Condensed History: The Life of Winston Churchill

Condensed History: The Life of Winston Churchill

One of the greatest mistakes I have made in recent years is my decision to read the late Roy Jenkins' biography of the even later Sir Winston Churchill.

"The greatest political biography of recent years!" declares the cover blurb. Sadly, Lord Jenkins was nothing if not thorough, and 250 pages of tiny, tiny print into this 1,000 page work and he's still describing an exchange of letters between The Greatest Ever Britain (though fans of poor, dead Ian Botham might disagree) and Prime Minister Asquith on the quality of paperclips supplied to the Admiralty. A labour of love, the author actually died whilst I was reading it. In 2003.

I thought, then, it is my duty to save you the six-year chore of reading this literary masterpiece is to condense The Life of Winston Spencer Churchill down to a few hundred words in the easy-to-follow language of today's easily-bored youth. Zombie Lord Jenkins: TAKE NOTE.

"Oh yes."


The Life of Wnstn Spncr Chrchll 1874-1965, 1994-present

1874

Lord Randolph Churchill: Congratulations, Mrs Churchill. A boy – we haz one. LOL

Lady Churchill: We shall call him Wnstn. Wnstn Spncr Chrchll, for teh win

Lord Randolph Churchill: Now, I shall go out and kick some poor people. Huzzah!

Lady Churchill: Gd gd. And I shall have LOTS OF SEXUSSSS with other men

Lord Randolph Churchill: Pardon?

Lady Churchill: Nothing. Nothing.

1899

Wnstn Chrchll: Hello. I am Winston Spencer Churchill and I am excellent. Today, I shall be mostly taking part in the British colonial war in South Africa against TEH BORES. Oh. I am captured. FFS

TEH BORES: LOLOLOLOL! Enjoy your stay in our excellent prison camp. Also: LULZ

Wnstn Chrchll: Yoinks! I have escaped. ROFL

TEH BORES: Argh! Outspan and ARGH!*

1900

Wnstn Chrchll: LOL. Now I am a Tory MP on the back of my war adventures. FTW!

TEH TORIES: HUZZAH for the son of Lord Randolph Churchill!

1904

Wnstn Chrchll: LOL. Now I am a Liberal MP

TEH TORIES: I say! What a fckng cad!

Wnstn Chrchll: BTW, did I tell you that there's going to be a war in ten years time, FFS?

Ten years later...

Wnstn Chrchll: See? I have built you all loads of warships AND helped develop the tank so we might actually beat the Square-headed menace

Teh Grateful British People: Cor he was right. Now, piss off you smug posh bastard

Wnstn Chrchll: Bunch of wnkrs

1923

Wnstn Chrchll: LOL. Now I am a Liberal MP again

TEH LIBS: HUZZAH for the great British statesman!

1924

Wnstn Chrchll: LOL. Now I am a Tory MP again

TEH LIBS: You fckng wnkr. Make yr fckng mind up.

Wnstn Chrchll: Now I am TEH Chncllr ov teh X-Checker. Money money money money! The gold standard, eh?

TEH working proletariat: Hello. We are Teh working proletariat and we are excellent, if slightly workshy. Everybody out! A General Strk – we iz hvng one, because Wnstn Chrchll iz a twat with all his Gld Stndrd bllcks

Wnstn Chrchll: ARSE! I am now off to have my WILDERNESS YEARS. See you in 1939, you ungrateful bstrds

It was around this time that Churchill developed his cutting wit for which he is remembered. Take, for example, this famous exchange in the House of Commons

Bessie Braddock: But Winston, you're drunk!

Wnstn Chrchll: Fuck off

Bessie Braddock: Well, I never...

Wnstn Chrchll: And you've got witches tits, you slack-fannied harpy

TEH HOUSE OF COMMONS: Hear, hear!

Not to mention:

Lady Astor: Winston, if I were your wife, I'd poison your coffee

Wnstn Chrchll: Fuck off

Lady Astor: Well, I never...

Wnstn Chrchll: And you've got witches tits, you slack-fannied harpy

TEH HOUSE OF COMMONS: Hear, hear!

1939/40

Teh British People: ONOZ! That nice Mr Hitler turned out to be a bit of a cad! Who will save us now?

Wnstn Chrchll: Hello. I am Wnstn Chrchll, and I am excellent

Teh British People: Oh, tits

A. Hitler: Ach du liebe Gott! Damn you Wnstn Chrchll!

Churchill's wartime speech-making was the stuff of legend. His art of oratory and his turn of phrase rightly gave him the reputation of a world statesman. And if there were any doubt as to Churchill's commitment to the cause, they are well and truly allayed which these famous extracts:

Wnstn Chrchll: We shll fght them on TEH BEACHES. We shall fght them on TEH landing grnds. We shll fight them in TEH night clbs of Torrorrmolios... Terrormolons... Terrimololon... IBIZA. HAVE AT IT ADOLF YOU CNT!

Wnstn Chrchll: Nvr, in teh fld of hmn conflct HAZ so much been owed to so much by so few so often so...errr...IN YOUR FACE ADOLF LOLOLOLOL!

Wnstn Chrchll: This iz NOT TEH END. IT IZ not even the end of the beginning. It is in fact, the end of the beginning of the... hang on... The end of the start of lunchtime. Or something. OI! ADOLF! OUTSIDE!

1945

Wnstn Chrchll: W00T! The war – I haz won it! Now for some REAL power

Teh Grateful British People: Vote Labour... Must. Vote. Labour.

Wnstn Chrchll: Oh, tits, and some guff about an Iron Curtain. I'll be back in 1951, you ungrateful bstrds

1951, about lunchtime

Teh Grateful British Public: Who would have thought a Labour government would be so full of abject tossers? Who will save us now?

Wnstn Chrchll: Hello. I am Wnstn Chrchll, and I am excellent

Teh British People: Oh, tits

1965

Wnstn Chrchll: Oh. I am dead. That's a bollock

1994

Wnstn Chrchll: Oh, I am reincarnated as some sort of computer-generated dog. What did I do to deserve that?

God: Sorry, pal, it was either that or return as one of the Chuckle Brothers

Wnstn Chrchll: Oh yes!

* 50,000,000 Excellent Points to the person who gets the reference

On MILFs

On MILFs

Part of my excellent job finds me writing about military developments from around the world.

The Asia-Pacific region is one of the key hot-spots, where Islamic fundamentalist groups battle against various governments for ideological control of hearts and minds. And because they like killing apostates and infidels TO DEATH.

So, we are drawn to the Philippines where government forces are locked in a life-or-death battle with the lightly-oiled Moro Islamic Liberation Front. Or MILF for short.

Being of a filthy mind, and knowing full well the true meaning of the MILF acronym, a number of genuine headlines have given me big laughs in these dark, dark days of endless war.

- Three soldiers killed by MILF

- MILF provoking hostilities, say army

- MILF promises to handle weapons carefully

- Minister sets out to please MILF

- Hundreds of Filipinos 'flocking to MILF'

- Angry MILF 'on the rampage'

Call me Mr Sexist, but that last one is surely the result of the so-called "red rage", of which, as a man of the world, and not privy to the mysteries of the boudoir, I know nothing.

