Monday, 27 April 2009
BROWN OVER AFGHANISTAN
CHASE ME, LADIES, I'M IN THE CAVALRY
From Rosa Kleb in the Daily Bizarrograph
Mr Brown was filmed in his desert lounge suit and Domestos grin, speaking to US troops Up the Khyber Pass. First of all hombres, he said in the New England drawl he learned in the GayLobster winebar at Martha’s Vineyard, I’d like to ask you, mano a mano, how you are getting on with our British friends, I mean our, I mean your, I mean my, yes, that’s it, my British friends, soldiers, really, how are we all getting on with my army ? They’re not up to much, I know, but we keep the best ones on duty at home, guarding Her Majesty, Queen Brenda, and in case the natives get restless and we have to beat the ungrateful fuckers with sticks. Have they paid back all the bullets they borrowed from you because they say theirs don’t work? Y’know Field Marshal Ainsworth gives them the best of stuff and all they do is fucking moan; a few of them get killed by over-friendly fire and I get the Thames Valley Coroners’ Association biting my arse off, like it was my fault.
I have had cordial talks, said Mr Brown, with the Paki Prime Minister, Mr Ali Baba Bhutto and with President GoatMeat Balti. They were both agreed that since I was doing such a good job, I should continue to run the world and that they would stop sending innocent Paki people to England for the police to go to all the trouble of arresting only to find that they can’t frame them for anything and have to let them go again. These two great leaders also said that in their version of democracy anybody signing a petition to have them removed would get their fucking heads chopped-off, smartish.
I also went to the tomb of the unknown Bhutto who died in tragic circumstances leaving the country and all its nukes to her husband, the famous criminal, Mr Ali Baba Chapatti-Bhutto, who, as we have seen, is now prime minister and who had her killed in the first place and who wouldn’t, mouthy cow, banging on all day long about it being her destiny to be prime minister and her son, Ranjit, or is it Sanjit, I don’t know, they all look the same to me. And smell ? Fuck me, it’s dreadful, they all smell of ghee and goatshit.
I said to President Khazi of Afghanistan that he was living in a colander of terror which leaked all over the High Streets of London and could he lend me a few billion rupees, in a good cause, after all, many of his cousins and sons and brothers depended on me for their residence in the Old Country and he had shitloads of it anyway, what with Uncle Sam stuffing his mouth with dollars and the Talimen giving him a rake-off from the drug business, fuck me, he's rolling in it, and him a only a Paki, and here's me, prime minister of england and not a fucking pot to piss in. Anyway, I was mindful of my so-called deputy, no, not Lord Crabs, Ms Harriet Soursister, and so I asked him if he was serious about this law that he'd passed, saying rape within marriage was the Will of Allah or some such bollocks. He reassured me that he had the right sol-you-shun and that the whole thing was under review and would a cheque be alright, only not drawn on a British bank, obviously, as i already own them and they're fucked, worthless, good for fuck all.
All in all it was a good day's work, met some handsome young men, showed the wogs who's boss and borrowed some more money to burn in the Downing Street boiler. There wasn't time to pop next door and visit the Nabobs and Maharajahs and of course our friends the Hindujahs, who are having their own form of election in which presently the Throw The Widow On The Funeral Pyre Party and the Let The Cow Shit in The Lounge Party are neck and neck, biggest democracy in the world, y'know, seven hundred million of the barefoot, face-painting, starving to death but launching space probes and millions dying of leprosy, cattle-worshipping loonies.
I wouldn't bother letting that lot have elections, but that's just me.