Never fear though - I have my false moustache and even falser American accent to see me safely through.
They'll never take me alive.
Over and out.
Earlier in the week Vladamir Putin called in the expertise of the British SAS to help deal with the emergency. Less well-known is the fact that American Special Tactics also sent over an envoy to put forward their own plans of attack. Deputy Editor's note. Ollie Reed, Keith Moon, now Harris ... sad, but the upside is that in each case our beloved Editor was the sole inheritor of their liquid assets. Lancashire will be the land of Scotch and honey. The streets of Fleetwood will forever run with single malt. Scrag Ends Castle will reverberate late into the night with renditions of Irish protest songs, the Red Flag, the seminal "500 Miles" and the plaintive a capella version of "Donald ou se trouve votre pantaloons?" (BYO broken noses)
The siege by Chechnyan rebels at one of Moscow's leading theatres ended this morning after Russian Special Forces stormed the building via underground sewers. This strategic attack caught the rebels off-guard and collateral damage was, under the circumstances, minimal. News update: This morning the number of casualties was quoted as 10. This evening the figure has risen to 90 hostages dead and 34 rebels dead. Who knows what the figure will be tomorrow although the phrase 'minimal collateral damage' doesn't seem so appropriate any more. Rumours abound that several of the American actors involved in the play's production were already dying on their feet before the curtain fell at the interval. No Britains have been harmed although the reputation of the BBC statistic-gatherers has taken a severe blow.)
The American strategy consisted of armed troops painting themselves green and khaki, whooping rabidly and then storming the building by the front door. At this point the SWAT team would set fire to the building, napalm the corridors, set off the rebel mines and shoot everything in sight be it rebel, hostage, woman, child, blind dog or fellow American soldier. Any of the American servicemen surviving this assault would then make their escape through the fire-exit, crying like a baby, only to be discovered six hours later in the arms of a Taiwanese prostitute on Moscow's east bank.
President Putin decided not to adopt these tactics much to the chagrin of the American ambassador who stormed out of the Kremlin shouting, "I've secured the film rights you pinko bastard! So don't try and stop me!"
Plans are now afoot for a Hollywood movie. The rebels will be replaced by a gang of brain-dead Iraqi's lead by the evil Anthony Hopkins (or some other ageing British actor) and the Russian Special Forces will be changed to an American Assault battalion. The role of Putin himself will be played by Lawrence Fishbourne.
Currently 256 dedicated scriptwriters are trying to alter the screenplay of the original Die Hard film from being set in an office block to a Russian Theatre. Bruce Willis has been hotly tipped for the lead role but will probably be replaced as he's getting a bit too old to be convincing.
Other News: And veteran thespian Richard Harris has finally shuffled off this mortal coil. According to news reports Harris was "one of the last of the Great British character actors." Which is odd because I was always under the impression that he was Irish. Not that I'd expect the BBC to realise that Ireland has nothing to do with Great Britain of course. But that's the news teams for you. Dumbing down? No...they're too ignorant for that.
Earlier in the week Vladamir Putin called in the expertise of the British SAS to help deal with the emergency. Less well-known is the fact that American Special Tactics also sent over an envoy to put forward their own plans of attack.
Deputy Editor's note. Ollie Reed, Keith Moon, now Harris ... sad, but the upside is that in each case our beloved Editor was the sole inheritor of their liquid assets. Lancashire will be the land of Scotch and honey. The streets of Fleetwood will forever run with single malt. Scrag Ends Castle will reverberate late into the night with renditions of Irish protest songs, the Red Flag, the seminal "500 Miles" and the plaintive a capella version of "Donald ou se trouve votre pantaloons?" (BYO broken noses)
The Proletarian Bolshevik Players Production of "Grease": Reviewed by the internationally renowned theatre critic Vladamir Soljenitzkin.
Having booked tickets for front row seats at the Moscow Old Vic several weeks in advance, as you might expect I was anticipating this extravaganza of Bourgeois Western Culture to be exceptional. But, oh...what a disappointment! Irma Brovadsky, the leading lady, was quite risible in her role as Sandy. Her voice constantly warbled, hardly able to maintain its pitch throughout her performance. And the three pounds of gelegnite strapped to her shoulders gave her the appearance of being hunch backed.
Unfortunately the orchestra fared little better. Despite valiant attempts to ignore the irritating sounds of gunfire from the audience the score was further marred when the kettle drum player had his head smashed repeatedly into his symbols by a rebel fighter.