However, as an expert on matters of global warfare and naked, soapy freedom fighters, I would be only too happy to avail myself to the MILF and give them the good, hard makeover* they thoroughly deserve. Less killing. More baby oil.

And perhaps a re-brand: How about the MILF Cougars?

Hint: When researching and item on the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, it's probably best not to search for "MILF" in Google Images.

Double Hint: If there are any MILFs out there willing to tell me - in detail, with photos - of their experiences in hot, lightly-oiled struggle with 'The Man', you will find a rapt audience.

See Also: The Alliance for the Re-liberation of Somalia (ARS)

* not a double entendre

On hideous gas emanations

On hideous gas emanations

But soft, dear reader, what news is this? A gas leak from behind Mr S Duck's shed and not a bottom – or even a Tesco carrier bag straining under the weight of turds – in sight? Has the world gone stark-raving bonkers?

Yes. Yes it has.

For yesterday was the day that we employed a couple of strapping young chaps from a local company to built a new fence and front gate for our luxuriously-appointed beachfront property in not-razed-to-the-ground-at-all Weymouth. A job, with the correct tools, that should have only taken a couple of hours.

Instead, the only tools that this company (who shall remain nameless on account of them being much, much bigger than me) sent were the pair doing the actual work.

The first thing this pair of hairy ne'er-do-wells – who would, quite frankly, rather be tombstoning off Durdle Door - do in their task is to hammer a fence post right through the gas main that runs along the front of my shed. This, as you'd imagine, caused a small amount of blind panic, and no little lighting up of cigarettes to steady the nerves in what could only be described as an explosive situation.

My shed! My castle! In mortal danger! Is nothing sacred?

Maintaining a Zen-like calm, I did what any grown man would do in the circumstances – I fled to my office, secured the adult literature, and ensured that my charming wife's life insurance was up-to-scratch, before sending her outside, clutching a lighted candle, to investigate.

Within minutes, the blue flashing lights of a crack British Gas rapid response suicide squad are on the scene, stuffing the rear end of a small Dutch boy into the breach and saving us all from being KILLED TO DEATH.

Cigars and flame-throwers all round.

"So", said the steely-eyed British Gas boss-man, as he strutted up and down in front of our hairy buffoons like a school master scolding a pair of wayward pupils, "May I inspect your underground gas main detection wossname?*"

There was an uncomfortable silence, as the duo shuffled around for a while, finding the floor of the headmaster's study infinitely more interesting.

"No. No, you may not."

"'No' WHAT?"

"No, sir."

"You do have an underground gas main detection wossname, don't you?"

"Err..."

"You UTTER spackers."

Also: "Please sign here."

"Woss that then?"

"It's to tell both our bosses that you are a pair of complete retards."

"Oh. Right. Fair enough."

My house, my family, my priceless collection of Grattan lingerie catalogues, and most importantly of all, my shed all intact, I repaired to work.

Next week: We employ three Vietnam veterans to root out the rat at the end of the garden - WITH HILARIOUS RESULTS!

* The actual name of the device – 100% of FACT

On testing a pub's Mank Rating

On testing a pub's Mank Rating

With summer finally upon us, you might want to spend the long, balmy evenings at a friendly drinking hostelry, with an affable Mein Host, and a rum cliente you might one day call your friends.

However, how can you tell if your pub of choice is the one for you? The company? The landlord? The quality of the ale? None of these.

There is a simple experiment that you may undertake in any pub or bar in the name of SCIENCE establish its Mank Rating. A Mank Rating that can then be transferred to our 100 per cent accurate Scaryduckworth-Lewis scale of ranking things for excellence.

Follow these steps, and you will find yourself that elusive perfect pub in no time, with relatively few injuries to your genital area.

- On your first visit to the toilet, put a 20p piece in the urinal.

- On the next visit, check to see if it is gone. If it is, replace it with a 10p.

- Repeat as necessary with progressively smaller value coins until you find the lowest denomination of piss-soaked small change the pub's clientele will fish out of the urinal.

- If they take the 1p, then you are in the wrong end of town with no money. Leave immediately.

Congratulations - you have either found the pub's Mank Rating, or have been beaten up for hanging around the Gents with a clipboard.

You may now proceed immediately to the 'Mirror-on-the-end-of-your-shoe How Many Girls Frequent This Public House Without Underwear?' experiment. Best of luck.

UPDATE: Now with added map. Email me for an invite if you wish to add your own results.

Mirth and Woe: Uzi Lover

Mirth and Woe: Uzi Lover

On things that you used to do as a kid that would get you killed TO DEATH these days

As a member of Her Majesty's Cadet Forces, I had a not unnatural fascination with firearms.

Sadly, they wouldn't let us take the real guns home with us, so alternatives had to be found.

Luckily, my old dad was a member of The Military Guild Book Club, in which he received some terrifying Book of the Month through the post every four weeks.

My favourite was one analysing the outcome of any NATO/Warsaw Pact confrontation, which confidently predicted the complete destruction of Birmingham. However, a close second was one with great big fold-out pictures of current military firearms in extraordinary detail.

Passing it around the more maniacal members of our Space Cadets squadron, we put it to good use in making our own replica guns from whatever we could find in sheds, garages and the local tip.

We turned up at our next cadet evening loaded down with replica firearms of varying quality. My brother had carved a pretty good Ingram Mac-11 from a single block of wood, while there were various sub-machine guns and a pretty adventurous M-16 assault rifle.

Mine was an Israeli Uzi 9mm sub-machine gun made out of wood, some bits of metal, and a big lump of plastic. Apart from the fact that the barrel refused to point in the right direction, once painted gun-metal grey, it was a reasonable facsimile of the real thing.

Then, dressed up in combat fatigues, we did what any idiot teenager would do: we ran around the streets of Henley-on-Thames playing silly buggers with toy guns.

Like a bunch of demented Private Pikes, we ran up back alleys and vaulted in and out of other people's gardens going "Na na na na na na na na na na!"

Ian the Shed threw his fake German stick grenade (made from the handle of a sink plunger and a tin of Heinz sponge pudding), which bounced off a cat and provoked what can only be described as an official Henley-on-Tames rebuke: the flickering of net curtains.

It was only when Jezzer - tanked up with special forces fizzy pop and Mars Bars - became our only casualty of the evening by chundering with gusto into the gutter (all the hedges in Henley being booby trapped) that a window was flung open, and an elderly, distinguished voice raged: "If you don't leave THIS INSTANT I shall summon the police!"

We left, that instant.

These days, it would be rather more than net curtains. I am certain, in fact, that there would be the sound of multiple sirens, closely followed by a group of heavily-armed coppers raining down on us from above, with one mission in mind: to kill us TO DEATH.

Good thing The Man didn't find out about the home bomb-making factory, then.

It's political correctness gone mad, on acid.

Condensed History: The Race to the South Pole

Condensed History: The Race to the South Pole

History. It's dull, and it is mainly found in books. Books, which are to be found in libraries populated by severe-looking women who knit their own packed lunches.

