Saturday, August 02, 2003

The past has come back to haunt the Prescotts today in the shape of a previously suspected abortion that managed to clamber its way out of the NHS bucket and back into society over fifty years ago. Pauline Prescott, eighties Thatcherite Dynasty star and husband of British Sumo Wrestling Champion and Deputy Shit, John Prescott, gave birth to an illegitimate nazi back in the 1950s. The child was created in a top secret bunker using Adolf Hitler's sperm and then implanted into Pauline Prescott's neck using her husband's needle dick.
Sensing that producing children out of wedlock might seriously crimp her political aspirations Pauline then raffled the child in a pub to a passing sailor before taking up her seat on the Casterbridge Council.
Unfortunately, now the offensive offspring has clawed his way back to his mother's sagging bosom to claim his inheritance before John Prescott eats the whole fucking lot.
"They've been extremely pleasant to me all things considered," explained Major Cockup Prescott to the press this morning. "Especially seeing as I've never voted Labour in my life. I'm a fox hunting Tory and proud of it!"
In that case he should fit right in with the bastards!
JK Rowling is currently suing the Major for once having been a child.

The United States released digitally altered pictures of ousted Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein on Friday that coalition forces are using in their efforts to track him down.

The U.S. military images -- which were posted on the U.S. Central Command Web site Friday -- show five versions of Saddam. One shows him with his dyed black hair and a full beard; another wearing a salt-and-pepper beard and a white headdress with black bands; two poses show him with what would probably be his natural hair color -- gray -- and a mustache; and another shows him with gray hair and no mustache.

Another set of images of the former Iraqi leader is being distributed only to members of Task Force 20 -- the elite military group charged with finding Saddam.

The Rant of the Week's editor has been on secondment to MI5 for the past week. Armed with his new Kodak Box Brownie the editor has generated the following digitally altered pictures to Task Force 20. By special arrangement with MI5 these photos are able to be shown exclusively here at the Rant of the Week. (DISCLAIMER: These arrangements have nothing to do at all at all with the editor possessing compromising photos of the head of MI5 naked bar for a pair Anne Widdicombe's paisley hot-pants in which were secreted Edwina Currie, John Major, 15 of the royal corgis and the lost tribesmen of the Kalahari.)

This tuber is both dangerous and malignant, do not approach!
Call your local office of the Department of Agriculture.

Friday, August 01, 2003

Argentinian supermarkets take the piss.

Argentina's dirty supermarket
secret revealed

A national debate has begun in Argentina after it was discovered several supermarkets in the province of Mendoza require their employees to wear nappies on the job.

Local government officials have denounced the policy as degrading and humiliating.

At least one union official says it has been a dirty secret in the Mendoza province for years.

Female checkout clerks have been required to wear nappies in order to cut down on time in the toilet.

So? McDonalds has been employing kiddies still in nappies for years.
And just when you think the sheet shit covered Ku Klux Klanners had plumbed all depths ... along come these sophisticated little gems.

How long does it take a nigger to pass a turd? Nine months.


Subtle and tasteful

Courtesy of the Grand Dragon at where "The Movement Is Getting Bigger & Bigger.... And I'm Sure Glad I'm Not A Nigger".

I'm against capital punishment.
I'm against censorship.
I'm against limitations on freedom of expression.
I'm against the thought police.
I'm not against having these lads taken out into a sports stadium and stoned to death.
I'm not against being selectively inconsistent.

