Sunday 30 June 2013

Day 19 - The Hunt for Thorn

The self-appointed Grand Caliph of Little Tallyban and Greater Istanshire, Tey Thorn, has not been seen in public in four days. The International Jewish Conspiracy has no-one to plot against and the rebellious riff-raff have all decided to make good on their Village People personas. They are all pretending that they are gay  and have gone on a mass march to the village square in the hope of baiting the monster into saying something.  Partying and having fun has so far achieved nothing but sore lips, an exchange of body fluids and in a few cases, herpes.

As confidant who is privvy to his innermost thoughts (such as they are) I know where he is. He is in hospital being treated by the few remaining unjailed doctors with serviceable limbs who are being made to help their evil despot at gunpoint. Outside the ward I managed to grab a few quick words with one of the medics who had been treating him. He spoke on condition of confidentiality.

Anonymous doc : Mister Thorn was found on a street corner wearing a dress and barking at traffic. We are treating him for rabies and this may explain his behavior in recent weeks. Alas, medicines from the European Empire are not allowed anymore for religious reasons. So we are treating him in the old fashioned way with extremely painful injections through the wall of the abdomen and into the stomach with a six inch needle. We doctors had a lottery who would get the job and I got the short straw. It was fantastic!

Beside Mister Thorn's hospital bed is a picture of his recent trip to Germanshire which looks very similar to this but is not because this is a completely different universe.



Thorn: My wife and I went shopping with the leader of the European Empire. Mrs Ferkel and my wife got on like a house on fire. Oh! What happy memories.

Thursday 27 June 2013

Day 17 - Europe's Shame

Mr Thorn is in fine mood after the European Empire decided to ignore the 398 children from the local Brownie Pack that he now has locked up in a high security adult prison. Arrested on suspicion of terrorism these minors are now being looked after by sexual psychopaths. 

The members of the European Empire have decided to give Mr Thorn another chance to be a human being, the latest of many last chances that they have given him - each afraid that if they break ranks then the others will get the spoils .... 80 million consumers growing wealthier every day.

-The fools! the Grand Caliph of Little Tallyban and Istanshire declared over a breakfast of  bacon and eggs, fried in the body fat of barely alive doctors.

-I only have to show the slightest regret and the European Empire forgives me. This is typical of fathers in infidel families - they are weak like women. A good father -- and I am the father of my people -- a good father should beat his little children if they err. With sticks. And fill their eyes with tear gas so they cry. And yet be kind and forgiving, and bathe their bodies in water mixed medicinal pepper. I am the father of my people and they love me or must learn to love me. To refuse my love is to reject God for I am the Caliph and that is blasphemy and punishable by death.

-In the spirit of democracy I have renamed the village park in the children's honour. I now decree that it be called The Gassy Park.

-It's time for your meds now deary, sighs the nurse.

Monday 24 June 2013

Day 16 - Hot Women



The new Caliph of Little Tallyban on Sea and of all Istanshire is in a diplomatic mood and determined  to mend fences after yesterday's accidental declaration of war on the European Empire. At the suggestion of the vicars he is entertaining his shrink and myself  for breakfast.

-What do you think about this picture ? asks the shrink.
-Those women are hot! declares Mr. Thorn.

The psychiatrist frowns. He looks perplexed.

-So you do like to look at women in hotpants ? says the psych.

-NO YOU IDIOT! I am talking about the women in my new religious dress. They look both hot yet dignified. And let me tell you this. If they were to take over the Gassy Park they wouldn't flee  leaving a tent city for my police to smash up. They would simply stand up and take their tents with them.

Sunday 23 June 2013

Day 15 - Penguin in the Sky


The infidel astronomers  are teasing me with more of their propaganda. They claim that a galaxy shaped like a penguin has been discovered. I am a supernova about to explode. It is obviously photoshopped. I really must find and hire the artist responsible to enhance the crowd numbers in my political rally press pack photos.

