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The Daily Telegraph
what a time it has been in busy world of politics for ol' capt wingnut as disrespectful lower order colleagues refer to eminent bbc pol editor. great shakespearean saga of david blunkett of course, marr carries out v sad home office interview under most difficult of circs, eg mr blunkett's dog sadie vigorously licking her bottom with loud slurps only two feet away from camera, not easy to concentrate. then startling news of mr tony elevating five-year-old daughter of ruth kelly to cabinet job, along with promotions for david miliband, age 13 and half, james purnell, sometime playmate of leo blair, etc. hard enough, says haggard marr, when policemen look so much younger, but now cabinet, too. while he protesting about this in plane, along comes dave hill, mr tony's top press honcho, bearing scoop for bbc, namely ant and dec appointed to treasury team. marr flushed and self-important bustles to air-phone to call today, while hill guffaws into moustache, v worrying… meanwhile, at back of downing street party, mr snuffs alertly notices silky-bearded fellow sitting silently, writing slowly with goose-feather on creamy white notebook, expression of ancient wisdom on phiz. while ignorant hacks sluice back warm champagne, snuffles wriggles alongside and whuffles: who are you? i, says the wrinkled cove, am the chap what writes the story. what story? ask snuffs. well, whatever one the government has chosen to entertain the proles with, while they get on with whatever they get on with, says hairy old codger, in this case, the ludicrous silly one about d blunks, kimberley, mighty quinn, class war between socialist and socialite, desperate doings in doughty street, all that… what, asks snuffs, you mean it's all just made up? of course, says the fellow, you don't think stuff that bonkers really happens do you? ------------------------------------------------- so what can eminent guinea pig look forward to this christmas? bumper fun pack of hay? wilted broccoli stalk? kind readers have sent marr, i happen to know, interesting cookbooks, and from editrice of six oclock bbc news, v saucy calendar of beefcake and glam girlie guinea pigs disporting themselves in shameless fashion month by month. am looking happily forward to '05 and wish all best from self and capt wingnut. pip-pip The Daily Telegraph Notebook By Mr Snuffles (Filed: 03/11/2004 mr president: the guinea-pigs' tanks are on your lawn hoorah for michael rose. who he, reader ask, leading general, biographer or what? no, he is reader too, who wrote, last week, in protest at dozing andrew marr for not leaping - leaping like stag, like salmon in river spate, like deputy pm in sight of tasty pie - leaping on awful news related in daily telegraph that a new strain of low fat but heavyweight guinea-pigs are being bred in lima, peru and shipped round the world. and why? not to amuse little girls but to be eaten! mr rose asks why snuffles has not been scrambled to alert & mobilise nation to this scandal. well, sound of clashing cymbal, brass-necked trumpet's parp, here to answer the call he comes! i am not, happy to report, deceased in marr kitchen, lying in state with cumin and paprika marinade, ho no, but alert and bristling for action. selfsame marr is currently out of the way in bathtub, vainly trying to remove verruca with wooden toothpick. have wedged his door shut with demos pamphlet, should be safe for hours. so, to recap: evil scientists in peru have bred guinea-pigs providing "up to 2.5lb of low-cholesterol meat". "old trading company'' of peru exporting same to america and japan and promise britain too. peruvians already eat 65 million guinea-pigs every year. this very newspaper provided recipes - "cuyes en salsa de mani'' forsooth & photo of my own great-aunt dolores maradona III being deep fried in vegetable oil, and served with peanut sauce, fried yuccas, sweet potatoes and other revolting things. barclay & barclay, do you really approve? "ho, mr snuffles'', i hear distant loud voice of decent majority of british people, rising on gentle november breeze, "we wouldn't do that to you here. here we eat only dim, mentally challenged species, viz, cows and pigs and sheeps. some asians may stir-fry a passing labrador, there may be a bit of monkey-munching in africa, and the french, as is well known, cannot turn on horse-racing on telly without salivating... "but here in blighty, no, not a guinea-pig will find itself in danger. no nigella licking her delectable digits as she recommends lashings of cream with guinea-pig fritters; no loveable jamie oliver suggesting