Saturday, November 09, 2002

Australian journalist RUSSELL GOULD honoured.

"We at the "Sunday Herald Sun" are proud that one of our finest cutting edge investigative reporters has been nominated for this year's Pulitzer prize. Only 3 months ago Russell was the humble tea lady at the Sunday Herald Sun. Fortunately Fuhrer Rupert is a man who knows talent when it spills a piping hot cup of Earl Grey into his lap. I still recall the fateful words from Sir Murdoch that would catapult Russell into his current position. "Gould, you are a totally incompetent fuckwit, you're not a tea lady's bootlace ... get the Newsroom with the other dickheaded hacks!"

Since then Russell hasn't looked back. Some of our readers may recall some of Russell's fine stories. His touching story about "Matey" the one legged canary who was adopted by a flock of wingless blind seagulls. "Brandy" the deaf sheepdog who as a result of donations from our kind readers was able to be flown to Cedar Sinai Medical Center for a cochlear implant. "Neville" the swimming-challenged guppy who after spending a week at the Australian Institute of Sport was accepted into the Olympic synchronised swimming squad.

We are confident that Russell will bring home the bacon and show to the World that the legacy of Mercury is in safe hands. Good luck Russell, it's all now in the lap of the Gods. (Which reminds me that despite this exalted honour, Russell is still a team player, albeit the one member of the team who is not allowed anywhere near the tea urn.)"

Russell's nominated story.

Jeremy Farcus. Editor Sunday Herald Sun.

UN gives Iraq seven-day ultimatum

"The UN Security Council gave Iraq a seven-day ultimatum to agree to a powerful enhanced weapons inspection regime, warning it of "serious consequences" if it failed to disarm.

Oil prices edged higher and European stock markets fell after US President George W Bush said Iraq faced a final test and would be disarmed by force if it failed."

Etc, etc more here.

"US Defence Secretary Donald Rumsfeld said the compromise resolution had "unpoisoned" US relations with Germany, putting aside a bitter dispute with Berlin over possible US military action against Iraq.

Rumsfeld made up with German Defence Minister Peter Struck, whom he had snubbed at a NATO meeting in Poland in September, at what was described as a pleasant session at the Pentagon."

Donald Rumpy Pumpy, post coital cigarette in hand, described the session as the most enjoyable night on the tiles he'd had for months.

"I've had World leaders climbing into bed with me all this year. Tony Blair and John Howard have been my most constant, eager and willing partners, unfortunately they are both a tad passive for this red blooded A'merkin. They both just lie back and think of Engalund. Where's the fun in that?! I like my whores to be a bit frisky. There is nothing quite like the excitement of full on frightening the horses style rooting after kissing and making up.

Struckypoos and I are now one in our mutual desire to blow up Saddam. It's just that we want to see his weapon first."

I have always believed in democracy. I just don't think I'll ever see it happen in my lifetime.

There are many problems with free elections however...'proportional representation' vs 'the first past the post system' for example. When Uncle Tony was removing the Tory life peers from the House of Lords (a long overdue clear out it has to be said and one of the few points where I agree with Uncle Tony) he wasn't sure what to replace them with. I wrote to the P.M. explaining that a 'first past the post system' of election for the Commons would ensure that the different areas of Britain were catered for politically and the implementation of a 'proportionally elected' House of Lords would create equality on a countrywide basis. Unfortunately Uncle Tony used my letter for toilet paper and just left a New Labour quango in charge of the Lords that wouldn't challenge his authority. Which brings me back to my original point that democracy is fundamentally crap due to the numerous ways it can be perverted.

One of the main problems, of course, is the fact that everybody gets a chance to vote. This includes thick people...which is, frankly, annoying. And corrupt people. And intolerant people. And ignorant people.

And people who have no concept of politics in the first place...that's probably the biggest problem of all. I'm not happy having my future and/or the future of this country decided for me by a bunch of thick shit-heads who either get their political opinions from Rupert Murdoch or wouldn't know the difference between socialism and nazism.

In this technologically advanced day and age a new system should be put in place surely? A touch-screen computer system perhaps that limits the people voting to those who actually have some idea what they're voting for. For example, before being allowed to cast their votes, the public could be set a questionnaire.

1) Is the Tory Party's policy for education a) to sell off all the school teachers to the sex industry b) force students to sell their own internal organs to cover their fees c) stuff education, the chimneys of the aristocracy need sweeping so we need our factory fodder...or d) all of the above.

If a potential voter failed to make the grade their vote would be discounted as being invalid. That'd put a stop to all of this, "My dad voted Labour and his dad voted Labour before him, therefore I'm voting Labour now" and "Well, he's got a sexy sort of face so I'll vote for him".

