Thursday, April 27, 2006

The Y-Files: The Tinny Blabber Code. Part Five.

Wow, it is almost impossible to keep up with the scandal and sleaze pumping out from the British government at the moment. I just hope this story is finished before the real Tinny blabber is finished off for good. Here is the next part. Have fun.

The Y-Files: The Tinny Blabber Code. Part Five.

Wolf Mildew glanced at his watch for the fifteenth time in so many minutes. At least another two hours before Secret Agent Dilly Slapper would report in with the results from the evening at the Blabbers residence. He stood up, wandered over to the bar and asked in sign language to the spotty faced minimum paid Polish bar keeper for a pint of ale. Watching the English illiterate immigrant confusingly enter 2.5 million pounds for the drink into the till, Wolf mulled over what could happen to Dilly. He realised that sending her to look for the SPIN that would help him crack the Tinny Blabber Code could cost her more than not appearing on I’m a Celebrity, get me out of here!, but her very life.

Dilly was entering the lioness’s den. Besides the danger of been caught searching for the code, if anyone found out exactly why Dilly wanted so desperately to go into the jungle and be watched by millions of no life gawkers, Mildew knew that she would be attired in an orange jump suit at Guantanamo Bay faster than you could invade Iraq.
Taking his pint, he returned to his table in the dark recess of the Nags Give Head main lounge and glanced again at his watch. Nothing to do but stick it out and get shit faced whilst he waited.


“Hey Dilly, over here Babe,” “Dilly, look this way Doll,” “Bonkit, get out the fucking way, I can’t get a good shot of Dilly!” The press fought each other for the best positions to photograph the hottest celebrity couple since Achilles was raped by Lara Croft.
Snatching up Bonkit’s white cane, she pretended to lash it across his shoulders as the flashes from hundreds of cameras lit up the front of the Prime Ministers tax payers supported residence, 10 Conning Street. A tad under six foot in her £260 Christian Dior Jaden shoes, the forty three year old looked magnificent. Divhead Bonkit M.P., her chaperone for the night, resembled a disoriented London Bridge tramp looking for a cheap bottle of red rotgut wine to guzzle.

“Hi fellas, grab a load of this.” Dilly parted the pure white silk Armani top she wore to expose a pair of stunning bra less breasts to the delighted photographers. “I got to go Darlings, make sure I’m on the front page tomorrow, ” with that she strode over to the grinning Constable standing guard in front of the most famous bed-sit terraced house in the world. Before he had a chance to knock on the door, Slapper’s taloned right hand shot out and grabbed the hapless policeman’s genitals and gave them a quick squeeze. The shocked man reacted by jerking his head back and crashing his helmet loudly on the door, Dilly released him. Winking she said,
“Now that’s what I call the long knob of the law, good for knocking.”

As the door opened. exposing the silhouetted frame of Cherry Blabber, attired in a Karl Largerfeld creation of a mock Roman centurion uniform, the television camera crews, news reporters and paparazzi beat a hasty panic stricken retreat.
“Hello, I’m Cherry Blabber, you must Silly Slapper?” The prime minister’s wife, the most dangerous women in Britain, offered her left hand to Dilly. One-nil to you bitch, thought Dilly, I’ll get ya for that you cow.
“Why hello, so pleased to meet you Chillie, its Dilly actually.” Taking the proffered hand, Dilly bent on one knee and kissed the large diamond wedding ring, imperceptibly removed it with her teeth and swallowed the five carat perfect Kimberly Blue as she stood up again.

“Where’s Divhead? Cherry gargled the question through her forced boomerang wide grin. The shot with the Chillie had been well aimed. This meant war.
“Divvie? Darling, where are you?” Cherry Blabber crooned in an off key Beatles based harmony. “I don’t think Gobby Browneye will be pleased your dog is shitting on his door step, Divhead! He might blame it on us. Get in here now before he finds out,” she added, as she watched in horrified amazement as Bonkits new guide dog bared its teeth, bulged its eyes, curved its back with stiffened tail in a hook, shuffled on its taunt haunches and parked a huge coil in front of Number 11. The pile steamed slightly in the early spring’s evening air.
After the nut crushed Constable finally guided the bewildered Cabinet member through the door of Number 10, Dilly was being shown the paintings hanging on the corridors walls by Mrs Blabber.

“Do you recognise any of the paintings, my dear? I am not really sure if the reading material of The Sun or Daily Sport does a section on the arts and culture.”
Dilly was stunned, but she didn’t show it. This didn’t look good. There must have been at least 50 paintings in her immediate line of vision. How the hell was she going to find the right one?
“Yeah, that’s your husband screaming his head off on Westminster Bridge, after he found out there were no WMDs, by Edvard Munch.” Pointing to the next, Dilly went on, “that’s your husband as a drunken bearded tramp after hacking his ear off whilst shaving, by Vincent van Gogh.” Starting to really enjoy herself, as she watched Cherry’s body language resemble a tuning fork freshly whacked,
“and this, I recall, is you; after you fell in naked into a large vat of crushed blue grapes whilst visiting the ex Prime Minister Bellyscrotums villa in Italy, by Picasso, and this is…Fuck me stupid sweet Zombies of death!” Dilly couldn’t believe her eyes. This was too easy!

“I’ll just get Divhead into the dining room. Please feel free to follow.” More an order than a request as Cherry fetched the M.P. for Druggies and Dossers, who was confusingly chatting to the hat rack, whilst his new dog wrapped up its disturbed toiletry by cocking it’s leg and pissing into the umbrella stand made from a hollowed out African elephant foot.
Cherry gave the cross bred, Greatmaltpoo, (Great Dane/ Maltese miniature poodle,) a quick punt with the point of her free Italian shoes. That elephant foot was a present from Prince Flashy. He had shot the starved monster himself with a pellet gun on his girlfriend’s father’s Safari park in Zimbabwe. Flashy was cute, he had said he reckoned the beast died of lead poisoning in the end, after he fired 60 thousand pellets into the tethered, thirst deranged animal over a period of six drunken debauchery days celebrating his promotion as a Butlin’s Holiday camp new second lieutenant.
Dilly stared at the De Vinci masterpiece, The Last Supper. She giggled; it was certainly the last one she was going to be having here. The masterpiece, or rather, a brilliant copy was perfect in every detail except the faces. Two were done in the same original oils but it was Tinny Blabbers face instead of Jesus, and Cherry’s face replaced the disciple seated directly to his left.
“Sweet Mary,” Dilly whispered to herself, “this is fucking too much, there bonkers!” Looking closer, she noticed all the other disciples had small cut out replaceable photographs of the latest cabinets’ members faces stuck on with Blue-Tack. Judas carried a perfectly angled picture of the Chancellor, Gobby Browneye.
“The SPIN must be behind this one,” she muttered.