juniper-berry glaze for guinea-pig roast and chips, no ruthie rogers serving umbrian wood-smoked cavy with porcini risotto. no, snuffles, i hear you say, relax my friend, you're safe.'' to which - hah! many things must be said. first, you british have not the faintest idea of what you eat. did you even know that siberian tigers are used to flavour prince charles's old duchy original oatmeal-cardigan flavoured rice cakes? thought not. second, even if you do not actually eat the guinea-pigs yourselves, what about fine old tradition of british internationalism? nation that took on slavers, brought gospel to africa, signed kyoto protocol & exported benny hill to americans... how can it ignore evil peruvian guinea-pig trade? can you look away and look yourselves in the eye? (difficult manoeuvre, i promise you, i've tried it.) fellow citizens! the time has come for a massive campaign against cavy trade. no one is more naturally xenophobic or reactionary than mr snuffles... except perhaps old osama, who now has two elderly guinea-pigs hanging on to his upper lip, a clear message to cavy population to rise up. and so we will, against international hegemonic reaganomics which exploits small cute rodents for low-fat foodstuff. globalism has gone too far. american gm food, casinos, software, movies, invasions, all fair enough, but tasty guinea-pig trade one step too far. by time you read this, it is probably clear whether guy who read goat story to children or one with face like man in moon sucking lemon has won us presidency. either way, it is time to serve notice and give warning that rodent population are mad as hell and won't take it any more. across the land small girls are now in urgent danger. i will issue further bulletins as and when i can but... oops, sound of naked, angry marr breaking open bathroom door, trying to remember whether he has written telegraph column... will press "send'' and make hurried escape... for now... The Daily Telegraph Notebook By Mr Snuffles (Filed: 03/03/2004 but i don't want to sell off shaved chinchilla wives taraa! back by popular demand. tho actually the telegraph reader who called for more mr snuffs and less of "that hack marr" was the tip of the proverbial ice cube. for weeks sacks of fanmail have been piling up as i consider how best to exploit justified and valuable celebrity. marr had agreed to carry on as my jowly hangdog frontman; one of his weekend jobs being to sort thro the mounds of snuffles fan letters calling for my public return. as he reads them, a wearied tired defeated gloom settles on his phiz. but watching him gives me a sense of personal achievement. anyway that can't carry on. marr is now spiralling into too deep a gloom. his callous colleagues have recently revealed to him true but little-known medical fact, viz that the only part of yr human anatomy that continues to grow in later life is yr ears. so he's going to end up looking like a walnut with wing mirrors. does he find this airily amusing, the stuff of a self-deprecatory chirrup? reader, he does not. yet here mr snuffles himself must auto-deprecate with the best of them: i have not found my early attempts to capitalise on fame quite as easy as first hoped. wasn't even noticed on i'm a celebrity… even tho caused the well-built girl to scream. nor did sell-out show an audience with mr snuffles at royal festival hall go quite as planned. the microphone stand was v high and, after an exhausting half-hour climbing slowly up it, i was mistaken by alastair campbell for fluffy mike covering and removed before i could say a word. all that's trivia, tho. my main activity while late winter frosts the ground has been to prepare for bold new future as media mogul. life as louche bachelor guinea pig with adoring billie piper-style wife and black-glass-covered, chechen mafia-lookalike gin palace off st tropez beckons. all it needs is the deal. no wish to give things away, nor to tread too close to home. but my media adviser mr lenny dasini assures me no one trying to buy the daily telegraph is likely actually to read it. ho, no (says regular reader) mr snuffs, you cannot be serious! you, mr snuffles of 24 dinglydell avenue london s19 bzw are negotiating to buy this ancient historic v fine newspaper title first launched by colonel sleigh for pursuit of vendetta against duck of cambridge? you, a guinea pig of proven and uncontested genius, believe you can seize this, the only paper in fleet street ever to have a lawn on its roof? the paper of deedes, simple, moore and far too many johnsons to enumerate? o, mr snuffles, i hear you say, let me kiss yr hairy paw, you are our saviour, our bulwark