Despite having been made to go through several legal hoops, Graham is pleased about being the first man granted a free knobendoplasty under the NHS earlier today, Stoke Hospital.

What is wrong with the young women of today?  Not content with pretending to ‘lez it up a bit’, in the clubs up and down the country, to gain attention, now they want to augment their fun-bags.  Fifteen million of them, in this country alone said, they would have breast implants if they were free.   Well, I’d have a knobendoplasty if it was buckshee but it doesn’t mean I should.   But it’s funny how something that is  advertised as ‘free’, on a website involving women, always seems to come at price.  I watched a documentary last week, and felt I should pass on my findings…

So, how do you acquire a new set of ‘puppies’ without paying for them with your cash?  Well I’ll tell you, you wait until two young Americans (hereby known as – the slugs) open a business called, ‘get a mug to pay for it.com’ .  You join up, as do a lot of benefactors (hereby known as – the mugs.  The ladies then befriend them, and place pictures of themselves, fully clothed, in their profile and then the cyber begging begins.

When the ‘bait’ realises they’ve only made thruppence in four months, they then start getting a little more adventurous with the photos in their profile.  And it’s a this point that they realise, the more clothes they take off, the more money they make.  So far, my research has bottomed out looking for a similar site for men, which is a shame really, as I think I could do with a new set of testicles.  Three of my original five have worn out, but that’s what happens when you have children.

‘Doris’ one’, a blonde blue-eyed bint from London, was more than a little annoying in her attitude towards ripping off the general public.  “Oooh I’m such a flirt I am,” she said, acting like a school girl.  And really that’s all she had to say about herself.  Silly cow, she had the brains of a duck and the morals of a weasel.  And wait until you here what her partner had to say about the money-grabbing situation.  “Well, I fink it’s great, I take all her photos me, and some with her mate too while their washin’ the car.   It’s ‘ard to afford stuff I mean, she workin’, I’m workin’ and we gotta a the mortgage and everyfing.”  [butcher’s back-slang] What a T-NUC!!!  Actually, make that a pair.

Anyway, let’s take a look at a punter.  He felt good about handing over his cash.  “It’s a bit of a hobby,” he  mumbled,  making no eye contact with the camera, and covering part of his mouth.  Well I wouldn’t call having 4,000 images on his p/c was a hobby, me thinks he’s probably visits the potting shed six times a day!  And, bloody and, would you use your student loan to pay for this hobby?  The words, much intercourse (slang) and idiot, sprang to mind.   “I’m shy, but I can say things to these girls that I wouldn’t usually say to other women.”  Really!

‘Doris’ two, was a tad more clued up bless ‘er, she’d only made ten bob after four years on this confidence-building site,  because she wasn”t prepared to get her kit off at the behest of the pervy benefactors.  “It’s nothing more than prostitution,” she said.  One caring, sharing slug remarked, “We provide a great service, and our community are happy.”  Slug two chipped in with, “It’s a great charity, and we don’t listen to people like that.”  And here is why, I believe.   The stats are thus: there are 5,000 breast-hunters on the site, and 50,000 benefactors.  The site makes between five and $10,000 a day.  Now – who do you feel the most sorry for?  Who would you like to slap the most?  And above all, who would you most like to give their money back too?  Nuff said…

Just remember…  People with stones shouldn’t live in a greenhouse.

Now, you might think if a company was looking for fossil fuel, they would employ a person who knew what was under the ground before any drilling took place.  Little things like, how far down the earth’s crust might be, for example.   Someone with the qualifications to ‘dig about a bit’, and charge the going rate for such a job.  I mean, you wouldn’t hire a plank to cut a few corners just save the company a few bob, now would you?

In 2006 geologist B was hired by a firm to have a ‘shufty about’, and to be fair, he was up against from day one.  For a start the gas company picked Indonesia, the most volcanic country in the world, for the exploratory bore holes to be drilled.  Now, even as a layman, I would’ve thought that this was a very, very silly place to start rooting around with a bunch pipes and a drill head.  Watford, on the other hand, would’ve been a much safer bet I feel.   I realise, of course, that everyone has a bad day now and again, but here’s how things go when a geologist has an off day.

After a lock-in at the ‘Slapper’s Rest’, the arse with the theodolite and ground samples, took his findings to the drilling crew and said, “I.. luv ya… yor like faaaaaamily to me, aim the drill malarkey about… there son, no probs.”  So they did.  All was ‘cool’ until they reached the 3,000 ft mark, or 0.568.181 of a mile to you and me.   Well, bloody well, as you might imagine, little or nothing happened almost  immediately straight away, so they downed tools, and went for a tea break at Burt’s House of Lard.