“What will my dear? Hallelujah, praise the lord, I’m Tinny, I am so…hallelujah..pleased to meet you, praise the lord, hallelujah!”
Slapper jumped back as the apparition approached her. Tinny Blabber was attired in a shimmering gold caftan, red Chinese made flip flops and a plastic crown of thorns.
“Oh, hi, nothing at all, so pleased to meet you, Divvie thinks so much of you. Even cries out your name in his sleep!” Dilly gave the weirdo who was supposed to be her democratically elected leader her best former laptop career dancer smile for the drunken Joes number.
“Come, let us nuke Iran, I mean let us go to the dining table.” Tinny bowed graciously, loosing his crown which Bonkit’s bored dog promptly attacked and savaged.
“Never mind, I have many more,” the sing songy voice in C minor was making the hairs on the back of Dilly’s neck contemplate suicide. “Come my child, let us offer thanks to the all mighty for gracing our table.” Taking Slapper’s hand he guided the shell shocked Dilly into the dining room.
For the second time in her life, Secret Agent Dilly Slapper, number 38-32-36, Head of Covert Operations and Clandestine Killings’s Paralytic Department, was seriously unsettled.


Wolf staggered slowly to his feet and weaving through the large crowd of teenage bingers his drink induced blurred eyes struggled to comprehend a graphical image through the dense cigarette smoke.
Finally reaching the bar, Wolf looked at the barmen and his perfect clone. Odd that he had only noticed that there were two Bladdymore Invasionosts after his seventh pint of Bummers Golden Urinestar ale.
“Hey Bladdymore, give us another pint, comprehendo?” The young Polish Olympic gold medallist in Kung Fu, highly trained under cover operative for SPINs protection unit run by the shadowy figure of Alabaster Crampballs, acknowledged Mildew’s request and spiked the fresh glass with a triple vodka before finally pulling the pint. His quick glance at the high definition television screen below the counter confirmed that the camera pointed exactly at Wolf Mildews corner place in the pub, was working perfectly.
“No you pay, it is on the, how you say…shed?”

“House, man, it’s on the bloody house, ahh bollocks, Nyet, Newt, Newton!” he shouted in the only Russian he knew. Taking the glass, Wolf tormented the aggressive tones of the packed pub’s clientele directed to him as he did the old, one forward, two back dance on the way to his reserved place in the corner.
“Spill ya pint agin on me ya fat old wanker, ill ficken glass ya,” was one of the better pleasantries Mildew’s completely inebriated brain absorbed in some relative cohesive order as he finally reached his chair in the corner. He again looked at the seven watches on his seven left arms and concluded he couldn’t make out what time it was. “I’ll keep drinking till she gets here, Dilly will be here soon,” Mildew spoke softly to his pint again; “she will be okay pint, won’t she? Please tell me she will be okay.” Wolf lifted his fully filled glass of Golden Urinestar laced with vodka and stuck the open end of it against his right ear, the fluid filling his ear hole in a rush of bubbles that sounded like an atomic bomb had gone off in his head, whilst some of it cascaded over his pink track suit.


The windowless dining room had been decorated by Colonel Git’Dafty’s personal Bedouin tent interior designers, a freebie for Libya not being bombed recently. The only lighting came from four massive solid gold Jewish candelabras in each corner. Instead of candles, the holders had electric bulbs attached, the fake flames flickered a dull orange light, turning the Prime Minister’s gold caftan into a glimmering sea of pure radiance. Suspended with transparent fishing wire, a large luminous jugglers hoop hovered eerily just above his head.
"Take, eat. This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me," Tinny Blabber’s voice now a Gregorian monk’s chant, before offering his seated companions a share of seven of Icelands fake cod fish fingers and seven St Mc Vietie’s Jaffa cakes.

A demijohn of donated red Italian wine lay opened in the middle of the table. Spreading his arms slightly, Tinny upturned his hands, and his outstretched arms signalled towards the galleon of cheap plonk laced with anti-freeze, “This is my blood, it will be shared among many for the forgiveness of sins."
“Bloody well right it will.” Dilly grabbed the demijohn and poured a quarter of its content down her throat in four seconds. Ironic, she thought, never would have believed her ability to deep throat would come handy here. One thing she knew, get pissed, get out of here as fast as possible, preferably alive and still sane!
As Dilly wiped her mouth with a monogrammed napkin she watched in hypnotic amazement as Tinny Blabber shoved a still frozen fish finger into his friends open mouth and pat him on the head. Cherry poured wine into the crystal glasses.

“I’m awfully sorry Prime Minister”, Dilly’s natural erotically deep toned voice had been enhanced by years of smoking, “I am allergic to fish and…er, oranges,” refusing the proffered plate with the sweating fish finger and half melted chocolate covered flavoured soggy biscuit.
“How odd, so am I”, Cherry exclaimed in a high-pitched falseto, and handed the rest for her husband to keep feeding to Bonkit. Tinny had taken the cabinets member’s beard in a bunched fist and was using it to make his friends jaw open and close like a ventriloquists dummy as the other hand fed finger after fish finger between his friends clicking dentures.

“I am so sorry to hear about your poor dog. Such a shame, I gather that Taliban had only been in your possession for a short time, before it had its life, so tragically…terminated” Cherry Blabber’s comment were heard only by Dilly, the men folk engaged in some perverse ritual where the Prime Minister stroked Bonkits throat whilst crooning, “swallow, Divhead, swallow, everything will be all right.”
Dilly didn’t miss the tone or subject content behind the maniacal grin facing her from the one side of the large triangular solid glass table. The perfect equilateral was balanced by a single intricately carved green jade pedestal matching the small stools used for seating. She felt distinctively warmer as the wines anti-freeze started to course through her veins. Reaching for the demijohn, Dilly took another massive slug whilst she thought rapidly a killer reply to really hack the arrogant cow off.

“Yes, so sad, I presume you must be also gutted. I heard your stinking useless pussy you threw out, shrivelled up and kicked it recently. You must be so proud the story of your dead pussy was splashed all over the papers.” Dilly was well pleased with her reply and she burped softly.
“Perhaps you could be so kind and help me finish preparing the second course, whilst the important men talk shop?” Cherry again used the ‘I give orders around here’ tone.
Ahh, so we gonna have out in the kitchen, Dilly clocked. “No problemo, Chillie doll”, came the chirpy reply. The plonk was working fast via Dilly’s empty stomach. If it came to a fight, Dilly reckoned she could easily kick the shit out off Cherry Blabber if she decided to play rough.


