THE TRUMPTON TERROR
"Here is a box, a musical box,
Wound up and ready to play.
But this box can hide a secret inside.
Can you guess what is in it today ?"
It's Windy Miller!
Oh, there doesn't appear to be any music. What's wrong Windy?
What? Music has been declared the work of Satan and is an affront you your religion?
And you'd like to be referred to as Ahmad Al-Chigli from now on? You've really changed since your little holiday in Waziristan, haven't you Windy?
And no, we won't tell anybody about the two tons of chapati flour and thirty cases of hydrogen peroxide hair bleach. Why should we?
What's that? You look forward to entering into paradise with your forty virgins, having blown that wicked infidel Lord Belborough limb-from-limb at the weekly factory workers' dance a lesson to those supplying weapons for the Yankee-Zionist military hegemony.
Then painful death to PC McGarry Number 452 and Pugh, Pugh, Barney, McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble and Grubb in a cunningly-designed secondary explosion as they rush to the scene of your recent glorious martyrdom in the name of Al-Qaeda in the Lands of the Western Crusader.
They will eventually find your severed head at the centre of the blast, amongst the limbs, entrails and blood of the hell-bound infidel crusaders, a smile on your face as you fulfil your destiny.
And what about Captain Snort and Sergeant Major Grout? What's that? They'll never get out of Helmand alive? Fuck, right.
No, wait. Here comes Paul Gascoigne with a fishing rod and a bucket of Kentucky Fried.
You might as well give it up now, Ahmad, my old son.