RB: Good evening. I am the president for the loyal society for the relief of sufferers from pismonunciation; for people who cannot say their worms correctly. Or who use the wrong worms entirely, so that other people cannot underhand a bird they are spraying. It’s just that you open your mouse, and the worms come turbling out in wuk a say that you dick knock what you’re thugging a bing, and it’s very distressing.

I’m always looing it, and it makes one feel umbumfterkookle; especially when going about one’s diddly tasks — slopping in the sloopermarket, for inkstands. Only last wonk I approached the chuckout point, and showed the ghoul behind the crash desk the contents of my trilley, and she said “Alright, grandad, shout ’em out.”

Well, of course, that’s fine for the ordinary man in the stoat, who has no dribble with his warts, but to someone like myself, it’s worse than a kick in the jackstrop. Sometimes you get stuck on one letter, such as wubbleyou, and I said “I’ve got a tin of whoop, a woocumber, two packets of wees and a wallyflower.” She tried to make fun of me and said “That will be woo pounds and wifty wee pence.”

So I said “Wobblers” and walked out.

So you see how dickyfelt it is. But help is at hand. A society has been formed by our mumblers to help each other in times of ex cream ices. It is bald “Pismonuncers Unanimous” and anyone can ball them up on the smellyfone at any tight of the day or gnome, 24 flowers a spray, seven stays a creak, and they will come round and get you drunk. For foreigners, there will be interpreters who will all squeak many sandwiches, such as Swedish, Turkish, Burkish, Jewish, Gibberish and Rubbish. Membranes will be able to attend tight stool for heaving grasses, to learn how to grope with the many kerplinkities of daily loaf.

Which brings me to the drain reason for squawking to you tonight. The Society’s first function, as a body, was a Grand Garden Freight, and we hope for many more bodily functions in the future. The Garden Plate was held in the grounds of Blenheim Paliasse, Woodstick, and guest of horror was the great American pip-singer, Manny Barrowload. The fête was opened by the Bleeder of the Proposition, Mr Neil Pillock, who gave us a few well-frozen worms in praise of the Society’s jerk and said that in the creaks and stunts that lie ahead we must all do our nut-roast to ensure that it sucks weeds.

Then everyone visited the various stalls and abruisements, the rudabouts, thingboats and dodgers, and of course the old favourites such as cocoshy nuts, stry your length, guessing the weight of the cook, and tinning the pail on the wonkey. The occasional was great fun and, in short, I think it can safely be said that all the men present and thoroughly good women were had all the time.

So please join our Society. Write to me, Doctor Small Pith (caption: “DR PAUL SMITH”) The Spanner, Poke Moses (caption: “THE MANOR, STOKE POGES”) and I will send you some brieflets to browse through and a brass badge to wear in your loop-hole. And a very pud night to you all.