A police marksman burst into floods of tears as he told relatives of Jean Charles de Menezes that he would have to live with killing an innocent man and getting away with it scot-free for the rest of his life.
The officer, identified only as C12, spoke of his “great frustration” when instructions from his superiors dried up as the doomed electrician reached Stockwell tube station, and wept as Deputy Assistant Commissioner Cressida Dick tightened a G-clamp attached to his genitals.
“In order to defuse a stressful and dangerous situation, I took immediate steps to reduce my adrenalin levels by discharging my pistol three times into your son’s head at point-blank range,” he told Mr de Menezes’ mother. “It was a great stress-buster, and I felt much better afterwards.”
The elite firearms officer went on to describe his “sense of disbelief and of shock, sadness and confusion” the next day when he learned that the man he had shot was not a dangerous terrorist after all, and realised that he would have to put up with a couple of years of fannying around in court.
“A lot has been said in the media about the anguish of the victim’s family,” said the sobbing marksman. “But what about my awful suffering? I haven’t been able to strut around in public with a Glock strapped to my chest for two years now - and every time I go to the practice range, all my CO19 colleagues pretend to run around in panic, jabbering 'No shoot me, Meester Fawlty!' My life is an unending nightmare.”
Saturday 25 October 2008
Immigration Minister ‘Enjoyed Decent, Civilised, White Custard Pie’, Say Spin Doctors
Immigration Minister Phil Woolas has thanked pro-migration group No Borders for their kind gift of a custard pie, which was delivered to him during a debate at the University of Manchester yesterday, according to a Home Office spokesman.
“Unfortunately the young lady chosen to present the pie tripped on her way to the stage, and accidentally lost her grip on the plate,” explained the spokesman, who appeared to be sweating uncomfortably. “Thinking quickly, Mr Woolas prevented a messy spillage by placing himself across the pie’s trajectory, and skilfully caught it with his face.”
“The minister then retired backstage to have his gag removed, so he could lick the remains of the pie off his face with his twelve-inch tongue,” added the blushing spin doctor. “He says it was delicious, and he enjoyed its decent, civilised whiteness very much.”
Mr Woolas’ office has also issued a clarification of his earlier statement that the government would not allow the UK population to rise to 70 million, which many have interpreted as meaning a numerical cap on immigrants, and which led to the gag being tied to his head by the Home Secretary last Thursday.
“The Immigration Minister has no plans to place caps on immigrants,” said his Parliamentary Private Secretary. “He favours some kind of tattoo, which would be more difficult to remove.”
Mr Woolas then staggered into the briefing with a chair tied to his back, and yelled that the racial purity of the population could be maintained by the simple expedient of expelling one non-white Briton for every immigrant entering the UK.
He was swiftly wrestled to the ground by pursuing PR consultants and carried off.
“Unfortunately the young lady chosen to present the pie tripped on her way to the stage, and accidentally lost her grip on the plate,” explained the spokesman, who appeared to be sweating uncomfortably. “Thinking quickly, Mr Woolas prevented a messy spillage by placing himself across the pie’s trajectory, and skilfully caught it with his face.”
“The minister then retired backstage to have his gag removed, so he could lick the remains of the pie off his face with his twelve-inch tongue,” added the blushing spin doctor. “He says it was delicious, and he enjoyed its decent, civilised whiteness very much.”
Mr Woolas’ office has also issued a clarification of his earlier statement that the government would not allow the UK population to rise to 70 million, which many have interpreted as meaning a numerical cap on immigrants, and which led to the gag being tied to his head by the Home Secretary last Thursday.
“The Immigration Minister has no plans to place caps on immigrants,” said his Parliamentary Private Secretary. “He favours some kind of tattoo, which would be more difficult to remove.”
Mr Woolas then staggered into the briefing with a chair tied to his back, and yelled that the racial purity of the population could be maintained by the simple expedient of expelling one non-white Briton for every immigrant entering the UK.
He was swiftly wrestled to the ground by pursuing PR consultants and carried off.
Wednesday 22 October 2008
15-Year-Old Girl was Prince Philip, Claims Fayed
Mohammed Fayed, a humble shopkeeper, has denied allegations of sexual assault made against him by a 15-year-old girl, after he voluntarily attended a police station interview in West London.
