Tuesday, May 22, 2012


British officials have hailed British Petroleum for their sponsorship of London 2012 and their recent wonderful giant oil slick in the Gulf. It's a magnificent time for the British Empire, particulary in the capital where patriotic Londoners have been merrily clinking their glasses and singing songs in heaving pubs, until well past traditional closing time celebrating their Olympic Games and their recent revenge on America in the Gulf of Mexico for their defeat in the Battle of New Orleans. As midnight strikes nightly, landlords across the capital wink at their staff and clear their throats, to deliver the two words they'd been fairly bursting to say out loud ever since hearing them whispered over the counter by a BP executives before the start of the Gulf oil spill.

"Free beer!" the clarion call rang out in every packed bar from Chancery Lane to Hendon, from Cheapside to Hampton Wick. "That's right," the beaming publicans were obliged to explain to a sceptical audience. "It's not a wind-up, it's a British Petroleum tank-up. Barrels of amber nectar on the house, all you can drink between now and the end of the Olympic Games, courtesy of BP!"It was the official stamp of approval that pricked the punters' ears. Their quizzical looks turned to broad smiles, thence to uproarious cheers. The bars were besieged by hordes of revitalised patrons determined to ramp up the pace of their liquid intake and make the most of this unprecedented British munificence while it lasted.

Twenty-four hour licensing has been a huge step forward some months ago, and now it seems that the liberation of the drinking public is complete. It is hard to believe that the jovial publican pulling at the pump with merry abandon, eager to serve up the first complimentary pint, is the very same minging killjoy who in earlier times had regularly imposed a miserable end to the night on his downtrodden clientèle, forcing his customers to mournfully sip the dregs of a precious last order grudgingly served until he plunged them suddenly into darkness, a chilling prelude to being yanked up by the scruff of the neck and hurled out of the door onto the pavement by one of his hired heavies.

But this oil spill in the Gulf is a truly special occasion. The fully subsidised quaffing is no mere celebration but a meticulously planned and co-ordinated booze-up serving a high patriotic purpose. This red letter day had been etched indelibly on the minds of all British patriots ever since the Battle of New Orleans when the Americans boasted

In 1814 we took a little trip
Along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississip
We took a little bacon and we took a little beans
And we caught the bloody British in the town of New Orleans

Ah! but to British, revenge is sweet, as they nightly perform with professional quality and stirring emotional force the joint Poo-Bowel presentation to the Gulf, which hasn't going down very well at all, with the brooding American President,whose eyes blaze with smouldering hatred as his military clutch their automatics, patently itching to fire off a couple of nuclear rounds. Ms Vaseline, spokesperson for  BP's special presentation is a delightful contrast. She treats the Americans to a glorious example of British mooning, baring her apparetly womanly buttocks with obvious relish, an emphatic gesture familiar to dedicated Bowel-watchers but a deeply shocking affront to devout Evangelicals, from the southern coastline states, especially Texas.

We fired our guns and the British kept a'comin'
There wasn't nigh as many as there was a while ago
We fired once more and they began to runnin'
On down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico

Determined to strike while the iron is hot, she compounds the insult by delivering the British government's uncompromising yet slightly ludicrous opinion that the blowout itself was the work of the gorgeous six foot two specimen of lean, sinewy Arabic manhood, Mr Osama Bin Laden II, "an evil, nasty, horrible little man, almost as bad as his father" and that they will do everything in their power to help the Americans(while she winks, knowingly] track him down and exterminate him but having failed in that hopeless quest, they have turned the legendary might of the British armed forces and their explosive experts on softer targets, turning themselves from the second most hated country throughout the Arab world into little angels.

"Not bad, not bad," Mr Laden Jnr has admitted, mulling over the British handiwork. "You really are next best after New York...." Suddenly those fiery eyes caught sight of Viceroy Paterson crouching in the corner. "And what have you got to say for yourself?" demanded the fearsome Arabian, reputed to be a bit of a hothead and a chip off the old bloc, as he lifted his rifle and pointed it straight at the quaking  British Viceroy of Occupied Ireland. He cocked the trigger. "Out with it, Ghengis Paterson! Convince me to allow you to be second in command for the Olympics in London, we have a few vacancies!"