Hardly the kind of thing today's easily-bored, knife-wielding hoodies are interested in, especially when there are more interesting things in this world, such as drugs, stabbing and cake.

I have made it my mission, then, to bring history bang up-to-date in the easy-to-follow txt language of THE KIDS.

So, I bring you that classic boy's own adventure:


TEH RACE 2 TEH SOUTH POLE

R. Amundsen: Hallo. Jeg er R. Amundsen, og helt utmerket. Her, putt denne fisken inn i øret ditt*.

R.F. Scott: Hello. I am Robert Falcon Scott, and I am excellent. Fortuitously, you do not require a fish in your ear to understand what I am saying.

R. Amundsen: This year, I shall be mostly trekking to the South Pole-dancing club for top LULz

R.F. Scott: This year, I shall be also mostly trekking to the South Pole-dancing club for top LULz

R. Amundsen: As a gentleman who resides north of the Arctic Circle, I shall be using ski as the most efficient method of moving over snow, and will have sleds pulled by dogs.

R.F. Scott: As an English gentleman, I have no truck with this Johnny Foreigner "ski-ing" nonsense, and shall be marching to our goal in sound military time, with pack horses and one of these new-fangled BRITISH motor vehicles.

R.Amundsen: And when the dogs outlive their usefulness, and as we use up our rations, we shall be killing the dogs and using them for meat

R.F.Scott: And when the motor vehicle runs out of fuel... oh. Ummm... and when the horses are too heavy for the ice and fall down crevasses...FFS. I see what u did there. Best be getting along then. See you in a few months.

R. Amundsen: If you're lucky, mate

Four months later...

R. Amundsen: W00t! I am at TEH SOUTH POLE-DANCING CLUB. SLATTERNS! JUST LOOK AT TEH ICE SLATTERNS!

R.F. Scott: COCK. We are late and all TEH SLATTERNS are MELTED through vigorous Johnny Foreigner-type frottage

R. Amundsen: LOLOLOL. Also: A hub a hub a hub a hub hub hub. No woman can resist a sexxxxy Norwegian with a pointy beard

R.F.Scott: And double COCK. We have eaten the last of the tractor parts and the forecast sunny spells and light showers never materialised

Captain Oates: That was the weather forecast for Cromer, sir

R.F. Scott: I say again - COCK

Captain Oates: If it's OK with you guys, I'll just be popping out for a bit of a quiet walk with the penguins

R.F. Scott: You filthy bstrd

Captain Oates: I beg your pardon?

R.F. Scott: You said 'wanking off penguins', and I heard it with these very ears, despite the howling blizzard that rages outside the very wall of this tent which is His Brittanic Majesty's Sovereign Territory. You disgust me, man, and when you disgust me, you disgust HIS MAJESTY THE KING. We may be frozen to the bone and have little or no chance of ever seeing our loved ones ever again, but such insults to THE EMPIRE cannot be tolerated. I'd stand to attention if it wasn't already frozen there.

Captain Oates: 'Walk', FFS

R.F. Scott: Soz. LOL

Captain Oates: I'll be off then. KTHXBAI

R.F.Scott: BAI

Captain Oates: You don't suppose I could have the last of the tissues and that copy of Readers Wives you've got in your pack?

R.F.Scott: You filthy devil. Oh, I appear to be TEH DED

R. Amundsen: FTW! Mmm... tasty dog.

End credits

Coming soon: TEH LIFE OF WNSTN SPNCR CHRCHLL. Oh yes.

* Many thanks to the excellent Sigg3 for the Norwegian

On passive-aggressive notes

On passive-aggressive notes

One of my esteemed colleagues gained 10,000 Hero Points the other week by leaving a superb passive-aggressive note in the staff kitchen, chiding those who leave their washing-up for others.

Hugely impressed with his use of the word slovenly, I showed him the kitchen's one, terrible secret: The drawer one of my colleagues assumes is some sort of magic dishwasher, filled as it is with a growing number of dirty plates, some of which are quite hairy.

I was so angry, I nearly wrote a note of my own:

To whomsoever it might concern,

Please take your dirty plates back to the canteen, before I track you down, rip your head off and crap down your neck. Then, I shall set fire to your desk, slaughter your workmates with a nail gun and personally wipe every trace of your existence from the face of the Earth.

Yours, A Colleague

I might add some jolly clip-art, just to form's sake. And, of course, ensure it is entirely in Comic Sans, the font of the truly cracked.

Or:

MEMO: OFFICE WASHING-UP

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

Thanks!!!

Your suggestions – as ever – warmly received.

On enduring mental imagery

On enduring mental imagery

Yes, I'm a stats whore. Every day I go through my referrer stats to find out how people have ended up on these pages. And every day I am disgusted. Disgust, yet slightly aroused.

Take, for example, this sickening consecutive pair of lightly-oiled Google searches:

As they say on the internets: "What has been seen cannot be unseen". And that also applies for that seen by your mind's eye. The goggles, as they also say on the internets, they do nothing.

I know people who'd pay top, top dollar to see that kind of thing.

Skanky traffic update: 'Paula Radcliffe poo' remains my top skanky web referrer. 'Vanessa Feltz topless' is a new entry at number 17, with 'saddle sniffing' bubbling under. As it were.

Of course, this entire exercise is NOT and attempt to up my google-juice on a number of selected niche keywords. As if people would even attempt to search on Vanessa Feltz topless saddle sniffing with a lightly-oiled Sarah Beeny in this day and age. Perverts.

On making golf better

On making golf better

Ah, golf! With the boy Scaryduck Junior's tutor thrashing his balls at the Open Championship up in Sunny Southport, I took it upon myself to polish my mashie niblick and take him out on the links for a few holes. No handicaps, no quarter spared, no man within 200 yards safe.

As I watched the lad wade into the lake with a net and a big bucket as part of my cunning plan to make us this-time-next-year-we'll-be-millionaires, I thought to myself that the sport could do with a bit of positive PR, what with all the hooliganism, drug abuse, painful death and plaid trousers it has to put up with.

What better, then, than encourage the world of CELEBRITY to take up golf. Even better if they actually had golfing names. Clearly Tiger WOODS heads the first wave of golfy celebs, but surely there must be some more?

List of People Whose Names Sound Like Golf

• Tiger Woods
  
• Jeremy Irons
  
• Minnie Driver
  
• Ed Balls
  
• Mr T
  
• Robson Green
  
• Alan Rough (legendary spack-handed Scottish goalkeeper)
  
• Archie Bunker, or, from The Sound of Music...
  
• The von Sand Trapp family

And, reduced to making it up as I go along:

• The famous TV decency campaigner - Mary Clubhouse
  
• King of the chat show hosts - Jonathan 'Albert' Ross
  
• Scouse comedian - Alexei Golf Sayle
  
• The boy wizard himself - Harry Putter

And, one I just made up, but actually exists:

• Walter Hazzard

Finally, Hollywood's greatest star, who more-or-less confirms my current feelings about this most noble and gentle of sports:

• Arnold Shit-fuck-bugger-stupid-bastard-game-the-boy's-beaten-me-again-fuck-fuck-fuck-enegger

Anyone want to buy some golf clubs? Only slightly bent...