Frederick Polimakov, in the role of Danny, was even worse, his acting abilities completely unconvincing except for the constant stream of tears down his cheeks. When I saw this production performed in London's West End back in the nineteen eighties I don't recall Shane Richie running about the stage with his hair on fire accompanied by several women in yashmaks beating goats.
By the interval, however, I was applauding...if only because now I could make my escape from this dreadful farce. But no, dear reader! For some bizarre reason the management had decided to hold a lock-in. We were forced at rifle-point back to our seats and made to suffer the second half of this fiasco whether we wanted to or not. And believe me, 'Not' was just about everybody's preference.
Several of the numbers were performed without violins, the instruments having been inserted up the arses of an ensemble of old women during the first half.
Maria Pushkin's rendition of "Beauty School Drop-out" was so appalling that audience members started to heckle her with cries of 'Die infidel! Die!" Then they shot her through the head. Frankly it was a merciful act and the highlight of an otherwise unentertaining evening.
All in all, a very poor effort for what was supposed to be a lavish production. My recommendation for serious theatre goers, save your money and wait for 'Button Moon' to arrive at the St Petersburg Apollo next week.
Firstly...fuck off and get a life. (This does not apply to our regular readership, of couse, who as we all know are intelligent, well-rounded individuals and don't have to behave in a manner designated by the arseholes at the BBC.)
Secondly...search engines only update once every few days. Typing in the words "Who raped Ulrika Johnson?" will only pick up web pages that were posted earlier than last weekend. Seeing as the scandal broke yesterday, whereever John Leslie’s name was hidden it wasn’t likely to be listed at Google.
As our regular viewers know the Internationally Renowned Team of Bloggers at The Rant of the Week couldn’t give a shit anyway. After all, Ulrika Johnson was only a secretary promoted to t.v. weather girl because she giggled a lot. She's not even a trained meteorologist. She has no literary ability. She can't sing, draw or paint. And it's Vic and Bob who are funny. Ulrika's just there as a stool pigeon for their comic buffoonery. This whole fiasco was just a P.R. exercise designed to improve sales of her crappy book. If Ulrika had done her research then she’d have known that John Leslie’s penchant is for lesbians anyhow. And who can blame him?
The annoying thing is I've spent my life as a struggling artist/writer only to be ignored by the British public whilst some talentless, twatty, old sow gets all this attention. Trust me...she isn't worth it. Her hair is died, she doesn't eat Ryvitas and, from what I've been told, she's got a really scraggy box.
Buy a copy of The Greyminster Chronicles or a pair of Scrag End Boxer Shorts instead. Admittedly they haven't been raped, molested, appeared topless in the Sun or had Max Clifford behind them, but they're a damned site more entertaining than a titless Norwegian bint with a flatter personality than a McDonald's cheeseburger.
Other news: Estelle Morris in Shock Resignation Claim!
Despite admitting that the job was more difficult than she'd suspected, in reality the former education secretary resigned her commission yesterday because David Blunkett, Jack Straw, Tony Blair and Ann Widdicombe raped her bottom repeatedly in the stock-cupboard.
"Following damaging anal sex," reported eyewitness Frederick Engels of Lancaster Mental Institute. "Ms Morris was then forced to French kiss a tortoise named Simon."
Hey! I sold three Terry Sedgwick mugs last night. That's more than I've sold in the last fifteen years. You can't blame me for trying!
p.s. This posting, in conformity with BT's new "only four hours a night" policy, was written off-line...so many apologies for any repetition of the posting below. Terry: John Leslie was once the presenter of Blue Peter and took over from Richard and Judy on "This Morning" when they left. He was noticibly absent today...
I would just like to say "Thank you" to the various British news programmes who mentioned that, whilst they couldn't reveal his identity, Ulrika Johnson's rapist has been named on the internet. Might I just add to all the Ulrika fans visiting this site for the first time that you can find the real name of her rapist by clicking here and please make sure that you have your cheque books ready.
Our server is currently going into meltdown due to the unprecendented amount of traffic to this backwater region.
Might I just add to all the Ulrika fans visiting this site for the first time that you can find the real name of her rapist by clicking here and please make sure that you have your cheque books ready.
Click on the image above to find out more about Ulrika's sordid past!
Deputy Editor's note. Until I read this book I had no idea that some of the antics engaged in by Ms. Johnson and Stinky Hardbottle were physically possible. I suspect they aren't and are merely the product of the deranged, perverted and foetid imagination of a hopefully never to be discovered writer.
