Twisted Vision

By the time I could think it all through the whole thing was over. My assailant had pinned me to a wall, pushed his bulbous forehead hard into mine and had rifled through my wallet. He had threatened to take me prisoner, touch me indecently and made wild and false accusations against my person.

Before I knew it I was back in the car, my wallet was $6 (USD) lighter and the last drips of adrenaline were leaving my bloodstream revealing the previously masked emotional turmoil that had been stirred up by my encounter.

The first clear thought that came into my mind was the question “Why didn’t I get his name??!” – I was filled with my frustration at my inability to think clearly enough at the time to take down details such as this.

You’re probably thinking that it’s not the usual question posed by the victim of a physical assault but that’s because of various presuppositions that you make when you hear of someone being assaulted in this way.

The first assumption is that an attack like this must have been carried out by some faceless thug, probably donning a hoodie and tracksuit bottoms. The type that mothers with young children cross the street to avoid. The type that you see on your street corner, staring menacingly at every passer-by.

Although my attacker was unquestionably a ‘thug’, he was very smartly dressed and would, I should imagine, not be the type to sit on a park bench outside the Spar waiting for his big brother to emerge with a bottle of White Lightening and packet of 10 Marlboro Lights. If anything, he would probably have reported his brother to the police for furnishing a minor with alcohol.

The second assumption is that, were you to ask the aggressor for his personal details, he would at first sneer, then diagnose you as psychotic, before delivering a swift yet effective blow to the jaw rendering you powerless to both defend yourself and/or jot down his home telephone number.

The fact is that this ‘gentleman’ was obliged by his employer to give me his name. In fact, ironically, he would have been breaking the law by not supplying me with the requested information.

Physically abused and threatened by someone in a smart uniform who is obliged by law to give me their name – I can hear you from here – “It’s a Police Officer”, well you’re not too far off but despite many a teenage night spent listening to Rap music and wishing to be like Dr. Dre - I’m not black. In fact, I’m one of the whitest people you’re ever likely to see. If I were to stand in front of a bright light you would be able to see the full digestive cycle of my turkey sandwich from glorious beginning to messy, messy end. In direct sunlight I gleam and shimmer in a way that sees anyone in my line of sight squinting and straining like Oriental needle-threaders! It has been known for teachers to advise their children that the best way to view me is to make a pin-prick in a piece of card and then align with it another piece of card onto which my distorted silhouette is projected.

All of which should, due to the police’s policy of only infringing the human rights of ethnic minorities, lead you away from the thought that a police officer affronted me in such a vile way.

Surely you know now - It HAS to be an Immigration Control Officer!

You’re right and now that you’ve proved to me that your powers of deduction are adequate, I’ll fill in the blanks.

It was May this year and as we drove towards the border the mid-afternoon sun was beating down on the distinctly unair-conditioned vehicle that had housed the four of us for the last hour or so.

My companions on this trip were my best friend - Mo, her sister Kay and Kay’s fiancé Christopher. Kay had been kind enough to drive us on our trip to a theme park just the other side of the border. Everyone of my party was a native of the country we were currently in except for me, the only Brit.

The reason that I’m not mentioning either nation in this regaling of our experience will, hopefully, become apparent.

As we approached the border check-point I became nervous, as I always do when crossing a border but especially when crossing this one. We sat in a short queue of vehicles and finally our turn to head the line-up came.

As we handed all four passports over to the border guard, the redcurrant-backed emblem of an EU passport stuck out like a sore thumb! Thankfully I could speak the language.

“So, you’re British?!” he boomed from his tiny box that must have doubled as an oven in the stifling heat.

“Yes Sir” I replied cheerily. (I always think it best to approach these situations with a silly, inane grin as if Nitrous Oxide had been pumped directly to my Cerebellum. This, I wrongly assumed, would be pacifying to anyone, no matter their poor working conditions.)

“What’s this?! Why is it here?!” he shouted with angry intent, pointing at an old VISA, long since expired.

“My old VISA, it’s expired.” I said.

“You know what this tells me?!” I had no idea. “This tells me you’re illegal!”

“Uhh...what!??” I said as the emotions of concern, embarrassment and fear contorted my face in a way that, when combined with the grin, must have looked as though I had chosen an inopportune moment to practice my own form of ‘Extreme Gurning’.

“You gettin’ smart with me!” he screamed “You think this is funny!?” I presume in response to my ridiculous facial expression which had, encouraged by the increasing levels of terror I was experiencing, become a caricature of its former self. I now resembled an old lady with a formidable under-bite trying, unsuccessfully, to pass the sweaty remnants of yesterdays un-ripe sprout binge. If I were him, I would have shot me on the spot.

I had just managed to sputter “Um...well...No!?” when he barked instructions to pull the car up next to a large fearsome building off to the right for ‘further questioning’.

As we pulled up, I was busy apologising profusely that my nationality had caused such a palaver, when up came an armed officer who ordered us out of the car so that he could search it. Quite what he was searching for we didn’t know but we were in no position to argue. All of us were then told to enter the building.

The building was white and didn’t have many windows.

As we entered, the first thing that you noticed was the temperature. It was freezing! I don’t mean they had efficient air-con, I mean it was freezing!

