Tag: Going Postal

With a whimper, not a bang

It seemed to me that this is a particularly auspicious day to start the new site so I roused myself from my afternoon slumber to post this up. Nothing of what you see will likely survive because I have lashed this up as fast as I could so the site is first published today, November 5th. There are other reasons for making the site active in advance of any move, things take time to filter through, like Google indexing.

None of the links on the page are set up, so please don’t bother clicking on them, even the comment and RSS feeds, they will likely change.

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Uncle Bertie, Part One

Roger Ackroyd, Going Postal

It had been several weeks since I had visited my Uncle Bertie and as I walked down the driveway towards the substantial gothic edifice which loomed out from behind the fir trees bordering the front of the house I wondered, not for the first time, how the old fellow could live all alone in such a gruesome dwelling. All alone, that is, except for the live-in housekeeper, Mrs Trout, who put food on the table but seemingly did little else about the house which had steadfastly remained immune to any noticeable cleaning for the last five years.  A gardener, Quint, lived off the estate and to judge by the copious amount of weeds that sprouted through the stones in the driveway had made little or no effort in that direction.

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The Going Postal Summer Competition

Alporchinhos, Porches Algarve

I am pleased to announce the very first, or possibly second Going Postal competition. The First prize is something special (terms & conditions apply) and requires you to be available at relatively short notice (see below), 2nd prize is half a case of wine and third, a book of your choice (within reason).

Send your contributions, essays, cartoons, postcards, anything I could make a decent post of (anything I have received today will be included unless you tell me you’re not interested).

Send your entries in here.

Closing date Friday 15th September. Winners notified Sunday 17th.

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How I found Jesus – and some other GP posters

ViciousButFair, Going Postal

Let me say something about GP, about this site, GP is our village, our community, I now really hate that particular C word since the msm cunts have stolen it so perhaps our neighbourhood or our fraternity is better. Perhaps the puffin really is our fraternity pin?

After I retired I rediscovered freedom, life and dating sites again, I even considered buying a moped to get around the country for the ladies, petrol  for a 2.8 litre car was starting to get very expensive for a man of pensionable age.
I have a startling vision of the first date in my moped scenario, we meet at the Slaughtered Lamb for lunch, I am wearing a leather flying hat, goggles, a long water proof coat and bicycle clips, picking dead flies out of my teeth I say, “Hello, you must be Deirdre, are you sure you are really only 53?”

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Thirty Years Later – With Phil the test manager

Going Postal

This is dedicated to all those Going Postalliers that were brutally taken away from us during the 2020 purge by the Muslims.  Those who attended the 2020 “Piss-up in a brewery” and were slaughtered.  We pay homage to Swiss French Bob, the Sarge who valiantly took down 10 of the bastards, to MJ Bunglefever, who died whilst still playing music and Combat Dave, the Buttscatcher Jimmy and Rotherham Pufta and Jesus.  We remember also Mr HogwartsBukkake and Guardians Quitter, who were caught later that year with knitted penis’s and died whilst serving time in the Gulag in Tower Hamlets, they never did get the chance to talk about it.  We shall remember Old Trout, Judas was Paid, ColloniesCross and Mr Cloud, who just disappeared one day, never to be seen again.  To those like Kipper and Bob Crow, who were slaughtered just because they had some pictures of ladiez.  This is also dedicated to all those who never posted much, but read the comments (despite it being against the rules) and up-ticking.  We miss you all.

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They Said it Couldn’t Happen

Coloniescross, Going Postal

It started off as a normal Tuesday night in late March 2017; Colin had just come out of the shower and  was finishing his shave. The domino match, the first round of the post season knock out cup, was away  so he figured he had about 30 minutes or so to dry himself off, shave and get dressed before his lift  turned up.

Colin always looked forward to Tuesday nights in domino season, good crack, some beers and a dozen or  so games of 5’s & 3’s. His musings were disturbed by a knock on the front door, unusual in the small  village where he lived, but not unknown.  He made himself as presentable as he could, given he was  wrapped in a bath towel and had his dressing gown on and went to answer the by now insistent knocking.  His wife called from the kitchen to ask who it was, Colin thought “If I knew that I’d have x-ray  vision, FFS” but said nothing and proceeded to answer the door.

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