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Oh, For Fucked Snake…

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A true account of snakes and death.

The road where it all happened...

George Orwell once wrote a short, heart-wrenching essay about the death of an elephant. This won’t be like that. And it won’t be as exciting as ‘Snakes on a Plane’. This is ‘One Snake on a Road’, and I don’t think Samuel L Jackson would’ve starred in that movie:

‘Get this motherfucking snake off this motherfucking road.’

‘OK, Samuel, that’s me shifted it.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Anything else I can help you with?’

‘No, that’s fine. It was just the snake I was concerned about.’

‘Cool. You going to be OK now?’

‘Yeah. So long as there aren’t any motherfucking toads in that motherfucking grass.’

I was walking down the side of a rural road in Turkey with my girlfriend when two guys zoomed past us on reasonably shit-looking mopeds. I say zoomed. Imagine the noise of a coin-operated hair-dryer from a cheap motel passing you at the speed of evolution. One of the guys, who was rather fat – a reasonably irrelevant observation, but I just wanted you to be able to picture him; he had a moustache too, if that helps – made a sort of ‘Ahhhh-ooooop’ noise as he realised he’d ran over something. It was the noise of guilt, but a half-assed guilt. After all, he quickly discovered, he’d merely run over a snake. It’s not like it was a mouse or a puppy. ‘Fuck snakes,’ his ooooop seemed to say, ‘I actually found its maiming quite funny.’ If any crippling was to have its own pompy, trumpet-based theme-tune, then this would be the one. 

The snake after its moped incident. Not a happy snake.

We walked to the middle of the road to check how much damage had been done to the poor fella. He was a thick, long and black snake, his head, tail and body immobile. I got down on my haunches to look deep into his tiny snake eyes. They were red-rimmed and staring. His little forked tongue, still and silent, was poking out from his open jaws. Blotches of blood and bits of brain stained the concrete. I prodded his body with a stick I found near-by and watched as his length pathetically swished, curled and twitched from side to side; not knowing whether his movements were caused by some posthumous reflex, or indicative of a last-ditch fight for life. Whichever way I looked at it: that snake was fucked. 

The ideal method of reptile euthanasia.

I used the stick to push it to the grass at the side of the road. So what to do next? I’d never put a creature out of its misery before. I understood the noble inevitability behind the act of animal euthanasia in cases of extreme injury and illness, but always hoped I’d never have to administer it. Especially since this was no cosy vets’ surgery with a sterile needle and a panpipes’ tape. I was at the side of a Turkish road with a snake and a bunch of rocks.

So I picked one up. It was slightly bigger than the palm of my hand, and felt hot from the sun. It wasn’t terribly heavy, but heavy enough to turn a snake’s head into bloody mashed potato. Was I really going to do this?

‘Maybe it’ll get better and be able to slither away itself,’ worried my girlfriend. ‘Or grow a new head or something.’

Deep down, we both knew that this snake wasn’t going to dust itself off and belly into a hedge to gub a shrew. It had chomped its last rodent, terrified its last sandal-wearer. Still, the thought of pulverising this wounded creature made me feel uneasy, despite the mercy aspect.

‘You’re going to kill a snake?’ my girlfriend asked.

‘I think I’m going to kill a snake,’ I replied. 

An old Turkish peasant woman. Not the one I met, in fact this looks nothing like her. She was fatter and less buckled looking.

At that moment an old Muslim woman – head covered, and dressed in peasant apparel – approached us on her way up the road. She didn’t speak any English, but I decided to cross the language barrier by way of mime. I pointed to the snake’s unmoving body, making sure she noted its injury. Then I pointed to the spot on the road from whence I’d flicked it, making sure she saw the blood. I then mimed a man on a motorbike running over a snake. This was the strangest game of charades I’d ever played (sounds like ‘ooooooooop’). I showed her the rock in my hand, and then mimed me bashing in the snake’s head, but made sure to keep a sad expression on my face to let her know that I wasn’t relishing the prospect. After every mini-mime along the way of the long dramatisation of my intended snake-kill she shrugged her shoulders and nodded, a look of nonchalance on her leathery old face. She finally walked off, still nodding and shrugging, leaving me feeling vindicated. After all, this woman was as close to a resident expert on snakes I was likely to find. And, being Muslim, of course she was going to be supportive of a good stoning. The decision was made. I was going to kill that motherfucking snake. 

The snake's stomping (or slithering) ground.

Fine in theory, but I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t even like squashing spiders, hideous nether-beasts though they are. I clenched the rock in my hand, felt its hardness dig into the base of my fingers. I imagined what it would feel like to drive this object through living flesh, but couldn’t, having no frame of reference with which to compare. Maybe it was just resting. Maybe it was in shock, collecting its thoughts, watching its little snake life flashing before its blood-darkened eyes, waiting, just waiting, for some spark, some scintilla of strength to carry it swishing and bobbing back to the safety of its home in the long, lulling lengths of grass and swaying reeds; back to the snakestead; back to its little snake babies, and its anxious snake wife, who’d been so worried about her husband’s absence that she hadn’t even prepared his daily dinner of half-regurgitated rat, and was instead hissing a soft, sussurating lullaby to all the little baby snakes as they cried and cried and cried and cried for their SPLATT! THUD!! BIFF!! KERSPLURGE!!

Like 60’s Batman, but with more snake-blood. 

I couldn't find a picture of a smashed snake, so I chose this one of a bludgeoned woman instead.

By the time I knew what was happening I’d hammered its head about six times with the rock. Then I placed the rock on top of what was left of its skull and stomped down about another six times. Goo was on the roadside, and blood speckled my fingers. My girlfriend said I looked like a maniac. I just wanted it to be dead – medically and incontrovertibly dead – to deliver it from any further agony. The aim was to euthanise the snake, not subject it to a Guantanamo Bay-style shit-kicking.

Mission accomplished: it was dead. It now looked less like a formerly-living creature, and more like the end of a flex of cord that someone had dipped in tomato sauce. And the act of killing it had felt no more unpleasant than slamming a paperweight into a block of warm butter. Those are the kinds of sentences that serial killers smuggle out of prison when they’re writing their memoirs. ‘It all started with the snake. From there, hitch-hikers were easy…’

A German couple walking down the road saw me do it. I approached them, bloodied-rock in hand, shouting: ‘I’m not a snake murderer!’ and then attempted to explain my actions to them. They didn’t speak very good English, so I’m not sure what impression of British people I left them with.

A little farther along the road my girlfriend and I encountered a stray dog, hobbling and panting in the heat.

‘Poor beast,’ I said. ‘Looks on its last legs.’

She looked at me and smiled, ‘You’re not going to bash its head in with a rock, too, are you?’

‘No,’ I laughed. ‘No, of course not, no. Certainly not…’

‘no…’

‘…at least…’

It was a very poorly dog.

‘…I don’t think so…’

Culture Jamming Gallery – Pt1

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Culture Jamming emerged as a response to the dominance of brand advertising on our streets and in our culture. It’s basically a form of politically-motivated vandalism, through which the often false sentiments and claims promoted by ads and logos can be manipulated to reveal the horrible truths that lurk beneath.

The most popular targets of this sweeping movement are those large, ruthless, multi-million-and-billion pound corporations that permit sweatshops to operate in their name; that put children to work making gaudy trainers and stitching logos on T-shirts for 20 hours a day for a pound a week; that ignore human misery, hardship and death so long as their cash registers sing and their shareholders can buy second homes; that despoil and pollute the environment; that support fatally-corrupt regimes and brutal dictators; that silence, threaten and sue those who attempt to expose their callousness; that lie, cheat, swindle and pillage their way to the top of the FTSE in the name of liberal capitalism and expect us to be grateful for their efforts: and that will attempt to obscure their evils with an innocent shrug, a reassuring smile, a slick slogan or two and a dazzlingly colourful ad campaign.

And sometimes, just sometimes, it’s simply funny vandalism. Here’s a selection of some of my favourites:

 

 

 

 

 

A Plea to Fate

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I’m going on holiday next week, acutely aware that the odds of dying increase exponentially the farther you venture from your own fart-stained sofa (despite what all of those ads from the 80s told you, which featured old grannies being immolated by their plug sockets and big, fat guys with beards being cooked alive in chip-pan fires).

 

So this is my plea to fate, in which I don’t believe. Really, this is just a pointless ritual to make me feel better.

1) Air Disasters

None of that, please. I’ve been keeping an eye on recent news reports featuring crashes – thanks to @bigmarkdavies for his research assistance – and found evidence of at least 5 major incidents in the last fortnight. That should be plenty. You’ve had your fill, Fate. OK, the victims mostly have been Asian, but you don’t have diversity targets to hit. It’s all about the numbers, baby. Leave me out of it. By my reckoning, travelling after 5 crashes I should be virtually indestructible. Hence I’m going to remove my seat-belt mid-flight, send people texts from 20,000ft and run from side to side in an attempt to tip the plane.

2) Terrorism

I checked out the Foreign and Commonwealth Office website, and read up on Turkey. The PKK, a Kurdish separatist group, announced in March that they plan to unleash a wave of terrorist atrocities on various parts of Turkey, including resorts popular with foreign tourists. Not a bad plan, chaps, and I’m not questioning the effectiveness of your terrifying campaign, but at least wait until the English school holidays. You’ll only get one shot at this, and you’ll want to ensure a large, broad selection of targets. And nobody would really give a shit if I died, so I’m a poor choice of victim. Plus, do you really want to take the chance that John Smeaton’s on vacation in Turkey? He’d fuck your entire organisation into the ground with one swift banjo. That man makes Bruce Willis look like Willis from Diff’rent Strokes. Thank you.

3) Highly contagious disease

Hello, pathogen. Skip me, please. I don’t really go out that much, so your chances of bringing down the species by infecting me with a highly contagious, incurable disease are slim. Plus, Swine Flu already came to Falkirk, and we kicked its porcine ass. Did you kill a single person, Swine Flu? No. All you did was give publicist Max Clifford work, and allowed a young Falkirk couple to cash in on their ‘We were infected on our Mexican honeymoon’ fame so they could get a new conservatory. You failed. Spanish Flu pissed itself laughing when it heard. And Bird Flu thought to itself, ‘At least I fucked over a few swans, and made some farmers shoot themselves.’ Here’s an idea, Fate: send giraffe flu to Swansea instead.