Saturday 22 June 2013

Day 14 - A Declaration of War

Mr. Thorn is still in his Marlon Brando Kurtz Man-cave picking at the bowl of rice which is his breakfast. A grimy flunky dressed in ragged combat fatigues, with soot smeared on his face, brings bad news. 
Flunky: The chancellor of Germanshire Angela Merkel has  blocked any further talks on Istanshire joining the European Empire of Shires. And boy did she enjoy standing in front of the TV cameras to tell the world! 
Thorn gives his man a deathly stare and the flunky yelps with fear.
Flunky: Please do not impale my testicles again my Lord. You did after all command us to have three children. Mrs Merkel is of course disgraceful to deny us entrance to her exclusive infidel club. What shall we tell the world ?
Publisher: Now, none of the European Union of Shires' members are particularly enthusiastic about being members these days either but I kept this thought to myself for the sake of my future unborn children.
Thorn (whispering to the Flunky): We must kill them. We must incinerate them. Pig after pig... cow after cow... village after village... army after army...
Flunky: Shall I put that in my press release sir ?
With no answer from the Great Man the flunky scrapes his way out of the Marlon Brando man-cave and runs to his laptop to prepare the press release for the world's press. Thirty minutes and a napalm bombing scene on the 90-inch flatscreen later the flunky returns.
Flunky: Mrs Merkel has summoned our ambassador to Berlishire and has given him a bollocking - figuratively speaking of course my Pascha. Physical impalement of the bollock sack as a disciplinary measure is not as fashionable in Europe as it is here, sir. (cringe cringe).
Thorn: Then call her ambassador in here - and bring his head to me on a spike.
Thirty minutes pass as we watch a large animal being dismembered alive with a sword and my screen self, Willard, doing the same.
Flunky: My Pascha, his excellency the ambassador of Germanshire has issued a press release to tell us all to - and I quote - "fuck off and die you barbarians - with friendly greetings". 
And thus two great nations, or rather one big economically powerful one and a small US-funded banana republic stood one diplomatic rung below a declaration of war.
Stay transfixed for another episode of insanity with Thorn the Thicky-thick-thick.

Friday 21 June 2013

Day 13 - New Tourist Initiative

After tourist numbers to the shire plummet, Mr. Thorn, leader of the unfree world, orders a new advertising campaign. This is what the creative world of advertising came up with.

“Dear tourists, do not be afraid of coming to Istanshire! Here are some reasons you should come and visit this beautiful town of Little Tallyban, and Istanshire:

1) The whole country is one massive human art installation. There are thousands of people staring in silence at a building pretending to be penguins. The Governor has been doing a post-deconstruction comedy stand-up routine for weeks. He’s had the whole country in fits.

2) It’s full of surprises, a must for any great holiday. One minute the police are beating journalists, the next they’re giving Turkish baths.

3) It’s pretty empty so you’ll get a great deal. My advice would be the Divan Hotel – compassionate staff, beautiful location and excellent medical facilities although the number of doctors have dwindled in recent days.

4) It has the only park in the world that is completely open to the public but which you can’t enter.

5) The Gas Festival 2013 is getting rave reviews. The New York Post says “5* – after a muted reception  in previous years, this year’s event is being lapped up by the locals who just can’t get enough and keep coming back for more”.

7) Every night at 9pm, the world’s largest percussion orchestra performs An Opera for our Leader, a cacophonous medley generously sponsored by Tefal.

 
8)The government offers free tours of the shire all the way to the village square where you may see speeches by our great leader. If you’re planning to go anywhere else, you get free front-seat tickets to the Gas Festival.

9) There are great short-term employment opportunities. For example, there are many positions available for people to represent the inflation and compound annual growth rate lobbies. Bring down a government and get a tan all in the same week!

Thursday 20 June 2013

Day 12 - Colonel Kurtz and the Horror

Today Mr. Thorn has ordered his lackeys to don fancy dress.  Even I have been forced to wear battered military fatigues and a brightly colored silk bandanna around my head. Mr. Thorn has shaved his head and in his freshly constructed Colonel Kurtz man-cave he sits watching the DVD of Apocalypse Now on a 90″ plasma flat screen. His armed flunkies have painted black stripes on their faces and peer from the surrounding gloom. For some reason he insists on calling me Willard. Here is a clip to get you into the mood.




“Are you here to kill me….. Willard ?” asks the newly born “Kurtz”. I take my cue from the movie and say nothing as this is the role expected of me. “The ambassador from the United Shires is coming to see me today. He is bringing CIA to kill me. Are you CIA, too ?”

We are interrupted by a guard. ” Pascha, the ambassador is here.” After some back slapping and hand shaking the ambassador, a Mr Francis Liccyerbootsoni,  sits at Kurtz’s feet.

“Sir we have a few problems with your version of democracy.”

“The horror, the horror,” whispers Kurtz, dripping Uludag water on his head.

