Captain's log: Stardate; Thursday, December 14, 2006. The place; London, England, on the planet earth - Lord Stevens delivers his "long awaited" final report on the death of Diana, Princess of Wales, in a car crash in Paris in 1997. Verdict? It was an accident (Well, fuck me! That's a bit of a surprise).
Meanwhile, on the same stardate but from Loonytown, Lalaland, on the planet My-Brother-is-in-This-Matchbox-You-Know, somewhere in the distant galaxy of The-Straps-Are-a-Bit-Tight-Nurse, Mohammed Al Fayed, speaks out. Al Fayed, whose son Dodi was porking the late princess and who also rolled a seven in the smash, is not a happy Egyptian bunny.
The diminutive and cerebrally challenged shopkeeper set about telling us on Radio 4, via an increasingly frustrated and irate Jim Naughty, how the whole thing was a cover up, how only he knew what actually happened and that he knew Di better than anyone else.
Who's to blame then, Mo? Name the guilty party. We'll have them taken out and driven home by one of your pill-popping, pissed up drivers. Mo duly delivered - it was all arranged by MI6, he dribbled. They wanted Di whacked because she was thinking of marrying a moslem.
No wonder Al Fayed can't get a fucking British passport! He would fail a basic Britishness test because, unlike the rest of us, he doesn't know that MI6 couldn't organise a fucking Bukake in a sperm bank! The only competent operatives in MI6 are Russian spies who haven't been found out yet because they have cunningly changed their names to blend in, eg. Uri Igor Jenkinson and Andrei Mihilovich Postlethwaite. None of them speaks English and so they wouldn't have understood orders from above had any been given. The only way our fuckwit "intelligence" service could have been involved was if an order had been handed down to "take that Merc out and get it valeted for me, would you?"
Sorry Mo, baby, you're barking up the wrong palm tree there. You fucked up. Accept it. What do you get if you cross Paris with Henry Paul? About half way.
Anyway, time for you to go to Grantham now, there's a good loony. There's a nice, padded room waiting for you.
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2 comments:
We are watching you if only we could get the Spectrum 64K to work we would have you whacked or at least the african bloke who lives in a similarly named road and once bumped into you at a bus stop. Any way its a fucking secret isn't it
Thank you, Miss S. Rimmington of London - oops! Sorry, forgot, that's supposed to be a secret isn't it?
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