Jamie’s Guide to Politics Pt2: The Labour Party

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It took a while for Al Jolson to get it right.

Broadly and historically speaking, the Labour party is the party of the working class. Unfortunately, there’s no longer a working class. All of the coal-miners and their descendants are now working for Scottish Power, working eighteen hours a day in cramped conditions down t’call centre, just waiting for George Orwell to write a book about them.

That’s if they work at all. Now that the steel, maritime, coal and gas industries have gone the way of the Dodo, Labour’s traditional supporters – people with tattoos who enjoy cheese sandwiches, swearing in polite company and beating their wives – are now mostly to be found signing on the dole, or having their bollocks shot off in Afghanistan.

'The next woman who takes me out is gonna light up like a pinball machine, and pay out in silver dollars.'

That’s why Labour was forced to advance and embrace the ideology of New Labour, which merged Thatcherism with a commitment to giving free money to work-shy scumbags who wanted operations for nothing, White Lightning, drugs and fags. Tony Blair was the first face of this brave new way of thinking. He was posh enough to appeal to Tories, but he called people ‘mate’ and had an ugly wife.

If John Smith was still alive, he’d definitely be bitter. Ed Milliband is the next generation of Labour leader. He was created in a laboratory by splicing the DNA of a 12 year old boy with one of those psychic aliens from Star Trek with the gigantic throbbing skulls. His vocal and oratorical capabilities were modelled on Sylvester the Cat after a horrific brain injury.

The Future

There’s been a radical re-think in recent years. Most labour supporters want to go ‘more literal.’ That’s why the existing politicians and councillors will be replaced by women who are actually in the process of child labour. Work has already been commissioned to fit hundreds of stirrups into the parliament building in Westminster.

‘Yes, the entire Labour Party will consist of women, and specifically women who are just about to give birth,’ said some guy who I think said his name was Andy, ‘This will ensure that we remain a fresh political force with a constant stream of new ideas and policies, because once one of our MPs actually gives birth, it’s out the back door and another one gets wheeled in. By a smiling Eric Joyce.’

Cherie Blair lending her support to the new initiative.

The new leader of the opposition, who will be a different person every 3 – 36 hours, will spend her time in parliament screaming abuse at the Prime Minister, and demanding morphine. ‘Do you think David Cameron will be so keen to come out with his usual smart-alec remarks when the grip of just one of these deeply hormonal, pain-ravaged women would be enough to crush the neck bones of a rhinoceros?’

Prime Minister’s Questions will now involve the speaker sitting ashen-white with terror as the hundreds of women surrounding him wail like dying animals; ‘THIS IS YOUR FUCKING FAULT YOU BASTARD DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME – ESPECIALLY YOU, ED BALLS!’, the only phrase decipherable through the tumultuous din.

Sieg Kyle – Daytime TV’s Case for Sterilisation

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I wrote the piece below about four or five years ago. These days, Jeremy Kyle styles himself on a waxwork of a waiter from the Titanic, and has taken his hectoring talk-show to the States, its spiritual home – Jamie

Jeremy Kyle has become what many of his studio guests need: an institution. He is a mainstay of modern British media culture, along with Richard and Judy, Rolf Harris and Howard from the Halifax ads.

His long-running show serves us up a daily dose of poor, stupid and ugly people with which to satisfy our voyeurism, and generally make us feel better about our own pathetic little lives. Jeremy and his production team like to pretend that each edition is a sort-of pseudo trial, designed to expose dishonest behaviour before a furious Jury of the People, an act that will surely take away the need for any real social work, and possibly save the world. It’s all about reclaiming lost dignity, punishing the sinful, mending fences and repairing lives. Is it? Is it really? Then why does it seem that all Jeremy – and, by extension, we the viewers – are interested in is humiliation on a grand scale, with the added bonus of the threat of violence?

The typical guest is from the north of England, or Scotland, possesses little in the way of teeth or intellect, and has usually been – despite resembling a walking tumour – shagging their entire home town. Paternity and lie detector tests are the order of the day. The results of the latter wouldn’t be admissible in a court of law, but anything goes in Jeremy’s daytime Kangaroo Court. That’s why there are so many big, bald men with tattoos on stand-by as security; just in case any of the big, bald men with tattoos featured as guests decide to pop Jeremy’s head off and use it as a football.

The episode I watched featured the usual slideshow of human sputum, tears and tantrums. One of the segments told the beautiful story of an adolescent male who had met and ‘romanced’ a young lady, only to find out after their brief relationship ended that his ex-beau believed herself to be pregnant with his child. He disputed the accuracy of this claim, and thus demanded that she submit to a DNA test. Once his neckless, feckless, and dietarily reckless ex-partner thundered out on to the stage, I too was pretty eager for a DNA test: to prove she was human.

The ex instantly endeared herself to the audience by free-style swearing, and nervously yet aggressively hitting her shoe. I know it’s become something of cliché to describe an inarticulate, chavish girl as being like Vicky Pollard, but this lady really is the closest match I’ve seen; in looks, speech and mental processing abilities. She couldn’t see any connection between her outright refusal to submit to a simple test that would prove she was telling the truth about her pregnancy, and Jeremy Kyle’s mounting disbelief at her story. As guests often do on the Jeremy Kyle Show, she stormed off backstage. He followed her, changing his tone from hectoring, Hellfire Baptist minister to wise, understanding uncle. ‘Never mind them out there, it’s just you and me, now,’ he said to her, or words to that effect, refusing to let the fact that millions of eyes were on them both destroy the sense of intimacy he was cultivating.

‘Why don’t you want to take the test?’ he asked her softly. Her response almost had me rolling on the floor. ‘I’m not going to go down to his level,’ she said, rolling her eyes and continuing to batter her shoe.

Some might say that once you’re sitting on Jeremy’s backstage sofa it’s a little too late to worry about dropping a level or two. This is it, Neckless. This is rock bottom.

Let’s put aside our role as collaborating spectators for a moment (yes, I’m talking to you) and ask ourselves why anyone in their right mind (I think I’ve just answered my own question) would want to appear on Jeremy’s show. I see it as a venal circus, from which few emerge with even a shred of dignity; and that’s true even of the protagonists who initially approach the producers to get their pound of flesh from someone who’s done them wrong. Why don’t the guests see it that way? I can perhaps see why a cuckolded husband would want to see an angry audience screaming at his scrawny, cheating wife; but why would the wife want to subject herself to this treatment, and vice versa where the sexes are reversed?

Who gets a phone call from the Jeremy Kyle Show and thinks, yes, yes, I do want to have a middle-aged man shouting at me in-front of two hundred people, who will also be shouting at me, while the people watching at home hiss ‘scum’ at me.

Well, perhaps you would consider going on the show if you were dirt-poor, trapped in a life you couldn’t escape, ill-educated, desperate and sincerely believed that the Kyle show was an institution primarily concerned with helping people and not with exploiting and humiliating them for advertising revenue. Or if you were getting an all-expenses-paid trip to London, and the chance for your fifteen minutes of fame, however grisly.

Certainly one thing you won’t see on the Jeremy Kyle show is a top-hat-wearing male doctor arguing with his Gucci-clad lawyer of an ex-wife about who’s going to get custody of their Shih Tzu, Phillip. Funny that.

How do the producers sleep at night? I’m sure the Nazi doctors salved their consciences by assuring themselves that their work was for the good of mankind. Maybe that’s what they do.

Our society, and care industry, must be in one Hell of a shape.

Memories of Marmaris – Pt 2

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Ah, Marmaris is beautiful. Nearby Turunc is beautiful. Everywhere I went was beautiful. On a jeep safari I saw sweeping, dusty fields, lit by the sun like the Benicio del Toro bits in Traffic; lush green forests winding over rugged rock; the snaking mountain roads skirting panoramic views you would be happy to fall towards to your death, spending your last moments snapping like some demented Japanese tourist. Out on the boats there were beautiful bays (to call them sun-kissed would be a cruel underestimation – the bays were sun-fucked); gently swaying palm trees planted in hot, jagged sand; giant, hazy-green hills standing guard over the coast-line in the distance; and water at the beach so pure, clean and clear you’d have thought it was invisible.

Tequila Islam-er

Turkey has a secular government, but culturally it’s predominantly Muslim: although you won’t find much evidence of this in Marmaris. Unless the Qu’ran’s been rewritten to include passages like this: ‘Blessed are they who cut about with their lips hanging out of their bikinis and drinking alcohol until they projectile vomit in each other’s mouths’.

You’ve got to love the woman on TripAdvisor who raged about her experience in Turkey, drawing particular attention to ‘the bloody singing from that mosque at half four EVERY morning!’ Love, I’d be annoyed if I had to put up with that racket outside of my window in Grangemouth, Scotland. Multiculturalism or no multiculturalism, I like my sleep, and if it was disturbed by a recording of some bearded Brian-Blessed-alike booming out holy shite even before the seagulls had started their daily wailing, then those speakers would be getting chucked into the River Forth. (so too, probably, would my dismembered, headless corpse, but at least I’d meet my death after a half-decent night’s sleep) But you’re on holiday in an Islamic country. Thomas Cook can’t make the Muslims renounce their religion and stop praying for a week just so you can have a nice, quiet holiday getting drunk and reading Jackie Collins’ novels by the poolside with your tits out.

Och Noo the Aye

On my first night in Marmaris, a Turkish tout asked me where I came from. ‘Scotland,’ I replied. He then made a particularly eerie noise. ‘I’m sorry?’ I asked. The penny soon dropped: he was trying to say: ‘Gonnae no dae that.’ Excellent. He then implored me to ask him, ‘How no?’, whereupon he ejaculated: ‘Just gonnae no!’ (allow me to make it clear that I’m using ‘ejaculated’ in the sense of ‘issued forth’, rather than suggesting that the poor little man was so excited by the prospect of imitating Ford Kiernan that he shot his bolt).

Another chap could tell me all about Falkirk, as ‘one of his ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex girlfriends (his words)’ was from there. As usual, the Marmaris definition of relationship is stretched to its very limits.

In the idyllic, sun-soaked bay of Turunc I encountered a man who could do a more impressively accurate Glasweigen accent than anyone of non-Scottish extraction in the history of the world. I wanted to take him home and place him in a circus somewhere. These people had done their homework. But you know why they’d done their homework, right? Correct. Every one of those cunts was trying to get money out of me. Which leads me to this next section…

The Real Hustle

Yes, Marmaris – and I’m sure all of Turkey itself – is beautiful. And, despite it being a relatively poor and horrendously corrupt country (if this piece was on Wikipedia, this is the point at which it would say: citation needed), the people are generally nice. But they do want your money: all of it. And the ingenuity they display in trying to part you from it is breath-taking.