“You’ve been using acid additives in water cannons on innocent protesters and children….” says Mr. Ambassador

“Horrors that I have seen….” says Kurtz. “We are the hollow men.”

“Your police have beaten and teargassed demonstrators and bystanders….”

“The STRENGTH…… to do that…..” whispers Kurtz.

“Why on earth didn’t you use the real bullets we sent you ?” asks the ambassador.

Stay tuned for more episodes of Mr. Thorn’s insanity.

Wednesday 19 June 2013

Day 11 - Penguins for breakfast

Mr Thorn is in fine spirits after his latest games with the international media. Christiana Amapoorreporter of SEENoNews tweeted her disgust after fabricated stories appeared  in Istanshire's favorite comics, The Beano and The Dandy. The Beano and The Dandy are seen by millions of Mr. Thorn's followers because they can't afford to learn how to think. The comics claimed  she had confessed to being part of a shirewide conspiracy to take the piss out of Mr. Thorn and his band of gangsters, something she is plainly not guilty of since she is afraid of losing her special arse-licking relationship with Brad Orbarma, President of the United Shires, and the dinner parties for favored journalists at his home.

Breakfast

Today they are breakfasting on freshly harvested penguin eggs from the village petting zoo, boiled in the tears of the local children who were made to watch them being confiscated by Thorn's henchmen. Mr. Thorn is in upbeat mood:

I am very happy because Christiana Ammapoorreporter devoted her whole program to Syria. She had that General Wotsisname grandly talking about Syria and CIA sidearms and nothing about the 22 billion a year that Brad Orbarma of the United Shires stuffs into my pocket every year so that I will be his friend. What a journalist! I wish she would come and work for me and my newspapers.

Lunch

They are feasting on freshly skewered penguins that have then been killed and cooked in doctors' blood. A foreign journalist has been given five minutes to ask some questions. She asks him about his religious position on abortion.

Of course our religion is completely against abortion. But our holy book says nothing about post-natal abortion. We therefore have nothing against compulsory abortion for any riff raff of any age.

But what about the woman who lost her baby after your policemen pepper sprayed her in the face  at close range ?

That was unfortunate. Of course it was she that was being aborted and not her baby. We did not know she was pregnant. The lives of all children are sacred until they join the brownies and set up camp in my park. Then they are dog food.

What role will women play in the new world you are planning ?

That is a good question. It depends if they can cook.  It is the role of every woman to look after her man. It is also important for her to co-operate with his other wives. If she can't cook then she must be pretty and  good in bed. A harem is like a team of specialists.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's thrilling episode! If you can be arsed, you can sign up for a notifying email at the bottom of the page.

Tuesday 18 June 2013

Mr. Thorn meets his handpicked protesters - no real ones will talk to him.


Thorn says, These are the sort of people I need to represent the protest in Gezi Park!

Clockwise…..

In every town we should build ottoman military barracks.

We need opera buildings, a lot and as quickly as possible.

We should suffocate the protesters with cushions

We should turn the doctors into dog food

Death to all lawyers

Attack!

His wife says, darling, I wanted to say something.

Monday 17 June 2013

DAY 8 – DASTARDLY AND MUTTLEY

Publisher’s Note: Aaaaaaaaaaand another comedian joins the fray….

After yesterday’s victories over the rebellious riff-raff today is a power breakfast celebration with a galaxy of sycophantic advisers and the Governor of Istanshire who is being rewarded for his loyalty and his intelligence, two qualities which he unfortunately has in in vastly unequal amounts. So, Prick Bastardly and his faithful dog Muttley discuss the state of the shire.


Power Breakfast


I am apocalyptic with rage. That commie news channel Hak TV played my lovely penguin documentary instead of my televised speech to the unwashed at the annual village garden fete. I was relegated to a little box in the corner of the screen and my voice was obscured by the sound of penguins stealing from the mouths of other penguins’ babies.


For breakfast this morning we ate bread made with a special health giving flour created from the ground up bones of several newly double amputeed rebel doctors.


Mr. T’s personal chef arrives for his daily instructions. He is from Franceshire, a county famed for its flat tasting fizzy wine, smegma-like cheese and for toadying up to rich dictators. They also claim they can cook. 


Le Chef:  Foower thees lawnch we ‘ave the bab-eh-cued baby dolphin on le skewer, drowned een my favorite rouge wine.