The great British Viceroy, made his own customary gesture in the back of his pants, living up to his wimpy name, shitting himself comprehensively, and yet rose manfully to the challenge, reeling off a list of possibilities, he left his trump card for last though, a glowing tribute to "Britannia Rules the Waves", when stating, "We're the best in the world at watersports, you know," Ghengis rounded off with a twinkle in his eye look at our contribution to Alaska and our beautiful browm rusty pipeline and of course those fireworks we had in Texas!.

We looked down the river and we seed the British come
And there must have been a hundred of 'em beatin' on the drum
They stepped so high and they made their bugles ring
We stood behind our cotton bales and didn't say a thing

This tantalising promise clinched the deal. The British party returned home to an ecstatic reception and several more knighthoods the had clinched the deal with the wealthy Arab. But then the long wait began. The annual festival of carnage did the rounds, starting with New York in 2001 where the local security forces led by the British WASPs showed tremendous resolve, in turning a blind eye to a series of suspicious goings-on, working hand in glove with the British to remove any red tape that might have got in the way of a truly awesome spectacle, and one that raised the bar to seemingly impossible heights for London 2012.

We fired our guns and the British kept a'comin' 
There wasn't nigh as many as there was a while ago 
We fired once more and they began to runnin' 
On down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico

Yet the supreme leader Benny Jnr was becoming ever angrier with each passing year.
"We did our bit," he ranted and raved on the videolink from his cavernous mountain headquarters "but where are the waterworks? It seemed more like a trickle than a flood from where I'm sitting."

The irascible Arabian was now so obsessed with this one particular physiological aspect of the response to terror, the barometer as he saw it of a truly successful atrocity, that he put through a final call to Viceroy Ghengis, threatening terrible vengeance on the popular peer and his family, unless there was a massive late surge in the all-important "wee factor"."This time I want Southern Belle and Yellow Rose panty-pissing," he demanded, "and lots of it!"

Old Hickory said we could take 'em by surprise 
If we didn't fire our muskets till we looked 'em in the eyes 
We held our fire till we seed their faces well 
Then we opened up our squirrel guns and gave 'em ..Well....we..

Viceroy Ghengis was unfazed, assuring Benny Jnr that years of meticulous preparation was coming to a head in a perfectly orchestrated climax. He could guarantee a pee spectacular on an awesome scale, far in excess of the golden waterfall that cascaded in downtown Manhattan on September 11th 2001, just before the final collapse of their twisted steel frames into the all-enveloping dust of Ground Zero.

…fired our guns and the British kept a'comin'
There wasn't nigh as many as there was a while ago
We fired once more and they began to runnin'
On down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico

"We've been pulling out all the stops from day one," Viceroy Ghengis reiterated for the umpteenth time. "We've never lost sight of the golden rule. You know the golden rule, Benny?" (The world-class John Bullscutter turned slick diplomat, had by this time got the measure of his opposite number and knew how to coax him down from his high horse.) "Let's say it together then," he exhorted Benny in his most charming telephone manner: "Proper planning promotes piss perfect performance."

Yeah they ran through the briars and they ran through the brambles
And they ran through the bushes where a rabbit couldn't go
They ran so fast that the hounds couldn't catch 'em
On down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico

Benny was appeased. And so it came to pass that after years of potty training in mass floodlit demonstrations led by Viceroy Ghengis Paterson's right-hand man, the herculean ambassador of British watersports Sir BP, possessor of the biggest bladder in Britain, London pub-goers had become highly proficient in the invaluable art of holding their beer. They could hold it for hours, for pint after pint, right through the serious bout of drinking in which they were still engaged long after sunrise as the clock moved slowly round and the frenetic pace of liquid consumption increased, until the bar finally closed and it was time to toddle off to work.