This same electronic device could be used for a great many other applications in everyday life.

"You are about to attempt sex. Here is a diagram of the female genitalia. Please touch the screen at the point where you think the clitoris is situated." Prrrrp! Wrong! You obviously have no concept of how to fulfil your partner. You have been denied access to her knickers."

"You are about to become a media star. Have you a) been raped by John Leslie b) presented the weather forecast despite having no meteorological knowledge c) slept with numerous B list celebrities in order to further your ambition? You have pressed all three of the buttons. This means you're unfit for public attention and the position will be given to somebody who actually has some talent. You will be terminated in fifteen seconds you talentless old slapper."

In fact... recently I just look for a job. Hmm...

Recently rediscovered Ancient Scrag End...unearthed from an ancient burial archive in darkest Virgin Net:

Circa 1998

Friday, November 08, 2002

A 22 year old man from Zimbabwe man died instantly after a 50-year-old woman he attempted to rape overpowered him when she tugged at his genitals.

I can't believe this would really work?

I can't stand Kilroy Silk. Every morning this opinionated, ill-mannered ex-politician swaggers through his audience of Cockney council-estaters setting one extremist against another and then acting shocked when it all gets out of hand. This isn't political or sociological debate. They never have anyone with a moderate point of view on the programme. It's just cheap, nasty television and a disgusting waste of the licence fee...not unlike hiring Rutger Hower...or however that's constantly advertise the BBC's piss-poor programmes. Perhaps if the BBC spent as much money and effort on the production values in their prime-time slots rather than on the fifteen minutes of self-congratulatory adverts they slide in at every available opportunity then we might get somewhere.

Apparently, on the anniversary of September the Eleventh, every television station in Britain sent three people over to cover the memorial service in New York. The crews consisted of a soundman, a cameraman and a presenter. Fair enough...I suppose...if they considered it to be that important.
Except...the BBC sent 73 people over to New York for the occasion. How the hell can they justify this to the licence payer...especially seeing as their coverage was worse than any of the other channels, as per bloody usual?

Unfortunately, on a regular basis, morning telly on ITV is even worse. When it comes to insulting, dumbed-down television then Trisha has to take the biscuit. This programme is really, really moronic and shit. It seems to consist of...yet again...Cockney council estaters. Only this time they're not trying to discuss social issues in their limited, extremist, Murdoch inspired way. They're sitting on a stage (Ricky Lake style) talking about how their boyfriends/girlfriends have slept with other women. And this is entertainment/informative television how? This is just shit! Unintelligent shit presented by an unintelligent woman, starring unintelligent people who shag other unintelligent people and it's all made by cynical, greedy producers who haven't been given the budget to afford Ulrika Johnson.

And then there are the various 'Breakfast' programmes that beg the question, "What's happened to proper news?" What's happened to an intelligent alternative from those gibbering wankers on Channel 4's RISE programme...risible perhaps...four trendy twats who think they're so clever and witty when they're actually a bunch of total, unknowledgable tossers? Breakfast telly these days consists of two tarted-up Tory voters sitting on a sofa talking bollocks. "Do you think it's right that Paul Burrell should discuss the Spencers openly in this manner?" "No...I think that the Spencers should be allowed their privacy." "And what about the Queen? Do you think she's fared well out of this?" "Well the Queen is a mother figure to the country and has shown a remarkable display of restraint and decency under difficult circumstances."

Bullshit! Why doesn't anyone ever say, "Actually they're all a load of parasitical, stuck-up bastards and they're bleeding the rest of us dry!" That's the sort of thing they ought to be discussing in the morning, not some twat from the East End who shagged his wife's sister between football matches. Bollocks to frilly-underwear and Fern Britton and Phillip Scholfield. Bollocks to Winona Ryder and her kleptomania. Bollocks to whether such-and-such a politician is gay or whether Posh Spice is making a welcome comeback. Ignorant fuckers! Let's talk about what really happened on September the Eleventh and why two of the planes came down under highly suspicious circumstances. Let's talk about the amount of money politicians get paid...or rather pay themselves. Let's talk about the oil pipeline in Afghanistan and the back-handers being offered to topple Saddam. Let's talk about the corruption in the BBC...the monopoly of British utilities by the aristocracy. Let's talk about the church buying weapons and tanks on the premise that 'Violence is okay if it's our own soldiers committing it'! Let's talk about repression of people, repression of information, repression of political ideas, repression of talent, of races. Fuck the thick bastards from the back streets whose only obsession in life is sleeping with ugly cows. Fuck the gormless antics of personality-less Hollywood stars! Fuck the sexual preferences of the Royal Family.