Mildew’s eyesight had improved immensely after being knocked almost senseless by the boyfriend of the outraged teenage female whose protruding gut below the skimpy FCUK T-shirt had also received a large portion of his spilled pint. With his right eye swollen, his optical nerves compensated by making him see everything once again in the singular. Wolf removed his spectacles from the large money belt he wore under his track suit top. He had taken them off earlier in a vain effort to look ‘cool’, and was now able to read the time. It was nearly 11.00pm and still no word from Dilly.

Bladdymore Ivasionost appeared at Wolf’s table with a tray supporting three freshly pulled pints of Golden Urinestar. He had spotted the ruckus and had quickly come over to placate the couple sitting next to Mildew, who were now debating whether they should, “give the fat twat the best bit of Happy Slapping, the internet has ever seen.”
“ On the shed”, as he placed the three glasses on the table after wiping the splashed residue from Wolf’s last drink away. “My Boss don’t want trouble, Ok?” He slipped away back into the crowd unnoticed.


The kitchen was massive and resembled a hospital morgue. Nothing but stainless steel units, lit with a faint green tinge by a Perspex suspended ceiling. No wonder the thing cost £120K of tax payers money.
The two powerful cats eyed each other up as they circled slowly around the large centrally placed hob, where a heavy pure copper saucepan warmed a brandy custard sauce.
“So, Slapper, what’s your game with Divvie? I checked your background, your nothing more than a glorified whore looking for a quick ticket to the big time. Exactly what DID you do before you became a lap dancer at the Nags Give Head pub?” Cherry Blabber’s cold black eyes bored into Dilly’s face.
“Yeah, and exactly what was your job before you decided to play Mary Magdalene to pseudo Jesus here. What I did is my own business, so shove that in your wide gob. Push me more you bitch, I’ll scratch your eyes out.” Slapper flashed her perfectly silver metallic painted inch long nails with lightning speed across the front of Cherry Blabbers face.

Cherry Blabber could bomb a nation into anarchy and ruin. Her vaginal hold over the prime minister was legendry. But she had completely underestimated Slapper, who had sod all to lose, and she made then her biggest mistake of the evening. Taking up the twelve inch kitchen knife from a long work bench, uncannily shaped like an autopsy table, she had been using to slice up extinct threatened Giant Albatross livers for the next course, she placed the bloody point under a startled Dilly’s chin, and pricked the perfect unblemished skin.
“I want you: to tell Divhead tonight, that’s its all over between the two of you and make sure you stay well away from him. Your up to something you bitch but I can’t figure it out yet. Take this as a small warning, don’t fuck with me!”

Slapper’s hidden past kicked in instinctively. “Yeah, well in that case, might as well hang for a sheep as well as whacking a silly cow,” with that, Dilly snatched up the saucepan with lightening speed and poured the contents over the Prime Minister’s wife’s head. With a flick of her wrist she spun the pan’s handle 180 degrees and smashed the heavy bottom perfectly against Cherry’s left temple with the correct force to drop the wide eyed amazed women unconscious in a tangle of limbs and custard to the floor. The whole incident couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes. Dilly spotted a plate with more fish fingers and Jaffa cakes and made her way back to the dining room. Tinny was just feeding the last Jaffa into Bonkit’s mouth as Dilly entered and placed the plate onto the table. Throwing her coyest smile, “second course will be in fifteen minutes gentleman. I’m just going out the back for a quick smoke, if that’s alright?”
Bonkit’s glazed eyes registered nothing and Tinny waved a gracious hand in her direction as acknowledgement. Dilly took up her handbag from where she had left it next to her stool and placed the strap over her left shoulder.

Once again in the corridor she ran her hands swiftly around the frame of The Last Supper. The painting was the only one flush mounted on the wall, and in seconds Dilly’s finger found the hidden hinges. “So, I was right,” Dilly whispered and found the holding catch at the opposite end. Releasing it, she let the picture swing out exposing the back. There crudely pinned to the paintings reverse was a plastic Co-Op carry bag stuffed with used paper napkins. Pulling it off from its place, she popped it into her bag and closed the painting again. Moving rapidly, she entered the kitchen and cast a quick eye at the upper corners of the dead still place, the only sound besides Dilly’s quickened breath, was a bubbling snoring sound as Mrs Blabber blew bubbles through the hardening custard dribbling slowly down her face. The CCTV camera was easy to spot. Even better, was the typical botch job of British interior design. The camera had been installed after the kitchen, so the idle workers had simply taped the cable along the wall straight into a large cabinet. Picking up the half full bottle of Remy Martin - Louis XIII Grande Champagne cognac from where it had stood near the hob, she drank the last £400 worth in two huge gulps as she opened the kitchen unit’s door to expose an array of sophisticated digital recording equipment.


Mildew watched in fascination as the obese teenager slid slowly off her fat buttocks and sat legged splayed, comatose head sitting comfortably against her massive mounds of breasts on the beer sodden carpet. Taking a sip from what tasted like a very extremely weak pint compared to the last few, Wolf leaned over to her boyfriend who sat laughing at the spectacle,
“I reckon that barman spiked ya chick’s drink, mate.”
The heavily muscled skinhead stopped laughing. “Ya think that bastard did me bird or what then? I’ll ficken kill him!”


Dilly was watching the scene unfold too, but on one of a multitude of 6” HDTV screens seven miles away in the kitchen of 10 Conning Street. She quickly pressed eject on the writable DVD player, over riding the record mode. Slipping it between the napkins in her bag, Dilly reached up to the power switch and shut the system completely down. The fine Cognac fought the anti-freeze in her body and along with the adrenalin rush, Dilly was thinking very clear. She took her mobile phone out, flicked the top, and whilst her left hand occupied itself getting a cigarette from its carton out in her bag and into her mouth, the right pushed the button for Wolf Mildews number.


The British National Party’s version of the Incredible Hulk, staggered up and pulling his hoodie sweatshirt sleeves up, exposing tattoos of the English flag and naked women, he turned to Mildew,
“I’m just ending that bastards asylum application, watch me pint mate, I’ll be back.”
Wolf’s crutch vibrated. Groping deeply in his semi sodden tracksuit bottoms, he retrieved the buzzing mobile phone, pushed the receive button as the massive yob ploughed his way through the masses in direction of the bar, and placed it against the ear not crackling, snapping and popping.


