Monday, December 15, 2003

Your one-stop cut-and-paste conspiracy theory

So, American forces have finally captured Saddam Hussein, the murderous despot who has been on the run since Iraq fell to coalition troops earlier this year. Or did they? Our analysts at the world famous Tinfoil Helmet Research Lab have identified the wrecked old man pictured left not as Saddam, but as a homeless derelict from Neasden known at the local Threshers wine shop as “Jimmy”.
After literally seconds of research, the strange argot spoken by the so-called “Saddam”, missing from the Salvation Army hostel and local railway arches for the last two weeks, has been identified by our linguistic expert. “Spooky” Flangebender (owner of a disturbingly large collection of faked Gillian Anderson porn) was forthright. “This is not Gulf Arabic as we know it. This can only be the little understood dialect of ‘Drunken Muttering’. The language of the streets at eleven o’clock on a Friday night, face down.”

Indeed, his first comments to his American captors after a first bath and shave in seven years is telling: “Ye’re me best mate - HIC! Hae ye the price o’ a cup o’ tea? Ye wouldn’ give me a fiver for me train fare back hame, wudya? BLaaaarGH!”, followed by a barely comprehensible chorus of “Flower of Scotland”, taken by CIA interrogators as a thinly veiled denunciation of Western Yankee Infidel Imperialism.

The jury is out. Who killed JFK? Is Elvis alive on another planet? Did Princess Di fake her own death to live in a lesbian love nest with Mother Theresa? (Answers: No, No, No). But is Saddam sunning himself in Miami while a drunken Scots tramp slumming it in Neasden takes the rap in return for all the meths he can drink?

We can only conclude that this man was not discovered in a hole in the ground, rather than the arsehole of London.

Ah Bumhug

Apropos of my recent rant on over-the-top Christmas decorations, I was visiting friends in Sonning, so we just had to drop in on this place.

Both awe inspiring and the most tasteless display of bling you could imagine, the narrow tree-lined road was jammed with pilgrims to view the Five Megawatt Miracle on West Drive. We had journeyed from Weymouth (although with other motives, admittedly), but after asking around I found several families from West London, Ruislip and Oxford, all coming for the sole purpose of paying homage at the alter a tack. In the words of our lord, Monty Python: “Led by a star? Led by a bottle more like!”

It was, on reflection, a deeply religious experience if all the “Oh my God”s were anything to go by. In all the neon glare, the birth of sweet baby Jesus was all but forgotten. Instead, they bowed down before a ten foot inflatable Homer Simpson. Christ on a bike, indeed.


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