The flight of the grumble bee
I spent this morning scrabbling about amongst the cob webs, dead pigeons and Mrs McNasty's discarded old and slightly shrivelled PVC underwear in the attic this morning searching for what passes as the McNasty Christmas Decorations. It is a physical law of the Universe that the uninspired assortment of tinsel, barely visible winking fairy lights, paper chains and cracked baubles that were thrown into a dark corner the previous January all disappear down a worm hole sometime during March only to be spewed out during October in an altogether different part of the attic.
As a result of their travel through space-time, various parallel Universes and probably Clapham ,the assembled mass of wires, tin foil, glitter and artificial fir tree all smell of old twigs, dust and Mrs McNasty's discarded old and slightly shrivelled PVC underwear.
After twenty minutes or so of fruitless searching and sniffing accompanied by a continuous barrage of abuse from Mrs McNasty who was holding the ladder I happened upon a book that I had not picked up in years, Captain W.E. Johns excellent "Biggles flies a desk". Skimming through the pages I was transported back to the sepia tinted memories of my boyhood.....
Biggles sighed loudly, threw down his pen and leant back on his chair. "Bally Purchase Tax, I can't make head nor tail of it Algy. Oh how I wish the bally war had never bally well ended; give me a tight spot with Ginger any day of the week!" Across the office Algy looked up from his ledger and grimaced, "Sorry old sport this is the best that the War Department could do for us. We were just too expensive to keep on, particularly given your propensity for pranging kites and high class prostitutes.""Well it's dashed unfair, two days we've been cooped up in this hell hole, not a bimbo in sight and my scarf is beginning to chafe!" retorted Biggles coquettishly, "what's wrong with pranging high class ladies in any case?""I think it was more the kites that worried the C.O." explained Algy with a touch of derring do.Biggles reached for his pipe and began knocking it out absent mindedly into Ginger's coffee mug. "Thing is, old chap, I'm not cut out to fly a desk. I feel slightly ridiculous sitting here and this dashed flying jacket gets mighty warm.""Your helmet looks slightly ridiculous too", quipped Algy.Biggles snorted, "makes me feel less self conscious.""Well you could leave the goggles off, must make reading those tax projections bally difficult"Biggles scowled, and after stuffing his pipe with fresh tobacco began the suck, blow, suck, blow lighting ritual that was so familiar to so many high class ladies and unfortunate schoolboys. With a sigh he turned his attention back to the Purchase Tax projections of John Howard (Printers) Ltd, publishers of the Royal Flying Corps Training Manual and Biggles personal favourites, Kite Pranging for Beginners and The High Class Lady's Almanack."D'y know Algy", Biggles observed, "One day someone will look at what we did just after the war, and they won't believe that we spent hours and hours flying a desk, poring over tax projections when we could have been buzzing round the sky avoiding our responsibilities, shooting the hun and having a jolly good time."Alas my brief sojorn was rudely interrupted by the sound of Mrs McNasty complaining that her new pubic wig was chafing and that if i didn't hurry up and find those decorations she would be forced to review her plans for the evening and stay in to help me put the darned things up. Call me old fashioned but I still believe in the true spirit of Christmas and whilst I have been known to applaud Mrs McNasty's often fertile imagination, I believe that it is essential to keep artificial icicles, tinsel stars and spray on snow well away from the fevered perversions of a middle aged Brunhilde and her bondage swing, so with a reluctant sigh I put the book down and resumed my search for a battered cardboard box.
Labels: biggles, christmas, decorations
Tales from Grandfather Hamish
I was reminded today of a story that my old Grandfather Hamish used to tell me when I was a boy, it concerned his old Captain when he was a humble infantry soldier during the First War; a Captain Wellbeloved. He always used to tell this story whenever the Edinburgh Tattoo was on the telly, saying that “Captain Wellbeloved new what he was bloody talking about” and “why don’t you turn this rubbish off Mother!” I have rendered the story here as closely to my Granddad’s own words as I can recall them.
“Captain Wellbeloved was an Officer, anything but a Gentleman and a madman as you might say. We were scrapping furiously in the trenches during a particularly hairy attack, we had just pelted across no-mans land with machine gun rounds whistling, humming and buzzing above our heads to storm the forward German trench.
As the Captain removed a bayonet from a squirming kraut’s gut he lifted his head, gave a puzzled frown and exclaimed “What’s that bloody racket?” To a man everyone including the hapless Gerry cocked an ear, and soon drifting with the smoke of battle across the fifty yards of mud that we had just temporarily claimed for George V came the sound of bagpipes. In the middle distance there stood a lone piper kitted out in the overstated magnificence of full highland fig, silhouetted against the dawn sky. The black fur of his bearskin rippled in the wind, his kilt flapped gently about his knees. The piper stood there immobile like a massive three horned beast, the sound of the pipes swirling with the mist that had begun to descend eerily upon us. For a brief moment the sheer omnipotence of the music along with the pumping adrenalin threatened to overwhelm me as I choked back a tear.