“This behaviour is irresponsible!” complained John I-can-swallow-an-entire-rugby-team-in-one-go Prescott when questioned about the situation. “A fire-fighters’ (sic) strike would put people’s lives at risk.” (Not to mention their political careers.)
Tony spin Blair, however, is adamant that the Firemen will not be getting a pay increase despite the danger and self-sacrifice they put themselves through every day of their lives. When asked, “Why not?” he replied, “Giving them a pay rise could severely affect the country’s economy. We’d have to find the extra money from somewhere, so other people would ultimately lose out.”
Here are a few helpful tips for Uncle Tony as to where he might find that extra money without harming those in need:
1) Try taxing the rich and inbred for once instead of always giving them benefits and handouts. Remember your predecessors, Tony? Socialists? Any idea what that actually meant? Do you remember why the Labour movement was started in the first place? Or are we all so far right-wing now that there’s no going back?
2) Try not giving yourself and all your politician friends a massive pay-rise every year. I notice that nobody ever stops that particular increase from being passed.
3) Try sacking some of these useless fat bastards running the public utilities. They cream off thousands a week whilst wrecking our social infrastructure. Replace them with hamsters who will work for a only a handful of grain and do a better job.
4) Get rid of the Royal Family. They are out-of-date, anachronistic and extremely expensive. On top of the massive costs of the civil list they don’t even pay tax. Give them council houses to live in and restart interviews and open up their massive stately homes to the general public for a small entrance fee.
5) Stop wasting money on nuclear weapons. If we’re not going to use them, as you so insistently claim we’re not, then we don’t bloody need them.
6) Stop pouring money into the EU. Especially into the dinner soirées attended by self-centred and useless politicians. If we must be part of this farcical set-up at least let’s have some of the benefits that the EU is offering such as ‘no monarchy’, ‘minimum wages’ etc. In for a penny...in for a pound, eh? You can’t go round half-cocked all the time. That’s David Mellor’s job.
7) Don’t pay any more money into the UN. If Britain and America can’t be arsed abiding by UN rulings then there’s no point in it being there. Sod the damned thing off and give the money to the firemen instead.
8) Kill Pete Waterman. Not because he’s particularly rich but because the bastard just deserves to die.
Editor's note: In the Valley of the Blind, the one-eyed man is king.
Like all Hewlett Packard printers this entertaining little number performs fine for about 20 pages or so, more than enough for the average novelist. However, when the ink cartridges run out, which shouldn't happen for at least three quarters of an hour, the Hewlett Packard monopoly comes into its own. Fortunately Hewlett Packard aren't selfish, greedy or insulting to their customers. The Hewlett Packard replacement ink cartridge (black ink only) is a snip at only £25.00 for almost a whole thimbleful of ink.
When you compare the combined prices of the black and colour Hewlett Packard ink cartridges (£55.00 in total) to the fact that you can pick up a whole brand new Cannon printer complete with larger-sized cartridges for only £47.00, then you might start asking yourself, "What's the point in buying a Hewlett Packard at all? They're expensive, produce speckled print-outs and are basically shit." And you'd be right to ask this question, if it wasn't for the fact that you can have so much more fun with a Hewlett Packard.
For example, cheap alternatives to the £25 and £35 cartridges (respectively) are almost impossible to find, but once every blue moon you might stumble across a mysterious back-street computer shop that actually stocks one. This is where the real enjoyment begins.
Once the refill package is opened it quickly becomes clear that the instruction booklet and accompanying diagrams bear no resemblance to the actual ink cartridge you've removed from your machine despite the insistence on the packet that the kit is designed specifically for the Hewlett Packard 610C. But nil desperandum...Hewlett Packard kindly include in their kit a small piece of metal with which you can bore the missing hole into the top of your cartridge. This takes about fifteen hours and eventually snaps, the blob of melted rubber laughingly referred to in the kit's contents as 'The Plug' being completely the wrong size to be of any use.
Imagine your delight when, having followed the instructions to the letter and left your cartridge -- now replete with fresh ink -- to stand overnight (a difficult procedure due to the unique design of the cartridge that doesn't allow it to remain upright in any position unless surrounded by a complicated arrangement of books and cutlery) you wake up in the morning to find said cartridge empty and your sink/pots/books/cutlery etc stained beyond repair. Much more fun than just buying a cheap £4 cartridge for the Cannon and placing it in your printer I'm sure you'll agree.
Editor's note: That's odd. I had a hairy chest and a spare tyre this morning.
