Obamarama

Elongated US President Bazza Obama, his statuesque wife, Michael, and a modest entourage of 32,678, descended on plucky Blighty this week. The royal couple started in Ireland, from whence Obama's great-great-great grandad, Norris McWhirter O'bama, left to seek his fortune in the USA. Sadly, his dreams turned to ashes and he ended his days as a bison in the Badlands of North Alabamassippi; he finally came to grief when he was kicked to death by feared Sioux warrior and architect Chief Galloping Nostril (immortalised by a raging Charles Hawtrey in the classic romantic comedy 'Nostril Kicks a Bison to Death').

As it was a state visit, the Obamas were taken in their 2 mile long Cadillac, nicknamed 'The Beast', to Buck House, where Liz and Phil had interrupted a game of British Bulldog in order to greet them. Liz peered down the Mall and inquired: "Have you see The Beast?". Phil replied, "Yes, Camilla's in the khazi munching on a bale of hay". When The Beast finally pulled up, Phil whispered to Liz: "Are these the new servants you were talking about?". Obama uncoiled himself from the Beast's depths and said:

OBAMA: "Hi....Yes, we can!.....how are you, your royal Edinboroughness"

PHIL: "Bloody hell, it's Huggy Bear!"

OBAMA: "I hear you guys were in Irelandland last week....Yes, we can!....did you enjoy the craic over there?"

PHIL: "No, Mr Bear, Lizzie keeps me on a tight leash these days. She wouldn't even let me attack the black stuff.....no offence meant, Mr Freeman."


(OBAMA: "Psst, your husband thinks I'm Huggy Bear. LIZ: "I'm sorry, Mr Luther King, he's from Greece.")

Obama made a speech to MPs and Peers in the ancient surroundings of Westminster Hall. One row consisted of all the living former Prime Ministers: Brown, Blair, Major, Cameron - but no Thatcher. The Iron Lady was too busy mixing eye of newt and kneecap of bat in her cauldron at home. Her welcome absence presented a dilemma - who could replace one of the most hated political figures in British history? Step forward, Mr Clegg, your time has come! Blair and Brown sat uneasily next to each other; they reminded of something but I could not put my finger on it. Then it came to me:


(Cissie Blair and Ada Brown enjoy emotional reunion)

Fortunately, I was able to lipread their conversation:

BLAIR: "Eee, Browny love, I hear you fancy going t'IMF."

BROWN: (looks puzzled, gurns, pushes up man boobs) "Nay, Blairy lass, I don't fancy any more bairns, not with me being a martyr to me...(mouths "haemorrhoids").

BLAIR: (Tuts) "Don't be so silly, Browny love, that's IVF, you twattish barm cake."

Meanwhile, it's been a bad few weeks for fugitive war criminals. First, Osama had his beard blown off by Steven Seagal; then, brutal Serb warlord Ratko Mladic was found lurking in a Serbian skip; and now, the most ruthless of them all, Sepp Blatter, leader of the notoriously corrupt mafia mob, FIFA, has been accused of corruption himself. Amazingly, his case has been referred to FIFA's ethics committee! FIFA has an ethics committee?! That's akin to the SS having an Etiquette Panel. Still, Obama's final gesture showed just how much he values the 'special relationship': he authorised the extradition of the notorious slapper of female toilet attendants, scrawny Geordie warbler Cheryl Cole, back to the UK. Cheers, canny lad!

Unlucky Gym

Previously I regarded gymnasia (from the Greek word gymnos meaning 'go and have a kebab instead') with ill-disguised terror and revulsion, so when my GP referred me to the local gym I was riven by doubt. Would this be the most ridiculously ill-advised venture since Ken Clarke decided to give us his considered views on rape? Anyway, there was I, puce-faced; sweat gushing from every pore; coughing violently; spluttering; spitting; belching; mucus-drenched; gasping for breath, as I finally arrived at the leisure centre after a two minute walk from my home.

I entered through the portals into the Land of the Fit and immediately felt severely ill at ease. The room was full of murderous looking instruments of torture, people splayed, stretched, and entwined in their vicious coils. One big-boned lady on some sort of bike gave a tragic moan and slumped forward as if life had departed her quivering carcass. A few seconds later she was resurrected, furiously pedalling again; then, another moan, another lifeless slump forward, a procedure she repeated annoyingly often. I tried to catch the eye of a brawny youth whirling some weights around but he responded with a fierce glower and a belligerent gnashing of teeth; most people there were cocooned in their own isolation - 'the zone' I believe it is called - and interaction was kept to a minimum. Exercise is a very serious matter indeed. To aid our concentration, there are a number of screens on the walls, one showing scowling, dour Andy Murray being comprehensively thrashed by a Malawian plumber in the first round of the Kandahar Invitation Cup.