But most of all, fuck the licence fee and fuck the manipulating, 'oh-we're-so-left-wing-self-proclaiming', loathsome, lying lords at the head of the fucking BBC.

Peter Flötner: Anthropomorphic alphabet, Germany ± 1540

O.K. I know ... but it's Friday, a slow news day and I'm still in mourning for the loss of the time honoured Melbourne Cup to the Irish, yet again.

Thursday, November 07, 2002

Following his election success, Jeb Bush discovers that his head is even more swollen than usual. In an attempt to reduce it to a more normal size he undergoes emergency draining at the local clinic:

Nurse: Nothing to be afraid of Mr Bush...just a little prick.

Jeb: Hey...who told you?

"I'll have what he's having."

Rare footage of a young Paul Burrell trying to attract the teacher's attention during Mrs Spencer's Arts and Crafts class.

I'd like to jump in and offer a moment of Coffee Spill nonsense....

Due to the complete absence of news today (I'm sorry but I don't consider Winona Ryder's (sp?) court case to be worthy of interest)...or rather, due to the complete absence of real news being reported by the media...(okay...that's not strictly true either...some banker who spent three months down a hole has escaped or something and Paul Burrell has been ranting about the Spencers and there are rail strikes etc...but I've got a cold and I can't be arsed posting anything substantial) there now follows a repeat classic Rant of the Week from 2001:

I've been far too cynical for far too long. Even Uncle Tony has been complaining about the cynics in Blighty and how much damage we're doing.

So from now it's "God Bless Britain the Greatest Country in the World!"

God bless the Queen and her unearned millions. God bless our glorious crime-riddled council estates, our risible unemployment rate, our xenophobic foreign policy and our underfunded NHS. God bless our aristocrats and the great job they're doing at widening the cultural, financial and educational gap. God bless our corporate heads and their insider knowledge and power-crazed missions. God bless our homeless, our starving artists and our ignored writers, our wonderful class divisions and the Watford gap.

God bless this stinking hole with its plutonium recycling plants, its massive cancer rates, its bulging prisons and its unclean streets. God bless the high-rise, so-called temporary housing blocks, the drugs cartels, the killing of Afghan peasants and the sumptuously fat neck of Gordon Brown. God bless John Prescott who can swing a mean punch and complain about people who use their cars too often whilst driving a big fat Jaguar himself.

God bless Jack Straw for keeping cannabis out of the hands of those in pain. God bless the Church of England for its weapons trade, for its hypocrisy and its men in frocks. God bless the drunks who piss up my wall, Thatcherism and self-indulgence at the expense of those less fortunate.

God bless the building regulations that consider antiquity more important than the needs of the disabled. And God bless those same regulations that consider new homes for planning committee executives to be more important than the aforementioned antiquity.

God bless Jonathon King for having a stroke...or two. And God bless those masons who can have as many strokes as they like without fear of reprisals. God bless our inherent racism, our crowded motorways, our dwindling pensions and our overworked teachers.

God bless this septic Isle, from the tip of the Queen's nose to the arse of the lowliest homeless wino. It makes me proud to be a part of it all! I AM BRITISH! GOD BLESS US ONE AND ALL!


(Union Jacks now on sale in the foyer. £5.99 each. Support Patriotism and don't forget the St George matching underpants and thong set. All proceeds go directly to the Royal Family.)

...which just goes to show how little things change...including the standard of my jokes.

Telling it as it is...

And once the fact that he wasn't being ironic dawned on me, I suddenly understood everything...

Wednesday, November 06, 2002

Another gem from the King of Australian ranters.


Australia is one of the ten driest continents on one of the most arid planets in the entire solar system and water is naturally a constant concern for those of us trying to make a living from the land.

Australia is an urban society, with most people clinging to the coastline, partly to escape dust storm debris coating the gardenias, and the stench of bush fires and rotting carcases, but mainly to be ready to fire pot shots at boat people. City folk simply don’t understand how tough it is in the bush.

I’ve been farming the Great Sandy Desert for the past 30 years. I am a rice grower, and I am bloody good at it, but for reasons completely outside my control, I am yet to turn a profit.

The problem is lack of rain. To get the paddy fields viable I need at least 50 mm a day. I’ve been averaging just 2mm a year and it’s not nearly enough. My reaping and threshing operations are world’s best practice but I have been unable to plant any seeds up to this point.

Your typical Asian loves rice and I could shift it by the truckload if this cursed drought would only give me a chance.

Luckily whenever you shout cry “Drought’ in a public place politicians and media personalities rush you with buckets of money. I have made millions buying cheap property in the desert and not growing rice on it. I am very proud that I own the largest rice field in the world and, thanks to Channel Nine and Alan Jones, one of the most profitable.

