A Norwegian docker called Olaf Norway has today accused Boyzone singer Keith Duffy of bringing swine flu to Europe.
Norway claims that Duffy had been on a sexy tour of Central America and that he had personally witnessed the cheeky Irish chanteur french-kissing pigs before engaging in greasy tequila-fuelled sex orgies with young senoritas. Upon his return to the UK, Duffy is said to have visited brothels in Dundee, Inverness and John O’Groats, potentially spreading porcine influenza all over Scotland.
This is not the first time Duffy has been caught out spreading highly infectious diseases. Sales of Boyzone’s 1998 studio album ‘Where We Belong’ were negatively affected when it came out that Duffy had been using record label funds to spread the ebola virus in his spare time. A low point came in 2002 when Duffy was arrested for handing out HIV-infected needles to primary school children in County Durham.
The World Health Organisation have responded angrily this evening, claiming that they have been warning governments for years about the hazards associated with Keith Duffy. A spokesperson said: “We are deeply saddened to see that the threat from this smirking Irish twat is still not being taken seriously by world leaders. Our advice to them is that if they want to avoid future global pandemics they should just ignore his cheeky charms and place him and his stupid haircut in custody the moment he sets foot in their country.”
Duffy has now travelled southwards is believed to be roaming free on Bodmin Moor. Locals have been urged to stay indoors and report any sightings immediatly to the Police.
Does Olaf Norway have any final thoughts?
“At least he’s less smug than Ronan.”
Too true.
Duffy, disease-spreading bastard.
Eminent Theologian Dr. Clancy Pinter has announced his national lecture tour discussing his experiences at the gentle hands of our Lord and saviour.
Here are some of the highlights of his forthcoming tour:
“I woke up at four in the morning and Jesus was gently circling my perineum with his forefinger…He whispered softly in my ear… and tugged firmly on my balls”
“He summoned a horde of angels who held me down that he might know me… from behind”
“He let me play with his beard and told me that I was one of the pretty ones.”
“I tried to escape through the bathroom window, but he grabbed me by the ankles… and had me right there on the lino.”
“He broke the loaf in my mouth… it tasted warm and nourishing… He joked that it could feed the five thousand”.
“As morning arrived, he retreated through my chamber’s window, waving gently like an old friend… I retired downstairs to phone the Police”
Despite his harrowing experiences, Pinter is still surprisingly upbeat about being molested by the divine. His lecture is guaranteed to be warm and engaging; an entertaining and uplifting event that will thrill and amaze the whole family.
Pinter will be speaking at the following locations:
Saturday 25th April The Crab’s Head Inn, Camden
Sunday 26th April Trumpton University Students’ Union
Wednesday 29th April The Old Fire Station, Bambergascoigne
Saturday 2nd May Town Hall, Fedgeley
More dates to be added.
Tickets available through ticketmaster or on the day:
Adults: £6.00
Concessions: £4.50
Sources inside the Bank of England have today revealed that the economy is constructed entirely out of Lego, and has been for the past 25 years.
Up until 1984 the economy was constructed from Sticklebricks, but then prime minister Mrs. Thatcher signed an order to change to Lego, which was considered to be more stable and brought Britain in line with the States. Since this time the fact that the economy is constructed from little blocks of coloured plastic has been kept a secret from the public; when a junior minister tried to come clean about it in 1993, he was kicked to death by a squadron of Tory back benchers outside a pub in Southwark.
The Lego economy can also be blamed for the current financial crisis. It is believed that problems only started when a plastic tree was wrongly placed on a long flat yellow block by feckless bankers. Subsequent attempts to rectify this error have resulted in vast swathes of unemployment and Britain having to borrow 1,220bn bricks from Denmark in order to patch up the wheezing and spluttering economy.
Number Ten is yet to comment.
Britain’s Economy, in happier times
A new study indicates that today’s teenagers are over 40% more evil than teenagers in 1990. The study, presided over by Dr. Anthermedichs of the University of Jorvikcentre, took a sample of yoof from a B&Q car park in Sussex and compared the levels of malevoloxin – the hormone that controls evilness or evility – present in their blood and spittle, with a sample taken from youngsters nineteen years earlier. Results showed that the blood of today’s youth contained on average 40% more malevoloxin than that of the 1990 sample.
Little is known about this mysterious hormone, despite years of research. All that is known is that it is created in a lesser gland called the kukluxklancreas, and that this gland can be excited through a variety of stimuli including: Video games, Channel 4, Rap Music, Homosexuality, Muslims, Immigrants, The Euro and Political Correctness Gone Mad! Years of further research has gone into finding ways to reduce the productivity of the gland, but the only two ways thus far discovered are National Service and Christianity.
This is just another example of the Broken Britain that Brown and his cronies have created. When are these so-called politicians going to wake up and get tough on yobs/nonces/radical muslim clerics/the Polish. I can’t be the only person who remembers 1996, when council tax was 4p a year and elderley ladies felt safe walking down the gold-paved streets at night.
The California Prisons Authority last night issued a statement that veteran music producer Phil Spector, due to be incarcerated for murdering a nice lady who wouldn’t sit on his willy, will have to be built a special cell following fears that he might try and utilise his ‘Wall of Sound’ technique to mount an escape attempt.
These fears are not unfounded, Spector has for many years used the Wall of Sound, which he can command at will, as a party piece. Reports from a one particular gathering at his swanky New York pad in 1974 suggest that he used the wall to blast one coked-up reveller halfway across the city, before he finally got splatted across the north face of the Empire State Building and had to be prised off using a giant spatula. Another report suggests that he once used the technique to murder several caged parakeets and a bonobo at Berlin Zoo in 1986.
