Wedding Balls

The baroque grandeur and moral authority of the Roman Catholic Church has been somewhat diminished of late by the appalling child sex abuse scandal; a scandal that destroyed thousands of innocent lives and caused terrible mental and physical anguish to its victims. This anguish was compounded by the reaction of the Catholic hierarchy to these allegations: obfuscation, dilatoriness, cover-ups, and outright denial were deemed the appropriate response to these criminal acts by some of their priests. Most people would agree that such abuse represents a stark example of a grotesque subversion of a universally accepted human right.

Of course, many Catholics were shocked and disgusted by these acts of betrayal, just as the vast majority of Muslims are shocked and disgusted by the murderous acts committed by jihadi extremists in the name of their religion. The Church hierarchy did finally issue a laughably belated apology, extracted through their teeth with red-hot pincers and the use of the rack......oh sorry, that was how the Church used to extract confessions from its enemies. Anyway, one would have thought that a period of quiet repentance and heartfelt humility - all traditional religious values - would have gone some way to repairing its tarnished image.

But lo! from the icy land of the Scotsmen there comes forth a voice in the wilderness by the name of Cardinal Keith O'Brien (former lead singer of The Prodigy), who is none other than Britain's senior Catholic. This visionary prophet, in a fiery sermon in the Sunday Telegraph, declares that two people who are in love getting married is, in fact, "a grotesque subversion of a universally accepted human right." Now, these two people, in the scenario he is alluding to, would be two men or two women: Dave 'Boy' Cameron is reportedly strongly in favour of legalising same-sex marriages.


O'Brien: "Hmmm, this feels like a gay head to me"

O'Brien is, of course, perfectly entitled to his voicing his objections and his views are unsurprising, if expressed in unnecessarily extreme terms. O'Brien raves on:

"it is clear that this proposal is not about rights, but rather is an attempt to redefine marriage for the whole of society at the behest of a small minority of activists".

Now, I may be wrong, but I was under the impression that Catholics are also a minority in this country; in fact, practising Christians are a minority. O'Brien is effectively accusing his opponents of the same tactics thhat he is employing so that argument won't wash. Also, O'Brien himself says that marriage is a "universal human right". If it's universal then it applies to every human being, whatever their sexuality. Any attempt to limit marriage to a man and a woman would therefore limit its universality so O'Brien is the one attempting to subvert it not its supporters.

I happen to think that same-sex marriage represents a welcome extension of an accepted human right to make it truly universal. To me, the fact that the people concerned are in love and want to marry is enough; their gender is irrelevant. I cannot believe that heterosexual mariage will be undermined by this extension:

"Morning, our lass, I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you. The wedding's off - I've decided to marry Big Larry from the Dog & Duck just because I can".

Can't really see that happening. Mind you, I expect gay weddings would be far more fun than heterosexual weddings, with better dresses and far more flowers.

This intervention comes hot on the heels of a number of public figures complaining that religious people are under the cosh from rampant and brutal atheists/secularists (Professor Richard Dawkins mainly). Baroness Warsi, co-chair of the Conservative Party, recently warned, in a speech at the Vatican (go to Narnia and turn left), that British society was under threat from a wave of "militant secularists." She was moved to say this after 20 Christians were burnt at the stake at Smithfield. Once again, that was how "militant Christianity" used to behave - not quite the same level of severity, is it?


Militant secularist leads Warsi to her gruesome fate at the stake

MANCHESTER FLOODED WITH 'TORY IMMIGRANTS'

The people of Manchester have reacted with shock and alarm to a sudden influx of Tory immigrants from the Home Counties. Many of the Tories are believed to have made the arduous and potentially fatal 36 hour journey to Manchester on what is known as the 'Virgin Express', a secretive organisation run by The Bearded One, who is said to live in a hot air balloon. Many of them would have paid vast sums of money to travel on this route, enduring squalid, overcrowded and insanitary conditions. "It was perfectly ghastly", said one Tory, "there were 40 of us crammed into this container with no pheasant pie or Evian."


(Two of the Tory immigrants caught braying nonsense in Manchester)

In Manchester, the Tories are said to have isolated themselves in their own ghetto. One local said, "these Tories make no attempt to integrate with the local community. They keep to themselves, braying in their own strange language about "bringing back matron" and "hanging's too good for them", and they all seem to be called Sebastian or Rupert". Another said, "they come up here, getting rid of all our jobs and cutting our benefits. If it wasn't for the Human Rights Act, we could deport them all back to Maidenhead or Basingstoke where they belong. Surely we have a right not to be tortured by their terrible speeches and shiny faces?". It has even been suggested that the Tories have taken the dirty jobs which most Mancunians are not prepared to do, such as Secretary of State for Defence. It is believed many of the Tories may return to their homeland later in the week as supplies of champagne are said to be running low.

Meanwhile, the actress Amanda 'Foxy' Knoxy has received a much-needed boost to her career. After her recent starring role in the courtroom drama, 'Guilty As Hell', the homicidal temptress has caught the eye of raddled crooner and pornographer, Silvio Berlusconi.


(Knox Fox shows her delight at Berlusconi's offer)

Mr Berlusconi, 102, is believed to want ex-Charlie's Angel Knoxy to stay in Italy and become his Minister for No Justice. "I like a chick who can get away with murder. She reminds me of me and I wanna her in my bunga bunga parties.....I mean, government. Whatta mistaka to make."