against a world of shallow new labour madness. but can this thing be done? reader, it can. let me not bother you with all the financial intricacies that may be above yr suburban head. suffice it to mention the word leverage. first, am able to count on expert financial help from mr theobald snoutfruit of bankers csdl - recent merger of commerzbank swissgnome-global with dorchester&littlehampton oldfolks' mutual assurance building society - the v same mr snoutfruit whose £14.8 million "golden grin" bonus has caused so much jealous and unwarranted comment this week. snoutfruit tells me that my converting my still half-full sack of nutritious top-of-the-range guinea pig food, gifted at xmas by mr greg dyke of blessed memory, into a split of voting a-shares and non-voting b-shares, i can buy back the previous borrowing for the shell company snuffles international, paying myself and fellow directors fluffy the squirrel, tufty the mouse and henry kissinger fees sufficient to take control of snuffles management plc, which in turn can use the c-shares of snuffles int to… er, buy the daily telegraph. clear? there is one small matter to be resolved first. media adviser dasini says i must sell off titles that damage posh reputation, viz xxx hot action asian hamsters, shaved chinchilla wives, etc. but, i always say, they are serving a need. no, mr snuffles, says gloomy marr with graveyard voice, that they are not. well he may be right. i will keep you informed. The Daily Telegraph Notebook By Mr Snuffles (the Marr family guinea-pig ) (Filed: 17/12/2003) don't see why i can't write even if dull marr is banned forgive me, reader; it won't be long. just as im learning to tap on the dusty pavement of the toshiba, they are closing in. guinea pig to human communications too dangerous for selfish liberal pc society to bear. o imagine me, if you are at all able to follow this: the scene is a suburban girl's bedroom, bitter-lemon winter light glinting on my cage. myself, the dark lord of the northern host, alias mr snuffles, just lying there all quiet and saddam under the hay. out in the corridor stalks marr, not the jovial gargoyle of telly but the pet-ransoming tyrant, storming up and down like the us marine corps, wondering how to keep me out of print… so will he my quietus with a little rosemary and gravy make? or scoop me into a jiffy-bag, festive first-class stamp, cabbage-stalk for company, and off to a fur-farm in the urals? wouldn't put it past him. don't see why i cant write even if dull marr is banned. its not as if the bbc employs me. auntie has a surprisingly large number of guinea pigs engaged in senior positions; my own great-aunt floria valparaiso spent many working on the today programme, her job was to slam the phone down. another guinea pig, crown-prince gaydar, is currently working in management to check that all rodent employees are very compliant with ofcom. but this tufted rodent is free, black and 14 months. i could do anything now ive learnt how to get out of the cage. i could shave my hair off and go and star on a reality tv show about kinky adolescent guinea pigs who hang with hamsters, or i could go out on the razz with lord falconer and the boys, or i could get a part in iraq the movie as saddam hussein's moustache and get interviewed by parkinson. really - the world is my millet-stick… speaking of saddam, marr says his grandfather, who was a colonel in the eighth army, saw mussolini lynched. you must remember the ezra pound poem, about benito with clara, hung by the heels a milano, or some such. funny, once upon a time, every student room in britain had a big fat red book of collected ezra pound cantos, never saw anyone ever open one and then suddenly like sparrows they had all disappeared. i wonder what happened to them. but by the heel… will that sort of thing happen to saddam now? well i would have tried to mention this to marr to break his melancholy, but he was too busy throwing out stuff he can no longer afford because of the bbc taking his column away. funny all the things he must sadly part with because too costly to keep up are, viz, childrens computer games, childrens dvds, wifes hairdryer, frozen pizzas, all my broccoli stems, karaoke machine belonging to small daughter and childrens bicycles etc. yet mysteriously his whisky, his music, his fine collection of elderly bits of cheese, his equally fine collection of old books, all this is apparently affordable. never mind he says, his face a picture of stoic resignation, we can always beg someone like andrew neil or john humphrys to let us live with them… and now he is coming for me with a nasty glint in his bloodshot