
A bottom is a wondrous thing,
It does so very much.
You sits on it and makes it blast
If only to annoy.
The evil sisters suck us dry
And pays us not a pence.
But if we aims our butts at them
We’ll blast ‘em through the fence.
(chorus)
Free We Is, O! Free We Is!
So very very free,
It is The Noise Wot Rots Our Toes
And makes us pee and pee.
Miss Oinka Pig is our ideal,
A very pretty lass.
She teaches things we ought to know,
Because she’s got no class.
She’s not afraid, our Oinka girl
To get down in a rumble.
And if the sisters threaten her
She’ll beat them black and gumble.
(chorus)
Free We Is, O! Free We Is!
So very very free,
It is The Noise Wot Rots Our Toes
And makes us pee and pee.
(Oh! Sweet Oinka, how we loves yooooo!)
Like so many bog anthems, it went on for an uncountable number of verses (estimated by those with heads for numbers and extra time on their hands as twelve hundred sixty-two), and was fulsome in its praise and in exalting the virtues of Oinka The Pig. On a good day, when the weather was fine and there was but a slight fluttering breeze to blow away undesirable midges and unfortunate tendencies among the elderly, the song took a full three and a half hours and fifteen minutes to sing properly, providing teatime did not intervene. Given that there were at the very least seventeen obligatory teatimes in Miss Havering’s Bog, each requiring a hasty retreat by all concerned to Begonia Throttle’s Tea Cosy for a refreshing repast, few members of the leisure centre’s ‘Joyful Joyful Oinka Adoramus’ choral interpreters had ever bothered to learn the final hundred or so verses.
Now, however, all was silence. For the first time in her life, Tiny Rumpus Libbedy Spider understood how vacant and frightening a place the bog was without the protective stylings of Oinka The Pig. “Dearest Oinka,” she prayed, “why hast thou forsaken us?” It was a very black day indeed. If only she had been able to bring her lovely mother and siblings to her new home, the situation might have been bearable. As it was, she was on the brink of despair, a precipice not visited since the day she had emerged from the pink and yellow nursery egg, with its frills and lacy decorative features, which she couldn’t remember very well, but to which she had become rather attached. Her situation was exacerbated even further by an extremely irritating humming sound coming from the other side of a neighbouring tufty hillock, a sound interrupted every few seconds by a violent splooging. “If you don’t stop this very instant,” she screamed, “I shall go around the bend!”
The irritating hummmmmm continued, ignoring the Tiny Spiderling completely. Hummmmmm hummmmmm hiccough SPLOOGE SPLOOGE SPLOOGE hummmmmm hummmmmm. At which point, a somewhat ancient and tremulous voice, out of breath and exceedingly cranky, muttered a discordant, “Oh! Bother!”
Copyright 2007 JA Weeks
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