“What’s he playing?” said Wellbeloved.
“I think it’s ‘The Soldier’s Lament’ Sir”, ventured a voice cracked with emotion.
Well I’ll give the c**t something to lament about; making a f*cking din when decent people are trying to slaughter each other peacefully!" And with this he snatched a rifle from Corporal Clap, checked the breach, drew a bead on the piper and squeezed off a single shot.
The noise of the pipes died slowly like the whistle of a kettle removed from the fire. Those of us in the trench, covered as we were in mud, guts and blood were appalled, as one man we stared open mouthed in horror as the day stood still and time appeared to stop as if the bullet had somehow mangled the very clockwork of the ever expanding universe as well as the poor piper. Then gradually the swirling mist cleared and we saw the white faced piper scrambling down the bank back into our trench clutching his wounded pipes. “Got ‘em in the bladder!” yelled Wellbeloved triumphantly, “never could stand the f*cking pipes; just an excuse to p*ss decent music loving folk off in my opinion, bloody Kings, Generals and politicians like the f*cking noise they make, must remind ‘em of shagging the house cat or whatever they did at f*cking public bloody school!” And with that he went back to the job of bayoneting Germans.
We never did find out who the piper was, where he came from or what he hoped to achieve by playing “The Soldier’s Lament” whilst we all fought desperately for twenty five hundred square yards of Belgian mud. However, I suspect that if the piper had showed his bladder again within aiming distance of Captain Wellbeloved that his sporran would have developed a serious leak.”
At this my Grandfather would always issue a little chuckle and then deliver his final word on the subject. "And that is why I have never, ever had the inclination to take up the bagpipes."
Labels: captain, edinburgh, first world war, gentleman
Tory Blair heads for retirement and notoriety
So Tory Bore is about to leave Downing Street, not that he has spent much time there lately. From what i have seen on the TV news he appears to have been on a round the world 'Hey I'm Tony, I'm really great, give us a job' tour, with his frightful spouse in tow.
All of this has of course been paid for by the grateful British taxpayer, grateful, so my sources in the "Gut and Bucket" tell me, because they see anything that takes the appalling Cherie miles out of harms way as worth paying for.
It is so refreshing to hear that the man who has been responsible for 'improving' education and health care provision in our great country should be so modest in not claiming his rightful place as a great war leader. Tory through extreme skill, insight, determination and eagerness to play lapdog to Dubya has helped to create numerous life ending opportunities in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Responsibility for the deaths of brave British soldiers and innocent civilians apparently lies firmly at the door of the late Mr Sadand Insane and the Tallymen. Somehow Bliar always manages to find others to take responsibility for unpleasant matters; we all remember of course that Mr Greg Dyke and Mr Gavin Davies, of the appallingly biased BBC, were responsible for the death of Dr David Kelly and how Gordon Brown is responsible for the roaring success of our economy. Oh how we laughed.
To more important matters; i have been delighted lately at the sudden rise in popularity of the use of the word 'Merkin'. Of course at the McNasty Hosiery and Wig Emporium we have been using the word for years; indeed the 'McNasty Monster Merkin' has long been a best seller; we take only the finest fur from the north american beaver and weave it, a strand at a time, into a base of finest silk, building up a luxuriant hair piece that takes so long to manufacture that only the wealthiest minges can afford it. Of course we can deliver in many shades and degrees of curl. My more discerning clients have long enjoyed the pleasures of being a natural blond during lunchtime charity events , somewhat darker for cocktails and a ginger minger for dinner and wife swapping.
People in glass houses
Yesterday, with Mrs McNasty out at a dungeon warming I enjoyed a most peaceful evening at home in the McNasty flat, listening to Wagner. I countered the natural tendency of Herr Wagner's compositions to induce psychotic illness by flicking through the November edition of Hairpiece and Queens; which contained its customary article about my friend and client Sir Elton.
The TV was flickering in the background and you can imagine my appalled astonishment when I recognised out the of the corner of my eye that dreadful toady, backstabber, all round good egg and weirdo the MP Simon Simon on the TV news. Skilled and nifty use of the TV remote and careful aiming of my left boot at the on/off switch of the gramaphone meant that i was able to catch the tail end of the report, in which i learned that said Simon Simon had posted an apparently amusing and tasteless video clip of himself pretending to be the Lord Chief Biscuit of the conservative party Mr Deidre Cameroon.