We were in a busy waiting room. Most of the other people were Middle-Eastern in origin, a few Africans and us.

It didn’t take long until the situation, aided by the extreme cold, had us all shaking as we stood waiting, uncertain of our fate.

A tall, strong looking man emerged from a room off to one side of the waiting room. He beckoned for Kay to enter and they disappeared from sight.

5 minutes later Kay emerged from the room looking extremely shaken, she stood off to one side, obviously unsure and fearful about what she was allowed to do as well as what she had just been through.

The same man then beckoned Mo into the room. Mo emerged, again looking severely shaken.

As I looked across the waiting room at them, you could tell something was wrong. They deliberately weren’t making eye contact with me and if they did, it would be met with a disappointed shake of the head.

Whatever it was that was being said in that room was about me, yet I still had no idea what I could have done.

The officer emerged from the room once more and walked up to where I was stood.

“Peter?” he asked, I responded accordingly and he ushered me into the other room.

The room was a small office with two desks at right angles to each other sat in the middle of the room. Another officer that I hadn’t seen before was sat on the desk that was slightly off of centre. I was told to stand against the wall as the first officer sat on the desk directly opposite me.

The second man stood, then shut and locked the door we had just entered through, he had not done this for the two girls. I was really starting to fear the worst as I waited for my ordeal to begin.

“When was the last time you smoked marijuana?” he asked abruptly and with noticeable fury in his voice.

“Before you answer” he said “I just want to let you know that here we respect things like honesty and integrity. If you’re open with me then we’ll see what we can work out for you but if you try and come into my country and lie, then I’ll make this all very painful for you and your friends!”

The question had fazed me. I was bumbling around for words as though I’d suddenly been transported into the body of Hugh Grant whilst he limply describing the fact that he loves some girl or other. The fact was that I’d smoked a cannabis joint the day before with Mo at her house. Although I felt that it would somehow incriminate me if I admitted to this, I felt it best to be honest given the threats of seconds before.

I stammered a pitiful “Yesterday, well...last night.”

He slammed his fist on the desk and stood to look out of the window.

“Peter, Peter, Peter.” he tutted “What did I say about lying?”

As I wracked my brains to think of what on earth he could mean he asked “Have you ever been to jail, Peter?”

I shook my head frantically and said in a blind panic “N...No!!”

“Well, I think you’re just about to find out what it’s like..”

The muscle memory in my face obviously wasn’t too put out by this statement as my face, once again, twisted in confusion.

“Tell me what you’ve got in the car!” he said. “Nothing!!” I replied, shocked at the very thought.

Suddenly, the smaller less authoritative man sat on the other desk piped up and whined “You better start talking!”

This angered me as it harked back to the days of schoolyard bullies with an army of pathetic hangers-on shouting “Yeah! Whatever he said!” whilst cowering in safety behind their burly protector.

Even while spurting out the inevitable “But I haven’t done anything!” my mind was playing tricks on me. The fear and threat of jail suddenly left me doubting myself. Had any small residue of the previous nights excesses somehow found its way into the car? Had someone set me up?!

My train of thought was interrupted by the blow I had taken to the middle of my chest. The officer had thrust his hand into my chest causing me to lose my breath, I had been flung a full foot back into the concrete wall behind me. I was frozen to the spot as he rammed my skull back into the wall by flinging his forehead so hastily at mine that it very nearly constituted a head-butt. My nose was being bent to one side by his which was pushing hard against me.

“Don’t you lie to me Peter! Don’t you lie to me!! We’re gonna rip your friends car apart and take them all to jail unless you tell me what you’ve got in that car!”

That statement must have got under my skin because he was able to detect an unconscious stiffening of my body.

“Don’t you push back on me!! I’m going to throw you in jail so fast you won’t know what’s hit you!”

Trust me when I tell you that stiffening up was the last thing on my mind. In fact, I strongly feared that my only achievable state would be ‘categorically flaccid’ for the foreseeable future. If that self-righteous ‘been-everywhere, done-everything’ feather out of Gump had (as it is it’s tendency to do) floated neatly through the window and rested itself delicately on my brow, I have no doubt that I would have collapsed like a poorly constructed house of cards at a Gamblers Anonymous meeting during an earthquake.

My legs were like jelly.

I protested my innocence as the officer seemed to suddenly calm and took his seat behind the desk.

He demanded that I empty my pockets and I did so without delay. Well - when I say without delay, I mean apart from the nervous fumbling in my pockets and the few moments of crazed, out-of-control wallet juggling that started because of the pitiful shaking of my hands and finished with me clumsily falling forward and throwing my multi-national change all over, not only the desk, but also his lap.

He looked up at me sternly and with a look on his face as though I’d just taken the treasured picture of his family off of the desk, pointed a greasy finger onto the glass covering the face of his wife before asking “Oo’s that ugly cow!?” and urinating in his oversized coffee mug.

I scurried back quickly, meekly and while whispering “Sorry” repeatedly, so quietly that only I would have been able to hear but was unable to raise my volume through dread.

The officer seemed to regain his composure and, at the same time, realised that no hardened criminal would put on such a pathetic display of cowardice when faced with such threats of incarceration.

