By Popular Request, ( Well Lynn asked us twice,) we have de- cided to do another Special Local Herald Recipe. So here it is: Christmas Fruit Cake. Ingredients: 1 cup water. 2 cups dried fruit. 1 cup brown sugar. 1 cup sugar. 1 tsp salt. 8 oz nuts. 4 large eggs. 1 tsp baking soda. Juice of 1 lemon. 1 bottle of single malt whisky. Method: Sample whisky to check its quality. Take a large bowl. Re-check the whisky to ensure it is of the highest quality. Pour one level cup and drink. Turn on the electric mixer, beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl. Add one teaspoon of sugar and beat again. Make sure the whisky is still okay and cry another tup. Turn off the mixerer. Break two eggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the dried fruit. Mix on the turnerer, and if the fried druit gets stuck in the beaterers, pry it loose with a drewscriver. Sample the whisky again to check for tonisisticity. Next sift two cups of salt, or something. Who cares? Check the whisky. Now sift the lemon juice and strain your nuts. Add one table. Spoon. Of sugar or something. Whatever you can find. Then grease the oven and turn the cake tin to 350 degrees. Don't forget to beat off the turnerer, check the whisky again and learn the following pantomime story for the kids.


Prinderella and the Cince This is a stairy fory. With a hint of the Rwo Tonnies. Tonce upon a wime there was a gritty little pearl named Prinderella. She lived with her two sisty uglers and her nicked wepstother. She weaned the clindows, flubbed the scores and did all the wirty durk, which was a shirty dame. Don way the Cince issued a cropplamation that all geligable lung yadies should attend a drancy fess bistmas crawl. Now poor Prinderella didn't have a drancy fess; all she had was a rirty dag. Then, along came her gairy fedmother and in the eyeling of a twink she turned her rirty dag into a drancy fess. So, Prinderella bent to the wall and pranced and pranced with the Cince. But, on the moke of stridnight she ran down the stalace peps and on the stottom bep slopped a dripper; which was, of course, another shirty dame. The dext nay, the Cince issued another croplamation, that all geligable lung yadies who had attended the drancy fess ball, should sly on the tripper. When the sisty uglers slied on the tripper, it fiddent dit. But when Prinderella slied on the tripper it fid dit. So, the moo were tarried and mived yappily afty everward.


I went for a football managers job in Sheffield last week. They asked me if I was flexible.


I told them I couldn’t manage Wednesday.


The Husband says to his wife, “ The lads in the pub reckon that our window cleaner has slept with every woman in our street, except one.” The wife replies, “I bet it’s that stuck up cow at number 27.”


A DOG IS FOR LIFE !


Before !


After ! 33.


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