Before they left the site, they withdrew the drill, and a short time later the pressure dropped in the well.  The knock-on effect caused a whole heap of water to be sucked in, and then the rocks surrounding the bore hole began to fracture.   What was cold H2O,  from the surrounding water table, had now been super-heated by a lava flow from below.  Buckets and buckets of steamy stuff then mixed with layers of mud stone, and then the whole bloody lot shot to the surface.  The locals weren’t best pleased.  One member of the town began writing a letter of complaint immediately, but sadly he couldn’t finish it, as all of his office equipment and his house were buried in mud up to the roof!

This man made eruption is still erupting, four years after the event,  and it’s all thanks to the pillock who got his sums wrong.   At the moment it’s spewing out enough mud to fill 40 Olympic sized swimming pools a day!  They tried lobbing concrete block at the problem but it was to little to late.  After managing to displace 30,000 people, and bury 10,000 home under a sea of mud, geologist B is currently working as a shelf-stacker in Lidl’s.

Right, I’m off.  I’ve got free tickets to see a new martial arts film called, Crouching Mongoose – Farting Hippo…

Now, I don’t know about you, but I have a hatred of TV ads.  Not all of them, just the very, very annoying ones.  Moon pig for example, arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh.  Saints preserve us!  Who ever wrote it, sang it, filmed it or even made the tea for the twatoid that came up with the idea for it, should be hung drawn and quartered, and then tortured and then slapped a about a bit too.  Perhaps it’s because I’m a little older, and may have reached the ‘old git’ stage of my life, but I don’t think so.  You see, back in the days when the whole world was in black and white, even the snooker, the time allotted for advertisements was set at the three minute mark.  Miss time your viewing today, and you’ll be in line for 300 seconds of rip-roaring inane banter, and signature tunes that you won’t be able to shift from your mind.

So there I was sitting in the traditional breakfast eating position; feet up, plate under chin, with the ‘buttons’ to the left of me – or so I thought.  I’d just taken a bite out of my first crumpet when a verruca the size of a manhole cover filled the whole screen.  I immediately reached for the remote only to discover, (shock-horror-gasp), it was missing!  So I waited, believing, hoping the next break would bring something more palatable to look at.  Did it?  Nope, it was a cheery lady explaining the benefits of earwax dispersal, and this was swiftly followed by an ad showing how easy it was to remove your unwanted nasal hair!  Wart and blackhead creams were the next delicacies on the menu, and did you know you can shift all of your excess mucus, quickly and easily, with, Burton’s all new ‘Lung Scrape’ expectorant? 

And just when I thought the whole ghastly episode was over, it started up again.  I’d just taken a mouthful of tea when I was presented with… female bladder weakness, which neatly drifted into a tutorial of how to use a pregnancy testing kit, including a section of ‘where the lady should pee’.  I can only assume there was a sicko in charge of the adverts that day, or they were aired for a wind up.  A stomach cramp advert brought some relief, but a detailed discussion regarding heavy flow periods, and the latest in tampon technology soon dragged things back to where we began.  And how was this plethora of the revolting rounded off?  With a bunch of back-bottom breaks!  They led in with a subtle one for the treatment of wind, but then smacked home the point with a descriptive remedy for diarrhoea, and where would we be without, stool softeners?  Hmmm – put me down for a box of those!  

Right I’m off, the old third knee is giving me a bit of jip… BB

New currency for the stinking rich: for the super rich, and those who have never had a chip sarney, the new denominations break down like this.

£1,000, 000 = 1 Blue whale   £500,000 = 1 Polar bear   £250,000 = 1 Tiger   £100,000 = 1 Panda  

£50,000 = 1 Elephant   £10,000 = 1 Rhino   £1,000 = 1 Sea otter   £500 = 1 Ostrich   £100 = 1 Llama 

So, with these figures in mind, a Ferrari will now set you back, one giraffe and an elephant, and if you have it delivered, you can add a couple of sea otters on top of the list price.  If you’re looking to purchase a home in say, Holland Park that will put a hole in your account to the tune of six blue whales, one tiger, and a panda.  Now, I know what you’re thinking, what about forgeries?  Well, here at Mental Central we like to keep ahead of such issues, and we are working on a new version of the bar code system in tandem with the zoo police fraud squad.  We’ve undertaken a number of experiments in the field, but it was so bloody cold we came back inside.  Anyway, so far the zebra seems to be the best bet.  You see, although from a distance, a herd of zebras all look the same, even to a charging lioness, when you get up close their markings are all slightly different.  So the plan is to produce a set of high definition prints from a number of zebra skins and tattoo the results on the top left hand corner of your new currency.              