Lanky Scots television presenter, John "I love lesbians even if they don't love me" Leslie has been acquitted of the rape allegations brought against him by an unnamed member of the public. Ronnie Corbett has once again been implicated but for legal reasons we have been asked to point out that Ronnie's bowlegged walk is more likely down to him suffering from dwarfism rather than having had anal sex with a blubbering Scottish twat.
Leslie's "nightmare" began when Ulrika Johnson published her autobiography in which she claimed that she was indecently assaulted by a television personality. Critics at the time pointed out the Leslie couldn't have been involved because he has about as much personality a stainless steel bucket full of water.
Since the Rant of the Week went public with Ronnie Corbett's Leslie's alleged involvement several council estate slappers managed to step onto the gravy train as it pulling out of the station. Yesterday, however, all charges were dropped following revelations that Leslie had been caught outside Buckingham Palace with one of Prince Charles' servants and a large pat of butter.
In a tearful statement outside the court worthy of an Oscar, Leslie proclaimed, "I have bin vindicated. Noo Ay just wanna get back tee narmal life!" Three female members of the news crew were heard screaming as they ran away.
The producers of "This Morning" however have decided that Leslie will not be returning to the programme.
"This has nothing to do with the rape allegations," said a spokesman for ITV. "It's just that, during the trial by media, we realised what a talentless twat he actually was."
Ulrika Johnson, in the meantime, has sold millions of copies of her made-up piece of old shit autobiography to celebrity gossip lovers who were hoping to read about Leslie's none-existant sexual forays. Johnson will appear in court on Monday charged with crimes against British publishing and is currently being sued for plagiarism by JK Rowling.

Is it just me but is the law an ass?
Detention children held unlawfully, judge rules

"A Family Court judge in Adelaide has ruled that five children in immigration detention are being held unlawfully, but there is insufficient evidence to order their release.

Justice Steven Strickland told a packed courtroom that he is deferring his final decision until further evidence is presented to him.

Lawyers for the children are now considering whether to present further evidence today, or agree to an adjournment.

The three girls aged six, nine and 11 and two boys aged 12 and 14, all from the same family, have been detained for more than two years. "

Thursday, July 31, 2003

The best $30 million the State Department never had to part with.

"The US State Department says Secretary of State Colin Powell has approved a $US30 million reward to the person who led US forces to Saddam's sons.

Spokesman Richard Boucher declined to name the recipient of the reward, $15 million for each son, but media reports have said he is Nawaf al-Zeidane, the businessman in whose house the pair took refuge in the northern city of Mosul. "

What are the odds of Mr. Nawaf al-Zeidane getting to the Post Office unscathed to collect his giro and living to a ripe old age in the lap of luxury courtesy of the U.S. taxpayer?

Pity the Pentagon's Futures Market Plan has been scuppered. I wouldn't have minded having a lazy dollar or six on Mr. Nawaf al-Zeidane's future.

"That would be seeing it totally out of perspective"
Really? After 9/11 isn't this the way everything is viewed?

'Blunder' blamed for warning confusion

Australia's intelligence officials are blaming a bureacratic blunder for a minsunderstanding between Australia and the United States over a new terror warning.

The US Department of Homeland Security is now planning to issue a revised alert to the airline industry.

The original warning listed Australia as a possible target for an Al Qaeda mission.

The Howard Government has been pressuring US officials to revise that alert.

They have now agreed to do that. Instead of naming Australia as a target, it will highlight the country as a possible "point of origin" for terrorists planning to hijack flights to attack the US or Britain.

Australian Security Intelligence Organisation chief Dennis Richardson believes an honest, bureaucratic mistake by the US was the problem.

"This is not an issue between intelligence agencies, it's simply an issue in terms of someone's misreading of the facts that they had before them," he said.

"Mistakes do happen and when mistakes happen you don't call into question the whole structure of a relationship. That would be seeing it totally out of perspective."

Federal Attorney-General Daryl Williams blames the Americans for all the confusion.

"I think there isn't any justification for anybody being confused about the Australian Government's position. We have been completely consistent all along."

Mr Williams denies there has been a breakdown in communications between the two countries.

Well that's all very par for the course. The A'merkins have a tenuous grasp on the engalish language at best. They have an even more tenuous grasp on reality in the current geo-political, socio-economic, comedic, pastoral, historical, tragical climate. If you have Henny Penny Rumsfeld running around finding Al Qaeda agents under every bed, things are likely to get a chicken little out of hand.

From my recent Qantas experience, any potential terrorist worth his salt would probably get sick of waiting for a plane to become available and hijack a taxi out of frustration. Again from my experience, most Oz cabbies get lost within a block of picking up a fare so the chances of the hijacker ending up in either U.S. or U.K. is all very cloud cuckoo.