This was available for viewing at the www.youtube.com web site, sadly it is no longer in the public domain as it seems that Mr Simon has removed the offending video clap due to a number of complaints; fortunately the BBC saw fit to broadcast most of the offensive material at least twice. The video clap featured Mr Simon Simon dressed in a baseball cap pretending to have what i believe is known as 'street cred' and 'rapping' as it is known in hep and happening musical circles.
I believe that Mr Simon Simon's objective was to bring a plague upon the house of Cameroon which, it has to be said, has been having too good a time of it lately what with the Prime Minister Mr Tory Bore's continuing rise in the unpopularity polls and Mr Straw's much publicised offensive in the interest of community unity and racial harmony.
The most offensive part of said sordid 8mm home cine offering was in my opinion where Simon invited interested parties to sleep with his wife!. Who in their right mind would want sloppy seconds from any female with such appalling taste as to marry this obnoxious pile of puss? Give me Mrs Cameroon any day of the week; you will struggle to find such a fine and fragrant piece of totty this side of Mrs Thatcher i can tell you!
It's a good job that the fop haired, stripe suited dollop of dung that is Simon Simon represents the parish of Erdington and not Walsall East for if he was my MP i would invite
him to sleep with Mrs McNasty, which i am sure would render such complete psychological damage that Mr Simon might even see sense and drop his support for Mr Gridiron Brown in favour of a proper leadership candidate; someone as appealling and appalling as Harriet Hardman perhaps?
Anyway enough ramblings, i have to put the finishing touches to a new hairpiece; a McNasty Long, Foppish, Floppy and Greasy with option baseball cap fastenings which by sheer coincidence i have to deliver in Erdington tomorrow morning.
Veiled threats
I have been considering the recent controversy surrounding Mr Jack Straw the well known party game and current leader of the House of Commons here in the UK. Those of us who keep up to date with current domestic affairs were somewhat puzzled by le Straw's stated view that he felt 'uncomfortable' when talking to women who wear 'the veil' whilst visiting him at his constituency surgery in Blackburn, Lancashire.
The poor fellow, no doubt already worried at having to visit a northern town where there are ten thousand holes, does not enjoy having conversations with women who prefer to spend their day looking at the world from the rather austere ,abeit black, textile equivalent of a Royal Mail letterbox.
I can understand the poor chumps misgivings, it is most disconcerting having a conversation with a pair of eyes staring at you through a slit; as I can testify. My readers will no doubt be familiar with Mrs McNasty's prediliction for 'exotic' dress and will sympathise with the sheer terror that can ensue when confronted with the female form dressed completely in black with eyes glinting menacingly through the eyeholes of a rubber balaclava.
However on this occasion I find myself unexpectedly agreeing whole heartedly with that great espouser of common sense and considered argument Mr Mutley Prescott, and like him I must take issue with Mr Straw's comments. Surely if a person (or even a foreign visitor) in a free country wishes to dress in a particular manner then that is a matter for them. If they wish to wear jeans and no bulky jacket whatsoever whilst embarking upon a perfectly innocent journey upon the London Tube then they should be allowed to do so. If a person were summarily executed for exercising their legitimate personal freedom in this way then there would quite rightly be an outcry. Similarly this maxim should apply to women who wish to wear 'the veil'. It is important that every woman should be free to be subjugated by their religion, by their men folk or as in the case of Mrs McNasty by their own deeply disturbed and unusual sexual tastes.
When I last met Mr Straw I have to say that i felt vaguely uncomfortable at the way that his eyes, red veined and watery, bulged out of his bottle ends at me. If he had been wearing a veil I would only have had to avoid his gaze and wouldn't have been distracted by his halitosis; perhaps he ought to consider investing in a McNasty 'wild and beardy'. This ever popular temporary face fungus is fashioned from goat hair, which is particularly effective when wet as it's distinctive smell more than masks the effects of the numerous cups of tea drunk while conducting surgeries to help anonymous undercover extremist terrorists claim their rightful benefits.
Business in the McNasty Wig and Hosiery Emporium has not been too brisk just lately, I am thinking that I might apply for a post as 'An Enraged Spokesman for the Muslim Community' as there appear to be plenty of opportunities and employment in this field at the present time.