What about the interest in my account?  Good question.  Well again, here at Mental Central, I’m glad to say that we’ve come up with a peach of a plan.  It took seconds of exhaustive research, but last Tuesday in the ‘Slut and Gusset’, our scientists came up with the answer – maggots!  Working on the principal that four maggots equals a gnat, when they hatch, wallop, there’s your interest!  All you have to do, is catch ’em. 

Where will my bank be? (plebs only)  Your bank or building society will still be in the same place; the only difference you will notice is that they will have all been converted into pet shops.  Any orignal pet shops will be closed and used as staff training centres.  If you’re on holiday in the UK, you will be able to withdraw or make a deposit at one of our many farms.  Government grants will also be  available for those customers wanting to build  hutches and pens, should they wish to keep a bit of spare cash at home.  Bank vaults and safes, of course, will have to be much, much bigger than they used to be.   There is some bad news I’m afraid, a new earwig and gnat tax will be introduced in May 2010.  The reason for this is that most houses and gardens will be full of the little blighters, and we simply can’t afford to have all that free money roaming about.  The good news is, that you will be able to reclaim the shortfall when your pension matures, that’s assuming you can prove they came from your garden and not a neighbours.    

Where will my bank be if I’m loaded?  The first private estate to collaborate with Mental Central and the banks will be Longleat.  I’ve had a series of meetings with Lord Bath, and he agrees with me, this new monetary scheme will boost employment, add a substantial amount of financial growth to the country, (both in terms of import and export deals) and, bloody and, you’ll never need to buy another bag of compost ever again.  Other safari parks are set to follow suit, and soon the stinking rich will be able to use any race course for their banking needs.  Well, that’s it for now, if you have any questions regarding the new currency, or if you have any suggestions on how we can make the change over less confusing than the naughty (spit-spit spitty) euro, don’t hesitate to contact me.  Now I must dash, I’ve been asked to open a new Abbey Gnational  branch in Hornsey High Road, drive-bys permitting… But before I go, I’ll leave you with a short poem that personifies the caring, sharing nation that we are.

It’s a funny old world we live in,

and it’s full of monetary shame.

It’s the rich what gets the credit,

and the poor what gets the blame.   (Keats)

The twat board declaring Jonathan Raymond of 15 Edgeware Road, Stoke, a twat - earlier today in the town hall, Stoke.

Who else could help if they wanted to? Well, I believe the lottery bods could.  Overall, the people who play the lottery can’t afford to, and yet  they spend millions over the year in the hope of scooping the ‘big’ one.  I mean, how much lottery money is sitting in a Swiss bank account right now?  In layman’s terms, frigging millions mate!  I understand that some of this has to used to pay the winners and help charity organisations, but,  bloody but, what about the unclaimed cashy-wonga?  The interest alone could be used to help the poorest people in the UK, the ones who can’t pay their rent or buy food because they’re spending way to much on lottery tickets in the first place!  “It could be you.”  Yeah right!  You’ve got more chance of being stabbed by the Pope!

Perhaps the Queen could flog off a couple of castles.  After all, she can’t live in more than one at a time can she!  If a ‘Twat tax’ was introduced I believe that this would rake in millions over the course of a year.  Anyone who is deemed to be a twat, by the Twat Board, will automatically lose 7.5% of their monthly income.  The current contenders are: all of the Big Brother contestants, and everyone who the told the early entrants of X Factor they had a chance of winning.  And lastly, and I realise this is a radical move, how about the tossers who gambled away the money in the stock exchange, after a series of’ bad guessing days?  Extreme twats, such as this, should be forced to hand over their last bonus and fired, making sure that they never get another job in the money market again.  Harsh, but fair, I feel.