The CPA are reported to have brought in sound engineers to check the acoustics of his cell, and are now confident that if he tries to summon the wall of sound it will bounce back at him like a massive hammer, resulting in his anus being dragged up through his body and out of his left nostril. The authorities are currently hesitant to imply any further measures to be taken, but we can report that the following solutions have been suggested:
Tying geese to his legs, as this should limit the size of any wall of sound he can muster; pushing mucky pictures of iguanas and komodo dragons in swimwear under his door (it is thought that reptilean erotica has a calming effect on Spector); Taking Spector out and encouraging him to direct his walls at ‘safe’ targets such as old buildings, hedges and child molesters; painting his cell fuschia (though there is some worry that this will ruin the acoustics).
Spector, Allegedly quite dangerous
Following revelations last week about a plot to smear the reputations of senior Conservative MPs like a jar of imaginary marmalade, we can now delve deeper into the precise nature of the proposed smears.
Fat-faced aide Damien McBride, brother of actor Danny McBride, is reported to have held talks with senior members of the Labour party in which they discussed the possibility of fabricating a variety of lurid scenarios chiefly involving members of the shadow cabinet.
Here are some scenarios they may have dreamt up:
Cameron fisting Osborne on a bearskin rug at the Bullingdon Club, for the amusement of gin-soaked poshos; Boris Johnson rimming Cameron and coming in his hair in the toilets of a trendy Westminster bar; Anne Widdecombe sucking off a tramp after a New Years Eve party; Osborne watching a video of a man bumming a goat on his laptop on the Eurostar; William Hague posing as a window cleaner so he can watch ladies undressing up his filthy ladder; Cameron dragging-up like Thatcher and roughly analising Ken Clarke, who is dressed like a miner; Oliver Letwin spreading goose-fat on his scrotum with an oven-mit, to be licked off by a plethora of underaged Serbian prostitutes; Michael Howard eating out Theresa May whilst Jeremy Hunt films on his iPhone;Osborne squatting over a glass coffee table and curling-off a shit, whilst Eric Pickles lies underneath fondling his balls and helmet.
The first scenario is apparently what angered the Tories the most, a spokesperson for David Cameron has said this afternoon: “It is well documented that fisting is an integral part of the social scene at the Bullingdon Club, and for a Labour aide to turn this innocent, traditional practice into something crude and sexualised is beyond belief”.
Osborne, Alleged Fister
To commemorate 20 years since his death, HarperCollins have, for the first time, released the unedited journal of Sir Francis Richards – allegedly the poshest fisherman ever to walk the Earth!
Richards was born in 1919 in India. His wealthy, aristocratic family secured him a place at Eton where he studied before moving on to Emmanuel College, Cambridge. But the life of an academic could not dampen the call of Scotland’s East Coast and a life aboard a Herring Trawler.
In 1946, whilst Britain lay devastated in the aftermath of the Second World War, Richards started his fishing career. Below I have, with permission, published some excerpts from his exciting diary – a valuable insight into the Scottish fishing industry during the post-war years.
19th September, 1946
By God, what a life I lead to be out at sea! During my one week as a fisherman, I have lived more than I did in my previous 27 years of existence. The life of a fisherman is a noble one, of simple pleasures and peaceful existence. To experience the sea; The sounds, the smells, the syphilis; makes me truly happy to be alive.
As I haul the flailing herring across the deck I am somewhat reminded of something Voltaire once said: “Work saves us from three great evils: boredom, vice and need”. I hold this to be true, with the exception of ‘vice’, if I had shilling for every thrupenny tart I have had in my chamber, then I should have enough to buy a shiny motor car by next Wednesday…
1st January, 1947
Before the effects of last nights celebrations have worn off, we’re back on the trawler and ready for a day’s work. I have asked one of my fellow shipmates about the rash on my groin – he says that its perfectly normal, given the amount of gash I’ve been getting.
The Captain – a tall Odysseus of man, with forearms like chimney stacks and puff pastry crumbs entangled in his beard – paces back and forth across the deck, trying to walk off his hangover. I reflect that he has taught me much about seafaring; navigation, steering and how to gut a fish whilst it’s still alive and flapping in your hands. We can learn so much from each other, yet so far he has rejected all suggestion that I might teach him some Latin verbs…
12th November, 1949
Today, I have officially been named the ship’s ‘sissy’ after the tragic passage of Seamus (the former sissy) into the next world following a rupture of the colon. Now my duties include becoming the unwilling recipient of all the ship’s buggery, sodomy and other forced, homosexual activity. I have been warned that there may be times when I will be unable to walk and when venereal diseases will make me urinate blood. But I shall proud of the crimson fountain spraying from my manhood, as it represents my moving up the ranks aboard this fine vessel…
Richards was knighted in 1984, when he was 65. He held the rank of ‘sissy’ until his death in 1987, from a surgical mishap following a routine pub glassing.
… sings that lass with the weird eyebrows from the Black Eyed Peas. I found a lump once, under my armpit, the doctor said it was a buboe, and that you can squirt pus out of it. He said that I should go on a course of penicillin, because it could result in a blood infection and certain death but I, ever the rebel, decided to spend the week with a squirty-pus armpit.
Dougray and I went around town, terrorising the unsuspecting public. I showered a bus queue with pit-pus whilst Dougray stole their wallets, and raped a shopping bag. The money we made, we spent on smack and pills. One time, Dougray was so out of it that he became convinced he was water and tried to pour a glass of himself; it took the medics four hours to pluck the jagged shards from his face. Ah, to be eight years old again.
After accepting the doctors recommendations (though not until my entire arm had gone septic) the buboe soon cleared up, leaving a crusty scar in my armpit. I read in the paper last week that Dougray had passed away following a massive overdose. I shed a manly tear.
Squid Bunty 