Mirth and Woe: ASBO fodder

Mirth and Woe: ASBO fodder

I have made a vow.

Actually, it's less of a vow and more of a court order. And it is this: Do not get your genitals out in public.

Getting your genitals out in public, I have discovered, is A Bad Thing. A Bad Thing that falls outside the strict moral codes of this law-abiding state in which we live, and liable to get me an ASBO.

Busking on street corners in my 'special' trousers, performing 'Last Turkey in the Shop' for interested passers-by, is completely out, then. And let's face it: the money was crap, anyway.

An ASBO, I am told, is a badge of honour in the less desirable social groups. A badge of honour which you may clip to your Matalan baseball cap before you go out on your regular Thursday-night granny-scaring outings; or simply to show off whilst standing outside the local Co-Op asking grown-ups to buy a bottle of cider and ten Bensons in your deepest, most grown-up voice.

Try as I might – vow or no vow – I have not got an ASBO.

It is not for the want of trying.

Just recently, for example, I did the most anti-social action imaginable.

It is perhaps, the worst thing I have ever done in my life, ever. And I've done some pretty bad things, mostly in the privacy of my shed.

I cannot lie, for I visited a large, impressively-marbled government building. And - Lord forgive me for this - broke wind in the revolving door.

Not a piffling little parp, either.

I've not been enjoying the best of health in recent weeks thanks to a slow-burning virus passed on to me from my delightful children, and the awfulness has been working its way out of my system.

"GROOOO-OOO-OOO-PFFFFFFFF!" it went, and I was so shocked and stunned I had to go round twice, before emerging, blinking into the reception area.

For shame, I only had time for two words as a power-suited middle-aged woman strutted toward the revolving door, mobile phone pressed to her ear, barking staccato syllables at the poor sap at the other end of the line.

Two words to convey the danger that awaited her.

Two words to reveal the dreadful crime I had committed against this orange-tanned servant of Her Majesty's Civil Service.

Two words.

"I wouldn't…"

"And I expect the audit on my desk by end of busi…. FUCKIN' HELL'S TEETH!"

She was so shocked and stunned she had to go round twice, before emerging, blinking into the reception area.

All she could manage as she staggered towards the fine fake plastic topiary hedge next to the reception desk, perfect hair now coming astray, the upmarket façade well-and-truly exposed by an East London estuary twang, was a single word: "Boilk"

Fake tan. Fake accent. Fake hedge.

I fled, and after this confession, I fully expect the forces of the Crown to catch up with me any time now.

It's fine, officer, I'll come quietly.

On random snippets of conversation

On random snippets of conversation

It's incredible the stuff you hear on public transport these days.

Sit there for long enough, pretending to listen to music and you find all the world's secrets winging your way. Just be careful taking notes. They don’t like that.

All 100 per cent true, honest. (Value of honesty may vary by up to 25 per cent)

This:

"Just think – this time next year, I'd be living the dream."

"My dreams feature women with enormous bosoms. That's the kind of dream I'd like to be living. Your mum."

"You sicken me sometimes. You really do."

And:

"I worked with a disabled woman once, she had one bigger than the other, and they were both massive."

"I bet you found it was a terrible moral dilemma, knowing it was wrong to stare."

"Wrong to stare, drool, and say 'Oh Mamma!' whenever she entered the room, yes."

"What happened?"

"I got the sack from that job an' all."

Not to mention:

"I knew some bloke who told me he could masturbate lying on his back and catch his load in his mouth. I wonder what happened to him?"

"Britain's Got Talent?"

"No, that's Simon Cowell you're thinking about."

Even:

"I'm pregnant, and I'd like you to know that you're not the father."

"Stands to reason. I've only ever done you up the bum."

Heard anything good recently?

On leaving your gag book lying about at home for a week

On leaving your gag book lying about at home for a week

Like Bob Monkhouse, I do not go anywhere without my gag book.

Unlike poor, dead Bob Monkhouse I am NOT DEAD.

I have a large, green, spiral-bound notebook - £1.99 from purveyors of quality High Street tat Wilkinsons – in which I jot down all my best jokes, blog ideas, and instructions on how to do my job without getting sacked.

On the front cover, in large reassuring letters in chisel-tip black marker is the single word "EXCELLENT", lest there be any doubt as to who the book belongs.

I will, on a whim, and usually at three o'clock in the morning shout out "Oooh!" and start scribbling some half-baked idea onto the page, hoping that it might turn into something more useful at a later date.

Picked at random from the current volume:

- "Flensing. Perhaps the best word ever."

- Original draft of Hitler Therapy, a short skit that is still evolving to this day

- "Thou art only suppos'd to blow ye ruddye doors offe" – W. Shakespeare's Italian Jobbe

- Original script for the subsequently banned Bummy Rabbit Adventures

- My priceless collection of Buzzword Bingo calls ("You're not going to have a Big Bang theory overnight")

So, it came as a bit of a shock to the system that I left my Big Green Gag Book (Volume Four) at home last week.

On the sofa.

Of course, the dire warnings on the first page ("Beware of the Leopard") were ignored, and the entire contents of my mind were leafed through by intellects greater than mine.

So, enquires Mrs Duck as I arrive home on Friday evening "Since when was crapping the bed during sex funny?"

"Errr..."

"And when did you crap the bed during sex? Exactly?"

I check my diary. May 27th 2005.

"And another thing..."

Oh, God.

"Vibrating cock rings?"

I had to ask: "Yes or no?"

On sticking your nose into local sports where it's not wanted

On sticking your nose into local sports where it's not wanted

Don't stop me - I'm on a roll. And this time it's our local underachieving speedway side that feels the wrath of Albert O'Balsam.


Dear the Weymouth Wildcats

Congratulations on your recent crushing victory over the Plymouth Devils!

In a country that is increasingly going to the dogs, it is pleasing to see you giving these no good satanists a thorough whipping through the noble art of Speedway.

I was wandering, as I clasped my regulation Speedway clipboard to my chest, watching your brave lads go round and round and round and round without any brakes, if you had considered changing the name of your team to reflect the latest craze that's sweeping the high-tech world of the internet?

Why not, I ask, change your name to the WEYMOUTH LOLCATS?

Trust me, this will make you TEH L33T3ST speedway team in the entire universe, and I may even consider paying money at the turnstile, rather than bunking in through the golf course.

I am absolutely certain that the all-new WEYMOUTH LOLCATS will open up huge new vistas of sponsorship and marketing opportunities. Who could possibly resist, for example, a tasty snack from the I CAN HAZ CHEESEBURGER bar (formerly Fat Ron's Grease'n'Botulism stall)?

And face it, once all the INVISIBUL MOTORBIKES are delivered, your opponents might as well pack up and go home.

Ceiling Cat has decreed it. So mote it be.