So I’m diversifying. Look out for Slamming Sam free-range quail, which I plan not to produce in a Collins Street office block.

You know it makes sense.

I’m Sam Kekovich.

Following a speculated coup on the Tory leadership by hearth-throb Michael Portillo and sexy Ken Clarke, Iain Duncan Smith yesterday retaliated by addressing his party at a specially arranged press conferance. In a statement designed to sound fierce and not at all apathetic he said:

"Unite or die!"

Oh..oh...I know the answer to this one...

There's nothing worse than going out on the pull only to wake up the following morning in bed with some bird whose chin is covered with stubble and who's pitching a tent. Or so I've been told. In this day and age transvestites are common and, sometimes, hard to spot after fifteen pints of Boddingtons and a tray of chips and curry. So here are a few tips to help you tell the difference between "Real Women" and "Men pretending to be Women." Pay close attention if you want to avoid waking up with a very sore arse:

1) Real women don't find the Three Stooges funny. They also can't stand Laurel and Hardy. If your partner/pull-for-the-night laughs at Curly slapping Mo's head about with a frying pan then you know you're in big trouble.

2) Real women don't eat bread with their meals. Any tarted-up slapper mopping the curry from her plate with a slice of Warburtons is probably a tranny.

3) Real women complain about the toilet seat being left up. Exactly why this is the case when men never complain about it being left down is beyond me, but if your date leaves the Little Boy's Room with the seat still standing to attention then start to panic.

4) Real women like to talk bollocks after sex. This, quite frankly, is a pain seeing as men release endorphins after ejaculation that make them drowsy. Real women are very inconsiderate that way. With pretend women, on the other hand, the post-coital wind-down is very different. For a start you might notice that they have a penis.

5) Real women stop being girly after the first two dates. Transvestites get more and more girly as they go on unless confronted by somebody who doesn't tell them how attractive they are at which point they start a fight. Real women also don't have three-foot high hair dos that are detachable when pulled roughly.

6) Real women don't have tattoos that say 'Mom' or 'Left' and 'Right' on their knuckles. Unless they live in Fleetwood.

7) Real women never suggest tea bagging on a first date.

Uncle Brian...keeping the bedrooms of Britain safe from deceit!


The tentacles of Bush the Slimy now grip the Presidential mandate in a tighter stranglehold then before following the shock results of yesterday’s mid term elections. The American people had their chance to curb Dubya’s powers and failed. Which just goes to show that:
You can fool some of the people all of the time.
You can fool all of the people some of the time.
But you can’t fool all of the people all of the time unless they’re a bunch of stoopid yanks!

On your own heads be it you barmy bastards. What happens next is YOUR fault.


Pity the poor Spencers in the wake of the Burrell debacle. McCrocodile is in tears, Lady Jane keeps a low profile and is saying nowt and the Earl is very, very angry that Paul Burrel retaliated for being thrown into penury and hung out to dry.
Maybe I’m being a little bit naïve here but wouldn’t the outcome have been a tad different if the Spencers had simply asked Burrell if he had the “Crown Jewels” in his keeping before sending around the goons from Scotland Yard’s Celebrity Squad?
A marvellous demonstration of the old proverb “One reaps what one sows” me thinks!
Serves you right you supercilious, over-privileged tossers!

Oh well done America.

You fucked it up again.

jdbgmgr.exe/Sulfnbk.exe virus hoax is doing the rounds at the moment.

This particular email message is a hoax. The file that is mentioned in the hoax, however, Sulfnbk.exe, is a Microsoft Windows 95/98/Me utility that is used to restore long file names, and like any .exe file, it can be infected by a virus that targets .exe files.

Symantec Security Response encourages you to ignore any messages regarding this hoax. It is harmless and is intended only to cause unwarranted concern.


The ROTW is pleased to announce
a major sponsorship deal with
Easy Expression Products, Inc.

Easy Expression Products, Inc.

The Easy ExpressionTM Halter is the answer for those times
when you need to pump but also need to accomplish the task at hand
-- writing, phoning, using the computer or reading.

Products designed to minimise global warming, close the hole in the ozone layer and reduce greenhouse gases.

Easy Expression Products, Inc in association with Friends of the Nipple is pleased to sponsor ROTW.

EEP Inc. like ROTW believes in freedom of expression.

Queen warned butler of 'powers at work'

"Former royal butler Paul Burrell said Britain's Queen Elizabeth warned him that his close relationship with Princess Diana could put him in danger, London's Daily Mirror tabloid reported.

