LAUGHING ALL THE WAY TO THE UNDERTAKER.

Life has its little ups and downs, and while they are a pain in the arse, one has no option other than to endure them, which is what I am doing at the moment with saintly resignation. Recently I suffered a heart attack, which surprised me as the consensus of opinion held that all I had in my chest was a swinging brick but now I have medical evidence this is not true. If there is a plus to this situation it is that I have now officially joined the ranks of the middle classes, you can not be a member of the middle ranks of society unless you have suffered a heart attack, a small price to pay for admittance to the ranks of the posh lot. So, let us start at the beginning. There was no indication that anything was untoward, one moment walking down the passage, the next, laid out on the floor in agony. In the fall I had broken my collar bone. I lay there unable to move for three hours, bemused and in agony, the only thing I could be sure of was that I had not over indulged, after all, ten AM would have been a little early even by my standards. Eventually an ambulance arrived and ferried me over to the Royal London, that’s when the fun started, laugh? I nearly died. The first thing you notice on admission to hospital is the obsession of the staff with one’s intestinal transition, putting it crudely, when did you last have a crap? Of course the question was never posited in so crude a manner, have you opened your bowels? being the preferred avenue of inquirery. I never did work out the correlation between my arse and my heart, but, mine not to wonder why. I lay on a hospital bed wired up to some infernal contraption which played irritating tunes every time I moved, the cables had a life of their own and displayed a determination to truss me up like a pig on it’s way to market. Now it came to pass that I needed a jimmy riddle,which meant a nurse had to unplug me when I needed the bathroom, every time I wanted to pee I had to be unplugged, personal dignity has no place in the national health service. The following day they shipped me over to Bart’s, the receptionist expressed surprise that I was man, which unless I had mislaid something on the journey across the Capital, I certainly was. This did not go very far to boosting my confidence, as if they could not get my sex right what else might they overlook, or worse, discard, would I leave the premises all heart and no balls? The next couple of hours I spent drinking water as this was essential to the procedure to be performed on me. Eventually they wheeled me into the theatre, I lay on the slab surrounded by strangers, more wires, but at least they did not pester me with questions about my bowels. Now as I have said, I had been made to consume copious quantities of liquid, the outcome being inevitable, I indicated my need to go to the bathroom, nothing so civilised came my way, a complete stranger grabs my family inheritance and stuffs it into a container. Now I freely admit that I adore being the centre of attention, but having a strange geezer stuffing my cock into a cardboard tube while a crowed of strangers gazed on, is ramming the issue home to a point beyond parody, at least the audience did not clap which was something to be thankful for. After a five hour wait for an ambulance I was back in the London, arriving at eleven thirty at night only to face another barrage of questions concerning the state of my bowels, had they nothing better with which to occupy their minds? Thursday had dawned and I felt a mite peckish, the medical staff were wonderful, the chef should have been indicted on a charge of crimes against humanity, were you to give a dog the mush that man dished up the mutt would bite you. I decided to make a break for freedom. There are lots of fast food joints on Whitechapel Road and I determined one of them deserved my patronage. I snuck out of the hospital. So, there I was, hobbling down the road dressed only in my jim jams, one arm in working order, resembling nothing so much as Quasimodo auditioning for a slot on Strictly Come Dancing. Disaster. I encountered some friends who insisted on escorting me back from whence I had come, escorting? Try frogmarching. The staff were awaiting me, the bastards had sounded the alarm, why? All I wanted was a cheese toastie and a packet of fags, surely that was no reason to put the rozzers onto me. At least all this took their minds off my bowels momentarily. From this point onwards they were watching me, no chance of doing a runner. Monday morning and the ward sister breezes into my room, here she comes thinks I, the bowel queen of Whitechapel, but this was different. The state of my guts had escaped her mind, I was being discharged, I could go home. Oh joy, oh rapture, I was so happy I nearly shit myself.

CUI BONO; A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER (fragment of the book).

