Her Majesty’s Secret Service

‘Listen Agent 0001 your Majesty, we need you for a top secret mission for Queen and country’ said M. Agent 0001 Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II took the Marlboro red cigarette, her fiftieth of the day, out of her mouth and flicked it. The cigarette bounced off M’s forehead, spun through the air, out the open window and into the pram of a passing peasant’s baby.
‘M, I’m ready to do my duty for myself and my country.’ Said Her Majesty as she poured herself a double scotch with extra scotch, and topped it up with meths.
‘Shouldn’t you lay off the hard stuff agent 0001? It is six thirty in the morning” said M with concern.
‘Listen M,’ said the Queen angrily, ‘my life, my country, so we’re playing by my rules’ said the Queen as she let off an enormous postern blast of gas. ‘Sorry, I had eggs this morning’ said the Queen.
‘Very well Your Majesty Agent 0001 Queen Elizabeth II, let’s get down to brass tacks’ said M sternly. ‘We need you for a search and destroy mission.’ The Queen looked up from her copy of Private Eye.
‘Is it that bastard Murdoch? Is he using his media mogul power to influence the world into all out nuclear war where he will hide in his secret lair and then return when it’s all over to start a new world order?’
‘Not quite Agent 0001’ said M, ‘it’s far, far worse than that.’

Her Maj slipped her final throwing knife into her hair as a hair pin. Prince Philip was busy gutting a rabbit.
‘Phil, it’s the big one’ she said seriously.
‘Good luck. May the force be with you’ said Prince Philip in his high falsetto voice.
‘I do this for God and King Harry’ said Queenie as she back flipped out the kitchen door, down the corridor, up a flight of stairs, through the state dining room, along another corridor, right, down another corridor, right again, down a flight of stairs, along another corridor, left, more corridor, past the guards, out the front door over a corgi and somersaulted into her souped up Range Rover, through the sun roof.
‘Let’s roll, Fido’ said Agent 0001 Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.
‘Woof’ barked the corgi. The air was palpably stuck with seriousness. They both new that today was the day Barrack Obama would die for his evil schemes.

In his office M looked out the window. His eyes were staring at nothing as he thought of the danger the Queen was putting herself into. ‘What a woman’ he thought to himself appreciatively. Osama Bin Laden would soon be a bloody smear on his Welsh cave hideout and the world would be a safer place. Osama Bin Laden, after all this time would finally pay for his crimes.
Suddenly panic gripped him Something wasn’t right. Something deeply, deeply, worryingly, staggeringly, incredibly, amazingly wrong was nagging at his attention. Then it hit him. He lurched from his man size baby high chair and fell on the florr. Picking himself up, he rushed to his desk and started throwing papers all over the place as he looked for the secret mission note from Miss Moneypenny’s replacement.
Eventually he found the note, covered in her familiar green crayon.

Kill obama

My God, thought M. Queenie, Britain’s top secret agent, was going to kill the leader of the free world. He ran through to his receptionist’s room.
‘What have you done?!’ screamed M at his receptionist. Jade Goody looked up vacantly with a great big stupid smile on her fat face.
‘Watcha, how’s it going M? Eh? Like M & M’s your name is but only a half one like low fat M & M’s or something – ‘
‘You’ve gone and told the Queen to kill the wrong person! It was supposed to say Osama Bin Laden. You’ve written Obama you intellectual cripple!’ M was fuming. Damn these Back To Work Schemes. How he wished Miss Moneypenny was here with her style, charisma, sexiness, and above all, an IQ rating bigger than her shoe size.
‘You’re a fucking idiot, Jade Goody’ said M and left her to look at the pictures in her copy of The Beano.