Deputy Editor's note: How odd, I just had the usual coffee, bowl of muesli and cigarette to start the day.
News just in: Ulrika Johnson claims to have been raped by an unnamed showbiz personality. MORE
In their hunt to catch the perpetrator the police are questioning Stevie Wonder and Peters (out of Peters and Lee).
Said Chief Inspector Corner of the Yard, "These two are the most likely candidates although we'll also be questioning Kermit the Frog and Pinky and Perky. As yet we haven't ruled out the bloke from the Krankies as, quite obviously, he'll shag anything."
Last week Channel 4 gave us the incredibly over-rated Clockwork Orange.
This week's offering was The Blair Witch Project...quite possibly the most overhyped, under-achieving, unfrightening load of fucking bullshit like dude man, like, it was just repetetive fucking shit fucking like man, like...and it was like fucking annoying repetetive bullshit too man 'cos like it just went on and on repeating itself dude all the fucking time man and it was crap and fucking bullshit and fucking repetetive dude and complete fucking like fucking waste of repetetive fucking video fucking tape man dude like dude man fuck AAAAAAAAAAAAAARHGH! Channel 4! You should be so sorry! Long gone are the seasons of truly great films! The Jean de Florets, the Betty Blues, the Man Bites Dogs! Instead we're reduced to this banal bollocks! Sod the ratings dudes and give us back some proper culture you fucking dude man bullshit dude bastards. You'll be showing us fucking dude football next man!
In fact, The Blair Witch Project was so crap that, after an hour when it became apparent that the irritating little tossers weren't going to die horribly for ages yet, I actually turned over and watched "The 100 Greatest Britons" on the BBC. Oh please! Don't get me started! More like twenty reasonable Britons and the Eighty Greatest Tosspots to emerge from this god-forsaken country. Princess Diana? Princess fucking Diana like dude man fuck man dude tit. And to witness Johnny Fuck-The-Establishment Rotten proclaiming that Diana was great because she challenged the monarchy...well that's enough for me. This afternoon I'm throwing the television out of the window at the next little twat who calls collecting pennies for the guy so help me God I will!
Ahh...Sunday! God's day of rest.
Bone idle, lazy little bastard.
If he thinks he's going to spend all day with his feet up watching the cricket he's got another think coming! Look at the state of this place! Germ warfare everywhere. Untidy politics. Maggots running the world. Unwashed pots. Earthquakes, famine, floods and poverty. You can get off your fat omnipresent arse my lad and start sorting this lot out! Partying away all night with your fundamentalist friends. Look at the mess you've made! There'll be no more angels for you, Sonny Jim. Not until you actually do something good for a change. And there's no point in looking at me like that. Lazy little shit! As you're so fond of telling us, there's no rest for the wicked! So chop, chop you self-centred little deity. And don't forget to wash behind your big fat ears!
Whilst I'm here, hello Araminta and welcome to the arse-end of the web. You didn't pass the corpse of a Welshman on your way here, did you? He bears a passing resemblance to George Michael only a bit more gay...
My name is Araminta and I've been brought in here by the chaps at Rant Of The Week to inject a little feminine charm and London sophistication to this assorted collection of beardly malcontents.
So let's get started right away with the first of Minty's Informative Niblets.
Five Helpful Suggestions To Bring The Creativity Back Into Your Swearing.
1. Pappersnax Bignose
For those days at the office when a simple, loudly-applied CUNT just wont do, I offer this boss-friendly alternative. For example: "I have just spent twenty minutes of my lunch hour on the phone to the most obnoxious pappersnaxing bignose ever to call this company". If overheard by said boss, you can always claim that the pappersnax is a particularly troublesome Excel macro that you are wrestling with, since bosses never ever know anything about computers seeing as they never do any work (though this may not work so well if you belong to a firm of IT consultants).
A word of many uses, but consider the one that saves wear and tear on the oral cavity when attempting to describe someone you've taken an instant dislike to. For example: "What did you think of my new boyfriend? isn't he simply dreamy?" "Cock".
An imaginative and original replacement for any insulting word used to reference the second person at the end of an
insult, for example: "You unbelievable arse-fusking buggernaught".
One who smunctates another avially. Sample useage very similar to above. (c.f. Fry & Laurie)
Not yet a swear word (though obscene in polite company), this will only fully realise it's potential after this inevitable
war with it's inevitable outcome, when sample usage will run thus: "Oh I can't believe you've messed it up so comprehensively, you made a right Dubya of that".