Of all the impossible tasks available to impugn the ingenuity of the human condition, that involving the computation of time in our collective history when the World went mad, is the most difficult to guide to a successful conclusion. Personally, I think the societies which populate this Earth were never constrained within the parameters which define sanity, the World has always been mad, it is just that there have been times in our past when this particularly inconvenient truth has been less apparent than at others. That said, it has to be admitted that during the terminal decades of the twentieth century, the elite who govern the councils of our respective societies, plunged into an abyss of insanity not matched since the first millennium, when whole sections of the Christian World, convinced the end was nigh, gave away their possessions and retreated to the mountain tops, there to await the second coming of the Lord. In the times of which I write, Christianity had waned somewhat in popularity, but human nature abhors true atheism, and a new religion had arisen to take the place of the old in the hearts of men. This new faith was called climate change, and in certain government and academic circles, adherence to the tenets of this new dogma was mandatory. Nothing threatens the freedom of a society as does the tyranny imposed by a second class mind, and it is to the distress of people wherever they may hail from that a second class mind is all the average politician may aspire to, most of the genre do not even manage to achieve that lowly pinnacle of ambition. In this matter, Albertina Mallory did not stray from the established norm, she had perfected mediocrity to an art form, and like her maquillage, it was egregious to the point of vulgarity, although she was far too self obsessed to realise the fact. Albertina, to the distress of the Nation, was Prime Minister of England. Mrs. Mallory was a thin woman, flat chested and angular, her face had the pinched look which comes naturally to they who are perennially displeased by all who come into contact with them and are too idle to convey the fact, assuming their contempt for the World is taken for granted. The one outstanding feature of Albertina’s physiognomy was her proboscis, the contours of which suggested it would have done better duty as a coat hook than a nasal passage. Albertina’s greatest personal indulgence was sex, she could not get enough of it. The woman had been through every man in the Cabinet, the wider ranks of government and a fair percentage of the Civil Service. Humping the witch as it was known in certain eminent circles, was not exactly looked upon as one of the perks of office, but the gentlemen in the ranks of the elite considered screwing the Prime Minister in return for them being allowed to continue screwing the country, was an acceptable price to have to pay in order to avoid getting the sack and having to find a proper job. There comes a time in the affaires of politicians when they realise the game is up, and the electorate is getting bolshie, Mrs. Mallory had arrived at that point, she had reached the pinnacle of power by intrigue, her minions had stabbed her predecessor in the back, after this re-enactment of the Ides of March, had marched elegantly shod through the portals of Ten Downing Street, where within months, where, within months of purloining the previous incumbent’s position, everything she touched turned to electoral disaster. The woman was an albatross around the neck of her party, and she was the only person in all of the land who could not see this salient fact of her administration. In a situation such as this, there is a uniformity of response the World over, find a band wagon and jump on it. There was always one such vehicle trundling down the High Street, offering a gullible legislator a ride in exchange for a generous libation of taxpayers cash. Albertina’s vehicle of choice was the one driven by the international snake oil salesmen peddling the gospel of anthropogenic climate change. The prime Minister was indulging herself in a tantrum, an activity which in all truth was the only one she was any good at. “The bitch. Bloody upper-class bitch.” The Premier’s tantrum got the better of her, and the mobile phone she was holding left the tender confines of her palm, sailed across the room before rendezvousing with the wall amidst a brief shower of sparks, narrowly missing the Cabinet Secretary who had just entered the room. Sir Grimsdyke Bartholomew was a Whitehall mandarin of the old school, he pretended not to have notice the arc of the electronic projectile, notwithstanding this was the third such incident in less than a week, and the previous month they’d had to bribe a secretary into silence after the Prime Minister had brained her with a computer keyboard. Sir Grimsdyke assumed the unctuous smile without which no senior Civil Servant could survive in the ethical miasma which passed for government. “Everything fine Prime Minister?” He knew the answer he would receive even before his mistress had the chance to spit it in his direction. “No it fucking isn’t.” “Is it something with which I can help?” There was a genuine solicitude to his query, triggered by the relief that he would not, on this occasion have to drop his strides and give the old cow a length. Albertina never wanted sex when in a strop. “The snooty southern cow. She isn’t answering her phone again. I tell you, she does it on purpose just to wind me up.” “Oh Prime Minister, I’m sure Ms Flambert wouldn’t do such a thing.” “One day Grimsdyke, you’ll choke on all that diplomacy of yours. Little Lady Flambert would stick the knife in my back before dinner time if she thought she could get away with it. I don’t know why I put up with it, I really do not understand why I do.” “I should imagine Prime Minister it is because Ms. Flambert is the token toff of the administration. Chosen to illustrate beyond any doubt the working class authenticity of the others. Posh foi gras, introduced on to the menu to highlight the genuine tripe if you know what I mean. Works brilliantly by the way.” No-one could deliver the veiled insult like a Civil Service Mandarin, and in that field, Sir Grimsdyke led the field. What Bartholomew did not say, was that it was vital that a government had a few such as Oriola on tap to do the rounds of the diplomatic and international conference circuit, where it was helpful to know which knife and fork to use and the delegate could be relied upon not to drink tea from the saucer. “Now then Grimsdyke, where’s this ‘ere conference?” “Which one Prime Minister?” Asked Bartholomew, perfectly aware of which event the Premier was referring to. “You know, that climate change thingy.” “Oh yes. Anthropogenic climate change.” Smiled Sir Grimsdyke, knowing full well his mistress did not have a clue as to what he was referring to. “Anthro what?” “Anthropogenic. It means man made.” “Then why the fuck couldn’t you say so in the first place?” The Prime Minister prided herself on what she proudly thought of as her down to Earth speech “Dear God.” Thought Sir Grimsdyke, while keeping his expression resolutely neutral. “Is it mandatory that in order to climb to the top of the greasy pole in politics, it is necessary to possess less intelligence than is contained in a gnat’s testicles and to have a mouth like a blocked lavatory?” “Well come on Grimsdyke.” “There’s plenty of time. We have six months to prepare.” “Where’s it being held?” “Yuhzno-Sakhalinsk.” Sir Grimsdyke gave the Premier that patronising smile which was his speciality, knowing her knowledge of geography to be substantially less than her grasp of Latin declensions. “Oo?” “Yuhzno-Sakhalinsk. The capital of Sakhalin Island. A bit to the east of Siberia.” “Siberia. They’re holding a fucking shindig in Siberia. What pillock thought that one up? Wasn’t you was it Grimsdyke?” “Oh no. Britain isn’t in the position to decide such matters any more Prime Minister. These days we go where we are told and pretend to love it when we get there, and are frightfully grateful if we get offered a cup of tea.”