It begins at the airport where you have to hand over an English tenner to a highly-uninterested and award-winningly grouchy customs officer. This is a down payment on all the rest of the money you’re going to have to spunk away over the course of your holiday.

My coach driver stopped off at a small café bar about an hour out of Dalaman, where I experienced my first taste of Turkish creative accountancy. Gambling correctly on me being a clueless first-timer with no idea of New Turkish Lira’s value, the little boy behind the till (well, nobody seems to use tills – they rack up your bill on a calculator) lovingly sold me two cans of juice, a large packet of crisps, one packet of chewing gum and a bottle of water for the equivalent of 7.50GBP. So much for Turkey proving dirt cheap, as I’d been promised by all who’d been before.

Then there’s the constant touting, more bloodthirsty than anything you’ve ever experienced before. One typically sunny day, my then-girlfriend and I decided to eat at a restaurant by the marina. By the time we’d downed our hideously expensive Cokes, we were being frogmarched to a jewellery store by a wee guy who spoke no English. This was after listening to a long, eloquent speech by the proprietor about how in this small world, this global community, we must all be brothers and help each other out – ostensibly by buying hideously expensive Cokes from him, and then diamond rings and leather from some dodgy cunt mate of his in town. We managed to get free glasses of water from the jewellery store owner before he sussed out we were paupers and swiftly sent us packing. I think the look in my eyes that said ‘How fucking much?’ tipped him off.

Speaking of tips, there are tip boxes everywhere. On the sides of buildings, in the backs of taxis. I wouldn’t be surprised to find them in the backs of Turkish ambulances. ‘That’s 7.50GBP for a fractured wrist, and an agreement to buy a diamond bracelet from my dodgy mate for a broken leg.’ It’s like Turkey’s handed over the responsibility for its economy to Ryanair.

If things get out of hand, Scottish people, you can always phone 'The Polis.'

Although most of the bar workers are genuinely friendly people, you won’t remember – or care about – this after day three. Certainly my tolerance to touting underwent a radical transformation. I went from cheerfully engaging in banter with every touter who chanced his luck, to imagining their sweet, sweet collective deaths at the bottom of the ocean.

People, Turkish jaikeys presumably, even crashed roll-ups from me as I walked down the street. Not that such occurrences are unheard of down Falkirk high street, but still. Which reminds me: if you can find it over there, which I managed to do, don’t buy any tobacco. The packet may say Golden Virginia on it, but you can bet your bottom dollar (it’s all you’ll have left after a week) that the contents have been swept up from a barber’s-shop floor and cut with desiccated camel shite.

 

Memories of Marmaris – Pt 1

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The cannibalisation of old material continues. Here’s a few thoughts I jotted down after a trip to Turkey a few years ago. I’m going to Turkey with my girlfriend later this year, a different part, but I enjoyed looking over old notes and reminiscing about all the beauty and sleaze the Turks have to offer holidaymakers in Marmaris – Jamie

 

Memories of Marmaris

Marmaris is a holiday resort in the south west of Turkey. It’s geared towards tourism, but the public transport is accessible enough to allow you to venture forth and enjoy towns, trails and villages off the beaten track. Also, the many excursions on offer by boat, jeep and camel are extremely good value for money, and well worth your time. That being said, it’s time for a bit of horrid honesty, and we’ll leave the wanky travelogue stuff to the late Jill Dando.

Driving Miss Daisy – Off a Cliff

The Turks have some simple, nifty ways to revolutionise the ordinary things we Scots take for granted. For example, Turkish traffic lights don’t bother with all that abstract ‘red, amber, green’ shit. The lights display a timed countdown from red to green. This innovation would be an extremely helpful stress reducer for British drivers, but the Turks seem to use it to measure how many seconds-worth of law they’ve just broken, so they can high-five their mates with the appropriate level of gusto. To say that Turkish drivers are a bunch of maniacs who care nothing for the rules of the road, health and safety, or human life, would be entirely accurate.

Turkish drivers like a bit of anger on the roads. Turkish cars must have four pedals as standard: gas, brake, accelerator and horn. And I’m sure it won’t be long before they fit Bond-style mini-missiles to their front bumpers. It’s little surprise that in 2006, according to data on the UK’s Foreign and Commonwealth Office website, there were over fife-hundred-and-eight-five thousand car accidents in Turkey. This must be a conservative estimate. Perhaps three million of the people sent to survey dangerous driving were killed by dangerous drivers before they had a chance to submit their findings.

Turk in, my son

The sexiest cunt in all of Turkdom

Turkish men walk a fine line between charm and sleaze. The bar folk are undeniably friendly, but in a tourist resort like Marmaris, this could have something to do with their commission-based pay.

Do be prepared to have your girlfriend fawned over in a way that would have you reaching for your knuckle-duster back home. And, yes, it’s true that you’ll see an enormous amount of young Turkish guys ‘courting’ gorgeous young blonde girls (for ‘courting’ read ‘trying every trick in the book in order to make them part of a living, breathing Turkish kebab before the holiday-clock ticks away, so the girl can jet off home thinking they’ve found their prince when in reality he’s already got his todger stuck in another willing waif even before the pilot guns the engine for the flight home’). This is undeniably impressive when you consider that over the summer season most of these Supermen work seven days a week, often twenty hours a day, and still find time to shag a higher quota of girls than most of us will see in a lifetime. I’m impressed, in a kind of amoral way: their wives probably wouldn’t be.

Over summer, a lot of the waiters and bar guys come to Marmaris from the far corners of Turkey to make a bit of money for their families, before totting off home with their genitalia tucked between their legs. Winters are spent as mild-mannered Clark Kents; the kind of guys who love their wives and kids and definitely do NOT shag an army of drunk slags from Essex.

Take THAT, AIDS!!!

A word of caution for the ladies out there: there is a widespread belief among a large section of the male Turkish population that the best way to counteract nasty old AIDS, chlamydia and general knob rot is not to rubber up, but to thoroughly wash your bits afterwards. Yes. We all remember that from Dove’s last advertising campaign: Tom Hanks scrubbing his balls with a bar of soap, and smiling to himself about his new promotion at work. You’re not singing any more, Bruce Springsteen.

But what kind of guys can the ladies expect to meet? I’ve calculated that Turkish workers, especially in the bars, fall in to one of three physical categories: Gay Boyband Turk; Evil Hollywood Movie Turk; and Looks Like a Turkish Version of a Well-Known Celebrity Turk. For example, my very attentive hotel clerk looked like a Turkish David Arquette, and one of the wee waiters at a local restaurant looked like he was plotting to kill Arnold Swarzenegger.

Here, pussy, pussy, pussy

Pussy on a bike

It’s strange to come from a country where cats are pampered and beloved (some rich old British ladies have even been known to leave their vast million pound fortunes to spoiled Persian cats called Tiddles) to one where cats run wild and are even considered by some to be vermin. How cute they are, though. Well, the ones that aren’t horribly diseased and bedraggled, that is. Most of the street cats are considerably smaller than your average domesticated kitty, with tiny little faces and humongous, pointy ears. I always wanted to pat them. I wandered the Turkish streets dispensing a stroke here and a clap there, willing to touch the sick and the hungry, like some kind of Christ of the Cat People. Like a Steve Irwin who deals only with animals tame enough not to skewer him through the heart with a barbed part of their anatomy.

‘Any spare change, pal?’

It is a shame, though. Turkish people don’t appear to be as enlightened as we are when it comes to animals. No real equivalent of our RSPCA seems to exist in Turkey, although animal welfare matters are slowly gaining relevance and importance thanks to the actions of various volunteer and charity organisations. Earlier this year in Marmaris there was outrage over a mass poisoning of street cats by assailants unknown (although the farming community is suspected). Unfortunately, the attempted cull was indiscriminate, and many domestic dogs, cats and other trusty pets bought the farm along with them.

Remember the Turkish men who thought that washing their bits was the best and only defence against AIDS? Well, another widespread belief held by some morons is that ingestion of pet hair can be fatal. This means, ladies, that stroking a cat is the best form of contraception.

Jamie’s Guide to Politics: The BNP

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In his high-school yearbook, Nick Griffin was voted ‘Most Likely to Make a Career Out of Racism’

At root, all the BNP wants to do is make sure that people ‘get back to their home’, which is why the organisation is so popular with taxi drivers.

Nick Griffin is the party’s current leader. When he’s not indulging in his favourite hobby of racism, Nick likes to enter look-a-like contests, and has recently come first-place in a variety of different competitions: most like Morn from Deep Space 9; most like Greenback from Inspector Gadget after a stroke; and most like David Cameron after an over-eating disorder and a motor-bike accident.

Aryan Family Guy

The BNP attracted a lot of media interest last year when it took over production of the American animated series ‘Family Guy’, and substituted Nick Griffin for Peter Griffin.

‘This is how we’ll reach the kids with our message,’ said Griffin. ‘Speak to them through popular culture; let them see me as the Fuhrer…em, the father. Like the time Hitler put himself into Mickey Mouse cartoons.’ {roll sketch}

A memo Nick Griffin sent to the production team, intercepted by news teams, spelled out the new direction he felt the show should take:

‘I’m not having a Jewish wife. Get rid of her. The baby, too. Nick Griffin doesn’t father fags. And I’m not happy about the daughter, Meg. She’s obviously a lesbian communist. Have my character send them off to camp, if you know what I mean. On the plus side, my son is a big, dumb blonde and the dog is white. I’m digging that. A final word on the neighbourhood. That neighbour of mine, the one in the wheelchair? Make it clear he was wounded in combat, or in the line of duty. If he was born that way it wouldn’t be realistic to have him survive to adulthood. As for my black neighbour and supposed best friend, Cleveland? Either kill the family off, or give them their own spin-off show to get rid of them.’

Controversy

‘Das balustrades are a fucking disgrace.’

The future of the BNP now looks uncertain. A German historian, Herr Grosse Busen, has discovered that Hitler, the party’s hero, wasn’t a racist, genocidal maniac after all.

