Saturday, 23 August 2014
In the world of music, Chas and Dave, the much-loved cockney duo, decide to buy Manchester United from the highly unpopular Glazer family.
The billion pound bid is financed from royalties the two artists have stashed away at the bottom of their gardens.
The Glazer boys take the money and run, leaving the most popular football club in the world in the hands of two fading singers, whose best years are behind them.
Chas and Dave waste no time in making radical changes at Old Trafford, which include making Rolf Harris - the disgraced TV celebrity - manager of the under sixteen side. When questioned about their decision, the new owners reply that "Harris has got a beard, just like us, so he's got to be the right man for the job."
The town of Swindon, in Wiltshire, is officially declared the worst place to live in Britain. Bradford finishes second in the list of the shittiest shite-holes, with Great Yarmouth finishing third.
With its awful housing estates, rowdy nightclubs and stinking town centre, Swindon appears to be in need of a major make-over.
Enter Francois Hollande - the former French president, with time on his hands.
In a bold move, he presents himself as the "French One" at the general election, claiming that with his flare, wit and charm, he can bring the glory days back to Swindon.
Voted in with a massive majority, Hollande wastes no time in transforming what is essentially a cesspit of a town into England's answer to San Tropez.
"The Boy Done Well!" boasts the tabloid press, when Swindon is named as one of the most seven beautiful places on the planet.
"Ooh la la!" declares Hollande, basking in the glory of the hour, before declaring that Hastings is the next town which will benefit from a thorough overhaul.
Watch this space for more predictions, holiday destinations for the mentally insane and ideas on how to make this autumn really special.
Sunday, 10 August 2014
Sunday, 27 July 2014
The sun is beating down and the beer is flowing. The sausages are sizzling, and your neighbour - a fine fella of a man - is entertaining your guests with wonderful jokes and amusing anecdotes.
This is going to be a barbecue to remember. But wait - what the hell is Angela Merkel doing here? Well, she explains, as she peers at the barbecue, any party WITHOUT Angela Merkel is likely to be a dull affair. Her arrogance stuns you and your other guests, and when she starts to criticise your outdated and rusty barbecue, you must hold yourself back from giving her a good beating.
"In Germany, everything is a hundred percent better than in England," she boasts, as she nibbles on a peanut. "We won the world cup, we drive fast cars and everyone has a job."
You look at your chipolatas and want to cry, because you know she is right.
"Fuck you, Angela!" cries a familiar voice, as Roy Hodgson comes bounding over, to help you in your hour of need. "Fuck the world cup!" he continues to rant, clearly drunk on vodka and strong lager. "There's no way that you'll ever rule Europe."
Merkel is stunned. She came with rosé wine and flowers for your wife. She feels hurt and humiliated.
"Continue like zat and I'll bloody go home," she giggles, hoping to impress your other invitees with her mock English accent.
"Piss off!" squeals Wayne Rooney, as he throws a burnt sausage at the most powerful woman in Europe.
You look up to the sky and praise the Almighty one, for you know that Wayne Rooney, after fifteen cans of cider, is game for anything.
Rooney starts to jab his finger at Merkel's left breast. "If you didn't have tits and wear a skirt, I'd swear that you're Adolf Hitler reincarnated," he sneers.
It's then when Francois Hollande - the inept, ugly and very tiresome French president - arrives at Merkel's side. He is seething with anger. He hates Liverpool (even if he's never been there) and he thinks Roy Hodgson should know better, and should send his young striker home.
"Now look, Francois," says Hodgson, slurring his words and stuffing a sausage in his mouth, "Wayne and me don't need much to give us an excuse to give you a bloody good hiding."
"Oh, mon dieu!" says Hollande. "I thought you were better than this, Roy" he adds, upset by Hodgson's behaviour.
"And what's more," says Hodgson, "you're on OUR patch."
Hollande strokes his greasy hair and tries to think of a way to resolve the potentially explosive situation. He is secretly in love with Merkel but he also admires Hodgson's flair and style. Hollande therefore decides to get drunk on Martini and whisky with Rooney and Hodgson, telling himself that Merkel, nude, isn't something he would like to see. Wayne congratulates Hollande on his decision, and presents him with two tickets for Manchester United's next home match.
"Bollocks to Germany!" screams Hollande, as he asks you for another bottle of Martini.
Peace has been restored and you feel happy that your barbecue is going well. But wait - what the hell is Rolf Harris doing here?
"G'day Sheila," chuckles Harris, as he pinches Merkel's left buttock. "I went over the wall last night. They'll never catch me," he adds, as he sucks on a sausage.
"Fucking pervert!" shouts Hollande, as he dials 999.
"It's all lies," explains Harris, as Mrs. Smith from next door pins Harris to the ground. "Bloody lies and deceit."