Your pal,

Albert O'Balsam

PS Could you get back to me by return of post? I'm already in talks with your local rivals, who are giving serious consideration to the name DONE A POO-le Pirates

On sticking one's nose into fiery nuclear Armageddon where it's not wanted

Things you should know before we crack on:

• I (used to) live in the socialist utopia of Weymouth,so this is relevant to my interests
• The town received £8m to cover the cost of policing the sailing events in the 2012 Olympic Games
• Local tourist attractions include both Monkey World and the Tank Museum, built next door to each other...
• ...and just down the road from the Winfrith nuclear research facility

What, dear reader, could possibly go wrong?


Dear The Dorset Echo

With the Olympics only four years away, I feel it is my duty to report a threat to our area – and indeed our very existence - that not even the reported £8m police budget to cover the Games could combat.

I refer, of course, to South Dorset's square mile of CERTAIN DOOM, which, if we let our guards down will spell the end of civilisation as we know it.

A recent trip to the high-quality tourist attractions in the area brought home to me the danger that we all face. Excellent that they are, but what fool put the Tank Museum next door to Monkey World?

It would only take a couple of unlocked cages and a set of keys carelessly left in the ignition, and we'd have spare monkeys roaming the county in 62 tons of Challenger tank scaring council tax payers, blocking the Tolpuddle Bypass to traffic and demanding bananas with menaces at the height of the Olympic rush.

Let us add to the mix the nuclear reactors at nearby Winfrith, and the potential disaster that faces us all is made only too clear.

It is, I fear, only a matter of time before our Simian friends get their hairy little hands on a bunch of Panzers and T-38s, and poor, dead Charlton Heston will be crawling up Weymouth beach screaming "Damn you all to hell!" as a shattered King's statue looms over him.

One would suspect Lord Coe would have kittens if this highly likely train of events came to pass. Hardly the so-called "Olympic Legacy" he had in mind.

I am not mad.

Your Pal

Mr Kim Jong-Il, Castletown, Portland

Mirth and Woe: Bunny Boiler

Mirth and Woe: Bunny Boiler

This is a true story of woe.

Proper woe – for I am warning you now – there is very little mirth to be had.

This is, then, a true story of woe about the woman I love, and I have shared my life with ever since a memorable, squelchy day in 1987.

I don't know what's in your filthy mind. I'm just saying it rained on our first date.

The charming Mrs Duck, as a child, lived on one of the more – let us be charitable here – troubled estates in the Berkshire county town of Reading. OK, let's not be charitable. It was dog rough, where even the muggers had to go around in packs.

You could – she said – leave your front door on the latch all day. All your furniture and everything you owned would be gone by lunchtime, but it was THAT kind of community.

There was precious little Love Thy Neighbour to be had, except if you counted all the rutting away like council estate chavs that you get these days. Back in the seventies, it was rough, but you got a receipt.

Mrs Duck's family live next door to – and let us be charitable once again – a right bunch of fucking bastards. They were a family with three of the most evil, vindictive, bullying little shits imaginable. If only they had a brain cell between them they might have constituted some sort of danger to society. Instead, they were just plain nasty, and like all bullies, they didn't like it up 'em.

My charming wife, as a child, had a rabbit. It was called Lucky.

Lucky would hop around his run contentedly, eating carrots and generally being cute.

This state of affairs continued for several weeks, right up to the moment that the little shits next door thought it might be funny to introduce their dog – some sort of Rottweiler crossed with a bastard – to Lucky.

Lucky was found – as you might expect – sans head in various parts of the garden, whilst protests to the Cro-Magnon man who may or may not have been their father were met with "Yeah? What the fack are you gonna do abaht it then?", only with somewhat less charm and markedly more violence than I can put across here.

Unlucky Lucky.

Several months later, the evil bastard kids next door got their own ickle rabbit.

"What was he called?" I ask, trying to glean a little colour to beef up this sad, sad tale.

"Wanker, I think."

I cannot condone what happened next. In fact, I am still mildly disgusted with my beloved, who – and I have told her on several occasions- made baby Jesus cry through her actions.

By way of revenge, the young Mrs Duck concocted a bucket full of everything in her old dad's shed which had a skull-and-crossbones on the bottle. The end result was probably mildly explosive and certainly very, very poisonous.

Throwing this bucket of jollop into next door's garden certainly killed everything that hadn't already been eaten by Tosspot the Rottweiler, but also did for Bastard Bunny, the little bastards' bastard bunny.

The shits arrived home, and there was great gnashing of teeth, and the words "Yeah? What the fack are you gonna do abaht it then?" thrown back in Cro-Magnon man's face.

She laughed, the vile poisoner, the terrible, terrible bunny boiler. And in seventeen years of marriage, I never started a meal until somebody else has tasted it. Just to be safe, like.

And then: "S'funny thing about that rabbit I bumped off", she eventually confesses.

"What? WHAT?"

"Didn't have a head."

Ah.

Unlucky Wanker.


Speaking of unlucky wankers, this tale of mirth and woe from Debster.

On bullshit and the detection thereof

On bullshit and the detection thereof

As the teller of the odd tale or two, it always amuses me to hear stories of those who cannot separate fiction from reality, who then step too far over the line.

Torygraph: SAS Facebook fantasist quits over lies
Daily Fail: Incredibly long headline that says much the same

This is the story, then, of one such fantasist who claimed to have been at virtually every British military encounter in the last thirty years – mostly as an operative in the (Shhh!) SAS – which tickled me greatly, especially after genuine former soldiers caught onto his bragging on Facebook and set about exposing him as a fraud over a period of several months.

I've met a few Walts in my time (Walter Mitty: One who invents a fake reality about themselves, usually to impress others enough to see their naked bosoooooms), and served a large number of them in my time as a dole office clerk.

"Have you done any work in the last two weeks, Mr Bond?"

"Yeah, had to take out a couple of Libyans for the CIA. Keep it to yourself. Strictly need-to-know."

"Apart from that – any PAID work?"

Members of the forces take a dim view of this kind of bragging, particularly when it involves actions where they have lost friends or relatives, and it was only a matter of time before he was horribly outed.

This particular Walt is a classic – and ultimately hilarious - case.

Virtually every pub in the land has a beer-soaked bullshitter who claims to have fought alongside 'H' Jones at Goose Green, or to have been the legendary "second man on the balcony" at the 1980 Iranian Embassy siege. This bloke was both, and if the British Army was in action anywhere in the world, he was at the front giving Johnny Dago a damn good pasting in the name of Her Majesty.

He also claims to have killed over 100 men. As a former army chef, he's probably understating this number.

I imagine that virtually every army down the years has had to deal with its own bullshitters and hangers-on, giving them the damn good shoeing they deserve.

When the Bayeux Tapestry first went on display, there was some twat pointing to a fatally-injured King Harold saying "See that? I fired that arrow. Special Arrow Service"

And:

"Fuck me, Agincourt. There I was, sticking me fingers up at the Frenchies... all undercover work, mind. Totally hush-hush"

"Of course, when Churchill talked about 'The Few', he was mostly talkin' about me"

"Yeah, they called it D-Day cos I was first up the beach at the head of D Company. Done the Service proud that day, but I don't like to talk about all the Jerries I done in...(for three hours)"

"Actually, that bullet went right through me shoulder before it hit Lord Nelson. I've still got the scar"

"The 300? 301, more like. Them Spartans wouldn't have held Thermopylae without my SAS training"

All of these quotes have one thing in common. The next phrase to fall out of the Walt's mouth is this: "Can I see your tits?"