eye. o mr snuffs, says he, i fear the moment has come, it is better quick and clean, no more writing current affairs columns for you old chap, just look away, and he pulls out a wicked-looking blade and opens the door of the snuffles residence… this is it, this is the moment - but what ho! there is a ring on the door and a letter comes, and he comes rushing upstairs again, o snuffs o whuffles, look here it says all writing must cease - except for cultural diaries. cultural? cultural! what do you say mr snuffs says he, what do you say to that? botticelli brahms wolfgang amadeus richard rogers jung percy bysshe shelley royal albert hall damien hirst… The Daily Telegraph Notebook By Mr Snuffles (the Marr family guinea-pig ) (Filed: 10/12/2003) just for the record, my real name is nhis'nya'fnfssa,/nh i've taken over. if that bat-eared egomaniac, andrew marr, can threaten to starve me to death in defence of his pathetic freelance earnings; if he can then invade the privacy of a respectable suburban guinea-pig; if he then leaves his computer on and the cage-door unfastened… well, he deserves all he gets. i may not have fingers. but boy, can i dance. sorry about the lack of capitals - the shift key means risking groin strain. but you should hear this keyboard clatter. first things first. naming and introductions. i'm no happier going about as mr snuffles than andrew marr likes being known as gollum or moonbonce. my real name is "nhis'nya'fnf'sssa,/nh'' which translates as "dark lord of the imperial host of the northern star-city of londinium in the time of the great bondage''. and i can be a columnist as well as he can. being held captive by a small and tyrannical girl, i have had ample time to reflect. on my cage floor are torn strips of newspaper - none owned by lord black of crossharbour, i hasten to add - so i am fairly well up on current events. i have strong views on many things, which will probably embarrass the bbc. so be it. guinea-pig lore reminds us of our prehistoric south american ancestors, who stood three feet high and had razor-sharp teeth, terrible in battle and feared of all creatures. we believe they will return and rend and tear the hairless upstart menfolk, or at least their small daughters. for some years we believed the great deliverance was about to begin. but ann widdecombe has been a disappointment and some of us no longer believe she is a killer guinea-pig at all. many comrades, however, have hopes of ian mccartney. caught! moonbonce came back unexpectedly and found me cavorting on the toshiba. he was amused, then he started to get cross. of course i couldn't write a column, he said, i didn't know anything. oh-ho, says i, i rather think i do. i know what you said about tony blair and that michael howard when you thought no one was listening. oh yes, and gavyn davies and his parrot… but at this he started to whiten and a pleading whinge came into his voice. you wouldn't, mr snuffles, would you... well frankly i would. every pig has his price and mine's just a guinea… so then he gets huffy - these bbc types, so touchy, it's the intoxication of the camera lens, the smell of max factor beige facepowder, he's not a real journalist any more, just opine, opine, facial spasm, gesticulate, nice work if you can get it - and he says well, mr snuffles, you're being ridiculous, the telegraph wouldn't employ a guinea-pig. oh-ho says i, well they employ boris johnson and he's a gnu. no, he's not, says moonbonce, he's a conservative mp. you can't prove that, i say, and he looks puzzled. and so is frank johnson, i hiss. no, no, says he. yes, he's a gnu too, he's agnuther gnu, says i. oh god, says the father of the prison-wardress and mr tony's gentleman's gentleman, now i've got a guinea-pig quoting flanders and swann at me o god, i cannot stand this… well who started it? tell me that. and now for the burtons of tewkesbury. yes, m.a. burton, i'm talking about you and yr tasteless letter anent ecuador where they eat guinea-pigs, apparently. snuffles with truffles indeed. do we really think that homo mis-named sapiens is in any particular condition to get uppity about dietary questions during this week of the hamburg cannibal trial? once upon a time, in the wilds of south america, giant guinea-pigs used to hunt and eat human hunters. it's true. there are cave-paintings to prove it. the killer guinea-pigs are the ones that look like charles clarke going after a pie, or even nick brown which leads me to my remarks about mr blair and… oi, stop it. he's back. and he's looking fierce. help… one last leap and the send key is mine. ha…
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