“Listen, you sober? I got a problem. I got the stuff, but I had to whack that bitch Blabber cow with a sauce pan. Dropped her like stone…hah hah. Tinny is busy chatting with Bonkit over the merits of dumping nuclear waste on the Falkland Islands and fuck the peasants, at least we get penguins that glow in the dark for tourists to watch. I got maybe a ten to fifteen minute window to get out before she wakes up and screams her head off. You there shit head…Hello?”


Wolf thought quickly. Hulk had gathered a few of his mates and was making progress towards the bar.
“Listen, I’ll get the T.V. and newsboys from every paper in 10mins outside. I will tell them you are breaking up with Bonkit, there is a drama and maybe someone hurt. I’ll get an ambulance as well. When you hear the sirens turn up, hit the front door.”


Dilly grinned, “You are a clever wanker Wolfie, listen, get the fuck out of there, you’re being watched. I’ll meet you outside McDonalds on Beggers Street in 20 minutes in the Jag.” She hung up, lit the Dunhill and inhaled deeply. Even James Bond would be impressed with this, she thought. If the sirens don’t kick in outside by the time she smoked a second cigarette, the one on the floor, muttering quite obscenities, most definitely would start sounding off. Something she rather not fancy.


“Fokglasnost!” Bladdymore Invasionost swore at the dead screen below the counter. Looking up, he could just make out the shape of Mildew heading towards the door. What was even more apparent was that several members of the public were rapidly making their way towards him. He knew they weren’t coming for a pleasant chat. He had also witnessed how his mistake had left the girl unconscious. He backed against the bar, prepared to make a stand and started swinging with his hand.

It had taken Wolf exactly ten seconds to send the prepared text message to the top twenty three gossip columnists, all the main television stations and three nearby hospitals. He had prepared for such an event. Always have an escape route for your operatives. Wolf’s route to the door was relatively clear as the mob surged towards the bar in anticipation of watching some blood sports. He stopped for a moment at the juke box music selection mounted on the wall and flicking through it, found what he was looking for and entered the songs number after feeding thirty pence into its money slot.
As six of the largest men he had ever seen launched themselves at the Polish barman, the sounds of Karl Douglas filled the room,

’Everybody was kung-fu fighting

Those cats were fast as lightning

In fact it was a little bit frightening

But they fought with expert timing.’

Wolf walked out the door after watching for a moment Bladdymore, now standing on the bar’s top, demonstrating gracious pirouettes, expertly kick the attacking yobs in the head one by one, and headed for Beggers Street through the chilling night as fast as he could.


Dilly, stubbed her second fag out on the nearest surface and smiled those perfect lips in a Mona Lisa grin. Perfect timing. As the sounds of the approaching sirens grew louder she walked past the rapidly awaking Cherry, who was twitching spasmodically as her nerve centres by-passed the large bump protruding from her left temple, and swinging a long arm dramatically across her eyes, stormed into the dining room.
“Oh Divvie”, she cried in a piercing voice, the octaves high enough to shatter the crystal glasses, “it’s finished. I know now, you love your job more than you could ever love me!”

Divhead, deep in a hypnotic state could only keep repeating, “Bomb the bastards”. Tinny looked at her confusingly, then crunched his face tight. Something wasn’t Kosher, and released Bonkit’s ears, which he had been using to make his cabinet members head bob up and down in positive acknowledgement to every thing he said, and stood up.
Dilly grabbed the last of the wine in the demijohn, and swallowed deeply. “See ya later tossers, not!…” Dropping the empty container, her long legs covered the distance to the front door in seconds, and as the enraged screech of a highly pissed off Cherry Blabber erupted from the kitchen, she opened the front door to 10 Conning Street, and walked out to the awaiting publicity.

Sunday, April 23, 2006

The Y Files: The Tinny Blabber Code

My little experiment in writing satirical fiction has been great fun. Whilst I am the first to admit my technical skills need plenty of honing, I am hoping to do more about that by going back to school. I recently wrote a couple of more political spoofs. I suppose a mixture of Spitting Image, Tom Sharpe and Dan Brown meet the X Files is the best description for it.

After two short stories, I got so ‘in’ to the whole thing that in the next session of brainstorming I produced a 6k word sequel with plenty of space to continue. The whole thing became so absurd that I decided that I would use the little anecdote ‘The Great Welsh Cockles Wars’ and the political sketch ‘Heroin addicts etc, ( both posted here,) to actually be part one and two of a novelette. With such vivid characters, I just had to keep some or even maybe all into a story of what is now becoming a lampoon on modern day life.

So for your reading pleasure I present:

The Y Files: The Tinny Blabber Code. Part 3.

Wolf Mildew cast a quick glimpse at his image in the tacky Chinese made wall mounted mirror. The glowing green frame sent a pulsating signal to his brain, ‘I believe’, and noticing that he hadn’t turned into a wide eyed spaced out Alien abductee in the last five minutes, he brushed the few specs of dandruff from his immaculate Gucci suit jacket and waited for his ex-partner to arrive.

In fact, he was dying to sit down as his feet were killing him. Special Secret agent Dilly Slapper, 38-32-36, was late again. The very thought of her ridiculing him for creases in his trousers kept him on his toes. Mildew sighed, took a wilted Remembrance Day poppy out of his epaulette and started plucking the paper petals as he chanted softly to himself,

“She will, she won’t, she will, she…”

“Won’t! And that’s definite, you daft bald-headed fat twat, this better be good as I had to rush from the hairdressers, just as he was telling me what Cherry Blabber uses to dye her roots.” That was the usual style of entrance for the most desired Secret Agent in British Intelligence. Sadly she had none, but looked good and was known to execute a good hand job quickly and cleanly in the cleaners’ cupboard if it got her kicked up the ladder.

In fact, Dilly Slapper was so good at it, she was now Head Of Paralytic Research. Her expense account was rumoured to be top secret, but she spent considerable time in ‘The Nags Give Head’ pub, gathering important facts.

Wolf collapsed his ample arse onto the only stool in the tiny, cold, grey office deep in the basement of MI 69 headquarters. The Gucci pants ripped apart loudly as the Chinese produced fake disintegrated under the pressure.