(Berlusconi - "Hey, bambina, come to Uncle Silvio")

Germ Warfare

Across Europe people have been falling ill, tragically even dying, from this virulent and highly infectious illness. Symptoms include violent and copious vomiting; tsunamic diarrhoea; feelings of severe nausea, dizziness and lassitude; feverish sweating; brain cramps; and monomaniacal obsession with a particular person. Scientists are baffled, health experts stumped - just what has caused this outbreak of exponentially multiplying stories about Cheryl E. Coli? One suggestion is that a bacterium called Simonia Cowellensis is the microscopic organism to blame. This is an extremely toxic and terrifyingly ubiquitous germ which has the capacity to ravage human beings, robbing them not only of their physical health, but totally destroying their ability to think rationally. If the infection is not treated immediately, the victim becomes a gibbering wreck, robbed of all dignity and self-respect. Toxicologists have advised people to take the following steps if they want to avoid this lethal disease:

1) Avoid reading Daily Mirror/The Sun/Daily Star and, if you read one accidentally, disinfect your entire body afterwards;
2) Do not, under any circumstances, watch ITV. Simonia Cowellensis finds this barren, sterile environment ideal for breeding;
3) Always wash radishes.


(Enlarged photo of foul, pestilential virus, Simonia Cowellensis)

Speaking of harmful and unpleasant germs that need eradicating quickly, David Cameron MP has today unveiled his 'five guarantees' for the future of the NHS. Cameron, looking suave in a top hat, monocle and a Jimmy Choo negligee, vowed that:

1) Hospital waiting lists will be kept entirely for the poor;
2) Eugenics will be introduced free at the point of use for anybody who works for a public service;
3) The NHS will remain a free, universal service (except for those who cannot access it or afford it);
4) Local GPs will be handed an enormous amount of money so that they can ensure their bank accounts remain fit, healthy and their only concern. Any services that interfere with this noble aim will be discontinued;
5) Hospitals will be renamed morgues to reassure people that the NHS will remain safe in Conservative hands.


(Cameron: "I say, old bean, the poor really do stink, what?")

Hairy Story

The Libyan imbroglio continues with British Apache helicopters being deployed in action for the first time. The helicopters instantly proved their lethality by destroying a cement mixer and the Tripoli branch of Clinton's Cards. On the same day, a member of Britain's feared SAS (Silly Arse Squadron), Lieutenant William Hague, owner of slightly less hair than a helicopter, parachuted under cover of broad daylight into rebel-held Benghazi. Billy of Benghazi, as nobody will call him, held talks on the conflict with the motley crowd of rebels but 'Mad Dog' Gaddafi was not best pleased. In a short 8 hour rant, Gaddafi first of all called for Admiral Hague to be evicted from Libya as he could not understand his 'incomprehensible accent':

"Is this silly little bald man a Geordie? I cannot understand a word he say - what is this 'ee ba gum' of which he speaks?.......Hague should not visit Benghazi as is city run by armed criminal gangs who spend whole day driving around shooting their weapons. Law and order has broken down completely. It is equivalent of me making visit to Manchester or Liverpool."

It is understood the rebels would like to position General Hague so the blazing North African sun reflects off his ridiculously shiny Tory head into the eyes of the oncoming Gaddafi forces.


(Legendary British commando Private Hague, code name 'Stupid Boy')

Hague's visit got his dander up and he immediately commandeered a Spitfire and flew straight to Germany where he crash-landed on a cucumber farm. Hague leapt from the cockpit and began to frenziedly gnaw and masticate upon the humble yet possibly fatal fruit. His jaw was a blur of activity as his right-wing teeth sliced through the epidermis and the fleshy, pulpy innards. He was last seen standing like the Statue of Liberty, half-eaten cucumber in his outstretched arm, humming the 'Dambusters' theme music.

Another hero, Wazza Rooney, has taken steps to cure himself of incipient baldness by having a hair transplant. Rooney tweeted the glad tidings: "Just to confirm to all my followers I have had a hair transplant. I was going bald at 25 why not?" There was a slight delay at the start of the operation when the surgeon, Dr Kojak Goodhew, was unable to distinguish between the front and back of Rooney's head. His head was said to be 'bruised and swollen', but what it was like after the operation is unclear.


(Rooney: "I'm well made up with me follicle unit transplantation.")

His betrayed wife, Coleen, tweeted that she was "pleased for him and it will look great", thereby revealing that she refers to her beloved adulterer as 'it'.

Entertainment news - The powerful music mogul, Barry Porpoise, the man behind the highly successful talent show, The Cleethorpes Factor, has had to drop one of the most popular judges, Bessie Clawhammer, due to her Geordie accent being impenetrable to the people of that opulent resort. Comments such as "Why aye man, you remind us of a young Raoul Moat, canny lad" and "Listen, pet, you haven't got the vocal range of James Bolam yet" have not gone down well. The talent show, held every year in the Cleethorpes Cheese Emporium, is one of North-East Lincolnshire's hottest tourist attractions (ahead of Mablethorpe's 'So You Think You Can Inbreed'), even though it is an updated version of Opportunity Knocks, with added pointless screaming and deeply tedious and unending publicity. Porpoise is believed to be concentrating on his other gaudy end-of-the-pier show, Wigan's Got Talent, fronted by the desperate dwarves, Not-Funny and Even-Unfunnier.

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.