Oh Woe is ME.

Many thanks for the advice from Suzanne and Fiona. As you use the no-reply button when you post I cannot reply in person. It would make life a lot easier if you Emailed me direct. Well I did manage, after a lot of arsing around, to get the counter back up. Then I noticed all the links have disappeared! I will have to put those up again laboriously one by one as the days progress. I went deep into the guts of my machine and played with all the advanced settings, clicking here and there and everywhere, but to no avail. So I suppose I just gotta wait till I find someone who has a better idea what’s going on.

I am a bit miserable at the moment. BUT, as it is suppose to be my job to make people laugh, I have a treat for you. I am pleased to announce that for my final teacher marked assignment for my course at the Open University - Writing Fiction – I got 85%. That’s a 1 pass. Cool huh! I was extremely hampered by the word count so what should have been just a very long story was chopped up into a so called Book Chapter. I dunno if I will ever get any further with it.

I was rereading some of the Tinny Blabber code last night. I haven’t looked at it for months, so spotted loads of errors, but for a high speed freewrite, I thought it was rather good. I really should do something with it…yeah…like I got LOTR to finish also.

So for your reading pleasure…here it is.

THE LOST PLOT

Narcissist and CBS (Chronic Boredom Syndrome) sufferer, Ferry Strange II, is a figment of alcohol fuelled imagination and legend in his own mind. His warped magnetic personality fractures time and space - thus, according to the laws of quantum physics, it results in him losing the plot constantly and reappearing relatively unscathed in yet another.

Chapter One:

GONE WITH THE WIND?

It is now nine o’ Clock here on BBC 1, time for the news, with Shalimar Gajsek and Stewbird Vool.

‘Good Evening, it’s Friday the 13^th of September 2013. Fears are mounting for the missing Vaginal Airlines flight 666 to Malta, which disappeared from radar screens two hours into its virgin flight earlier this evening. The highly controversial plane, christened Titsuptanic, only yesterday by financial backer, Sheik Mah’Leg, is the first wind powered aircraft of its kind. It had taken off from Looted Airport, with 763 passengers and a crew of three, after half an hour’s delay. Amongst them is the 45 year old celebrity Ferry Strange the Second. Reports are still sketchy, but a reprehensive from the airlines did not say that the pilot had radioed in, shortly before it apparently fell out the sky, reporting that many of the passengers were being violently sick and overcome from fumes reminiscent of rotten fish and boiled cabbage, and that he was decreasing his altitude so they could open some windows.’

Shalimar Gajsek sputtered the last words before throwing herself violently against the back of her chair and then, to the amazement of her fellow newsreader, tilted her head back and let loose wails of distraught, hysterical laughter, followed by a mighty crash as she disappeared from view in a flash of white knickers and shapely tanned legs - closely followed by her laptop…

Friday 13^th of September 2013. 6.00pm – Looted International Airport.

‘Please remove any sharp objects, such as nail files, pocket knives, knitting needles, Ninja fighting stars, etc., as these are not allowed to be taken on board and place them in the transparent Perspex box.’ This boring monologue was repeated to all passengers as they placed their hand luggage onto the rollers before the opening of the scanning sarcophagus.

Next in line, Ferry Strange II, with immaculate timing, unzipped a side pocket from his cheap rucksack and just as it was about to disappear, removed a foot long black vibrator, flicked it on, and nonchalantly popped it into the container. Trapped inside, its frantically pulsating head rattled noisily amongst the various confiscated objects as it searched for some hole to hide in.

‘Mummy, what’s that strange thing the funny looking man has put in there?’ squeaked a small girl in the queue directly behind Ferry.

Strange’s face remained immobile. His black silk cloak billowed around his matching coloured leather clad form as he stooped through the metal detector gate - setting it off instantly. He grinned wolfishly, exposing silver pointed incisor caps to the hapless security man as he waved his lolly-pop around him.

Roaring deeply he announced: “I have come through your Star-gate. Take me to your beer dispenser.’ He then strode in the direction of the bar in the airport’s departure waiting area - without bothering to retrieve his rucksack. It only contained toy automatic pistols and hand grenades. Ferry loudly sung the opening lines of his favourite Sex Pistol track: ‘I am the Anti-Christ! I am an Anarchist! I dunno what I want but I know how to get it…’, as the pandemonium broke out behind him. A quick look at his reflection in a Duty Free shop window confirmed that his pseudo Dracula personae choice for the trip was definitely self-pleasing.

At the bar, Ferry bemusedly studied the huge gilt-framed 2012 Olympics Hall of Fame placard, showing details of the single British medal winner, whilst he waited for his drinks. Reading was difficult. The new luminous green contact lenses were playing havoc with his eyes, making the whites rather red, but he could just make out Momad-Dee-Killah’s name, who had won a bronze in Street Fighting. When his first beer arrived, he wrapped his fingers around the glass, his metallic painted finger nails complimenting the colour of the brew. Using a trick he had learnt from the Oktoberfest, he overrode his swallowing mechanism and poured down the liquid in front of the astonished eyes of the awe struck teenager, still busy pulling his remaining order of four pints.

By the time he had sunk his third pint, and autographed 27 covers of the latest copies of Britain’s best selling weekly magazine, RBB (Rich Bitches and Bastards), emblazoned with a photo of his naked comatose body being dragged by the police out of the Australian jungle, Ferry was getting bored again. Suddenly, the constant background noise of flight departure announcements was drowned out by the hell raising din of howling wolves emitting from his mobile phone. Strange looked at the flashing screen and sucked at his fangs in pleasure. Anticipating the coming verbal tirade and ignoring the bleating of his fans, he hit the ‘receive’ button.

‘Hey,’ he drawled, flicking back his shoulder-length black hair and propping the device between the ear and shoulder, ‘how’s my favourite BBC red head doing? You got news for me or you are just missing my weight on top of you?’

His hands, now unoccupied, amused themselves by lighting up a cigarette and burning holes into a Striklee No Smokin cardboard sign.

Shalimar Gajsek laughed that famous sound of pure desire, like Linda Lovelace gargling on Channel Number 5, and then let loose - ‘You obnoxious bastard, according to the 6 o’clock news, that I have just read out, you’ve been back two days and you haven’t bothered to call me. Where the hell are you now?’

‘I’m just about to board a flight to Malta.’

Shalimar switched to her moaning girly voice, ‘we haven’t spoken since your good-bye party on Saturday when you tried to make us eat all that sauerkraut and kippers and now you are off again! I am starting to think my mother was right about you…’

‘Aah, give me a break Shali, I am still recovering from my wounds.’ Ferry instinctively rubbed at the spot where the immobilisation dart had been fired into his buttocks. He was the first person to be forcibly removed from the live reality show, I’m a Celibacy - Get Off Me, and deported from Australia.

He scowled, ‘my arse still hurts, you know, and the bastards refuse to pay me my appearance fee. Still, it was the best laugh I’ve had in ages,’ he added, draining his fourth pint and signalling for three more.

Shalimar started to giggle. ’Serves you right. Still, when you tied up that silly cow and announced you were going to demonstrate the Pogo from Togo, I nearly wet myself. And how the hell did you manage to get all that champagne helicoptered in? I thought the camp’s location was top secret!’

Ferry snickered. ‘I had a GPS phone in a condom - shoved up my ass. It was simple, if albeit painful, to send the co-ordinates. The rest is history.’

Ferry had single handily increased the show’s normal ratings by 400% on the first night. However, as the camp became an orgy of drunken debauchery, the sight of the naked former Labour government Prime Minster’s ex-wife trussed up in vines, like a Christmas turkey about to be Strangely stuffed, before a live audience of 35 million excited, albeit brain dead television viewers - he had pushed the envelope of tolerance a bit too far.

‘Gawd, you are insufferable, Ferry Strange. Why are you going to Malta?’ Shalimar sounded well peeved that Ferry was off again on another trip to satisfy his Chronic Boredom Syndrome.

Ferry replied, reading from a seriously fancy embossed letter reeking of whisky, ‘Some Bozo in Gozo, calling himself Father Shameus O’Toole, Last Grandmaster of the St John’s Order of Errant Knights In White Satin, claims to have proof of my real parentage, so I thought I’d check it out.’