‘The Fuhrer was actually a decorator hired by the Reichstag to brighten the place up,’ explains Busen. ‘and he was a lovely wee bloke. We know what caused the confusion. Hitler was in the main chambers, surrounded by politicians, and shouted out: “I’m going to fill all the interior spaces with colour, and widen out the mews.” But everyone thought he said: “I’m going to kill all the inferior races and coloureds, and wipe out the Jews,” and they were well up for it. Hitler only started WWII because he was too embarrassed to point out their mistake.’

Breakdown

Floella Benjamin

Nick Griffin’s nervous breakdown may serve as the final nail in the party’s coffin. He appeared on ITV’s Loose Women, and sobbed into the breasts of Floella Benjamin. As Floella stroked Griffin’s head, gently rocking him back and forth and saying, ‘Shhhhh, baby, it’s okay, it’s okay’, Griffin apologised for being a meanie and admitted that ‘he actually quite liked black people and muslims.’

Griffin is set to relaunch the BNP as the ‘Be Nice to Pakistanis’ party.

Movie Reboots – THE OMEN PIGEON

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'I'm busy, right? Got my manicure today.'

Satan’s rather busy in this modern update of The Omen. So busy, in fact, that he can’t manage his Evil Empire™ alone. Just like McDonalds, he’s franchised out his brand, allowing a series of hard-on-their-luck imps to commit atrocities in his name. Satan realises a little too late, however, that the job of asserting his bloodline in the world of man shouldn’t have been farmed out to a complete knob.

Wee-Ballsy-Bud, played with relish by TV’s Ken Barlow, is entrusted with the task of installing Satan’s son on Earth. Unfortunately, his lack of experience and ability leads him to incubate his master’s seed in Yorkshire instead of New York, and even in the wrong host species. Behold: the Omen Pigeon.

Still, it’s not all bad news. The bird quickly proves to be a chip off the old block, thereby saving Wee-Ballsy-Bud from eternal damnation (another fifteen years in Coronation Street). Securing work as a carrier pigeon, Satan’s feathery son spends his days ferrying evil messages to the unsuspecting people of Barnsley. Messages like: ‘I pecked yer dirty maw’s minge like a piece of breed’; ‘Your aunty’s actually yer maw and yer brother’s yer son’; and ‘You’re ugly, hen, I’ve done sexier shites on car windscreens.‘ Every message is written in a Scottish dialect – the international language of evil.

The only people who can stop the Omen Pigeon are hardened Vatican priests David Dastardly and Michael Muttley. They charter a bi-plane from the pope, and fly to Yorkshire hell-bent on destroying the devil’s verminous son.

The trailer for the film, which I’ve been privileged to see, shows a gripping high-speed chase at 15,000 feet. Just as the two holy warriors are closing in on their Satanic prey, the pigeon pulls a one-eighty spin, flies above them upside down, and poos straight into pious pilot David Dastardly’s eyes. As the bi-plane begins its terrifying earthwards descent, we hear the blood-curdling cry: ‘Muttley…. Doooo something!’

IF YOU LIKE THIS, YOU’LL LOVE: The Calamityville Horror. The Chuckle Brothers buy a dilapidated old house which carries legends of blood and horror, and proceed to accidentally demolish it through a series of hilarious mishaps. Also look out for: MC Hammer’s House of Horror, and The X-Factor-Cist. Simon Cowell has to find the best demon before the world ends. ‘I was expecting Linda Blair; you gave me Cherie Blair. This could be the best possession we’ve seen this series.’

Toast tae the Lassies

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This is the full text of a ‘To the Lassies’ speech I wrote and read out for a Burns’ Night my friend held at his house two years ago. Most of the assembled laughed, and understood it was all in the name of tomfoolery; one middle-aged woman sat and stared at me in the hope that she could make me die with the power of her mind. 

Toast Tae the Lassies

Women. Pffttt…

That’s all I’ve got. 

‘Does my thought-pattern look fat in this?’

That certainly won’t shock you, because traditionally men are more taciturn than women. That’s a polite way of saying that they never fucking shut up. A woman can talk for three days without getting a dry throat, without threat of an empty mouth, and on subjects as diverse as ‘blah blah blah’ and ‘shoes’.

Women don’t transmit on our frequency. That’s when they bother to speak in our language in the first place. Science has proved this. A study was done comparing communication and language between the sexes, looking at what we say, how we say it and how we are received and perceived, and it found that what a woman says, the content of their speech, isn’t NEARLY as important… as the size of her tits.

‘Do you know how hard it is to get four comfortable pairs of Jimmy Choos?’

Women project their voices like missiles. Let’s put it this way: if the female black widow could talk, it wouldn’t need to murder its mate after sex. In fact the human female’s recourse to conversation appears, to the black widow, an unspeakably savage act. A woman won’t so much argue that black is white, but that both of these are wrong, and who do they think they’re talking to?

It wasn’t always like this. We never used to have to listen to women speak. It used to be legal to hit them with a frying pan, or water-board them in a vat of warm piss. We miss those days.

For some enlightenment on the subject we have to journey back to pre-Enlightenment times, and to a man named Institoris who wrote a medieval guide to identifying and prosecuting witches. I’ll quote the preface in the Malleus Maleficarum, which reads:

Wooooooooooooooo Bo-dy Fo-horm, Body Form for yoooooooooooooo!

“Why is the treachery which leads to the practice of harmful magic and all that entails found more frequently in women than in men? Institoris lists women’s usual weaknesses – they are backbiting, vengeful, lascivious, impressionable and intellectually inferior (those are the GOOD ones) – before saying that wicked women (the qualification is important) are particularly ruled by three moral failings (just three?): infidelitas (defined as a lack of adherence to the probable truth of the reality of things invisible – you know, like men’s faults) ostentation and lust.” 

I don’t think there are many here tonight who would disagree with those sentiments. Most of this can probably be attributed to hormones, with the emphasis on moans. Yes, hormones, and the dreaded ‘P’ word, that only five men in the history of the planet have been brave enough to utter. 

Periods are like the Kaiser Soze of biological processes. The greatest trick that women ever pulled was in trying to convince the male world that periods didn’t exist. So when a woman, light and electric from blood loss and mood imbalance has stabbed you through the heart, ripped it out and fed it to you – recognise this, men: it’s your fault. 

‘Flesh, chocolate. It’s all the same to me! Nomnomnomnom!’

Anyone who’s ever worked with a group of women knows that, as a group, they’re a deadly force to be reckoned with. Throw a puppy into their midst, and get ready to make dog soup with the bones. Women working in packs are like piranhas, but with better shoes.

And then there’s the connected danger and mystical horror that is cycle synchronisation. Like when the planets align and some evil wizard uses the formation to open a Gateway to Hell. Cycle synchronisation is like a Mexican wave of hatred.

‘All this fuss over a few fucking shepherds?’

Western culture has fooled us about women. We’re raised with the image of the nurturing, peaceful mother. The kind with big loving bingo wings that would make a flying squirrel grey with envy, and a pendulous, blobby bosom that could double as a wrecking ball. A lot of people, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, believe that if women were to rule the world it would be a happy, fluffy, lovey-dovey place with no war, struggle or strife. Then along came Margaret Thatcher. Lacking a heart, Thatcher was all cunt, and the monthly blood flow was suitably redirected. The Belgrano was torpedoed, in a metaphorical sense of course, by Thatcher’s tampon. 

Women cry. This has also fooled men, who equate crying with caring, and also see crying as a last resort, like suicide, or films starring Renee Zellwegger. But crying does not equal caring, because women, rather alarmingly, cry when they’re confused, startled, hopeful, ambivalent, guilty, ticked off, jealous, happy, furious, clumsy, dopey, sneezy and horny. Maybe that last one’s just me. They never actually cry when they’re sad. No, that’s what shouting’s for.

So how did women become so powerful? What went wrong? Women’s faces not being as soft as the hands that do their dishes? Women NOT doing the Shake and Vac to put the freshness back? 

John McCririck’s favourite wanking picture.

We can trace alot of it back to the suffragette movement. Back at the turn of the twentieth century, one woman’s desire to be heard was so strong that she hurled herself under a horse. If only more women would follow this example.

They burned their bras. Why? Didn’t they realise that their resulting bad back would have to be treated by a male chiropractor?

They started to play sports! The cheek. A little tip: stick to gymnastics, or naked jelly wrestling, or we’re not fucking interested.

And now there are women in the military. Great. Whose smart idea was it to teach them how to kill? And will somebody please ask Gordon Brown much it costs to produce Kevlar vests that can accommodate pairs of breasts? Not to mention the expense of military-issue tampons. No wonder they can’t afford any fucking helicopters over there. 

‘Want to see my big vessel, Punk Space Whore?’

They’ve been in space, too. How long before we see a fatal accident due to a woman shuttle-pilot trying to reverse park behind the Mir space station? Women have no business being in space, unless it’s to get shagged by Captain Kirk.

A lot of people say that women are just good for cooking, cleaning, shagging and gestating young. This isn’t true. They’re quite good with curtains, too. But it is true that the new power that women hold, especially in employment, is dangerous.

Allow me to expand.

  • A chick Doctor in Harrogate lost a false fingernail in a man’s lower intestine, causing his bowel to fall out.
  • A female bus driver in Darlington caused a twelve-car pile-up reading Woman’s Own while negotiating a roundabout. The drivers of the twelve cars hadn’t the time to react, as they were all doing their make-up at the time.
  • A female pilot lost control of a Boeing 747 because she was crying about a hungry cat she’d seen in her garden that morning.
  • A female soldier shot half of her own battalion as she stumbled across hostile terrain wearing stilettos.
  • In France, a bint can kill you if she can prove to the court she was on her dabs.

Sobering stuff.

I hope you don’t think I’ve been chauvinist or misogynistic tonight. This is not misogyny. It’s self-defence. Because although we love women – those deliciously mad, sexually-sociopathic Hell-dogs with tits – we must handle them carefully – like bombs, or rabid ferrets. We must love them like blow-up dolls filled with sixty per cent cotton wool to forty per cent sharp but rusty potato peelers.

Let’s raise a glass to the fairer sex.

Here’s tae ye!  

Movie Reboots – 28 JAMES MAYS LATER

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The BBC Top Gear boys get to grapple with rabid monsters in this novel re-imagining of Danny Boyle’s gory zombie thriller.

