The fastest man on Earth – as in running.

The fastest man on Earth – as in running.

It was 1979, I was wandering about bored out of my skull, deep in the bush of Rhodesia. Blackjacks seemed to have a thing with my socks – maybe they ponged a lot. That is very true.

Suddenly – there is the sound of gunshots. Above the sounds of my dying compatriots – I still recall the shout of advice ‘Gooks – run for your lives.’ Since it was I who screamed out the advice, I had a good head start.

There was a strange BOOM. My feet were on fire, my head aglow as I broke the sound barrier at 343 metres per second. I made Flash and Superman look like old age pensioners, staggering on A frames and filling their pants with urine and beer induced diarrhoea. Similar to what I was experiencing.

Back at HQ I told lots of porky pies and got a medal.

The BEST quckie about a war.

The BEST quckie about a war.

It was 1944, I was a raw recruit. With my platoon, we were ordered to capture a castle in Austria. The Nazis fired bullets enough to turn a dozen elephants into sieves.

I shouted out heroically 'Fuck this for a lark, I am out of here.'

I legged it quick - and lived happily ever after.

Bingo – King of the Bongos. Part 20

Bingo – King of the Bongos. Part 20

Edward, was a strange child. Even at birth he screamed and attempted to go back from where he came from. Too late. The hairy door had closed.

At the age of twelve he asked his mother who his father was as strangers traipsed nightly through the door to go upstairs and moan a lot.

At five pound an Uncle, his Mum could pay the rent and feed him.

‘Edward, I do not know who your father is, and help me clean up this sperm I am dripping on the carpet.’

Edward went to school. Learnt a lot in biology lessons and practised them on his teacher, Mrs Virgo. He was not long but quite  thick and could give a good stuffing to any old turkey.

When he turned 19 he was doing well all right. Running a drug run, and owned three whore houses in Soho. But trouble was ahead as he was getting head. Arrested- the charges filled an attic, but he was offered a deal.

Go to the Congo, join Bingo, Tarzan, Tracy,  Poncho, Macho and the Gokwe Kid and rescue Mattress from the evil claws of the fanatical, Buk ‘em Hard.
It was an offer he could not refuse. The alternative was turn up as a headless, bloated corpse floating down the Thames river.

‘Seems like an offer I can’t refuse. However, I want some serious hardcore weapons like you see in the movies.’

A day later he is dropped from a stealth plane, along with a container with enough kill people things to create a massacre.

Bingo – King of the Bongos, greeted him. They rubbed noses. ‘Come brother, we were expecting you. The time has come and… did you bring any cocaine? I could do with a snort. I have a headache.’

‘Yo Bro, hasta la vista,’ Tracy hugged Edward. The Gokwe Kid kicked him the testicles in a normal Rhodesian ritual of greeting. Poncho and Macho scratched at their armpits and Tarzan howled out -

‘Ahhh a Ahh- Ahhh Uga Uga, Eish ahh kumbas.’

He was calling the tribe of the Bongos to war.

The reply came back,

‘Uga Uga, go fuck yourself, we on strike...’

Stay tuned as the seven now must take on the formidable force of the fanatical Buk em Hard. But... what is in the container? Or- more importantly – how was Mattress coping?

The Future: The Short End of Jimmy Stick.

The Future: The Short End of Jimmy Stick.

Really sad. I weep to tell you this, but it happened on New Years Eve. We were having a blast. Loads of people I did not know, rampaging around on my free Glühwein.

Then it was time to set off the fireworks as the countdown began. All were having a good laugh.

Jimmy stripped naked, stuck the wooden end of a massive rocket up his arse, leaned over, spread his legs and I ignited it. Things went very wrong. This was not the plan.

The rocket exploded, his crotch hair caught alight, he screamed like a baby wanting milk from his Mummy’s mummery, the rocket shot through the next door neighbour’s living room window, instantly setting the entire place alight.

Havoc reigned, people laughed and screamed with delight as people staggered out on fire, their hair causing hot ashes to float in the air to start another incineration to the a neighbouring property. The wind direction kept us safe. This was really fun.

Jimmy was another thing though. I think he was dying. He had stopped moaning. Thank gwad, spoils the atmosphere. All that screaming and crying. I kicked him. Oh shit. I think I have broken my toe!

The dumb fucker was frozen stiff. Ahh - such is life.

Meanwhile – things are getting a bit out of control. Not that there was any at the start of this binge. Oh dear – what is that noise? Fire engines? Such impoliteness to gate crash a lovely party. The sky was lit up in wonderful hews of orange, red and yellow and these fuckers want to spoil it? No way.

It was time for action. I did not predict a riot – I organised it. With semi-comatose followers fuelled on alcohol, we attacked the bastards spoiling our fun. Beer and wine bottles rained down and avoiding their helmets, we stuck shards in their necks – spilling the ground with red sauce.

One, even moaned that I should tell his wife and children that he was dying whilst on duty. Fucking loser. Should have stayed at home. What a laugh.

Oh well. I suppose even good times must come to an end. Sad really. It was fun.

I got 30 years without parole. The rest? Incarcerated for ten. That is just not fair!