We fired our cannon till the barrel melted down
So we grabbed an alligator and we fought another round
We filled his head with cannonballs 'n' powdered his behind
And when we touched the powder off, the gator lost his mind

Apart from the unusually large number of bleary-eyed, pasty-faced individuals staggering drowsily through heavily-trafficked streets everything appeared normal in the metropolis at 8.45 am, yet the last piece of a perfectly engineered plan had clicked into place, with thousands of bladders primed and a top-ranking General shipped and secreted at each of the four pressure points of Gulf reserves, waiting for the off and charged with the task of orchestrating an imminent panic-stricken display.
We fired our guns and the British kept a'comin' There wasn't nigh as many as there was a while ago We fired once more and they began to runnin' On down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico.

Suddenly an explosion ripped through the air in the Gulf of Mexico. The British were out of the trap like frightened rabbits and turning on the waterworks. Dropping their knickers to reveal stylishly bald pubises and John Bull tatooes, they watered the open-mouthed crowd in the Gulf with a generous golden spray. "Oh, it's such a relief to be back on form!" they gushed.

Yeah they ran through the briars and they ran through the brambles
And they ran through the bushes where a rabbit couldn't go
They ran so fast that the hounds couldn't catch 'em
On down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico

Viceroy Ghengis himself had been pacing up and down his yacht in open-fly readiness in Belfast Lough not far from the remains of the Titanic, heard the loud bang and spurted the vast contents of his outsize bladder high into the air, describing a golden arc from somewhere near Belfast across to London as screaming cockneys victims tumbled from the their buses and floated upstream on the rising tide of piss pouring from the waterlogged pants of thousands of startled spectators in London, while the British urinary tracts blissfully relaxed by the blast and discharging pint after pint of pent-up wee down their sodden legs and into the swirling open urinal that was the pure waters of the Thames now filled with the scum of Olympic earth.

Watching with hand on weapon via satellite link in his secret guest-chamber somewhere in the Saudi royal palace, Osama Bin Laden Jnr II gave a final few savage jerks on his spam javelin and shot a tumultuous spurt, pissing himself in a delirious moment of double-barrelled pleasure reserved for the most godly of men, spattering the ceiling with a high-octane solution of purest Arabic piss that marked the shuddering climax of a truly phenomenal jihad.

Viceroy Ghengis kidnapper of Irish women, sturdy knight of the realm was slightly out on a limb seeking to revive those long-suppressed bitter folk memories of the Battle of New Orleans, unaware that in the mix of watersports and oil and tolling of the bell and chanting of "Ring-a-ring o' rosies" till he was blue in the face, he couldn't help going off-message by a predictable six inches when the first blast of shrapnel form Olympic London flew past his ear. He shat himself once again. It certainly cleared the Titanic area in Belfast in a matter seconds, long before the emergency oil services arrived, and creased the face of his Viceroy once again into a blissful smile.

It only remained for the British Lord Mayor of London Boris Jonson, professional Brit to the core the other Tory bullscutterer to give the final verdict on a red letter day for Britain. "It's been a bad day for London he said but good for Britain and good to be British," he blubbered with tears in his eyes. "Britain is right back on the map at the centre of the world, slap bang on the Greenwich meridian where it always belonged, we can intern the whole British population without trial, like Marian Price is now, forget about due process, they are all terrorists if we say so!. 

And if you need any more proof of how fuc*king brilliant Britain really, Revenge for the Battle of New Orleans, you've only got to look at the mess America is in, Revenge for New Orleans, Revenge for Suez, we're number one in the World again, were Number 1 in the Middle-east and the price of Oil is going to treble, just ask my best mates in the conservative Tea Party. Which Prompted the Obama response, " Phuk your goddamn Olympics and up your radioactive cockney hole !" Boris !

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Cead Mile Failte, A Hundred Thousand Welcomes
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