Letters to the Councillor

Sir

I wish to point out an interesting coincidence in relation to your coverage of the opposition to new, brighter (too bright) lighting being installed at great financial cost to the taxpayer, on the A417 to County Durham (“Bright Light? What a Bunch of Shit”, 28th July 2004). Readers might be interested to know that the lights themselves have an order code of A417 – the very same name as that of the road on which they were installed.

Sanctimus Paxo, County Durham


Sir

I wish to congratulate you on your brilliant story on revenge cuts and slashes (“And This One’s for Dave”, 16th July 2004). I myself was the victim of a “Maisie’s Hammock” in 1987 – in which my eyelids were sliced at the top, resulting in a hammock-like flap of skin flailing twixt my low-lid and my eyebrow. However, I was also unfortunate enough to receive what was known as a “Fuck Me Finale”, which entailed surprising the “hammock” victim with a scarcely believable fact of outrageous proportions, or a piece of extraordinarily bad news (in my case, I was (errantly) informed that Bruce Forsythe had a twin, which was how come he done so much showbiz). The stretching of the skin caused by the resulting “fuck me!” glance of wide-eyed shock tore the eyelids clean off my facial visage. These were then given the “Burning Bernie” treatment in front of my very now-very-wide eyes, to ensure that they would never be returned to their rightful place.

Bradley Justice, Milton Keynes


Sir

I must admit that before I had read you article “Was Hitler a Gypsy?” (16th June 2004) I would have considered such a question a no-brainer. However, you presented the evidence most convincingly. His deep-routed links with circus can be seen in his highly entertaining show-like speeches. His nomadic love of travelling – particularly to Eastern Europe – with little or no warning at all, demonstrated an instinctual lust for drifting. It now becomes clear that those ridiculous bulging pantaloons – which I had always assumed were merely garments of aesthetic flamboyancy – were in fact the perfect cover-up for the Fuhrer’s crippling rickets – a sure sign of the poverty synonymous with gypos.

Berndt Berger, Berlin


Sir

Jethro Clappington (“Mum was Missile” letter, 14th June 2004) might be interested to hear that he was not the only captain to be earflanked by explosures from the skies back in 1912. I was captain of the 5th Regiment Slutmouth brigade, and was spacked sideless to such an extent that I was forced home early. I was smanked by an unfortunately aimed “Wheezing Jeffrey”, just as I was about to sneak into my third mouthful of Trenchy Pie. Three sections of my face had to be muzzled together for a total of 16 months.

May I also point out that Mr Clappington’s account must certainly contain falsehoods, since the sandwich in question apparently contained “pickle”. As anyone who actually served at this time will be aware, this word – and subsequently the preserve to which it is to this day bound – was banned in everyday speech due to its being code for “imminent German attack probably from 2 o’clock possibly 3”.

Pain is a competition, Mr Clappington, and I believe I win this griefboast.

Julian Marquisimass, Grizzleton

Sinful Hell

(to be sung to the tune of "Jingle Bells", if you will)


Fast now feels so slow
In Honda Civic Coupé
OAPs below
Crushed along the way
Bells on ice we bring
Making spirits bright
What fun it is to drive and drink
A slaying spree delight

Chorus

Sinful hell, sinful hell
Ratted through the night
Oh what fun it is to drive
With beer and Marlborough Light

Sinful hell, sinful hell
Skinful through the day
Went for a spin and killed my bride
After a bottle of Chardonnay

A day or two ago
I took a drunken ride
A crate of Kronenbourg
Seated at my side
My eyes were fogged with booze
Cos I had drunk the lot
I took a high-speed snooze
And floored a group of tots

Chorus

A day or two ago
I fell into a well
Surrounded by my car
Ginned as drunk as hell
A gent came to my aid
I smashed him in the face
There he sprawling laid
Off in his car I raced

Chorus

Now I’m off my face
So drink-drive while you’re young
Bring some girls along
And guzzle on your rum
Just remember when you smash
From driving drunk at speed
Make good with your dash
Be careful where you bleed.

Chorus

Muse Headlions

Czech out the nuze pls, at the topp of the paige. It's all tru.

K thx.

Music Gödz, Institute of Contemporary Arts, 23rd December 2004

Musik Gödz – Berlins finest technopoet – comes to the ICA for a one-night fusion of thrash-punk, techno, and beat poetry which addresses post-holocaust flummoxing through “nasal disbelief and apathetic shutdown”.

Gödz’s “Dancehall MusikMachina: The Machine of Gödz", inspired by a Smashing Pumpkins album, is a technobooth organ built by Gödz himself and requiring two "konductors". The first produces spinethrashing vibratibass using a combination of the venue’s floor and organic shapes which die in the process of the sonic output. The other controls the “arbeiten-pipen” (of which there are 16, one for every colour of the alphabet) to spew out verbs and nouns in tandem with the random projections launched into the eyes of the crowd. This culminates in Gödz literally throwing a spanner in the works, straining the MusikMachina’s components until revolutions reach speeds of what Gödz terms “mach frei”.