It begins innocently enough. James May is depressed because he is unable to keep up with Richard Hammond and Jeremy Clarkson: the duo are currently appearing in every single television show broadcast in Britain. So, with the help of an unhinged BBC executive, James May decides to clone himself. Unfortunately, things, as they always do in these sorts of movies, go horrifically wrong.

The cloning machine turns out to be faulty. ‘Because it was manufactured in Germany…’ Clarkson later tells us, ‘by French engineers… you think they would have learned… about teaming up… after they collaborated on the Vichy government.’

The clones are all evil, and quickly dismiss the reason for which they were created. They certainly prove to enjoy the taste of brains more than the taste of fame, ably demonstrated when they crack open the head of the original James May like it was an egg, and eat the goo within. And, because they’re James Mays, they even use the correct cutlery.

It’s not long before the James Mays are chomping their way across the country. Each bite turns its victim into a drooling, savage, and psychopathically famished James May, adding to their terrifying numbers. The only words they can speak are ‘Would you mind awfully if I just killed you?’ Within hours, Britain is literally swarming with James Mays, and there are only two men who can stop them: Hammond and Clarkson.

‘Well, if there’s one thing of which we can be sure,’ drawls Clarkson, ‘…it’s that May’s about as quick… as a Fiat Panda… that’s been engineered in Poland… by a one-armed Serbian goat herder… with AIDS…’

Their sluggishness makes them easy to deflect and herd into a giant vineyard, a feat the twosome accomplish through a combination of Hammond’s dazzlingly white teeth, and Clarkson’s increasingly loud and unhelpful comments about foreigners.

‘I’ve not been involved in many post-apocalyptic scenarios… except if you count my recent trip to Belgium…’ Clarkson says, ‘but I’ve got to say… that this must be… one of the greatest threats that mankind has ever faced… in the world.’

IF YOU LIKE THIS, YOU’LL LOVE: It’ll Be Alright on the Night of the Living Dead. Dennis Norden (who has been dead for thirty years) takes us through the most side-splitting (literally, in some cases) zombie mishaps and outtakes. See also: I am Legless. Will Smith fights his way through New York, beating people up, talking to dummies, shooting zoo animals, playing golf off the top of skyscrapers, and sleeping in his bath, until somebody points out that he’s just had a bit too much to drink. Out later this year, the terrifying House of Ruby Wax.

Do it the George Gallo-Way

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What’s the difference between Tony Soprano and George Galloway?

One’s a tough-talking, narcissistic, sociopathic, cigar-smoking adulterer, and the other one’s from New Jersey.

There’s a scene in ‘The Weight’, a season 4 episode of HBO’s The Sopranos, in which mob boss Tony Soprano covertly directs one half of a telephone conversation between Ralph Ciffaretto, one of his underlings, and Johnny Sack, a New York mob family underboss. Tony wants to make sure Ralph says the right things – and avoids saying the wrong things – to prevent further escalation of hostilities. Tensions are high between Ralph and Johnny: Ralph made a crack about the size of Johnny’s wife’s ass; somebody told Johnny; and now Johnny’s looking for blood.

Ralph: sorry seems to be the easiest word

Tony counsels Ralph to deny the allegations vehemently, and warns him that under no circumstances should he apologise. Ralph ignores Tony’s advice and, while still protesting his innocence, decides to apologise to Johnny in the interests of harmony and goodwill. That decision sets Ralph and Johnny on a course that puts both of them in mortal danger, and risks losing Tony a lot of money.

The moral is clear: never apologise. It’s weak, and makes you look guilty: especially if you are. This simple strategy worked for Tony Soprano, and it’s certainly doing the trick for ‘Gorgeous’ George Galloway. One stray ‘I’m sorry’ from the lips of the Teflon Don-donian at any point throughout the last few decades could have sunk his entire career.

'SPUNK LOVING SLUTS!'

Galloway knows that the world loves a larger-than-life character; a fighter; a righteous rebel. Where Winston Churchill – another famous cigar smoker with attitude – held two palm-facing fingers aloft to symbolise peace, Galloway prefers them flipped around to spell out ‘Fuck you’ with his fingernails. A large part of his appeal – and strength – is in his utter refusal to back down from any opponent, to answer for his actions or to show any contrition whatsoever for his apparent misdeeds.

And, let’s not forget, Galloway is the only politician ever to have uttered the words ‘spunk-loving sluts’ in parliament, and for that alone I will love him forever. Go on, Google it. Youtube it.

They say that great men become great by standing on the shoulders of giants. Galloway’s managed to keep himself astride the world of politics by standing on the shoulders of the underdogs. First, he spoke for the working class masses of Glasgow, then he gave a voice to those affected, both ethically and actually, by the occupation of Iraq, and now he’s championing the UK’s arab and muslim minorities. Galloway denies that he’s a demagogue, but it’s hard not to view him as Dundee’s answer to Gaius Baltar, a man ready to shed or cultivate any allegiance that will secure him power and a public platform with which to showcase his tub-thumping.

That being said, I’ve got something of a soft-spot for the little firebrand, and I even find myself agreeing with him from time to time…

And I’m not going to apologise for that. But, then, neither am I going to apologise for this:

GALLOWAY FUN FACTS

1) Galloway smokes a cigar. This makes him cool by default, because Winston Churchill, Tony Soprano and Che Guevara all smoked cigars, too, right? Wrong. Jimmy Saville also smoked cigars.

 

 

2) Galloway’s support for the Palestinian cause was lent extra credibility through his ability to look the arab world in the face and proclaim: ‘Of course I’m pro-Palestinian. I’m fucking one, aren’t I?’

 

 

3) Eric Joyce looks at George Galloway with envy. ‘Galloway’s shagged his way through just about every nationality on earth, cheated on his pregnant wife and enjoyed cavorting with younger women. If only I hadn’t apologised for MY behaviour I could have bounced back like him.’ When Eric Joyce thinks this way about Galloway, he gets much the same feeling as Gary Glitter gets when he thinks about Michael Jackson. In a nutshell, Glitter thinks he’d be on T4 if he’d fucked boys and danced better.

 

4) Born in Dundee, George Galloway is a big fan of The Broons.

 

 

 

5) George Galloway went on Celebrity Big Brother to teach Britain’s youth about politics, which he successfully achieved by pretending to be a robot and licking invisible cream from Rula Lenska’s fist.

 

 

6) On the same programme, George Galloway championed the great British underdog Michael Barrymore by harnessing all his powers of rhetoric and being right mean an’ that about the entertainer’s alcoholism and mental illness. Barrymore’s not bitter, though. He’s still invited Galloway to his ‘CBB 2012 Reunion Pool Party’.

 

7) Galloway’s represented the Hillhead constituency in Glasgow, campaigned and conquered in Bradford, and toured the war-torn, bomb-savaged Middle East, and he still hasn’t found anywhere as shit as Dundee.

 

 

8 ) Galloway has his own show on TalkSport, where he can reach that all-important demographic of medicated housewives, racist taxi-drivers and truck-driving serial killers.

 

 

9) Galloway said the address he made saluting Saddam Hussein’s ‘indefatigability’ was taken out of context. ‘It’s like when two lorry drivers from the same haulage firm pass each other and toot on the motorway. It’s respect. I wasn’t saluting HIS indefatigability, but the indefatigability of his smashing moustache.’ Galloway claims that only one other moustache on earth has moved him in this way: that belonging to Denny-born comedian Bob Graham.

 

10) George Galloway has eleven testicles.

 

 

 

 

11) Galloway vowed he would ‘never become a Conservative’ because ‘their birds are well ugly.’

 

 

 

12) The only nationality of woman that Galloway has never slept with is an Eskimo. And he’s working on that.

 

 

 

13) Galloway was born and raised a Roman Catholic, but his last few wives – and weddings – have been Muslim. So which is he? On the one hand, he’s a sex-obsessed hyopcrite. On the other hand, he’s a complete bastard to women. I guess he’s both. 

 

 

14) George Galloway thinks the relationship between Tony Soprano and this article was incredibly tenuous. I’m sorry about that.

 

 

 

Movie Reboots – WHITE VAN MAN HELSING

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Dracula: nonce.

‘Bloody place is crawlin’ with fakkin’ vampires,’ says White Van Man Helsing in the film’s first scene. ‘Why can’t they all just fakk off back to Romania?’

Helsing, played by Ray Winstone, snarls these words as he pulls up outside Castle Dracula in his dodgy white van. The action takes place not in Transylvania, but Hackney, where Dracula has built his castle using taxpayers’ money and PFI subsidies. Armed only with a lifetime’s worth of knowledge amassed from The Sun, and fingers of steel thanks to thirty-five years of arse scratching, Van Man Helsing has his work cut out for him. Especially since he refuses to use traditional methods to take down his nemesis. ‘Garlic? Bloody Frog cunts would love it if I used garlic, wouldn’t they? Not until those European nonces let us have our fakkin’ bendy bananas back!’

'Ooooy! You causin' bubble, you pointy-toothed slag?'

‘The Wolfman is alright,’ Helsing tells his apprentice, Danny Dyer, played by TV’s Danny Dyer, ‘at least ee can look after ’imself in a scrap. But that muppet up there, readin’ his bloody books, ’avin bloody orgies and suckin’ ar bloody British blood without liftin‘ a finger to pay tax? Makes my bloody British blood boil, so it does!’

Helsing manages to take out Dracula by force-feeding him a bag of Greggs’ pies until the count succumbs to a massive coronary. ‘Steak-and-kidney pie froo the ‘art,’ he quips, ‘Bloody mug.’

IF YOU LIKE THIS, YOU’LL LOVE: DSS Interview With the Vampire. Tom Cruise has a tough time convincing the council that his disability benefits are kosher. Especially since they’ve got a video of him draining a virgin while he’s been claiming for a bad back.

Movie Reboots – AN AMERICAN TEENAGE TEENWOLF IN LONDON, TOO

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'Woof, woof!'

The reboot retains the spirit, and much of the premise, of its 1980s source films. We follow the travails of John Werewolf, a geeky young American exchange student, as he enrols at Lupine Academy, a Cornish comprehensive school on the brink of financial collapse.

After John is bitten by a werewolf (played with menace by ex-weatherman Michael Fish) he develops the ability to transform into a man-wolf. This comes in handy when he’s asked to represent Lupine Academy in a national schools’ sporting tournament, where his powers just might win the school a large cheque that could rescue it from doom.

John Werewolf: 'All the better to chew you with, my dear!'