Fayed’s spokeswoman, Katherine Witty, told reporters that the Harrods owner was concerned that news of his interview appeared in the media within the hour, claiming that he was assured that it would remain confidential.
“Mr al-Fayed sees this as conclusive evidence of an MI5 plot to destroy his spotless reputation,” she said. “He immediately realised that the so-called girl was in fact none other than the feared and hated head of the British secret services, Prince Philip, in a wig and a skirt - and he only put his hand up that skirt after grabbing a well-placed set of nutcrackers from the shop counter. That would explain the high-pitched scream as the foiled prince made a hasty getaway in a waiting white Fiat Uno.”
Fayed’s spokeswoman, Katherine Witty, told reporters that the Harrods owner was concerned that news of his interview appeared in the media within the hour, claiming that he was assured that it would remain confidential.
“Mr al-Fayed sees this as conclusive evidence of an MI5 plot to destroy his spotless reputation,” she said. “He immediately realised that the so-called girl was in fact none other than the feared and hated head of the British secret services, Prince Philip, in a wig and a skirt - and he only put his hand up that skirt after grabbing a well-placed set of nutcrackers from the shop counter. That would explain the high-pitched scream as the foiled prince made a hasty getaway in a waiting white Fiat Uno.”
Reach For The Sky (I)
Squadron Leader Bigglesworth might still be alive today if the RAF had realised that wogs had guns, said coroner David Masters today, giving his verdict into the crash of the dashing aviator’s Martin-Handasyde Elephant in Afghanistan in 1919, at the height of the Third Afghan War.
“The failure to install a fire extinguisher was… a serious systemic failure and a contributory factor in the loss of the aircraft,” he said. “There was a loss of opportunity for the survival of the crew by that failure.”
“I say!” spluttered Air Chief Marshal ’Binky’ Torpy, Chief of the Air Staff, raising his eyebrows so high that his monocle plopped into his glass of whisky. “How the blooming crikey were we supposed to know that Johnny Towelhead even had guns, let alone working out which was the sharp end? Our top intelligence man, Ginger - bloody good chap - did a quick recce in his old bus earlier, and assured us that the wily old gentlemen had nothing more deadly in their tents than a couple of trained falcons and the odd scimitar or two.”
The whiskered old veteran retrieved his eyepiece, and his faithful batman quietly decanted another tot of finest single-malt into the glass.
“You know,” he reflected as he reached for the soda siphon, “I do believe that, shortly before his unfortunate fiery demise, Bigglesworth wrote a memorandum to the effect that a fire blanket in the cockpit might forestall the instant immolation of the pilot, in the event of any mishap involving the tank of 100-octane aviation fuel just behind the instrument panel. Think I had a chinwag about it to Algy in stores, actually; but if memory serves, he said it wasn’t in the budget and he’d try to scrounge a couple off the Martin-Handasyde rep next time he dropped by.”
“Anyway, bit of a flap on now,” he admitted. “We’ve already taken steps to enhance the protection of our kites, including the fitting of a sand bucket to all Elephant biplanes operating in Mesopotamia and Afghanistan, and to improve our understanding of the threats posed in the challenging and dynamic environments in which we operate, i.e. the sky. Apparently if the wings fall off, there’s a possibility that the plane might stop working. Tricky business, this flying lark. Learning all the time, you know. Still, per ardua and all that. Chin chin!”
“The failure to install a fire extinguisher was… a serious systemic failure and a contributory factor in the loss of the aircraft,” he said. “There was a loss of opportunity for the survival of the crew by that failure.”
“I say!” spluttered Air Chief Marshal ’Binky’ Torpy, Chief of the Air Staff, raising his eyebrows so high that his monocle plopped into his glass of whisky. “How the blooming crikey were we supposed to know that Johnny Towelhead even had guns, let alone working out which was the sharp end? Our top intelligence man, Ginger - bloody good chap - did a quick recce in his old bus earlier, and assured us that the wily old gentlemen had nothing more deadly in their tents than a couple of trained falcons and the odd scimitar or two.”
