The Queen marches on Parliament

‘Off with their fucking heads’

Liz woke at 5 in the morning to the sound of Phil and the corgis snoring.

“Fuck one rigid, ” she thought. “There must be more to life than this. Sodding state receptions, unveiling plaques for things I don’t give a toss about, sorting out the messes my bloody family’s gotten themselves into, Harry’s tittish behaviour…”

She tossed and turned but it was no good, she was wide awake now and another boring day beckoned.

Later, after her customary breakfast of All Bran followed by eggy soldiers, she sat reading the morning papers.

There was column after column of reports of MP expenses fiddling and calls for an early General Election but then something she’d never seen before, and never imagined, not even in her wildest dreams…

‘Why doesn’t the Queen do something?’ screamed the headline in the Daily Blart.

Liz was stunned.

“Bleedin’ Norah,” she thought. “A chance for one to do something useful for a change!”

Calling for her wardrobemaid who assisted her into her crown, jodphurs, thigh length riding boots (with spurs) and the flak jacket with ‘Koo’ embriodered on the back that Andrew had left at the Palace after the Falklands, she immediately phoned round, and 20 minutes later a small but perfectly formed convoy of tanks, armoured troop carriers and any of Britain’s finest who weren’t engaged in shooting goats in Afghanistan was assembled in the Mall.

She climbed onto the leading Chieftain tank and addressed her troops.

“Right, you men. We need to sort out those cunts in Westminster. We want no-one escaping. Round them all up and teapot them (she thought that was the right term) in Parliament Square. We mean to kick bottom and chew fruit pastilles, and we’re fresh out of pastilles!”

So saying, she hit the top of the tank with her riding crop and the convoy moved off.

“One wonders if one can get away with breaking a cap in a few bums, just as a warning?” she mused, toying with Daddy’s old revolver, freshly cleaned and fully loaded with hollow-point bullets.

This would be even more fun than wringing a grouse’s neck.

It was going to a good day after all…

My turd Clarkson/Hislop entry

Fuck.

Me.

I’m stunned…

I thought the Mail had gone completely over the top with regard to the Clarkson/Hislop pen throwing incident.

It never occurred to me that there was another newspaper which could make the incident sound worse.

And no other sleazy redtop with so little journalistic integrity could be found on the shelves of the newsagents of this green and pleasant land.

I was wrong…

I’m still convinced that the Daily Mail is such a poisonous rag that if you wiped your arse with it you’d end up with an infected rectum but for today the Star has really shown itself to be more shit than…well, the biggest cargo ship in the world crammed to the gunwhales with shit then loaded with 2000 tons of extra shit.

It also appears not to like Ian Hislop (hate figure?) – not, I imagine, that he gives a flying fuck.

Here’s what the story says, in all its overblown and inaccurate glory:

CLARKSON DECKS HISLOP

TOP Gear star Jeremy Clarkson has been hailed a hero after a bloody TV bust up with hate figure Ian Hislop.

The controversial petrol head won new fans when he wounded the smug Have I Got News For You? team captain.

Best-selling author Jeremy, 48, threw a strop while hosting the BBC show after the smarmy star accused him of not writing his own work.

He flew into a rage and chucked a pen at Hislop – who also edits Private Eye – catching him in the neck and apparently drawing blood.

An audience member said: “Jeremy was not impressed by the comments and flung the pen at Ian.

“He appeared to be bleeding and seemed stunned by the attack.

“It was just a bit of fun but it was great to see Ian on the receiving end for a change.

“Viewers are used to him sitting there making snide digs at everyone, so it was funny to see him finally getting his comeuppance.”

Hislop, 48, refused to back down. He held on to the pen and snapped back at Clarkson: “I’ll keep this as you obviously have no use for it then.”

Clarkson had lost his rag after being accused of using ghost writers for his news-paper columns.


From the headline you know you’re in for a real treat and then it just piles on exaggeration after exaggeration and then some extra exaggeration just for the sheer hell of it.

You know, it’s like watching someone construct a detailed model of the Andromeda Galaxy out of a pile of dog excrement.

It’s something no-one’s ever attempted before and it’s undeniably skilful in some sick and tortured way, elaborate to the point of being Baroque with added Gothic flying buttresses, Doric capitals and Ormolu mounts but, after all is said and done, it’s still just some dog shit.

Fascinating – that someone can actually write such stuff and get paid for it and that people actually buy the paper to read such crap.

I’ve often wondered what the opposite of polishing a turd is and I think the Star has finally provided me with a suitable expression.

Sandpapering a turd…