Gödz’s performances are highly controversial. He has not played a show in Germany for 4 years, after a series of incidents directly related to his renowned shows. In 1998, 3 crowd members were blinded after scenes of Jewish tea parties were xenon-blasted into their retinas. The same year saw an explosion at a Hamburg gig after Gödz failed to perform a safety check on his heavily customised and reputedly “mindlessly dangerous” equipment. No-one was hurt in the incident, although the venue has yet to reopen. Gödz was finally banned from performing in his homeland after a performance in a Berlin primary school left 6 children bleeding.

Tickets are available here.

Have they find your friend?

Have they find your friend? He who went amiss three months agroin?

Back in time to those months four ago, when once shame covers your goad, feeling like a little toad, slime-filled ugly. But now, these memories might seemed proud, less ashame because now disappearman has create a new shame – “it’s a shame” now you said.

Do you remembrain? When your face sobbing, bloodied with payback by skinfilled shitter batter you for knowledge of your cockanal? Shivered in emotiquake through fear of future battery? But friend be cuddlekind as so many time previously back beforehand then, saying the words in soft Berliner, “stille, stille, mein liebling, mein liebling, stille” and stroking your spanked visage with large efficient German hand.

And times of nightclubbering, tranced to dancemusik and friend wants to stay for “einmal danceklaut”. You were had greatness, loving the buttockhold but still the always slideglance to autreface. Who sees? Did you just saw that? Don’t notice gay gilt over my gay guilt.

Have they find your friend? He who went amiss three months agroan?

Clearly they haddock, for his face is still newsgood, and even now, Maximirillius Snoad reads glum news of “izzy dead? Or izzunee?” to your face, which pondered now, “will they fined mein freund? He who went amiss three months agroat?”

Smileschön, little smile, then now you tittered “not unless they dig up my garden.”

What's Your Weasel?

Beef is rather a fatty meat. Although a good source of protein, excessive consumption can lead to obesity, blocked arteries, Aids, cancer, paedophilia, necromancy and blocked toilets due to hugely behemoth lumpy bloody shit torpedoes. Obviously, this is somewhat ‘far out’ and ‘heinous’, and not in the least ‘rad’ or ‘gnarly’.

The Geographic Institution for Malady Prevention through the Society for Healthy Improvements in Taste (GIMPSHIT) has identified the lowly weasel as a viable alternative to good ol’ cow. Significantly leaner, weasel meat reportedly tastes only slightly blander than it’s bovine predecessor. Furthermore, it can be cut into precisely the same parts (though scaled down) as cow can, including topside of weasel and shoulder of weasel. When prices per lb of weasel come down – which they almost certainly will following the introduction of weasel grazing - here are a few dishes you can expect to see on your pathetic gaunt little plates:

Weasel stew
Weasel jerky
Corned weasel on toast
Barbequed weasel ribs
Weasel kebabs
Bovril with weasel extract
Weasel burgers
Weasel bolognaise
Weasel Wellington
Weasel steak
Flank of weasel
Ground weasel
Weasel and onion crisps

Musclemen will eventually be referred to as “Weaselcakes”. Bart Simpson will be telling everyone – in that cheeky way he does – to “have a weasel, man”, and one will soon be able to add bits to one’s business presentation in order to “weasel it up”.

Turkey Jerky – For Jim

Fuzzy wuzzy fuzzy wuz
No-one cooks like Granny duz

Toffee Slipper
Muff Surprise
Goathead Crumble
Herbal pies
Weasel steaks
Shank of Gasps
Moaning Fritters
Strangle Rasps
Mongtown Wellington
Pain à l’Anglais
Hanukkah Scream
Sluice of the Day
Ethnostew
Rotty Wings
Jesus Fudge
Gusset Minge
Homo Pud
Muscle Jerky
God-Damned Tenderloin
Shittled Turkey
Grin flambé
Goaded the Hole
Clotted Sick
Steam-broiled Goal
Discharge Hot Pot
Cake and Squidney Die
Leftfield Bake
Shepherd’s Lie
Brolly Haggis
Scouser Mash
Sanguine Rolls
And Voddy Hash

All these settled in my tum
Graknee u kook beta then mumm.

Feeling a Little Horse

Tomorrow sees the third annual horsy triathlon at Windsor Racecourse, in which horses run & jump, swim and then shoot, all in the name of a good old day out. Injured horses may have to be shot early, but Pimms will be cheap. Here are a few horses showing recent good form, and on whom it might be worth having a little flutter:

There Is No Pudding (15/1)
Monty’s Kidney Stones (2/1 - almost certain win)
Spleen On The Run (15/2)
Bastard Glow (30/1 but on good form nonetheless)
Fred Astairway To Heaven’s Doors (4/1)
Lame Barry (5/2)
Bulgarian Rape Alibi (7/3)
Spare Some Lungs, Guvnor? (22/1)
Lucy’s Vomit (16/1)
Quim Denial (16/1)
Sorry, Wrong Genocide (fx/y)
Paul McCartney’s Leftovers (dy/dx)
Lavender Blitzkrieg (>/<)
Quadriplegic Dancehall ($$$)
That’s It – I’m Glue For Sure ("fucking great odds")
Inner Thigh Voodoo (horse contains pistons)
Bashir Basher (already dead and half rottened)
Nazi Toddler (153/2)
Face-slash du Jour (1/16)
Baptism Bloodbath (12:30pm)

If dog racing is more your thing, click here to get bitchlucky.