‘Shame, I thought we might romp about a bit tonight…’ Shalimar paused for a sulking moment, allowing Ferry to sling down yet another Guinness, before she continued, ‘RBB wrote that your mother murdered your father by sticking his head in a deep fat fryer.’

‘Yeah, something shifted in her head after their business went bust in East London. I guess calling the shop - Ferry Strange Fish and Chips and Hot Faggots - was a bad idea. Anyway, I got to split. They have just announced that they would turf my luggage out on to the tarmac if I didn’t turn up in 60 seconds.’

‘So what has happened to the rest of that stinking mess of kippers and kraut? There must have been 100 kilos of it,’ continued Shalimar desperate for a few more moments of his attention.

Strange drank greedily from his sixth pint before answering. ‘Actually, it was a 183 kilos, to be precise. My rubbish bin was full, so just for a laugh, I’ve checked it all in as luggage. I need only to pull the tags off at the other end on the baggage reclaim ramp…’

`Charming indeed! Well, I suppose I should wish you a good trip. Hopefully you will phone me when you have some news. You didn’t tell me that you love me.’

‘Didn’t I? Okay - I love me! ‘

‘Piss off Ferry! I hope your bloody plane crashes.’ The phone went dead.

Friday 13^th of September 2013. 9.04pm: Somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea.

Ferry looked at his rescuers. There seemed to be scores of emancipated refugees crammed into a tiny leaky wooden boat, bobbing gently on the tepid waters. Standing up to his full height, he spread his arms out in greeting. The soaking cape clung to him like a giant bat’s wings; his silver incisors glinted under the full moon and small rivulets of blood from a superficial head wound mingled with his streaming mascara. The strange glowing green eyes, scanned the petrified passengers. Ferry paused a second. Gathering his thoughts he addressed the visibly shaking wrecks: ‘I don’t suppose you might have some cold beer on board?’

HELP -HELP

Nope, nothing to do with Zimbabwe - they are beyond help. I gather from a quick look at the Zimsituation site that Mad Bob had a great party. Waffled on for hours about homosexuals. Everyone is starving and he is worried about a few Morfs!

Talking of Morfs, someone wrote to me that it is actually Moffys or Moffies or whatever. Something Afrikaans. I dunno. I just remember that every Thursday it was Morf Day at Allan Wilson Technical School. This entitled boys to jump on each others backs and make movements like rabid, rampant, sexually deprived mongrels against your body whilst screaming ‘Morf-Morf’. I never did ascertain the reason for this. Another former inmate of this same strange school for sexual retards posed the question, who actually started the tradition that Thursday was officially Morf day? I would have thought it might have been more consistent in the course of questioning to start with – What deranged idiot started the tradition, and hopefully he died of Arse Injected Death Sentence a long time ago? Please don’t get me wrong, I don’t really have anything against Morfs, after all I have one in my family (whom is proud to boast about how often he uses his bidet to clean his ring), but I just don’t fancy one.

My problem at the moment, besides many, is the fact that whilst I was trying to repair this Blog, after I switched to their much touted, ‘better than je’ waffle, strange things happened. Now when normal people click on my blog they get a green background and stuff. I don’t get any! It’s all white. It gets worse. It doesn’t matter where I go on the web. ALL sites are missing serious chunks of their background graphics. This is the same on Firefox or Explorer. Can any one help!!!

I also realise that my counter has disappeared. I hope to rescue that, but my old brain struggles with stuff like that.

Still, I can be grateful for small mercies. I am on-line, have a roof over my head, tins in the fridge and food!

Catch ya later.

Happy 83rd Birthday Mad Bob

Old Muggies is at it again. He flatly refuses to die! And to top it all, he is so popular that it looks that he will bow to the pressure of his adulating fans and jiggle the constitution again and stop on till 2010. I presume this is due to the fact that there is a real fear that the boys down south, led by Bob’s mate, Daft Mbeki, might just not get organised in time for the next football world cup, and Mad Bob is prepared to take over.

He has excellent reasons for doing so. Crime in Zimbabwe is very low amongst the civil population. This is because there is nothing left to steal. All the nasty men went to South Africa to fill the vacancies in the Car-jacking, Homicide, Rape and Pillage industries whose annual turnover is one of the best in the world!

Financing the whole shambam is easy as Zimbabwe is acknowledged as the world leader in printing money. Inflation is pegged this month at a cool 1600%, but that means little to you and me. Let’s just say that if you buy a tomato for a $1000 - in 30 days time you will only get half a tomato. This is because Zimbabwe has the fastest shrinking tomatoes in the world!

Having forsaken buying their bank notes from abroad because by the time they arrive they are worthless, the Zim bearer cheques are designed to add as many zeros as you like AND rub them off depending on the latest financial strategy. This has led to a rush on erasers but the Chinese made ones are causing problems because they tend to leave holes in the notes.

All these zeros are confusing. Take this advert for example that I saw on the Zimbabwe Situation web site today (link on the right).

AN APPEAL FROM A PENSIONER

I am the proud owner of an Austin Mini Clubman, my only means of transport
and at the moment unemployed but my little car has a problem with the tyres.
I need to get hold of at least one tyre - 145/10 - as the car has been off
the road since before Christmas and I need to go and look for work. NTS
have size I need but at cost of $77 000-00 each without the tube.

I am asking if anyone out there has one or two tyres size 145/10 that they
would be prepared to sell me for a reasonable amount. They need not be new,
even re-treaded or second hand will be greatfully accepted.

Maybe there is a farmer out there who has a couple of old tyres for his
trailer that he no longer needs.

I thought that the price was too cheap. Then I remembered that they lobbed off three zeros 6 months ago. They would have been 77 million then…I think!

Anyway, there is food around. Another advert –

Still supplying pets food which consists of 500g of precooked pork offal and
veg costing $700 and 250g of pigs liver or heart costing $700 for 250g.

Meanwhile a pal of mine has a problem with his Dad. His Zim passport runs out in 2 months and he wants to visit in May. Sadly Zimbabwe has used all its ink making bearer cheques.

Finally…All the Zimbabwe diplomats and staff connected to 40 consulates/embassies around the world face eviction because they can’t pay the rent and haven’t done so for months.

As if I’m bovaard.

Trains, Elephants and Fire.

I was asked what happened to my rant against Virgin trains. I decided to take it off after I was reimbursed rather well. It did take quite some time and caused no end of hassle but since I am a proud owner of a free brand new Dell 17 inch widescreen Inspiron and two first class train tickets – I thought I call it quits before I get sued!

It appears that the posting a while ago about the elephant being shot up has caused a bit of a furore. I doubt anyone can do much about it now. Zimbabwe has spiralled completely out of control. Just cut and paste and spread the word around.

Below is a story I thought I would work on and hand in as my final teacher marked assessment for my Writing Fiction course. I was advised against it. But, just for a laugh – here it is, albeit it still needs some work on it. One day I will get a book together of some of my stories.

Have fun, catch ya later.

The Daily Creep

Thursday 15^th December 2005

An exclusive report by Urine Heep.
Green O'Dare - Fire Fighter.

Finally, the raging fires in Hertfordshire oil depot in North London have been extinguished after four days of relentless burning. I have been lucky to witness, as a reporter for this newspaper, the exact moment when, with local fire brigades in turmoil and in pay rise strike anarchy, they sat back and watched how a true dedicated fire-fighter did his job. Just as a Swede was needed to turn up and manage the national football team, it took another foreigner’s professional dedication to tame the worst disaster on English soil since the Second World War.

Patriotic Irishman Green O'Dare, was until recently little known to the general public. He was forever cast in the flaming shadow of his hero and mentor, the late fiery Texan, Red Adair - who could blow out raging oils wells simply by farting! Green O' Dare comes from an impoverished family in the west of Ireland and he had little inkling of his incredible talents until a freak accident during a candle lit Christmas dinner five years ago.

His Uncle Murphy had been blessing the potatoes (braised in Guinness), when the highly intoxicated man had passed his immense whiskey soaked beard and long hair too near the candles. Acting instantly, without fear of harming himself, Green had punted the howling, holocaust engulfed defrocked priest through the only window, landing him head first in the shit-bucket that was the communal bog. It was then that O’Dare realised that his future lay in fire fighting.