“Gawd.Your so pathetic! What you want anyway, that’s so important huh! You been seeing Aliens again? I told you to stop watching Prime Minister’s question time.” Dilly lifted her right arm up above her head, and sniffed her armpit, exposing a couple of day’s stubble of dark hair. Wrinkling her nose up, she dropped her arm after first running her long lacquered nails through her freshly dyed peroxide blonde hair.

“Gawd, I stink, took me nearly 20 minutes to fire the head off, of the Head of C.O.C.K, (Covert Operations and Clandestine Killings,) this morning. Dirty old git, but I got me the keys to a new Jag convertible. My bloody arm hurts though. Anyway, stupid Alien man…what’s up Doc?” She snickered loudly. She loved ripping into Dr. Professor Wolf Mildew, Alien specialist.

The fact that it was him who had got Dilly Slapper through the front door was the only reason she even bothered to talk to him still. Promotion came via using her back door she soon worked out. So Wolf stayed in the cellar whilst Dilly had her head in the clouds. Even Wolf knew that offering HIS back door to any of the hierarchy, would result in his head in a sewer drainage pipe. Less his body.

Wolf smiled stupidly and reached for the half full pint glass of ale on the table. She had turned him into what he was now. Instead of Aliens and the Paranormal, it was Ale and totally Paralytic by knocking off time. But this time he would finally get her respect for what he did professionally. He could give her something she most desired, to be on the biggest television reality show; ‘I’m a Celebrity. Get me out of here’.

“I can prove that our Prime Minister, Tinny Blabber, was abducted by Aliens!” He almost shouted in his suppressed excitement.

Dillies eyes opened wide and pulling her right index finger out of her left nostril she flicked some of London’s accumulated CO2 carbon emissions onto the ceiling. Counting rapidly at the other accumulated balls of snot that were still stuck there, she gave up at nine, and concluded she came down here far to often.

“Big fucking deal, dick head. We all know that. Is that why…”

“No No, there is more!” Wolf interrupted, slobbering over his only clean shirt that he had worn for the occasion,

“His brain was operated on and impregnated with SPIN. And it’s highly contagious. Most of his cabinet is showing signs of the disease. It’s a plot to take over the WORLD!”

Slapper poked another long bright red finger nail between two bottom molars, trying to ease out a piece of Ch√Ęteau Brained she had had for lunch. Smiling as the piece came loose, she chewed it for a fraction to savoir the memory, and swallowing, looked at Wolf and said,

“How he do that then? Shag Gobby Browneye?” She giggled at her crude referral to the present Chancellor.

“Exactly, your brilliant!” Wolf couldn’t quite believe how she jumped to that conclusion so fast.

Dilly wasn’t sure, she thought it was a joke, but with her afternoon ruined she might as well stick around and hear the rest.

“Go on Mastermind, and then?” Finding a corner of Mildews cluttered desk free, she attempted to pull one of her bright blue leather knee-length boots off.

“Look,” Wolf waved to a computer monitor showing a huge expanse of complex mathematical formulas. “This is what I call, The Tinny Blabber Code, and I am close to finally cracking it. I have put in all the tax returns of Tinny and his wife for the last 10 years and asked the computer to match the figures against the letters of the alphabet. The results are amazing.”

“Give us a hand pulling this bloody boot off will you; I think I’ve got a hole in my stocking. Anyway I don’t understand a thing you’re talking about.”

Wolf stood up awkwardly, and grabbing the proffered heel in his podgy hands, pulled it off.

“You bloody idiot, how the hell am I suppose to walk to my new Jag with no heel on my boot? Gawd, you’re USELESS.” The enraged former lap dancer snatched the heel out of Wolf’s hand and stuffed into her large alligator skin handbag with the Luis Vuitton logo emblazoned all over it.
“Hurry up, I’m getting bored.”

Wolf licked his lips and threw Dilly a foxy look. “Listen, all the tax returns are exactly the same every year. The identical amount of 19,169 pounds and 14 pence. It’s impossible. They are taking in millions, but that’s all they declare, year after year, before;” Mildew entered some letters into the computer keyboard and the screen changed, “so called expenses.”

Slapper looked vaguely at the latest screen offering through drooping eyes. The lunch session with Lord Goffrey Strongbow, along with two bottles of some fancy incomprehensibly named red wine, was dulling what little concentration she could muster. “You got any Coke?”

Wolf rummaged amongst his stacks of cardboard boxes he used as a filing cabinet and presented Dilly with a silver tin of sugar free.

“You sad fuck!” Dilly snorted at him. “Not that shit, you moron. Something to shove up my nose to wake me up!” Before she could continue, the handbag she had placed on the floor started to vibrate and create sounds like a demented frog on heroin. Ignoring Wolf, who was busy punching more details into the keyboard, she rummaged briefly and pulled out the bright pink mobile phone encrusted with plastic diamonds. Flicking the lid, she pressed a few buttons and perused the small screen before cackling loudly with laughter.

Wolf recognised that cruel tone of humour she had. The first time he had heard it was when he had presented his awaiting private parts for grateful compensation in the men’s bogs at the The Nags Give Head pub after he had arranged employment for her with C.O.C.K.

“Hey Wolfie, listen to this,” her bright red surgically enhanced lips pouted in his direction for a second, before reading from the text she had just received, “A man of mixed race goes to the Doctor. He runs on the spot and he tells the Doc that he can’t stop jogging. The Doc pours out some white powder from an envelope, uses a scalpel to create two thin long lines on his desk and tells the patient to sniff it. The patient does and stops jogging on the spot. He says to the Doc, “WOW, is that cocaine?” Nah says the Doc, its Persil, guaranteed to stop colours from running!” With that she shrieked with laughter.

Mildew was appalled. “You can’t go around receiving and sending stuff like that in this country. You will have the law on top of you in no time at all!”

“That’s true,” Slapper acknowledged, “the Chief Justice has a date with me later tonight…hah hah hah. Anyway gotta dash, so be quick. What you want from me?”

“Look,” pointing to the screen, “the sum repeated over 10 years is equal in the alphabet to the word SPIN.” And that’s where you come in,” Wolf added.

“I do? How you figure that out? Anyway, what does this SPIN mean?” Slapper limped over to the screen for a better look. One thing she did know about Wolf Mildew, the man might be an overweight drunken sot at 48, but he wasn’t a fool.

“I am not sure, but the secret is somewhere in 10 Connning Street. I think it will be hidden behind a painting. I need you to get in and look.”

