Saturday, March 22, 2003

Thank Gawd f'r that ('scuse my Vietnamese)! I've finally managed to escape from that Iraqi concentration camp where I was bein' 'eld 'ostage. W'at an hors d' oeuvres! It all started Friday mornin' w'en I went t' pick up me Daily Mail and 'alf dozen eggs from Hardwick's corner shop. But bugger me sideways ('scuse my Antipodean)! When I got there I discovered that some Iraqis from Pakistan 'ad bought the shop an' turned it into a fancy ricin factory w'at was pretending to be an 'erbalist.

The police didn't seem to 'ave noticed w'at the evil brown fungal-genitals had done an' they 'adn't stopped 'em or nothin'. Well I wasn't 'aving any of it! I'm British for God's sake ('scuse my Bastard)! So I scooped up me paper an' me milk an' me 'alf dozen Lion brand an' I said to the nig-nog behind the counter, "Don't expect me t' pay f'r this you Isambard terrorist citadel! I know your sort...all white teeth an' scud marks! I'm takin' this lot an' I'm goin' to tell Sergeant Crier down at the station. 'Ee'll 'ave you arrested double quick an' 'ave you carted off back to Iran before you can shit in the sink like what you are want t' do! ('Scuse my Bolognaise)"

That's when 'ee started gettin' uppity.

"Excuse me, Madam," 'ee replies all haughty-taughty 'avin' obviously learnt his pigeon English from copies of the Times w'at were smuggled into Iraqistan. "You can't walk out of 'ere without paying for your goods. That would be tantamount to theft."

"Theft!?" I says, all defiant like. "You'd know all about that wouldn't y', Saddam? Stealin' those British Oil Wells w'at are off our coast from under our noses an' setting fire to 'em! Now bugger off! ('Scuse my Womble.)"

Then I hit 'im with me walkin' stick. Three times on the nose. Until it made a snappin' sound.

By this point his 'ideous, tyrannical wife 'ad scuttled across the shop in 'er sandals an' locked the front door. "Raj...telephone the police," she screams in her blackie voice. "I'll keep the old sow 'ere until they turn up."

"Aye you do that, Winnie Mandella!" I shouts, hoistin' me bosoms up round me ears an' fillin' me knickers with good old British pluck. "We'll see 'oo's in for it then!"

Well now...eventually Sergeant Crier turns up. Only it wasn't Sergeant Crier. It was 'is body double w'at they'd snook into England under cover of darkness an' then painted white.

"Come on Mrs 'Ughes," 'ee says grabbing me by the elbow.

"Get your filthy wog 'ands off me you evil Mormon!" I yells, smacking him bravely between the balls ('scuse my Pomeranian) with me tartan brolly. But it was no good. 'Ee carted me off t' the station which 'ad been turned into an Irabic 'Eadquarters. Then 'ee tried t' lock me up with Mrs Ormrod 'oo'd forgotten t' take 'er pills again and 'ad been widdlin' into the gutter...or so they reckoned! I wasn't going to stand for that! I punched 'im 'ard on the chin until 'is 'orrible Iraqi teeth began t' buckle. Then I ran f'r it, abandonin' me Zimmer to its fate.

Since then I've bin down in me cellar with the door locked an' the lights turned out. Those bastards ('scuse my Sitar) ain't gonna take me alive! I've got me diuretic pills 'andy an' I'm not afraid t' take 'em if it comes t' the worst!

Editor's note: Good! Hurry up and swallow them you stupid old bag. Perhaps by Monday you'll have drowned in your own piss.