New currency for the plebs. It’s obvious to me that a new currency has to be invented, and I’m glad to say that I have come up with an absolute winner.  We survived for decades using pounds, shillings and pence (£sd), and then went metric.  My idea is no more radical than what’s gone before.  My new monetary system  involves using  woodland animals, pets and insects, instead of paper money and  coins.  In the long run this plan will save trees, halt the mining for metals, and my plans for the new ‘super rich’ currency will go some way to saving some of the planets  most endangered species in the future.  No, no, there’s no need to thank me, I’m just glad to help.  The plans are thus:

Step one: April 1st 2009.  The inhabitence of the towns in London should all meet outside their local civic centre.   There, they will be met by bank representatives, and asked to hand over every bit of cash they can find in their homes.  The total will be added to their accounts, and their accounts will be closed, leaving the customer with a chit showing their current  balance.  Step two: once this procedure has taken place the customers with the chits will first receive a course of Imodium, and then led to conference room 1, where they will be able to pick up their new currency.  Here’s a break down of the new denominations.  I’d just like to say that these took me minutes to devise and, as far as I can see, they are faultless!

£50 = 1 Badger   £20 = 1 Fox   £10 = 1 Whippet   £5 = 1 Rabbit   £1 = 1 Pigeon   50p = 1 tit

20p = 1 Toad   10p = 1 Frog   5p = 1 Newt   2p = 1 Earwig   1p = 1 Gnat

A monkey will still be worth £500 of course, and a pony will remain the same at £25.  So let’s see how this breaks down in todays prices using some basic essentials – fags and beer.   (All prices correct from date of letter 27/10/08)  A packet of Lambert & Butler lights in my corner shop cost £5.20.  In the new currency this would set me back one rabbit and a toad, or five pigeons and two frogs.  If you try to pay with 520 gnats, you’ll do nothing but hold up the queue.  Hand over a fox and your change will be; one whippet, four pigeons and four toads.  You will need to buy a bigger wallet, and some larger trousers to hold any loose change but, apart from that, I can’t see a problem, accept perhaps when it comes to using an ATM!  Better make a note of that.

Moving on, a pint of Guinness, on average, costs £3.20.  This equates to: three pigeons and one frog, or six tits and four newts.  Hand over a rabbit and your change could be, two tits and four toads or variables thereof.  And thanks to The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds stepping in as a sponsor for Harvester pubs, you will be able to collect pigeon and tit miles, or air miles as they used to be called.  Okay, that’s enough information for now, but in the final part of, Letters from home, you will discover how much a Ferrari will set you back, and what a house might cost you if you choose to move to Holland Park.

Right, I’m off.  I’ve arranged a po-go championship for the patience at a local prolapse clinic…

From time to time I like to send letters to some good friends of mine who now live in Cyprus.  I like to keep them abreast of events in dear old Blighty and, as we share the shame warped sense of humour, the letters usually contain a slice of life as I see it.  This correspondence is titled, Letters from home and it begins with the price-hike in crude oil, and slips neatly into the start of the credit crunch, and the Northern Rock cock-up, and it’s dated 27/10/08.

Dear ex pats.  You may have heard that dear old Blighty is a tad short in the old ‘wedge’ department.  Well my British chums, this does seem to be the case, but who’s to blame?  Well that’s still under discussion over here.  Mr Brown is blaming the yanks.  The yanks are blaming the oiks in the sub-prime market, who couldn’t pony up the dough for their mortgages, when the price of gas and food went through the roof.  Now, call me old fashioned, but why did the prices go up in the first place, moreover, where did the problem really begin?  Pull up a petunia and I’ll give my version of the events.  Please set your visual receptors to radical.

Bush and Blair decided to look for weapons of mass destruction (WMD), in a land far, far away that just happened to have an inordinate amount of crude oil.  Did they find any WMD?  No, in brief, not even the bloke in local tourist information kiosk could help them.  Did they pop over to Iraq to grab some free crude?  Well, I’ll leave that up to you to decide.  Did Bush and Blair upset any of the other members of OPEC?  Oooh you bet your bippy they did!  Wallop!  Up went the price of sweet crude.  It was priced at $80 a barrel at the time, then, surprise surprise, six months later a barrel of ‘go-juice’ topped out at $153.  The knock-on effect, of course, was that the cost of all things transported went up too, three in some cases.   And it wasn’t long before the inflated prices were past on to the masses.

The timing was perfect for the  stock market to step in and secure the latest recession.  The ‘buy, sell, dollar, Mark’ brigade, in my humble opinion, they should be hung, drawn and quartered and then hung again.  In all intents and purposes it’s a ‘money for old rope’ job.  I wouldn’t mind so much, but the money isn’t theirs, and come to think of it, neither is the rope!  Let’s take the futures market for example, what a plum career that is.  Shit, I could do that job lying in bed!  If I’d have known, when I left school that you could apply for a job guessing for a living, I would’ve taken it!  I looked on a job search site last week in fact, but I didn’t see a single advert saying, WANTED – ONE OMNIPOTENT. 