I began surprisingly brightly, pedalling away like an obese, drug-free Lance Armstrong; when I stood up, though, I suddenly became aware that my legs were made of pig-iron. I attempted to perform some muscle-loosening exercises, such as leaning against the wall, which seemed to do the trick. All was proceeding fairly, if maladroitly, well until I attempted to defeat a particularly sadistic implement called the Cartilage Rupturer 500i or something. It involved grasping two moveable upright bars with your hands and moving one's legs up and down as quickly as possible. I realised that establishing a regular rhythm was essential and swiftly and easily failed to establish one; very quickly I was simply flailing and gesticulating wildly with my arms, while my poor legs were jerking and bending randomly like the last, desperate spasms of an impaled frog. Sweat soon began to spray from my head and carpet the machine in a dazzling rain of iridescent globules - a nice present for the next participant. I realised that not bringing a towel was an error, as rivulets of salty water bypassed my redundant eyebrows and stung my eyes. When I realised I was weeping like a baby and breathing like a bronchitic, raddled walrus, I realised it was time to gracefully retire. The trainer quickly pointed me to the water fountain, murmuring something about "blood pressure" and "dehydration". From the look on her face, she clearly thought I was on the verge of a massive coronary; the distant wail of a siren seemed to imply she had already assumed I was doomed and had made the necessary phone call.

However, I survived to not go there another day, and left the scene of the atrocity feeling like a new man:



Meanwhile, it has been reported that former Beatle and Manchester United stalwart Ryan 'Giggs' Giggsy has erupted, spewing ash and lava miles into the air above Northern England. Volcanologists believe the eruption occurred when he was revealed as the injunction-happy footballer denying us our God-given right to know every detail about the activities of his groin. Attention-seeking MP and idiot, John Hemming, revealed his name in the House of Commons in order to safeguard the freedom of his silly face to appear in the press and on the news. I don't think that, back in 1689 the Bill of Rights, which guarantees parliamentary privilege, was envisaged as safeguarding this type of revelation:

"Verily, I hath heard that Sir Ryan of Giggs, late of the county of Wales, hath been dallying and rutting most covetously and lewdly with my constituent, buxom milkmaid and most grievous strumpet, Mistress Imogen Thomas. Every low-born peasant and churl in the land knoweth Giggsy hath been ploughing another furrow as it appeareth on ye Olde Twitter most every day ......."


(Imogen Thomas shows off her fantastic distress at Giggs revelations)

Queen on Tour

It has been, we are repeatedly told, a truly historic visit. Not only historic but deeply symbolic too. In fact, it has been a historically symbolic and symbolically historic visit. This is, of course, Lizzie Windsor and Phil the Greek's jaunt to the Emerald Isle, so it is. As soon as the plane landed at Dublin airport, it was announced that the Queen was now eligible to play football for the Republic of Ireland, as well as Germany. It is thought unlikely she will be picked, though, as she has suffered a dramatic loss of form since she did her Achilles in at William's wedding.

Lizzie dutifully performed various memorial and ceremonial duties before she got down to the real reason for her visit - a trip to the Irish National Stud, or Colin Farrell as it is affectionately known. The Queen's vacant, dead eyes lit up when various gleaming stallions were paraded in front of her; she laid a wreath in memory of the Republican horses brutally murdered by the British in 1916; and she patted lots of wizened, tiny jockeys on their funny little heads. There was an embarrassing moment, however, when Lizzie mistook one of the horses for her daughter, Princess Anne. This was a ridiculous mistake to make as Anne was running in the 3.30pm at Kempton Park at the time.


(Wooden, clapped-out, unrealistic old nag views a demonstration of jockey skills)

Elsewhere, it has been a unrelenting litany of men behaving badly: Huhne, Laws, Fred the Shred, Schwarzenegger, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, Ken Clarke, and Rooney. The latter caused a Twitter rumpus when he responded to abusive tweets by threatening his interlocutor:'I'll put u asleep within 10 seconds'. One can imagine the fierce look of concentration on his primitive features - the furrowed overhanging brow; the tongue jutting from betwixt his baboonish incisors; sweat gleaming on his potato skull - as his huge Scouse paws bashed out his reponse.