As he pawed through my possessions with his fearless sidekick flapping around behind him, I wondered how it was that I came to be in this situation. How (and indeed, why) had I left the sanctity of Britain and ended up pinned to wall by an immigration officers sloping ape-like brow?!

My brief moment of reflection was shattered by the voice of the officer as he asked me to perform one final task.

“Pull your trousers up!” he ordered.

I thought perhaps that I looked a little too shabby to be allowed into the country so I quickly obliged.

“More...” he barked, so I pulled them higher. And higher. And higher.

He continued to motion for me to lift until the crotch area of my trousers was so tight around my unmentionables that it, contrary to the version of this story that I tell my girlfriend, looked like somebody had shrink-wrapped two baked beans and chilli. It was not pleasant.

It was humiliating in the extreme for me, but it seemed to offend him in the most primeval of ways. For an unnecessarily long time he winced and squinted as if half way between a spasm of vomiting repulsion and a child-like snigger. There was a slight movement of his right hand that suggested that he was unconsciously on his way to a full-on, arm-stretching finger point and jaw drop but, luckily for me, he caught himself and forced it back down from whence it came.

The sight of my hitched-up linen trousers-come-hotpants and knocking knees seemed to dilute the situation even further, but still I feared it was off to the big-house for me.

He stood and asked me to go and stand at the main desk outside to await my fate.

When I got outside I realised that this was contrary to what the others had been told because they daren’t even glance at me, even for a second. They squirmed uncomfortably when I looked over at them and never once did their gaze ever rise enough to see my face.

Whatever it was they’d been told, they believed it and at that point considered me as somebody who used their vehicle to commit a crime. They were my friends and they remain my friends, I can’t blame them for how they reacted.

I was actively kept separate from them and, as I learned later, the mixed messages they’d been given had confused them into thinking they couldn’t even sit down.

As I stood at the main desk, shaking in the freezing tundra created by the over-worked air-conditioning units, I was ignored by everyone behind it. It must have been at least fifteen minutes before one of the officers walked over to me and took my passport from my hands without even a grunt of acknowledgement.

I stood there praying that the next words I heard weren’t goin’ to be “You have the right to remain silent...”

The officer walked off and entered the room in which my trial had taken place. I saw him talking to the man I had been interrogated by and they, in turn, looked up at me. The door was shut, leaving me out in the cold.

My final moment of horror came as another officer entered the room, looked at me and, for want of a better word, pinged the rubber gloves he was wearing against his wrist. A shudder of resignation went through me. This was it.

Not only had I been accused and, apparently, convicted of drug-trafficking.

Not only had my friends been turned against me.

Not only was I going to be physically assaulted.

I was now going to be entered via the ‘Exit Only’ door in a vain attempt to pull out something other than last nights curry.

A million thoughts went through my mind of how I would react.

I had reached the point where I’d decided that if I was going down like this, I was going down messy. I resigned myself to, as one last act of defiance, defecating on the invaders hand before he could conduct his narcotics lucky-dip and then, upon entry, laughing and making out that I was enjoying it. I, foolishly, thought this would lead to him regretting picking me to bully, actually it would more likely have led to heavy internal bruising.

Just as I’d started limbering up my bowels for my pre-emptive and, I like to think, symbolic air-strike against ‘The Man’ an officer came out, handed me my passport and said “Ok, well all you need to do is pay me your $6 VISA payment and you’re free to go.”

“Wh...free to go!?” I blurted.

After all that, the questions, the allegations, the donning of rubber gloves, that was it? Have a nice day, see you later?!!

Not wishing to encourage further invasion of our privacy, I thought it prudent to keep my mouth shut, pay the money and run.

I walked over to my friends and told them we were free. The ice thawed instantly but we still walked out of the building in silence. When we got into the car there was a brief sigh of relief but no ranting about our experiences. It wasn’t until later in the journey that we began to open up about what had gone on.

Each of us had our own story, this was mine.

It seems that due to my being from the United Kingdom, I was singled out for the worst punishment. I vowed never to visit the place again.

So, where was I? Was I trying to cross the border into Iran and held at the mercy of the Revolutionary Guard? Or maybe, attempting to enter a corrupt, South American dictatorship?

No, no, the country that put a British citizen through this disgraceful ordeal of human rights violations on the premise of nationality was – you guessed it – the good ol’ US of A.

Yep, our chums on the diplomatic stage, our closest allies, the country that the UK has stood shoulder to shoulder with on the front-line. It is US Border Guards that commit these acts.

As you stood in the waiting room of the building in which we were herded, you couldn’t fail to notice the photographs of George ‘Dubya’ Bush that hang on every wall, or the gigantic ‘Stars and Stripes’ flag that flies from every mall, every corner, every building site. Nor could these sights fail to remind you of images of a pre-invasion Baghdad, with giant images of their dictator looming over every street, a constant reminder of your obligation to be loyal and to obey. It has shades of Orwell’s ‘1984’ running right through it.

So as we question which country it is that has a megalomaniacal ‘above-the-law’ dictator at its helm, maybe we should look at a place where the president’s friends can be let off jail time because they are just that – the presidents friends;

When we look at history and wonder which nation invaded another purely to access its natural resources and gain a military foothold in the region;

And as we ask which state uses its authorities to intimidate and threaten law abiding people;

Maybe we’ll all look a little closer to home next time.