In his first major interview since being dramatically acquitted last week of stealing scores of Diana's personal treasures, Burrell said the queen told him: "There are powers at work in this country about which we have no knowledge."

But the former butler, who served Diana until her death in 1997, told the Daily Mirror he had no idea who the queen was referring to."

I'm sure that this "startling" story has nothing to do with the information at the start of the next par.

"However, Burrell told the tabloid, which has bought the rights to his story: "She made sure I knew she was being deadly serious."

Former royal butler Paul Burrell said Britain's Queen Elizabeth warned him that his close relationship with Princess Diana could put him in danger, London's Daily Mirror tabloid reported.

In his first major interview since being dramatically acquitted last week of stealing scores of Diana's personal treasures, Burrell said the queen told him: "There are powers at work in this country about which we have no knowledge."

I gather the only witnesses to this tea and scones meeting were 9 corgis. Let's find out what they know. I say grill the little bastards ... then feed them to the Windsor grandchildren. Better still grill those little pricks too and feed the whole leeching lot to the wolves ... if they will have them.

Bottom line? WHO GIVES A RATS?.

Note to Ed. ... interpolate copy at will!

Tuesday, November 05, 2002

There's a town down the south of England somewhere (it might be in the might even be in Scotland or Wales for all I know...this is what happens when I watch the telly after half a bottle of scotch...if you know the name of this place then you probably also know where the comments box is) where was I?

Oh yes...there's a town somewhere in Britain where, in celebration of Guy Fawkes Night, the locals have constructed a thirty-foot effigy of Edwina Curry to throw onto the pyre. It's nice to know the one-time Tory health secretary is now in the same league, as far the Brits are concerned, with other luminary guys such as Saddam and Hitler, who...if memory serves...have shared the same fate.

It's also pleasant to see that, despite the political scandal, the huge publicity, the revelations, the spin, the P.R. and the six-figure advance Eddy's autobiography has flopped big time. Less than two hundred copies sold. Even The Greyminster Chronicles sold more than that and nobody's ever heard of them. There is some hope left for the Great British public after all. Despite the Ulrika-mob it appears that two tired, ugly, grey old farts copulating behind the closed doors of Parliament just isn't interesting enough for the punters to part with £15.00 of their hard-earned money.

I'm optimistic that when Edwina goes up in flames tonight (hopefully with a smaller effigy of John Major inside it, Wicker Man style, screaming, "Killing me won't save your party...") then there'll be plenty of eggs fried on the smouldering remains as recommended by the 1987 Government Salmonella Act.

Happy Hallow Bonfire New Christmas Folks! ('s all one never-ending commercial peer-group pressure fest at this time of year.)


It was announced yesterday that Michael Thieving-Scumbag of Bumsrush, Essex, has scooped almost ten million pounds on the National Disgrace (Don’t you mean Lotto? – ed.). Mr. Thieving-Scumbag, who has been in court more often than a public shithouse door bangs, has vowed that the dosh will in no way affect his previous lifestyle and expects to be back stealing cars and burgling old people’s houses just as soon as the electronic tag comes off.
Last night, Mrs. Ethel Spidermonkey, one of Thieving-Scumbags victims and a devout Christian, was asked to comment.
“That little shit broke in and took everything I had,” she said tearfully, “And now he’s won all that money. This afternoon I’m going to see about suing St Grotwald’s in the Dale for eighty three years worth of donations obtained under false pretences. I feel such a fool praying to a God that doesn’t exist. I told that nice Muslim who lives next door all about it and he became most upset.”
Mrs. Spidermonkey has now been arrested and taken to Bumsrush police station where she will be charged with promoting religious intolerance.

"Former royal butler Paul Burrell will tell his story in a series of articles with the Daily Mirror this week.

The newspaper has paid "a substantial six-figure sum" for the rights to Mr Burrell's thoughts and recollections."


I am shocked and amazed that Mr. Burrell has done this now ... what took him so long? A week is a long time in the world of voyeuristic investigative journalism.

"...Although Russia, France and China have existing deals with Iraq, Chalabi has made clear that he would reward the US for removing Saddam with lucrative oil contracts, telling the Washington Post recently: 'American companies will have a big shot at Iraqi oil.' "

Click here for full story.

Keep buying those flags folks and remember that what we're fighting for here is peace, justice and liberty for all.

Why everybody pronounces Colin Powell's name as 'Colon'

Still taken from "The Last Tango in Paris Texas", alternatively titled "How Colon buttered up El Presidento and other Romantic Tales." This film gets a big thumbs up from the British Government. Other Carry-On style innuendoes etc...

