Saturday, July 19, 2003
Bloomin' 'eck ('scuse my Archemedes) it's bin 'ot this week! I've 'ad to remove five of me cardigans and one set o' long johns and I'm still uncomfortable. I blame it on this E.M.U. nonsense meself. They must 'ave regulated the weather or sommet t' bring it line wi' the wops. Next thing y' know we'll be forced to 'ave seistas w'en I'm supposed to be 'avin' me afternoon nap and we'll 'ave to eat straight bananas and keep goats like w'at Mr Belcher from number sixteen does, although in 'is case it's not for milk. If my 'Enry was alive (God bless his rickets) 'ee'd be livid.
Politics ain't like what they used t' be nowadays o' course. These days they're all sexing each others' dossiarses up (dirty buggers, 'scuse my Vulva) an' adjustin' their figures (in public an' all)! Time was w'en we could trust politicians. Like that nice Mr Enoch 'oo warned us all w'at 'ud 'appen if we let the nig nogs into Britain an' allowed 'em t' breed. 'Ee said we'd 'ave pandamonials and 'ee was right! Only last week there was a fire down at the newsagents w'ats run by those smelly pakis. The newspapers tried to 'ush it up but I know it 'appened 'cos it was me w'at started it.
We've even got darkies and homosapiens in the 'Ouses of Parlimentary now! What gives them the right t' represent us decent white folk, that's what I say? They wasn't even born in this country but there they are passin' motions (filthy swine) an' holding their closet meetin's! It's a disgrace I tell y'!
Then there's the vital crime statistics w'at 'ave gone up and come down both at the same time! W'at's that all about? In my day crime was virtually none existant 'cos we still 'ad 'angin' back then. That taught the bastards ('scuse my Colostomy) a lesson they didn't forget in an 'urry. Bring back corporal punishment like they 'ave in America, that's w'at I reckon. It works for them 'cos they ain't got any crime at all over there now. Not like round 'ere where the bloomin' kids keep stealin' Snickerthon bars from the shops an' smokin' pottage down the park. It's gettin' so I daren't go out without My 'Enry's old shot gun. (God rest 'is ballcock.) I 'ad t' shoot three wogs an' a jew last week 'cos they were terrorists...probably...or, even worse, bloody liberals!
I'm an 'undred and twenty-nine years thirteen months, y' know? An' if this heat carries on f'r much longer I'm gonna 'ave t' turn one of the bars on me electric fire off.
I was just surfing on the net when I found a page. What a surprise: a bloke strolled in my countryside. My native town, Eger... and Miskolc, my secondary school...
So: the search of abandoned industry in Hungary. And Leuna (formerly DDR), where were my professional practices... and 'where the "bad ones" made their plans to destroy the world' ... though I have never met with Mr. Bond.
ps.: The pig has tasted fine. Like a chicken.
Friday, July 18, 2003
Dr. David Kelly, the scientist at the centre of the row between the British government and the BBC over the 'Sexing Up' of the dossier that lead, eventually, to the Iraq war mysteriously vanished from his home yesterday afternoon. This morning a body was discovered in woodland five miles away and, at two thirty this afternoon, police confirmed it as being the missing Mr Kelly. (Does anybody suddenly feel a chill in the air? Memories of the Jeremy Thorpe scandal, Princess Diana and JFK for some reason spring to mind here.)
Yesterday afternoon Andrew Gilligan, the man responsible for the BBC documentary making the allegations against the government in the first place, was called for a second time before the Commons Select Committee. This time however, the meeting was held behind locked doors away from prying cameras and sound recordists. Certain members of the committee i.e. those without an axe to grind, were not invited to attend.
Following the meeting a report was released (produced in record time it should be said) stating that Andrew Gilligan had now retracted his original statement. Andrew Gilligan, however, emphatically denied this alleged change of direction and, speaking on the BBC news, held fast to his original allegations. Naturally the recently pruned Select Committee has come out in force against the BBC once again. After all, they wouldn't want to 'Sex Up' any more reports, would they?
Police are now waiting in the woods near Mr Gilligan's home on the off chance that he might end up the same way as Dr Kelly. (It's getting chillier! There's a heat wave outside and yet I can feel the marrow in my bones starting to freeze.)
Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, Tony Blair and George Bush have been slapping each other heartily on the back, singing each other's praises and delivering speeches to well-rehearsed standing ovations (seventeen in all) whilst continuing to feed their bullshit to a blind American populace.