Oi!!! You!!!!

In order for my clever title to work, I needed (according to the teachings of Buddha) to know what sycophant actually meant.

Stupidly I entrusted this spot of dictionary-based research to the pant-wettingly moronic – Microsoft Word.

Its idiocy is no better illustrated than by the fact that it recommends I change the end of the sentence above to ‘pant wet & tingly moronic’. If this isn’t the very definition of irony (the Word definition is ‘to make love roughly and without the use of lubricant’) then I’ll eat the frozen genitals of a man whom, ironically, died of heat stroke.

Anyway, that nincompoop Word gave me two other options for words I could use instead of sycophant. These words were ‘flatterer’ and ‘toady’.

WHAT?!?! How are these two words connected?

My only hope is that by ‘flatterer’ they mean ‘a person who flatters’, rather than something that is ‘flatter’.

If the latter is the case I intend to launch a Holy War against Bill Gates and Microsoft. A war so great that no one will ever use incorrect words again, thus creating a world of perfect grammar where even small children are savagely beaten for the tiniest error!

I reckon Bill Gates got his know-how from aliens anyway! There’s no actual proof for this but by using my mind I have uncovered certain secrets known only to me.

FACT! – Bill Gates is actually only 13 inches tall. Remember that film ‘Inner Space’ where that scientist got shrunk down so he could enter the human body and defeat a virus from the inside? Well, it ain’t nothing to do with that.

FACT! – When Apollo 11 landed on the moon in 1969, Neil Armstrong found 3 miniscule fragments of glass. When these were returned to earth, NASA found them to be sections of Bill Gates glasses. Spookily, when computer imaging was used to determine which part of the lens the fragments came from, they were found to be the sections which would normally be used for viewing the breasts and genitals of an extremely obese woman. Even more worryingly, Gates’ mother weighs over 800lb and has to travel in a plane specially made to fit her bulk. Legend has it that it resembles a sausage dog that has eaten a beach ball.

FACT! – Women in Uzbekistan are required by law to wear a Bill Gates face mask at all times. At birth they are issued with a set of fake glasses, prosthetic nose and moustache which they wear until they reach puberty at which point they are given their Bill Gates face mask as a sign of maturity.

The reasons for this are steeped in mystery although it is thought that ancient Muslims believed that a man would be born to this earth with a face so horrifying that no sane man would dare even contemplate the thought of using their hands to pleasure him! The women therefore use the masks as protection against r@pists and over-sexed man-beasts so intent on love-making that they’d cut off their todgers and post them to a v@gina if they could! (They can’t, the Uzbeki postal system is awful.)

FACT! – Idiotic and obviously incorrect statements are given huge credence merely by putting the word ‘FACT!’ in big letters in front of them. This tactic has most recently used by Tony Blair when he stated that there is no war in the Middle East and it is, in fact, a cruel joke played by the media using footage of the Hollywood Blockbuster ‘Three Kings’ – FACT!

This message will self-destruct in 6 billion years!!!

(Prove me wrong)

What is it with ITV sports presenters and witches noses?!?

Jim Rosethal and Gaby Logan have both got the most hooked noses ever!! Rumour has it that Gaby was seen using her conk down on the Rhine to fish for Carp, the only food that Andy Townsend will eat.

Also word on the street is that Jim doesn't sleep in a bed like your conventional hobgoblin, instead he hooks his nose onto his ceiling fan, turns it on and swings around the room like some flailing ragdoll, often booting room service in the face after he has ordered breakfast in bed...much to the pleasure of Ally McCoist who sits giggling in the corner drinking Meths.

The consummate professional grace of Steve Ryder tho is never diminished. The other four carry him round shoulder high on a throne made of pure expertise, timing and love. As he is placed in his seat in the studio, he is given the script via a magic eye puzzle which he deciphers and memorises in seconds.

Ah Steve...the Brad Pitt of Sports presentation!

Let's not forget the Beeb tho!

For the purposes of maintaining the fine equilibrium betwixt good and evil we shall discount Gavin Peacock, peace be upon him.

The best thing about the Beebs coverage is the plethora of guest stars that they periodically wheel out. Shearer, O'neill, Leonardo, Desailly, Dixon, Wright, the list is immense.

My favourite of the lot is Marcel Desailly!

The BBC must have a checklist with one GLARING error on!

Is he a national of a country participating in the World Cup? Check!

Is he an ex-World Cup winner? Check!

Do people in England know him? Check!

Right then that's it settled, ok Marcel if you'd just like to sign there....excellent Marcel, shall we celebrate?....."Quoi??"

The man can't speak ENGLISH!!!

Dixon mumbles along like a man whose had his lips glued together, Wrighty generally overexaggerates whilst slaggin' off Sven and name droppin' "Shaun!" every ten seconds, Leonardo is only there to excite and arouse the middle aged female contingent and O'Neill is just unbelievable.....the man's always RIGHT!!!!!!

No matter the situation, no matter the danger, who ya gonna call?!?!

The Ghostbusters are incoherent heroin addicts, with not even Bill Murray able to make a workable joke!!

He-Man is the homo-erotic fantasy of a lesbian Midwife!