Monday, November 04, 2002

by Darren Anderson

Roland Rat, the former Good Morning Britain presenter/puppet, was in hiding today following his naming in the tabloids as another celebrity who had bedded/slapped/raped highly talented former weathergirl Ulrika Jonsson.

A spokesman for Mr Rat issued the following statement: "Roland is very upset by these allegations, which he completely refutes. He is taking a few days out with his family to consider his options. He would like to point out that he has not been charged any offence, and that he has raised lots of money for charity."

Jonsson and Rat worked together during the early days of breakfast television, where the rodent-puppet bad-boy was credited with saving the ailing commercial TV breakfast program with a hilarious blend of catchphrases (Yeeeeey, Ratfans!) and, well, er, mmm, other stuff.

Mr Rat has been the focus of a whispering campaign ever since Ms Jonsson revealed that she had been sexually assaulted by by a "well known" TV personality at the start of her career. Rat's former colleague, Errol — a quiet, unassuming, hamster glove-puppet who now runs a reputable sex shop in Brighton — spoke out in defence of his friend.

"Sure, he was a womaniser, especially after he'd had one too many. I remember one time we were in Stringfellows, and Ro was coked out of his tree, when Gordon [the Gopher, another high-profile glovepuppet] walked in with a blonde piece. Whoosh! Over goes Ro for a sniff. After a while, Gordy, who was known for his temper, started tapping his claws on the table. You could tell Ro was giving him some mighty grief. Then Gordy jumps up and says 'Listen, piss off or you'll be talking to your ratfans through your arse'.

"Well, Ro got the message and he started to leave. But, as he was passing Gordy he muttered something like 'Philip Schofield's shooting-in piece' or 'Phil's fu*ck glove', and Gordy just kicked off. It took a top Saville Row seamstress three days to put Ro back together. Five-hundred stitches! What I'm trying to say is that Ro's a lover, not a rapist."

Not everyone agrees, however. Veteran fox-puppet Basil Brush is among them. "I always found him to be an obnoxious, brash example of the new wave of British puppetry," insists Brush. "No substance, no feel for the traditions of our craft. If your material is poor, then shouting it louder won't improve it. I worked 40 years to build a professional reputation, only to see that Brummie, puppet-parvenu walk straight into my job. He always had rapist written all over him, in my opinion. But that's just the opinion of an old trouper rehearsing the part of Buttons at the Colwyn Bay Pavilion Theatre, 8 Dec to 15 Jan, where normal concessions are suspended until 5 Jan."

So, we now have to wait for the next chapter to unfold before us, like a turd in Bacofoil. One thing is certain — if Roland Rat is convicted and imprisoned, the shower-soap-surprise scenario holds little horror to a guy who's gone through life with a hand stuck up his arse.

Source: The Rockall Times

Pearls of Wisdom to make Guy Fawkes Night a Safer, Happier Occasion!

1) Make sure you stand good and close to the bonfire. And wear extremely flammable clothes. If you live in a back-to-back terrace with a tiny garden/yard then build your bonfire as high as humanly possible. After all, you wouldn't want your neighbours to miss all the fun, would you?

2) Always hold lit rockets at arm's length. That way you get to see all the colours and sparks close up when it explodes.

3) Make sure that fireworks in bottles are well sealed. The glass doesn't shatter quite as spectacularly if the lid isn't screwed down.

4) Hold sparklers between your teeth for maximum effect.

5) If you're holding your bonfire on the beach, throw pebbles into the flames for a bit more fun. The build-up of heat will result in some very exciting explosions.

6) Make sure you book your place in the hospital emergency ward early. Get an elderly relative to hold your seat for you. You don't want to have to wait forever to be seen just because it's the busiest night of the year.

7) Place bangers in a metal tube, wait for thirty seconds and then place your eye against one end to see what's happening.

8) Old cans of furniture polish/compressed air/car paint etc make an ideal alternative to expensive fireworks. Just throw them on the bonfire and wait for the fun.

9) Murderers...dispose of unwanted victims by dressing them up as a Guy and hurling them onto the pyre.

Uncle Brian...keeping Bonfire Night Festivities Traditionally Violent.