Where the new ‘Teen Wolf’ differs slightly from the Michael J Fox versions is, for one, the choice of sport. You won’t see any basketballs here. Thanks to sweeping education cuts in the PE department, Lupine Academy can only afford a darts team. Also, there’s a little bit more evisceration, head ripping, rape and bowel chewing in this one. The UK’s racing pundit John McCririck has great fun as John Werewolf: using his opponents ripped-off fingers as darts; throwing the violated corpse of Jim Bowen into a cheering crowd; wielding a shredded beer belly during a gruelling fight to the death with Bully; and, at one point, even taking a shot from too far over the oche.

Jonathan Ross said: ‘McCwiwick’s Amewican accent is a wittle hard to swawwow at times, but his haiwy man-tits,’ he admitted, ‘are just wight.’  Film Thrice-Yearly gave it one hundred and eighteeee out of ten.

IF YOU LIKE THIS, YOU’LL LOVE: Are You Being Severed? Werewolf John Inman savages Mrs Slocombe’s pussy with his sharp incisors.

Space Raiders Killed My Son

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This is a letter I (as Alison Tuvoices) wrote in 2003, and genuinely sent to KP Foods. I’ve always regretted not using a real name and return address. What did I think they would do? Hunt me down? Sue me? Sick the Space Raiders on me? They probably just smirked and then shredded the letter. The ‘fun facts’ mentioned in the letter now no longer appear on the backs of Space Raiders’ packets; they haven’t since 2010. What can I say, I’ve really got my finger on the pulse. Anyway, the cannibalisation continues… – Jamie

Dear Sirs

Space Raiders re: Intention to Sue

It is hard, in this day and age, to cushion your offspring from the horrors of the world. This task is made all the more difficult by sick companies such as yours (KP? What does it stand for? May I suggest ‘Killer Produce’?) with absolutely no regard for the sanctity nor the sanity of the consumers you seek to damage, exploit and murder. I thought my son was safe. I thought I’d done a good job of protecting him. Enter KP foods, stage left.

Just try to imagine my surprise when I returned home from a hard day’s work as a crack-whore to find my son lying in his bedroom amidst a nest of empty crisp wrappers, crying his eyes out but unable to stop himself from shoving clammy-handfuls of crisps into his fat gob!

‘What’s wrong, little Timmy?’ I asked. But Timmy is far from little, I can assure you. Thanks to the evil actions of your criminal empire, my eight year old son weighs as much as a couch. In fact, the whole suite.

‘It’s the aliens, mummy,’ he wailed, through a mush of crisps and a veil of tears. ‘I have to stop them!’

‘What on Earth do you mean, little Timmy?’ I asked. And that’s when he pointed at an empty bag of Space Raiders and implored me, through a glob of beef snacks, to read it and share his pain. And so I did.

Now, I am fully aware that you will know your own sickening mantra cum promotional evil off by heart, spawned as it was by your own vile and Hellish minds, but, in the interests of clarity, allow me to repeat it:

They came… From the darkest depths of the uncharted cosmos… THE SPACE RAIDERS Brightly coloured, bug eyed, bad guys with really big brains and easily enough technology to take over the planet. The only thing that can stop the Space raiders imminent invasion of the Earth is the sound of munchin’ crunchin’ snacks! So finish off this pack and go get another… before it’s too late!

Before it’s too late! So, in my Sumo-son’s effort to both save the known universe and stave off a multitude of panic attacks he has, to date, spent almost four and a half thousand pounds of his pocket money, my drugs-and-whoring money, and a great deal of my credit card limit on Space Raiders. To pour more salt (and, indeed, sugar) into the wound, he developed a form of diabetes so severe that he has to inject himself with insulin more times a day than I do myself with heroin.

What kind of a world is this we live in where people like you can warp the minds of impressionable youths and destroy their futures with complete and Satan-sealed impunity from prosecution? If only the torment had ended there! May I direct you to the ‘fun facts’ printed on each of the flavours of your disgusting product. Perhaps ‘Hellish facts designed to drag your weak and vulnerable children down deep into the fiery bowels of Hell to be disgorged and dismembered by the Lord Beelzebub himself’ would have been more appropriate, although I appreciate it probably wouldn’t fit on the packet.

Let me turn your attention to the ‘fun fact’ printed on the packet of your Beef flavoured ‘snacks’. It reads as follows:

ALIEN FUN FACT There is no such thing as a grey alien, in fact they are all bright colours, usually red, yellow, blue, green and purple. They only turn grey when you feed them with Beef-flavour snacks. So, go on, take the colour out of their faces and feed them as many Beef snacks as you can.

It may not take a vast leap of intelligence to see the relationship between cause and effect once I begin my heart-wrenching tale of horror. My crippled mother, moaning and gasping her last on her urine-soaked death-bed, let it be known that she wished to bequeath something to me that was very valuable to her. Unfortunately it was not her Bentley, as I had hoped, but something of an altogether more sentimental value. Since my mother has never given me anything but beatings and a strange fetish for silk stockings, you can imagine I was moved to tears by the old bitch’s intended legacy. She left me Geoffrey, her forty-five year old red, green, blue, yellow and purple parrot.

Are you a step ahead of me now, you evil swines? So, my demented son, believing Geoffrey to be a multi-coloured alien on a ruthless mission to enslave the human race, dutifully stuffed that feathered bastard full of five hundred and eighty-seven packets of Beef flavoured Space Raiders. And, do you know, much as your Beef-mantra predicted, Geoffrey did turn grey? He was fucking dead!

‘Mummy, the packet was right!’ Timmy cried, as I hit him with a snow-shovel.

To fill the void that Geoffrey’s terrible death had left in my heart, one of my Johns bought me a beautiful, fluffy Persian cat. I named it Cecil, after Cecil Parkinson. Perhaps I should have thought to consult, like some twisted Horoscope, the blurb on the back of your pickled onion snacks before welcoming another life-form into my home. May I direct you this time to the filthy pish you have splashed across the back of these Hell-snacks:

ALIEN FUN FACT Many people claim to have been abducted by aliens. This is a myth – Space raiders only abduct cats. They make them really fluffy, put little aliens inside their heads and then send them back to earth to spy on us…we call them Persian cats. You’ll never see a fluffy Persian cat eating Space Raiders snacks.

And so as I wandered out into the back garden to toss off my thoughtful John as a show of thanks, imagine my dismay at catching little Timmy bent over Cecil with a rusty hacksaw, the poor beast’s head lying meaowing and bloodied on the ground, as Timmy proceeded to slop out the goo inside.

‘But mummy,’ he said as I raised the spade, ‘he was one of them! He wouldn’t eat the Space Raiders!’

As Salt and Vinegar is my favourite flavour of crisps in the whole wide world I found it doubly difficult to accept that you could both warp my arsehole of a son even further and sully the good name of Salt and Vinegar at the same time. Since the ‘fun fact’ contained on this packet does not directly advocate the murder of animals, but instead opts to distort and violate the authority of Timmy’s history teacher {…they (the Space Raiders, of course!) built them (the sodding Pyramids!) out of bits of giant plastic and made them look very old just to confuse us humans!}, I’ll curtail my venom in this instance.

Ms Tuvoices

Suffice to say, Timmy was expelled for becoming unruly and hitting Mr Gilhouley in the ghoulies infront of the school bullies with a bottle of Dooleys he’d bought from Woolies, and now no other school will accept him because, and I quote, ‘…he is a complete piece of skum with the brain of an alcoholic maggot on acid.’ I’m quoting myself, of course.

I have since had to have my son put down. I hold you accountable for both the vets bill and a damage pay-out somewhere in the region of forty million pounds. I have arrived at this figure through consultation with my schizophrenic alter-ego, who assures me that the sum is a modest one given the circumstances. You will, of course, be hearing from my lawyer.

And you can tell the Space Raiders to expect a call as well. If they think they’re going to get away with this, they’ve got another thing coming.

Yours dementedly,

Alison Tuvoices

PS Tonight while you sleep I will suffocate your pets with a Bag-For-Life from Lidl’s. Incidentally, they’re only about thirty pence and are pleasingly durable. Worth a look the next time you’re popping in. Take care now.

I’m Dead… I’m Dead… You Know it… I’M DEAD

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I’m still cannibalising material from the previous incarnation of this website; hence why the following is my review of a television programme that aired more than three years ago. Still, it involves ‘getting it roond’ Derek Acorah, and there’s no expiry date on that. Enjoy. – Jamie

The Michael Jackson Seance – Sky 1

“If Michael was here, would he call you crazy?”

So asked presenter June Sarpong of David Gest moments before the big Michael Jackson Live Seance kicked off. This was a bit like asking Nick Griffin: ‘If Hitler was here, would he call you racist?’

June had just appeared on an hour-long programme preceding, and building up to, the main seance. She ratcheted up our sense of anticipation by reminding us that she had ‘got quite close to Michael’ during her LA quest. Hmmm. Close perhaps only in the sense that when I stretch my arm out as far as it can go, I get ‘quite close’ to the fictional planet of Cuntypandy in the entirely made-up Sookyermaw galaxy, fifty billion light years away.

‘He was a weird-faced, sinister-looking, child-like freak,’ said Michael Jackson.

David Gest was there to lend June a hand. Good choice. Gest himself is a man no stranger to planets billions of light years away. He cheerfully name-dropped his way through just about every celebrity he’d ever met thanks to Michael, careful to turn even the most bland and innocuous questions about Michael’s life into a story somehow involving himself and Stevie Wonder. And if it’s a tinge of credibility you’re after who better to have in the studio than a man who actually states that he’s ‘crazy’ live on-air, and then tells you that ‘he believes in leprechauns too’? If only he’d gone for the bampot hat-trick and started battering himself over the head with a hammer. Incidentally, top marks to the Sky controller who saw fit to run a Sky Real Lives’ promo about dwarves and little people immediately after this segment. Pot of gold for that man.

‘I’m bad.’

Still, who am I to mock? I’ve been waiting for this super-duper, supernatural event for months; salivating at the thought of King of Pap Derek Acorah getting his hammy gnashers into the King of Pop.

The venue for the seance was an Irish cottage in which Michael Jackson once stayed when he was putting together a new album. Already we could tell Derek loved a challenge. Never has the old cliche ‘looking for a needle in a haystack’ been more aptly analogised: in this case, looking for the ghost of one dead paedophile amongst a legion of dead pederast priests. I guess it would be more apt to say: ‘It’s like looking for a needle in a needle-stack.’