And the police are too busy chasing down cartoonists who use their evil pencils to depict the RIDICULOUS scene of a Muslim with a bomb!!!?(Gasp)

I'm diallin' for O'Neill!!

Any problem and he will solve it! Get him out to the Middle East, get him out to N. Korea!!!!

Blimey! That was fun!

!WARNING! - If you are of a sensitive disposition, have any kind of heart condition or hold dear any Religious beliefs WHATSOEVER please do not read the rest of this page as the purpose of this joke is to cause maximum offence. It has no set script and its sole objective is to break through all Political Correctness barriers. Nothing in the below text is a portrayal of my views or opinions.  You read on at your own risk and have no right to come back at me with ridiculous claims like 'racism'\'sexism'\cripplism'! Take it as the joke it is and stop busying yourself with mindless claims of repression....TWAT!

Ever heard of a joke called 'The Aristocrats'....you have now.

So, a family walks into a talent agency and are immediately seen by the scout. The father, mother, son and daughter all stand there ready to begin.

The music starts and the daughter pulls a puppy from between her legs and lays it on the table. The Father then wanders over to the table, jacks up and then fucks his daughter out of the way. He then commences experiments on the puppy to find out how different poisons affect its tiny body. The Mother then emerges with a sledge hammer and smashes the dogs legs causing maximum pain and suffering, it is then discarded still twitching to the bin. The Daughter, meanwhile, has dressed as Mohammed and starts to masturbate with a nail bomb whilst her brother has on a skull cap and is rubbing himself on the Star of David. By now, Mother has draped her naked body with the American flag and is busy rubbing oil all over herself, the son is watching and his rubbing intensifies. The US Mom and Jewish son then make beautiful love, each second becoming more and more coated in precious oil.

They spy the Islamic daughter, scream "Die!" and begin to gang rape and beat her stealin' all she has in the process.

The father, whom has been out of site, then wheels himself in aboard his electric wheelchair mimicking the facial gurning of Prof. Steven Hawking all the while. The other three members of his family then turn the wheelchair upside down and take the hammer to his legs screaming "Can you feel that yet!? Can you feel it you freak!!!!!!??"

The son grabs a copy of The Bible which has been inside his trousers and starts stuffing the pages into his fathers mouth before setting fire to the pages and forcing his father to felate him.

The whole family then rise as one, daisy chain their way (in size order) up to the desk before all together, defecating on the scouts keyboard and slamming his face into it sending sweaty red faeces everywhere. The family stand back and take a bow.

The scout, a little breathless, says "Wow...um... what do you call it?"

The father then looks him dead in the eye and replies "The Aristocrats"

The End.

There is a woman in my office here who works for **...called ********...who is... basically... a freak.

I don’t mean this in an overtly harsh way as it’s more of a statement of fact than an insulting tirade of abuse against a defenceless foe.

I like the phrase “I would never enter into a battle of wits with you as it is against my morals to attack an unarmed man.”

That, you can interpret as an insult...if a truthful one.

I digress...

To give you background, she’s a short, South African woman with an explicitly aggressive nature.

She is approx. 40 years old and has hair so grey that she has to dye it a better shade of grey. She cannot dye it any other colour because its undeniable greyness shines through. Another reason is that her hair is so unbelievably dry that the only colouring it would support would be creosote and that tends to smell.

Ladies Tips 1# - Ladies should not smell like a shed.

Years of UV related abuse at the hands of her home solarium have given her skin the same texture as sandpaper and rendered it so devoid of elasticity that should the unthinkable happen and she choose to smile it takes 38 minutes for her face to fall back into it’s natural shape.

She is also a horrendous racist and animal lover.

She once regaled us with a story of how her friends and her would drive around Johannesburg trying to hit things with her car. Ten points for mailboxes, 25 points for lawn furniture and 100 points for a “kaffa”.

Kaffa is white African slang for a black person.

To put the above into context, a few months ago Andy hit a deer with his car. It jumped out at him from the woods adjoining the road and leapt straight into the windscreen of the car at point blank range. The impact caused a massive amount of damage to the car and Andy was lucky to escape uninjured. Deers kill a surprising amount of people in RTA’s in the UK each year. They are notoriously reckless drivers.

When Andy had limped into work in his replacement car and had told us the tale of his brush with death, he was immediately leapt upon and labelled of all things...a murderer!

This was because he didn’t return to the deer and try to resuscitate it.

What did she expect him to do?! Run back down the road, check Bambies airways, breathing and circulation before putting him in the recovery position and holding his hoof while waiting for the air ambulance?!?!

“Hold on! Hold on just a bit longer! I’ve called and help will be along soon.....no, don’t try and talk conserve your energy! You’re gonna be ok!!”

All this coming from a woman who, if she is to be believed, actively searched out human beings to run down, chosen simply on the colour of their skin so as to set a new record in a demented and bigoted points system which she and her cohorts had developed!?

This is the kind of person who I have to sit with in an office everyday...cry for me.

Ok, so I think I’ve given you a pretty thorough background to the subject on which this story is focused.

I’ve done this at length and, I feel, rendered the account in question irrelevant but I’ll continue any case...

For the last few days she’s been hobbling around like a woman so afflicted by leprosy that even if Jesus was a goalkeeper he couldn’t save her.