"I'm sure history will record in our favour," commented Blair. And why not? The Commons Select Committee certainly has.
(Please wait for picture to load, and for Tony to unload.)
When questioned about the tricky subject of the British prisoners held in Guantanamo Bay, President Bush replied, "All I can say with any certainty is, these are bad people."
Right...so that's judgement already set then! No need for a fucking trial after all 'cos the Prez has spoken. And we all know what an upstanding and truthful person he is.
Back home, following the death of Dr Kelly, the British government under the jurisdiction of Tony 'God Bless America' Blair has promised an independent judicial enquiry into the matter. They will be appointing a judge tomorrow...which sort of begs the question, "Well, where the fuck is the 'independence' in that?"
In the meantime the deaths of thousands of innocent Iraqis at the bidding of Bush and Blair continues without justification although, to listen to Uncle Tony's gob shite, you'd think it was the rest of us that were the lying cunts.
Turn your thermostats up folks. The chill factor in the wind emerging from Uncle Tony and Cousin Dubya at the moment is enough to freeze the balls off a brass correspondent.
Thursday, July 17, 2003
"I think the burden falls on those who think he didn't have them to explain when he destroyed them, and why, after he destroyed them, he didn't tell anybody or show anybody."
But there's more ...
Q In his news conference just now, the President said, "It's just a matter of time, a matter of time," on weapons. He hasn't come out and said in awhile, we will find the weapons, we will find evidence of the weapons programs. Is that him saying again today we will find these weapons --
MR. FLEISCHER: I'm not sure what the difference is. When he's asked about a question about finding weapons of mass destruction, he says, "It's a matter of time. It's a matter of time," that clearly is a reference to the fact that we will find them in a matter of time.
... dont think Ari can say fairer than that.
three cheers hiphip replaicment chiz chiz. ar leeder and captin ov the rugger skwad uncle tony is been given a medal by jorg dubbleyoo, hed ov the yankee house and crozzeyed monkee man; for his part in the mascara ov 10000 dammed irakistans cheers cheers!!!
jorg he say well dun tony yuo ar my bestest frend and yur taiste in turtelneck sweeters is ecsellent! and everyon in amerka shout hurrah for uncle tony he da best he save ar skins like we did for him doring the second world conflick he a gud man and no mistake. then they all smoak cigars which ar choklate ones becos reel cigars is ilegel in amerka now and they throw paper plains at fotos of jackars shirack and helmet coalbunker and make full moon jesturs at the oiks.
jorge say that amerka is four hundred billion quizillion pounds in det but the ecomny is booming and so still ar the boms in iraqistan chiz chiz. tony says hees glad that its harf term and now the prez will shut the buggry up abowt his sexying up hem hem ov the irakistan dossyaye and consentrate on st jon prescots fat arse insted now.
in the meentime abott minor and me ar ov to gayboy paree. abbot minor she say want to see my frilly underpantz and poker dot bra.?. she swear blind she is almost ninteen altho she only luk twelfe but if itz gud enuff for ar brave amerkan trupes then its gud enuff for uz cheers cheers.
Put down that copy of "Big and Bouncy" for just a moment and read THIS. Then, as indicated by this cutting edge OZ research, you should return to the matter in hand.
In light of the Editor's brush with death gall bladder episode, it is comforting to know that a prostate problem is unlikely to be something with which he will ever have to contend.
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
Who says? Well, according to Channel 4, the three tossers that present the programme who only seem to like houses with a 60's retro-feel. (Boy, won't they look stupid in ten years time when 80's retro is back in fashion? Come to think of it, they look pretty fucking stupid now.)
I want to know how anybody was supposed to enter this competition. Nobody approached me to exhibit my fisherman's cottage, did they? And, quite frankly, my home is better than any of those crappy psuedo-Llewellen-Bowen dumps that they've had on so far.
"It's so minimalist..." You mean you couldn't be arsed.
"I've recreated a classical look..." You mean you bought a cheap bust of Venus from the market and couldn't come up with any complimentary decor, so you bought a load more.