The whiskered old veteran retrieved his eyepiece, and his faithful batman quietly decanted another tot of finest single-malt into the glass.
“You know,” he reflected as he reached for the soda siphon, “I do believe that, shortly before his unfortunate fiery demise, Bigglesworth wrote a memorandum to the effect that a fire blanket in the cockpit might forestall the instant immolation of the pilot, in the event of any mishap involving the tank of 100-octane aviation fuel just behind the instrument panel. Think I had a chinwag about it to Algy in stores, actually; but if memory serves, he said it wasn’t in the budget and he’d try to scrounge a couple off the Martin-Handasyde rep next time he dropped by.”
“Anyway, bit of a flap on now,” he admitted. “We’ve already taken steps to enhance the protection of our kites, including the fitting of a sand bucket to all Elephant biplanes operating in Mesopotamia and Afghanistan, and to improve our understanding of the threats posed in the challenging and dynamic environments in which we operate, i.e. the sky. Apparently if the wings fall off, there’s a possibility that the plane might stop working. Tricky business, this flying lark. Learning all the time, you know. Still, per ardua and all that. Chin chin!”
Reach For The Sky (II)
India’s Prime Minister, Manmohan Singh, announced the successful launch today of several hundred modern schools, thousands of affordable homes, a decent universal healthcare scheme, a life-saving welfare system, an efficient food distribution network, a complete modernisation of the dangerously-overstretched railways and a well-trained internal security force.
The much-needed improvements to India’s problems were successfully fired into space on a one-way journey to the moon.
The much-needed improvements to India’s problems were successfully fired into space on a one-way journey to the moon.
Monday 20 October 2008
Nation Weeps As Queen Loses Millions on Stock Market
A day of national mourning has been declared, after the Daily Express revealed the shocking news that the Queen may have had up to £37m wiped off the value of her shares portfolio as a result of the credit crunch.
Her Majesty later appeared on the nation’s screens in an emotional appeal for funds, saying that she was afraid that the bailiffs would soon be coming to evict her, her senile dotard husband, her four wastrel children and their spoilt brats, and several cousins, including the one who looks like King George V and his pushy Nazi-spawned wife.
“One’s shares are worth jack,” sobbed the elderly monarch. “And one dreads to think how much one had tied up in Icelandic banks. Please spare what you can to prop up the monarchy in its hour of need. Remember what my family has done for all of you. When Hitler was poised to invade Britain in the dark days of 1940, one bravely posed for the nation’s press in a bloody itchy set of army overalls, waving an oily spanner at the innards of a Morris Ten. And every single tourist who has ever come to Britain came because of us, you know.”
In a startling break from tradition, the Queen ended her unprecedented broadcast with a stinging attack on Prime Minister Gordon Brown.
“It’s all the fault of that ugly Jock bastard,” she hissed, “He caused it all and he’s got the gall to strut around everywhere, grinning like a wanking chimp. When he saunters round to the Palace for tea and biscuits later, I’ll wipe that smile off his face. He’ll be leaving with a corgi hanging off each testicle, or my name’s not Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor, by the Grace of God, Head of the Commonwealth, Supreme Governor of the Church of England, Duke of Lancaster, Lord of Mann, Duke of Normandy and Paramount Chief of Fiji.”
Her Majesty later appeared on the nation’s screens in an emotional appeal for funds, saying that she was afraid that the bailiffs would soon be coming to evict her, her senile dotard husband, her four wastrel children and their spoilt brats, and several cousins, including the one who looks like King George V and his pushy Nazi-spawned wife.
“One’s shares are worth jack,” sobbed the elderly monarch. “And one dreads to think how much one had tied up in Icelandic banks. Please spare what you can to prop up the monarchy in its hour of need. Remember what my family has done for all of you. When Hitler was poised to invade Britain in the dark days of 1940, one bravely posed for the nation’s press in a bloody itchy set of army overalls, waving an oily spanner at the innards of a Morris Ten. And every single tourist who has ever come to Britain came because of us, you know.”
In a startling break from tradition, the Queen ended her unprecedented broadcast with a stinging attack on Prime Minister Gordon Brown.