A year ago, he became something of a celebrity when he appeared on the popular BBC 2 television program Dragon’s Den. Green had been looking for financial backing for what he dubbed - ‘Poor Bastards’ Bath Tubs’, made from cardboard. At the age of 53 he gave up his life of Reilly, signed off the dole and became self employed. The idea was simple but he sadly failed in his request for a quarter of a million pounds. As he afterwards explained – ‘the fool place had a bleedin’ wood floor, for Christ’s sake! When I used a plumber’s portable Bunsen burner to get the corners nicely lit - to get the water hot, like - the feekin’ place burnt down! Them rich gits legged it, like blue-arsed flies. I tell ye, that Lady Muck is right fit mind, for her age, but not as fit as me – I got me Irish arse out the place first.’

O’Dare was undeterred with the minor set back. As he went on to tell -
‘I tell ye what though. That very next day, me mate Shamus blew himself up when he dropped a lit match into the petrol tank of a motorbike he had just nicked; to see how much gas was inside. I was across the road in the Feek I'm Thirsty pub, having a quite pint and a little rabbit with me boys, when in runs your man, screaming his bleedin’ fool head off!'
Green continues, ‘so I decked the feekin eejit with me bar stool, and then I got the lads to piss on him till he stopped burning and moaning. It took a while like, cos it was his round, and I had a right job getting a tenner out his jeans; what with him rolling about, flapping his arms like a headless chicken, effin’ and blindin’, and such. Afterwards I thought me lads had done me proud and I knew then, I could organise a fire fighting outfit to rival the best.'

Green was not wrong and he invested his life savings of twenty pounds in an extended version of a 1978 East German Trabant as his main fire-fighter carrier. As he explained last year in an interview with the best selling newspaper, Irish Simple Minds,
'That Trabbi is almost indestructible, and it will go on any liquid shit that burns. I got a ladder in it and three buckets. I’ve not driven it yet, but it’s in a garage waiting for an emergency. I’m telling ye, me and my lads can handle anything.' That moment finally came this week…

In a late night session of Parliament yesterday, the Prime Minister, Toenee Nutcase, attempted to answer satisfactorily the opposition’s questions, as to why it had taken four days to finally get Green O'Dare to put out the fires. In an emotion filled reply, the Prime Minister, struggling to be heard over the noise of illegal Nigerians, vacuum cleaning with their new Asian made Dissya machines, told the packed house -
'One of the side effects of my new law, to allow 24/7 drinking, is that Green O'Dare was unfortunately only located by her Majesty's Secret Service in the Feek I'm Thirsty pub in Kensington yesterday. It appears he has been there ever since the law was passed and he had unfortunately neglected to inform his sick benefits officer of his recent change of address.'

The Prime Minister had been facing massive rising criticism of his governments handling of the entire situation, which has seen a huge increase of panic stricken drivers queuing for hours at petrol stations to fill their MPV, and off road 4x4’s. (Though most are still struggling to find some off- road.)

Toeknee Nutcase went on to explain, 'Mr O'Dare was awoken at 2.30 pm, and when presented with 50,000 pounds in cash, promised to assemble his team and extinguish the blaze.'

So it was, that I was witness when Green O'Dare and his crew, around 4.30 pm, careered at full tilt straight past the awaiting press. The green painted Trabant, with the Irish Flag painted on the bonnet, was packed with brave fire-fighters. The occupants’ eyes could be seen to bulge with excitement and their comradely, adrenalin inspiring chants -
'Jeesoos Feekin’ Christ! I shit me cacks!’, could easily be heard above the sound of the screaming two stroke engine as it disappeared at well over 70 miles an hour into the inferno.

It was difficult to see exactly how they started, for the whirling clouds of black smoke constantly blocked our vision, but there were brief moments, when we, the reporters, could look into that raging holocaust. It was soul moving, the emotions we felt, as these gallant men fearlessly fought the very entrance of hell itself.

The Trabant converted fire engine had obviously stopped after colliding with the largest oil tank, O’Dares team had rapidly and professionally dispersed in what apparently appeared to be a well planned circle. As wind flurries opened up gaps in the oily black smoke, it could be seen they had removed their Donkey jackets and were repeatedly beating at each other to put out the fires that broken out all over them. Green himself could be seen protecting his head with a bucket he had removed from the Trabant, just before it blew up. Strands of his screamed instructions to his chivalrous crew came to our ears.
'Feek me blind, it's hot. We haven’t got a baldy - Run for ye lives, ye bastaads.'
Several of them had freely released their bladders, so as to extinguish their nylon track suit bottoms that were trying to melt into their skin. The loyalty of the crew to their leader was awe inspiring. Three of them, hair alight, had run out the devils playground, howling like possessed banshees, for a quick fag break. However, as again and again the screams of - ‘don’t let that bastaad O’Dare out ye sights lads, he got the bleedin’ money he promised us,’ could heard, they had rushed back in, their Nicked trainers bubbling from the heat. Still using their jackets, the incredibly brave men, after what seemed an eternity, finally beat a path out. Their super human effort also effectively extinguished the last of the flames.

Green O'Dare was one of the last to emerge from the black soot. He looked like an exhausted bat out of hell. He had staggered over to the applauding crowds and after removing his glowing red bucket with blistered hands, it could be seen his head was now just a mass of smoking curls. I went over, congratulated him and asked what he would do with the money that he had so deservedly earned. His red raw eyes stared at me in post traumatic blankness. Then, with a breath, now smelling of warm fermented stale Guinness, he replied in a quivering fatigued filled voice -

‘Gawd help me, I’m touching cloth. But I tell ye - next time I buy a car, I hope the feekin’ brakes work!'

Word count 1440

Almost Back

Well, after almost 4 months, finally things are happening. After much screaming, Virgin coughed up enough for me to replace my system with something better. Or so I thought! After much searching I settled on a Dell. This arrived but the screen doesn’t do what it said on the tin. So that’s going back after another screaming session. I got a bad feeling that the next will not be any better, but, beggars can’t be choosers.

So after all this time, I should be up and running from my new base camp, half way up a Welsh mountain, by the middle of Feb. I will be putting up some of my zanier attempts at fiction in the next few days – meanwhile, someone sent me a poem after reading the posting about the elephant killing. Here it is.

AN ELEPHANT NEVER FORGETS

Even Rangers end up poaching
When they can't afford cheap meat
With starvation now encroaching
Violators aren't discrete

One man ran to see the reason
For shots fired below his hill
Something tantamount to treason
Haunts his recollections still

One young Jumbo on his kneecaps
Tried to flee his butcher's sight
Volleys sprung repeated deathtraps
But he struggled on despite

Scores of shots pierced through his backside
In this sordid sodomy
That should raise an outcry worldwide
Making Bob accessory

He created sad conditions
Genocide comes by degrees
Gives Zimbabwe no remissions
Like poor beast upon its knees

After Ranger had reloaded
Many shots tore through the head
More than dust clouds had exploded
Even time stood still in dread

Seven minutes saw grim struggle
Ere that louder coup de grace
Signaled men prepared to smuggle
Zim hears little veritas

But known things must be reported
Till the world will realize
How Mugabe has distorted
And replaced plain truth with lies

© duaneudd.com 19th Jan 2007

Kudus, Virgins and Elephants.

Things have been exceptionally hectic for me these last few weeks. I have been evicted from my last abode and now languish under a bridge in a cardboard box protected from the elements by Co-Op carrier bags weighted down with stones. I do hope that a better form of accommodation will be forthcoming as the bags claim to be bio-degradable and could start leaking in weeks.

To add to my woes my beloved laptop had a fight with a Virgin. Actually it was a train owned by that rich hairy man Richard Branson. Whilst on one recently the air con in my particular carriage was malfunctioning and decided to pour a rather large quantity of ice cold water all over my open laptop making it non-comprehendo as far as using the keyboard, CD-Rom and a few other bits of it. After dashing off a letter of complaint via someone else’s P.C., the thing was duly packed off to be serviced by a Virgin or whatever, leaving me rather fingerless as far as writing is concerned.