They should have written to me! My cottage is superb! Every piece of artwork hung on the wall is original and personal and sent to me at great expense by its creator. Money can't buy stuff like that. Well...not unless somebody offered me a few hundred quid for job lot that is. Even the individually handcrafted and highly unique Muggins collection I have in my kitchen couldn't be bought. Mainly because they've gone out of business nowadays. The books on the shelves are all signed (or scribbled in by whatever kid owned them before they were passed onto Oxfam) and my cottage suite is irreplaceable. (I know...I tried to buy some new covers for it last year and, apparently, they haven't been made since 1973.) Even the ivy in my garden was signed by Jesus. (It would have been signed by God but he was away that weekend poking fun at some Arabs.)
My cottage is the perfect reflection of myself. It's handsome, sophisticated, unique and charming. It hides a great many secrets, is thoroughly modern whilst remaining mature and well bred, is pleasant, mysterious, excellent in bed and hung like a donkey.
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
By the age of forty-eight she had penned her first
One name change later, accompanied by one transsexual operation for her lead character, and Harry Potter was unleashed on an unsuspecting public. Unsuspecting and unsupportive. It flopped in the same massive manner than Christopher Biggins' teabag flops during anal intercourse.
In 1997, however, J.K. acquired herself a new publicist. Maximus Cashicus Cliffordarski. At which point she never looked back, except to use her knowledge of the finer points of plagiarism to take every children's book author in the world to court for stealing her ideas. Even the rotting corpse of Roald Darhl was dug up and dragged through the assizes.
Harry Potter had now become an instant, over-fifteen-year-night success, earning the once council-estate dwelling harridan enough money to bankrupt several small countries and buy up the ITN News for a blaze of publicity.
Harry Potter himself died tragically in 2003 when his broomstick was sucked into the engine of a Boeing 747, whilst the little girl who played his companion in the films, unfortunately survived.
J.K. Rowling has recently bought the rights to Ronald McDonald and his bollock burgers and is now suing God for stealing the idea of children from her.
Seeing as Nancy's blog doesn't appear to be working, rather than waste a good five minutes of literary composition I thought I'd post it here instead.
So...Britain is undergoing a heatwave, (94 degrees in the shade...it's even hotter if I stick my head in the oven) which is, all things considered, about as likely as a gerbil sitting a degree course. Fortean Times, however, has verified the occurance and, in consequence, everybody's turned purple, blistered violently about the shoulders and neck and started to sizzle. The whole of Fleetwood smells of bacon and Ambre Solaire!
Most of us have now melted, forming a large, collective pool of sweaty blubber outside the post office. Such a sight hasn't been witnessed since Fergie last bought herself a stamp.
I'm not very good at heat. Every so often I have to stop typing and tilt my head to one side to allow my brain to trickle back down my ear canal. Unfortunately it keeps sloshing into my sinuses where there are currently three barges, one painted bucket and a large, red and white skinned woman with her elbows on display wedged at the top of my nostrils.
At this rate I'll have to remove one of my sweaters and consider buying some air conditioning. I believe Herbal Essences is quite good...crap for curly hair, like mine, but it brings you to orgasm in thirty seconds and gives you an annoying American accent.
I might even be forced to open a window but I'm worried in case the seagull on the ledge outside stumbles in. I don't mind seagulls in my bedroom but its little licks and panting have been keeping the window clean this last fortnight.
In the meantime I have telephoned God to tell him to turn the volume of the sun down as he appears to have gone on holiday and left it on full blast. Unfortunately Van Gogh was manning the answering service.
Monday, July 14, 2003
Hello boys and girls! Today we're going to discuss gay priests in the Anglican Church and whether we should follow the Catholic Church's example and string them up by their bollocks.
Sweaty piss flaps!
And we all know what Baby Jesus here thinks, don't we children? He said that we have to hate homosexuals and not allow them into the church at all.
Oy! I never said that y' fat bitch! Don't go stickin' words in me mouth. I've got enough trouble with y' stickin' y' big blotchy udders in there!
Actually I think you'll find that you did say that, Baby Jesus.
Oh no I didn't!
Oh yes you did.
And y' can pack that irritating pantomime dog shit in and all y' fuckin' ugly mound of piss. If you'd actually bothered t' read my book you'd have discovered that what I said was, "Do not remove the splinter in somebody else's eye when there's a log in your own" (which I'm tempted to put there meself as soon as me next bowel movement happens) and "Turn the other cheek" and "Suck my Dick, whore!"
Rustle of pages turning eagerly.
Look! Page One! No man shall sleep with another man, shall have same sex relations, tongue dogs knackersacks or teabag gerbils.