ONE WOULDN'T TAKE THE PISS OUT OF MEW, WOULD ONE NOT?

Robert Spencer has produced a book of stunning honesty. This is not an inchoate anti Islamic rant, but a well researched exercise in scholarship, which, by it's depth and clarity, commands only respect. The storey of Muhammad is charted from start to finish, all the salient points explained with admirable simplicity. Muhammad was a fantasist, a psychopath and a common or garden brigand. The starting point is Mecca, home to the Quraysh clan, Muhammad's people, who from the beginning rejected the Prophets new religion as a distasteful heresy. Nor could Muhammad claim sole authorship for what he was propagating, there is ample evidence that others had a hand in the early evolution of Islam. The quraysh would not tolerate this new doctrine. Muhammad fled to Medina, where he was not exactly welcomed with open arms, but, he persevered, making particular efforts to co-opt the Jewish clans, who, like the Quraysh wanted nothing to do with him. Much of what Muhammad preached had been stolen from other from other faiths, indeed, the promises of what awaited the faithful in the afterlife bore a startling resemblance to Hindu writings on the subject. Peace was never an option for the adherents of the new faith, it was spread by the sward, and baptised in blood. Muhammad's raids on the clans were for the accumulation of plunder, and having been robbed of their worldly goods, the victims were given the option to convert or die.. The night ride to Jerusalem was greeted with derision. Many pointed out that the Prophet had never left his house that night and Jerusalem was a months journey from Medina. At this junction the tale was adjusted to a spiritual journey. The locals did not swallow that one either, not that it mattered, apostasy was punishable by death. The night ride was not the only fantasy, the Satanic Verses is probably the most egregious of these. Muhammad claimed to have been tempted by the Devil, and briefly succumbed to the blandishments of Satan. One does not have to be an expert on the New Testament to recognise the similarities between that and Christ being offered the kingdoms of the World by the fallen one, however, Jesus declined on the spot. Finally, the Quraysh were overcome and forced into the arms of Islam and Muhammad returned to Mecca in triumph. This merely whetted his appetite, his forces were now unleashed on countries outside of the Arabian peninsular. The modus operandi was the same, submit or die. A certain leniency was offered to Jews and Christians, they were permitted to practice their religion under restrictions, provided they paid a special tax,. This became a central plank in the financing of the Islamic state. The revelations Muhammad claimed to have received from God, were of an extremely specific nature. When in a fix, he would clain to have been sent divine guidance. Naturally this guidance backed up the Prophet's position on the matter in hand, thus truncating any further argument. Intolerance was and remains the keystone of Islam, along with the injunction to destroy all other religions. Islam, in all probability is the most intolerant doctrine ever propounded by man. It is not nor has it ever been a religion of peace. Robert Spencer has shone a light on Islam that has been long overdue in coming. This book should be required reading for all the Western apologist of the religion of peace, who decline to acknowledge what is under their noses.