I wish to thank Kudu Eye for his excellent comments regarding my scribbling. He is of course correct and that is why I am studying towards a degree. At the moment I have just started my next course called Writing Fiction, which has become rather an eye opener. I see I have a long way to go. I have had to use the public library to read and complete the course material which is all online. That is a bind. I can’t really get things done in the allowed 30 minute sessions. 25 mins I need just to catch up on my porn collection - hah hah. A friend in the meantime has lent me a P.C. but it seems to suffer from dyslexia and trying to save stuff on to a diskette has led to terrible tantrums, especially when the bastard across the road keeps pulling the plug on the extension lead to my new home I covertly installed in his garden socket during the night. What are a few watts between friends huh!

As Kudu Eye left the comment anomalously I cannot reply directly. I would be grateful if he could contact me with an Email address. As for what the police buckle on my belt is for: my guess - for opening beers!

I hope to be able to add to my Blog with a bit more regularity in the near future but in the mean time here is a rather disturbing copy of an Email I received recently. I used to visit the area in the late ’80 early ‘90s. I suppose it is just another example of how poor old Zimbabwe has gone down the tubes. I went down to the vigil last Saturday. The one held outside Zimbabwe house every Saturday on the Strand, not far from Nelson’s column. Considering there must be about quarter of a million Zimbabweans in the U.K. it was a rather small effort but 10 out of 10 for the enthusiasm of those attending.


TYPEWRITTEN COPY OF ORIGINAL HANDWRITTEN LETTER FROM L.A.D. GUSH.

Tel Hre 788xxx/091409xxx
29th October 2006
(any typos are direct transcription from author’s letter)

PLOT 478
CHIRUNDU
TEL. 6xx

ZERO TOLERANCE – CHIRUNDU ON GAME

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

I have been involved in Chirundu through either my marine business or my Residential house on the hill for the past 26 years and know the place and envirement well.

At the onset of this letter, I have never shot game and therefore do not know the characteristics of their actions when shot.

But last week, whilst up there on maintance, I witnessed a situation that would sicken the most ardent hunter, committed by National parks Ranger (I only saw one person in green uniform).

My house, which is on the hill, overlooks the floodplain below, and at approx 5.30p.m. on Friday last week, I was sitting outside glassing the floodplains below looking for game.

Amazingly, I noticed a not mature elephant, approaching the hill top, on the plains below – which went into the thick scrub at the base of the hill, below me, out of sight at approx 5.15p.m.

The following incident then took place:

1. I heard 4-5 shots in rapid succession ring out below me
2. As the shots occurred at the base of the hill, which is out of sight from my position, I jumped upon my pool pump house to get a better view
3. I saw this single elephant, trying to scrabble away on front kneecaps, as it appeared to me that it had lost the ability to fully stand properly.
4. The elephant, tried to scrabble away, on the road below me, this was followed by a further 4-5 shots into what appeared to me its backside, as the elephant was trying to run south and the shots coming from the north, on base of hill. The shooter was still obscured from the road, as he was still at the base of the hill. Shots fired so far approx 10. Time period 30-40 seconds
5. A further volley of shots range out from the same positions, as described above, in rapid succession, again in what appeared to be its backside – total 10-15 shots. TOTAL SHOTS +/- 25 – TIME FRAME +/- 60 SECONDS
6. In what seemed like an enourmous time frame of 2-3 mins, no more shots fired (possibly changing magazine). Total shots fired approx +/- 25 – total time 4 min.
7. A National parks ranger was then seen to run parallel to the scrabbling elephant, eventually getting ahead of him. Approx a further 10-15 shots fired into the elephant from either side on, on frontal into the head, I could see the dust fly off the elephant from the bullet impact. The elephant turned and scrabbled in a northerly direction from whence, it came, as the National parks Ranger was ahead of him. The elephant was by now partially disabled, but could still move slowly on its knee caps. TOTAL SHOTS FIRED – 40 – TOTAL TIME 6 MIN
8. The ranger then casually walked up to the elephant that was now feeling the effects of the bullets and fired 3-5 shots into the Head of the elephant, the elephant was at this time crouched down on all fours, but its head held high, with these extra shots, it collapsed onto its side, still very much alive, a further heavy caliber weapon was heard to discharge, and the elephant appeared to be dead. Total shots fired +/- 45 from low caliber weapon, possible AK47 + 1 heavy caliber. Total time 7 min. Distance from my line of sight to elephant, 200mts.

My questions now being:
A. The floodplains below were always teeming with game – today you rarely see even an impala in over a week
B. My staff tell me that elephants are regularly shot within Chirundu township and that this is No. 9 this year.
C. Tim Balance – owner Tiger Safaries – tel Chirundu 633 or cell 011-218594 whom I contacted after this incident, confirms 9 elephant shot – the eighth +/- 2 weeks ago within 200mts of his chalet complex, full of tourists who witnessed a similar incident, but not as gory, but many shots fired with AK47 – tourists so disgusted that part of 12 left immediately vowing never to return!
D. Tim asked me to do a report on the above incident, which I did and he was going to E mail my report to Johnny Rodrigues, which he did.
E. I then contacted a friend of my in Cape Town who is a BBC correspondent, but away on Breaking Story – she still to get back to me.
F. Tim Balance then came up next day to get my statement as he was also putting forward his statement, plus 1 other from another Resident who witnessed a similar incident. He told me the following: please contact him. The Warden Marongora – political appointee – will make no statement – advise from Head Office – the people from Chirundu now demand meat once per month on regular basis. Any rogue or Deemed Dangerous elephants to be shot on the spot – no attempt will be made to conserve these animals, he even pleads with National parks to put a stop to this, as it affects his tourist trade and viability (hence 12 tourists packing up and going)
G. My domestic staff purchased 4kg elephant meat on my previous visit +/- 2 weeks ago, and gave me to take back to Hre for his wife – he paid the Ranger 1.2k for this and received no receipt – this was the remains of No 8 elephant. The National parks ranger was seen that night at locale Bar in inebriated state.
H. My staff and Tim Balance inform me that on 2-3 occasions, the wrong elephant has shot and they only stop when they feel the correct one has been shot, if they feel it’s a rogue.

In this whole scenario, it appears that Bush Meat is the objective, and financial reward is the prime reason, i.e. no receipt, no accounting.

Initially it saddens me that National Parks who are supposed to look after our game, have deteriorated to such low depths, shooting Big game, with low caliber military weapons, that put the animal in extreme pain, for long periods before its Death, and the inhumane Shooting of knee capping, these magnificent animals, so they cannot escape.

Again I state I have never shot game and do not know that when shot an elephant falls on its front knees and tries to escape, But that is how I saw it and getting shot in the backside is appalling to say the least.

At Rifa there resides a Resident Big Game Hunter – why can’t he do this work, instead of these inept rangers, who have no experience and know nothing of single shot culls with correct weapons in short time periods.

Printed: L.A.D. GUSH
Signature below
Tel Hre 788025
Cell: 091409541

Dragons’ Den Dying Duty.

BBC 2’s Dragons’ Den has been presented on U.K. television since 2004. I love it. There in the cavernous, sparsely furnished warehouse - the Den - budding entrepreneurs show off their weird, whacky and sometimes, downright bizarre creations and inventions to a panel of self-made millionaires - the so called Dragons. The rules are very simple: The contestants try to persuade the Dragons to invest their hard earned cash in their respective enterprises in return for a share of the equity of what, all of them naturally spout, will be the next best thing since sliced bread - once they have the Dragons support. Standing with their presentations, they do their pitch before the seated Dragons, (four formidable men and one woman) and they must receive the full amount asked as financial backing or else they walk (crawl) away empty handed.

Most fail. Many hopefuls collapse in fear, sweating profusely from the combination of high powered studio camera lights, but worse of all, the ice cold calculating eyes of the Dragons. Some of the people are complete whackos and are rightfully ridiculed to an early exit, whilst others fall on their own swords as their financial figures are savaged to death by the hardcore professionals. Some people receive backing even if their demonstrations failed. One man who had created an electrical heater to boil eggs without water could only explain that whilst he had cooked thousands at home successfully, that for some unknown scientific reason, in front of the Dragons they flatly refused to coagulate. The poor mans pitch trickled away at the same time his last luke warm raw egg slithered out its ruptured shell. He still got his backing though.