Mr Thorn: Is that drowned as in cooked or drowned as in asphyxiated ?

Le Chef: Ahfteur eet ‘as been killed to death of course, mah Leurdd.

Mr T. I want it drowned in wine before as well. And I want to see video proof. With sound.

Le Chef: As you weesh mah Leurdd.


The two great men move on to the business of the last few days and reflect on both the events of the last few days and what got them into power.

Mr Thorn: About this acid you organised for the water cannons for the protesters. What was that excuse all about ? (At this point Mr T is giggling, holding up a newspaper, scarcely able to contain himself). You told ‘em it’s, and I quote, “medicine”. Couldn’t you have come up with something better than that ?

Vali the Governor:  It’s the best I could think of at the time. It is against our religion to lie and the medicine will indeed cure them of their will to throw our gas grenades back at us.  They are calling me Chemical Vali, like Saddam’s spokesman in Iraq, Chemical Ali. I am ashamed.

Mr T: With dumb excuses like that you should be. Well, looks like the proles swallowed your explanation.


The two statesmen move onto budget matters. Mr T. is in expansive, communicative mood.

Is that idiot Brad Orbarmy of the United Shires still paying us 22 billion dollars a year so he can  have those airbases that we never let him use in the Gulf War ? Fuck me. It’s Crassmas, Ramitin, Thanksgiving, the Assover and Festivus every month for us. Nearly 2 billion dollars a month to blow on what we please just for having his fucking airbases. We fund our entire fake economic miracle on his money and the shires of the world praise us for it. What a dickhead! What dickheads!! And let me tell you something even funnier. That David Macaroon, the prime minister of Ingerlanshire was sucking up to our European Union of Shires  minister yesterday, so we would accept even more of his development money. When the BBC journalists become my harem eunuchs I want David Macaroon as my Head of Harem. That man is prepared to travel any length of any anal canal to get what we want him to have.


Stay tuned for the next thrilling episodes from Istanshire.

Sunday 16 June 2013

Day 7 - THE PROVERBIAL POO HITS THE PROVERBIAL PROPELLER


Publisher’s note: The shire’s leader Mr. E. Thorn is under physical restraint after losing his marbles (again). We visit with him in his hospital bed surrounded by his devoted followers.

Breakfast

I always think that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. As I sit munching on my delicious infidel chockypops (drenched in milk stolen from the mouths of  thirty starving baby street kittens) I am watching the unexpurgated highlights of the shire’s last 24 hours. You see, everything went like clockwork. I gave a public speech to a massive crowd of paid supporters (thank you International Jewish Banking Conspiracy for footing that bill) and seriously annoyed just about everyone. My psychiatrist and my wife say that I have a talent for this. Alas none of my TV stations showed much of the mayhem that followed my brilliant speech last night due to self censorship. Which left me a bit high and dry for my morning entertainment. Thank God for YouTube which I recently unbanned for this purpose.

Let me tell you the story. It’s such a good one! The driver of one of my water cannon vehicles called me last night for permission to drench an infidel hospital located in the shire and I gave the go-ahead by direct telephone link. He pointed his water cannon through the doors and ejaculated it on the nurses and the doctors inside the building. After years of frustration I finally feel sexually fulfilled.

My speech to the party’s unwashed earlier that day as always centered on the gang rape of some old dears in a church by beer-swilling rebellious riff-raff. Such stories are always good for a laugh and are guaranteed to press a few religious buttons. I never let the truth get in the way of a good story and so in spite of the vicar’s denial of any of this taking place (the doomed idiot!) I am sticking to my guns. It’s a juicy story worthy of the Old Testament and somehow I had to justify the police actions that I had ordered should follow that very evening.

I AM A GOD! I am God incarnate! I am the God of the Old Testament! Last night I smited my enemies with my iron fists and cleansed the village streets. And the gay men posing as doctors treating the allegedly injured have been arrested for their perverted activities.

Publisher: I think you mean ‘smote my enemies’, sir.

Thorn: Then I smoted my enemies!

Publisher: Ok, smoted, whatever. Mr. Thorn suddenly screamed hideously and then fell into a deep and peaceful sleep that lasted until…

Lunch.

My powers now know no bounds. The chicken shit BeeBeeSee from Ingerlanshire are so in awe of me that they described last night’s carnage on the streets across the shire as a ‘night of unrest’. When I am made sultan of all the shires I will have harem eunuchs to surround me and they will all be foreign correspondents harvested from the BeeBeeSee. Think about it. No medical bills. They already come castrated and lacking in their manly parts. And they already know how to take it up chuff.