BURGLARS BURGLARS EVERYWHERE AND, NOT A COP IN SIGHT.

The public has been advised by the higher authorities of the Police Force, oops, dropped one there, the Police Service, that burglaries will not automatically be dealt with. Quite understandable, as Jeremy Corbin would undoubtedly assure us, with hand on heart and his eyes on our wallets, all property is theft. Therefore you have no business complaining if someone has stolen your property as you will have pinched it from somebody else in the first place. Q.E.D. The cops are running short of dosh and Chief Constables up and down the land are rushing out scare stories in order to persuade the Government to ante up a little more of the folding stuff. Nothing wrong with that except that it highlights the inescapable fact that you do not have to be a moron the rise in the Police Force, sorry, Service, but by God it certainly helps. Here are a few nuggets too illustrate my point. The boys in blue have recently been chasing around Scotland in search of three school kids seen dressed up as gollywogs, now that is a seriously serious crime, puts burglary in the shade, chasing gollywogs is what the police are for. Do not think things will not get worse, they will. Recently in Chorley Lancashire, the plod have been investigating a group of men for dressing up as pantomime dames in aid of a charity, this has offended the transgender community, not that I would imagine there are many cock deniers in Chorley, but this was a hate crime and merits serious attention. Burglary? Don’t make me laugh. The College of Policing has suggested, no, I have not heard of them either, but this august body is advising the police to solicit help from witches and psychics in the solving of crimes. The cops, having misplaced their gonads are to be encouraged to utilise the crystal balls of the nations Mystic Megs. So lads, before you commit a crime, nip ‘round to Megs, pinch her balls and make your getaway on her broom stick. They’ll never catch yer, and tickle her tits while you are at it. The next lunacy to make the light of day, was a warning that the Constabulary might have to utilise public transport to arrive at a crime scene. I can see it all now. COPS. Brick Lane Police Station. Sargeant Wilkes speaking. VICTIM. Sargeant, come quick, somebody’s murdered me ‘usband and buggered the budgie. COPS. Oh, I am sorry to hear that luv, but the buses is on strike. Shove ‘im somewhere cold and I’ll be round when they are back on the road. Daft? Yes. Improbable? Don’t you believe it. The Met has been given twenty million big ones to advise on the elimination of corruption in third world countries. That’s the ticket, forget burglary, this is serious policing, vital to the security of the Nation, lecturing the wogs on the iniquity of taking a bung. They will not take a blind bit of notice of course, but at the end of the day, this is what we pay our taxes for, so quit carping about friggin burglars getting off scot free.

IF YOU ARE IRREVERENT AND ENJOY A GOOD LAUGH...

If you are irreverent and enjoy a good laugh, read this generous sample of my debut, "My prime Ministers and I":

     It was one of those days, God knows we each of us get them from time to time, when absobloodylutely nothing goes right and sods law swings into action with a vengeance; the heavens do not open, nor is the glory of God declared to all and sundry. In short it was the sort of day that causes a body to opine that if this be an example of the Deity’s sense of humour, then the old bastard should keep it to himself and leave he rest of us to get on with our lives as best we can.

     There was nothing whatsoever to distinguish this particular day from any other. To no one’s particular surprise, the sun had risen as per the popular expectation, and by eight of the clock the streets of London town were already snarled up by traffic, but this day was different, although there was nobody in the land who could have testified to the fact. If Queen Elizabeth II had reigned in her wilder impulses and confined her breakfast reading on that morning to the Sporting Life, then the history of these islands would have been very different, but she had not. For some unfathomable reason the Queen had ordered a copy of the Daily Truth.