Another well intentioned gentleman presented a ‘Cricket stroke learning device’, but he was sadly hit for six when one of the observant Dragons, between bouts of hysterical laughter, correctly pointed out that it was just a ball on a spring. But unquestionably the program has provided a massive boost to the aspirations of people with fresh original ideas. The tenacious passion they use to try their damdnest to win not just the money, but also the Dragons expertise that comes with it, for they don’t want to lose money either, is for the television audience watching, fantastic entertainment. The lessons learnt in the reality of making money cannot be overlooked. There is no easy way to make big bucks.

The last aired program of the 2006 season looked back at the original series to find out eighteen months down the line what happened to a few of the hopefuls.
One in particular really caught my interest. Cardboard coffins! Not shaped shoeboxes for snuffed Woofys, Pussys, Hammy hamsters etc, but for real human beings…the dead kind.

Even an entrepreneurial novice such as myself, could see that the pitch was wrong. The short repeated extract shown had our hapless, frightened stiff directors of the fledgling firm emphasising an environmentally friendly, back to nature sort of burial. Since most of the Dragons environmental awareness was rather apparent in the shows opening scenes which shows each of them zipping around from one business deal to another in gas guzzling, air polluting forms of transport, such as Bentleys, Lear Jets and helicopters, the comment from one of them, “I wouldn’t been seen dead in one of those”, buried any hopes of resurrecting a dying business based on saving the planet. The Dragons, when it came their time to shuffle of their mortal coils, would be buried with almost certainty in designer clothing costing several thousand pounds and the idea of lying in state in a cardboard box costing less than 90 quid left them as cold as the bodies they were designed for. No more words were needed - the sarcophagus was well stuck in the oesophagus.


Whilst they thought this was a casket basket case, I thought the idea rather cool, so I decided to do some research, thinking I could make a quick killing by spotting a niche market that was very much alive and dying to kick it cheaply. Googling away morbidly, I soon unburied a grave full of material that our Dragons’ Den candidates had not uncovered. The passing over of basic research led to the early end and the demise of their dreams of eternal peace, but I had a plan to resurrect termination and fill my wallet with the proceeds from promoting fast food for worms.

A few clicks on the net and lo and behold, there are several manufactures making coffins from recycled paper and best of all, just like Ikea furniture, they come flat packed! Obviously these weren’t designed for any newly departed who was accidentally run over by a steam roller, but designed to be put together at home on the dining room table. No tools required, simply fold on the dotted lines and fold over the tabs and push them through pre-cut slits. The slightly more expensive ones supplied leak proof linings, (we don’t want Granny’s intestinal fluids leaking onto the carpet) and there is a choice of wood look finishes. The real cheepies came in plain white for painting any way you liked, but there was a warning that some crematoriums will not accept coffins that had been sprayed with flammable paint. It seemed there could be living hell in the furnace and the whole lot might explode shooting out flaming wads of meat on the bone!

I wondered why Do It Yourself stores haven’t clocked onto this great business opportunity and ordered in bulk. None of the big stores offered them on their websites. With D.I.Y. profits dying as fast as Ex- communist hand workers invade Britain, you would think this would be easy pickings. Clever variations could be displayed; such as different shapes and sizes for all ages and weights. A whole range of optional extras could be provided such as special eco-friendly fertilizers to mix in with the soil from the grave to help your recently departed dear one push up daisies faster. (Or any range of fast growing flower seeds.) Various coloured large bin liners as cheap alternatives for leaky family members. They could be sold in a roll at a discount for the large family hit with bird flu. Or perhaps a range of fruit tree cuttings. Imagine a few years down the line giving your children a Granny Smith apple that she grew herself. Grave stones with R.I.P. would now mean Rot In Pieces. The plain white coffins could be stacked next to a whole range of flame proof paint to get that personal touch.

The opportunities when cashing in your chips makes the mind boggle. Mail order catalogues could harvest a killing field. Imagine the advert on television for Argos - The family is eating breakfast; Father looks like he is on deaths door after another night out at the local boozer and Mother shows him the special offer on page 666, ‘one size fits all’ for £66, 60 pence, posted to your door. The catalogue small print would point out that it doesn’t help to put the recipients name on the order in case he is too dead to sign for it.

Fast food chains like McDonalds, who are responsible for so many fat people expiring and then using up acres of rain forest to make their fancy hardwood coffins could offer vouchers towards a free paper one, complete with their huge reverted yellow sagging mammary glands emblem on the lid and sides. Kiddies’ meal bags could have miniature ones for the little sweethearts to put together and bury yet another neglected Christmas present pet.

Or…they would be perfect for the average necrophiliac and his blow up doll. Instead of stashing pasty white Suzie Wong in the cupboard, he pops her in his black painted paper coffin leaning against the bedroom wall.

However, I thought that this end of the British market could be well covered by local tradesman of death, such as Polish gas fitters, and so I put my deadly skills to an area where it is guaranteed the customers are queuing sky high. The overloaded morgues of Zimbabwe! A recent newspaper article had grabbed my attention -

Pauper burials are on the increase in Zimbabwe as people grapple with an unprecedented economic crisis most critics blame on President Robert Mugabe's mismanagement of the economy.

With the cost of burying a single body estimated at between Z$30 000
and $40 000, some Zimbabweans have resorted to abandoning their dead relatives to lie in mortuaries for months on end. With an average 3 000 Zimbabweans dying every week, the mortuaries at most major hospitals are filled up to the brim with dead bodies. – ZimOnline

The next logical step was to find a local manufacturer. As Zimbabwe’s paper machines (those that still work) are fully engaged printing out bearer cheques slightly slower than their 1200% inflation, and therefore well engrossed burying what’s left of the economy, it was logical I look to their wealthy neighbour- South Africa. And that’s when my great coffer of money idea became a paper-mache funerary box – it has been tried several times before, and failed.


For of all the ironies that the Whiteman’s presence has created in ‘civilizing’ Africa, being buried like one in a wooden coffin is the last status symbol. The fact that millions living in shanty towns with nothing more than a cardboard box as a home is a fact of life, it is not accepted to be a fact of death to be buried in one.

So until we see the Dragons and better still, Bob Geldorf, Al Gore and David Cameron being shown on the Nine o’clock News shopping for their paper coffins – its curtains for this good idea.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/dragonsden/

The Urinator.

This was supposed to be an entry for a competition, but as I went over the word count a bit, as in 1337 words instead of 500, I don’t think I will bother.


The Urinator.


“Herbert, get your ass in here right now” the high pitched screech of his wife of 27 years cut through the cigarette smoke filled air of the living room.

Herbert shifted his podgy body reluctantly from the tatty corduroy couch and shuffled his way towards the toilet, a half drunk can of ale clutched in his right hand, where Sally stood at the open door attired in her usual threadbare, wine stained dressing gown. He stood sullenly in front of her and with his eyes half cocked, gazed emptily at the peeling vinyl floor.
“What’s the matter my sweet?”

“What’s the matter? What’s the bloody matter?” Sally slapped the back of his head and pointed at the toilet, “that’s the matter you filthy pig, you been pissing standing up again, haven’t you?”
“No, I haven’t, my love, I promise,” he whined pathetically.

Sally grabbed his right ear and propelled him towards the open porcelain depositary. Thrusting his face just inches away from the brim, “look at this, yellow piss everywhere - here,” she banged his forehead onto the soaked surround, “and here,” the stretched ear pulling his head over to the peeling mould riddled Donald Duck wall paper now dripping with pee.

“I’m a woman of class, you know! Or I was till I stupidly married you. Clean this up now and if it happens again there will be no more sex” With that she rammed Herbert’s head against the wall and stormed out.

“You can’t do that,” he wailed to her disappearing back, I have conjurers’ rights.”

“You will be needing a bloody conjurer to get your rocks off in the future, because my hole will vanish if I see that again, I am sick of you thinking yourself as Arnold Schwarzenegger starring in The Urinator, You will sit on the shitter or you can pull your pudding till judgement day,” she ranted as she went back into the living room to watch a repeat of Diet Doctors. She just loved seeing women with bodies worse than hers, especially those with fungi growing under the fat rolls of their stomachs.