For more information on dealing with a gambling problem, visit Friar Cous-Cous for partial, Catholic advice.

You want to get out?

You want to get out?
To get about?

Choice you stare –
Lift or stair?

To the stairwell
Well well well

Take the staircase
Just in case

Of lift breakdown
Cause mental breakdown

Hand on rail
Support for frail

Step by step
You step a step

Down the road
The road you rode

To Post Office
You post a fist

Into mouth of employee
Who would not employ ye

And once again you figure out
Why it’s wrong that yer out.

Corner Crash, Karma Smash

A lesson for the foolish


He hits girls
She kicks blacks
You call wheelchair gauntframes “spacks”
You homosmash
You lesbocull
Jeer “dyslexic mongchild goto Hull”

______________________________

But on motorised biwheel crunch your face
And smash your limbs across the place
Brainknock knasty now you 7-year-old
Is mental age you slowly told
By pitying parentage
Wheel you round and round
Adult drool from mouth to ground
Mental stupor
Now want kill own brain
By gunn or raizor or under trayne
But limbs no worky
Nor brain 2 proper
Eva since u came a-croppa

______________________________

Poor old childe
Inn adult bodi
Wishing you would not now think sow shoddy
But friends remark
With shake of head
And secret contempt and wish you dead
“Your fault, your fault,
For speed dash cool”
Now object of own ridicule

Good Golly Miss Mollycodswalloping...

In the 1980s, kids with spots got colds, wiped snot on their sleeves and put their fingers up each other’s bums as laughtertexture. Although they may have the occasional tickly cough, by today’s standards, they are supermen. These days, the antibiotic children of the 21st Century officially have no immune system and have bones made of salt and vinegar, thanks to being plied with drugs, filled with chips and wrapped up in cotton wool. Here is a frightening chronology which you shouldn’t read:


14th January 2001: The heart of an 8-year-old man from Suffolk collapses insidewards after being denied sugarmice by his mother from the local sweetie delicatessen, even though he’d been good all day.

29th November 2001: A 36-year-old man from Ashby de la Zouche contracts the Aids virus after looking at a rusty nail through sunglasses with inadequate protection. His advice: “you buy what you pay for. Just don’t pay with your life, like I did. You dig?”

15th April 2002: A 14-year-old boy from Milton Keynes is granted extended leave from school to avoid the emotioturmoil resulting from grubby intake from soccer. He is granted leave on the grounds of being “too gay for school.”

3rd December 2002: A 12-year-old miss from Portsmouth cried herself into a coma after watching Disney’s classic feature cartoon “Pinocchio”. The following were subsequently deemed unsuitable viewstuffs for kidz by the British film watchdog:

- Pinocchio going to sleep – depiction of sleepy lazylust.

- Familial setup – small boy lives with lonely man in a strange house full of clocks. Pinocchio’s desire to be a “real boy” depicted as the demand for a sexual rite of passage, compounded by fact that the boy is made of “wood”, and the fact that Gepetto uses “wood” as his principal “material”.

- The watchdog found that the cuckoo clocks, by their “in-out” nature, were deliberately phallic in light of the above. The fact that clock rhymes with cock is probably not a coincidence when considering this. The scene in which numerous clocks seem to deafen Gepetto is seen as a maddening craving for a small boy’s wooden wang.

- Underage drinking explicitly portrayed.

- Boys turning into donkeys. Donkeys being hooved animals, there is an implication here that the boys are demonic. This is without question too frightening for childrun. Donkeys are also renowned for having large genital organs (see above paedopoint).

- Talking, singing, clothed cricket. Depiction of black magic.

- Wooden boy turning into real boy. Depiction of deity through creation of the flesh.

All these things and more crumbled her.

4th February 2003: Boy in school playground is literally blown away by a sudden gust of cold wind from the North. The boy, who smashed into kiddie ash as soon as the wind ironically guided him into the window of the local pharmacy, was described as “tragically irretrievable” by paramedics who arrived on the scene. The Headmaster, a Mr J D Wetherspoon, blamed the incident on the wind simply coming from “precisely the wrong direction”. Scientists believe the actual reasons are more likely to stem from “overuse of antibiotics and his diet, which are to blame for the helium in his brain and his vinegar bones.” Had these been as normal, they “would have weighed the poor blighter down something proper.”

16th March 2003: Fragility levels of the young hit all-time high, as a woman gives birth to a baby made entirely of bubbles. Doctors said, “there’s really nothing we can do to prolong her life. Let’s just thank God it wasn’t a water birth. That would have destroyed her straight from the womb.”