Initially, at the start of the week, it started with a cough. That then progressed to claims of a severely sore throat and that was then followed by a degradation of the voice box so distinct that, on occasion, it sounded like a Louis Armstrong/Mariah Carey duet.

All this took place over the course of about 25 minutes.

The days following have been nothing short of hilarious.

Depending on who you are she chooses her level of illness accordingly. If you are in no way related to her field of work she sounds completely normal and will chat along as if she’s getting paid by the word.

If you are...well...things are somewhat different.

If Rod Stewart had asthma and was required to wear a Darth Vader mask he still wouldn’t hold a candle to Twiggs!

Seriously, I have heard people who require electronic vocal chord readers who sound better!

Either she has succumbed to a particularly aggressive but temporary form of throat cancer or she’s putting it on.

Then this morning she made the ridiculous claim that she “really should be in bed” but has come in anyway!

She’s playing the hero card! She’s acting like a ‘Nam’ veteran who, although terribly injured, has returned to the firing line to rescue a fallen comrade!

“I’m comin’ Bubba!!”

It’s not that I don’t like her.......oh no....wait.....that’s exactly what it is!!

Question: Is my Steve Irwin impression going to be considered inappropriate now that he is deceased?!

“He died doin’ what he loved best” said a friend this mornin’. I presume he was talking about f*ckin’ around wiv animals rather than getting stabbed thru the chest!

“Steve just loved stickin’ sharp things thru his chest, I suppose it was inevitable that he would hit his heart some day!”

Personally, I think it was an organised hit sorted out by the animal council. Much in the same way as Britain recently took over presidency of the European Union, the reptiles have in the last month seized control of the animal council.

The apes had expected another landslide victory in the animalections but suspicions arose as the marsupial vote switched suddenly to the Green right after the kidnapping of a koala by a boa constrictor. The fish vote has never been in doubt as 100% reptile, which has led to the rumours that are circulating today.
Stingrays have often been a favourite choice for any marine assassinations carried out by the reptiles. The last victim was Robert Maxwell who was killed when a stingray leapt aboard his yacht and after a brutal struggle plunged his poisonous tail into his fat neck before hopping overboard taking his kill with him.

It is believed that Maxwells body now stands in Neptune Square in the Bikini atoll, home of the marine parliament building as a warning to humans that the battle for the sea is not over yet. Many people protested when the French “tested” their nuclear weapons in the atoll. Of course we now know that were it not for this pre-emptive attack, the fish would have succeeded in their plan to smash all the main dams of the world, thus flooding all land leaving us at a severe disadvantage in the war of the world.

Steve Irwin was one of the main protagonists of this war, often going behind enemy lines to kidnap and question key players in the reptile hierarchy, quizzing them in his “zoo” (prison) and showing his dominance by constantly wrestling them for human amusement. The humiliation of former Reptile president – Lord Freshwater – was believed to have been the final straw. Both the Retiles and Fish governments have denied responsibility for the attack, but refuse to condemn those who planned and carried it out.

Legendary detectives Sharky and George have been handed the case. A statement from the pair said “We currently have a few witnesses to talk to, and of course we still have to carry out forensics on the wound. We are hopeful of capturing the assailant.”

The first officer on the scene was quoted as saying “There is definitely something a bit fishy about this.”

The case continues….

Is it a monster!?!

Is it a monster?!

No, it’s a group of armed Islamic militants so hell bent on the destruction of the West that they’d gladly give their own lives in order to massacre a few meaningless Infidels!

Oh right, well….just so long as it isn’t a monster.

I could go on for the next hour about how, in a way, it is a monster, but a monster that resides in the psyche of all Muslims who believe that they are in the midst of a cosmic battle which will only be complete when the entire world is one huge Islamic Super-state, but it’d be WELL borin’!

We don’t want people fallin’ asleep at their desks, hitting their head against the keyboard, inadvertently typing “I hate (insert your bosses name here)!” with their face and getting’ the sack now do we?

Boring well known fact – The Qu’ran says that you can not drink alcohol.

Exciting lesser known fact – The Qu’ran says that you can smoke green.

Confusing pseudo-fact – Every copy of the Qu’ran sold since 1973 contains 5 sheets of roach card to represent the 5 pillars of Islam and the word ‘Rizla’ actually derives from the Islamic ‘Al Riiz’ which means ‘to lung-fcuk’.

In fact, in the earlier days of Sharia law being stoned to death was actually one of the most honourable ways to die and involved no throwing of stones but instead the smoking of a bong so big that it doubled as a mosque.

I like Muslims though.

No, I do, honestly!! I know I rant like I’m standing for UKIP in the next elections but I’m not talking about moderate Muslims, only these mentalists that want to wage war on civilians in the most cowardly way possible. If Osama wants people blown up, why doesn’t he make the sacrifice that he encourages his followers to make? If he is the great warrior-prince bravely standing up to Western oppression, why is he cowering in a cave somewhere, only speaking to people via audio cassettes posted in secret to sympathetic TV channel, Al-Jazeera.

I’ll tell you why, cos he’s a liar, a coward and he’s only in it for himself. All he is the second most effective recruitment sergeant for Radicalised Islam. Who is the first you may ask…..well it’s kind of a tie between Bush, Blair and a hareem of others.