Dinner.

I am about to ban those twittering birds. They are a social menace and I can’t take those voices in my head anymore. (Pause for more meds to be administered). Twitter is a social menace and will be blocked forthwith. It will be replaced by my new service, TurkTwat. I am its first member and all the populace along with my secret police will be signed up compulsorily to TurkTwat. It’s a great feeling to be cool. I will now be a twat!

Publisher: Sir, even better, since you are its great leader, your tag should be @GreatTwat because you are a great twat..

Thorn: Yes, I am a great twat!

On a more serious note, take care if you are in Istanshire tonight. The bullets flying won’t be rubber and the poo is about to hit the propeller. If you are outside Istanshire then you can do a google search for ‘live feed dha’ or ‘live feed reuter’ or tune to the channel DHA FEED on that satellite at 42 degrees East.

Saturday 15 June 2013

Day 6

Breakfast

My darling wife Misses T. is back from her shopping spree in Paris and is now where she belongs — in the kitchen. And although I am glad that she didn’t blow all the 750 million on loan from the International Jewish Banking Conspiracy on clothes as I had feared, the sound of her newly fitted ankle chains and shackles is really beginning to annoy me. The village bank manager who gave her the new credit card shortly before she swanned off to the gay capital of the world has now been retired and is spending an infinite amount of time with his freshly dead family — in the graveyard.

My psychiatrist has prescribed a new course of psych meds and a heavy duty course of antibiotics so that I may be released to continue God’s work. However, the ‘me’ you saw on the TV last night – a mere shadow of my all-powerful all-seeing self — was a body double following a party script, all kind and conciliatory. The local vicars assure me that this is only a temporary measure to keep the unwashed off the streets until my riot police have had some decent kip. Then  I can wind everyone up again and we can go to battle once more.

I see the doctors are complaining that I object to them healing the sick and wounded. Of course I bloody do! Those traitors are ruining all my good work. Hypocritical oath my arse! I’m the only one who is allowed to be a hypocrite around here. What is the bloody point of being (democratically elected) Supreme Being if you can’t do a little spiteful smiting like the good Lord does in the Old Testaments of all of the great world religions. My word! the Old Testament is a bloody good read! Incest, sacrificing children, cannibalism, sodomy, mass slaughters and offering daughters up to the crowd for rape instead of the son. Fantastic stuff. Who needs Hollywood? This is why we need new Faith Schools to be built right across the shires.

Lunch.

I dined heartily on kippered baby hamsters freshly picked from the cages of the local Brownie Pack that has been such a pain in my side in recent days. During the meal I was interviewed by a Japanese film crew who seemed to have an obsession with my sex life. After my spell in jail on completely fictitious animal molestation charges Mrs T and I had agreed that perhaps it was time that our marriage became more spiritual. So the questions from these Japanese journalists about my sexual dysfunction really got on my nerves. And how did they know? Who told them? They just kept asking me again and again, “When will be your next erection?”  I got thoroughly confused but Mrs T laughed helpfully and chipped in from her new bed of straw next to the cooker, “Not in this lifetime.” 

Friday 14 June 2013

Day 5

Publisher's Note: Mr. Thorn's gag was removed by his psychiatrist so that I could interview him for today's blog. His straitjacket, however, remained in place.

Brekkie

I am apoplectic with rage. My party members came with doctors last night and removed me from my bed before taking me to a special hospital ward for what they call observation. My wife, with whom I usually have breakfast, has sent me a postcard from Paris telling me that she is enjoying her spending spree with the 750 million I borrowed from the International Jewish Banking Conspiracy. She says she has ordered a three room extension to be built on our government villa in Paris so that she can store her new clothes and shoes.

I was informed earlier this morning by my recently put-to-death adviser that my doctors across my shire have been taking to the streets to help with the handful of people slightly injured during friendly embraces and cuddles with my policemen. What on earth possessed them to help this riff raff ? After my public criticism they too have taken to the streets in their white coats, stethoscopes and surgical masks although it's difficult to tell them apart from the other riff raff as everyone seems to be wearing fancy dress masks and Village People's hats these days.

Lunch.

