Once again our so-called government has introduced new fines simply as a means of taxing the innocent motorist off the road. I cannot drive the 50 yards to the post office in my Daf Variomatic without coming home to another speeding fine, no doubt going straight into the pockets of single mothers and lesbian Romanian gypsies coming to this country to abuse our children and sponge benefits from us decent patriotic whte people who can trace their ancestry back to the infamous witch-burning terror of 1386.
It is a well-known fact that our masters are spying on us wherever we go, making notes and just waiting for the moment to pounce on us to wring another petty fine from our pockets to pay for enormous marijuana-snorting parties at Downing Street, to which ordinary folk such as myself are never invited. In fact, I never allow my lovely wife Brian to speak when the television or radio receivers are switched on, as it is clear that the presenters can see and hear everything that happens in our house. As such, our gimp suits are securely locked away at these times.
The perfidious nature of spy cameras in our society is an affront to any law-abiding citizen. The police state's attempts to employ so-called video evidence to prosecute me for my totally justifible clubbing to death of a shop owner for refusing to correct the sign reading "Eat's and Drink's" over his door is a purely malicious one to silence the one sane voice in an increasingly ignorant and uncaring world. Is David Blunkett blind to the fact that where his so-called police forces fail, it is down to people like me to wield the baseball bat of truth to defend our hard fought values and traditions?
I am not mad.
Lt Col Winston St John Cholmondeley-Cholmondeley Patel (Mrs)
Oh Lordy! It's the return of "Hobbies of the rich and Famous"
TV's Carol Smillie talks about the new pastime that's sweeping the nation - Hot Bagging!
"Hellooo! My name's Carol Smillie, and nothing makes me smile more than taking a dump in a Waitrose carrier bag and leaving it in a shop doorway. For a working mum with a busy lifestyle, who's got time to go to the toilet these days?"
Q: So, how did you get into this interesting hobby?
A: It was lovely, lovely Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen, who showed me the articstic merit in a well placed "Sac Chaud" during a Changing Rooms shoot in Hastings. They do classes in it at St Martin's apparantly.
Q: Do you have a preferred technique?
A: Not really. Just make sure the coast is clear, drop your knicks and make sure you hit the target. There's nothing worse than missing the bag and crapping your pants instead.
Q: A solitary pursuit then?
A: Good Lord no! If you work in pairs, it's double the fun! One can act as a lookout for the other - they don't call Anna Ryder Richardson and I "The Poosome Twosome" for nothing, you know!
Q: How about pre-packed Hot Bags?
A: You mean deliveries you've made at home and dropped in the street? Have you not heard of the toilet? You fucking weirdo, I've a good mind to call the police on you.
Q: Cough. So, what about bags? There's such a variety to choose from these days.
A: So there is. Waitrose Bags for Life - I swear by them. Nice and roomy, and don't have the airholes they put in regular supermarket bags. You can't imagine the woe an unexpected liquid one can produce. Only 10p as well, and if you're really crafty, you can swap them for a nice clean one when you're done. Laurence swears by Lidl bags - he claims it's "ironic".
Q: How fascinating...
A: The purists go for paper bags you know - I gather it'll be the standard in the Beijing Olympics, where our very own Linda Barker's an early favourite. It also gives you the opportunity to set fire to it and ring the doorbell if you Hot Bag outside Vorderman's house.
Q: Are there any other famous Hot Baggers?
A: Most Baggers are sworn to secrecy, but I gather that Sir Steven Redgrave isn't called the Scourge of Henley for nothing, and young Wayne Rooney's terribly keen with his trademark Burberry Baggies. They'd better watch out in Manchester! It's also pleasing to hear or Princess Anne's patronage, even if she gets a butler to do her bagging for her.
Q: A pretty inclusive group then?
A: Oh yes, but we had to drum Kirstie Allsopp and Sarah Beeny out of the club. Baby oil has no part to play in the sport, the filthy pair of slatterns.
Q: Any chance of a demonstration?
A: I thought you'd never ask. Here, lie under this glass-topped coffee table and hold the camera, there's a chap.
An extract from the rather fantastic Scaryduck novel "Colin and the Dog"
It was, apart from that business in the lingerie department of Marks and Spencers, the worst ten minutes of Colin’s twenty-one years on Earth. He bit his cheeks, he pinched his thighs until they bruised, he thought about football. Anything, to keep his mind from concentrating on The Name. Arnold Wanker. The poor bastard.
But he still had to face the truth in this undistinguished, middle-aged German gentleman in a tatty coat that sat on the opposite side of the desk. Under his coat he wore a suit and tie. This is one man who had not let his circumstances defeat him. In the face of lethargy and disappointment, he was still making an effort.
“Well. Errr... Sir. How is your job search going? Any luck?”
“Sir”, he said in measured words, heavy with the central Europe, “I have been coming here every two weeks. I have not worked in many months.”
“You have had interviews, yes?” Colin asked, trying to be as polite as possible to one of the few people he met in the line of duty who still had a vestige of class left in them, while simultaneously trying to think about anything apart from The Name. Adam and the Ants. Cricket scores.
“I have had many interviews, but no-one will offer me work. They laugh at me.” The man almost had an air of desperation about him, yet he carried it with dignity. “I am a chemist. I have an education. I went to University in Dusseldorf. They laugh, yet I could do their jobs like - pffft! - like that, sir!”
“Yeeessss”, Colin said in a drawl, deliberately flicking through the pages of a file. Football. False teeth. Double decker buses. “You don’t think that, perhaps, your name might be a factor?”
“I beg your pardon sir?”
“Your name. I’m sorry if I’m being blunt, but there are certain people who find your name funny”. Train timetables. Dog shit on the front path.
“Arnold is funny? You find my name funny?”
A supreme effort. “No, your other name. I don’t find it remotely funny, that would be unprofessional, but have you ever considered changing it?” Hold it back. Reign it in, son! Holidays in Cornwall, days on the beach.
“But sir! I am a Wanker! All my family are Wankers!”
“N-n-n-n-ggggg!” Lunch at Burger King!
“And I for one am proud to be a Wanker!”
“Hnnnnnn-nnnn-nnnn” Oh forget it. “Thankyouverymuch. Goodlucklookingforajob. Goodbyenow.”
Colin had already ushered the man out of the office before the words were even out of his mouth. He slammed the door behind him, his body wracked by silent convulsions with tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks.
There was a faint knock at the door. It was Arnold Wanker.