Your neighbour pokes Harris in the eye with a chicken leg. He cries out in pain, and wishes that he was back in prison.
"You bloody Sheilas - you're all the same," he moans, as he's dragged away by two police officers.
"And any more from you, and you'll be sharing a cell with 'im," says one of the policemen, giving a warning to Angela Merkel.
"But I am Angela Merkel," she explains, to the baby-faced officer.
"And I'm Father Christmas," chuckles the second policeman, as Harris is shoved into the back of a police car.
"Long live the Queen!" shouts Rooney, as he drops his pants in front of Hollande.
"Long live afternoons like THIS!" shouts Hollande, as he vomits three sausages and two bottles of Martini over Merkel."
"Long live England!" you cry, as you shove a chipolata into your mouth. "Summer was made for THIS."
"WHO WANTS TO SEE ME NAKED?" shouts Merkel, as she gets out her two bazookas.
"Not I," replies Hodgson, as he opens another can of strong cider, before impressing your guests with his impression of Rolf Harris.
Saturday, 12 July 2014
...back in our hotel room, Glen tended to Tony's cuts and bruises. Tony was naked and outstretched on his bed, and as Glen dabbed at his cuts with cotton wool, Tony smiled, and told Glen that he was a wonderful nurse, and that if he ever decided to give up petty crime, he would easily get a job in a hospital.
Glen then undressed, and after Tony had lowered Glen's boxer shorts, he invited Glen to climb on top of him, insisting that he wanted to try out the sixty-nine position. Glen acknowledged Tony's request, and after straddling Tony's fat stomach, Glen lowered his head between Tony's fat legs, and started to suck on Tony's cock. Tony squealed with delight, and taking Glen's cock into his own mouth, he proceeded to reciprocate the cock-sucking gesture.
Glen ejaculated first, although if Tony had been expecting to receive a mouthful of warm spunk, he discovered that the only fluid which shot from Glen's cock was blood. Tony screamed out, and desperately trying to get Glen to stop, he found more and more blood shooting from Glen's now limp cock. Glen was lifeless on Tony's body, and as the flow of blood continued, I could see that Tony had started to cry.
Tears trickled down Tony's face, and as I tried to understand just what was happening around me, Jill appeared beside me, telling me in her soft voice that it was best if we left the two lovers to get on with whatever it was they were doing.
Tony Joy and Glen, two hard bastards from Catford, are in bed together. But Tony - a fat, foul-mouthed man with a heart of stone - is a real man, and a man who certainly has no homosexual inclinations.
Something has gone terribly wrong in southeast London - but what?
Find out in "The Londoners Trilogy - Four Years In London" - out now on Kindle.
Sunday, 29 June 2014
Back in the seventies, five pence would have bought you a delicious bar of Galaxy full cream, milk chocolate and a Twix would have set you back three pence.
Yes, this was a time when life was just GREAT, this was a time before the internet and a time before mobile telephones. British TV was probably at its peak - series like The Sweeney, The Two Ronnies and Morecambe & Wise poured from our box-shaped sets - and the music which came from the radio was REAL music, and nothing like the crap we have to tolerate today.
Peter Sutcliffe (aka The Yorkshire Ripper) had started his campaign of hate against prostitutes, the labour party was in the throes of fucking up Great Britain and British Leyland was churning out their shit cars.
1976 was a summer to remember, as glorious days of sun seemed to go on forever. British Rail was in need of life support and power cuts were all the rage. Rubbish piled up in the streets and package holidays to Spain were an alternative to a weekend in Margate.
Blasting a ball through a multi-coloured wall was what Atari offered us in the way of video games and drunken yobbos were happily vandelising telephone kiosks. Football hooligans had a hell of a time and Christmases seemed to last an eternity...
...until midnight, the thirty-first of December, 1979.
Callaghan was out and Thatcher was in. Arthur Scargill was rearing his ugly head and the Falklands war was about to hit the headlines. Maggie wanted victories on all fronts, she drove down unemployment and gave simple folk the chance to buy their council houses. Saturday nights out seemed much better and holidays in the sun were a must. Pot Noodles and boil-in-the-bag curries were an alternative to fish and chips and British TV seemed to be getting better. New video games popped up like wild flowers and Marks & Spencer was queen of the High Street. There was a feel-good factor sweeping through our land, and if a bar of Galaxy full cream, milk chocolate was more expensive, who cared!
Were they the good old days? I dunno, but a blast of nostalgia never did anyone any harm, and neither did a bar of Pink Panther chocolate or a go at space invaders.
Long live the future, for the past is dead. Long live Poundland, for Woolworths is dead. Long live Snickers, for Marathon is dead.