---


“Today will be a day of great happenings - if today you have something to celebrate, go out and have fun.” Sally read out loud from the ‘Your Stars in the Sky’ column from The Sun newspaper. She read her star sign, Gemini, daily. Once when it had said it would be her lucky day she had bought a scratch card at the off licence and won £10.
“Herbert, it’s our 30th wedding anniversary. You can take me tonight to that new pub that’s opened on the High-Street, Mavis says it’s very posh. I’ll give her a ring and get her and Albert to meet us there.”

Herbert didn’t mind. Albert was an all right sort of bloke and if Sally got pissed enough he might get his way, especially as he had been sitting diligently for a pee the last three years. Besides, she would natter local gossip for hours with Mavis and leave him in peace for a change. “What a good idea, my lotus blossom,” he replied.

---


“Another pint of your best larger and a packet of crisps, landlord,” Herbert said to the balding man behind the bar. He was well pleased and well drunk. The evening was going fine. He looked around at the décor. Things had changed since the smoking ban had been introduced and the pub had been completely converted to accommodate a different class of clientele. It wasn’t his scene but times are a’ changing and even he could see that a lot of money had been invested in the high tech gadgetry of high definition televisions liberally scattered on the walls between Andy Warhol prints. He felt a bit out of place amongst the well dressed and glowingly healthy drinkers seated on black leather armchairs around shining stainless steel designer tables, but he didn’t care. Sally’s voice had become increasingly louder with every glass of gin and tonic she drank, hardly noticing that Herbert had ordered a triple shot at every opportunity. Things were going to plan and the thought of squeaking bed springs later on permeated his befuddled mind with carnal lust.

“I will be back in a moment my dear, just going to the toilet,” he announced as he placed the drinks on their table. Herbert’s years of boozing meant that he could drink at least eight pints before needing to relieve himself. Sally ignored him and he wandered off. Entering the MENS, he whistled with amazement. Everything in stainless steel, with matching black marble wash basins tops, the urinals were perfectly flush mounted, the fixings hidden beneath the highly polished slabs of sandstone. Out of habit he headed for the toilet, only to find the door locked and from the soft farting and appreciative grunts emitting from under the door, he concluded the occupant was having a serious session of internal cleansing that could last a while. Herbert needed to relieve himself fast; the pain of his gigantically swollen bladder was getting through even his numbed nervous system.

Sally only noticed Herbert’s absence when her glass had stood empty for half an hour and as she looked around for him, several heavily equipped firemen entered the premises, startling even Mavis into silence in the middle of a description of her athlete’s foot. There seemed to be some commotion near the entrance to the public toilets and Sally’s curiosity got the better of her and after a moments of gazing around looking for her absent husband she decided to see what was going on, when suddenly the high pitched screams of Albert could be heard above the excited babble and delirious laughter of the packed pub.

Using her bulk, Sally forced her way through the tightly packed crowd of on-lookers till she had finally struggled her way to the open door of the MENS. There she finally found Herbert, bent double, his face almost touching his knees, his trousers down to his ankles and his large backside stuffed deeply into the oval of one of the shining urinals. His shrieks of agony audible even above the incredible noise of the two massive angle grinders the fireman were using to cut through the sides of the chrome tempered steel that held him fast in its grip. Through the massive twin arcs of sparks spraying around him and the pain of burning iron filings floating down like sparklers to melt into his thinning scalp, Albert caught the eyes of his astonished wife and screeched his frustration -

“This is all your fault you stupid cow, and now they’re frying my sausage and fucking eggs!”



Written and edited in 2 and half hours and neither under the influence of drugs or alcohol.
Wales 24/09/06

THE GREATEST RHODESIAN WANKERS

As the first draft of my monumental book finally comes to a conclusion, I thought another chapter to whet your appetites might be in order. This story is unedited and completely true.

Last of the Rhodesians: Chapter:16


THE GREATEST RHODESIAN WANKERS

Or

The massacre of Allan Wilson and the Shanghani Patrol revisited

Gwelo 1978

Some people are natural born wankers. Some achieve this through hard work. That is not easy.

But, even the ‘coolest’ dudes, the Rhodie machos, would occasionally let their guard down and woe befall those that achieved this title, even for a short time.

It is rare however, and here I quote the great Winston Churchill,

“Never in the history of stupidity, was so little done, by so few, to humiliate so many”

because what transpire in the following story that after this fiasco the entire British South Africa Police force were the laughing stock of Gwelo.

The lads who occupied the singles mess in Gwelo were generally a great lot. All so different and each with their own unique personality. They were like me, full of bullshit.

One lunch time we had quite a full house in the dining room. Not only the Urban and Rural regular P.O.’s but my room mate Keith Taylor turned up for a change. He was a National Service Patrol Officer, but being a very witty and smart individual he was accepted by the regulars. I had been to school with him at Mount Pleasant but as he was ‘A’ stream clever ‘oke’ and a ‘Rugger bugger’, I had as a geek been excluded from his ‘Fellowship of the Ring Piece’s’... Now we shared a room and amazingly we were like two dogs. After sniffing the qualifications, we were quite happy to wag tails. I rarely saw him as he had a really shite job. The poor bugger had been allocated to be Mad ‘Dog’ Morris’s sidekick, he being the nutcase who ran the local Police Anti Terrorist Units training ‘college’.

So Keith wanders in just as we all started eating. Whilst greeting all and sundry, he kept picking at the skin on his right hand palm.

‘What’s up with your hand?’ one of the local wits called Terry shouted out over the babble.

Keith holds up a hand pitted with large holes from dried and burst blisters received from digging bunkers at Mad ‘Dog’ Morris’s COIN (counter insurgency) camp.

Awed whistles all around,

‘How the hell you get all that?’ asks Terry

‘Wanking too much’ laughs Keith along with the rest of the room.

Unfortunately in that brief millisecond of thoughtlessness, Terry, having been the interrogator and had eyes still on him, lifted his own right hand instinctively to almost table height and glanced down at his open palm.

Caught red handed, the roars of ridicule from the baying pack could be heard for miles. Now that Terry had declared his qualifications to everyone’s delight, conversation turned to the theme of the greatest debacle ever planned in the history of sport.

Mainly, these cowboys wanted to organise a Rugby 15 and take on the local area schools first teams. There were enough ex Rugger buggers to make up a full squad and plans were well underway.

The first school the leader of this loony lot contacted had spoken to the headmaster. He had flatly refused to let them play against the first team. Our lads had at least 18 months to 2 years average age advantage and he didn’t need his top team mauled by a bunch of desperados. However, he had reluctantly agreed to let our lot of brave lions maul his 2nd team.

Moans and groans and shouts of cowards went around but the game was on for the weekend. I wasn’t much of a rugby fan but agreed to come along to try out the second hand camera I had purchased off some Christian freak that had a shop on Gwelo high street.

The magnificent 15 had had a short training session in the pub and it was really just a matter of sorting out the small details, such as who brought the crate of beers for half time. Down at the quartermasters store they had managed to get some blue police rugby shirts from bygone days of fame. Socks and shorts at each player’s discretion. Rugby boots an optional extra.

On that fateful day, I had by now managed to load a film into the Russian Camera I had bought off the American loony in the bible bashing shop. The first attempt had caused a disastrous fortune when I was informed when picking the pictures up that, sorry it appears the film has not been exposed. You idiots developed an empty film?

My Zenith commie cam had come with some screw on telephoto lenses. Very impressive! What wasn’t impressive was the very primitive light meter along with the fact the exposure settings had rubbed off. As a result, in the end I shot one film and sold the camera to some poor sap for a loss, as usual, prior to leaving the police.

Now as the official photographer/reporter for the BSAP magnificent 15, it was intended that I write and send pictures to the police rag mag with suitable tales of glory and an educational hammering coming to Gwelo, type headlines.

Before I could select a suitable lens for the dramatic opening, the whistle blew and the sneaky young bastards had scored a try before our fly-half had put his fag out!

The few bribed supporters we had dutifully sighed and clasped their hands together. They were to keep them that way for an agonising long time!