"Porky's 40" The Bush Administration's Top 40 Lies About War and Terrorism.

"I don't know how close we are to getting Saddam Hussein. You know - it's closer than it was yesterday, I guess."

"Yes Bob, I'm seeing a swarthy man with a big black moustache who is very sad. I believe he has lost someone very close to him. Wait, wait ... more than one person very dear to him. I'm hearing the letters U and K. Do those letters mean anything to you Bob? Have you got a message to give him Bob? Quickly, he's fading away ... sorry Bob ... too late he's gone."

"Yes Bob, I can assure you that no matter how high the office you occupy, if you were to poke a finger in your eye like I'm about to do, it will cause a sharp and excruciating pain."

In the spirit of keeping the funniest, the best and the factual till last ...

Fielding a wide range of questions, President Bush also:

- Said he opposes gay marriage and might offer legislation on the subject: "I believe a marriage is between a man and a woman*. And I think we ought to codify that one way or the other. And we've got lawyers looking at the best way to do that."

Guess there are a few lawyers down Salem way with a bit of time on their hands during the non witch huntin' season.

*The President stated that this belief was based on material supplied by Agents Blount, Philby, Burgess and McLean of the British Intelligence Service.

Backing up President Bush's hammer time approach to nancy-boy nuptuals, the Vatican has released a strong condemnation of gay marriages, calling the practice "deviant" and a grave threat to society.

The document written by the Vatican's Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith says legal recognition of homosexual unions would obscure basic values.

It maintains marriage between a man and a woman is holy, while homosexual acts go against the natural moral law.

Whereas dressing up in beautifully embroidered dresses, wearing lots of holy roller bling bling, being surrounded 24/7 by lots of dudes in cool black threads and fellating airport tarmacs is entirely normal.

Wednesday, July 30, 2003

Upskirt Cam Scammer in Slammer.
Fleetwood Public Opinion Favours
Return of the Birch.

In a marginally unrelated matter ... the Editor and his new camera may be away from the desk for some little time.

To keep a smile on the Editor's face in the dark days ahead I leave this side-splitting purler from the late Bob Hope.

"My folks were English. They were too poor to be British. I still have a bit of British in me. In fact, my blood type is solid marmalade." ©A team of 450 writers. (16.07 writers per word.)

Die Another Day...or James Bond 20: This time it's dreadful.

There's something annoying about Pierce Brosnan. It might be the fact that his face looks as though it's been belted by a flat iron and flattened beyond recognition. It might be because he sounds permanently bored and would rather spend an evening contemplating his navel from inside his own colon than bothering to make a good film. It might just be that all the women I know who are over fifty think he's gorgeous. What the bugger is that all about? Either the government ought to re-establish free eye tests for sad, lonely old housewives approaching middle age from the wrong side, or presumably frying pan features were all the rage back in the 1940s.
Whatever the case Die Another Day is even further up its own arse than Brosnan's head. The film is littered with references to previous Bond films and whilst trying to hunt them down is a damned sight more entertaining than the film itself most of them are so obscure that you'll find yourself watching the Wombles the morning after and saying things like, "Those two spots on Madam Cholet's nose are reminiscent of the birthmark on Domino's ankle in Thunderball. I wonder if that's one of the references?" Who cares? The film is wank.
Long gone are the sick, if not basic, one liners such as "I think he got the point" and "Positively shocking" when Bond casually assassinates somebody. Instead we're now treated to the sort of shit and obviously staged innuendoes that would have had the scriptwriters for the Carry On films reaching for their editing pens. "I trust Mr Bond has been explaining his Big Bang theory to you?" "Yes, he's given me a thorough pumping." "Did you suck his cock as well?" "No...the bell end was all flat on one side as though somebody had smacked it with a frying pan."
The only saving grace to this multi-million dollar slither of celluloid excrescence is Madonna's not-at-all-Bond-like theme song, which appears to be about her attempting to delay an orgasm. All she had to do was watch the film seeing as it continually fails to stimulate, is about as exciting as a rainy day in Skegness and seems incapable of reaching any sort of entertaining climax. Alternative she could have just gone to bed with Pierce Brosnan.
Die Another Day? Fair enough...we have you booked in for tomorrow at two o'clock Mr Bond. Please bring your own coffin.