(Rooney: "Hey, Coleen, how do you spell 'u', our kid?")

It is thought Rooney aimed to carry out this threat by ambushing his abuser and forcing him to read his pisspoor autobiography.

Up the Injunction

Controversy continues to rage about the use of injunctions, or super-injunctions, taken out by celebrities/footballers/chefs/footballers to protect unwholesome details of their extra-curricular activities being splashed all over the tabloids. The blogosphere and the Twitterati have been rife with rumours as to the identities of these misbehaving litigants. One is thought to be a footballer called Bryan Jiggs whom, I can exclusively reveal, I have never heard of. Jiggsy allegedly enjoyed romps in hotel rooms with former Big Brother slapper George Orwell or someone. Elephant-eared, wide-gobbed satyr Andrew Marr outed himself as one of the instigators; he took out an injunction believing he had begat an ugly baby after an affair with another journalist. But some of the rumours are wrong - Jemima Khan was greatly distressed when it was alleged that she had taken out an injunction to prevent publication of intimate photos of her with Jeremy Clarkson. Khan said “The allegations are ludicrous. Everybody knows that it is Richard Hammond who has his tongue wedged up Clarkson’s cleft, not me”.

I can also reveal the following injunctions have been applied for:

Mr Nick Clegg and All Students

Nick Clegg is believed to have conducted a passionate affair with thousands of students in the period before the last General Election. One female student revealed “Nick Clegg wooed me with flowers, chocolates, and policy pledges. He said if I promised to vote for him forever he would look after me and pay for my degree in the History of Lawnmowers and Synchronised Swimming Studies at the University of Trumpton. Then, he stopped answering my calls, he ignored my protests. I feel so used and cheap. He’s put me off Liberal Democrats for life“.

Mr Tony Blair and Mr Colonel Gaddafi


(Blair: "My word of honour, I have never met Gaddafi")

Colonel Gaddafi alleges that Tony Blair struck up a starry-eyed romance after they met on a camping holiday in Libya. Blair pestered Gaddafi with mucky texts such as: “I want you to cover me in your oil, Mad Dog baby” and “I want to park my massive tanker in your lovely harbour. Cherie sends her love”. Blair is now frantically trying to prevent details of this relationship being made public as it might make, say, the Uzbek Toilet Roll Fellowship think twice before paying him £25,000 a second to listen to his self-justificatory, pseudo-religious claptrap of an evening.


(Blatter looks contrite after bribery allegations)

In other news, allegations of widespread corruption at FIFA have provoked a storm of no surprise whatsoever. It seems that money may have changed hands before Qatar’s laughably successful bid to host the World Cup in 2022. The appalling Sepp Blatter promised FIFA would move “very fast to fully ignore the evidence before finding everybody not guilty. Now, I have to go to a meeting with the Antarctica and Sahara Desert World Cup 2026 bid teams”. But perhaps English football is not so clean: can there be any other explanation for Birmingham City winning a trophy this season?

Video Nasties

The Americans continue to drip-feed us information about their special forces day trip to Pakistan. One video shows an uncertain Osama fluffing his lines while filming one of his excitingly interminable video messages:

"Good morning, everyone. My name is Osama bin Laden and you are all going to die. Now, who would live in a house like this?.....sorry, can we do that again?"

Another video shows a grey-bearded Osama watching one of his own videos; so not only was he a mass murderer but the vain git also dyed his hair. Many of these murderous despots - Mubarak, Gaddafi, Cameron - seem fond of slapping the old black dye on their terrible heads. Osama was believed to be watching this video on a Saturday evening as Pakistani TV is notoriously dire at this time, consisting purely of infantile game shows, a lame and formulaic hospital drama, and raucous and wildly overrated 'talent' shows. We must be thankful that we do not have to put up with such drivel on a Saturday evening, despite the sterling efforts of Vernon Kay.