“Bush?!? Blair!?!? This is preposterous!!!” Cry buffoons everywhere!

The rest of this e-mail would be removed if I went on so I won’t. (Unlucky Echelon/MI5/MI6)

You know what I’m on about…..

I had better go….something’s just coming over the hill…

Love to all!

…it ain’t what you do, it’s the way that you do it,

it ain’t what you do, it’s the way that you do it,

That’s what gets results!!!

I beg to differ!

I reckon this song could be misconstrued, by loonies, as suggesting that you should become the angel of death and kill all your family and friends, but just so long as you do it in the right way!

History proves this song to be the mindless babbling of an elderly crackwhore. Just look at my one example from the entirety of history that proves it!!

Nelson Mandela.

What did he do? – Abolish Apartheid and free the black citizens of South Africa and the world.

How did he do it? – He commanded what would now be called a ‘terrorist cell’, carrying out bombings, beatings and murders to achieve his goal.

Which of the above truths is publicised the most? Which did you know about? Was he a hero or a villain?

Who cares!?!?! It’s the song we’re talkin’ about!!

Nelson proves that, in his case at least, it was what he did that mattered and not how he did it.

What follows below underneath is an extract from Nelson’s private diaries which I stole from him when he came round my house for crumpets at 11:25:53am on the 21st November 2004. He was a belligerent racist with sweaty hands and a huge birthmark in the shape of a vaglna then, but what was he like before…..

July 12th 1961:

I have come to realise that I am a belligerent racist with sweaty hands and a birthmark in the shape of a vaglna!

Ok, ok….so the first question has been answered but maybe if we read on we can find out even more….

(You have no choice in this)

July 13th 1961:

I met the most beautiful girl in the world today! She’s short, round and a little bit hairy.

She reminds me of Mum.

I was in the underground lair plotting more ways that I can create devastation for the white devil, when something caught my eye in the street periscope. It was her.

I ran up the down escalator, caught my breath and then chased her down the street. As I caught up I saw she was with a white man, so I pulled back. As I walked past her she smelt like honey.

I couldn’t help myself…I stole her purse.

When I got home I went through it and found out her name – Winnie.

July 14th 1961:

Last night after we last spoke, I put on the gloves that I found in Winnie’s purse. I touched myself for three hours. Afterwards the guys came over, it was so embarrassing! They walked in just as I had tucked my banana between my legs and started to make kissy faces in the mirror. They laughed until they shlt themselves and then they r@ped me. It was great.

This is borin’! Nelson didn’t ‘alf go on a bit in his younger days!

To cut a long story short it turned out that the girl was in fact Winnie the Pooh, the white man was Christopher Robin, there was a vicious love triangle. Nelson murdered Christopher Robin by bludgeoning him to death with a butt plug, the media had a field day, Piglet was devastated, yadda, yadda, yadda…

The moral of this story is:

Don’t play the race card! If you do, we’ll fuk your black arse up!

NOTE TO POLITICALLY CORRECT BOREDOM MONGERS:-

If you didn’t like the last sentence, I suggest you fcuk off and read an e-mail sent by Delia Smith or a member of the clergy! NEWSFLASH: IT’S A JOKE! If you stick around reading my e-mails you’ll probably read stuff about homosexuality, religion, invalids (the disabled), paedophilia, different races, I’ll probably cuss your Mum and your Nan in the most vile and derogatory of ways creating vivid images in your head that’ll most likely lead you to become insane with a rage so consuming that you’ll gladly fcuk the very midwife that delivered you! The Swine!!

In my book it categorically states that Frank Sinatra is not, as the media would have us believe, dead but is in fact commanding Hezbollah militants in South Lebanon, funding Hamas terrorist cells in the Gaza Strip and slippin' his length to anythin' in a Hijab!

Apparently, he first became a Muslim in 1974 when he met Mohammed Ali, Malcolm X and Michael Jackson in the bushes at a six year old girls birthday party. Reasons for their presence in the bushes are unclear, although rumour has it that Ali had planned to marry the child in an arranged ceremony later in the year. Unfortunately for Ali, the girl and her family rejected his advances and moved house to avoid him. The girl died three years later in an unrelated incident after being beaten to death with the Qu'ran and having the word 'Slag' written across her forehead with the tattered remains of her clitoris.

The fact that his Islamic brother had been rejected by a snivelling infidel enraged Sinatra and after a conversation with an Imam became a Thunder mentalist following storms and hurricanes all over the world spending million of dollars.

After 15 years of storm chasing Sinatra realised that he had misheard the Imam and soon became a fundamentalist.

From 1983 until 1997 he ran a terrorist training camp just south of Kandehar in Afghanistan, recruiting over 180 billion young muslims as Mujahadeen fighters. Training them in such vital skills as gun maintenance, bomb making and jive talk in classes he ran side by side with Sammy Davis Jnr, whom later quit in disgrace after being seen in photographs talking and laughing with a homosexual with not even the slightest attempt to cut his little gay face off.

