Festival time !

A Smalltown Man post…

Yes, it’s the August bank holiday and, amazingly, the sun is shining even in Smalltown! So it’s time for our annual summer festival. Never mind Notting Hill. Oh no! Our festival is far better than that.

Notting Hill might have street parties, exotic dancers, parades, floats, music and veritable bon homie oozing from every pore of it’s being but we’ve got something much better. Food and drink! The town centre is transformed into a sea of plastic chairs from which, using nothing more complex than a pair of high powered binoculars, you can watch a ‘celebrity’ chef cooking! How exciting is that? Wowza!

And if you don’t fancy playing ‘Guess the Name of the Chef’ then there’s a series of events happening all across town. There are vetted and approved buskers at strategic locations throughout Smalltown – don’t bother auditioning if you’re over 25! We support our talented young entertainers in Smalltown.

Then there’s the various games we’re sponsoring to keep you entertained. Games like ‘The Used Needle Hunt’, ‘Kick the Blind Mans Dog’. ‘Throw a Coin in the Beggars Hat’ and let’s not forget ‘Spot the Indigenous Englishman’. Yes, win a major prize – a luxury one night stay in a local hotel. The second prize is a two night stay!

Never let it be said that in Smalltown we don’t know how to hold a festival. Oh, no! And with all this excitement going on, there’s not a stabbing or serious assault in sight. Well, not many anyway…

From our communities correspondent, Upton Nogood

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10 responses to “Festival time !

  1. Far from ‘spot the indignant indigenous Brit’ I assume that photo was taken at the annual ‘Trosh’ (from the Saxon therscan -to thresh) or ‘Festival’ in the Norfolk market town of Upper Colostomy Bag Magna or perhaps Lower Nosebleed. Not a Person Of No Appearance in sight. One assumes the Cooking Stage also doubles for the early evening Witch Burning (electricity being far more ‘eco’).

  2. I believe I’ve tracked you down – Rick Stein and the place where someone was Buried…..Don’t shoot!

  3. Strangely ‘Spot the Indigenous Englishman’ is a game that I and the good Lady Granville have been playing in our local town for some time now. The broad Sussex dialect seems to have taken on a strong Eastern European twang and us pasty faced men of Sussex adopted a hue of the Romani, which I must say have enriched our lives by introducing some quaint customs like peeling potatoes in a bucket on the front steps of dwellings.

    • We have a plethora of Poles and Yanks in this neck of the woods. I have no problem with Poles. As Air Marshall Dowding said in the Battle of Britain “I was wrong about the Poles!”
      They fit in, work hard and pay their taxes. Let’s face it, there’s a lot of English cunts you can’t say that about.

      The Yanks on the other hand…? Well, I had a barny with one outside my house when he was revving up his crapmobile on a Sunday afternoon. He called me a tight arsed Britfuck and told me to fuck off. I asked hime why he didn’t fuck off home and take his air bases with him. He called the police. Two coppers knocked on my door to harangue me for unacceptable racist comments. I inquired of that included him calling me a tight arse Britfuck. They went away.

      I’ve nothing against the Yanks as individuals, but I do wish they’d take their fucking bases out of our country…

      We get a lot of traveller shit and Romanians and Bulgars. Them I have little time for, I’m afraid. Pretty much all mucky bloody benefit scroungers. God bless free movement. Roll on 2019.