20 Jan 2005

Breaking News!

Osama Bin Laden has apparently released a new video in which he claims the recent earthquake and resulting tsunami were a direct result of actions committed by Al Quaeda. In a ten minute video recording, a man who resembled Osama Bin Laden and whose voice print has been given a 77 percent verification by the Federal Bureau of Analytical Voice Printing as to belonging to a felon previously identified as Osama Bin Laden, spoke of an inevitable 'turning of the tide'. King Canute anyone? Or was that tide of turn or was that Best Laid Plans?

Anyhoo, more breaking news. Pope Louis XXIXXLCVXII or, fuck it, Louis the Octogenarian has made his point clear to the Western Press that a lack of prayer and contraception has played a major role in the recent human tragedy in the Indian Ocean. "Only mmmmphrrgum and a lot of hurummph might possibly save your soul." the Pope was heard to have murmured. Official sources have presently locked themselves in their hotel rooms demanding prayer mats, multi-faith books of worship and tequila.

You heard it here first.

10 Jan 2005

Normally I'm a very chilled out sort of chap but presently feeling mildly heckled. Let me explain. This morning I handed in about a ton's worth of petrol receipts to my boss so there may actually be some hope of getting my money back. Being half Jewish, half Scottish and two thirds Tight-Bastard he went through them with a very fine and meticulous microscope stuck firmly up his arse. Doing so he discovered that on two occasions I had filled up with petrol in Bude a mere thirty minutes before I had to be at work in Plymouth, an hour away on a good day and with a favourable wind. "See here Bruce." he said. "See what?" said I and he pointed out the logic behind his conclusion that I was shirking my responsibilities. "Never!" said I, "But how then?" replied he and flummuxed I was indeed. Then it occurred to me that the small and decrepid rural petrol station I visited out of pity, may well have had their clocks an hour ahead. "Ah ha ha!" exclaimed I. "What on earth?" asked he as he wiped up his spilt tea. "I have an idea. Leave it with me." as I ran for the door. "God speed..." murmured he as he picked himself up from the floor.

I stopped at the petrol station utilising a 270 degree handbrake turn. I walked up to the counter to have a word with the four foot tall old lady, who smokes rollies as thick as exhaust pipes, and with whom I normally get on quite well. She was on the phone and carried on chatting as she walked over to the counter to check how much fuel I needed to pay for. A quizzical look passed across her rutted visage as she realised I had no fuel and must merely want to have a word in her shell-like ear thingy. She asked her dying mother to hold and I said, in a manner that would put the most well mannered Hugh Grant impersonator off their stride, if there was any chance, perhaps, only maybe, that her clock was wrong, perchance fair madam? Oooo, she gave me such a look, a furrowed brow of angst and displeasure in the face of my open and smiling face. 'Ooooo, it's like that then is it?' suspected I. "So what if it is fast?" she threatened more than asked. "Well, you see, it's making me look like a retard. That's all. Can you print out a receipt so I can check." She murmured something about 'wasting my time' and 'idiot', murmured at such a volume that I would have had to have left my ears outside not to hear. I said nothing but my smile dropped from one of flowers and bunny rabbits to one that suggested I might just have thought how I was going to remove your liver with my nine-iron.

The receipt clunkered out of the antique register and without even looking at it or me she handed it over. I found the time. It was an hour fast. "Look," said I "Your clock is an hour fast."
She looked at me and scowled and leant forward so her head was almost hidden behind the top of the counter and said very, very slowly ,"So.....what?" So what? "So fucking what?! I'll fucking tell you so fucking what you bad mannered wizened old troll bitch," I screamed as I lunged across the counter in time to grab her retreating neck with both my hands and then heave her back over. I stood there strangling the life out of the evil sow-cow as she gurgled and her little midget legs kicked and spasmed against me. My eyes were wide and my mouth was set in a maniacal grin. Thankfully at this point, old farmer Dave Long tapped me on the shoulder and said " Ays up Bruce lad. You're doing a proper job on she there, she'll be passsed on d'rectly." I returned to my senses, nodded, realised I had this almost lifeless lump of hag-bag in my hands and I had other places to be. I put her onto the counter, nodded again to Dave, turned to leave, changed my mind, turned back and gave the witch my best bitch-slap. She flew backwards acrosss the counter, through time and space and crashed into the cigarette display sending Royals and Lammies flying. "Sort your fucking CMOS out."

True story. All apart from the bit at the end.

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