“It’s all the fault of that ugly Jock bastard,” she hissed, “He caused it all and he’s got the gall to strut around everywhere, grinning like a wanking chimp. When he saunters round to the Palace for tea and biscuits later, I’ll wipe that smile off his face. He’ll be leaving with a corgi hanging off each testicle, or my name’s not Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor, by the Grace of God, Head of the Commonwealth, Supreme Governor of the Church of England, Duke of Lancaster, Lord of Mann, Duke of Normandy and Paramount Chief of Fiji.”
Shagging For Boys
Scouts are to be given advice on safe sex, announced the Scouting Association today as it launched a new set of guidelines aimed at helping its members to understand relationships.
“A typical scoutmaster is a man who chooses to dress in shorts and spend his spare time surrounding himself with teenage boys,” said Chief Scout Peter Duncan, “And as such he bows to nobody when it comes to encyclopaedic knowledge and experience of human sexuality. We‘re keen to encourage young scouts to show their leaders the correct way of putting on a condom - and any upstanding members who can bring Akela to a screaming climax will qualify for our new Rogering Badge.”
“Knot-tying skills will probably come in useful,” he added.
With the police announcing at the weekend that they intend to turn a blind eye to public sex acts in future, the Scouting Association is hoping that the forthcoming Bob-a-Blowjob Week will be an event that the people of Britain will remember for years to come.
“A typical scoutmaster is a man who chooses to dress in shorts and spend his spare time surrounding himself with teenage boys,” said Chief Scout Peter Duncan, “And as such he bows to nobody when it comes to encyclopaedic knowledge and experience of human sexuality. We‘re keen to encourage young scouts to show their leaders the correct way of putting on a condom - and any upstanding members who can bring Akela to a screaming climax will qualify for our new Rogering Badge.”
“Knot-tying skills will probably come in useful,” he added.
With the police announcing at the weekend that they intend to turn a blind eye to public sex acts in future, the Scouting Association is hoping that the forthcoming Bob-a-Blowjob Week will be an event that the people of Britain will remember for years to come.
Lloyd Webber To Cobble Together Eurovision Song From CD Collection
Middle England’s favourite troll, Andrew Lloyd Webber, is to write the UK’s entry for the 2009 Eurovision Song Contest, in a futile attempt to reverse the current trend of eastern European countries with a combined population of 30 voting for each other and Russia.
“Eurovision has been dominated by derivative, wailing dirges for years now,” said the misshapen composer, as he took delivery of another truckload of BBC licence-payers’ money, “And that’s my home territory. I’ll just sample some Pink Floyd, Puccini and Mozart into the computer, splice it all together with Ableton and hey presto - douze points all round for dear old Blighty.”
Mr Lloyd Webber added that he would also be involved in choosing which talentless howler will have the dubious honour of belting out his opus, and expressed the hope that once again the BBC would divert another massive chunk of the licence fee into doing his auditions for him.
A spokesman for the BBC told the Nev Filter: “What this country really needs right now is a boost, like winning the Eurovision Song Contest and forking out several hundred million to host the next one.”
Meanwhile, ‘Sir’ Terry Wogan expressed the hope that next year would finally see an end to dirty foreigners sneakily voting for their neighbours - a low, underhand tactic that Britain and Ireland would never stoop to.
“Eurovision has been dominated by derivative, wailing dirges for years now,” said the misshapen composer, as he took delivery of another truckload of BBC licence-payers’ money, “And that’s my home territory. I’ll just sample some Pink Floyd, Puccini and Mozart into the computer, splice it all together with Ableton and hey presto - douze points all round for dear old Blighty.”
Mr Lloyd Webber added that he would also be involved in choosing which talentless howler will have the dubious honour of belting out his opus, and expressed the hope that once again the BBC would divert another massive chunk of the licence fee into doing his auditions for him.
A spokesman for the BBC told the Nev Filter: “What this country really needs right now is a boost, like winning the Eurovision Song Contest and forking out several hundred million to host the next one.”
Meanwhile, ‘Sir’ Terry Wogan expressed the hope that next year would finally see an end to dirty foreigners sneakily voting for their neighbours - a low, underhand tactic that Britain and Ireland would never stoop to.
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