Anyway, it couldn't have been Walt on the balcony at the Iranian Embassy. Did I tell you about the time I went from 1st Hurst Air Scouts straight to the SAS? They had to do the operation on the Sunday – I had to get to school the next morning.

The truth of my career in the British Armed Forces is sad and extremely short - invalided out before I even joined, for shame... Old war wound you know. Very hush-hush.

On Men in Black

On Men in Black

I've never seen a UFO.

I've never seen lights in the sky, Yetis, the Devil Incarnate, spontaneous human combustion, mythological creatures or Elvis driving a taxi round the back streets of Weymouth.

I once nearly saw a ghost, but I might have been making that up.

Good God, I've faked up UFO sightings, and even made genuine cash money for it, and good grief, I really, really wanted at some sad, deluded stage in my life for aliens and stuff to be real.

But they're not.

And I can tell you why,

A knock at the door.

Two men in black, black suits.

"What you saw that night was the planet Venus. The planet Venus."

"The planet Venus, with a helicopter flying in front of it."

"Yes. A helicopter, which lowered a noted surgeon on a winch so he could stick a probe up your bottom."

"A probe which was NOT alien technology, at all. He just likes bottoms."

"Don't push it, Agent Smith."

"Sorry, Agent Jones."

"Wait… hang on…" I say.

"Planet Venus," said Agent Smith, trying to keep up the pretence.

"Bottoms," says Jones.

"No… really. I think you want Mr Mulder. Three doors down."

"Shit. Sorry. This isn't number 92, then?"

"No. No it isn't."

"Bollocks. You didn't see us, right?"

So mote it be.


Edit: I've just invented a new gay inter-racial porn movie: Black in Men. Sorry.

On the worst pun ever

On the worst pun ever

My erstwhile colleague Gyppo Byard writes about a pun-laden conversation with his daughter on the subject of Beatles song titles.

"Ticket to Ryde", indeed.

I find the world is full of two groups of people. You either think that puns make the world go round; or you belong to a second, more violent group who think that people who pun ought to have their faces stoved in which a shovel.

I'm not sure if I 'dig' these people. Eh? EH?

Sadly, driven by switching from decaffeinated to 200% SUPER CAFFEINE Drive-you-up-the-wall brand coffee, and the Fab Four punnery of my excellent workmate, I came up with the following dreadful, dreadful pun for which I am not sorry at all.

You see, I'm a big fan of that song on "Revolver" about a trip down to the underworld on the back of an insect trying to cover up embarrassing hair loss

"Hell on a wigged bee"

Or: On the dangers of using sheets of iron to decorate your house

"I am the wall rust"

Group 1 people: Full list of Beatles songs HERE

Group 2 people: Go steady with the shovels. I'm too pretty to die.


In other news: All new Done a Poo updates

On sticking one's nose into the heart of the Thames Valley where it's not wanted

On sticking one's nose into the heart of the Thames Valley where it's not wanted

Oh Lordy, our not-so-favourite North Korean dictator is back, and this time telling the good people of the town of Reading exactly where they're going wrong.


Dear The Reading Chronicle

"If you build it, they will come"

As a frequent traveller through your fine town, I find myself - as I sit at the numerous red traffic lights your local planners seem to enjoy springing on drivers for a bit of a laugh – wondering to myself how, exactly, Reading can be improved.

Speaking as the despotic yet generous leader of a proud military-first socialist people's revolution, it is obvious to me that the jewel of the Thames Valley is suffering from a bit of an image problem. All those big ideas for traffic congestion and pie-in-the-sky office blocks are nothing but window dressing which no amount of brightly painted bus lanes can hide.

What Reading needs, then, is a bold gesture or two that might enrich the lives of the working proletariat and instil a patriotic fervour that can only be quench with the total annihilation of the Basingstoke puppet government and their Newbury running-dog clique.

- First impressions count, and there's nothing to excite the traveller as they enter the town. I would suggest, therefore, a 300-foot floodlit statue of a Titanic-era Kate Winslet standing, naked as the say she was born, athwart the railway line as it crosses the Caversham Road. What visitor would not be inspired by the sight of Reading's most famous daughter as they pass between her fine, perfectly formed Made-In-Tilehurst legs on their way to work?

- As an equal opportunities dictator, the other end of town should be served by an equally impressive statue of poor, dead former resident Oscar Wilde being attacked by rabid stoats whilst clutching his original, banned script for EastEnders

- Change the name, change the thing. Reading's a bitch to find on the internet, so I suggest a change to 'Thames Valley Super Happy Lucky Town sponsored by the Glorious Juche Military-First Democratic Peoples Republic Of Korea Secret Slush Fund'. I'd warn you that several other towns in the South of England are already expressing an interest – so HURRY!

- The immediate and total annihilation of Dean Valley Super Happy Lucky Town, formerly known as Basingstoke

- The immediate and total annihilation of Kennet Valley Super Happy Lucky Town, formerly known as Newbury


With these simple steps, the universe will find itself in harmony, all traffic lights in the town will switch to green, the Hexagon theatre will miraculously grow a seventh side, and I may consider sparing Reading from the perpetual darkness of slavery and permanent military-first socialist revolution.

Thank you for your attention.

Your pal,

Kim Jong Il, Secret Bunker, Didcot

Mirth and Woe: (C)Rap

Mirth and Woe: (C)Rap

Tuesday afternoons.

Maths, then double Music.

Double Music, as if single Music wasn't bad enough.

The entire experience was made a complete joy by the two teachers (names changed in case they are of a vengeful bent): Mrs Clarkson, a joyless harpy who taught us to sing by shouting at us a lot; and Mr Willis, six feet of beanpole in a three-piece suit toped with an afro.

We weren't sure exactly what his role was in the entire set-up, but he forced us to listen to classical records and stuck little labels on the piano keys to help the musically challenged.

The musically challenged being, of course, the entire class.

If you were incredibly lucky, you might be allowed to get your hands on some sort of percussion instrument, and soon the air would be rent with the sound of triangles, bongos, and solid wood against skull.

Foolishly, I showed interest in a musical instrument, and spent the next two years trying to stop having violin lessons, where my ability in the musical arts rose only very slightly from "sound of a cat being sawn in half" to "complete mong".

Making music paid a very minor part of double Music. In retrospect, it seemed more of a ploy to corral the entire year group in one corner of the school whilst random searches took place and the rest of the faculty took a well deserved smoke break.

Damage limitation was the key, with pupils either sitting in complete boredom in front of Haydn's Trumpet Concerto or engaged in reckless, life-endangering percussion.

Only once were we allowed to do something interesting.

We were, as some sort of citizenship campaign swept the school, allowed to write a pop song. A pop song on the evils of dropping litter.

It's the kind of thing that bored local news programmes will resort to when there's nothing else to screen: "A group of local kids are so angry at litter in their local park, they've written a rap"

We wrote a rap.