Anger Managing my Manager in Spain

It's that lovely time of the week again, where inside I am slowly dying by degrees. This morning was such a colossal upheaval in my weekend rested constitution, that I felt slightly nauseous. I located my flip flops and managed to struggly out of the seemingly bottomless pits of my bed. I fed the cat, tipping small poo like pellets all over the kitchen floor. Grabbing a towel from the linen closet, I managed to stumble into the shower to find out I had run out of gas. This won't be a normal event for many people back in Britain, as I believe, all houses have gas coming through lovely pipes in the ground. Things just work. I need hot water. Turn tap. Hot water pours forth. Civilisation achieved, hurrah! But not so here in Andalucia. Oh no no no no no!

Andalucia is in southern Spain. It's famous as the heartland of what tourists imagine as traditional Spain: Bullfighting, Flamenco and paella. If you come here, what you will find, mor likely than not, is just under a million ex-pats crowded along the horrendous motorway-cum-seaside corridor that stretches between Malaga and very nearly Gibraltar. The regional emblem seems to be the crane, builders seem to be a race all of their own, and "we speak English" seems to be the most predominant name for shops. British style pubs are everywhere, and sunburn is the most popular fashion accesory.

So if you hate all that, you can head out into old Andalucia - the Spanish Andalucia where you will see men it exceedingly tight trousers manfully avoiding hernia's whilst terrorising an animal for no apparent reason. The Spain where Flamenco is bravely listened too by people who have never heard of hearing imparement. The Spain of food chucked into an enormous vat and laughingly called cooked, dumped onto a plate and given to you under the pseudonym paella. Paella, I am coming to believe, means "leftovers". Andalucia is timeless, so timeless they haven't changed the name since the Moors were chased out of Spain and the Jews persecuted in what looks like the greatest dent of Medieval intellectual barbarity managed.

Andalucia is so timeless it's gas comes in bottles delivered to houses by a man who only turns up when you are at work: who beats an empty gas bottle with a crow bar to alarm everyone into acknowledging the gas man's existence, and who subsequently takes all your money and has no change. Bastards.

I'm sure Andalucia is lovely. Infact, I know in some parts it is. But today is Monday, and Monday is the devil's work!

Love in a Time of Dog's Barking in a Godless Night

As a "new person", I'm quite attracted by the idea of writing something immensly attention grabbing and thoroughly interesting. Unfortunately, I don't have the slightest iota of an inkling of a clue how to go about doing this, and so I'm probably just going to bore your ever so slightly dirty pants off of you.

Perusing this blogsite (or whatever you call it) this morning sat at my desk, in my office, needless to say losing the will to live and trying to end it all with a caffeine overdose, I came across something that has made me join this site purely because of the amount of humour that has been instigated by it. It is, without much further ado, "The Top 100 Right-Wing Blogs" list. Fascinating. "The Top 100 Right-Wing Blogs" list? It's a stupendous idea for a "top of" collection because it begs so many questions, such as how and why? How do you characterise what a good right-wing blog is? Is this blog a little too lenient against immigrants? This blog has plenty of reference to Hitler, I think 3rd place easily. First place would have to go to someone who thought he is the Aryan race and thereby wants to exterminate in finest Dalek tradition, everyone.

I was only slightly dissapointed when I found out that most blogs and top lists thereof are based on amount of viewings. Gutted, to put none too fine a point to it. What would a weak contender's piece have said if it had been judged and not quantified on views? "Lately I have been getting slightly irate with my next door neighbour. Apparently he is not from round these parts and doesn't like football. I most heartily disagree with such people being allowed to live in Stoke-Newington when they should obviously all be somewhere else more horrible, like Liverpool."

I myself am of the right leaning persuasion, and believe in a strong state protecting our heritage and national interests, but I don't believe that anyone should be excluded from being British and residing in this country on grounds of such ridiculous concepts that religion and race have bugger all to do with being British. Because, let's face it, they don't. As Bill Bailey states, when push comes to shove most people, when asked, will put their religion as "Jedi". So unless Gordon Brown has a black plastic suit, cape, mask, and a breathing problem...