May the 4th be with you
A beautiful sunny day here at McNasty Towers, i intend to sip cold beer under the shade of the blossoming lilac trees while leafing through my latest copy of 'Hairlo' magazine. I note that it contains an intriguing article entitled 'Toupe or not toupe - an investigation into the latest hair weave technology'. I fully anticipate this to be the usual rubbish touted by the rip off merchants in the hair weave industry. Of course as a purveyor of quality rugs to the gentry, celebs and politicos of our great land i am not an unbiased observer. But surely anyone with any sense has realised by now that this so called latest technology is nothing more than a scam designed to prey on the vanity of those too insecure to accept that their bodies and associated accoutrements are wearing out, and heading downhill to the crematorium or boot hill faster than the legs that can no longer carry them. Just ask the fine tunesmith, party giver and tantrum thrower Mr Elton Bog who was once famously 'treated' at one of these exclusive establishments; when he emerged his poor bonce looked as if it had been dealt with by a potato peeler and his eagerly anticipated new barnett was as sparse as the hairs on the scrotum of a Xoloitzcuintli (
http://www.dogbreedinfo.com/xoloitzcuintle.htm). I told him later at his coming out party that his money would have been better spent if he had invested in a "McNasty middle aged special"; a new model toupe that i had quite recently patented and which to this day is popular with politicians and men of the cloth. Not only does it have that permanent unwashed, unkempt, slightly dull and lifeless appearance, but by dint of the ingeneous incorporation of a mini shredder it is able to dispense noticable quantities of dandruff directly onto the shoulders of both the wearer and innocent bystanders. It is cheap to run, requiring only one A4 sheet of scrap paper per day, and the wearer could certainly never be accused of being mutton dressed as lamb.
But enough of this, I'm off to my hammock before Mrs McNasty arrives home and begins nagging me to begin decorating the dungeon again.
The Gravy Train is leaking
I have spent an enjoyable bank holiday weekend, resting, pottering about the McNasty flat and being thankful that Mrs McNasty is away for a BDSM masterclass weekend in Somerset. However I have been troubled for most of the weekend as i puzzled over the state of our current government here in the UK. Somewhere i have seen this before....First there is Tony's sidekick the buffoon 'Mutley' Prescott, who has been caught with his pants down. This is quite a surprise to me as i believe that he is a keen advocate of the McNasty Undergarment Support System (MUSS); an ingenious design making the most of velcro and non-allergenic surgical tape. I'm not shocked that he is "a randy old sod" to quote his recent conquest Ms Tracey Sidebotham, and i am not shocked at his conduct with such attractive young(ish) totty. What shocks me is the fact that such a fragrant young lady should be even vaguely attracted to such an overweight opinionated oaf. There is no accounting for taste, perhaps Tracey enjoys being back scuttled by a tub of lard posing as a statesman but i have a sneaking suspicion that she simply sampled and enjoyed the exotic delights of the 'McNasty Merchant Seaman's Union Gimlet' which i supplied many years ago via mail order. I suspect that the upgraded 'McNasty Jaguar vibrating pubic wig' also maintained her interest. (In honour of the fat twat and his propensity for using 'two jags' unkind folk have been referring to him as 'two shags' but i suspect that he doesn't have a garage big enough to accomodate the actual number)Next we have Mrs Patricia Hewitt, upsetting the nurses by claiming that the NHS has had it's best year yet; i suppose that if you measure success in terms of numbers of jobs lost, or amount of money spent (wasted) then she is probably right. Personnally i am fed up of hearing the sanctimonious drivel that emanates from within this apparently hollow human being. I am beginning to wonder whether she is in fact a cyborg, wired up to a control centre at number 10 and programmed to gush pro-Tony propaganda and spout meaningless statistics in a patronising tone (sic) when under pressure.Finally we have Mr Charles Clarke, (who i presume must be a long term user of "McNasty's prosthetic ears", probably supplied through a third party reseller). Here is a man who claims that he is the right bloke to sort out the mess that exists as a result of his department releasing convicted foreign criminals into the community rather than deporting them. He is of course the right man for the job because he doesn't want to give up his hefty ministerial salary, his car, and the lifestyle to which he has become acustomed. To be fair to him, he inherited his department and its myriad problems from a prime exponent of the art of looking after number one (one D Blunkett esq), however, there is something dodgy about a bloke who is informed of such a major issue and promptly does nothing about it until he realises that the news has been leaked.Of course Prince Tony, backs them all completely and will hear nothing of resignations, probably because he does not know the meaning of the word, even though i am sure that Gridiron Brown next door has tried to explain it to him a thousand times plus 50% income tax.During the reign of the last Conservative government it became obvious that they would have to go, too many ministers making too many gaffs while lapping at the greasy brown sauce. It seems to me that the gravy train for this current lot of self serving, pompous, self righteous, preaching, "we know what's best for you", hypocrites is about to come off the rails.When this happens I. Dougal Pontias McNasty, wigmaker, prosthetics expert, etc, etc, will celebrate by designing a new underarm hair fastening device for the German market.