Today I dined on half a dozen raw baby turtles - sushi style. The only way to tell if something is really fresh is if it is still wriggling on the plate. My two daughters in the United Shires of Orbama who are under the protection of its leader are completing their university education there since most of the professors here are criminals and in jail. They called me to wish me well and asked if they could have some of the pocket money I gave to their mama before she left for Paris.

Dinner.

None of the terrorists in the Brownie Pack will negotiate with me and they call me The Gasbag. So I have arranged another tedious meeting with the local theatrical society so that they may bask in my reflected glory and I will at least give the appearance of negotiating before I clean the village square and park of the vermin.

Day 4

On the throne.

One of my great pleasures in life is issuing life or death decrees while on my morning throne. One day, when the Caliphate is finally established, and it is written in my holy book that it will be so, I will get the parish council to shell out for a proper one, bedecked in jewels – saphires, emeralds and smelling of holy herbs like gold and Frankenstein.

An infidel writer has approached me and begged that I deign to share my innermost thoughts and feelings with the shires beyond our heavily armed borders. He said everything I say and do is comedy gold. What a compliment!

Lunch.

I have returned from my state hospital hobbling with my foot in bandages after a shooting accident.  The maid annoyed me by refusing a reasonable request and so I took a potshot at her. I’ll have to wipe my own arse from now on (sigh). You just can’t get the staff anymore. The doctor said that if I shoot myself in the foot just one more time then no one will take me seriously anymore. I’d get someone in to fix the bullet holes in the toilet door but they are all either in jail, the hospital or in my police force.

Day 3

Breakfast. 

”I am confused,” I declared as I tucked in to my breakfast. Mrs T nodded and smiled one of her Mona Lisa smiles.

“Why is the entire population of my county walking around looking like the homosexual infidel pop group The Village People ?”

No answer. Just a sigh.

“My people are all walking around in building site hard hats and wearing tool belts,” I declared. “And they are wearing surgical masks. One is a worker and one is a doctor. The two uniforms don’t even match. Is this some sort of new mix and match fashion?”

“Yes and they are inspired by you dear,” she said.

Lunchtime. 

I have told my newly formed TV News Watchdog to fine all these new TV stations for showing the disturbing pictures of my policemen beating the crap out of demonstrators to young people.   These journalists have corrupted the development of our youth and now they must pay. I have issued a decree to my newly founded defense research team to find a way of destroying the infidel satellites that are responsible for this blasphemy. My station, SEE-NN, showed my penguin documentary as instructed so they are exempt from any fine.

Afternoon Chai.

Bwa-haha! My influence reaches out far beyond my county’s borders. Even the all-powerful infidels at the BeeBeeSee in the far away county of Ingerlanshire are running chicken-shit. My press officers have advised them that if they mention even once the full name of that cultural center in the village square then I will order the arrest of their crews and cut off their man-parts, as is advised in our religion. Actually I think the BeeBeeSee’s reporters lost their man parts a long time ago.

Dinner Time. 

I dined on deliciously boiled puppies served with garlic. I have spent the last two hours talking to the protesters’ negotiators, whom I appointed, and who (I am so clever) have nothing to do with the protests themselves and who had sat at home watching it all on TV. I have promised them a referendum in which the entire population of the village (but not the shire) will vote only yes on the following question:

Should the nameless crappy cultural center (which everyone should forget) be knocked down and the village square be turned into a beautiful military barracks ?

What’s not to like ?

Bedtime.

An infidel journalist has compared me to Adolf Hitler.  There are huge differences between Adolf Hitler and myself.

1) Adolf Hitler wrote Mein Kampf in his prison cell. I wrote a poem about sheep.

2) Afterwards, Hitler founded the extremist  Nazi party.  I founded my liberal party, the APK.

3) Hitler only gassed the Jews. I gas everyone.

4) Hitler’s brown shirts brutalized opponents. My men brutalize everyone.

5)Hitler built a network of excellent roads. My shire only has pot holes.

Journalists are idiots. They will say anything for a story.

Publisher’s note: Stay tuned for another thrilling episode!

Day 2

3 am. 

I am boiling with fury. I can’t sleep because of the racket coming from those bloody kids in the park. Due to their disgusting behavior I have issued a religious decree banning any public displays of affection. Anyone breaking the new ban will be beaten to death on the spot as it was written by our great prophet — me. My advisors quickly pointed out that it is still illegal under civil law to beat anyone to death even if it is by my decree. What a drag!  So I then issued another decree banning the ban on beating people to death and then had my advisers beaten to death on the village green as a message to anyone in the future who comes to me with bad advice.