“And how exactly am I suppose to do that? I can’t exactly see Tinny’s wife welcoming me with open arms, do you?” But Slapper was excited with the idea. If anyone could pull a stunt to get her photographed entering the P.M.’s private quarters, then Wolf could.
“You are to make ‘friends’ with M.P. Divhead Bonkit, the new Minister for Druggies and Dossers. He is a close friend of the Blabbers. I don’t need to explain to an expert like you how to wangle a dinner invitation, do I?” Wolf smiled and handed her a slip of paper.

“What’s this?” Dilly looked at the small yellow note scrawled with Wolf’s clumsy writing.

“It’s the name of a pet shop near ‘Nutter’s Corner’ in Hyde Park. Buy yourself a bitch. Preferably an Afghan hound and let it run free next Sunday at exactly 11.00 a.m. at ‘Nutter’s Corner’. Divhead always does his ‘Don’t blame me’ speeches there at that time whilst his dog shits all over the place. Once Divhead’s dog starts doing the ‘humpies’ with yours, you can break the ice. After that…well, nature takes its course,” Wolf added with a knowing wink.

“Phone me at home as soon as you have been penetrated…er, I mean you got in there...” Wolf ended lamely. “You pull this off, I swear you will go to Australia to eat Ant and Dec’s little worms on T.V.”

“Done. I will let you know.” Scooping up her bag, she hobbled to the door. “And get some decent coke in for next time we meet asshole!”


The Y-Files: The Tinny Blabber Code. Part Four.

“Well, Egghead, what you think?” Dilly Slapper did a quick spin on the spot in Wolf Mildew’s office.

Wolf whistled a spluttering high pitched tone. “Well done Dilly, you look fantastic.” That she did. Gone was the cheap tart look of Pretty Women fame. Now she was attired and groomed like a large breasted version of Geena Davis playing the part of an American President. “So when is the night?”

Mildew’s plan had worked a treat. Divhead Bonkit M.P. and the head of C.O.C.K. s paralytic department were as far as the press is concerned, a pair. Dilly gloated over the mountain of newspapers piled on Mildews desk from the previous week. Her image, along with the Cabinet member for the Druggies and Dossers portfolio, were spread on every front page.

‘BONKIT’S LATEST DOG’, screamed the headlines of the Britain’s best selling daily, The Sun. Below this was a photograph of Dilly and Divhead collecting a new dog for the blind.

“Next Friday.” Dilly paused a fraction, “shame about that plain clothes copper shooting the dogs in the head in broad daylight. All I shouted out was, “Help, there is an Afghan holding Divhead Bonkit hostage!” Next thing you know, this idiot runs over, and pumps four bullets into both dogs head. All I meant was that his bleedin dog couldn’t get off the bitch cos they were locked and howling their heads off and he couldn’t get home without his mutt. Anyway, what exactly am I looking for behind the paintings?” Dilly tossed The Sun aside to expose the next paper, The Daily Creep, Britain’s most popular satirical daily. The report was again written by their crack reporter Urine Heep.

‘Afghan hounded to death. Taliban shot in head at ‘Nutters Corner’.’ Dilly snorted through her nose as she read the title. “That; was a bloody stupid name for a dog anyway. Plus the thing stank. Won’t miss it at all. Poor Divvie was gutted about his mutt though. So Mr Alien man, what this SPIN thing look like?

Mildew looked down at the picture accompanying the article, the two dead dogs still locked together, surrounded by a gawking circle of drunken teenagers, and scratched his hole absentmindedly through a pink Turkish plagiarism of an Addidas tracksuit, as he pondered his answer.

“I think it will be a document of some form.” Wolf looked over towards Dilly. “Can you handle Bonkit okay? I don’t want you hurt in anyway.”

Slapper ran her long finger nails through her perfectly coiffured short Rosemary’s Baby styled hair and let out a demonical cackle of laughter. “You piss artist! Divvie is like putty in my hands...hah hah hah.” It was true. The man was blindly in love with her. He just couldn’t see it was him being taken for the ride. “I’ll dump the fool as soon as I find the SPIN. He talks the most complete twaddle anyway. If he saw the look on my face he would have a heart attack.” Dilly crossed her eyeballs and putting a middle finger from each hand into her large mouth pulled the corners out in a death grimace.

“Please don’t pull stunts like that when you’re having dinner with the Blabbers for gawd sake!” Wolf exclaimed, “they don’t like the piss being taken out of them.”

“Hey, Area 51 man, what happens if he got shit loads of pictures hanging all over the place? I can’t spend the whole time looking behind pictures. They will think I’m nuts or something.” Dilly tossed The Daily Creep on the side and grinned almost as broadly without her fingers stuck in her mouth, at the picture adorning The News of the World.

Mildew had been fascinated with the picture when he first saw it. The professional in him admired the paparazzi photographer who had managed to get such a superb image of the Cabinet member being flagellated with a white cane by an almost naked Dilly Slapper in knee height bright red leather boots. They both studied the picture taken through the window of Dilly’s bedroom in silence for a moment.

“Look, you can even make out our Rodney in the background.” A finger touched the spot on the image where a cheap Chinese tacky picture frame sat on a Ikea draws cabinet beyond the bed; where a prone, manacled, naked Bonkit, received some corporal punishment in sexual ecstasy.
“He told me he might be out on parole soon,” Dilly added. Her twin brother was serving out a 14 year prison sentence for flying a micro light into a Chinese pagoda in Legoland.

Wolf looked at the accompanying headline, ‘Divhead Whips Up Support!’ Then said to Dilly,

“Tinny Blabber’s ego is massive. He would have hidden SPIN behind a picture of special significance. During dinner, try and coax out of him his favourite paintings. Then say you need the toilet and see if you can spot it. Watch out for his wife though,” his look made Dilly withdraw her wisecrack. The Prime Minister would be an easy touch, but Cherry, his wife was pure poison ivy. Slapper’s female intuition spotted a dangerous feline from ten miles away, plus her hairdresser at Vidal’s Samoosas says she was a real bitch, that didn’t tip the girls and moaned about the Elton John music being played in the background. Instead, she asked,

“Did you phone Ant and Dec as you promised?”

“Everything is under control Dilly. I’ll have the press ready and waiting on Friday evening. Just get me the answer to the Tinny Blabber Code. I’ll be finally out of here. Your such big news now, you don’t really need me. Just think of it as a reward for my hard work.” Wolf’s tone was now equal to a left wing politician begging for votes from East End crackheads.

Look, I have a reward for you. Flashing a gold Dunhill lighter at Mildew, she flicked its top and spinning the tiny wheel, created a tall flame. Bending sharply over, she proffered the burning lighter near her buttocks, tightly wrapped in a cold coffee grey Stella McCartney designed trouser and belted out a noisy tune of methanol gas. The blue flash as it ignited made Wolf jump back in alarm.