Well, if you'd done your research properly y' gestating warthog you'd have realised that I didn't write that fuckin' book. Me dad did! I wrote the New Testicle which happens t' be a bit more flexible...as testicles ought t' be. So who are y' going t' follow? Me or me dad?
Sounds of old sock being stuffed into Baby Jesus' mouth.
Right, well that's sorted that out then. Brown hatters need to be stamped out, children. So torch yourself a queer today!
Sunday, July 13, 2003
Rumsfeld predicts violent summer for US troops
"I'm afraid we are going to have to expect this go on, and there is even speculation that during the month of July, which is an anniversary for a lot of Baathist events, we could see an increase in the number of attacks," Mr Rumsfeld told NBC television's Meet the Press program.
"We are making progress, and the more progress we make, I'm afraid, the more vicious these attacks will become until the remnants of that regime have been stamped out," he said.
Afraid?! Rumpy-Pumpy you are a pathetic wimp! Your Commander in Chief isn't afraid. "Bring them on!"
Pussy goes for a roe.
Did this moggie jump or was it pushkined?
Police examine skid marx.
(Are these headlines the real crime? Who nose?)
Russian sniffer cat killed in alleged contract killing
Russian television said Rutsiq the cat was hit by a car in which he had found smuggled sturgeon several years ago.
Rutsiq was originally adopted as a stray at a police check point in the Stavropol region, but he quickly became Russia's only sniffer cat when his ability to find hidden sturgeon was discovered.
If a bounder like Saddam was able to get help
from Uncle Sam for his nuclear programme
... why, oh why, can't we?
If a bounder like Saddam was able to get help
from Uncle Sam for his nuclear programme
... why, oh why, can't we?
AUSTRALIA is giving itself the option of becoming a nuclear power through a deal with the US to obtain nuclear weapons and extensive investment in atomic expertise, it has been claimed.
A leading strategic policy expert says Australia is forging an understanding with the US that would ensure quick access to "off the shelf" tactical nuclear weapons during a crisis.
And a former senior Howard Government science adviser says the new $600 million reactor at Lucas Heights will ensure Australia has the skills and technology to launch a nuclear weapons program.
"There is no doubt in my mind that a main purpose of Lucas Heights is to maintain Australia's capacity to develop nuclear weapons," the former adviser said this week.
Professor Reynolds described Australia as being a "near-nuclear weapons state" and potentially only two years away from producing nuclear weapons.
I can attest to the veracity of this report. The cleaner at ONA was told this by the tea lady at the Pentagon who was in turn given a hot tip by the gardener at the BBC.
Tonight I will sleep so much sounder in my bed in the bunker.
Filthy, lying, fat, brown speckled bastards! They saunter across my hostas and through my honeysuckle in their stupid Bermuda shorts and open-toed sandals, dragging their overweight grub children behind them in pushchairs! They feast on my petunias and make toasted marmalade sandwiches from my periwinkle! Then they stuff their kids into the soil and encourage them to chomp their way through any roots, corms or bulbs within a forty mile radius.
I hate the ignorant council-estate cunts!
I've tried hitting them with a hammer. They just dust themselves off and continue spray-painting American-style graffiti on my lavander!
I've thrown them over the garden wall, propelled into the air from the end of a plastic ruler, but they just shout "Whee" and come back for another go.
I've poured boiling water on their heads, but they just pull a bar of soap out of their pockets and stick a showercap on.
I've used Agent Orange, Cionide and Cellery on them but they just look at me and go "Yum yum" and pat their tummys and then shit on my azalia!
So I wrote to the Ministry of Horticulture and asked them to nuke the evil mother fuckers. This morning I was awoken by the sounds of tornado jets scorching my roof with napalm, detonating my chimney stack and burning three innocent families to death down the street.
And the vine weevils? They just sat there in the garden toasting slugs on forks in the furious glow of the dawn.
(In the spirit of presenting evidence to justify any megalomaniacal whim, the Deputy Editor has been forced, in the national interest, to plagiarise this entry originally posted by the Editor in 1945. Forgive me for I know exactly what I do and as a consequence of this transgression, for which I take full responsibility, the head of the Director of M15, Sir Guy Philby-Blount, will be on the Editor's desk at sparrow's fart.)
Well, there is a picture from a meeting at a television company.... made by a hidden cartoonist, Mr. Twohy.
Iraqi Governing Body to Meet on Sunday
Oh and a bit more grist to the doctored documents mill. Well, that's about the level of understanding of *security* one might expect from Tone's crew.