4 am. 

Here I am, counting sheep, trying to sleep. Ah, those sheep. My psychiatrist said I should avoid all thoughts of sheep to prevent the return of what he calls a fatal relapse of my ‘condition’ that left me in a jail cell.

Breakfast.

The dead bodies of my advisors have been cleared from the village green and I am breakfasting heartily while viewing the videos. Mrs T sitting opposite me peered briefly over her women’s porn magazine, Burkini Weekly, to inform me that my public  image needs an upgrade.

“You need to trim your mustache, Rey,” she said.

“I already do that!” I retorted.

“Your mustache is too modern and too grey,” she said. “You need to get rid of about two inches from either side and dye the remainder black. It’s more traditional,” she added.

“But then all I will be left with is a little black square under my nose,” I said, rather confused at this juncture. She smiled and whispered, “Exactly,” and then returned to her magazine in which several pages were mysteriously stuck together.

Shortly after breakfast I pondered on the state of security in my empire. I issued a decree ordering all the unemployed males under the age of 25 to be drafted into my new police force at once. I also reflected on my genius in jailing all the local Territorial Army officers last year for plotting to overthrow me at the village fete. They are all now in ‘investigative custody’ and they will only be released when they are old and decrepit. Actually, we do still have an independent judiciary here in Little Tallyban but he’s either propping up the bar at the Wig and Pizzle or on semi-permanent holiday at his government villa in Majorca. Until his return I have filled the empty magistrate positions with my friends from the local congregations.

Lunchtime. 

I am worried that my plan to hold the annual fete in the village square is going to be spoiled by that ungrateful riff raff who have made it their home. The idiots even relish the label riff raff. So I have issued a decree that the Brownie Pack be removed from my park and have sent in my new police recruits to educate them.  The townsfolk who have been frolicking in the fountains have been given free trips to the town’s emergency casualty clinic via ambulance. I haven’t charged them for the trip.

Afternoon chai.

Those bloody vicars are bitching about me finally giving them what I promised ten years ago – a county-wide Caliphate.  I’m more worried about the  village fete  in the square next weekend. The congregations are all moaning about the inconvenience of getting there and why I have ordered them to come. I’m PAYING them all to bloody well turn up. What more do they want? We can make up the rest of the numbers for the press kit with photoshop.

An hour later: Bloody hell. The accountant has phoned me and said we’ve run out of money because we have most of the inhabitants on the police payroll. I have borrowed 750 million from the Jewish Conspiracy to tide things over. What a bummer.

Dinnertime: 

After dining on six roasted and lightly killed  baby kittens (prepared in that order) I decreed that my local TV station should show my favorite documentary about penguins this evening. Who wants to see adolescents and children being manhandled by riot police ? I certainly don’t. And I don’t think the public should either.

Day 1


Breakfast

I am livid. The local brownie pack has taken over the park and they are selling lemonade and  homemade cakes.  The sixth form from the local school has started a rock festival in the village square and they are having a love-in. The tree huggers have stopped my workers from building my shopping center and have even cleared the pigeon shit off the war memorials. Don’t they know what danger they are in ? Thugs with sticks could come and beat them over the head or set fire to their tents. Now that’s an idea!

Elevenses: Some bitch was whining in the local free newspaper (which up until now I thought I controlled) that my political party abused the last electoral process by bussing in mental defectives, the clinically insane and old people with senile dementia to vote. What is this stupid cow complaining about ? They have a right to vote just like everyone else. All we did was give them a little help and showed them where to write the cross on the ballot paper.  If the villagers stopped having sex with their relatives then none of this would have happened.

Afternoon Chai. I have met with the local vicars and they have demanded that I finally deliver the religious government that I promised them in exchange for the votes of their congregation some ten years ago when I was in jail on totally unfounded animal molestation charges.

Dinner time. 

I have issued a decree that the new shopping center idea be abandoned and that instead a barracks should be built  - a memorial to the last bastion of the revolution against that old soak whose name I shall not ever mention. That’ll show ‘em! With that I have proved that I am a flexible and a listening politician. Mrs T. is livid and has gone to bed with one of her headaches.

Supper: I have discovered who is behind the protests! It is an international conspiracy of Jewish bankers and their speculators. It’s enough to drive one to drink. I know it’s wrong and sinful but in such times, as leader of the village, I feel that sometimes I have the right to a glass of the hard stuff.