These cunts can vote and have children, you know.

Still, ‘renowned medium’ Derek Acorah was up for the sift. Alongside him at the seance table were four emotionally-unhinged Jacko fans, two of whom were King of Pop impersonators. The readiness to believe among them was running so high even before they’d formed their circle and sought spiritual protection, that if Derek had brought out a box of Weetos and claimed it was an incarnation of Michael Jackson they probably would have asked it to do the moonwalk. And then fucked it.

Sarpong asked the ‘superfans’, looking collectively like they’d fought in the Christmas Panto regiment of the Whackjob’s army, how they’d coped in the months after Jackson’s death.

‘You’ve just got to keep going, meditate, think through it,’ said the loony female one that looked a bit like The Joker’s even crazier sister.

‘I feel like a part of me has died,’ said another, ‘I miss him every day.’

‘It hasn’t sunk in that he’s passed away,’ said one of the impersonators. I thought to myself, ‘May I suggest that you let that particular nugget of information sink in quickly, son, because you’re about to raise him from the fucking dead.’

Anyway, there was no time to lose as Derek got word from his spirit guide, Sam, that Michael was almost ready to join them. I liked how everyone at the table seemed reassured of Derek’s abilities once his invisible friend had given the nod that Jacko was in the building.

Mad Hatters’ C.U.N.T Party.

They all joined hands, although Derek did allow them to connect with one of Jacko’s hats that he’d placed in the centre of the seance table. One of the spangly-gloved superfans seemed reluctant to stop touching it, long minutes after the rest of them had decided to salvage what little dignity they had left and keep their hands to themselves. Even when Derek was rabbitting on about ‘residual energies’ and ‘thought pattern residues’ and ‘love giving us the power to go on’, this guy was still stroking the brim of Jackson’s hat in an incredibly intimate, sexual way. It was like glove porn. Hot glove-on-hat action. Extreme brimming.

‘I just can’t believe that’s his hat,’ said another of the wide-eyed psychopaths. I just can’t believe, I thought, that you daft, ugly cunts are sitting there with a half-daft Scouse maniac thinking you’re about to chat to a dead, dancing paedophile with a melted face.

A digested Ghost Kebab threatens to tear Acorah’s arsehole apart like a chicken.

So, finally, to the seance itself. Derek’s channelling technique is a joy to behold. Strained and sweating, he looks like a heavily constipated man who occasionally sees a moth flying past his head. And can somebody please explain to me why every spirit Derek channels talks like a Shakespearian character? ‘Hang on, my aunty Betty never sounded like Ophelia.’

Sam, of course, is always there to help him. He’s the ghosty go-between. ‘Sam… Sam… Sam..,’ Derek kept saying. If he had any sense of humour at all, Derek would have shouted out: ‘Who the Hell is Sam Wheat?’ He didn’t, unfortunately. It is funny, though, how Derek can reel off these big, wordy, stage-script-like speeches – stuttery yet fluently – yet when he tries to evoke or decipher a person’s name it takes him about ten minutes and twenty attempts.

Derek eventually uttered the predictable names ‘Samuel’ and ‘lovely Crystal’. Wow, Michael Jackson’s grandparents! How could Derek possibly have known about them? Oh, Wikipedia. I see. Still, it’s quite uncanny how some of Jackson’s first words were ‘journalists…journalists…journalists… they tell lies upon lies upon lies (tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, oh where for art thou etc.)’. What, was there some recent tabloid controversy surrounding Michael Jackson or something? How could Acorah have divined such exclusive knowledge? How wholly and completely unpredictable for ‘Jackson’ to have come out with that.

The Thriller Who Became Vanilla. And then fucking melted.

There were many, many highlights during the seance. Derek channelling Michael Jackson with laryngitis being one. One of the idiots at the table breaking down in a flood of tears as Derek/Michael tells him that love ‘oozes’ from him was another. But the best was when Derek, clearly struggling for things to say, got ‘possessed’ by Michael and pointed to one of the superfans and said: ‘You, say hello to Quincy Jones for me,’ and the superfan looked Derek square in the eyes, all serious faced, and said: ‘Hello, Quincy Jones.’ You daft, deluded cunt-rag.

A triumph, then. A wonderful piece of entertainment. I haven’t enjoyed a television programme so much since one of the contestants on Countdown got the word ‘WANKER’. And I doubt I’ll enjoy one this much again until the day they broadcast Stevie Wonder and David Gest wrestling oily, disabled midgets for cash.

A closing word from Michael? ‘He’s going to go very close to his beloved children,’ Derek told us.

It’s a shame that Heaven hasn’t reformed Jackson.

He never asked about his fucking monkey, either.

THE END

 

 

Let it RIP – The Farting Preacher

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Inspired by the infamous YouTube videos featuring ‘The Farting Preacher’ I simultaneously created and killed off my very own farting preacher character. He only exists in the confines of this obituary. This is his story.

OBITUARY

Hank in happier times. One mouth mic, one cheek mic.

Hank “Oh, God I Love Jesus” O’Flatulence, aka the self-styled Farting Preacher, sadly gassed away peacefully in his sleep in the early hours of yesterday morning, at his home in Redneck, Texas. Doctors cited bottom complications as the major reason for his demise: the unfortunate physical side effects of a life-long connection betwixt chocolate-starfish and the Almighty.

The first time that the Lord used young Hank Bannen’s (he changed his surname to O’Flatulence in 1972) arse as a conduit for his holy message, it saved Hank’s life. Wounded while trying to subdue an unruly nigger, Hank was thrown down the slope of a mountain, where he would have lain undiscovered until his death were it not for his peculiar anal divinity.

Lineker tries to get in on the act.

Hank recalled, in an interview with Gary Lineker in 1987: ‘I was just lyin’ there, and the wind was knocked out of me. Or so I thought, Gary. I just couldn’t get the words out. And I just knew I was close to death, I could feel God whispering in my ear. My momma and papa were calling out for me, calling out, all of the time, and they walked right by the bush I was lying in, and I thought to myself, God, if you can hear me, please help me, and I will be your servant in this world for the rest of my life.’

Both sides made good on the deal. Hank claims that God chose that moment to send through him a powerful rush of wind that culminated in the most explosive fart that Hank’s father had ever heard, or ever would hear.

‘In fact I shit myself,’ remembered Hank.

The local ‘community’ rallying to help Hank. Shortly before he killed them all.

Young Hank was discovered and found himself on a sacred path that would lead to the foundation of his church and the harnessing of the awesome and Heaven-blessed power of his holy fart-factory. ‘My cheeks are my church and my farts are my sermon,’ was a phrase that Hank would later coin.

Hank met and married his sweetheart, Groin Masterton, whilst a roving missionary for the Church of the Dead N***** in Dallas, Texas. He was 22, she was not yet 20. In fact, she was 14.

‘She had great tits even at that age,’ Hank remarked to the judge during his 1967 trial. He recalled the story to Frank Bruno, who had the opportunity to interview him in 1993: ‘I knew what I was doing was wrong in the eyes of the law, but the only law I followed was God’s Law, and it bowed down to nothing.’

Holy Cow!

Again, Hank sought guidance from the Lord before committing to his path. ‘I asked him, I said, God? God, if I’m bound to take this girl as my wife, you just got to tell me. And she was there with me, and we waited, we waited a few minutes, and I swear that when that burst o’ guff ripped out of me, it sounded like it said “Yes, my son”.’

Masterton later claimed that, in fact, it had sounded like a motorbike. Again, and not for the last time, Hank had shit himself. ‘It just showed how keen the Lord was for this union to happen,’ he told Jocky Wilson in 1979.

Hanks sermons were soon as empty as his colon.

Hank suffered a crisis of faith in 1975 during a prolonged bout of constipation that lasted months. Convinced that the Lord had forsaken him, or that he had done something to anger him, Hank set off on a journey to Asia to immerse himself in the mountainous wilderness. It was his hope hat he would be able to rekindle his faith and purify his soul. Speaking to Ayrton Senna shortly before the Frenchman’s tragic death, Hank admitted that he found it hard to be around people: ‘I would be in a crowded room, or in the church, and I’d hear a fart, and I’d just flip out, you know, lose it. I’d be calling to God, saying “What was that, God?” and going up to people and shaking them, trying to shake loose some more of the Good Lord’s words from their bellies. I guess I was jealous of them, cleanse my soul.’

A nervous breakdown followed during which time Hank ate nothing but boiled cabbage, broccoli and Heinz beans. From that point on people were expressly forbidden from farting in front of Hank lest he ended up in the local mental institution, which was called The Local Mental Institution. ‘It got that bad,’ said Masterton. ‘Even if he smelt one he’d cry.’

His efforts to kick-start his colon were in vain, and the Lord seemed to have turned His back on Hank’s crack.

Mysterious Nepalese nomadic monk, Ho Ya Dansa.

Whilst on his sabbatical in the Nepalese mountains, Hank had the good fortune to meet a nomadic monk called Ho Ya Dansa. This chance encounter between two deeply spiritual people probably saved Hank’s soul. Dansa spent many months teaching Hank to cleanse his mind, to allow God to flow through his body again. With the little English he knew, Dansa implored him to ‘be the fart’, a mantra that Hank would never, ever forget. In an interview with Jim Bowen from Bullseye a few weeks before his death (Hank’s, not Jim’s! Phew, relax! You’d have heard about that!), Hank praised Ho Ya Dansa: ‘He was patient with me, and I thank him. He put me into this stance and he sat there and he waited for 96 hours, Jim, never moved, never blinked, just meditated, he just waited for everything to be alright. And out it came, man… after all those months, out it came.’

Dansa was hideously maimed in the resulting blast and lost half of his face and three-quarters of a testicle. ‘It was God’s will,’ said Hank. ‘Besides, the guy was a l’il yella Ching Chong. These guys don’t even get to Heaven.’

Hank’s in heaven now. And this is what he’s doing.

Hank rarely spoke, except during interviews, for the last decade of his life. His church, The Church of the Holy Contemporary Christian Bowel Movement, had cemented itself in the hearts of Texans, and the church eventually expanded worldwide to rapturous acclaim. During his time as pastor he learned to communicate solely through farting. ‘He was a genius,’ smiles Masterton. ‘Years of practise. He learned to control the inflections, the volume, the pitch, the intonation. We’d talk about everything that way, and there was nothing he couldn’t say. Sometimes the Lord would chip in, like we were having a conference call through his asshole.’