I have also managed to acquire exclusive video of Osama relaxing in front of the recent royal wedding, blithely unaware of the terrible fate that will soon befall Kate Middleton.....I mean, Osama himself. His running commentary can just be heard:

"Look at the Zionist imperialist infidel pig-dogs.........I knew we should have bombed this instead of the Olympics (turns to camera) can we edit that last comment out?.........Nice to see Kate wearing face veil.........Phwoar, look at Kate's sister, she is decent bit of Western totty, would make good wife number 20 for Osama (sound of wife number 19 complaining bitterly)........calm down, darling, Osama only making joke with you, innit babe?.......Crikey, look at bastard Posh Spice, why she always look so bloody miserable? She got face like slapped camel's arse. Perhaps she just listen to her last album....HA, HA, HA , HA, HA.....Hey, wives, start laughing, Osama just make bloody funny joke (sound of lacklustre laughter).....look, you knew what I was like when you married me, now get in kitchen and get Osama a bastard Ginsters pasty.........good decision to make Kate's dress an ivory gown with lace applique and rose, thistle, daffodil and shamrock details............what is this Fearne Cotton thing? Osama would like to hit her on back of neck with bastard plank............there is Elton John with Yankee imperialist wife, I hope he sings 'Saturday Night's All Right for Bombing'........WE WANT A KISS, WE WANT A KISS!......Osama bored now, where is bastard remote?"

In other news, former Wings bassist, Paul 'Macca' McCartney (Stella's dad), has announced his engagement to wealthy American heiress, Nancy Shevell; many people are sceptical as they think Macca is marrying her purely for her money. After his last disastrous marriage, Macca said he was looking for "a strong woman who can stand on her own two feet".

We Got Him!

Incredibly, some people do not accept he is dead. "Show us the photographic evidence", they clamour. Without seeing the photos a small band of fanatics will still believe their leader lives. "No, the corpse is in too gruesome a state", comes the reply, "this guy has clearly suffered a terrible drubbing and public disclosure would cause great distress". But now even his most dedicated followers admit that Nick Clegg is no more. Details are sketchy but Clegg has been accused of using interns as a human shield to protect him from attacks; he was also rumoured to have been naked apart from a proposal for reform of the House of Lords. His demise was greeted with joyful celebrations in some quarters. One celebrant, Mr Chris Huhne, declared: "We got him! This man ruined my life when he destroyed my career as the rightful leader of the Lib Dems. Now justice has been done."

You Say Osama, I Say Obama....

So, the Americans have finally killed that perpetrator of terrible violence, Henry Cooper. No, of course this is the news of the death of gangly, bearded Yankophobe, Osama bin Laden, the 'most wanted man in the world'. (the most wanted woman in the world is, apparently, Pippa Middleton). Osama was taken out in his retirement villa just before settling down to Loose Women, a programme which validates many of his views about Western civilisation. When the news broke crowds of drunken, bone-headed students congregated outside the White House, punching the air and chanting "U-S-A, U-S-A!" in that acutely annoying way they use whenever the US is deemed to have kicked some goddamn foreigner's ass. Many seemed to have mistaken an international event for a home score in Base Hockey, or whatever bloody silly game they play over there.

The media rose magnificently to the occasion. Sky News produced an American 'intelligence expert' who persistently referred to Osama as Obama, leading to nonsensical statements such as: "Obama had to take Obama out because Obama knew that if Obama organised another......" Obama's measured and eloquent announcement, thankfully lacking in triumphalism, was rightly praised; especially as one's mind inevitably turned to how his oafish predecessor, Dubya, would have announced the news:

PRESIDENT BUSH (swathed in the Stars and Stripes): "Yo! Whoa! Goddamn!......we got him, mission accomplified......U-S-A, U-S-A!.......folks, we killed that dude Saddam bin Laden in Afpakistania!.........there's an ole' Texas saying......."(throws his shoe at himself in excitement).

The Pakistani Government adopted the Arsene Wenger defence: "Sorry, mate, didn't see a thing....our view of Osama was obstructed by the referee". Osama was then buried according to sacred Muslim tradition by being volleyed into the sea. Following Osama's demise, the list of the most evil men in the world has had to be modified as follows:

1) Colonel Gaddafi
2) Nick Clegg
3) Phil Mitchell
4) Wayne Rooney
5) Andrew Marr
6) Justin Bieber
7) Alan Titchmarsh
8) Margaret Thatcher
9) Prince Andrew
10)Dave Lee Travis

Meanwhile, some troubling questions remain unanswered: what will Osama's death mean for house prices? Did Osama like Kate's dress? What news of Les Dennis? Hollywood is apparently already making a film of the event with Sir Ben Kingsley as Osama and Ross Kemp as Obama. Think I'd rather watch Loose Women......