Five minutes later 

Shit! The bottle is empty. Mrs T has been tippling again. I have banned the sale of alcohol after dark and the local off licence is closed.  How am I going to cure my shakes now?

Ground Zero

DAY 0

Breakfast

It is another beautiful day in the village of Little Tallyban and I awoke looking forward to a hearty breakfast. And then things started going downhill. The smell of burning pork was wafting on the breeze from one of the local hotels (which I plan to close) and although I know it is a mortal sin I found myself wondering what it would taste like. Just one taste of the infidel delicacy. And then to pray for forgiveness, of course. Privately.

Those infernal birds in that dreadful little park near the village square were tweeting my name. My psychiatrist has told me to ignore such twitterings and has given me some medicine. I will go further – I will ignore both birds and the villagers alike. The little people just need to be told what to do. That’s what they voted for and that’s what they are going to get. Now, where was I? Oh yes.That bloody park with the tweeters. And there in the middle is that building to commemorate that drunken war hero whose name will never cross my lips. Why is it that so many of these old crocks that people hold in such high esteem were alcoholics? The unholy infidel Winston Churchill (may the pigeons take a dump on his memory) drank brandy for breakfast and Benjamin Franklin was a wino.  That is why he invented spectacles. To get over the blindness that God struck him with for drinking that unholy fermentation. Even the sponsor of our economic miracle, Brad Orbarma, likes to drink that poisonous piss water the unbelievers call Kronenburg. (In fact, many infidels also think that Kronenburg is piss.) And what did these famous men ever do for Mankind ? In contrast to them I am expecting to receive an honory doctorate from a college in one of our neighboring redneck villages for services to human rights. Everybody loves me and I see it in their eyes every day. That look when I lose my temper and they pretend to cower in the corner. In their eyes I can see that they love me. Where was I ? Oh yes. The infidel bacon. Sizzling and wafting through my bedroom like a temptation from God.

I will remain pure, I have decided today. I have issued a public decree (for my word is law) that Ayran, which is yogurt mixed with salt and water, shall be our village’s ‘national’ drink, so to speak and will be served in all bars and restaurants. I think it tastes like sheep’s semen. Not that I know about the taste of sheep’s semen.  But if it did, I have often speculated in bed, often in the dead of night when Mrs Thorn is asleep with one of her many headaches, then it would taste like delicious Ayran. Sex with animals is forbidden under the new village religion that I am introducing by decree. Why a religion would need to ban men (or women if the websites I visit are really true) from having sex with animals I do not know. My ban on sex with women unless they are related seems perfectly fine to me. Marriage is also an option if men want a shag with something human and non-sheeplike. The new village religion is soon to be compulsory as is the veil, and so no-one will know what an ugly dog your wife is anyway! Brilliant! My wife has had so many facelifts that she barely recognises herself in the mirror. Vanity is a sin in our new religion but her face lifts were for medical reasons. She kept tripping over her jowls.

Where was I ? Sheep. Forbidden. The people need direction. And so do I, at least that is what my psychiatrist says. Anyway, anyone drinking alcohol will be punished and beaten in the recently restored stocks that I wish to erect outside one of the many new village churches. The local vicars, of which we have many, have assured me that the townfolk need direction from their mayor. So I am really looking forward to the first floggings which will be televised on the village’s own TV station, of which I am the majority shareholder. I don’t have any shares at all. I just have control over those that do. I will so fire their arses if they put just one foot out of line. Well if you don’t drink or have sex with people you have to have some vices. And mine is power. Raw power. I have been mayor for ten years now and people young and old love me like, well, (may God forgive me) like Him.

Over breakfast I issued a decree over the phone to demolish the war memorials, tear down those trees (that will teach those tweeting bastards a lesson) and to start planning a shopping center for Mrs Thorn so she can add to her shoe collection and buy more make-up. And a DIY shop for the new trowel she needs to apply it with.

Evening.

Those little shits have taken over my park!

Night

I have ordered the village police to humanely beat the crap out of them and torch the place and this they did. But more of the villagers came and replaced them and they have even started a pop festival in the village square. I am in a blind fury and will probably need to beat the cat again. Where is my medication ? It says on the bottle that it may cause psychosis. What nonsense! I have never felt better.

Stay tuned for tomorrow’s installment of the unpublished diaries of Mr. Thorn.