Sunday, November 03, 2002

Ten years ago El Al Flight 1862, a Boeing 747 cargo plane, took off from Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport bound for Tel Aviv. Seven minutes later it crashed into an apartment block in Bijlmer, ten miles east of the airport, after two engines broke free from the starboard wing. All four crew were killed as were at least forty people on the ground. The flight recorder (black box) was never found but was believe to have been removed from the crash site by people “from El Al”. The incident was labelled the worst aviation disaster in Dutch history.
The story might have ended there but for the fact that hundreds of people living and working near the crash site, along with rescue workers, began to suffer from health problems. It took the Dutch government six years to admit that Flight 1862 carried ten tons of chemicals including dimethyl methylphosphonate (DMMP), isopropanol and hydrofluoric acid – three of the four components of Sarin nerve gas. Sarin is a colourless and odourless gas and a dose of 0.5 milligrams will kill an adult. It is 26 times more deadly than cyanide gas and is 20 times more lethal than potassium cyanide. There was enough DMMP to make more than a quarter of a tonne of deadly nerve gas.
The plane had flown from the United States before landing at Schiphol airport and it’s cargo was bound for the Israeli Institute of Biological Research.
The US is a signatory of the Chemical Weapons Convention (CWC) and as such is prohibited from supplying chemical weapons components to a non-member state such as Israel. At the time Saddam Hussein was busy killing whole towns of Iraqis using chemical weapons so the US’s illegal trade with Israel went relatively unnoticed.
Dubya Bush condemns the possible threat of Saddam of obtaining chemical and nuclear weapons through nefarious means. Yet there is a nuclear power in the Middle East whose flourishing chemical weapons industry is being illegally maintained. This hypocrisy is breathtaking. No wonder Tony Blair, the king of British hypocrites, is so enamoured of Dubya the Honourable Statesman.

Well, there is particularly dangerous to live in the hot countries. But thank God, here are some advices to stay lukewarm, at least.

The last time I had an election it was the closest shave I've ever had!

In fact, I was so impressed that this year I bought the country!


Lady Posh of Muck was today being consoled after police revealed a plot to keep her out of the headlines (don’t you mean revealed a plot to kidnap her? – Ed.).
Sources close to Lady Posh revealed that she was distraught that the kidnappers were caught at a time when the story would be starved of column inches by some obscure people’s princess who had been dead for five years.
She is being comforted by family and friends after the media failed to beat a path to her door waving large wads of cash and cheque books.

One of the many reasons why Osama bin Beard still evades capture.

"Gee...I never knew the desert was so dark...."

Princess Anne's daughter Zara Phillips and her love of three years, jockey Richard Johnson, called it quits this past summer. And now, with his autobiography "Out Of The Shadows" about to hit the shops, the horseman has explained the live-in relationship was "fun" – but that he's never experienced true love.

"I've no idea what love's like – I have never been in love," says Richard in the Mail On Sunday. "I admit I am not much of a romantic... Being a champion jockey one day is what is paramount to me. My career is first and foremost."
(From the erstwhile journal of record, "HELLO".)

Another biography from another bloody Johnson, but an Ulrika he aint. How can this Dick expect sales of his magnum opus to go through the roof if he doesn't "not show but tell" about some 100 year old nutbrown toothed, gin sodden harpy who spiked his drink and had her wicked way with him at Clarence House when he was a mere promising apprentice jockey?

He says "I've no idea what love's like". Well bedding a Windsor isn't the answer. A right loveless nest of vipers.

On the other hand if, as young Dicky says, "Being a champion jockey one day is what is paramount to me." then he should have stuck with the Windsors. Could learn a lot from mounting that grand old mare, "The Princess Royal" and popping her over the sticks a few times.


This should be a joyous event Sarah. So why the long face?!

When da fark did that happen?! Who are these women? Why wasn't I consulted?!. Which one of them got the mysterious very personal piece of jewellery? Is it true that one of these women is Koo Stark?

Good to see the jewellery won't be going to those malingerers who had their limbs blown off by landmines. I think they should be well satisfied with you allowing them to share your photo opportunities. A picture is worth a thousand hours of reconstructive surgery, Anyway the ungrateful bastards would have NO idea of how to wear a tiara with your style and grace.

Fergie remembers with great relish the lightly sauted neonate washed down with a glass of Bolly she had at Sardi's a decade ago.


The trial of Slobodan Milosevic drew to an unexpected close in the Hague yesterday. Chief Prosecutor Sir Bamber Tichbourne advised the court that all charges against Mr. Milosevic had been withdrawn following a late breaking missive from Buckingham Palace.

"Her Majesty advised me that upon checking her diary she had discovered that at the time of the alleged atrocities in the Basket Case formerly known as Jugoslavia, Mr. Milosevic was playing cards with herma'amself and other guests", Sir Bamber explained.

"In her letter to the Prosecution the Queen relates that she now recalls the card game quite vividly. Her Majesty has graciously granted permission for me to read to you the relevant extract from her diary."

December 17. In the year of my grace, 1992.

7.00 p.m. Guests arrived for cards. The usual group. Mummy, Sir Cliff Richard, the Man who would (over my dead body!) be King and his bit of geriatric fluff Camilla, John Major, Edwina Rogan-Josh, Phillip and that nice young boy, Paul Burrell.