Hank O’Flatulence is survived by his wife, Groin O’Flatulence nee Masterton, and his children Squeaker, Ripper, Puffer, Claw, Trump and David O’Flatulence, who are all gay. Hank never hid the shame he felt for his dirty children. Speaking to Sponge Bob Square Pants in 1999, he said: ‘That hole, man, it’s a conduit for God’s word. That’s God’s mouth. My children are allowing God to be fucked in the face, and that’s something I hope they burn in Hell for like a fat pig on a stick.’

Nutkins: ‘I don’t want to fucking live anymore.’

Showbiz friends were quick to praise the late O’Flatulence. A mournful Rowan Williams masturbated into a pie Floella Benjamin had made out of her own fetid excrement. This later transpired to have had nothing whatsoever to do with Hank’s death. Terry Nutkins shot himself in the eye with snake venom he was so consumed by grief. One of The Saturdays cut off an eyelid and then threw herself onto a concrete sandcastle from 10,000 feet. Prime Minister David Cameron bit off his own elbow and used it to suffocate a poor person, who was later burned. Girls Aloud entered into a machine-gun suicide death pact live onstage once they heard the news. Stephen Hawking changed his voice to a motorbike fart, and then drove through as many war funerals as possible. Bruce Willis, who’d been filming his new summer-smash ‘Pie Hard’, touchingly said of Hank: ‘Who the fuck is Hank O’Flatulence?’ Willis is now set to play him in the upcoming film of his life.

Willis: ‘I smell dead people.’

Masterton is organising a tribute to her deceased husband. ‘We’re going to get millions of people to join hands across all of the states and let off a big one.’ Farts Across America is planned for next month. Worried environmentalists fear that the international community will be up in arms over this stunt, which they predict will add to the anger felt over the Kyoto treaty. ‘This could blow Arkansas all the way to Bolivia and start a new ice age,’ claimed a bearded commie lesbian.

In tribute to his one-time pupil, Ho Ya Dansa is incorporating O’Flatulence’s teachings into whatever the fuck weird religion it is that he follows. Happily, Groin Masterton used some of the proceeds of her late husband’s church to fund an operation for the magnificent monk, who has now had a prosthetic quarter of a testicle appended to his ruptured left ball bag.

‘It’s good to be wholly spherical again,’ said Dansa. ‘Wherever you are, Hank, I’ll think of you every time I take off my underwear.’

 

Postman Pat – Kids’ TV Redux Pt1

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”sup, motherfuckers?’

The first episode of the re-imagined Postman Pat opens on a misty moor on a frosty winter’s morning. Pat and farmer Peter Fogg are drinking strong, home-brew whiskey, as they lie propped up against a dry-stone dyke.

‘Foot and mouth, swine flu, Defra, the wife. They’ve all fucked me, Pat. I’ve got nothing.’

‘I hear that,’ says Pat, hurling an empty bottle and smashing it against a tree. ‘Fucking government. Sixty pence for a first-class stamp? It makes me so angry I could choke Mopatop dead!’

‘Give us a minute, will you, Pat.’

Justice has a long nose and a black pussy.

‘Yeah, sure,’ slurs Pat, wobbling to his feet. As Pat crunches through the frost covered field, he hears the silence broken by a single loud clap. He knows that Peter Fogg’s long misery is at an end.

It’s 2012. The countryside is in ruins thanks to the recession, underinvestment and the exodus of the young and their money. Crime, unemployment and despair are the orders of the day. Chicken rapes are up 200 per cent.

Postman Pat’s seen better days. Especially since the tragic death of his wife at the village fete, crushed under the wheels of a tractor driven by a joy-riding fox.

RIP OAP. Goggins’ last stand: mailing her own dessicated jobby to Tory HQ shortly before doing herself in.

A few scenes in, the local post office is closed down by a laughing Tory bastard. Mrs Goggins, with nothing left to live for, takes her own life. She downs a bottle of Gordon’s dry gin, laces her false teeth with paraffin, pops them in, and then lights a petrol-soaked Cuban cigar.

Clutching Goggins’ withered, cooked fingers in his cold hand, Pat vows to avenge her and all of ruraldom. He paints a mural of a black fist on the side of his big, red van; wraps a bandana made from Mrs Goggins’ tear-soaked handkerchief around his head, shaves a mohican into Jess’s skull, claims the shotgun Fogg used to blow open his skull, and rides into the Yorkshire night looking to bring order into chaos.

Ted Glen – or ‘The Ferret’ as he was known by the SOCS.

The paedophile Reverend Timms is paper-cut to death by a stack of manilla envelopes. I guess he shouldn’t have tried it on with the Thomson twins.

A heroin smuggling ring, controlled by handyman Ted Glen and mobile-shop owner Sam Waldron, is brought to a swift end when Pat pulls up in his van of justice.

‘Package for Glen,’ Pat drawls, slipping an unfiltered cigarette into his badly animated mouth. He hands them the parcel, then makes sure he looks straight into their eyes with a menacing intensity before swaggering back to his van.

‘Ee, thanks, Pat,’ says a puzzled Glen, ‘But tha thought delivrees ‘ad ended.’

‘They have,’ laughs Pat, lighting his cigarette and blowing out a jet of smoke. Out comes a remote control. ‘For you. Privatise this, you drug-dealing motherfuckers.’

Pat slapping them down, Terminator-style.

The resulting explosion takes out Ted and Sam, the mobile shop, three cars, two walls, an electric fence, a pot of cottage cheese, John Craven and fifteen sheep. Wiping from his face the bloody remains of John Craven, and a fragment of sheep’s arse, he looks down at Jess with an uncertain grin. The flames from the explosion reflect in his lenses, lending him the aura of hate and Hellfire. Jess miaows.

‘Maybe we’re too old for this shit, buddy,’ says Pat. ‘But retirement is a choice. My choice. And this letter-posting, big-nosed bitch says nobody sleeps till Greendale’s cleaned up.’

Much crime-fighting and indiscriminate fox-murdering ensues.

Pat stands on a desolate outcrop overlooking the hills and valleys of his new kingdom. In the sky above he sees a vision of Mrs Goggins.

‘Pat,’ she howls in her ghostly tone, ‘will the mail ever come back to Greendale?’

‘One day,’ says Pat, cocking his shotgun, ‘There’ll be knock. Ring. Letters through your mother-fucking door.’

Vote for the Dinner Party

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'More jelly and ice-cream, Sir Rich Cunt?'

So, a rich, elitist politician in a corrupt capitalist society offers rich CEOs and horrid right-wing sister-fuckers the chance to influence governmental policy for money? The only thing surprising about the recent Cam-for-Cash revelations is our surprise.

Here we have David Cameron, a man whose face tells the story of a weird genetic experiment to meld Buzz Lightyear with a posh monkey-nut, preaching about the Big Society at the same time as he does his utmost to dismantle it. Well, the peasant part of it, anyway.

Goodbye, NHS. It’s OK. Poor people don’t need hearts or kidneys, anyway. That’s a scientific fact. Cheerio, provisions for the old and skint. Want to keep warm, working-class OAPs? Why not make a fire and burn all of your old copies of ‘The Socialist Worker’? You’ll be feeling your fingers and toes again in no time. Auf weidersehen, rights of disabled people on benefits. I know one thing that will help your broken back and crippling depression: a little stint stocking shelves for free down at Tesco, your local, friendly greengrocer.

'Gonnae nonny nonny no dae that?'

Cameron’s been robbing from the poor to give to the rich (and extorting the rich to make the rich richer) from the start. This Cash-for-Goujons debacle is the least of the coalition’s misdeeds. You know a regime’s got a problem with image when its antics begin to make Tory-punching, problem-drinking, schoolgirl-shagging, nutcase’s-nutcase Eric Joyce look like a folk hero by comparison. And, worst of all, I’ve just imagined Eric Joyce decked out in green tights prancing around a forest.

What will we, the people, do? I know what they’d do in France: start burning sheep until Cameron stepped down. But not here. We are the sheep, and we’ve not the wit to realise that the whiff of lamby barbecue in the air drifts from our own scorched backs. We’ll forget this story, and the next one, and the one after that. That’s if we’re watching at all. Isn’t Eastenders on?

That's the smell of you being fucked.

We live in a country where vile politicians who trade in misery are re-elected time and again, while the people who play baddies in soaps get soup cans hurled at them in the street by angry old women years after their career has ended. ‘How could you cheat on oor wee Deirdre, ya animal!’

Politicians have the power to decide how we live and die, but we all find it… well, pretty bloody boring. Certainly not as exciting as the prospect of a nutty slut getting her jubblies out on the next series of Big Brother. But keep an eye on live updates from the Big Brother house in Westminster. Once those old men and women in suits are certain that the TV viewers have fallen into a tedium-sponsored coma, they’ll stop talking about agricultural quotas and caps on this, that and the other, and they’ll turn their attentions to the REAL order of business: building a Death Star.

Movie Reboots – ALLAN VS PREDATOR

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'Please demonstrate how you would lift this human safely, taking care not to hurt your back.'

It’s fair to say that the two AVP films didn’t exactly get the pulses of fans or critics racing. In fact they were shite.

But this time, the Predators face their greatest nemesis of all: Allan.

Allan is an officer with the Health and Safety Executive who objects very strongly to the flagrant disregard the Predators show towards meeting safety standards in the workplace. Although filming is still underway, we managed to obtain a few excerpts of dialogue from a scene in which Allan has a white-knuckle showdown with the head Predator.

'That's it, Tentacle Face. I'm shutting this mother-fucker down.'

ALLAN: Do you think it’s safe to have your staff piloting a large spacecraft through a potentially very busy region of space where there may be elderly space users, when clearly their vision is limited to detecting thermal signatures from warm-blooded creatures? Can I see a copy of your risk assessment forms, please?

HEAD PREDATOR: Graaahhraaahhragraaahhh.

ALLAN: And has the thermo nuclear device attached to your arm been PAT tested yet?

IF YOU LIKE THIS, YOU’LL LOVE: I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter-Field. It’s kind of like Cloverfield, but you won’t be able to tell the difference. See also: Alien vs Creditor. Phillip the creditor doesn’t care how many mouths they’ve got to feed. He’s still repossessing their eggs.