A rap using those well known rap instruments: the triangle, the maracas and a swannee whistle, the only instruments left after the mad dash for something – ANYTHING – to play.

Fortune smiled on us, however, as we were promised use of the upright piano and as many sticky labels on the keys as we needed come the time we had to perform our masterpiece.

And came the time. Six white boys, some of us sporting military-style short back-and-sides and wearing school blazers ready to enter the badass world of Old Skool Gangta Rap with a dreadful little number called "Don't be a clown"

I clutched my solitary maraca and counted us in.

"YO!"

"Keep Berkshire tidy, y'hear!"

"Wiggida wiggida wiggida"

"Don't be a clown – don' drop litter on tha groun'"

And 'ting' went James's triangle, keeping time as Geoff hunt-and-pecked out notes on the piano.

I dare say that if the term "Fo'snizzle" had been invented back then, we would have used it, even though we were the whitest dudes this side of Compton. Wherever Compton is. Hampshire, I gather.

Unfortunately, our lack of any musical talent whatsoever was masked by a certain exuberance in the performance, as we strutted our stuff in a desperate attempt to impress any young ladies (or, as I am led to believe by people in the know of rap slang "Hoes", though I'm hard pushed to see what garden tools have to do with the female gender).

Ju-Vid was taking it all too seriously, strutting around with the other maraca, thrusting his pelvis in the face of an all-hoe front row, shouting "Yo!", "Don't be a clown" and "A wank a wank a wank" in a brazen attempt to include swears in front the grown-ups and get a way with it.

Alas, Ju-Vid had a big finish he hadn't told anyone about.

As we droned, tinged and plonked our way through a turgid third verse to the oh-so-funny pay-off line "Keep Berkshire tidy – dump all your rubbish in Hampshire", Ju took a run-up and vaulted onto the top of the piano, presumably to gyrate his pelvis even more and shout "A wank a wank a wank", even though it was clearly not in any lyrics we had scribbled in Geoff's rough book in a red-hot jammin's session the replaced the regular wanking club meeting of which I was never a member.

One second Ju was there, vaulting on top of the piano in a way he had never managed in several years of PE lessons, the next he had gone.

And so, frankly had the piano.

Up he went, and the whole lot came down again with a mighty C-L-A-A-A-N-N-N-G-G-G!!!! much like a gamelan orchestra getting run down by a dustcart.

Clarkson, as you'd expect, went utterly ballistic, and the dust had barely settled on the carnage before he was led away, in the grip of a classic 'Small Boy Side Hair Tweak' to the Department of Ironic Punishments that was the headmaster's office.

The blind fella was called in to retune the piano – at the Vid family's expense, and the local media were never invited to hear the disaffected youth of the Thames Valley rapping on the evils of litter.

We could have been up there with poor, dead MC Hammer, poor, dead LL Cool J and poor, dead Vanilla Ice but for The Man's ruthless stamping out of Posh Skool Rap. And society is all theworse for this omission.

All together now: "A wank a wank a wank, don't be a clown"

On good news/bad news

On good news/bad news

It's Good News / Bad News Day at Scaryduck Towers as the World's Most Sarcastic Postman Who Is Not Getting a Christmas Tip Bar The One On The End Of My Shoe delivers two letters to my home, whilst pushing a couple of likely-looking Amazon parcels to the bottom of his sack.

"Are you putting on weight again? You fat bastard."

That is, I think, no way to speak to my charming wife, and freshly-stropped Wilkinsons await his next visit to our premises, and I'd not be out of order.

The letters!

Dear Mr Duck

Ref: HMRC SELF-ASSESSMENT TAX RETURN

Thank you for your tax return for the year 2007/8.

We are writing to confirm that you have overpaid income tax for the financial year, and we will be arranging a payment of £98.86 to your bank account within five working days.

Your pal,

Alistair Darling

PS Consider yourself lucky this time. We've got our eye on you

And...

Dear Mr Duck

Ref: CHURCHILL INSURANCE – STORM DAMAGE

We are writing to confirm that our contractors have satisfactorily carried out rebuilding and recovery work as the result of storm damage at your home on 30 January.

You will note that you have an excess on your policy to cover the first £100.00 of any claim. Please forward this sum to our offices within the next 14 days so that we may close this account.

Your pal,

Churchill the Dog

PS Oh yes!

Only one word to say to that: "ARSE"

On Top Gear

On Top Gear

Woo-hoo! Top Gear is back!

Top Gear is really Blue Peter for grown ups.

Blue Peter for grown-ups who still want to be kids.

They've even got a dog.

Think about it. Three presenters in a studio, doing all the things you'd like to do, but can't.

Back in the day, before it turned all shouty as they desperately tried to pander to TEH KIDZ, Blue Peter set out to show children from poorer backgrounds experiences they wouldn't otherwise experience, and to have studio pets they might not otherwise be able to afford.

BP went to Tonga and the Ivory Coast, because there was no way on God's Earth that you would ever see those places in normal circumstances. They took holidays for you, jumped out of airplanes and got to wrap Janet Ellis in clingfilm*.

John Noakes went down the bobsleigh run on his arse for YOU.

Top Gear, then, drive around in Ferraris and Bugattis because, frankly, you've got a Mondeo and haven't got a cat in Hell's chance of getting your hands on – in the words of poor, dead Kenny Everett - anything sleek, red, sexy and just right for picking up girls.

You, owner of a Vauxhall Astra, will never get the chance to choose between four-door supercar estates, so Richard Hammond gets to do it for you. The short-arsed, spawny git.

James May gets to drive Bentleys because you've got something with only three wheel, and Clarkson gets to do all the exciting stuff whilst shouting "POWWWWWER!" because a) it's his programme and b) he's got quite extraordinary pots of money. And you haven't.

It's all about aspirational ownership. They're test-driving frankly astoundingly expensive cars because you'd never get past the credit check if you turn up at your local Porsche dealer demanding a week-long test drive. If you really want a ten-minute discussion on the shape of the gear knob on a Mini Metro, I suggest you watch old Top Gear. With Noel Edmonds.

In fact, just about the only think you and I have in common with Top Gear is that Richard Hammond gives his crappy old car a name, and mine is now referred to as Toshiko, The Silver Hornet Which Is Actually Silver. Toshiko even talks if I prod the person riding shotgun hard enough: "You're an excellent driver!"

Hammond, of course, is the new Noakes, being the presenter most likely to get killed TO DEATH in the name of pointless televisual entertainment.

If that's the case, that makes James May of the lovely hair Valerie Singleton, which means he'd have to have a one-night stand with ...ooooooh... too terrible to contemplate.

* Probably. I'm having a few problems separating reality from teenage sexual fantasy

Condensed Films: Raiders of the Lost Ark

Condensed Films: Raiders of the Lost Ark

Oh ho! The bloke with the whip and the funny hat's back, but enough of my private life. Back too, it seems, is Indiana Jones. And to celebrate, I have taken Spielberg's finest hour, and boiled it down to a single page in the easy-to-understand language of today's disaffected, knife-wielding youth, innit.