     The Daily Truth was noted for several things, journalistic integrity not being amongst them, not for nothing had the rag been dubbed a skid mark on the underwear of British journalism. Why on this, or any other day, H.M would have chosen to read the damn rag was beyond the comprehension of mortal man, but she had done so, with consequences that could never have been guessed at this side of the Pearly Gates.

     The Queen’s mood was not of the best at that particular moment, nor had it been for some time past. The Jubilee had been and gone, a monument to the organizational abilities of the Government, in short the entire jamboree had gone off like a dispso’s dick in a brothel, that is they were perfectly aware of what it was that was required of it but were physically incapable of rising to the occasion. The truth of the matter was that they had no interest in making the celebrations a success. The entire Government was against the monarchy and did not take too much trouble to disguise the fact, all that stood between them and declaring a republic was a vague feeling in their intellectual bones, that the great British public, God rot the fascist bastards, might not go along with the scheme, which of course they would not. The public in their wisdom, considered it was bad enough to have to have to pay for the politicians in the first place, without having to bow and scrape to the sons of bitches, which is what would happen if they took over from royalty.

     None of this had brought into play a sweetening of the royal mood over the past year, and even if the jubilee celebrations had been better organized, there were other factors, which would have curdled the milk in the royal cornflakes. The press in general and the Daily Truth in particular continued to snipe at every royal peccadillo, real or imagined; and the B.B.C, po faced and sanctimonious as only that organization can be, made it a condition of promotion that the monarch be belittled by its employees at every opportunity. No wonder Her Majesty was a tad pissed off.

     Prince Phillip entered the breakfast room just as that morning’s edition of the Truth went in to orbit over the table, missing the corgis, before scoring a bull’s eye on one of Queen Victoria’s less than distinguished daubs. This rather flatulent projectile was closely followed in its defiance of gravity by the tea pot. Fortunately this example of the potter’s art was not one of the more valuable items from the royal collection. The teapot missed the painting but fragmented on making contact with a credenza parked next to the fireplace.

     “Offended by the cartoon were we?” enquired the royal consort, not even trying to avoid the appearance of being facetious.

     “I’ve had it” spat out his better half, while at the same time bringing a silver teaspoon down on a boiled egg with a force sufficient to make the offering inedible in the form originally intended. “I’ve bloody well had it.”

     “So has the teapot. You’d better ring for another one. I’m gasping. Oh, and do try not to chuck the next one up against the bloody wall, we’re not made of money y’know, despite what the Truth says.”.

     “I don’t want that damn rag mentioned in my presence again.” Her Majesty had commanded.

However not even Her Majesty could expect to be obeyed implicitly at eight fifteen in the morning by a spouse of fifty plus years duration, dressed in nothing more prepossessing than a Marks and Sparks dressing gown which had seen better days.

     “All right. All right. Keep your crown on.” He plonked himself down at the table, snatching as he did so a slice of toast of imposible daintiness.

     “If we are fated to start this day with a first class bitching session, can I ask, for the umpteenth bloody time, why in the name of almighty God and the choir of queens why we can’t have toast served in respectable sized slices and not these pansy shaped bits that would embarrass a man to be seen holding in his fist?”

     “The chefs think their professional standing would be damaged if they did not tart everything up for the royal table. I’m reliably informed by someone who knows about these things that I have never seen a natural looking spud on my plate in my entire life. Perhaps he was right, how the hell am I to know?”

     “I still can’t see why we find it so impossible to get a decent piece of toast on the plate. But that doesn’t answer why you were reading the Truth. As far as I know you have never glanced at it in your entire life. Why now?”

     “Something a little bird told me.”

     “Judging by your reaction it was not so much as a little bird as a shite hawk.” Even at this early hour, the Prince had not forgotten to put his habitual delicacy of phrase in with his teeth.

     “Come on, let’s have it I don’t want to have to read the damn rag myself.”

     “It was another of those ruddy pieces claiming to know what I am thinking before I have even had chance to think the thoughts myself.”

     “So. What’s the problem? That is hardly pioneering a new avenue in journalism.”

