The Winged Monkey Press was first conceived - under the influence - by a group of hat salesmen in 1751, their plan being to provide a single point of information and advice for unknown authors. From humble beginnings, the Press soon boasted an impressive circulation of two, and further fame was forthcoming when a man in Brixton nearly thought about subscribing. There is also some evidence to suggest that Dr. Johnson was involved with the press at one point, although it is not clear whether he supported the group or was responsible for their series of infamous trials in 1763, 1764, and 1765-67. It was certainly possible, as Dr. Johnson was active within the publishing field at the time, and he may well have been making reference to the Press when he commented to his housekeeper: "It's bloody raining again. I think I'll have eggs this morning, Doris."

In the mid-1800s, the Press was purchased by the great Victorian potato baron, Mrs Bernard Hardcastle. Mrs Hardcastle - who ran the ailing Press with her ailing husband - used it to provide literature (possibly potato-based) for her friends. In 1853, she fired her workers and hired instead the cheap labour offered by London's monkey population. Such an endeavour proved a success, and a wily business move by a woman who was to become London's greatest potato mogul. In 1858 however, Bernard made an error of judgement when she used the Press to produce inflammatory literature about her rivals. This course of action was to prove disastrous, for, amidst incalculable lawsuits, she was forced to sell the Press. Bernard was jailed for non-payment of debts. She died in 1863. According to the prison priest, her last words were "Those ghastly, ghastly monkeys..."

For nearly fifty years the Press remained with the circus to whom it had been sold, producing pamphlets on the relevance of circus life to London society, and upon the health benefits of clowns. In 1909 the circus played to a packed audience at Willesden Green. In the crowd was the social reformer, Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst. Impressed by the quality of the Press' output, Emmeline quickly commissioned it to produce a series of pamphlets on political equality for the Suffragette movement, a request to which the monkeys readily agreed. Such revolutionary tactics, however, landed the Press in hot water with the commons, and it soon fell to Asquith to command the Press to cease printing. The declaration arrived in 1910. In a panicked effort to save itself, the circus cut all ties with both the Press and it's primate staff, and so, for the first time in over a hundred and fifty years, the Press fell silent...

For six long, agonising years the Press lay dormant. Its once proud voice, that had seemed so clear and fresh amidst the heavy smog of Victorian publishing, had now fallen silent. When war broke out in 1914 it seemed as if the monkeys would never again return. In 1916 however, all of that changed. Lloyd George had put Lord Kitchener in charge of enticing fresh recruits into the army, a task that might never have been achieved were it not for Kitchener's Big Idea. Kitchener's plan was to produce thousands of posters, leaflets and pamphlets, all depicting himself, pointing an accusing moustache at those who had not yet enlisted. The Press was restarted, the monkeys rehired, and the first print run was ready in a week. The result was a resounding success. Faced with Kitchener's condemning facial hair, thousands of eligible young men enlisted into the army, and the Press became official war office property.

The Press remained the property of the war office for many years. After the close of the Great War, it provided a cost effective means of printing, and, during the second world war, served in the capacity of a propaganda machine. In 1945 peace broke out, and the Press - after bring handed a government grant - was released from official duty.
The close of the war heralded an economic boom, and the Press was quick to catch on. In 1951 the monkeys began to hire women to undertake some of the tasks required to successfully run the Press. Initially given tiring, monotonous jobs, some of the women - echoing the cries of Mrs Pankhurst - began to demand their working rights. The response from their primate management was far from warm. Rather than allowing the women to form their own unions, the monkeys took steps to identify leading activists. Once isolated, these women would be removed, placed into a secure compound at the Press headquarters, and forced to hoopla for up to 11 hours a day.

In 1953 the management was replaced by a team of pro-union baboons, and the activists, many of whom were still in the compound, were permitted to return to their posts. The unpleasantness behind it, the Press was able to concentrate on other matters and in 1958 it began a trial run of a new type of printing: album covers. The initial response was good. So good, in fact, that between 1959 and 1962 the Press expanded its support of album cover printing tenfold. In 1964 this lucrative venture met with disaster. The Beatles, by whom the Press had recently been commissioned, unexpectedly pulled their funding. The baboons were shocked. In a brief interview, a Beatles spokesman announced that the "contract had failed when the lads discovered their material was being printed by The Monkeys."

Following the turn away from the music industry, the Press began more and more to embrace the publishing world. New premises were bought at the Victoria Station washrooms, and a hundred new monkeys were employed and set to work upon a hundred new typewriters. In 1964, Timmy, a freelance primate journalist, joined the Press. This new acquisition however, was not successful. Timmy, a drug addict and lifelong bingo abuser, was a product of the sixties. Timmy was removed as editor but given a position as the face of the company. Later immortalised in a company sketch, he was to become the logo that is still used today. Sadly Timmy's value to the company was revealed when - in 1973 - he was fired without explanation. Lost and despondent, he eventually found his way to the underworld of similarly rejected logos, being last seen in a Soho bar in 1977 with Seaman Birds Eye and the McVities Wasp.

The 80s were a successful time for the Press. Already a household name, in 1981, won the right to be sole sponsors of the famous Chipping Sodbury Taxidermist's Sprint. In 1983, the Press bought a bicycle shed in Whitehall, soon expanding to include sheds in Hackney, Kensington, and a vegetable barrow in East Grinstead. Some confusion arose in 1985 when, at a media conference, the management found themselves at a loss to explain what it was the Press actually did, but suggested that whatever it was they did they probably did it very well indeed. Thus spared of having to justify their government funding, the Press decided to celebrate by investing in a giant inflatable Badger, which it applied to have suspended from Tower Bridge. The application was rejected.

Throughout the 90s the Press found itself at odds with parliament. Many questioned the necessity of providing massive funding to a company that appeared to produce very little in return. In the June of 1998 a private bill was put through, calling for the removal of the Press. Almost overnight, members of parliament began to receive anonymous letters - written in crayon - calling for the Press to retain it's government funding. Some of these letters were accompanied by complimentary crates of bananas. But despite these pleas, the bill went through and the Press was stripped of its funding. Unable to pay off huge debts, the Press was forced to file for bankrupcy. In 2001 what was left was purchased by the Old Man - an ageing gibbon with a reputation as an internet mogul. A month later he had rehired the monkeys and set them to work. And so, after decades of ups and downs, the Press continues; although nobody is sure why.