If you have a dog or know some one well that has one, try to think of a huge Rhodesian Ridgeback, soaking wet and stinking before the fire. It starts to bite itself all over with that lip curl over the teeth that reminds you of the film Aliens. As it snuffles frantically up and down its steaming fur, you, with your 15th Castle larger of the day in your hand, and stupidly watching the dogs contortions with growing amazement for 40 minutes, think;

If he such a clever dog, as every idiot says to him, How come he can’t catch the fleas?

THAT, is exactly what I thought of the BSAP 15.

It was awful to watch. Like hordes of Matabele warriors, the school kids totally overwhelmed our brave, gallant, wheezing, cramp riddled wankers. No chance of one to one mortal combat as the swift and expertly trained squid worked together like marauding Impis to hamper the efforts of the booze cruise professionals.

Few of our team were interested for a beer at half time. By now the blue police rugby shirts stunk like a stale brewery and fags were passed around with shaking hands. Puffs were interspersed with doubled up dry retching as the accumulated lactic acid in the tortured muscles wracked their bodies in spasms of pain. I have seen deep sea divers suffering from the bends look happier!

The second half got silly. These kids took the piss now and danced around the gallant zombie look-alikes of the fighting police 15 as try after try went over. I felt ill. What a waste of money on the crate of beer.
For the first time since joining I understood what the British South Africa Police insignia of a lion with an assegai shoved deep into it’s pulsating heart stood for.

None of our ‘Men of Men’ had garters and as the socks slid down, the playing field became littered with their combs. I lifted my eyes up into the clear blue skies. Not to look for any divine assistance but to see if the vultures were gathering. In fact they had landed long ago and taken up residence in the unused opponents half and patiently waited for the final whistle, when they would pick the corpses down to their stupid bones.

The score board was a primitive affair with just HOME and VISITORS written in large white letters above two hooks for the numbered cards. The entrepreneurial youngster in charge, noticing that for the first time in the history of the school the score could go to triple digits, had cleverly removed one of the hooks from the unused VISTORS and placed it in preparation under the HOME part.

At last the final whistle went and the lightly sweating youngsters took the trembling claws of our fallen warriors and thanked them for a spirited fight. It could have been worse and 56 to nil was a fair result.

The debriefing lasted all week with the team selfishly blaming each other. Now there were still two schools to go and this time the headmasters were phoning us and offering the first team! Some of our squad were cowards and immediately applied for patrol duty in the terrorist riddled death trap of the Honde valley, rather than go through this again.

With more balls than brains the revamped squad took on the next lot. This time the spectators had increased as parents came to see their sons kick some coppers ass and get away with it. I flatly refused to take any more pictures than the one I had wasted at the previous game.

Although still nursing severe stiffness, they went forth with heads high and hope in their hearts. The hammering this time was of such intensity that any reasonable referee would have stopped the game out of human compassion. This time the score went over the 60,s. A grateful headmaster thanked our butchered upholders of the peace for the fine entertainment. His only regret was that he should have charged an entry fee.

The final match, I didn’t witness as even I couldn’t bear the pain. I believe it went into the 70 something’s. I resorted to walking to the Charge Office for my shift in a large coat covering my uniform.

I think it was at that point I realised we would lose the war and it was time to leave.

In the only photo I have, Terry is the one with the ball and the ‘nut crusher tight’ blue denim shorts. He is looking desperately around for somewhere to hide. The one with his back to the camera, who appears to be throwing up in exhaustion, is Keith. Notice the Mount Pleasant school socks. There is a huge pile of bodies on the left.

An idiot’s dietary guide to becoming an obese imbecile.

I have been watching with growing interest all the noise being made about diet, binge drinking, smoking and drugs being bad for you. There must be a large part of the population doing it and having a ball. So what is all the fuss about? It is all so one sided as well. There is plenty of information about for obscure people that want to live healthy lives (like me) but nothing to guide those that want to really live! So I have produced my own information sheet full of facts as how YOU to can have fun.

An idiot’s dietary guide to becoming an obese imbecile.

Fluid Intake.

Do drink copious amounts of alcohol and whenever possible between ‘sleeping it off’. A large beaker of spirits such as cheap vodka and gin make great chasers after every fourth pint of beer. This is a cheaper and more effective alternative to the fancy coloured drinks sold in test tubes. Alcohol decreases the brain functions to the point you dribble out your mouth, urinate in your trousers, fall down constantly, acquire amazing blurred vision and you tend to be incapable of speech, never mind sex. In this condition you will stand out in a crowd and feel like a million dollars.

Start your children off on drinking booze at an early age. Three serving spoons of Baileys Irish Cream liqueur in an infants bottle will keep the little dear from screaming its head off whilst you ‘sleep it off’. When they get older you can possibly have sex with some of your children’s friend’s brothers and sisters. However there are legal restrictions but a general guide is; if it is drunk and has an ASBO; shag it.

Young adolescents should start becoming expert binge drinkers by the age of 16. This way they will mix better with the other loud mouth yobs throwing up on the street on Saturday night and it will give them courage to steal cars, rob houses and the old British favourite – pugilism.

Mixing fizzy drinks with spirits is allowed. Recommended are caffeine rich drinks to get the heart really racing around to push the booze through your swollen liver. You will also notice that your kidneys will work better by no longer allowing yellow smelly stuff out but only clear fluids that froth like the head of a good pint of Guinness.

Please remember water is bad for you, fish do filthy things in it (sex and going to the toilet) and the water treatment plants smell of faeces and they put chemicals in.

Cow milk is for baby cows. Human mother’s milk is fine as long you are over 14, male and with one of your mate’s mothers.

Fruit juices for taste, such as in cocktails from cheap all inclusive hotels, may be drunk as the juice is totally synthesised from chemicals and helps to increase the urge to drink more of them.

Highly inflammable liquids such as petrol, paint stripper and white spirits, are cheap, fast alternatives than normal alcohol. They make the brain feel lighter and clear the naval passages. It is advisable to get advice with regards to lighting a cigarette if you happen to be one of the 90% of smokers.

Food Intake.

Do eat as many fast food hamburgers and chips fried in very old oil and put in sweaty soft buns. They are high in nutrients needed to make your body blow up like a balloon and thus soften the falls onto the main road as you stagger home from the pub. It also saves you having to climb stairs and you can just lie on the living room sofa ‘sleeping it off’. It is handy to have a dog to eat up any mess you hurl up on the carpet. The increase of flatulence will impress your friends with its aroma and pleasant musical tunes reminiscent to the opening theme from Star Wars.

Do absorb as many sugars as possible, such as Ice-cream, chocolate, sticky cakes and toffees. This helps to combat the small amounts of fluoride found in some beers and helps create a personal artistic smile of rotting stumps smelling like a sewer. A further touch is the appearance of random large yellow putrid spots on the face and body. These are of high entertainment value as they burst all over the bathroom mirror when you squeeze them.

Eat as much meat as you like, preferably half raw accompanied by chips, deep-fried onion rings and 3 fried eggs served with brandy or whisky sauces. The remnants taste delicious mopped up with slices of lard covered thick white bread made from processed flour.

Stay away from any foods with odd colours; such as green, dark yellow, orange, purple, (unless its old beef, in which case that’s fine) as these tend to be foods that animals such as rabbits and monkeys eat. Usually off yellow (as in chips) or red (as in bloody meat) is all the colour you need to put in your pale spotty face. Fatty beef Vindaloo curries are exceptionally good in assisting you sweat out unwanted salts and improves bowel movement.

Drug Intake.

Smoking 40 a day increases the likely hood of a sexy voice as heard in Big Brother contestants. (That’s the program you have on the television as you lie on the couch ‘sleeping it off’.
All other forms of illegal drugs are fine so long as the benefits cheque covers them. A cheap high is to get some anti-depressants from the doctor. Taken in quantity with alcohol it enables you to stare at Big Brother for hours without blinking and not have care in the world.
Growing your own dope is an excellent way to stay in a paranoid schizophrenic mode almost 24/7. Details are freely available on the web and the equipment is readily stolen from high street stores.

Benefits of this diet.