     “Arabella Clackmannon, she’s the bloody problem. The cow.” Most folk, securely swathed in the incontinence pads of naivety would be terribly shocked at majesty using so intemperate a phrase; however, Prince Phillip, after fifty odd years with his trouble and strife recognized she was being frightfully restrained, which in itself was a danger signal to be accorded due respect.

     “Might one enquire who exactly is this Arabella whatsit?”

     “Clackmannon, Lady Arabella to be exact. The bitch.”

     “I’m still no wiser, but for the sake of the succession if not your blood pressure, start at the beginning and explain all, in words of Anglo Saxon simplicity. And where’s that bloody tea?” H.M. picked up the phone and made a crisp enquiry that had the recipient of the call fearing for his pension, while all the time thanking whatever gods there may be, that the chopping off of heads had gone out of fashion for the time being.

     “Arabella Clackrnannon is a distant cousin of mine.”

     “Well I’ve never heard of her, let alone met the woman.”

     “She’s very distant. On Mummy’s side.”

     “Oh. One of that lot, no wonder. I wouldn’t put anything past that crew, but how come I’ve never met her?”

     “Well, as I said she is very distant, almost an antipodean in genealogical terms, you’d literally have to dig to find the connection, and when you got there, there would not be much to examine. I last met her about sixty-five years ago, Margo and I were in the Brownies, she was brought to the palace to meet us for some reason. We neither of us liked her and she was never invited again. That was that, I never saw nor heard her again until I read that bloody rag this morning.”

     “I still do not see why you bothered with it. The woman can hardly have said anything that has not appeared in Woman’s Own over the years, which is where she probably got hold of her info.”

     “Sir Ralph thought I should see it, he’d been tipped off by a friend in the Truth’s office.”

     “Sir Ralph!” The Prince looked as if he had been stabbed in the backside with a hypodermic charged with divine revelation; his questions had just been answered. “That flaming great pansy. Probably the wrong time of the month.” The Queen winced visibly, the lady could not by any stretch of the imagination be described as politically correct, but she did wish her spouse would be a little more understanding of the help; they were getting harder and harder both to find and to keep these days, especially with the wages she paid, which owed a lot to the age of Dickens, and buggerall to the current cost of living. “Just shrug it off like you always do. It’s not worth the aggravation.”

     “I know, but this time it has well and truly got to me. Believe it or not I have just about had a belly full, no, not about; I definitely have, right up to the eyeballs and beyond.”

     “But why, what’s so significant about this nobody, why does a few columns of journalistic drivel derived from her get you so riled up?”

     “Straws and camels backs I suppose. This is it Phillip, I have had enough, the last ten years have been snipe snipe snipe, the press, the T.V., the damn politicians smiling in my face while all the time sharpening the knives they so delight in shoving in my back, and now this silly bloody nobody hell-bent on using my name and status to grab herself a few headlines. Enough God damn it.” Practically foaming at the mouth, H.M. broke into a steam of imprecations the intensity and originality of which surprised her husband, who realized that one or two of the phrases, had not been learned at his knee. He admired his wife’s originality but could not help but wonder who she had been keeping company with to pick up such language; the sound of Princess Anne outside in the garden, cussing about the weather in general and the rain in particular, for causing the dye to run in the new cardi she had only bought the day before from an Oxfam shop, gave him an inkling as to the origin of the latest additions to his wife’s vocabulary.

     Prince Phillip allowed his wife to continue with her rant until the fresh tea arrived. He poured them both a cup before retrieving the littered corpse of that morning’s edition of the Daily Truth. It did not take the Prince long to find the article which had caused the bats to flutter in the royal belfry. He read the article swiftly, with a ferocious contempt born of much practice, he could see why his wife had been so offended, no-one with any intelligence whatsoever could possibly believe such copper bottomed crap, but, as most of the population were not possessed of great riches in the brain department, (for which politicians were supremely greatful come election time), the Truth’s bilious diatribe would be believed by all too many people.

