Cameron’s Final Gamble! “Gingers Must Wear Burkhas!”

 British PM  David Cameron has played a dastardly final card in his bid to cling to power.

BANNING GINGERS FROM PUBLIC VIEW!

As he trails pointless oaf Ed Miliband in the polls, the posh boy “Who cares deeply” has decided to make Gingers a key plank of his 2015 election campaign.

In his speech today to the Idiocracy that is the Conservative Party, Cameron will say, “Look here Chaps, we’ve fucked over the poor, propped up the Bankers, divided old from young, gay from straight, black from white and STILL people don’t like us! Even giving pooftahs the right to marry hasn’t helped.  I can only reach one conclusion. Gingers are to blame!”

To gasps from his dribbling, incontinent audience he blurted, “Banning Gingers from public life and stopping them using the internet to spread their gingery thingymajigs is all that is left to me. Polish my brogues please Fotheringham. Where is my fag?”

Last year, Gfb’s correspondent Gail Force-Winds revealed Tory plans to impose Burkhas on Gingers were shelved due to the fact that it was stupid. However, with the lads firing up in Iraq again and a need to appear to have some semblance of control domestically and internationally, the Ginger Question has been brought back.

Cameron’s comments put him at odds with President Barack Obama who, in a speech in Grimsby this month said, ‘We. Are not.  Going. To tell. People what colour. Their hair. Should. Be.’

He Is A Red!

Ed Miliband’s reply was, “I have forgotten what I was going to say. Blah blah blah.”

 

 

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Iraq – War & Death & Trapped Wind – By Stench McBain – Ex SAS Hitman

Hello,

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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Bombing Iraq – I Thought We Had Won! – By Bob On The Pot

I had the morning off waiting for Curry’s to deliver the new flat screen TV. It’s got surround sound, radar, sonar and a missile launching system. Naturally they didn’t turn up.

The curly Kale diet was working its magic and I was on the pot reading The Sun.

The Yanks are going to start bombing Iraq again because although we “won” and “left a vibrant, pluralistic, democratic state” behind, it has all gone a bit tits up and some Angry Lads who think they are indestructible want to set up a Caliphate (whatever that is – thought it was a camping stove) – and suppress everything that lives there – even the wind if it blows too hastily.

Now a load of Ancient Christians are stuck up an Iraqi mountain (like Moses when he nipped up one to get a few do’s and dont’s – the one about not killing is always good for a laugh) – the Angry Lads want to kill them because their version of the same God is different – largely in choice of headwear it seems to me.

Then there’s the Israeli’s – same God – different head-gear again – slaughtering the innocents and creating more Angry Lads in the process.

Jesus was up a mountain – told us to be good – talk about stating the obvious! Then he was slaughtered – on a mountain.

Fuck it – going down the Stretched Testicle for a few pints.

At least me bowels are moving with aplomb.

But what is it with religion and mountains?

Go tell it my son!

I blame Buddhists. Bastards to a man.

Bob

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Tony Blair Wants To Bomb His Local Indian Restaurant After Dodgy Chicken Tikka Masala

 

Narcissistic loon Tony Blair has called for his local Curry House to be bombed after the Chicken Tikka Masala he’d ordered turned out to be “Dodgy”.

As he told GFB,

“I was with the Chairs of Goldman Sachs, EXXON and Halliburton outlining my plans for peace in the Middle East by bombing the shite out of the place.  Only bombing will bring about the long-lasting peace we in the West deserve. Mass slaughter will open their eyes to my genius.

The curry turns up and the chicken was a ropey.  The owners are Bengali and Muslim – after all I have done for Muslims!  So I got on the blower to the RAF to order them to launch a few Sidewinders into the “Passage To India”.

“They told to me to “Fuck Off You Nutter!”

Me! Tony!

So, I called me old muckers Bill Clinton and George W to see if the Yanks could strike and y’know what? They never returned my call! Me! After all I’ve done for America!

