Monday, November 18, 2002

As loathsome as what I am to admit it, I'm declined to agree with Mrs Fatarse. My great grandson and his young upstart friends 'oo write f'r this web-site just don't understand the problem with Wogs. 'Ee keeps tellin' me I'm being racialist an' ignorant. But 'ee doesn't know 'ow bad it's got round these parts since the war. Three weeks ago one of them darkie nig-nog types was walking about at night an' I couldn't see 'im. I was telling Mrs Prattley from number forty-three..."I was walking out of the Spa," I says. "An' the first thing I know was this 'uge set of teeth and 'orrible eyes bearin' down on me."

I nearly 'ad an 'eart attack, I did! 'Ee was goin' t' rape and pillage me I'm absolutely certain and I said as much t' Sergeant Wellington down at the police station when 'ee was makin' out the report. "'Ee was goin' t' ravish me, Sergeant," I says. "I could tell by look toying with his ugly gollywog face!" "That still don't give you the right t' belt 'im with your bolly," says Sergeant Wellington, writing everythin' down in 'is big blue book. "The poor bugger's in 'ospital 'aving his scrotum surgically stitched." "Good," says I, hoistin' me bosoms all witty like. "At least while 'ee's in there 'ee won't be doin' us decent, god-fearin' folk no more bloody 'arm, 'scuse my Italian. I only 'opes 'ee isn't gettin' 'is treatment on the NHS!"

That shut the sergeant up good and proper. Well...'ee couldn't argue against that now could 'ee? 'Ee's a nice enough man. Bit fat and bald but 'is shoes are clean. But I'm an 'undred and five so I knows more about the world than 'ee does. The ignorant shit.