1. You are unemployable, you but don’t give a shite. No boss man to tell you what to do. You have complete control over your destiny and feel splendid about your life.
2. You have lots of friends who agree with you, especially the ones dossing in your decaying decrepit council house.
3. You die early, thus spoiling your children’s chances of stealing any more benefit cheques and they will have to apply for their own.
4. You receive free morphine from the NHS whilst dying in a hospital bed especially strengthened at enormous cost for your weight.
5. Never need to see a dentist or a doctor as you always feel fine.
6. You can sleep in till 11 when the pubs open.
7. You have many children and grand children that all love you and match your life style.


Courses are freely available in most corner pubs where fellow intuitionalists will give you handy hints on what else is available to claim for.

For more information please go to our web site:

www.fatandstupidanddrugged.co.uk

Skollie Interiors

People often ask me what I did for a living. I robbed banks. Actually that’s not quite true, they use to rob me, still do come to think of it. Come the revolution all banks should be blown up along with every McDonalds. I would never use the word ‘restaurant’ in the same sentence with McDonalds as it is a contradiction of words. It’s like saying ‘perfumed poo’!

Well, for over two decades I worked on interiors in Germany, of which about 70% were commercial sites with rather a large staff at one time of Irish and English sub-contractors. They were nearly all thieves and liars who ran away shortly after the socialists came into power and had to be replaced with Poles who all ran away when the bottom fell out of the construction industry completely. I gather they are all in England now standing on street corners claiming they are highly skilled and will work for £4.50 an hour.

I might land up taking some of them on eventually as after 18 months I am starting to feel I wouldn’t mind putting my creative skills back to work making nice pads for nice people. With that in mind I have started a new Blog. Here I will put up pictures of some of my work along with my usual witty style of descriptions. So go and check it out at –

www.skollieinteriors.blogspot.com

I have put a link on the right hand side as well. I only started it yesterday so please be patient, there will be loads of stuff going up along with loads of handy hints. The picture you see at the top is of me in Louis Vuitton in Sloane street London. That’s where all the people with more money than sense spend fortunes buying bags and shoes for prices that are quite frankly out of this world. I spent a couple of months participating in the £3 million pound refurbishment and it was one of the most horrific experiences of wanton waste of money I have ever experienced. I started to write about that awful time but gave up after a while as the whole thing still traumatises me! I will get around to it eventually but it will not be nice.

Catch ya later…

RHODESIAN MEMORIES 1

An odd incident occurred whilst I was waiting at Euston station the other day for my train to take me back to where I still presently live, which happens to be a very pretty part of the British Isles. Don’t laugh, there are such places and I’m not referring to some Polish 18 year olds naked bosom in a brothel in Manchester, but actually a very picturesque place in North Wales, which reminds me of the Chimanimani mountains of formally Rhodesia - albeit by the sea and full of sheep, the edible kind live on the slopes and the two legged type walk around the streets bleating unadulterated crap and vote for labour if it means they can retain their £80 a week certified alcoholics allowance.

There I was sitting outside in the muted sunshine on some wooden bench reading a Jeremy Clarkson book (he of infamous slagging off style, which is right up my street) and occasionally lifting a leg or two to allow a Black gentlemen to sweep mounds of accumulated refuse from the ground due to the fact that he needs a job and Euston has no rubbish bins. (Euston, we have a problem!) I gather that this is a left over policy from the days when mad Irishman liked to place bombs in them. When they got bored with that and gave up, the British government never got around to installing any and don’t have to bother anymore because another bunch of nutters have replaced the bad ‘Paddys’ with mad ‘Jihaddis’. These are all labelled in the press as ‘terrorists’ which is a bit odd as it appears rather a larger population of this planet seem to think otherwise. Tough titty if you on the wrong side of the fence at the wrong time and the wrong people sitting on the juice. (I.e. oil.)

Of course any one coming from Rhodesia knows what a terrorist is. Everyone else in the planet at that time called them freedom fighters! They went on to take over with a little help from some erstwhile ‘friends’; called the place Zimbabwe and turned the whole place into the first imploding star of the Milky Way faster than the big bang.

Whilst the date I decided to travel was the 4th September, missing ‘freedom fighters’ fifth anniversary of the release of the first virtual remake of the ‘70s film Towering Inferno, it didn’t stop me from be terrorised whilst I sat there in my Rhodesia T-shirt with a flame lily on it. I only wore it because it was the only clean shirt I had left and it is new because a nice man called Bill sent it to me for free.

I had been interrupted from my musings of perhaps my imminent fame in the literal world if A) I actually got around to finishing the book I am writing, and B) this style of Clarkson is very cool, if not albeit OTT now and then, but definitely something to take notice of since the guy has had more number ones in the best seller lists than Osama Bin Laden, (whose last novel, How to create breast implants made of chemical explosives to sneak on airplanes, never really took off, but caused havoc with my kids flights to come and see me) by some pesky unshaved yob.

I had been following his antics for several minutes out the corner of my eye and had from the corner of the other one cast about for some form of weapon of mass pest destruction, but the sweeper hadn’t left even a burning fag end to poke into his eye by the time he stupidly arrived at my table in an OXFAM shirt and a large clipboard to proudly ask me in a prepared speech from a brain washed better than his T-shirt if I would like to sign their petition to make poverty history. Had I had a copy of the massive, heavy brand new Rhodesian Memories 1 book I would have made this povo history by beating what remains of his left wing scrambled eggs of a brain out his rather useless brown eye which was happily pooping out Harold Macmillan’s winds of change set to African despots favourite rock anthem, ‘Oh Bob Geldorf, won’t you buy me another newer model Mercedes Benz.’

Before I had time to answer with my carefully prepared speech, the message boy added that “it is to protest that nothing has really happened to ease poverty since the G8 to G give us a break from the tripe summits” which had promised a load of spin guaranteeing that coffee from Kenya cost more at your local supermarket if it has a fair trade label than the supermarkets own brand, which is most probably from the same beans anyway.

I was going to give him a short history lesson as to why I would rather roll his petition up and smoke it along with a little white (excuse the pun) lie that I was an ex Zimbabwean farmer who had until recently been capable of feeding rather a lot of people, (half a starving continent actually) when his software danger program registered the word Zimbabwe and his eyes could see that I was of Caucasian race leading him promptly to apologise profusely and scuttle away! Damn!

Oh well. So what’s this all to do with the book I am attempting to flog here? Not a lot I suppose, except I can proudly puff out my scrawny chest and say, "Two of the stories are mine!" That alone is a reason to buy it in my honest opinion.

Rhodesia doesn’t exist anymore except in cyber space where it is actually more of a common nationality now than ever before. These are stories written by all kinds of folk, most would quite correctly rather have nothing to do with the likes of me. I don’t blame em! Some will make you laugh, some will make you cry, some might make you hurl, but all will bring a memory back for those that lived or visited this once proud land and its weird mixture of people of all race and creeds. For those that knew nothing of the place it will be an eye opener and more anecdotes must be told and written down, for these people are all ‘The Last of the Rhodesians’

The book is available at WWW.lekkerwear.com for a paltry $49.95 (not Zim dollars)
All details, including size and contents at this url

http://www.lekkerwear.com/information.php?info_id=29

Oh, just for the record…nice to see that the ruling elite of Zimbabwe have just taken over the Red Cross there and quickly confiscated all the new luxury cars that several misguided firms donated!

Till very soon…

Lore out.

p.s. No, I get no royalties…just the fame and hopefully a copy of the book and another free T-shirt…lol

p.p.s. The T shirt I had made up in 1979 after I had left the police. The front says Genuine Rhodesian, and the back Endangered Species.

Alive and Kicking.

Hi all.

Sorry for having nothing up for a while...it's a long story...

Still, I should have some juicy laughs sometime next week once I am back in sheep shagging land again. Including...

My name in lights at last. (Okay...albeit rather dully lit)
I met my Boss again after 29 years.
I get thrown out my pad soon!
I get my teeth fixed.
Sensation: the return of the top interior builder at your fingertips!

plus...

the new mathmatics quizz : If a childs Chinese made plastic spade for the beach purchased at a tacky tourist resort in the South East (frequented by people escaping the new obesity police) costs 45 pence, how much of this goes to rebuild bombed Lebonon's infrastructure?

If the gentleman named Martin (or anyone else) wishes me to get in touch, I cannot reply to anon comments.
Please use my Email address: lore-data@hotmail.com

Catch ya all soon,

Ciao...Lore