There’s always Vladimir – he’s a chum now – especially as I am considering being a peace envoy for Ukraine – worth a few bob that gig.

As I said 10 years ago. History will be my judge. For without me there would be no peace in Iraq today. Does anybody know where a good curry house is though?”

“Cos We’re Worth It!”

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Torture Techniques And Tips – A Handy Guide – By Stench McBain

Hello,

The best way to crack a terrorist?  Veruccas.

I learned to love and cherish my veruccas. Not only were they a food source they also made steadfast companions. Easy to look after and not requiring sustenance apart from a sweaty sock or two, they make the perfect pet for us special forces types.

Terrorists cannot cope with Verucca Boarding. Whenever I whipped out my verucca sock and placed it on the nose of an evil terrorist – Boy oh Boy would that evil terrorist spill the beans.

Even beans he didn’t know about.

Think of it compadre – would YOU like an infestation of these little critters on the end of your conk? Thought not!

The technique was invented by Colonel Jock “McJock” Bollocks who headed up the deep cover Fungal Foot Fighting Force. Jock once took out an Iraqi machine gun nest armed only with a can of Athlete’s Foot spray and a belief in the redemptive qualities of Jesus Christ.

Legend or loon – you decide!

Now in civvy street when I go to the local baths for a swim, I think of all my little verucca chums nestling around the pool’s edge waiting to be called to defend our freedoms.

Thank you  Colonel Bollocks.

 

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Stench McBain – He’s A One Man Ginger Ninja Warrior Gone Rogue……

Hello,

As ex-special forces I know about adapting to my surroundings through disguise, evasion and aromatherapy.

My account of life behind enemy lines in Iraq called, “He’s A Foreigner – Kill Him,” gives examples of my ability to carry out a mission however pointless or dangerous. Here is an extract from Chapter 5, “Kill The Lad In The Turban – He Might Be Up To Something.”

“Phew, it was hot. Over 120 in the shade. The Lethal Force Action Group were struggling. Prickle Heat had laid Fungus Thompson out and I could see that Sniffer Tomkins and Jellytits O’Loon were also beginning to wilt.

Food supplies were running low. Dangerously low. We were forced to suck stones . My field training allowed me to assess the situation. I made a tasty stone stew with a variety of pebbles. To add flavour  I used the chicken stock cubes and herb garland (Tarragon, Rosemary and Bay Leaf) I carry in my Ammo Belt.  Boy, did the lads lap it up! Tough, dentally though………..

……………………………..Finally, after days of searching we came across the enemy compound. The evil nuclear rocket scientist was watching The Love Boat on DVD and was distracted by the antics of that titchy lad who was also in a Bond film. My favourite Bond Film is From Russia With Love.

I could smell soup. Vegetable soup. It lacked flavour. In less hostile times I would have volunteered one or two of my stock cubes and a dunk of the herb bouquet.

Sadly this was not the case. I was here to serve my country, kill some foreigners and find the missing nuclear warhead.

Whilst Gurkha Tenpin-Bowling reccied the compound and our misanthropic Sioux Brave, Itchy Scalp performed a rain dance (very light on his feet is Rain Dance – think Fred Astaire meets Freddie Kruger) I inched my way into their mess hall. The Big Lad stirring the soup was one mean looking honcho. 6 foot tall and 6 foot wide with knees to die for.

I had to think. Fast. On my feet. My field training helped.

I disguised myself as a bowl of soup.

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

I reconstituted myself in double quick time and with a plucked eyebrow, strangled the evil nuclear rocket scientist. It turned out that he was not an evil nuclear rocket scientist but a vegetable stock salesman from Baghdad trying to earn an honest pound. The nuclear warhead turned out to be some pickled cabbage well past its sell by date. We had at the very least averted a food poisoning outbreak.

I had served my country.  Furthermore, Itchy Scalp’s dance did cause a shower or two which was very welcome in the heat.

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