It was at this camp that he met Mohammed Al-Zaqarwi, figurehead of Al-Qaeda

in Iraq. They became great friends and Sinatra became Hezbollah's weapons liaison officer to Iran. He used his great wealth to bargain with the Iranians swapping US owned Uranium for Katushya rockets and three magic beans. The fate of the beans is unknown although it is believed that they were time travel beans which allowed Sinatra to go back in time to force Hitler to commit atrocities against blacks and jews across Europe. This theory is backed up by extraordinary footage of Hitler humming 'Bad bad Leroy Brown' before taking the stage at the Nuremburg Rally in 1938, 20 years before the song was written.

There are also unsubstantiated rumours, so far voiced by no one, that when the Russians were performing their autopsy on Hitler's charred remains they found small traces of Sinatra's semen in his rectum. Apparently Josep Stalin confirmed this by sending an undercover spy to get DNA from the infant Sinatra. Ironically though, it was this spy who accidentally left his favourite jazz tape in the bedroom at the Sinatra home. This tape is thought by many to be the catalyst for Sinatra's love of music and his inspiration to be a singer in the first place.

After returning to the present day Sinatra travelled from Iran, through Syria to the Lebanon to command on the front line in his struggle against the West.

E-mail this to every person in the Universe. If we do, then we can find the current owner of the magic beans and send them back to remove the jazz tape thus preventing this whole sorry affair from starting in the first place.

Should the Sinatra family ever read this, I would ask that they refrain from suing or taking any other legal action because this is the result of various random electronic impulses created by nerve cells in my brain, my nerve cells have no money of their own, nor do they own any real estate or any stocks or shares. Therefore I believe that pursuing a case against these cells would not only be infantile but all in all a bit silly.

This passage is taken from ‘Stuff I done’ the auto-biography of Champion the wonder horse who sadly died on the 5th May 1882. He died suddenly and unexpectedly after a long illness, drug overdose and horrific car accident.

RIP.

(Upon reading this sentence you have agreed to contract cancer of the eye)

X

Hello fellow humans!

Today is the day after Filmfour became a free channel on Sky, Telewest and Freeview. Last night I watched 'Lost In Translation' starring Bill Murray and Scarlett Johannson.

I dunno whether any of you have seen it, but the storyline basically goes like this:

A man in Japan is bored.

A woman in Japan is bored.

They meet up, do nothing.

They become friends.

They do nothing.

They go home.

The End.

Paradoxically though, it is a fairly good film.

I'm sure the title of this piece shocked you a bit, but you have nothing to fear. The Mermen have not, as the subject suggests, risen from their salty pools to invade us lily-livered land lovers. The Mermen are ill-equipped to launch a ground invasion on dry land. They have neither the technology nor the fin dexterity to get themselves a deck chair let alone conquer the great cities of Metropolis, Gotham and Melton Mowbray.

The Cold War, however, goes on.

Year on year the great Krill farms in the Indian Ocean require more workers to keep them functioning, so the Mermen will continue to kidnap innocents as their slaves, forced to feed and massage the Krill until they are ready to be eaten.

CALLING ALL SEA CREATURES! CALLING ALL SEA CREATURES!!

Why eat Krill!?!?

The sea is littered with delicacies such as lobster, oyster, tuna, cod, and you lot eat Krill!

CALLING ALL KRILL!!!

You are doin' something wrong! You are at the bottom of the worlds biggest food chain! You have no defence mechanisms, no camouflage, whales eat you, shrimp eat you. Nothing doesn't eat you! This is not the way to stay healthy!

Newsflash! They eat you cos it is easy to eat you!!

If my staple diet was steak, but I had to hunt steak, catch it and cook it whilst all the while there were millions of burgers floating all around me wherever I went and all I had to do was open my mouth and walk in order to eat them, I'd go for the burgers every time!!

I suggest you gain some notoriety in the same manner as Islam has. Years ago Christians and Jews alike mocked their bearded Muslim colleagues. Lambasted as being boring, the Muslims sat at home pointing West, whilst everyone else was getting' drunk and shaving.

Nowadays, however, the world fears Islam. They command respect from all.

How did they achieve this aim.....massive overreactions of course!!

Someone does a cartoon of a Krill with a hat on? You smash them like a petrified onion! You parade outside parliament, threaten violence, launch Jihads, plant bombs, allsorts!

Someone writes a book about Krill being bad? You launch a worldwide search and then stone them to death in public!!

Now go! Fulfill your aquatic potential!

Anyway, that’s what makes me laugh about all these guys sayin' "Israel is embarking on a massively disproportionate overreaction to minor misdemeanours by Hezbollah!"

Er...hold on just one cotton pickin' minute!

So, someone draws a satirical cartoon with a picture of Mohammed meditating with a bomb on his head. This then leads to worldwide protests, violent riots, people being killed, and kids being dressed as suicide bombers!

Perfectly fine proportionate reaction. Great.

Israel is surrounded on all sides by organisations whose sole intention is to see that she is wiped off the face of the earth. These organisations then invade Israel and kidnap and kill soldiers and civilians. They then commence rocket bombardment of various northern Israeli cities.

Israel responds by attacking said organisations and the infrastructure that backs them up.

This is a disgusting breach of humanitarian law and a huge overreaction to boot!

Someone's got this all wrong.

That said, the Israeli's yesterday told everyone to get out of a village and then bombed the cars as they left. That's just being a wanker.

X