By way of a Brucey Bonus, I have also thrown in a super-condensed version of Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom, because I AM EXCELLENT.

Raiders of the Lost Ark

I.Jones: Hello. I am I. Jones, and I am excellent. Today, I am mostly stealing this priceless gold statue of Jade Goody's arse-like face.

Shifty Foreign: Ahhahahaha! That's what you think! Oh. I am teh DEAD.

I.Jones: WTF?! Balls!

R.Bolloq: Good moaning. Plose piss me the statue

I.Jones: FFS. Run away! Mwaaargh! What's this snake doing in my plane?

S.L.Jackson: Snakes? Inna plane? I appear to be in the wrong movie

I.Jones: I LOLed

TEH CIA: Plz to find TEH LOST ARK or we will all be KILLED TO DEATH by A. HITLER

I.Jones: KK. First I must find Teh Staff of RARRRR

TEH CIA: Staff of what, FFS?

I.Jones: RARRRR!

M. Ravenwood: Hello. I am I.Jones's bird and I am excellent, live in Nepal and drink like a bastard. HIC! A staff of RARRRR: I has one

Herr Flick: You vill give me ze Staff of RARRRR, or I vill kill you TO DEATH with my Gestapo pistol, LHL*

M. Ravenwood: DIAF!** LOLOLOL

Herr Flick: Schiessefickenachduliebegott.

I.Jones: LOL, we are in Cairo

Bad guys: DETH to TEH INFIDEL, ROFL

I.Jones: Whippy whippy whippy

Bad guys: Ouch, stop it, that smarts

I. Jones: LOL

Bad guy with huge-ass sword: I see your LOL and raise you a big ROFFLE

I. Jones: Shooty shooty shooty. King of LULz

M. Ravenwood: I am a bit thick, so I shall hide in this laundry basket

Evil Traitor MONKEH: Here she is, hiding in a crappy laundry basket. Bananas, plz

M. Ravenwood: Oh spoons, now I am captured. I shall now resort to screaming loudly. FFSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

Huge Truck: ASSPLODES

I.Jones: Whups. I have killed M. Ravenwood TO DETH. Now to drink heavily

R.Bolloq: Good moaning. I am here to taunt you a second time. I shall soon find TEH LOST ARK and your mother smelt of elderberries. LULZ

I. Jones: Hic! BLAAAAAAAAAARGHH!

Wizzened old mystic guy: TEH staff of RARRRR: I have deciphered it

I.Jones: What it say?

Wizzened old mystic guy: It say this: RARRRRRRRRRR

I.Jones: Oh

Wizzened old mystic guy: Also, some shit about TEH LOST ARK

I.Jones: Gd gd

Evil Traitor MONKEH: OM NOM NOM tasty dates DED

I.Jones: I has found TEH LOST ARK, LOL

Salah: Gd gd. I'll get me shovel.

I.Jones: I shall hide in this luxurious tent

M.Ravenwood: Hello! I am not TEH DED

I.Jones: FTW!

M.Ravenwood: Pls to untie me before Herr Flick comes back

I.Jones: Soz. I will leave you here and rescue you later. Can I have a quick honk of yr bosoooms?

M.Ravenwood: DIAF! LOL

Salah: TEH WELL OV ARSOLES – we has found it. Teh floor – Why does it move so?

I.Jones: Snks. Why duz it hav 2 b snks?

Salah: U go first

I. Jones: Bstrd

Salah: TEH LOST ARK – we has one

R.Bolloq: Good moaning. I woll noo get absolootely possed and try to have sax with you

M. Ravenwood: Hic! Excuse me while I escape.

R. Bolloq: I am not drunk LOL and now I am going to threw you in that big hole I.Jones is dogging ROFFLE

M. Ravenwood: Oh spoons

R. Bolloq: Good moaning. Plose give me the lost ork

I.Jones: FFS

R. Bolloq: Now to koll you TO DETH! LOL

M. Ravenwood: ARSE

I.Jones: Even though TEH WELL OV ARSOLES has been buried by TEH WRATH OV GOD for thousands of years, they left the back door unlocked. LOL

M. Ravenwood: w00t! Teh LOST ARK – they are loading it onto that plane

I.Jones: Oh yeah?

Burly half-naked German: Ug! Punchypunchypunchy

I.Jones: Ow

Burly half-naked German: Ug! Punchypunchypunchy

I.Jones: Ow

Burly half-naked German: Ug! Punchypunchypunchy ONOZ! TEH PROPELLERZ!

Teh PROPELLERZ: Slicyslicyslicy

I.Jones: LOL

M. Ravenwood: w00t! Teh LOST ARK – they are loading it onto that truck

I.Jones: Oh, for the love of God. Look, the next fifteen minutes is a purely visual cavalcade of stunts and abject violence which your humble narrator will be hard pushed to convey in mere written words. Imagine, if you will, a huge-assed mobile punch up, with loads of bullet-headed krauts going "Gott in Himmel" and "Ach du liebe Gott aaaaaaaaargh!" before I emerge triumphant with TEH LOST ARK on a ship, about to have TEH SEXUSSSSS with M. Ravenwood. So mote it be

M. Ravenwood: Now to have TEH SEXUSSSSS with I.Jones

R. Bolloq: Good moaning. I am back again with all the predictablility of a 'Two Pints of Lager' repeat on BBC Three

M.Ravenwood: Oh, COCK

R. Bolloq: I has TEH LOST ARK. Now to open it for LULZ

I.Jones: ONOZ! Plz 2 close eyes

M.Ravenwood: WTF?

I.Jones: Plz 2 close eyes. U will b KILLED TO DETH

God: Feel my WRATH LOLOLOL!


Herr Flick: Garblegarblemeltygarble

Nazis: Ouch. We is TEH DEAD

R.Bolloq: Good moaning. Ouch. My head – it has assplode.

God: And you all thought I was a forgiving deity. ROFFLE

I.Jones: Can I go now?

God: Yes. Bugger off. And take the bird, even if I had to sit through the disgusting spectacle of you pair at it like rutting monkeys in a zoo last night. Can't say I approve, but it's bloody brilliant being omnipresent

I.Jones: Git

God: God, I love being God. Best job in the world. LOL

I.Jones: Where is TEH LOST ARK?

TEH CIA: Not telling. And it is certainly not in TEH QVC mail order warehouse with a limited edition consignment of 200,000 other LOST ARKS, LOL

I. Jones: What?

TEH CIA: Nothing. Nothing. LOL

* German: Lachen heraus loud = Laugh out loud, LOLz
** l33t-speak glossary: DIAF = Die in a fire


Indiana Jones and TEH TEMPLE OF DOOM

Ugly, wrinkled tribal chief: Our village is curs-ed. Plz to recover our sacred stones, rescue our children and kill the Thuggees to DEATH

I.Jones: KK

Two hours later...

I.Jones: I am back with your sacred stones and your children; and by way of a bonus, I have killed all the Thuggees TO DEATH

Ugly, wrinkled tribal chief: Nice one, cheers

I.Jones: I'll be off, then

Ugly, wrinkled tribal chief: KTHXBAI!