Sex without foreplay is like toast without butter ...
"Lust Tango in Fleetwood"

"Brits are a flop when it comes to foreplay, according to the biggest ever survey of its kind.

The research found 80% of British men didn't even know what foreplay was, mistaking it for a sport, a computer game or an item of clothing."
More... more ... more ... I'll have what she's not having.

Tuesday, July 29, 2003

Lateral thinking and advice from a horizontal position. Fly by the seat of your pants it's safer, quicker and more reliable!

Breakfasts on the balcony and days of beer and skittles are over. Shoulder to the wheel and nose to the grindstone return red in tooth and claw.

Mind you it wasn't all muesli and beer al fresco. Part of my assigned task was to help move daughter, partner and child into their new abode. View over the park and harbour all for only $6000 a week. An absolute bargain. No wonder those starving refugees are beating a paddle to our antipodean doors. Back in my day we thought ourselves cochons in merde when we took up residence beneath two sheets of corrugated iron pitched together. The knack was to find iron without nail holes so as the rain wouldn't ruin the seagrass matting.

Significantly less than beer and skittles was the state of my back when I returned to the civilised and cultured village of Melbourne. Suffice to say that rolling out of bed onto the floor then slowing winching my way up the wall to attain a position referred to in most travel guides as "vertical". The screams and curses accompanying this exercise in futility have caused my less sympathetic neighbours to call out the noise abatement police on two occasions already.

From past vertebraic experiences I am in for a week of unrelenting agony. Not even the magical curative powers of hot wombat dung poultices are of any use. Distilled Bilby urine aromatherapy holds some hope for alleviating the pain. One whiff of this powerful marsupial hallucinogen renders the patient unconscious and oblivious to any pain in a trice. Sadly the mortality rate for this procedure is 100%. (If you are reading this then I am very probably clinically dead.)

Now a word for our national carrier, Qantas. Remedial. Departing for Sydney I became aware of a new exciting game of chance. Not arriving early for seat allocation means there is a high probability you will get the centre seat in the centre aisle and will be flanked by two Jabba the Huts in business suits who know little about the sanctity of other people's personal space and who are hell bent on yet another hostile takeover. They also adopt a (not so) lean and hungry look in the direction of your hermetically sealed airline *food*. (I have yet to master the art of cutting up cold, poached chicken ... maybe veal, maybe crocodile, maybe feline, possibly canine ... breasts with implements that have been manufactured from recycled Mr. Gumbys.)

Arriving very early to secure a window or aisle seat means that you will be cooling your heels in the departure lounge for departure delay part one, departure delay part two, departure delay part three, departure delay part four ... "We apologise for the delay, but we've lost one of the planes. If anyone has seen a long silvery thing with a red kangaroo painted on one of the sticking up bits could you please make your way in an orderly fashion to the Lost Property Office? We apologise for the delay, we found the plane but Pilot Godot has disappeared somewhere in the vicinity of Narelle, the Drinks Facility Manager at the "Mile High Cocktail Bar". We apologise for the delay but the time-tabler's dog has eaten the chronometer." Later hand written notes are individually delivered to the assembled Godot-awaiters apologising for the breakdown of the public address system.

If God had meant man to fly he wouldn't have created Qantas.