“That’s disgusting, where you learn that?”

Dilly straightened up and snapped the lighter closed. “From Viz magazine, Handy Tips. It said that methane is the second largest cause of global warming and we should burn it off to save the planet. I thought it was a good idea and great fun too,” Dilly added, as she gazed on Mildews face that had grown very pale.

Using her eyes to really convey a genuine smile, Dilly looked at the poor pathetic creature rotting away in the ‘dungeons’ of M.I.69.

“Listen, Wolfie,” exhaling smoke rings from a freshly lit personally monogrammed Dunhill menthol cigarette, Dilly nodded her head slightly towards Secret Agent Doctor Professor Wolf Mildew, Alien specialist for C.O.C.K., “you done me good, I wont forget that.”

As Dilly left the room she turned and glanced at the semi-drunk obese balding figure looking at her so trustingly with bloodshot eyes behind Clark Kent styled glasses.

“Do me a favour will ya. Stop wearing pink. It don’t suit ya.”

To be continued…

Tuesday, April 18, 2006


I am rather busy on another project at the moment, so I take the liberty of taking this article from The Times. If you are a reader from the European Union, you will also be thrilled to bits to hear that a brand new road built with your tax will soon be opened to great hoo-ha in Malawi.

The opening will be made by a guest of honour whose name will be given to the new road…yeah, you guessed it…Robert Gabriel Mugabe. Excuse me whilst I throw up.

Zimbabwe economy limps into anniversary.


THE first time that Anna was arrested, two policemen confiscated her box of tomatoes, bananas, popcorn and a couple of cigarettes and ordered her to pay an on-the-spot fine of Z$250,000 (65p) for illegal vending.
When she refused to pay they took her Z$160,000 takings for the afternoon, put it in their pockets and left. Two days later Anna was caught by the police with her goods spread out on a sack. They told her to bring her goods with her to the police station.

On the way the police asked how much money she had. “Nothing,” she said. They said she could go. “No,” she said. “I want to go to the police station. I have done criminal things. Let’s go.”
“What’s your name?” they asked aggressively. She told them. “You are too cheeky,” they said. “Yes,” she said, “I am too cheeky.” She strode back to her corner, triumphant. Anna started trading on the street to pay her two children’s school fees. For millions of Zimbabweans, informal trading on a tiny scale has become the difference between life and starvation.
President Mugabe has declared the activity illegal. Every day thousands are arrested in police raids and lose their earnings and their goods, or have them smashed.
“I will be back there every day, selling,” Anna said. “They can come. I am no longer afraid of them.”

This is the reality of Zimbabwe as the country commemorates today the 26th anniversary of independence from Britain. Mr Mugabe has presided over the ruin of the country’s economy, once one of the strongest in Africa. The rapid impoverishment of Zimbabweans has been compounded by the destruction of the homes of nearly one million people, who have also been banned from making a living in his notorious “Operation Remove the Rubbish”, which continues after 11 months.
Last week the World Health Organisation said that Zimbabwean women had the lowest life expectancy in the world, at 34 years. The country has the highest inflation, at 913 per cent. The Consumer Council of Zimbabwe estimates that a family of six needs Z$35 million a month to survive. Six years ago Z$1 million dollars would have bought a whole block of luxury apartments.

State school fees have recently risen by 1,000 per cent. “Zimbabwean children are faced with some of the worst hardships confronting children anywhere in the world,” a Unicef spokesman said.
John Makumbe, a political commentator, said: “Life has become unbearable and unaffordable. These people are waiting to vent their anger through mass demonstrations. We are on the brink. The element of (ordinary Zimbabweans’) fear is overrated. That point is going to become clearer in the next few months.”
Morgan Tsvangirai, the leader of what appears to be the dominant faction of the divided Opposition, the Movement for Democratic Change, is capitalising on the rising mood of defiance.
He has promised in recent weeks that he will lead street protests to bring down the Government and has said that he is prepared to die doing so. He has hinted that the movement will start next month.
Mr Mugabe responded with a stark warning to Mr Tsvangirai: “If he wants to invite his own death, let him go ahead.”
John Robertson, an economist, said: “We are in a tinderbox situation. If something starts, it can become complete collapse and it can be started by street violence. They will call the soldiers out, but the soldiers may turn their guns on their leaders. They are having as difficult a time as everyone.


Name Rhodesia Capital Salisbury

Government White minority rule under Prime Minister Smith

Cost of loaf of bread Z$0.20

Land 4,500 white farmers own 70 per cent of fertile land

Adult literacy 70 per cent

Life expectancy 58 GDP per capita (real terms) US$3,377

Name Zimbabwe Capital Harare

Government Nationalist ZANU-PF party under President Mugabe

Cost of loaf of bread Z$90,000

Land Farms seized from white ownership

Adult literacy 91 per cent

Life expectancy 37 GDP per capita US$2,100

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Silly Mr Brown, please go away.

So the Chancellor wants to hand out more taxpayer’s money to educate the poor in Third World countries. Oops, I meant to say developing nations. What a load of hypocritical hogwash!
Pupils get paid to go to high school in the U.K., whilst university students have to pay ‘top up’ fees that will leave them in serious debt if they can manage to finish their degree. I would call these people poor!

When the last GCSE examination results came out last year, a young girl I know, proudly showed me her exam results. A large range of passed subjects, all with grades ‘C’ or above. One of them was an ‘A’ grade for German, despite that she could not understand even the most basic sentence of the language when I spoke to her in that tongue. Her knowledge of English, where she also achieved a high grade, was such that she could neither read nor comprehend, nor concentrate on any of my little anecdotes I print out and let people in this town read for feedback and comments. Any reading material I ever see in her hand consists of glossy ‘Celebs’ type rubbish.

I suggest Mr. Brown stop gallivanting around Africa and sort out the education problems back at home. Africa must sort itself out. Pumping donated billions into the continent has made a bad situation worse.

Zimbabwe produced one of the highest literacy rates in Africa for the first 15 odd years after achieving Independence. An incredible feat, considering that during the ‘Liberation Struggle’ the army of the ruling party effectively shut down or destroyed just about every school in the rural areas. After taking over the former whites-only schools, the government promised free education and although the qualifications, as in Britain, have been watered down, it produced a generation of a rather well educated population.

