Posts Tagged ‘British News’


As ex-special forces I can kill using trapped wind.

In my book – life behind enemy lines in Iraq – “It’s Not Invasion It’s Liberation,” – I recount a story of Death by Bloat.

Here is an extract…..

“The Lethal Force Action Group were struggling. Sweat rash had laid Fungus Thompson out and Sniffer Tomkins and Jellytits O’Loon were  beginning to wilt.

Food supplies were running low. We were forced to lick eachother’s Athlete’s Foot for sustenance. On a good day I would give the lads access to my Veruccas. They are laden with protein.

My field training allowed me to make a tasty Athlete’s Foot/Verucca soup. To add flavour I used the chicken stock cubes and herb garland (Tarragon, Rosemary and Bay Leaf) I carry in my Ammo Belt.

The lads lapped it up!.

……………………………..Finally, after days of searching we came across the enemy compound. The Bad Lad from Baghdad was singing along to a Justin Bieber DVD warbling, “Baby, Baby, Baby, Baby” only in Arabic. ‘Cos he was an Arab.

I could smell soup. Vegetable soup. In less hostile times I would have volunteered my stock cubes and a dunk of the herb bouquet.

But I was here to serve my country, kill foreigners and find the gold bullion.

Gurkha Tenpin-Bowling reccied the compound and our one legged Sioux Brave, Itchy Scalp performed a rain dance (Footloose meets Dirty Dancing via The Exorcist).  I inched my way in. The Bad Lad from Baghdad was one mean looking compadre but had engrained gravy stains running down his shirt which lessened his evil visage.

I had to think. Fast. On my feet. I disguised myself as a bowl of soup. Well, more of a broth actually – but you get the gist….


The bowl containing me was placed on the table accompanied by lovely crusty bread rolls. Seeded.

I reconstituted myself and bamboozled the Bad Lad from Baghdad with cries of “Baby, baby, baby, baby” a la Bieber. He really was a Belieber judging by the posters on his walls.  I then used the trapped wind death grip on him.

The poor lad was a goner.

It turned out that he was not a Bad Lad from Baghdad, but Baghdad’s leading (only) Justin Bieber impressionist who recently had appeared on Iraqi TV’s “The Sunni and Shia Show” and was in town to sing at a local warlord’s surprise birthday party.

The bullion? No trace of it I’m afraid……….



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Britain’s top Boy Band, No Direction, have revealed to Gfb that their new single  “Energy Price Rise Hike Stomp (The Freeze To Death Remix) is set to top the Charts.

The band, currently in Manchester evicting disabled people from their homes, are confident that their new folky sound will win over new fans. As David “Cotswold Bladder” Cameron explained, “We love Mumford and Sons, waistcoats, beards and banjos! So it is Hey nonny nonny ja ja nonny – old chap! Shoot that serf please Fotheringham.  Stoke the Aga as well.”


The Boys Show Orf Their Dance Routine

The band’s spokesman George “Charlie Up De ‘Ooter” Osborne, said “We are really excited about this single. It’s really ballsy. Not like that fat prole Ed Balls though. I hate him. He smells. And he’s fat. Wanna buy a nuclear power station?”

The band’s manager Simon Cowell, who recently calmed the Oceans by raising his right eyebrow was quoted as  saying “My pants are full of poo such is my excitement around this single. Must go, The Dalai Lama needs some advice on inner peace.”


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I don’t know about you but this Horsemeat story has taken my by surprise.

I love a ready meal. Proper British grub and you know what you are eating ‘cos it says so on the packet –  unlike cooking in kitchens! Who knows what they are adding to our food.  Herbs and the like.

My dear wife Shirley bought some Snake and Kidney pies and Dog Sausages in Tesco’s last week – sadly all the cat fritters had sold out.  The look on her face as she slopped the grub into me trough with the a loving, “Get that into yer, ya useless slob.”  There’s still love there.  Somewhere. Maybe.

As a treat she dished up Budgiemasu, an avian variant on the Italian classic pudding. Tasty if feathery.

There I am breakfast, lunch and dinner scoffing this nosh, happy as a pig in  shit – well you are what you eat as my deranged Uncle Vince used to say from his cell.

All the salt in this stuff did cause a touch of constipation,  so it was a pleasure this morning to finally reacquaint myself with the smallest room. Passing that hoof was tricky though.

Now I’m off to saddle up me Findus cottage pie!



You can read more of Bob’s musings whilst on the pot here and here. Your lives will be infinitely richer for doing so.

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