At this time of year the garden becomes inundated with unwanted crap. Crumpled up cigarette packets deliberately thrown over the wall! Dented beer cans! Used jonnies, old tampons and manky gloves! They land on your lavender and bend its stalks, knock over geranium tubs and flatten the lobelia growing in your hanging baskets!
So what can be done? Well, first of all we need to identify the cause of the problem...that being the little bastards who live in the house over the back of the ginnel! These resilient pests are the products of ill-bred, malignant Housing Association clients whose ignorance and parasitic abilities are only matched by the various members of the aristocracy.
When dealing with these vermin one has the choice of two courses of action.
Firstly, find out where the little shits live and then visit their houses with a bucket of dog turds. Throw the dog turds evenly all over their front lawns and, simultaneously, shout, "How do you like it you ignorant fuckers! Now keep your stinking kids away from my bastard garden or I'll shit through your letterbox next time!"
Alternatively you can wait until you catch on the little bastards in the act of flinging some bit of tat over your garden gate. Then bring a large cobblestone crashing down on the back of their soft scalps. Remember, be sure to make the blow fatal first time to avoid the child screaming and crying loudly. We don't want to attract the attention of any neighbours, do we? Then, under cover of darkness, dissolve the remains in a large bath of acid before pouring the steaming brown liquid into the drain.

Next week: The Neighbour's Barbecue: How to aim your piss at the right angle from your bathroom window to extinguish the flames and ruin their testicle burgers all in one go.

This Advertisement is sponsored by Hollywood!

For lovers of old Vaudeville jokes and Corny Crooners...

Bob Hope and Bing Crosby are back together again



Starring a host of one line unwitticisms and long dead gags.

Book your advanced tickets now. Special reductions for the cast of Last of the Summer Wine.

Monday, July 28, 2003

The forth series of the British version of Big Brother, known amongst devotees as "The really, really fucking boring one", has ended with the sort of whimper more normally associated with George Bush's PR guru. Cameron (don't ask me his second name...I don't know and I don't give a shit), the bible-bashing Scot with a flatter personality than an unfortunate hedgehog on the main Orkney Road, has walked away £70,000 the richer. Apparently he's going to use the money to repair the roof on his local church. I didn't realise corrugated iron cost that much. Sad spakko or what?
During his time in the house Cameron has admitted to being a thirty-odd year old virgin (somehow I doubt this has anything to do with his religious beliefs) and to believing that homosexuals should be torched and fed to the sheep like they are back home. And this coming from a virgin in a skirt?
Cameron is perhaps best known for wearing an armband with the letters "WWJD" on it.
"They stand for 'What Would Jesus Do?'" Cameron explained in an interview for GMTV. "Whenever I'm in a difficult situation it reminds me to ask what Jesus would do under the same circumstances."
Fuck all mate...he's been dead for two thousand years! Then again, old JC would probably have given the £70,000 to his good friend Uncle Brian for services rendered. You know the address.

Meanwhile, Deputy Prime Minister, Jabba the Prescott has been missing from our t.v. screens for over six months now and rumours are starting to circulate about his untimely death to morbid obesity. Close observers of Prime Minister's Questions have noted that Prescott's body has been replaced recently by a large, plastic statue borrowed from the forecourt of a Michelin garage somewhere in the East End.
"The truth is," commented a government spokesmoron on Sunday morning. "John has been wedged in the toilet door since shortly after Christmas, but seeing as he never did fuck all anyway we thought it'd be best to leave him there."

And finally, Liza "I'm Judy Garland's daughter, you know?" Minelli has separated from her bog-eyed, down-syndrome husband, David following a screening of Ruby Wax's interview with the couple on Friday night. Several years ago Minelli suffered a catastrophic disease that forced her brain to swell to four hundred times its normal size and get wedged in her sinus.
Said Judy of the breakdown of her agent's contract marriage, "I realised that David was making me look like a freak (Editor's note: what else is new?) so he had to go."
Having watched the programme I can say with my hand on a pig's heart that I'm honestly shocked. They seemed like such a sincere couple. Of what, I'm not sure, but they were certainly sincere about it.

Sunday, July 27, 2003

Great minds think alike, but still get different salaries.

Only the ignorant and foolish can ever be optimistic about the future. The wise are pessimistic because they've figured a few things out. Currently I'm very pessimistic about the number of optimistic people in the world. However, I'm always optimistic that pessimism might come back into fashion.