Today the Zimbabwean school system is in bits. The teachers are leaving en masse. Their wages barely cover the cost of 30 loaves of bread a month. They are forced to sell sweets or fruit and vegetables to their pupils to survive.
The government initiation of fees has resulted in a huge amount of the population unable to send their children to school. Many of the kids pass out in class from malnutrition. There is a shortage of everything, from desks to school books. The government now wants the children to report on their teachers.
At the University and Colleges, the situation is literally explosive. Over half the students cannot afford the term fees. Some colleges have erected fences in an attempt to stop non paying students from attending classes. Dissenting students are regularly arrested and beaten by the police or the feared secret service, the C.I.O.

Private schools supply the best education, but have been targeted by the ruling party who are attempting to cap fees as inflation passes the 900% mark. It is only a question of time till they collapse.

So what happened to that generation of well educated Zimbabweans? Most of them live abroad now. The economy and political chaos in their homeland cannot give them employment or if they find any, the wages are a pittance. There is hope though. Robert Mugabe and his corrupt ruling elite cannot hang on to power much longer. Should a regime change show transparency, honesty, respect human rights, personal property and above all, obey the rule of law, these people will go back and build a new Zimbabwe.

So I say to Mr. Brown: Stay at home and sort your system out here. The only education you must supply is teaching the crackpot despots of Africa the basics between right and wrong. Until they have that drummed into their heads, shovelling billions into another African black hole will only produce a few fancy examples to show on T.V. during party political broadcasts, which are watched by an ever larger dwindling British populace who are literally incapable of understanding at all what their leaders are waffling on about.

Instead they will download the G8 pop concert for their iPods, collect ASBOs, attempt to read The Sun and dream of becoming a celebrity.


Please take time to look at this:

Thursday, April 06, 2006


Question One for Z$20.000

What will Zimbabwe’s inflation rate hit in six months time?

A. We have plenty of money, the economy is booming and everyone is a millionaire.
B. 98.2%
C. 343%
D. Over a 1000%.

Correct answer is D.

Question Two for Z$50.000.

How many of Zimbabwe citizens had their homes and livelihood bulldozed and razed to the ground through the governments operation, ‘Clean out Filth’, in 2005.

A. 100.000.
B. Half a million.
C. 700.000.
D. It never happened, it was to make way for new homes. The U.N. envoy is a liar and a pawn of Western fascist governments.

Correct answer is C.

Question Three for Z$250.000

How many Ndebele tribesman, direct descendants of the Zulus, were slaughtered by Robert Mugabe’s North Korean Trained 5th Brigade in the 1980’s?

A. 500
B. It is a Western propagated deceit. These people went freely down disused mine shafts to see if they could make then operational again. Sadly they failed due to technical reasons.
C. 7500
D. 20.000, give or take a few filled mine shafts.

Correct answer is D.

Question Four for Z$500.000

Modern day high powered bows and arrows are used in Zimbabwe for what?

A. To teach young athletes this fine sport in the hope they compete in the Olympics and represent their country.
B. Shoot wild animals in the proliferating ‘canned hunting’ epidemic by well healed tourists paying thousands of US$ to wipe out the last animals in Africa.
C. Hope to get a head shot on the Zimbabwean President next time he steps out of his armoured Mercedes.
D. This is another Colonial lie in an attempt to rubbish our freed country.

Correct answer is B.

Question Five for Z$1.000.000

China supplies Zimbabwe with what?

A. Radio jamming equipment to counter Zimbabweans in diaspora or exile using stations for telling the truth.
B. Cheap clothes and sandals that helped bring down the last home industries.
C. Sophisticated software and technologies to read all electronic mail and overhear telephone conversations.
D. Whilst Zimbabwe struggles with daily power outages, what coal Hwange coal colliery can produce for the fuel starved electric power stations, 20% is sent to the Congo to supply power for Chinese owned mineral mines. In exchange they receive no real promises, but some military hardware.
E. All of the above.

Correct answer is E.

Question Six for Z$100.000.000

20% is a well known denominator to describe Zimbabwe. Does it represent?

A. % of the population, including the civil service and military who have rudiments of employment.
B. % of population under eighteen who are orphaned.
C. % of population known to have contracted HIV.
D. % of HIV infected population, including civil servants who have access to retro-viral drugs.
E. % of daily inflation.
F. % of Tobacco production this year as compared to 1999 when Mugabe allowed the farm invasions.
G.% of required food now grown by the new landowners.
H. % of population living as refugees or in diasporia.
J. % of Whites from the original population at Independence Day in 1980, who can not escape the systematic government instigated racial ethnic cleansing.
I. All of the above.

Correct answer is I.

Question Seven for Z$250.000.000

A white 73 year old railway engineer who paid 37 years into the pension fund of the now National Railways of Zimbabwe, receives the present equivalent in British sterling of how much per month?

A. About 19 pence before bank expenses. Life’s a bitch huh. Should of got Maggie Thatcher to underwrite all the pensions at the Lancaster House agreement. Not our problem. They were all Colonial thieves. Besides, the railways hardly work now, so up yours!
B. A bunch of bananas, once a month, last month.
C. A loaf of bread once a fortnight if you can find some.
D. A tin of imported Coca Cola as Zimbabwe don’t make it anymore, as they can’t pay for the syrup.
E. All of the above, except D. and maybe B. and C., as it could be an obsolete price by the time you answer this question.

Correct answer is E.

Question Eight for Z$500.000.000

The decline of the Zimbabwean economy in the last 6 years, unseen before by a country not at war, is by the ruling governments own admission, perpetuated because of what?

A. Thieving Colonial racists bent on plundering the nation and putting whites back in power to render the population again into abject poverty and slavery.
B. No rain.
C. Too much rain.
D. Sanctions imposed by war mongering gay gangster British and American fascist dictators.
E. Crisis? What crisis. We have the happiest population on earth. This is all a Western jealousy inspired hate campaign against our glorious leader.
F. All of the above.

Correct answer is F.

Question Nine for 1Billion Zimbabwean Dollars.

The highest denomination ‘banknote’, is a so called ‘bearer cheque’ with a face value of 50.000. (Approximately 1.3 eggs, if you find any in the supermarket at this moment.) As you have to make your own way to Zimbabwe to pick up the winnings, how long must you stand in the queue at the bank and how big must your protected pick up truck be to transport the huge piles of ‘bricks’? This is presuming you had previously managed to obtain some black-market petrol for $US dollars.

A. I haven’t a clue, this sounds like a horror trip, I don’t want the money.

The correct answer is A.