Apologies received from a couple of our chums who couldn't attend. Dear old General Pinochet couldn't attend as he was orf to some soccer field to get in a bit of huntin' and shootin'. Dear Annie Widders had gone orf to Lancashire for the weekend with her chum Lord Byron Hughes. Annie loves poetry so much and Lord Byron is always happy to take her away for a ditty weekend in the country.

Dear ever thoughtful Auguste P. fearing we might be short a player sent along a friend in his stead, a delightfully courteous Mr. Slobodan Milosevic

7.30 p.m. Phillip arranged drinks for all. As per usual Mummy had brought her own. The tanker from Teachers was parked discretely around the back. Charles had his usual tipple of organically grown dandelion and comfrey wine. He always says "It's a wine that speaks to me." Buggered if I know what he means by that, in fact buggered if I understand anything he rabbits on about. Phillip lined up Camilla's 45 pints. John and Edwina said they were alright, they were abstaining for the moment. Sir Cliff tucked into his cup of hot Bovril while Mr. Burrell said that he had brought his own. (I think what he actually said was:- "Well not exactly my own, but the lady for whom I butle said I could look after her Bolly for her while she was away doing a crash course in Paris.")

8.00 p.m. Phillip cut the cards, shot the head footman, kicked the butler in the goolies and headbutted Mummy.

8.15 p.m. First game completed. Sir Cliff won with a straight. This seemed to cause a lot of hilarity around the table. No idea what they were all on about.

8.23 p.m. Second game over. I won. Royal flush. Naturally. My God given winning hand. I said to every one, "A Royal Flush! ... that reminds me, must get a new prescription for my HRT." I thought that was fraffly funny. No one else seemed to so much as titter. Humorless lot. Phillip hits Sir Cliff over the head with one of the corgis.

8.35 p.m. Mummy passes out. Another false alarm for the bespoke undertakers.

8.42 p.m. Camilla, true to form, complains that ordinary poker is boring and wants to play strip poker, or as the silly ignorant dyslectic cow calls it "stirrup poker". Phillip mutters something about not ever wanting to see those shrivelled up capsicums again and headbutts Charles. Camilla settles for 7 card stud. They all burst out laughing again. I don't understand young people these days.

8.56 p.m. Mr Milosevic leaves to take a call from home. He shouts down the phone "Exterminate, exterminate!" He returns explaining that his Generals can't go a day without hearing his Dalek impersonation. What a jolly accomodating world leader he is. If only there were more like him the World would be a better place. Mind you I do think that dear absent Auguste does a much better Dalek impersonation.

9.00 p.m. Card game ends prematurely. I have to leave for an urgent meeting with my very own pet Prime Minister, Tony. A totally wonderful and obedient object subject, never without a smile. I believe he used to be a member of the Labour Party. So glad he's got that out of his system. In meetings with him sometimes I just close my eyes, imagine him in a nice blue dress, with a fresh blow wave and a deep voice, and it's as if dear Margaret had never resigned. I hope that the meeting he requires isn't more bad news. Last time he seemed to be having a spot of trouble with his father in law. I really don't think that dear Tony can legislate to make it mandatory for there to be a guest spot for his pater in law in the British pornography film industry, despite his claims he can "keep it up with all these young things".

9.05 p.m. As I depart to meet Tony I notice Mr Milosevic is on the phone again laying them in the aisles back home with more Dalek impersonations."

Sir Bamber said that this was the end of the matter and he hoped that Mr. Milosevic would accept the Court's apology for any inconvenience caused to him. Sir Bamber said, "I hope there are no hard feelings. Mr. Milosevic is a man more sinned against than sinning and now he is free to go back home, put his feet up and catch up with the episodes of Dr. Who he missed whilst falsely imprisoned. Finally and most importantly, we abjectly apologise to Mr. Milosevic, as indeed we would to any other unfortunate individual, for having to spend time in Brussels. However it could have been worse for Mr. Milosevic, the trial was originally set down for Belgium. "

Green fairy is ... whereas Brian Hughes is ...
and I'm shocked to discover that Twisted Sister is ...
I am most discomforted by this
... totally amazed by this.

These are but a few things that I would have never suspected.

"Brian Hughes is getting in trim to run his seventh London marathon dressed as Paddington Bear."
"Brian Hughes is approaching the end of his first year as full time chaplain in Belfast City Hospital."

"Twisted Sister is indeed a very special plant."
"Twisted Sister is occasionally diverted through a small hydroelectric facility."

"Green Fairy is sexy although I know I'll never see her picture."
"Green Fairy is as good a roll as a drunken midget with a speech impediment."