Morning all,
and good to see you back, Kaol.

And good luck with the job, Spakka!

Anyway, may I leave a bad joke here? Here we go then:

Richard Branson had just bought himself a very nice London flat, in the heart of Maida Vale, to live in while he was in the city doing all kinds of businessy things. He only had one problem, and it was a huge white wall that ran the length of the entire flat. Despite repeated trips to Habitat, John Lewis and even Ikea, The Bearded One just could not find a piece of art he liked enough to go on his wall.

Now, Richard Branson is not a complete idiot. He got out his Yellow Pages, and looked up an artist. Picking up his 'phone, he dialled the number.

"Hello?"

"Hello there, do you do commissions?"

I'll spare you the thrust of the conversation - the short version is yes, the artist did do commissions, and he told him his prices, to which Branson agreed. In turn, the artist was furnished with the dimensions of the wall. And now, back to the conversation:

"So," said the artist, "what would you like this picture to be of, then?"

"Well, I'm a big fan of the history of the Wild West. What I'd like is a mural that depicts General Custer's last thoughts at the battle of Little Big Horn. I'm out of town for the next two weeks, when can you start?"

"I'll come round tomorrow." said the unemployed artist.

And so, Branson went away on his business trip, all the while paying more attention to daydreaming about his wonderful mural than he was to his business meetings (which may go some way to explaining Virgin Galactic). After two weeks, he received a 'phone call telling him his art work was complete, and he dashed back to Maida Vale with all the speed and grace of a greased Whippet. He fumbled as he got the key in to the door and rushing in to the lounge, he stopped.

Before him lay the mural. He gasped.

One half of the wall was taken up with the image of a giant fish, leaping resplendently from a glistening river. Just above the head of the fish sat a glowing, golden halo.

The other half of the wall contained a picture of hundreds and hundreds of Red Indians. They were in every possible (and sometimes impossible) sexual position imaginable. They appeared to be rutting like Wild Boar, their eyes rolled in to the back of their heads while they grasped the hips of their lovers.

Branson grabbed the 'phone, and hammered in the number of the artist. When the line connected, he didn't waste time on pleasantries.

"Just what the hell," roared Branson "Do you think you're doing?"

"Whaddya mean?" said the artist, affronted.

"I asked you for a picture of General Custer's last thoughts during the battle of Little Big Horn, and what you give me is a huge picture of a fish, and a frankly pornographic and not a little offensive picture of Native Americans going at it like angry rabbits! How on earth is this in any way representative of what Custer thought?"

"Course it's representative," the artist replied, "It says: Holy Mackerel! Look at all those fucking Indians!"

Aaaaaythangyew!
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 10:07, Reply)