While the banks are in a state of panic, the reliable British Post Office has reintroduced four old accounts that were used by millions of UK residence during the 40’s and 50’s.  The Under the floorboard account, the Mattress account, and the Shoebox account.  If you’re all ready using the popular, Shoebox & Mattress combined account, you’ll reap the benefits of a 3% bonus at Christmas, which will then be taxed at 4% in the New Year.

So, who’s going to bail out the people who have had their pensions reduced, their income slashed, and now can’t afford to pay their mortgages because they’re unemployed?  That’s right, you and me, the ‘little’ people, the ones who can least afford it, and haven’t got a bloody clue how we got in this state in the first place!  In banking terms this is called, the fungi effect.  The clients are kept in the dark, for months at time, and crapped on twice a day.  As plebs our job is to pull together so we can save the careers of the higher echelons of our great city.  Two bank mangers have already handed in their resignations, but don’t fret, they won’t have to go through the depressing act of signing on or losing the their homes and cars, because they were due to retire in four days anyway. 

So how can we help the poor rich?  Well for a start you can begin by having a good root around at the back of  our sofas and armchairs, slash open the material at the back if you have to.  Empty your child’s piggy bank, and send the contents, however small, straight to a stock broker.  You may have one living in your street.  If so, just tip what you’ve found through their letterbox.  Next, rally your friends, and see if anyone is willing to retire at the age of 106.  The extra tax will come in handy.  You could write to the BBC and suggest that Blue Peter starts an appeal, and if you could cancel Christmas that will be a great help too.  The cash you’ve saved can be posted directly to the stock exchange.   And finally, petition your local MP, and ask for a fresh air tax can be introduced.  Once a FAT has been implemented all UK nationals except: Royalty, people who think they’re Royalty, tennis club members (much the same thing), Lords and MP’s and all of their relatives, and of course,  the stock brokers, will be fitted with an oxygen cylinder and pay-as-you- go meter, and if you can’t keep up the payments, well I’m sure you get the picture.

Part two of, Letters from home will include: who else could help if they wanted to?  And, new currency for the plebs.   And in part three I’ll take a look at, new currency for the stinking rich.  What about the interest on my  account?   Where will my new bank be? (plebs only)  And, where will my bank be if I’m loaded?

A disgruntled Bertie Basset attempts to pacify a Kraft Cheese and Cadbury Flake exchanging fisticuffs whilst Her Majesty the Queen looks on in disgust earlier today, near an abandoned Woolworths, Stoke

I can tell you now I’m not ‘appy.  Why?  Well I’ll tell you – pull up a patio…   

Now then, it seems that because the Americans haven’t got much history and culture to speak of, they want to buy up some of ours and show it off to their friends.  I don’t mean the man on the street, I mean the big boys, the ones with an inordinate amount of cashy-wonga to throw about.  I mean sweet Jesus, we’ve got bloody trees in this country that are older than parts of the USA, for God’s sake!  So please Kraft, do the decent thing and take your takeover deal and poke it up yer poo-shoot, I don’t give a shit if it is signed and sealed.

I can tell you now, if the Kraft deal goes through, and they take over our iconic British company, I’ll never buy another product it makes again.  And I’m not the only one who feels this way.  So Kraft, beware, plans are afoot and a half, to bollocks up your Easter parade matey-boy – you have been warned!

Not only will the Krafty bastards be messing with British nostalgia, they will be trashing  part of my history and upbringing.  There is, was, a sense of ‘family’ in the Cadbury name, and an air of safety and trust that spread right across the generations.  When I was growing up it was boys up trees with cap and spud guns, and the girly-girls played with their dolls and read the latest Janet and John book, and a Mars bar would cost you a tanner, or sixpence in real money.  Dogging hadn’t been invented, and no one knew what a paedophile was.  There were adverts for Roundtrees fruit gums, with the signature tune, “Don’t forget the fruit gums mum,” as she disappeared out of the garden gate, and headed off the sweetshop that  just sold SWEETS!  Forget the fruit gums today, and the kid will crap  in your handbag!  Why?  E numbers!  Didn’t have ’em in my day.  It’s all wrong, it’s all so wrong.  