     Lady Arabella Clackmannon, the font et origo of the Truth’s most recent offering on the altar of literary journalism. Could, with much charity be described as eccentric, but if one was to indulge in a little unfashionable honesty and call a spade a bloody shovel, then the woman would unquestionably have to be described as barking mad, a condition of the mind exacerbated by a persistence in her affairs of a state of fiduciary incontinence. In short the woman was flat broke. Such a mode of life had shadowed her through most of her journey through this vale of tears, what little money there had been in the family she had managed to blow within a short time of inheriting it. From that time on she had had to rely on her shaky connection with the Royal Family as a means of drumming up credit, an activity she had turned into a cottage industry; her efforts would have won the Queens Award for Fantasy if there had been such a distinction. Loyal friends (She had one, who sadly had passed away fifteen years before the time of writing), averred it was this poverty that had led to her wilder exploits, such as her leaving the Church of England, after the failure of her campaign to persuade the Archbishop of Canterbury to substitute gin for the communion wine.

     Whenever cash was in exceptionally short supply, Lady “A” had milked the American market, her selling point being intimate revelations by a member of the Royal family. Knowing no better, the Yanks had swallowed this hook line and sinker. The trashier American scandal sheets were eager to take her offerings for ludicrous sums of money. Unfortunately for Lady “A”, her talent did not match up to her imagination; basically, she had one story to tell and only one version of it, and even the yanks were only prepared to continue to print the nonsense so many times. After a few years that particular well had run dry and so had her supply of booze. Lady Arabella was a raving dipsomaniac; her party trick was to go into the Champion, a gay pub on the Bayswater Road, get herself well and truly tanked up, then stagger out onto her royal cousin’s main drag and make an offer to all comers to show them her fanny for the price of a pint of Fosters. In light of her age and physiognomy, this was not a wildly successful activity.

     Such was the tenor of her life, when on a day when news of a substantive calibre could not be found for love or bribery, the features editor of the Truth contacted Arabella with the offer of a contribution to her private benevolent fund for the propagation of interest in Gordon’s gin. The old girl grabbed it by the optics; she spent three days holed up in a hotel next to Euston Station spilling the beans to the Truth, a more mold drenched platter of re-fried pulses it cannot be imagined, but the paper bought them and happily dished the mess up to the great British public.

     Not to be outdone by his wife, Prince Phillip tossed the Truth across the room on completing his perusal of the offending article. His action triggered off another diatribe by the queen against the paper and its Australian proprietor, Bondi Paterson, known the length of Fleet Street as the obnoxious ocker.

     “Really Lil, do take a grip of yourself.” Pleaded the Prince, more in hope than anticipation.

     “Don’t call me Lil” Stormed the queen. “It’s so common and it makes me sound like the fucking cleaner”

     “No. We couldn’t have you sounding common now, could we?” Perhaps it was as well his wife failed to see the irony behind his words. “So they printed a load of ridiculous nonsense by a silly old cow who should have been drowned at birth. It’s happened before darling. It’ll happen again, every time the sods want to raise their circulation figures, why get yourself all het up about it?”

     “As I said, it’s like some of my Foreign Secretaries, the last straw. We are going to have a conference at Windsor on Friday night. Just you, me and the children, no others. No excuses.”

     “But aren’t they a bit scattered at the moment? Ed in America, Charles in Saudi having a love in with Allah for the Foreign Office.”

     “I don’t give a damn where they are; I’m having the lot of them fished back for the weekend. Sir Ralph can dream up some suitable lies for their hosts” The regal will having expressed itself, it swept out of the room to attend to it’s daily round of constitutional duties before settling down to the three thirty at Epsom.

If you wish to continue reading, fish out your wallets you tight bastards and order it from amazon.

A FANNY FOR A TRANNIE

We are as God made us, and if you believe that you will believe anything. From tits to bums to wrinkles on the brow, all can be changed at the flash of a scalpel. What the Almighty thinks of this assault on his handiwork Heaven only knows, but he must feel a soupcon of compassion for the Human race or we would all believe in man made climate change or that Elvis is alive and living over a chip shop on Balham High Street. The current flavour of the month amongst our metropolitan elite is the transgender community, or in plain English, them that’s had a chop and a change in regions of the anatomy not normally mentioned in polite society, a procedure invariably referred to as gender re-assignment. And if you have not worked out what I am getting at by this stage, then take my advice and give up while ignorance is still in a state of bliss. Now gender re-assignment is what used, in more robust times, to be called a sex change, a procedure certain people elected to undergo, folk who are unable to get to grips with what fate had endowed them with. Such a decision must be accompanied by great courage as who in their right mind would elect to have their knobs sliced off, and not by the missus after finding her old man playing the field on Ashley Madison. The latest craze is for children to be groomed as potential transgender candidates, some as young as three. Three! You may ask. Correct, children as young as three thinking about a sex change when they have yet to master the art of sitting on the pot without falling arse over tea kettle? Doubt me not dear readers, it is happening. Of course three year old tots are not hallucinating over the prospects of sex, but their mothers are, and their offspring are being carted off for counselling. Naturally. There is no condition in the human psyche, however preposterous that does not have a councillor waiting to administer to it, the dafter the problem the better, more money for the quack. Talking about cash, who pays for all this nonsense? You do, counsellors do not come cheap but they do come on the NHS. There is a woman in North Wales who is encouraging her eight year old boy to dress as a girl, the woman must be English as North Wales is hardly Hampstead, I bet they haven’t even heard of sushi in that neck of the woods. The young lad will be bullied senseless, but not to worry, mum will take him to a therapist and all will be made ten times worse. That woman has six other children and no husband, well there wouldn’t would there, a man would have given the lad a clip around the earhole then bought him a football so as the straighten him out. The salient factor in all this fandango is the mothers, they are without a shadow of doubt what in this day and age is termed a yummy mummy, you know the type, in all probability privately educated, speaks in a fake working class accent, is constipated with political correctness, shops at Waitrose and votes Labour, what hope can their children possibly have? What is the future for this middle class fad? Economics innit. Before we know where we are, our high streets will be littered with outlets called Fannies R Us catering for this new craze, then the supermarkets will get onto the craze, not Waitrose you understand, but Tesco? You bet. I can see it now, banners over the store fronts announcing “Buy two bags of spuds and get a fanny half price”. So, there you have it. Trannies of the World unite, you have nothing to lose but your balls.

BAT’S IN THE BELFREY.

The silly season is once more upon us, and the heroine of the hour is none other than Camila Batmanghelidjh, you know the one, she of the daft clothes, Widow Twankie masquerading as Mother Teresa. Now fat Cam spends most of her time (when nor cooking the books) doing good works. How do I know this? Because she expends an inordinate amount of energy telling us so, although like the books of Kid’s Company, this fact is open to interpretation. Mind you, I shouldn’t’ really be saying this as people who indulge in good works are above criticism as their goodness absolves them from the strictures which govern normal society, and to question this fact is to undermine the very foundations of P.C orthodoxy. Frankly my dears I don’t give a damn. Our Cammie is aided and abetted in her endeavours by none other than Alan Yentob, a bullying bolshie, who, for the princely sum of £330K per annum, farts for the BBC, and whose emissions are regarded in some circles as being akin to Holy Writ. Big Al is chairman of Kid’s Company and until very recently has amused himself by sending threatening letters to Government Ministers demanding ever more millions for this charitable scam, with considerable success I might add. Now, all good things must come to an end, and this includes dodgy charities such as Kid’s Company, the house came tumbling down, for this Cam blamed everyone but herself when in fact she was the architect of her own destruction. First off there was a march on Downing Street, organised by the affronted Madonna, waddling down Whitehall while resembling nothing so much as a tub of lard wrapped up in Christmas tinsel, surrounded by her acolytes shrieking “We love you Camila” Of course they love her, she was shovelling money their way in amounts that would shame a politician fiddling his expenses. The weeping and a wailing did not last for long, the worms soon started emerging from the woodwork and it was revealed to all that Kid’s company served to fund the life styles of Cam and her mates. Most generously. Camila’s probity went up the spout, apart from gobbie Al, none were there who were prepared to champion the Joanna Southcott of our times. Bolshie Al and Cam the scam are now in the tumbrel, too many in high places have been embarrassed by their mendacity for there to be a reprieve, nemesis hovers over them. Camila, will however, not recognise that the game is up, she is planning a new charity, fortunately the ridiculous cow will find it difficult to lasso another group of the rich and the gormless to fund her for another round at the compassion trough. The sad fact is that her antics have probably put off other donors from giving to genuine good causes. Oh Camila, what charities have been sullied by thine ego?