I mean where can you get a decent packet of Spangles now-a-days, or a quarter of Rainbow sherbet?  And, bloody and now then, what about Army and Navy tablets, what’s happened to those?  And you try buying a packet of Glees!  Starburst!  Bloody STARBURST!  No, no, no, no, no, they’re Opal Fruits mate, and they ‘were’ made to make your mouth water.  I am incensed, I really am.  Snickers, your ‘aving a larff uncha!  Blue smarties, I don’t think so, I throw them away!  And who’s bright idea was it to put an antioxidant in my crisps?  It’s not as if they’re going to rust, is it! 

It’s true to say that what I know about business or how to run one, could be tattooed on bat’s butt however, what I do know is, people are more important than great big piles of paper with the Queen’s head stamped all over them.   Two of my pet hates are, bullshit and liars, and Kraft seem to excel in both of these qualities, and, and, they appear to have a trail of debt behind them, so how are they allowed to keep buying up other firms.  They bought up Terry’s chocolate, and shut it down, and then moved the business abroad.  From what I gather Kraft had promised Cadbury’s and their staff all sorts, I’ll tell you now, I bet  Berty Basset wouldn’t have swallowed it.  

On a serious note, my heart goes out to the workers at Bourneville, some of whom have been employed for over 30 years.  Can you imagine the scene at the dole office?  “What was your last job?  “Chocolate maker, man and boy.” “Have you thought about moving into IT consultancy?” “What’s that then?”  If Bourneville shuts down, that’s 5000 jobs gone over night.  But what some fail to take into consideration is that the total number affected by such action is far higher.  One redundant dad equals a whole family left suffering from the fall out.  I can’t believe the Cadbury family would want that, not after their history.  Take the figure of 5000 and times that by the amount of people it really affects, it could top 18,000 mark.  It’s nothing short of tragic, and for what, a great big pile of beer vouchers.  And don’t get me started on the mental health repercussions, the NHS will be swamped with new clients!  So come Cadbury’s, it’s time to get back on the board of directors, after all, you don’t want to be left with cream egg on your face do you…

Right I’m off, I’ve got a sudden urge to lick all of the windows at Stansted…    BB

Terrorists Earlier Today. - Stoke Highstreet

The unrest between Al Qaeda and Britain’s suicide bombers continues today, as a second round of talks begins, in an attempt to thrash out a deal on the shortage of virgins allotted to the bombers in the afterlife.

The workers came back to the table with a list of demands that the management say are impossible meet during a recession.  Shop steward, Ali Pali said yesterday, “All we want is a fair crack of the whip, and get what other suicide  bombers are receiving in terms of pay and working conditions.”  Osama Bin Laden was reported as saying, “We simply can’t afford to increase the worker’s pay at the moment, because quite simply they’re not hitting their monthly targets, look at the cock up at Glasgow airport for example.”  He went on to say, “It would be financial suicide for the company if we were to raise the wages of our employees during a credit crunch, as it is we are buying explosives that have past their sell-by date in a bid to reduce cost, and save jobs.   

The rift between the two sides seems to be widening, and complaints about the suicide bomber’s training came to light last Tuesday.  “Saying, three… two… one… BANG, in a loft in Huddersfield, simply isn’t good enough,” said one union leader, “The cramped conditions, and lack of decent detonators is only adding to the bomber’s demoralisation.”

The management have offered a job share scheme, continental shifts, a subsidised canteen, grenade vouchers, and a ‘take your child to work’ day.  The suicide bombers are asking for a 34 and half hour week, six weeks paid holiday, four weeks sick pay, at least 2 duvet days a month and, if they work on Sundays, they want the overtime rate to be increased to a time and a half.    However, the overriding grievance is still over the promise of pukka virgins, not a bunch of mingers.  The management say they have always maintained that insuring every virgin is a page three stunner is vitually impossible, as some of the parents fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.  Some of the suicide bombers in Wood Green say, it’s not been the same since we went metric.

A group of disgruntled bombers in Edmonton had this to say.  “It’s always the same when one of our members is promoted from the shop floor to the office.  They lose touch with the needs of the lower ranks, and it’s about time the top brass came back to the shop floor, to see for themselves what we have to deal with on a day to day basis.  Simple things like a space in the car park would go a long way to end the strike, as it is, the ones that we have been afford have got bloody great craters in them.”  And one of the bombers, who blew himself up recently, and wasn’t working that day, left a message on his website saying, “If it’s so bloody good in the afterlife, why hasn’t Osama Bin Laden blown himself up?  Makes you think doesn’t it…